#so i was looking into this as maybe an alternative

[parasolladyansy]

PokeMas - Wrong Number, Who This?

I had only two reasons to get Pokemon Masters EX: 1. Ingo & 2. Emmet. Since I met Lear, I added a third reason: mess with this man every chance I get, because I can’t stand entitled men who thinks it’s okay to just throw around insults. 😇

Lucky me, an opportunity came up quite quickly:

BTW PokeMas isn’t canon to Ansy’s timeline, since it doesn’t seem to be canon in general. Also Ikrit’s not here because the mister has his own gacha games he plays (Fire Emblem Heroes, etc). This IS my headcanon for finally finding Emmet though - got Ingo on my first 11 ticket draw, so he & Ansy wandered around doing the PML quest until they found Emmet.

Now to do the same song & dance now that their classic Subway Boss look has become available again XD All aboard!

PS: If Ansy was in PokeMas! Her default partner would be Rain (Vaporeon) of course, & if people thinks she deserves a Sygna Suit lol, definitely Sora (Castform). Skye (Altaria) might be some alternate costume maybe (again, if people like her enough!)

[ylangelegy]

watch and learn ♾️ minghao x reader.

“show, don't tell.” # day four of (the)8 days of minghao.

☆ includes: mature content, mdni. alternate universe: non-idol, art student!minghao, f!reader, best friends & roommates, pet name (‘pretty’), cussing, nude modeling/drawing, fingering, implied oral [m receiving]. word count: >4,000

It takes you all of five minutes to figure out why your best friend-slash-roommate looks like the world has crashed down on him.

The answer comes in the form of a piece of art on the coffee table. You crane your neck to check the bright red mark on Minghao’s latest homework. “A grade of ‘B’ isn’t so bad,” you offer, even though you can already see how he’s going to react from a mile away. 

Sure enough, he shoots you a sidelong glare that would be withering if you hadn’t been on the receiving end of it for years.

“That’s what the ‘B’ stands for,” he deadpans. “Bad.” 

You’ve long since reconciled with Minghao’s tendencies when it came to his academics and his art. With a half roll of your eyes, you settle down onto the couch next to him. The offending assignment stares up at you. 

“It’s not bad,” you say as you eye the piece. In your honest opinion, it really isn’t terrible. A part of you must admit, though, that it’s not really up to Minghao’s usual standard. The strokes are not as defined; the edges are a little rough. 

What’s supposed to be a piece for his The Art of the Human Form class looks more like something akin to abstract impressionism. 

Minghao lets out a low sound of displeasure at your feedback. “You don’t understand,” he says frustratedly. 

When you don’t immediately respond, he runs a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he sighs. “I just— I really need to pass this class.” 

You give him a reassuring pat on his knee. For a moment, the two of you just sit on the couch, staring down at the homework that’s brought him so much grief. “What’s your issue with the class, anyway?” you ask after a long moment of silence. “Is it the professor?” 

“No, the professor’s good. Great, even.” 

“Your material?” 

“That’s never been the problem.” 

“Well, what is it then?”

A groan slides past Minghao’s lips; he lets his head fall on to the back of the couch. You turn to glance at him and you see the way his face is contorted with defeat. The words he speaks next sound like they were an actual struggle for him to verbalize.

“I’m not good with live models,” he admits. A beat. He seems to realize that you’ll see right through him, so he adds, “Nude live models.” 

You sink your teeth into your lower lip. Minghao catches the telltale sign of you holding back your laughter and he turns to glance at you again. “What?” he grumbles.

“You’re too… polite, Hao,” you say delicately, leaning back against the couch until your shoulders are pressed against each other. 

“You think I’m a prude.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You were thinking it. ‘Polite’ was just your way of letting me down gently.” 

This time, you don’t hold back the fond giggle that escapes you. It was no secret that Minghao was a bit of a prig. When asked about his lack of experience with dating or intimacy, his answer had always been the same: Too busy. Too busy with uni to fuck around and find out, to mess with people he didn’t really care about. 

Some of Minghao’s annoyance seems to ebb at the sound of your laughter. He gives a slight shake of his head like he’s ridding himself of an unbidden thought before saying, “Maybe I should just drop the damn class.” 

You nudge him in the side with your elbow. “You’ve never given up on anything in your life,” you chide. “Don’t start now.” 

The platitude does very little to lift Minghao’s mood. He goes into a rapid-fire tangent about his gripes with the class, ranting about everything from the models to his coursemates. You zone out a bit— knowing it was sometimes for the best to let your best friend go on and on— until you feel the buzz of your phone in your pocket. 

Right. You had a study session. 

You try to extricate yourself from the conversation by cutting through Minghao’s tirade with an absentminded, “Well, if you ever need my help, you know where to find me.” 

That shuts him up. 

“Wha— what?” he stammers. 

Both of you fall into a terse moment of silence. It’s like you’ve just realized what you said, what you’ve implied, and you mentally curse yourself for spacing out to the point that you’ve suggested something so out of left field. 

You rise from the couch without glancing down at Minghao; a part of you thinks this might give you some more courage to double down, to feign nonchalance. “If you need any help with the class,” you say as breezily as you can manage. “Like, if you need somebody to model for you or something.” 

There’s an almost distressed way to how Minghao says your name, then. “I’m supposed to work with nude models,” he repeats, like he’s not unsure you caught it the first time. 

“I’m aware.” 

“Are you—” 

“Only if you need it, Hao. It’s not that deep.” 

It is kind of that deep, honestly. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of its chest, but you do your damndest to keep your expression neutral as you go to grab your things. You’ve never been so grateful to have a valid excuse to cut your time short with your roommate. 

“If it’ll help you stop complaining,” you joke in a bid to inject some levity in the conversation. “Then I’m all for it.” 

He only lets out a disgruntled mumble in response. His words are incoherent, lost in the way you’re already halfway out the door. 

You call out your usual goodbye. “Text me what you want for dinner.” 

His typical response— “Take care”— hits just as the front door closes behind you. You might’ve imagined it, you think, but Minghao’s voice sounded just a little bit strained around the two words. 

It takes Minghao two weeks to come to a decision. 

Clearing his mind helped, but it’s really the most recent graded assignment that gets underneath his skin. A ‘C’. Minghao has never gotten a ‘C’ in all of his years of art school.

You’re working on something by the dining table when Minghao bursts into your shared apartment. 

“Does the offer still stand?” he spits out before he can change his mind. 

“Hm?” You glance up at Minghao, unsuspecting as ever. “What, getting pizza for dinner? I mean, yeah.” 

Your nightly text exchanges about what to have for dinner is the last thing on his mind. He takes a fortifying breath, his fingers clutching tightly around the strap of his messenger bag. 

“Not dinner,” he grits out. “The other offer.” 

Good Lord, he thinks with despair as you stare up at him skeptically. I’m really going to have to spell this out. 

He decides to go for the ‘show, don’t tell’ route. He fishes through his bag until his fingers snag his latest graded homework. Wordlessly, he crosses the room and sets it down next to your laptop. 

Your expression of confusion gives way to one of something that resembles sympathy. “Oh, Hao,” you say, and the words grate in his ears.

“I don’t need your pity.” His sharp words are dulled by the way he’s raised his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose in a gesture of sheer exhaustion. “I just need to practice.” 

The realization of your flippant offer being taken seriously seems to dawn on you. Minghao wants to die then and there. He’s already backtracking, attempting to take it back before you can say a word. 

“Forget it,” he says. He can only hope his ears don’t look as red as they feel. “That was stupid.” 

Your hasty call of “no, no” has him freezing. “Sorry, I just— wasn’t expecting it tonight,” you say. 

Minghao can’t even look you in the eye without wanting to die of shame. You go on, your voice cautious as ever. “The offer still stands. Of course it still stands.” 

He attempts to sputter out some words about you not having to do this, about not wanting to make you uncomfortable, but you’re already getting to your feet. “Don’t make this weird,” you reprimand him. 

“But this is weird,” he protests weakly.

“I’m your roommate. I’m your best friend!”

“That’s precisely why this is weird.” 

You’re standing in front of him, now, trying to rearrange your expression into one of sternness. It doesn’t really do much, considering the way you’re at least a head shorter than him. 

“I’m the best shot you’ve got.” You plant your hands on your sides and tilt your chin up. There’s a hint of a challenge in your gaze. “So what’ll it be, Xu?” 

“No need to pull out the surname,” he says dryly. After going through a single, quiet prayer in his head, he jerks his head towards the living room. “Let’s go at it, then.” 

“Now?” 

“When else?” 

It’s your turn to blush this time. Minghao tries his darndest to keep a straight face as you stumble over your complaint. “I haven’t showered yet—” 

“That’s nothing new to me,” he shoots back, earning him a swat to the chest. He rubs at the spot you hit before grumbling, “Fine, fine. How long do you need to get ready?” 

“I’ll be quick,” you promise him as you dart off to the bathroom. Minghao resists the urge to say that he doubts it. 

His worries aren’t unfounded. By the time you emerge from your ‘quick’ shower, over half an hour has passed. He’s doodling absentmindedly in his sketchbook when he hears the door creak open. 

“About goddamn—” The last word catches in his throat as he turns to face you. 

Minghao has seen you in various states of undress in your years of friendship. He’s seen you in the skimpiest outfits before heading out clubbing, seen you in sinful bikinis during your yearly beach trips. But this? The sight of you in a beige bathrobe with the belt left untied, revealing a hint of your bare front? 

He clutches his pencil so tightly that he’s scared it’ll snap. 

“About time,” he manages, even though he’s not entirely clear what he’s referring to.

It takes an hour for you to regret your offer. 

Once the initial shyness had passed, all that was left was the restlessness. Minghao had put one of the dining room chairs in the living room for you to pose on, and you’ve spent the better half of the past sixty minutes just sitting there with your feet flat to the ground.

It’s surprisingly easy to comply with Minghao’s mumbled requests. Shift a little to the left. Move your hand to your thigh. Stop moving. 

The last command is muttered with a lot more frequency. When you try to cross your legs. Stop moving. When you go to scratch your elbow. Stop moving. When your eyes wander over to some nondescript point in the room. Stop moving. 

“You’re brutal,” you rumble after his nth ‘stop moving, please’. “This is inhumane.” 

“You signed up for this,” Minghao answers, his gaze briefly flitting over his sketchbook before going back to his work.

There’s something undeniably attractive about the way Minghao’s fingers are clutching his graphite pencil. A lot about him was attractive— the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the purse of his plump lips as he worked. But his fingers were a whole other monster all together. Long and lithe, with the nails painted to whatever he thought matched his flavor for the week. You can almost imagine what those fingers would look like in your—

Minghao drags you out of your unbidden daydream with a call of your name.

“Could you tilt a bit to your right?” he says gruffly. You scramble to comply, almost like you’re terrified he might have heard your thoughts if you didn’t move fast enough.

He lets out a small ‘tch’ of disapproval at just how much you twist. “Not like that,” he protests, putting his pencil down for the first time in the past hour. “Only about an inch. No, no—” 

“Pose me, then.” 

Where did this brazenness come from? You think that your tenseness is partly to blame, but there’s also an undercut of provocation in your tone. Surprise flits across Minghao’s expression for only a moment. 

He schools his expression into something more neutral as he places his sketchbook face down on the couch. This is a bad idea, you think, as he crosses the distance between you in small, measured steps.

It’s a bad idea, you muse, because if he touches you, he might just feel the rapid thump, thump, thump of your pulse. 

If he does notice, he makes no indication of it. His gaze is perfectly cool as he gently holds your shoulders. You can see the pencil marks on the side of his palm, the smudges of graphite transferring to your otherwise unblemished skin. 

Minghao does as you’ve asked. His pushes are light as he maneuvers you to angle yourself some certain way, and you swear there’s not a single breath of oxygen in the room. 

“There,” he’s saying as he goes to take a step back. 

Something akin to panic rises like bile in your throat. You don’t know why, you don’t know what has possessed you, but one of your hands shoots out for Minghao’s retreating form. He pauses when your fingers wrap around his wrist.  

“Where—” The words escaping you are almost a gasp. “Where do you want my hands?” 

Minghao looks down at you, his eyes imperceptibly wider now despite his attempt to keep calm. “Right where you had them,” he replies. 

You swallow around the lump in your throat, your hand sliding down to clasp his instead. “I— forgot where they were,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but Minghao doesn’t seem like he’s about to call you out on it. “Show me again?” 

His hand is limp in your hold. For a long, terrible minute, you think you’ve overstepped. 

Then, something in Minghao’s jaw twitches. The hand that’s holding yours pushes your arm, just enough for your elbow to rest on the back of your chair.

He goes to position your other hand right over your upper thigh. Near where you want it, where you need it, but not quite there. 

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you bite back a groan of frustration. Minghao catches the look on your face.

“Why?” he asks quietly, his voice a touch tight. “Uncomfortable?” 

“No.” You freeze at how your response comes out almost like a whine. Minghao freezes, too. 

You try to think of propriety and professionalism. You try to think of your years-long friendship with Minghao; of how awkward it would be to keep being roommates if you’ve somehow overread into this situation. 

All that goes out the window as you shift your hand slightly upward. His hand— the one still on top of yours— follows as your fingertips brush over your core. Your tone is shaky as you prompt, “It would be better here, no?” 

Minghao’s gaze snaps from your hand near the apex of your thighs, to the barely-concealed heat burning over your cheeks. His sharp features are perfectly controlled but there are the smallest signs spurring you on. His dilated pupils, the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“You want it here?” He isn’t moving his hands. He also isn’t moving away. He looms over you, one hand holding your upper arm; the other, still close to your center. 

“I’m open to suggestions,” you say, your eyes roaming over his face for any signs of discomfort. 

A beat. And then—

Torturously slow, Minghao begins to move. He guides your hand closer to your heat until your fingertips are pressing a little more firmly against your entrance, where wetness is already beginning to pool. You clench around the feeling of nothing as Minghao remains careful about not letting his own fingers touch you just yet.

“I think this is good.” His voice is lower now. “What do you say?” 

You feel like your entire body will betray you if you try to say anything. For now, you opt to only give a jerky shake of your head. 

“No?” A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward in the ghost of a smile. You cling to that familiar grin as he pushes your hand up just a little more, just enough to have the tip of your middle finger pressing into your entrance. At this point, he’s moved his own fingers to wrap around your wrist. 

“Not enough?” he coos, even though he doesn’t look like he’s faring any better himself in the department of restraint. “What about here, then?” 

Minghao tugs at your wrist until your middle finger is sliding right into your slick. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your hand twitch, but Minghao only tightens his hold around your wrist. 

“I need you to answer me,” he mumbles, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s keeping you from moving your finger any further, and something about his demeanor tells you that it would be a bad idea to use your free hand to regain some control. Not when he was looking at you like this. 

“More,” you croak out. 

Minghao’s tongue darts out to swipe over his lower lip. “More,” he repeats, his own voice equally broken. He finally breaks his gaze to look down at the way your finger is buried inside you, at how your hand is completely his to move. “Alright, then.” 

Wordlessly, he guides you into pulling your finger out and then easing it back in. This time, his focus is entirely on the way you swallow up your finger with each shallow thrust; how his own movements are dictating your pace, your pleasure. 

You writhe in the chair, feeling absolutely mortified at how quickly you can feel heat building in your stomach. It’s been simmering for the past hour; this was only leading you to the tipping point. And Minghao isn’t even touching you yet at this point, just helping you get off. 

“Hao,” you exhale, your breath warm against his face. He finally looks back up at you and you can see all of his want on his expression, clear his day. “Hao, I need—” 

Him. You need him. That’s what you mean to say. 

But your best friend seems determined to drag this out for all its worth. 

“You need to stop moving,” he murmurs as he deftly pries your index finger free from its curl. “I don’t think I’ve said that enough.” 

This time, he helps you push two fingers into your heat.

Your head lolls back and your lips part in a silent gasp. Minghao seizes the opportunity of more skin being bared to him. He leans down to press a chaste kiss to your jawline, then to your collarbone. All the while, he keeps driving your own fingers into you.

It feels like a special kind of purgatory.

“Please, Hao,” you plead. 

“Words,” he mumbles against our skin, rewarding— or punishing— you with a particularly sharp thrust of your two fingers. You fold in half at the sensation, only managing to still sit somewhat upright by virtue of Minghao’s other hand holding your back up against the chair. “Use your words, pretty.” 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck. There’s a wretched quality to your voice as you pant, “Need you, please. Need your fingers instead.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“‘Cause—” You clench around your fingers; he feels your body tense underneath him. Both of you let out small sounds of pleasure at the reactions. “Your fingers are better, they’re— they’ll get me there faster— please, oh—” 

Your incoherent babbling seems to amuse and appease Minghao, enough for him to give in. 

He pulls your two fingers out and, before you can whine about the loss, he replaces them with two of his. They’re as brutally precise as you’d imagined them to be. Your knees almost close in an attempt to tide the pleasure that’s about to crash down, but Minghao holds your thighs apart with his other hand. 

“Don’t.” His voice is strained with effort. “Wanna see you. Please?” 

It’s the tacked on please that bowls you over, that has you nodding helplessly. You’d do anything Minghao asked if he asked in that tone. 

The squelches of his two fingers thrusting into you are obscene, but not quite as filthy as the sounds that slide past your panting lips. You moan and whimper and whine, and each little noise only seems to have Minghao moving with renewed vigor. He’s pulled away from your neck to watch you, but his eyes keep darting from your microexpressions to the way his fingers are swallowed up by your velvet heat. It’s like he can’t decide where to look first. 

“You’re a work of art,” he chokes out, his teeth grinding together as he focuses on your face. “So goddamn beautiful— sitting here all nice and pretty for me.” 

One of your hands fly to his hip in a desperate bid to hold onto something, to anything of him.

“Gonna finish,” you sob as you force your eyes open to meet his. Inadvertently, you cant your hips upward to meet one of his sharper thrusts, and the friction has the two of you moaning a little more. “Hao, fuck, can I—?” 

“Please,” he pants. “I need it. I need it so, so bad—” 

You climax with a silent scream, a sound that’s muffled as you lurch forward and press your face back into his neck. His other hand holds the back of your head in a supportive gesture as you come undone, coating his two digits in your slick. 

Minghao lets out a low cuss as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re so beautiful,” he says dazedly, sliding his fingers out of you carefully. “How are you so beautiful?” 

All you can manage is a shaky laugh as you come down from your high. As you keep your head pressed against Minghao, you catch sight of the tent in his sweatpants. Tentatively, you reach up one hand to cup him over the fabric. 

He says your name like it had been punched out of him. “Hey—” he tries to say in warning, but his body betrays him by bucking into your hand. 

“How long has that been there?” Your voice trembles, thick with a heady mix of exhaustion and desire. 

Minghao’s gruff response comes as your fingers twitch around the outline of him. “Since you stepped out of the damn shower,” he admits lowly.  

You let out a contemplative hum. There’s still a low ringing in your ears, a slight buzz in your brain from the last vestiges of your orgasm, but it can’t just be you who’s having all the fun. 

You shift back a bit so you can meet his gaze. You’re torturously slow as you palm his aching hardness, and you revel in the way Minghao reacts above you. His eyes have all but rolled into the back of his head and breathless little gasps are rising from the back of his throat.

“You’ve posed my hands,” you say, trying— and failing— to keep your tone even. “Wanna show me where my mouth should be, Hao?” 

His fingers tighten at the strands of your hair. He lets out just one more cuss before he’s using his other hand— the one still coated with your release— to pull down his bottoms. 

“Watch and fuckin’ learn, pretty,” he breathes, and you have a good feeling that he’ll make good on the threat.       

(Minghao gets an ‘A’ on his next assignment.)

[crimsoncandy04]

Wrote this while on drugs again. I wasn't going to share it and actually just found it in my practice folder this morning but I decided that it kinda ate a little.

So here's breakfast my gorgeous readers!

(Scaramouche x Reader doing a little boob stuff)

You've been experiencing some unwelcomed side effects of a medicine you were given and were just checking how your boobs felt as you turned in the mirror and tried to think about if they were indeed as swollen as you thought they were. You held them up and peered at your bare assets with a look of concern in your eyes. Maybe not leaking anymore, but definitely swollen and a little bigger than you were used to.

You definitely needed to tell your doctor.

Just then you feel cold and soft hands suddenly reach under your arms. You don't have time to react as you see your boss cup both of your tits and begin to play with them a little. Gently bouncing them a little as he whispers in your ear.

"You know I've always wondered how these things felt. They're so much bigger than I expected." Scaramouche pinched your sensitive nipples then. Pulling on the delicate buds just enough to get you to gasp and blush a little as you had no choice but to let him fondle you.

You were his subordinate still after all...

"My Lord... this hurts. I'm sensitive right now..!" You plead pitifully. Your soft voice barely above a whisper as you fear his wrath.

He doesn't stop. Instead you feel the tip of his fingers begin to play with the little slit in the centers as he rubs them tenderly and earns a little moan from your lips.

He chuckles at this and leans his head against your shoulder as he presses his body against yours from the back.

"If that's so, then it'll just make this feel even better. Now shut up and relax already. " He snapped as he leaned forward a little bit and pulled on one of your breasts to bring it closer as his mouth. His lips found the small peak and immediately he began to suckle your hardened nipple softly. Humming softly as his tongue teased the opening again and you began to whimper at the sensation.

His long slender fingers continued to pull and pinch the other as you suddenly felt him accidentally stimulate your milk ducts.

You felt like you were going to die from embarrassment on the spot.

Why oh why did those stupid pills make you lactate like this?

Why now of all days did Scaramouche decide it was okay to touch you like this?

While you still had your... issue?

"I'm sorry sir!" Your voice quivered.

"It's my medicine! I'm not pregnant but this is happening because of a hormone imbalance. I'm so sorry!"

You felt him deliver a painful suck to your left nipple at your words before he briefly pulled away to tell you to shut up again. Then right back he went.

Scaramouche had moved you both to a new position after that.

Now you lay on your back across a small sofa as he laid on top of you. His face almost peaceful looking for once as he squeezed one of your breasts and kept the other in his mouth.

He was drinking from you.

Actually drinking your milk!

You couldn't believe it.

Every now and then he'd give your sore nipple a break and alternate between them as he grinded his hips in between yours. You wondered if he planned to do this for the rest of the night. He seemed to be enjoying it at least.

You were right.

Scaramouche had nearly sucked you dry before he gave you permission to leave sometime after dawn arrived.

But that wasn't the end.

Every few days he'd summon for you again and the process was repeated.

You'd undress and expose your painfully swollen tits to the harbinger and he'd play with them a bit before using you to breastfeed himself for so long...

You remember him telling you that you would be doing this from now on too.

Your pussy had gotten so wet as you recalled it.

"I've informed your doctor that your medication is to be increased. I've found a new use for those massive things on your chest and you will meet me in my office every two days from now on. Understood?"

"I understand My Lord."

"Good. You know, for a mortal woman, you do have a fairly decent body."

He leaned closer to you as he grasped one of your tits..

"These breasts especially. So...soft...so...warm."

And then he ripped open your shirt right then and there to feast a little more.

You don't know why he enjoyed this so much but it wasn't your place to ask or even refuse. It was either exist as his personal milk dispenser or be killed.

And you wanted to live frankly.

So you played into it more and tried to enjoy yourself at the very least.

You had gotten brave one day and asked him for what you desperately wanted.

"My Lord I know it sounds greedy... but today while we do our usual activities... could you maybe... give me a little attention... elsewhere?" You knew you were blushing deeply as you had asked him. He said nothing as he strode over to you. Moving quickly as he slammed you against the wall behind you both. His hand reaching out to rub against your clothed slit.

"I was wondering when you'd ask. You think I'm seriously that stupid to have not noticed how disgustingly wet you get when I touch these sensitive tits of yours? It's almost unsightly. But don't worry, I'll help you out a little. Who knows, maybe this will improve your production. I've heard that certain kinds of external stimulation can cause women to lactate more."

Scaramouche leaned down and bit your nipple through your shirt as he suddenly slid two fingers deep into your soaking cunny and began to fuck you. His thumb circling your clit as he licked at your clothed mounds. His other hand instantly going to grope your other boob as his fingers curled inside you and made your knees tremble.

"Please this is too much! I'm going to... I'm going to cum! Please I'm going to cum!" You cry as you moan and feel your knees try to squeeze together instinctively.

Scaramouche bit a little too hard then. A silent command to keep your legs open as he continued to bring you to climax.

You felt milk seep from your nipples as you came harder than you had in a long time. Scaramouche eagerly drinks the excess liquid as he continues to finger fuck you through your orgasm.

A small smirk on his face as he suddenly moves to give you a shockingly passionate kiss. His tongue in your mouth. You taste your milk and silently marvel at just how pleasant it tastes.

"I've decided. I like you. I think I'll keep you around and use you more from now on." Scaramouche muttered under his breath as he pulled his hand out of you and instead began to pull down your panties.

"Y/N, how do you feel about me breeding you? I think your milk will taste so much better if you have a brat inside you. What do you think?"

You felt your pussy aching in response.

[the-fallen-blue]

Pretty sure she's an addict, actually.

Looking at the way she reacts to absorbing power, both in this show and in Wandavision, it obviously feels really good. I think she's being honest when she says she doesn't control it, but it's not because she physically can't, it's because she's so euphoric in the moment that she can't think clearly enough to make the decision.

And the greatest possible risk for addiction is to be in a situation where nothing else feels good. Where the world is unstable, untrustworthy, unreliable, where you are unable to plan or hope for a future or believe there is a source of good for you other than your drug of choice.

And Agatha, the covenless witch, has been in that situation her entire life. The only good things she's ever had are Rio and Nicky. Rio, despite being a shockingly caring and respectful partner, is also literally Death and cannot provide for Agatha any sense of protection, community, or future; Nicky is doomed before he's even out of the womb, and any joy she has with him is tempered by the fear of his loss, the knowledge of the ticking clock of Rio's return. And with or without the two of them, her deep-seated belief is that she is unable to be part of her community, that she has only the single binary choice of being hunted and alone and despised, or to attempt to belong and be instantly killed. Which is a stressful, painful way to stagger through the centuries.

I do think she told herself a lot of things about why she was killing other witches, of course. One thing is what she told Nicky; that it's to keep him safe. It "distracts" Rio (deep down she knows perfectly well that Death doesn't work that way, but he's still alive so far). It gives her enough power to protect him (she tells him herself that no amount of power can protect him or heal him or even guide her in his care, because her power doesn't work that way, but it's not like she can go get a coven to fill in the gaps, she has to try to make do with what she is). It protects her (if she has enough power, if she kills witches before they can kill her, she won't be hurt again). And I think one of the things that she told herself after Nicky died is that if she got enough power, enough juice, she could bring Nicky back; in Wandavision in particular she is very interested in the power of the Scarlet Witch to create life wholesale, to defy the balance Rio maintains.

But Agatha is a liar. Maybe all of those reasons have their influence, but at the end of the day, she drains witches because it's the only thing that feels good enough to make her forget for a second that she's lost every person she's ever loved and everything that ever made her feel safe. Because she's desperately trying to fill a hole in herself with power because she doesn't understand how to see or ask for or believe in anything else. Because the way her power works means that if she is feeling that feeling, she is being attacked, having it proven to her that of course there is nothing else for her, no welcome and no care and no joy outside of this moment of killing.

Which is why the first time she's able to stop herself is the first time she has seen and felt enough of a support structure outside of that addiction to actually start believing there's an alternative.

(Though, to be clear, none of that makes her not an awful person. If sorting people into moral categories is important to you that is absolutely the one where she gets put, and she is barely at the beginning of a potential redemption when the season wraps. She's just not there for shits and giggles, she's there for ~trauma~.)

I'm still thinking about the advice lilia gave to agatha right before her death because it is so fucking significant. like alice tried to protect agatha and agatha accidentally killed her. and STILL lilia decided to try again, in her own way. while existing throughout all of time at once, lilia believes that helping agatha is worth a try.

each time agatha tries to act like she doesn't care about sisterhood and pushes her coven away, they STILL show up for her the way the salemites should have but never did. the road is actively giving agatha what she's been missing since childhood: being shown care and compassion.

[lovelookspretty]

waking up to you

au!rafe cameron x reader

— in which you wake up in a strange alternate reality that just so happens to be the outer banks universe, and to your disbelief, you’re suddenly in a relationship with the shows most unlikely character, rafe cameron.

warnings: Y/N & RAFE DATE 😋 teasing, pretty safe chapter

authors note: btw readers only “weird” around cynthia bc ngl id act like that if i came across her bc shes so annoying on the show omg. but EEE hi guys. if u still arent part of the tag list, feel free to lmk thru replies, anons, dms, or reblogs !!

previous

you’re not surprised to wake up in rafe’s bed again. at this point, it’s almost routine, though every time still feels surreal.

you’ve gotten used to the soft sheets, the familiar scent of him on the pillows, and the way the morning light filters through the blinds just right, casting a warm glow over his peaceful, sleeping face.

he looks so different like this—calm, almost vulnerable. it’s a version of him that no one else really gets to see. and you? you don’t mind at all.

you take a quiet breath, just watching him for a moment longer. but then, his eyes flutter open, and you freeze, quickly closing your eyes to pretend like you’re still sleeping. maybe if you play it off well enough, he won’t—

a finger pokes at your side, and you can’t help the involuntary squirm and groan that escapes you. “rafe,” you mutter, barely opening one eye to glare at him. but he just grins, clearly pleased with himself for catching you.

“thought you were asleep,” he teases, voice rough from sleep, poking your side again until you half-heartedly swat at his hand.

“you’re so annoying,” you mumble, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “get off of me.”

the morning quickly slips into a blur, and before you know it, you're tagging along with rafe for a ride around the island—except not just any ride. he’s got his dirt bike out, the same one you’d seen on the show.

you were kind of surprised when you first saw it in the garage. in the world you knew, rafe got this bike after the first episode started, but here? no rules seem to apply anymore.

you’re wrapped tightly around his torso, his helmet snug on your head as he drives the bike through town, on the beaches, through quiet streets and long stretches of open road. the wind whips past your face, and you can’t help but smile into it, arms locked around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

eventually, he pulls up to some kook-itorium, the bike coming to a slow stop. rafe kicks the stand down and hops off first, turning to help you off like he always does. his hands are warm as they slide into yours, and for a second, he just holds them, staring down at you with a grin.

“so, what do you think?” he asks, pulling you a little closer as you hop off the bike. he’s been practically advertising himself on the way over here. “a date? hrm? just you n’ me. anywhere you want.”

you smile up at him. “yeah,” you say softly. “i’d like that.”

he tugs you toward the entrance of the building, still holding onto your hand. “just don’t pick somewhere like the seaview grill or— god, that lame museum your mom likes.”

when you step inside the building, it takes you a moment to realize where rafe has brought you. the place has that unmistakable country club vibe—polished, pristine, like every corner of it has been touched by money. but it’s smaller, rounder in shape, and more modern than the main country club building next door. servers move swiftly between tables, balancing trays and drinks. rafe, of course, heads straight past all of this, not even glancing at the downstairs dining area.

you follow him upstairs, past the busy floor where people are eating, drinking, and talking in their quiet, refined way. upstairs, though, it’s a whole different world.

the second floor is open and airy, with barely any walls to box anything in. it’s just the floor, held up by tall pillars that support the roof above, letting the fresh air and views of the island spill right in. the only structure that really stands out is the bar in the middle—a sleek, modern setup that takes up a good portion of the space, all glossy wood and glass shelves stocked with high-end bottles.

the place is filled with kooks, most of them middle-aged. they don’t seem to notice you and rafe, or if they do, they don’t care. oh right, rafe should be about 22 now, legal to drink here. does that make the others 18 and 19?

anyway, rafe is clearly familiar here. a few nods are thrown his way as he leads you forward, and he nods back, murmuring casual greetings under his breath as you weave between tables. you’re amused, but there’s a small part of you that’s bothered.

you thought maybe rafe had brought you here for food downstairs, but it’s pretty clear now that this is just one of his regular stops to get a drink—probably whiskey or even scotch, knowing him. but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to spoil the mood.

he finally lets go of your hand when he reaches the bar, leaning against the counter with crossed arms as he asks for his drink. you linger beside him for a second, glancing around the open space. the view from up here is stunning, with a perfect sightline to the docks and the country club’s main establishment just next door.

you rub your arm awkwardly, feeling a little out of place among all the well-dressed older folks. after a beat, you step closer to rafe, gently touching his arm to get his attention. “i’m gonna go use the restroom,” you say quietly.

he nods, not taking his eyes off the bartender. but before you can turn to leave, he grabs your arm, tugging you back toward him for a quick kiss. it’s his way of saying 'be safe,' you guess, a small gesture that makes you smile despite the surroundings. you give his arm a gentle squeeze in return, then slip away to head downstairs.

just as you’re descending the steps, though, a familiar voice drifts up toward you. and then you see him—topper, making his way up the stairs. your heart sinks in the half-second you have to process it.

great. the last time you talked to him was at the party, when he was stumbling over some half-assed apology. and now here he is, about to cross your path.

fantastic. just what you needed.

the moment his eyes land on you, there’s a flicker of recognition that lights up his face, just for a moment—like spotting an old acquaintance in a crowd.

“y/n!” he says, his hands coming up as if he’s presenting you to the world. he glances at his mom as if to say, ‘look who it is’. you can feel your heart rate pick up as you pause on the steps, furrowing your brows at them.

they were definitely just talking about you right before this.

you force a smile, but it’s small and tight, barely breaking through your unease. “hi, topper,” you mumble, glancing between him and his mom. there’s a brief moment of silence as you weigh your options—whether to continue this conversation or slip away.

ultimately, you choose the latter. you take a step forward, moving past them and continuing down the stairs, leaving them behind. as you go, you can feel topper’s eyes on you.

he glances down at his shoes and shifts awkwardly, but then, just as quickly, he looks up again. “come on, let’s just go upstairs,” he insists to his mom, trying to shake it off as they both start moving again.

it’s not that you wanted to dismiss topper and his mom or anything. really, you just don’t see the point in lingering in the middle of a public staircase, one of the only two that connected the floors of the country club. you don’t want to be rude, but you also don’t want to talk to topper—especially after your last encounter at the party.

topper and his mom step off the stairs, but the moment topper spots rafe, a grin spreads across his face.

“hey, good seein’ you back here again,” topper greets, approaching the bar with a friendly demeanor.

rafe daps him up casually. “you too, man,” rafe replies, genuinely glad to see him.

topper's mom stands just a foot away, carrying her purse and looking utterly uninterested in the interaction, her gaze flicking off to the side as if she’s assessing the other patrons. she’s never been a fan of rafe, just barely tolerating him because he comes from a good family, and it shows in the way she avoids direct eye contact.

pulling away from the handshake, toppers eyes glance back toward the staircase as if expecting you to appear at any moment. “saw you and y/n come in,” he adds, “just wanted to say hi.”

rafe nods with a smile as he leans back against the bar, one elbow resting casually on the counter. he glances at topper’s mom. “hey, cynthia,” he says, flashing her a grin.

her expression shifts from indifference to surprise, and then it hardens, almost offended by the casual familiarity. she’s always been the type to keep her distance from him, and rafe knows it. to her, he’s still just another troublemaker, another bad influence.

topper notices the slight tension and looks back to rafe, his brow furrowing slightly. “so, what’s up with y/n?” he asks, his tone casual but laced with a hint of concern.

rafe squints, his head cocking to the side as he regards topper. “what do you mean, ‘what’s up’?” he replies, his voice subtly defensive and carrying a hint of warning. “is there something wrong with her?”

topper realizes how that might sound and shakes his head quickly. “no, no, man. i just think she’s, like . . . avoiding me or something,” he clarifies, waving a hand dismissively as if trying to brush off any potential drama.

rafe chuckles, raising his glass up to his lips. “are you surprised?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at topper, the teasing tone evident. he shakes his head, a look of amusement on his face. “girls, man.”

cynthia catches the comment, her expression shifting to one of disapproval. she mutters a clipped ‘ten minutes’ to her son before leaving without a word, turning on her heel and heading toward the stairs to leaving topper there with him.

topper watches her go, feeling the weight of the awkwardness settle over him. he glances back at rafe, who is now watching the scene unfold with a smirk, clearly amused by the whole thing.

“so, what are you guys up to?” topper asks, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

when you step out of the bathroom, you spot her immediately—cynthia, standing at the bottom of the stairs like she’s waiting for her son. you briefly consider turning around, maybe pretending not to notice, but it’s too late. her sharp gaze finds yours, and there’s no escaping it now.

this is great.

you adjust your posture, trying to look casual as you make your way toward the stairs, your mind racing for an excuse to cut this conversation short. the last thing you want is to get caught up with cynthia—if she’s anything like the way she was on the show, you are not open to a conversation.

but it’s like you’re trapped. her eyes lock on you, and she takes a few steps forward in those polished black heels. “y/n,” she says, and there’s a hint of something icy behind that tone, even though she’s putting on a smile.

you stop, eyebrows raising as you stand in place, trying to gauge the situation. her smile is forced, you can tell immediately, but so is yours as you mirror her expression. “cynthia, it’s so . . . nice to see you again,” you say, the words slipping out of your mouth because, well, kooks always know kooks, right? you assume this universe’s y/n has seen her before.

but as soon as the words leave your mouth, cynthia’s expression shifts—her lips purse, and her eyes narrow slightly, pulling her head back like you’ve just said something ridiculous. yep. that was wrong. completely wrong.

“last time i saw you, you were just a kid! every time you come over to my home now, it’s like you’re always sneaking around,” she remarks, her voice dripping with that fake kindness, the kind that’s so transparently bitter it almost stings.

your stomach twists. yeah, this is definitely not the conversation you wanted. “and how are your parents?” cynthia continues, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

you wave your hand, trying to shrug it off like it’s no big deal. “they’re great! in costa rica right now, on vacation,” you respond, trying to keep things light.

but cynthia hums, her expression a little too knowing. “i heard it was a business trip?” she says, tilting her head slightly.

you clear your throat, feeling the tension grow. this woman is the worst. you’re slipping up so bad. “mix of both,” you say, your voice strained as you force another fake smile.

there’s a brief, uncomfortable silence before the two of you lean forward, laughing in that awkward, forced way where neither of you are actually amused. the laugh dies quickly, and as soon as it does, you drop the pretense, turning on your heel as you head back upstairs, feeling weird about the interaction.

you feel like you were just quizzed. and you failed.

once you’re back upstairs, you immediately catch rafe’s eye as you step into the room. he’s leaning casually against one of the tables, a glint in his eye that matches the small smirk tugging at his lips the second he spots you.

his whole demeanor shifts, but topper, who’s mid-sentence, doesn’t seem to notice right away—until he realizes rafe isn’t paying attention. topper twists around to follow his line of sight, spotting you before continuing whatever rant he was on.

rafe briefly glances back at him, half-listening, as you approach the two of them. when you get close enough, you quietly reach for rafe’s glass, bringing it to your nose to smell whatever’s left of his drink. without a word, you tilt your head back and down what’s left, swallowing with a grimace as you place the empty glass back on the table.

both boys stare at you, each reacting differently. topper furrows his brow, eyes flicking to the glass to see if there’s anything left. “what’s up with you?” he asks, confused, clearly sensing something off.

rafe, on the other hand, is looking at you with a blank expression, though there’s a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth—because he knows. “she was definitely just talking to your mom, top,” rafe says with a knowing smile, his tone carrying just the right amount of humor to suggest that, naturally, a conversation with cynthia would drive someone to drink.

topper’s face falls slightly, but he doesn’t even argue. he just glances between the two of you in silence because he knows rafe’s probably right. with a quick check of his phone, he pushes away from the table, his energy deflating. “alright, i’ve gotta go. see you guys.”

“bye, top,” you murmur, watching as he walks off, leaving just you and rafe standing together. once topper’s out of sight, you tilt your head all the way up, meeting rafe’s gaze with a lazy, playful smile.

“you decide on where we’re going?” rafe asks, sliding an arm around you, pulling you close as he starts guiding you toward the stairs.

you hum for a long moment, trying to think, before making something up on the spot. “let’s go jet skiing,” you say, half-joking but testing the waters to see what he’d say.

rafe raises his eyebrows, a slight chuckle escaping him. “you wanna go to monty’s?” he repeats, and you assume it could be some jet ski rental place you must go to. he’s amused but surprisingly open to it. “we can go to monty’s, darlin’.”

rafe drives the two of you out to some place a mile or two away, the sign out front reading ‘montgomery’s jet ski rentals’ in bold blue letters. it’s tucked away along a small marina.

you step out of the car. it’s here that you notice the way rafe moves—a kind of quiet confidence that’s hard to ignore. he strides toward the dock with his head held high, like he’s done this a hundred times. you can’t tell if it’s because you two have apparently been here so often that he just knows his way around or if he’s just naturally this confident.

while rafe chats easily with the staff, laughing and slapping one guy on the back like they’re old friends, you find yourself preparing for the ride. you slip into a life vest, adjusting the straps so it fits snugly.

then you’re stepping onto the dock, the jet ski bobbing gently in the water. rafe climbs on first, settling into the front seat, and turns back to offer you his hand. you take it, letting him guide you into place behind him, and then you wrap your arms around his waist. it feels natural, like you’re meant to be there, holding onto him like this.

and, god, the thought hits you—this is probably a dream for hundreds, maybe thousands of people. to be on a jet ski with drew starkey, any version of him, arms wrapped around his waist, close enough to feel the warmth of his back.

it’s a little surreal, and you can’t help but feel grateful for this weird fucking alternate universe you’re in. being a kook, being rafe cameron’s girlfriend, living out days like this—you could get used to it. you could live like this forever.

rafe glances forward, that cocky smirk barely visible at the corner of his lips. without looking back at you, he mutters, “hold on.” and before you have a chance to reply, he twists the throttle, and the jet ski leaps forward, tearing across the water. your arms instinctively tighten around his waist as the engine roars, and you feel the force of the speed pushing you back slightly.

your eyes widen as you’re propelled across the open water. the jet ski skims over waves. you can barely keep from laughing as the wind whips through your hair. it’s fast—so much faster than you expected—and your heart is beating more than ever.

rafe steers you two in wide, looping turns and tight figure-eights, shouting the loudest, most carefree ‘woo!’ that you think you’ve ever heard. his voice carries over the hum of the engine and the slap of the waves, his laughter echoing as you cling on, a laughing mess yourself.

as the jet ski finally begins to slow, you let your chin rest on his back, just near his shoulder so you can look out ahead. you’re both breathing heavily from the ride, and he’s still grinning, clearly thrilled by his own reckless route. he isn’t heading anywhere specific, just weaving around, but that’s what makes it even better. there’s no destination—just you, him, and the freedom of open water.

“wanna take over?” rafe calls out, and you laugh, thinking he’s kidding. but when he glances back over his shoulder, you catch his expression and feel your own smile falter, realizing he’s dead serious.

next thing you know, you’re seated in front, fingers gripping the throttle while rafe sits behind you, holding on with that unshakeable grin of his. the jet ski jolts forward as you try to get the hang of the controls, and you immediately feel the panic rise, the machine moving faster than you expected.

“rafe, i don’t know what i’m doing!” you shout over your shoulder, but rafe’s only response is laughter.

“just go easy on the throttle,” he says, half-shouting and half-laughing as you attempt to steer. but the jet ski wobbles, veering off a bit too quickly, and your grip slips.

“rafe!” you yell, barely keeping control as he’s practically doubled over behind you, finding the whole thing hysterical. he tries to guide you through it, but it’s impossible to listen when you’re both shouting and laughing, the jet ski zigzagging across the water.

but it slows. he wants to teach you properly.

you feel rafe's hands slip over yours, his fingers resting gently against yours as he takes control of the throttle from behind. his touch is firm but relaxed, guiding your grip as he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “steady now,” he murmurs. “ease it forward like this, yeah?”

you nod. his voice is a steady hum as he talks you through it. “just a little pressure here,” he says, pressing lightly against the throttle. “see? easy.” his fingers guide yours over the controls until you can feel how each movement changes the jet ski’s pace.

after a minute or two, he lets you take over, his hands staying in place to catch you if needed, but he’s not pushing or pulling anymore. you start to feel it, understanding the rhythm of the throttle and how to steer, and rafe just chuckles.

“that’s my girl,” he says, patting his hand on the spot between your thigh and hip, sending a flutter through you as his hand settles back around you.

a grin stretches across your face, and before you know it, you’re letting out a loud scream that echoes across the water as you pick up speed, trusting yourself more with every second. you’re moving faster, the wind whipping past, and for a moment you feel invincible.

when you decide to slow down, you ease off the throttle, leaning back just enough to press into rafe’s chest. you feel his laugh rumble against you. it makes you smile as you let out a breathy laugh of your own. then, you’re off again, speeding forward with rafe’s steadying hands nearby, the two of you gliding over the waves like you were born to do this together.

you’re both sitting across from each other at a little table outside a bayside café. you pick up your sandwich and take a big, satisfying bite, eyes rolling back with a muffled oh my god because it's just that good.

you didn’t realize how hungry you were until now. you lean your head back, savoring the taste, a content sigh escaping as you sit up again, still chewing, and glance at rafe across the table.

he’s got his phone out, scrolling with his eyebrows furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening behind his sunglasses. he’s squinting slightly, or maybe he’s just annoyed by whatever’s on the screen. you pause mid-bite, lowering your sandwich slightly before asking, “you okay?”

rafe clears his throat, not looking at you just yet, and clicks his phone off. he flips it over on the table, his hand rubbing down the front of his shorts like he’s brushing something off. “yeah, all good,” he says, reaching for his own food, voice casual, but there’s a tension you can sense from his reaction.

it doesn’t add up, but you decide not to push it. you’ve learned when to give him space, and right now, you’re way more into this sandwich than trying to open up that conversation.

you take another bite, glancing around at the scene in front of you as you chew. it’s a perfect day, bay glistening in the sunlight, people passing. by with relaxed smiles, stopping in at shops or heading toward the water. montgomery’s rentals is right across the street, jet skis and kayaks lining the dock.

rafe leans back in his chair, “dad’s finally starting to trust me to, like, step into his position at the company.” he pauses for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “he’s flying out of state next week, and he’s leavin’ me in charge while he’s gone.”

you just stare at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips without even realizing it. you can feel the pride in your expression as you tell him, “rafe, that’s really good. i’m proud of you.”

he grins wider, clearly trying to play it cool, and then takes a massive, messy bite of his sandwich. he chews with the gusto of someone who thinks a bite is a whole experience, sauce smearing slightly at the corner of his mouth.

you reach over instinctively, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and tossing it back down on the table before going back to your sandwich like it’s second nature.

he swallows and continues, “he hasn’t really told me much, but i figure he’s got some new properties lined up, maybe working out deals or, like, finalizing stuff with investors. you know how he is.”

“yeah, that sounds like ward,” you say, taking another bite, your eyes never leaving him.

“so he’s gonna give me this schedule,” he adds, “a ‘run-down’ or whatever, of what i’ll need to cover. probably sit at the office, sign some stuff, and meet with clients or partners who can’t be pushed off until he’s back.”

“sounds pretty official,” you say, trying to imagine rafe at a desk, talking clients through real estate deals like he was born for it. “do you know what kind of properties he’s working on?”

he shrugs, a small smirk still lingering as he speaks. “knowing him? probably something big—new development or another investment property he wants to secure. he’s been hinting at something ‘game-changing’, like some waterfront project.”

you hum thoughtfully. “so you’ll be doing the groundwork? like, maybe even closing a deal?”

“yeah, maybe,” he says, sounding a little impressed with himself. “i’ll actually get to see if i can handle it.”

it's nice to see rafe so eager to step up, to take on something this big, probably just to prove himself to his dad. he always acts so casual about the family business, but there’s a spark in his eyes today, and you think . . . he can maybe handle being ward cameron for a week.

you just hope you can stay here long enough to see him prove it.

he’s finishing his sandwich, wiping his mouth with a crumpled napkin, and suddenly he’s looking right at you. “oh, yeah—did you ever tell me how that call went with your mom?”

it takes you a second. right, that call with your mom. you remember mentioning it to sarah, but rafe? he still doesn’t even know you hung out with sarah and the others while he was off fishing with ward.

“oh, yeah,” you say, smiling as if the thought just occurred to you. “it was fine. nice to hear from her, i guess. i miss them.” you shrug, playing it casual. but the truth is, you kind of do.

rafe nods, shifting his empty plate and leaning back in his chair, still watching you as he says, “that’s good. i mean, you get so wrapped up in life on the island, it’s easy to go a while without catching up.”

he talks on, making small comments about family and how he totally gets it, but as you sit there, nodding occasionally, your mind is somewhere else entirely.

you almost forgot about that call with your ‘in-this-universe mom.’ it seems so strange—no, it’s stranger that you forgot about it at all. and dad . . . right, your i.t.u. dad was there, too, wasn’t he?

wait . . what?

you feel a slight prickle of discomfort, shifting in your seat as you try to catch every third word rafe’s saying, but really, your mind is circling back to that call.

dad. mom. two words, so familiar. but why are they slipping through your fingers, blurring just a bit?

you force yourself to remember something about them, to pull up a memory, clear as day.

oh! like that one time you and mom spent the whole afternoon baking, sugar and flour coating every surface in the kitchen . . . and dad was there, wasn’t he? but what did he do? your chest tightens, just slightly, and you fidget with your napkin.

okay, try again.

dad. right. he was . . . wait, no, he was definitely there—no, he was doing something.

and then, just like that, the memory clicks into place. right, he’d taken one look at the mess you and mom made, then grabbed the dog and headed out, calling back that he’d be home ‘once the tornado’s over,’ and you and mom laughed.

you exhale, relief washing over you, but there’s still a flicker of something unsettling. why couldn’t you remember that right away?

you try another memory, to reassure yourself. dad did this, mom did that. you’re sifting through so many small, precious fragments, but there’s something strange about each one, something hollow.

the parents you remember—your parents—were so vivid before. but as you replay these memories in your head, they feel softer, blurred at the edges. somehow, they seem more like your parents here—the way they’re talking, laughing, looking at you with the same expressions as your i.t.u. parents.

your stomach twists, realization beginning to dawn, but you can’t even hold onto what that realization is. the longer you stay in this world, the harder it seems to be to grasp what was real and what was . . . this.

are you forgetting your memories?

authors note: okay poor execution LMAO but i know if i was y/n, i wouldve wanted to stay in this universe but we cant have that, so essentially the conflict / the thing that makes her work harder to solve all the relationships in this life for obx!y/n is that shes losing her memories from her real life the longer shes there.

does that make sense?? 😭 like she cant have her cake n eat it too, she can only have one lifetimes memories, her real ones or the ones that belong to the y/n who lives in this universe. makes her work faster to get back to her world so she doesnt feel like she can stay !!

tags: @v2los @cosmixstar @meeuhsworld @lovdrew @lilithblackkk @rovckwells @cherrylooney @iissza @namelesslosers @cocolovey @rafeyswrd @odairtrqsh @gretag13 @vivian-555 @lunaleah @smol-coffee-addict @twinge-vix @drewsephrry @behindviolettwrites @avngrssckr @stonerroadbull @cali-888 @coquettajob @simpingcorner @nymphetkoo @pinkpantheris @ilyrafe @romaescapes @thereallifebambi @inaluvrsworld @rafesweetie @faephoria @solo-pitstop-vibes @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @sgecorrow @rafesgiirl @ravisinghs-wife @booksntings @tinyfairies @maybankslover @honeyluvsatj @darleneslane @alysaaaa444 @w4nnabeurs @thewrittenpodcast @watersquirtpewpewboomm @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @benbarneslut @illicit-affcirs @helo1281917 ++

[yanderefarm]

tell emil you're bored of him and see what he does lol

alternatively, sneak out of the castle in the dead of night and never return

ON THAT THOUGHT, what would he do if you sleepwalk??? like maybe where you walk to reflects what you want to do but cant, for example sometimes it's to the library because you didnt get to read for like a week

i imagine emil would follow you a bit to see where you go to determine what he should do next day

and then one day it's just you trying to exit the castle, he finally open the door to see and you just walk further and further with no sign of stopping

he would panic so hard lol

i think if you were a really bad sleepwalker who kept trying to leave him he would tie you to the bed tbh. like you're not allowed to leave that's silly.

cw;; violence, yandere tendencies, gore, violence towards reader

pathetic emil step aside we have full yandere mode emil.

"im bored."

"im sorry what was that?"

"im bored. you're boring me."

emil lifted his head from his book and smiled at you a closed practiced smile.

"let me finish this page and i can find something to entertain you."

"no. i mean this is boring. us. you never let me leave, you only care about sex, and i don't have anyone to talk to."

emil's lips twitched.

"im sorry you feel-"

"i want to leave."

he put down his book completely and stared at you intensely. it was a gaze usually preserved for people he wanted dead.

"you don't mean that."

"yes i do."

you got up from the garden chair quickly followed by emil standing up.

"we can go somewhere else. we could go on a vacation. I'll hire you some approved friends."

"no. I've been thinking about this for a while. I'm telling you I'm leaving."

emil's hand came down on the table hard.

"no."

you could see his bright pink eyes darken as his face went blank. you weren't usually scared of your husband but you always knew you had reason to be. right now you certainly were. you tried to bolt for the entrance of the gazebo but all emil had to do was grab your arm with his inhuman strength and you couldn't move.

"emil it hurts..." you tried to whine pathetically but it didn't even reach his ears.

emil kicked you hard on the leg and you stumbled forward almost falling on the ground if not for him holding your arm up.

"i think you've had too much freedom. ive been too nice. i need to fix that."

"no- no- emil i was just joking! it was a joke!"

he looked truly intimidating, not even his signature sadistic smile on his terrifying features.

"you need to remember who loves you."

with his hand still holding your arm he stepped on your leg. you screamed in pain as he pulled your arm as leverage until your leg gave a sickening snap. but that wasn't enough as tears and pain overwhelmed your vision you felt him smash the broken bone with his foot. again. again. aga-

you lost consciousness due to the shock.

when you woke up you were in your shared bedroom but not on the large comfortable bed, instead you were laying on a dog bed with the most horrible pain in your leg while the other was chained to... a cage usually meant for monsters.

[peppermintquartz]

☑️ I voted early!!

Crash

Even though they joke about a lot of things, neither of them ever joked about Tommy crashing. It is an unspoken rule between them that sprang up organically: Tommy needs to put all thoughts of potential accidents out of his mind so he won't be distracted by "what-ifs" while flying, and Buck is terrified of it actually happening, because he won't know how he'll respond.

Today he learns how he responds to a helicopter crash which has Tommy on board:

He obeys Bobby's injunction to stay back

He runs as fast as he can delivering tools and equipment

He fights the fire engulfing the chopper

He does not speak

He does not look at Eddie, Hen and Chimney extricating the crash victims from the broken bushes and tree branches

He does not feel his extremities

He grips Bobby's hands when the three medics call out that they've lost the pulse

He falls to his knees when they get the pulse back

Tommy was senior pilot and a new member to the 217 A Shift was flying the craft. They both survive the crash, because she was able to bring it down low enough for them to jump out of it once it was clear something had gone wrong with the rotors.

But Tommy is the one who ends up with a stick the diameter of his thumb impaling right through his abdomen, along with two broken legs and a bad concussion. The doctors are worried about swelling in the brain.

Buck finds himself alternating between anxiety over Tommy's condition and fury at the chopper manufacturers LAFD bought the bird from. He outsources the fury to Tommy's captain and to Bobby, who both go digging through a network of contacts with the higher-ups. The anxiety he keeps for himself, not leaving Tommy's bedside other than when he needs the restroom.

Not that his and Tommy's friends don't keep him company when they can. Not that Maddie doesn't make him have at least one hot meal a day and that he goes home every two days to shower and shave and maybe take a nap on a proper bed.

They shave part of Tommy's head to drain fluids. They tell Buck that Tommy will be okay. Somehow Tommy's dad finds out and he even comes to the hospital, and the screaming match he gets into with Buck requires six male nurses to intervene. Buck is listed as emergency contact and he also has power of attorney. He tells the hospital in no uncertain terms that Charles Kinard is not allowed anywhere near Tommy Kinard.

It takes twenty four days since he's brought in for Tommy's fingers to twitch in Buck's hand, and those twitches become a weak grip, and eyes that have been closed flutter open briefly. It takes six cycles of this before Tommy says his first word since the crash, which is (to no one's surprise) "Ev'n."

Hearing Tommy's voice, Buck cries for the first time in twenty-four days. Then he kisses Tommy's forehead and says, "Welcome home."

--

Vote & prompt

[faeriekit]

CLOSE ENOUGH.

*(This was originally an unbirthday gift for biblioteque on discord! ...and I forgot their tumblr username! So!)*

When Clark is young, he doesn’t know any different.

“Be careful, Kal,” Mama says as he toddles around the house, her hands on his hands, his feet on her feet. They march together, Mama and Kal, as they go around the farmhouse. “You’re going to be big and strong like your father. You gotta be gentle.”

“Gen’le,” Clark gurgles, the word barely English.

Pa laughs from his place on the table, newspaper in hand. “And smart, too!”

Father snorts through his cup of coffee. “There was no possible alternative. Kal-El will be exceptional, as expected of his house.”

“Well,” Mama says cheerfully, cutting Father a look through her glasses, “Maybe he’ll get lucky and won’t be as big-headed as you.”

Pa laughs, and Clark laughs loudly and openly with him; Father smolders into his coffee, and the morning passes.

Clark doesn’t know a lot, when he’s little.

He knows that he hears a lot, so sometimes there are things he’s not allowed to be in the room for: Father puts him to bed with a song and long stories of the science of the stars when Mama and Pa have tense words about money; Mama puts Clark to bed when there are strange men in the cornfield, and Pa stays downstairs with the hunting rifle; Pa or Ma or Father or whoever puts him to bed when the rest of his parents have heavy-breathed and strained ‘alone time’.

“I think Pa’s sick,” Clark says from his tucked-in place in bed, half-listening, playing with his bear’s plush limbs while his parents make noise elsewhere. They sound kinda strained, like they’re working too hard. Pa says that’s not good for you.  

“…That’s not what’s happening,” says Ma, too tired to talk.

Clark pats her hand. Ma sounds like she feels bad too. They move onto sharing a story while Father and Pa make noises down the hall, and eventually Clark gets to sleep.

Clark doesn’t think much of his family when he’s little; it takes going to school to find out that he’s different than the other kids in Smallville.

He’s different from a lot of other kids.  

“I have two names,” Clark tells Chloe at school, before Pa and Ma and Father tell him not to. His second name is a secret. Clark doesn’t know why, but he listens, and stops telling people why Father calls him Kal.

“How come you only have one Mom and one Pop?” Clark asks from the swings, Mike on the pair beside him. His feet pump back and forth as they swing. “Aren’t they lonely?”

Clark tells Tom “I’m not allowed to go outside of town without Ma or Pa,” even though it was super nice to be invited to watch the game with Tom’s family. Clark wrings his hands. “Father says it’s not safe.”

Eventually, Father and Ma and Pa are able to tell Clark the important things—that Clark is special, but not better than anyone else; that Clark is different, in ways that might scare people who don’t already love him; that what Father does is private, and is nobody’s business.

To be fair, Clark isn’t certain what Father does.

Father works in the attic, with equipment that beeps and chimes and hums and doesn’t need to be plugged in. He writes in a language that Clark only sometimes understand, and when Clark reads the results aloud, Father always corrects his pronunciation. The screen for Father’s work is clear and bright. There’s no static, like there is downstairs with the television, and when Clark runs his fingers through the screen, they don’t touch anything at all.

“Don’t touch that, Kal-El,” Father says simply, reading triangular words across the screen. Clark guiltily pulls his hands out of the screen.

“What is it?”

Father’s voice rumbles from his chest, his fingers never still on the keypad. “Weather results. I calculate the predicted weather for the next few weeks on the second of every calendar month.”

Clark peeks. That’s why he can’t read it that well, then: he doesn’t know any weather-words. “I thought that weather reading is super hard, and that you can’t tell what the weather is all that well?”

Father’s lips quirk upwards. His typing continues. “With inferior equipment, yes. With a little more experience and better tools, however, the accuracy improves significantly.”

Clark tells Eliza that a tornado is going to touch down at four on March 28th, since his Father told him so. Eliza, with her brown pigtails and hand-me-down play dress, puts her hands on her hips and calls him a liar.

Ma and Pa watch Father haul equipment out into the storm to take notes from their spot in the window, only for the shape to start funneling right before their eyes.

The tornado touches down at 4:00:23pm.

Eliza ends up owing Clark all her tooth fairy money—almost a full four dollars and seventy-five cents.

Ignoring my 15+ wips to invent new, worse wips is my passion. Don't look in my documents folder. Seriously. Do not.

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

All of the DoD should’ve somehow played a part in Scarlets downfall instead of just Glory, because honestly it’s hard to take her seriously as a villain whenshe has hatred for only one specific protagonist out of like a dozen, 10 if you only go off pov protags. Made even worse by both the fact that Glory actually wasn’t aiming for her anyhow but also that Glory isn’t an active character during Scarlets revenge arc, so it just comes off more comedic and a waste than anything.

if I were to write it, I’d still have her hate Glory the most, but also have enough hatred for the other DoD for them to at least get more than a group mention in her list of people she hates(that was very funny btw)

some spitball ideas for how each plays into her downfall(mainly just things of humiliation towards her due to her prevalent pride)

1:Maybe Clay ends up having more of an effect on the prisoners, sort of like Gill was before he got silenced, to the point where they all actively refuse to fight. Likely made even worse if Clay also makes Peril decide to no longer fight and essentially humiliate Scarlet in front of her entire kingdom

2:Have Starflight demand the release of Scarlets prisoners/fighters by the Nightwings, which Morrowseer agrees to do just to get Starflight to shut up(this ones not as good as the other but it felt wrong not to give Starflight SOMETHING y’know? if anyone has another idea it’d be cool to hear

3:for Tsunami maybe up til Gill she constantly beats up even Scarlets best guards, and constantly insults her while letting her opponent live after each fight, making Scarlet look a bit like a fool and her underlings weak and plant seeds of doubt of her rule in her kingdom(Obviously Tsunamis not this strong in canon considering she nearly got killed by a random skywing soldier without Clays help, but she could be made stronger in this hypothetical)

4:maybe Sunny makes multiple guards second guess their loyalty due to just her general kindness and the fact she’s apart of the prophecy, though this would be hard to see since she’s away from the others so maybe she’s the only one who doesn’t outright slight her, hence her being slightly amicable when they meet in The Brightest Night

Glory brutally scarring her would be the icing on this hate cake, and the thing Scarlet hates most due to her vanity as well as symbolizing to her just how weak she had felt and looked like because of The Dragonets

alternatively to all of this, just make Glory show up more in the first half of Arc 2 and acknowledge Scarlet as a threat to her and the others

I understand if people don’t like these btw

.

[theresademoninyouroven]

Ougghh… I’ve just seen StP’s The Princess and The Dragon route… and it’s taken over my mind.

The pristine cut spoilers below!

Okay, so, first of all. WOW does TLQ look huge and terrifying from the princess’ perspective. Not to mention she can hear the sound of the blade… no wonder she’s like that in all the times the blade’s taken!

I love seeing TLQ’s actions from an outside perspective!! Really puts the quiet in The Long Quiet.

The way the demeanor and face changes with what voice is talking… I’d assume it’s because there’s no more player (or, ‘The Decider’) so there’s no one to filter out the personalities into one singular Quiet. But hey maybe TLQ is just fully like that on any given route.

Speaking of the Voices— Opportunist you horse-teethed bastard! I love him! I’m gonna beat the ever-loving shit outta him!!!

Overall, I just really like this route and how it feels. A shame there (seems) to be no ending where you can stay in the princess’ mind and not have The Opportunist kill you, but that’s what AUs are for!

Speaking of, I have an alternate route end/canon divergence AU (I think I could work it into a canon ending, but I also like having my fun) I’m cooking up. If anyone’s interested, you can drop an ask!

[mickeym4ndy]

utterly wild to me that Mickey and Monica never met.

Cuz like, he'd prob be as indifferent towards her as he is to Frank.... until Ian is diagnosed and then Monica is just a big reminder of what could happen to Ian if he stops treatment etc. And her manic episodes would have such similar energy to Ian's that it would be so painful for him to watch...

Ooh yea Mickey and Monica is an interesting thought. I think she’d like him. Monica is in general really nice to people and isn’t outwardly cruel, and I feel like she’d be sooo excited to meet Ian’s boyfriend and just want to be his friend or something.

But yea I think Mickey would hate her tbh, if we’re thinking in a world where they met after s5 (bc I do think he’d be generally indifferent to her before that like u said). I think it would be more about her treatment of Ian than anything else though. Like I think Mickey would struggle with her because her episodes would be a reminder of Ian’s, but I don’t think he’d hate her for that. It would just worry him.

I think he’d hate her because of the shit she’s put Ian through. He’d hate her because he knows she’s the one that got Ian involved in dancing at the clubs underage, because she’s the one who left Ian and endangered him repeatedly, because she’s the one who gets Ian’s hopes up only to leave again, because she took Ian away from his family when he needed help, because she convinced Ian that he didn’t need help, because she was the one that caused Ian to push him away, because she had him living in a crack house and getting with older guys when he was underage and did nothing to stop it.

I think in an alternate reality where Monica had lived, Ian would always end up wanting to help her because how could he not? And Mickey would really struggle to understand it. He’d be like “look at what she put you through she doesn’t deserve u constantly doing this for her when she won’t help herself.” I think it’s easier for him in canon to understand Ian’s love for her since he never met her, but if he had, he’d probably struggle with Ian and Monica having a relationship because she caused Ian to leave him in the first place and she’s put him through hell. Which is interesting because Mickey has a loyalty to Terry that Ian can’t understand.

Ian really struggles to understand why on earth Mickey would have any loyalty to Terry, the father that abused him and made his life a living hell. But still, Mickey has a need for Terrys approval and a loyalty to Terry that he can’t explain. And Ian clearly does not understand it, yet he has such a love for Monica despite everything she put him through. (Obviously the situations were different, but they both have love for their abusive parent they can’t let go of). And (in this reality) Mickey struggles to understand Ian’s loyalty to Monica, even though he himself has a loyalty to Terry.

If Monica had lived, it would’ve been really interesting to see Mickey and Ian try to navigate all that. Ian hating that Mickey still has a relationship with Terry and that he does so much for him, while he himself still has a relationship with Monica. And also Mickey hating the fact that Ian does so much for Monica and has a loyalty to her, while he does so much for Terry and has a loyalty to him.

If u ask me, Terry’s death actually could’ve been a chance for them to explore this in canon. Would’ve given Ian’s coldness towards Mickey after Terry died more meaning and actually made it make sense. Like maybe he’s complaining to Debbie because he can’t understand why Mickey would miss Terry and Debbie says “well don’t you miss Monica?” and it could’ve gone from there.

Again I know Terry and Monica are very different. Monica’s abuse is more of a byproduct of her behaviour, while Terry actively chooses to abuse and terrorize his kids. But the way their children view them is similar, so it’s interesting.

thanks for sending this! apologies for the long answer lol

[edgeray]

@chucapybara I love you, these are amazing. Stop making me want to write this.

Imagine that streamer arle! And streamer! Reader are in a pre-established relationship. Whenever one walks into the other's stream, the camera angle is too low to see their face, but they suspiciously sound like that one streamer...

(They both completely forgot to mention that the other are their partner.)

Reader doesn't stream the same games that Arlecchino does, so they don't stream together a lot at first (and by stream together, they're in the same discord call, but not in the same room because one of them hasn't moved in to the other's house.)

But as both of their channels grow they start streaming with each other more, and people definetely start shipping them at this point. The two are indirectly flirting with each other over stream and people definetely notice.

(They watch these compilations and laugh at them. One time they're chatting and somehow some ship art or ship fic is brought up and they look at it, and laugh at it.) Reader tweets after the stream for any links of ship fics or x Reader fics

Arlecchino says nothing about their relationship because she doesn't care. Reader says nothing because they think it's funny.

Arlecchino and reader confirm their relationship after nearly a year of being together when Arlecchino forgets to end the stream when she asks over call 'Wendy's or Chipotle for tomorrow's date?' Safe to say Twitter (I refuse to use X but it's a stupid name) lost their shit.

Whenever they're playing with anyone else, Arlecchino and Reader will always be together. They started embracing their own ship name as their duo name.

Arlecchino is blatantly nicer to Reader than anyone else.

While I see Arlecchino as the type of person to own a tarantula, alternatively I think she could also own a bunch of jumping spiders. Jumping spiders are really easy to take care of (since they're so small) and come in a lot of different variations (they also have personalities).

I too think that Arlecchino would be really good at horror games (she finds them boring since they're not scary to her), though they're not her favorite. Her favorite types of games (I think, I can't really think of any others she'd like) is FPS games like COD, Apex, Ultrakill, or Valorant maybe. I'm not too well-versed in FPS games but she seems like she'd like something skill-based with strategy and fast-paced/action-packed. Movement shooters, if I wanted to get specific.

I don't remember if I said this, but I will out of pure indulgence. She sucks at sandbox games or sim games. Get her into a Minecraft world and she'll be questioning why she can't mine diamonds with a stone pickaxe or why she's dying (because she's starving to death, drowning, or suffocating). Arlecchino can be a girlfailure sometimes, but Reader still loves her for it.

Anyways if you like these or want more thoughts feel free to send asks :) or asks regarding other works of mine is cool too.

Ik the cringey Gen Z in me is literally trying to claw through the bars of my mind because why the fuck do I want to write a video game streamer! Arlecchino. These are very incoherent and nonsensical thoughts bc I am tired.

Bro, in the most deadpan voice after getting destroyed by some kid: "Well. That's not very skibidi of you 😐"

Her fanbase only has two sides: thirsty for her, or is desperately clinging onto every paternal advice and praise that Arlecchino didn't even know she had said

"Chat, why do you keep calling me a dilf. What is that."

Has children. She does not know of it, even when CatMagacianBoi sends her a donation message saying "I think I failed my math test :(" and she starts on a whole rant about how failures is okay, and it's one step closer to success and that your setbacks will never define you. Has paused stream to teach someone how to tie their tie.

Wears fucking cat ear headphones. Until someone gifts her a custom made headphones with rabbit ears

Is actually really good at games when she tries. Is also terrible at sandbox games. (I can go on a whole rant of how I think Arlecchino will be like in Minecraft).

Another streamer colleague (Tartaglia) suggested she streams herself reading fanfictions of herself. (Never again. Ever seen a grown woman get traumatized over stream?) "What does the tag 'x Reader' mean?"

Does lots of charity streams, especially for orphanages.

Guys I'm actually in need of some crack ideas, I'm going insane.

(Maybe Arlecchino x streamer! Reader 🥺 fic? Mayhaps a slow burn where they basically unknowingly stream their e-dates?)

[suusoh]

(pwp or something idk. just got horny in the tags of my last post about eddie not looking anywhere else but at his wife and only his wife while doing his husbandly duties.)

cw: female reader, sex, eddie's orbs, overuse of the word staring because I want you to start feeling annoyed and maim this man, slight yandere (maybe if you squint?) cheesy and unfunny frank valli reference at the end.

———

he's staring at you again.

Eyes fogged with a love sick haze in them at the absolute sight of you, his wife, all warm, soft, and pliant under him. You try to close your eyes from time to time, but even when you open them again— it just comes back to the first thing you see which is this man on top of you, mouth switching between grinning and gasping, and eyes wide open.

"...Eddie?"

He hums tenderly. "What is it, dear?"

"I-I.. can you just-"

It's so hard to talk when his hips don't stop moving despite his concern. The weight and absolute mass of him on top of you and grounding you into the bed with each thrust makes it all the more harder to think straight.

Thoughts on how to sound out your request begin to blur and buzz out with him fucking into you like this. In and out, in and out, inside of you. over and over again as he buries himself deep within your cunt. your pubic bone practically connecting with his, and sending sparks of heat inside your belly with each time he ruts himself into you.

"Just what? What does my darling wife want?" He starts searching your face for any indication or answer to complete it for you what you want him to do now. Still looking at you intensely.

Looking. He keeps looking. Which is, sort of the thing you wanted to point out in the first place.

"You're... o-oh- oh-"

"I...?" he acts as if he's not quite catching on. Pondering for a second with the sounds of your moans and wanton sighs, and the creaking of the worn out bed acting as background noise to aid his thinking.

"Oh! I'm doing a swell job is that it? Is that what you're trying to say, dearest?" he lets out a content loving sigh, and your breathe stutters as he picks up his pace. "You and your words never fail to make me blush, my love."

Another particularly good thrust has you arching your back, of which he's making sure his eyes connect with yours once more while you writhe and wiggle underneath. But your wriggling quickly eases from bodily pleasure, to slowly morphing into a sense of discomfort now.

Because he's staring at you.

Again.

Which should be good isn't it? Eye contact during sex is a sign after all of a good partner paying attention to your needs. And with someone like Eddie, him paying attention to your needs is the tiniest sliver of hope you cling onto to make sure his reason for keeping you alive is a bit more... cemented, substantial even. Gives you a little bit more reason (or delusion) to believe he'd be inclined to make this relationship, make you, last longer.

(Compared to the alternative route of him using your body for his own sick dispositions, and casually stringing you all up when he's done.)

Though you're sure that this is not the type of bedroom eye contact many normally wish for.

"Y-you... you're.." you try to murmur out again.

Not that you should talk about having anything normal with this man. You might as well find the solution to world hunger long before you find anything even remotely "normal" in this place.

It's not that you're expecting him to do things normally, but can't he... can't he just... do something else maybe?

Look anywhere but you for just a split second, maybe bury himself into your neck, or close his own eyes to focus on the feeling of his cock getting squeezed, or look at any other part of your body that could possibly entrance him; mouth, chest, stomach... hell, you could even hope that he tries to glance down at your clit? Maybe marvel at the sight of where the two of you connect, since that's all his fucked up baby fever mind thinks about anyways?

You'll take anything really, just one small thing to act as a reminder that you guys are indeed having... sex— and not engaging in some sort of impromptu staring contest out of nowhere.

Because his eyes are doing absolutely nothing but looking into your own and as they continue staring at you.

and staring at you...

and staring...

and staring...

and staring...

Jesus fucking christ you don't think he's even blinked in the past few seconds anymore.

You let out a mix of a whine and a groan, opting to shut your eyelids close and try to shield your face away from his unmoving eyeballs by trying to wiggle your hands free out of his grasp (him and his damn insistence to hold hands while making love as he calls it.).

"What is it my love? Must I pay you a penny for your thoughts perhaps?"

"You keep staring... "

You try to wiggle free again, inadvertently adding onto the delightful friction between your parts and his— to which he gets a small shiver of his own at the roll of your hips. A light laugh escapes him at your captivating and somewhat fruitless display. He finally gives reprieve to your brain's rising fear of being uncannily perceived at, and blinks.

"Ohhh, my darling."

He lets go of one of your hands so that he can cradle your face, tilting it so he can capture your mouth into a kiss. humming into your mouth, but the humming isn't just the usual sighs of pleasure, as you can pick up the movement of him saying some words.

He pulls apart from his half kissing-half speaking into your mouth, as he slowly begins to playfully laugh again.

"You can't blame a man for looking at his wife when she's like this; all breathless and beautiful, now can you? I sure can't!"

Said wife that he just knows for certain was sent down by god all-mighty himself into the 7th circle of hell named "mount massive asylums".

When Eddie sees you, he can't help but imagine your rotting carcass somewhere else. An alternate place where those filthy bastards could have gotten their hands on you, torn you limb from limb (if they didn't have the patience to pull your teeth and your eyes out first), then have their way with using your dead body as a urinal afterwards.

You must have been scared to not have your dear husband around to protect you from all the nasty violence around the asylum, weren't you darling?

No, no. No meed to fret now and get your panties in a twist! None of that here. Not when your dear ol' Eddie is here now.

You are very much alive and perfect, preserved by your own sheer dumb luck or maybe by fate itself to be kept alive long enough for him. Just him.

And under his care, your body is experiencing the furthest thing from excruciating physical pain right now, isn't it darling? Feels good, yes? To have your husband make love to you like the passionate man he is. Lest he's supposed to take in the sight of you rolling your eyes back and your legs hooking around his waist, pulling him in for more as something otherwise?

Oh goodness him... It's almost too good to be true.

And he really can't take his eyes off of you.

[kuronanox]

Serving royalty - Byakuya Kuchiki

(Your Name) had always been a servant, service girl and peasant all her life, her family was born from nothing and was doomed to serve the royals houses. That's all she knew, her dreams to become a shinigami were squashed, merely because she was weak and sheltered from the protection of the royals she served. She didn't hate her life, she just wish there was excitement in it.

"I wanna leave this place someday." (Your Name) tells another servant as they tended to the garden outside the Kuchiki manor. Fall had entered so the flowers were scattered all over the floor. With a broom she swept it into the grass.

"You don't like it here?"

"No, it's just... there's more to life than this. Who knows maybe if I make enough money I can leave and just go somewhere quiet and peaceful."

There was a silence between two of them as the other servant just simply said she loved being here because everything was provided for them.

(Your Name) kept her thoughts to herself, of course the other servants didn't think like her, she was a bit adventurous, the other girls didn't want to leave.

"Well it's just a dream. It's not like Kuchiki sama would let me." (Your Name) half hearty laughs walking away for her own space.

Kuchiki Byakuya, all the girls fawned over him. She thought he was good looking, apparently he was a widow. Although she never met the lady Hisana rumors said she was beautiful but always sick.

Byakuya always seemed cold to her, he would acknowledge their work with a few words but that was it.

"You have to serve dinner tonight!" One of the girls yelled to (Your Name) as they giggled and ran away.

She rolled her eyes, they hated this job mostly because it was rather awkward when dinner came.

Byakuya sister and him would sit and eat while being served. She liked Rukia, she was nice and humbled.

"Fine, but you guys have to prepare the food tonight!"

"Deal!" The other girls agreed.

Her mother always told her to wear appropriate clothes when serving the royal family, (Your Name) owned a few nice kimono but not nearly as fancy. Taking a deep breathe she took the trays of food from the other girls and softly called out from the other side of the door.

"Come." Byakuya says in a tired voice, the room was so silent (Your Name) seriously couldn't understand how Rukia could eat dinner like that most nights.

She gently opened the door and made sure to look anywhere but their eyes. With a tall posture and soft footsteps she placed Byakuya first and then went over to Rukias.

"No need to be so polite with me." Rukia smiles to (Your Name) as she silently blushes and shakes her head.

"I'm sorry Kuchiki San but that would be rude of me and against the rules." Rukia could only give her a friendly smile after and excused her.

"Kuchiki sama, I will be over to the next room if anything is needed." (Your Name) gesture to Byakuya as he nodded his head in approval.

Their dinner went smoothly and she only had to return twice to bring hot water for their tea, as far as she can tell the only conversation were held was that of the gotei 13 and about Rukia leaving to the human world for her friend Ichigo.

Byakuya was an observant man, he noticed that (Your Name) was the only servant to serve them of recent as the other girls would leave the job to her alone. She was quiet but he felt like there was a facade she let on, her hair flowing from her face as she bowed to them or when she slightly bent over to refill the tea pot.

He knew she had been living here for a few years and that her family had long passed away. Either way he acknowledged her hard work when all the other servants didn't want to do it or they were rather lazy. Byakuya saw the pattern of kimono that she wore, she had a selection of three and would alternate them when serving the family.

It made him realize the difference of their social status, when he could afford hundreds, she only owned three nice ones.

"You may be dismissed for the night." He tells (Your Name) as she came in for the last time to refill their tea.

(Your Name) seemed confused because they hadn't finished dinner and the room wasn't cleared. As she was about to open her mouth to protest that her job wasn't finished he silence her "You may retire for the rest of the night."

She took a look around not knowing how to go with the situation and she saw Rukia give her a smile "don't worry, we've notice your hard work, please take the rest of the night off."

A blush came to her face as she bowed deeply to Byakuya and to Rukia before leaving.

"Ehhh! You finished dinner already?" Some of the girls asked as she joined them in the common dining room.

"Yes Kuchiki sama insist I take the rest of the night off."

"What?! He's never told us that!" Some of them exclaimed a bit surprised as (Your Name) shrugged with a smug smile. "Haha, my hardwork has paid off!"

The rest of the night became peaceful as she sat outside to look at the sky, she could recall only being in Byakuya private corders a few times. He was sick, apparently really sick and had came down with a terrible fever. The medicine that was given to him was not working. Some of his advisors had spoke to Byakuya about a lady who use to work at the manor and how her medicine worked magic but she long passed leaving a daughter behind and that's how (Your Name) was brought to his corders

"You are requested to treat Kuchiki Sama fever." One of the advisor told her one night as she was already fast asleep but a concern grew on her as she quickly changed and followed to his room.

Byakuya was laying on the futon covered in sweat, his mouth slightly open and brows furrowed in pain.

"I need these herbs quickly." She told them as they went off to fetch the other servants to get them for her.

"Kuchiki sama is burning really bad, can we prepare him an ice bath?"

There was movement made from the captain as he covered his face from the light of the candle and he groaned "no ice bath." He weakly demanded as (Your Name) politely but sternly said that it would help a good amount until the herbs came in.

"Kuchiki sama, leaving lots of cold towels on your body would be ridiculous. Please listen to me."

Byakuya advisors made the choice for him as he grumbled out in pain not fully understanding the situation.

While that was happening she made the effort of crushing the herbs and brewing it into a tea.

"This will help Kuchiki sama."

After she placed him down gently and dried his body covered in water. And (Your Name) clearly tried not looking at the towel covering his special parts.

"drink this, it will make you feel better."

During that night she was told to stay there and tend to him all night. She wanted sleep, but was afraid of getting in trouble if she refused to stay.

Byakuya felt like he was floating but after falling asleep he awoke the next morning feeling tremendously better. The towel on his forehead fell onto his lap as he looked around the room.

(Your Name) was curled a few feet away from him in a ball next to the water bowel and herbal tea.

A sense of guilt came over him as he saw she was painting a picture of something but the lines gradually became messy as if she was trying to fight sleep.

That was when he first noticed her.

"I thought I ordered you to rest." His chilling voice says from behind her as she quickly sat up to face Byakuya who had no emotion on his face. At least she couldn't read his thoughts.

She couldn't read if he was angry at her but she bowed her head down and apologized.

"I'm sorry Kuchiki sama, the outside air isn't as suffocating. It's nice for some fresh air once in a while." (Your Name) explains giving them a bit of space between them as Byakuya says nothing and motions for her to sit back down next to him.

She hesitated before looking at him in the face and then away, he was waiting for her to make a move. Clearing her throat she sat down next to him and relaxed a bit.

Many questions were going through her head as Byakuya was silent watching the cherry blossoms fall.

"You've been working really hard, thank you." He tells her after a while as she looks down in embarrassment. (Your Name) didn't think he ever noticed her.

"Thank you, I try my best."

"Although, your painting needs some work." Byakuya slightly teased at her with a half smirk as she gasped and tried hard not to look at him in the face. She wanted to look so bad but didn't want to come off rude.

"It's okay to acknowledge me." Byakuya then tells her as she looked back to him as he stared down to (Your Name). He was right, the moonlight shining down made her look even more pretty.

"I feel like this is the most I've ever heard you speak before." She laughs a little hiding her mouth as his eyes widen from shock. "I'm no artist, I merely was trying to past time when you were ill."

He smirks again, Byakuya knew she wasn't at all reserved.

"Allow me to teach you." He then offered as a way to get to know her better without actually selling himself out. There was a silence for a while before she spoke.

"I would love to, but I don't think it would be appropriate." Her words struck with a bit of sadness as the Captain looks at her, she seemed deep in thought.

"As your provider you must." He orders her as she smiles a little and nods in agreement.

A few months had passed "Wow I'm getting so much better look Kuchiki sama!" (Your Name) excitingly says rushing to Byakuya with her painting. There was a big smile plastered on her face as he looks up from his spot.

It was a tiger stalking it's prey and he couldn't help but think about something different with that reference.

"What's wrong? Does it look bad?" She asks with confusion not understanding how close she was next to him. There was a certain innocence in her that Byakuya found pure and wanted to protect.

"It's nice. Just let me help you define some of the lines." He offered as he took her hand in his and swiftly corrected the messy lines.

She was blushing finding it hard to breathe, if all the other servants saw they probably would have fainted. (Your Name) could feel the heat on her back and his warmth that made her feel comfortable.

There was silence as she observed the strokes he was making.

"Better?" Byakuya asks her as she nodded and hid her face from him.

"What did you draw Kuchiki sama?" She then asks trying to calm herself as he shows his painting of a traditional lady holding a flower on her finger tip.

"It's very beautiful." (Your Name) says staring at the painting immerse by the detail of it.

"Very." Byakuya agrees staring at her face before sitting back up.

Although most of the time it was silent when they painted, she eventually started to talk more and act more casual, even Byakuya was surprised how much she was willing to share with him. He was thankful, he didn't want her to be closed off such as he was.

A part of him wanted to move forward and settle down again but he didn't know what (Your Name) was feeling.

"It's getting late, I don't want the girls to talk." She then says cleaning up the ink and papers.

"I see, allow me to walk you back."

"It's okay Kuchiki sama, I'm sure you need your rest. I have to be up early to start deep cleaning the mansion. The family is coming for a special dinner so I have to prepare."

Byakuya knits his brows, he knew that making her stay longer would cause a rumor to go around but he didn't care, he wanted to spend more time with her. Although he didn't want to reveal how he felt about her just yet.

"Alright, I assume you will be serving dinner?"

"Yes!" She says with a tired smile as he followed to her direction.

"Very well, you've been working hard. Allow me to gift this to you." Byakuya walks into one of the closets where the box was wrapped very nicely as he picked it up gently and places it in her hands. "Take care of it, it's one of kind made for you."

She was flushed and bowed deeply but before she could Byakuya stopped her and touched her hair, acknowledging how soft it was.

"Good night (Your Name)." He says before taking his leave.

(Your Name) rushed back to her room to see what was in the box, her excitement got the best of her as she had to calm herself and stop smiling so much.

She softly unwrap the ribbon and opened the box to see the Kimono stitched and made perfectly. The fabric felt delicate and soft but heavy and enduring.

A bit embarrassed of her only three selection, this was crafted by an expert. Holding the kimono up she smelled it and wrapped it around her.

Byakuya could only hope she liked the gift, as he headed to bed before tomorrows family dinner.

The day started early before the sun rise, (Your Name) and the other servants were busy cleaning and preparing food for tonight. The atmosphere was chaotic at the most but it was rather fun for her. She couldn't wait to show Byakuya how it looked but that would have to wait.

"You've been smiling a lot (Your Name)." One of the servants says with a smirk as she was lost in thought and apologize before going back to wrapping the dumplings. "Still thinking about leaving?"

"Leaving. Right I wanted to but now..."

"The days have been treating me well." She says back not wanting to share that she was spending private time with their "master" most days.

"Oh I see. Be careful."

(Your Name) seemed confused by that statement but before she could say anything she was called to finish the rest of the room decoration.

The day pasted by fast as she got ready in her own room. She wanted to know what the other girl meant by being careful, (Your Name) couldn't tell if it was a warning or the girl was genuinely looking out for her.

It is a big mansion and there are eyes everywhere, she was sure some of the servants knew but didn't say anything.

Dinner was starting and it was rowdy in the room luckily for (Your Name) she had a few other girls help serve dinner.

When the door open, it was filled with the royal family and people of higher status she couldn't help but feel let down. They were usually polite but sometimes they had some rude ones.

Byakuya took a moment to acknowledge her presence in the room as she gave a small smile and looked back down. Of course it did not go unnoticed by Rukia and the servants.

(Your Name) knew the other girls wanted to be near Byakuya so she stayed back and went immediately to put down Rukias tray.

"You look beautiful." She tells Rukia as the shorter shinigami blushes and thanks her.

It did not go unnoticed by Byakuya of the space (Your Name) was making through the night but he knew the words that were going around. The servants gossip to much. He knew she didn't want to create anymore rumors.

"Kuchiki Taicho have you thought about remarrying? I have a daughter still in her prime that is a suited match and can bring great aspects if we join family's." One of the royals says as Byakuya sips on his tea.

(Your Name) heard the conversation a few feet away as she gather the rest of the tray to put down. She was waiting for Byakuyas answer, she didn't know why she was acting this way. She never liked him before but spending some time and seeing his subtle acts of kindness changed her mind about Byakuya completely.

"I have, but that is a conversation I will not get into. I wish to find my own wife." Byakuya states clearly as Rukia ears perked up also from her brother. She didn't know he was thinking about remarrying. She couldn't help but feel a bit sad but also happy, he was finally finding happiness. Of course Rukia knew she would always be his little sister no matter what.

(Your Name) sighed in relief, but at the same time sad. Once he married she won't be able to paint along side him no more, it would definitely be inappropriate.

Some of the servants gave her a look which confused (Your Name) as they left the room quietly.

"Why are you all staring at me?" (Your Name) asks a bit fed up with the looks she had been getting all day.

"We saw you leave Kuchiki Sama private corders last night. Tell us! Is he good in bed?!" They exclaimed as (Your Name) almost choked on her spit.

"What?! You guys have the wrong idea! Kuchiki sama just offered to help me with my painting skills, there's nothing going on. I'm just glad you guys aren't mad at me." She says in relief as they giggle at her.

"No, we all know but didn't know how to ask!"

(Your Name) groaned and walked away from the nagging girls about their time together.

"Nii sama, it was a good dinner." Rukia says to her brother as he nodded his head walking slightly ahead of her. "Will you retire tonight?" She continue to asks as he answers back. "In a few hours, I wish to have more tea." He tells her as Rukia smiles and takes her leave back to the 13th division.

(Your Name) was busy cleaning the rest of the room as she sighed, the day drained her. She was glad no one hated her though especially the other servants, they were all basically sisters. A sense of sadness came over her as it fell silent in the room leaving her deep in thoughts.

She accepted she would never be anything more than a servant for the rest of her life. It was the cruel reality having to be born from nothing. Although she loved her parents deeply she didn't regret anything from her childhood to womanhood.

There was a letter on her bed as she got ready for bed. Byakuya was waiting for her.

It was late when he felt her presence outside his room. She was nervous, they always met up outside or in his study room.

"Kuchiki sama." She softly calls out as he opens the door to let her in.

Her night outfit was rather thin as he gave her his cloak. "It's cold." He tells her as she thanked him and took a seat next to him.

"Shall I pour the tea?"

Byakuya nodded as she covered her chest with one hand to not expose the loose covering.

"I wanted to speak to you about something."

Her ears perked up as she let him continue.

"You want to leave the manor?" Byakuya asks as she swallowed the hot tea and stay silent for a while, she didn't know how to answer him.

"For a while I did, I wasn't very happy but things change. I don't really know, I know there is more to life than this. I also want to explore and start a family one day.....Are you upset about that?"

Byakuya turns to her and reaches out to her cheek to hold it. The candle light shown in her face and her tired lids made her look dreamy as she fell into his touch. Usually she would shy away but maybe it's the lack of sleep that was making her act so bold or because she knew deep down he was into her.

His thump touches her lip as she opened her eyes, he was staring at her for approval as she nodded her head and moved closer into him as he kissed her lips.

It was light as he paused to look at her once more and caved back to her lips for more. There was a buried passion that he thought was long lost coming back as his hand ran through her hair and her arms were around his neck.

She was intoxicating as his tongue met hers with the same power for dominance.

There was heavy panting when they pulled apart, she didn't expect him to kiss her.

"Would that be enough to convince you to stay, stay by my side." He confessed as (Your Name) touched her lips, he was addicting, his voice, his face, his touch.

"Maybe." She smirks as he slightly smiled back to her. "But I am not royal."

Byakuya had his share of thoughts and hardship already in his last marriage to not care anymore.

"Does not matter to me." He tells her gently taking her hand with his holding it up to kiss it.

She was worried but his words alone is enough for her.

"Kuchiki sama-"

"Byakuya sama is fine." He insisted as she held onto his hand tighter.

"Byakuya sama, not trying to ruin the mood but I am quite tired." She laughs as he kissed her hand once more and helped her up. He guided her down to his bed as she seemed completely shocked.

"Stay with me tonight." He asks as she accepted his invitation.

They shared the bed as she comfortably fell into the covers of smelling his scent. She could stay here forever now.

"Good night Byakuya sama." She says as he wrapped his strong arms around her drifting to sleep as well.

Within the following months (Your Name) and Byakuya relationship had bloomed. "Rukia sama, are you going to the festival?" (Your Name) asks as they were sitting outside enjoying the sun.

"Yes! I will see you there?"

"I was suppose to go with your brother but he said he might be busy..." she says a little sadly as Rukia looked concern for her.

"Want to come with me?"

Her eyes widen as she smiled and agreed.

The night came as she wore the kimono Byakuya had gifted her, to bad he wouldn't be able to see her in it. She frowned but stopped, going with Rukia would be enough.

"You look amazing! Did my brother get this for you?" Rukia asks as she met her outside the manor.

"Yes! To bad he can't see me wear it but there is always next time!" (Your Name) says with excitement as they walked side by side talking about all the good food they were going to eat there.

From the entrance of the festival Byakuya could see his dearly beloved with his sister as they chatted and giggled with each other. It soften his heart as a smile placed on him.

From a distance (Your Name) saw a familiar figure standing, as she looked up and her smile grew even more as she ran towards Byakuya.

"Byakuya sama, I'm glad you came." She hugged him as his eyes widen, she was beautiful in the kimono and everyday since the first day they met.

"Of course my love." He says as he pushed some hair away from her face.

"Let's go!" She happily says extending her hand out to Rukia and then Byakuya who followed.

She was glad, she was starting to create a family filled with love and joy.

[iandoubt]

my mildly unintelligible incoherent rambling headcannons on the life series but primarily wild life and I had more to say but I had to cut it down lol and I’m mainly posting this for personal reference: (be wary, it is a long post)

Wild life is so fascinating from a lore perspective like in the past it was everyone against everyone else, friendly survival but things were just a little bit off, a little bit desperate, felt a little bit out of control, like maybe something bigger was at work here, but you could look the threat in the eyes and kill it and go home…until you couldn’t. As the strings being pulled turned from invisible twine to neon shoelaces and the hand in the shadows was suddenly the title character and every thing seemed to connect, seemed to end. But it didn’t. The watchers were the center the thumbnail the logo the everything mercilessly piloting the story towards the conclusion they desired, and then it was done, the loop back to the very beginning was made, it was finished. But then it wasn’t. What Real Life and Wild Life have in common is this sort of sense of storytelling absurdity, everything is cut short and brief and it’s silly and horrifying and painful (just to intulude here, I am still discussing everything purely lore wise. The only pain I experienced watching either of those things was sadness when they ended) and suffering doesn’t seem to have a meaning a purpose a quiet dignity anymore it’s April fools and everyone is throwing up and dead their bodies won’t listen won’t function can’t fight cant run but it’s a joke haha there’s no story no rhyme or reason it’s just torture and now the ultimate of random purposeless suffering wild cards they can’t kill each other can’t fight each other because every moment is a struggle to survive as the world itself has turned against them as their bodies betray them as they die in humiliating horrifying ways the very fiber of their being the very core of their world something is terribly terribly wrong it is like the order and rules that bound the life series have broken and the chaos of the void is pouring through drowning the code of the world as the players are ripped to shreds by the avalanche, watching their bodies crumble. It’s like the watchers finished telling their story of perfect and purposeful suffering and then pulled the string holding the knot together. It’s like the life series is a pane of glass that they polished to perfection, punched, and walked away, leaving the shards to slowly shatter as the beauty and horror and chaos and glory that makes up the world spews forth to tear it’s broken remains apart. There will still be the games, but now there is nothing pulling the strings, nothing holding it together. Suffering no longer has a meaning, a purpose, a goal, it is simply suffering. How terrifying must that be to have everything that you are shattering, pieces of you like broken glass strewn about as the void bursts forth to consume the ruins and the wreckage of the world.

We know that life series players are alternate versions of themselves, because while Hermitcraft scar is happily building his zoo in season ten, secret life scar is still out there wandering among the sunflowers. I don’t remember if real life Cleo lived or not, and we don’t know if this season’s winner will live on, but let’s pretend for the sake of this ramble being almost somewhat coherent that both cleo and the new winner live. What happens to the new winner (I’ll get to what happens to Cleo later)? The world is breaking, coming apart at the seams. Each new day brings a fresh horror from the void to try to wipe them out. And what about memories? This is where this strays firmly into headcannon territory, but my personal way of imagining it starts at a fairly ubiquitous jumping off point, the idea that lifers during the games do not have access to their memories, but going upon the alternate versions thing they do not remember the games at all. There is the original player, journeying through smps and servers, and then there is a version of them for each separate life series, shadow copies that they are completely unaware of and unconnected to created by the watchers to play puppets with in their perfect dark fairytale. Each life series is a new copy, because every game the copies all died. Up until secret life. They had had their fun, there was no reason for them to kill off the last one, scar, the winner left alive and alone. The og scar and the secret life scar are not aware of each other because og has no idea about the copy and copy wrongly assumes he is the real scar. He regained all the memories from before of Hermitcraft when he won and the watchers broke the game but the way he understands it is, because again the other life series were other versions of scar, he was on Hermitcraft uninterrupted up until suddenly they were all abducted into this game called secret life and they all were driven insane and killed each other and now he is alone. He can’t leave because the copies are bound to their worlds and doesn’t try to leave because as far as he knows there is no where for him to go. Crucially, again, secret life scar and Hermitcraft scar are two entirely different people.

So let’s imagine for this new winner, living in this horrifying shattered world, there are no more watchers to police memories. The copies are still made, the code is still there, the games carry on, becoming more garbled and twisted with each broken game, so that the copies don’t come out quite right, which explains the movement issues and nausea in real life and the way the wild cards go to the very data of the player and twist it in wild life. So this broken copy wins, and suddenly remembers, just as secret life scar did, all that came before, but the game is even more broken so they remember so much more than that. They see all the lives, every version of themselves. They see themselves after, the version that was never in the games, with their friends, living on. The versions of the friends they know are dead, but alternate, happier, more carefree versions live on with an alternate, happier, more carefree version of themselves. Their friends don’t miss them, don’t know they are gone, because they aren’t. They are alone and trapped on a world doomed to slowly fracture into oblivion. Everything is broken. But they refuse this, perhaps. They rebel. There is nothing tying the world together? Then they will escape through the cracks. They will find this world with the other copies. Real life Cleo, who remembers enough to know that they are are a copy, but the game hasn’t fully broken by real life so she is unaware there were other games. Also I’m realizing now that I haven’t really talked a lot about Cleo but tbh that’s mostly because their character strikes me as someone who is unshakable, pragmatic (this is why I think she and Scott got along so well, they both go at the games with eyes on the prize) who would of course be upset but also be rational, and simply try to make the best out of their life) secret life scar, who still believes that he is the only version of scar out there and that he murdered all of his friends. Both stuck on these worlds alone, but this new winner will break through the walls on these servers, and say come on, we’re here, we’re our own gosh dang people, so let’s go take back our lives. Idk where this goes from there but I headcannon that every real life version of all the players had mobility issues, hence the movement problems, but Cleo is the only real life player left so she’s the only one still experiencing these problems. I also headcannon that the new winner has, well, I haven’t actually figured out the specifics but some sort of residual issues relating to the wild cards and broken code.

this headcannon also introduces some interesting lore ties for Grian, and tbh I haven’t thought to much about how the watcher lore would work in this, well ig this is an au at this point, but if you think about his panic at the end of the most recent session, and that he was able to freeze time, it could be a sort of thing like he is unintentionally the one causing the games to continue being a watcher, but in the past he had no control but now he’s been handed the reins with no instructions and has no idea what to do. All the power and no clue how to use it. This also could lead to some interesting things about watching, because maybe in the past he could watch, could see that they were copies, and played accordingly. He knew the other versions would live on so he resigned himself to a certain extent to death, but now there is no path no clear cut story no string to follow through the dark he can’t see beyond the games and he’s terrified.

anyway that’s like kinda my headcannons idk if anyone will actually read this far but if you did thanks. Also I really wanna write/draw something for this, maybe turn it into a proper au, so if u person who is still reading would like to join me on that endeavor I would love to work with u.

[starry-nights-17]

Was thinking the other about how utterly delicious Ian looked in nothing but that orange towel in s11. To me it's insane how Mickey was more interested in his gun, than in his super hot beefy husband 🤔 So I wrote this little short.....(smut ahead).....

----

"What are you doing?"

Mickey looked up from the bed; where he had been cleaning his gun, drawn by Ian's irritated voice. He was prepared for an argument, recognising that resigned but nagging tone, that he had long grown used to. But he was caught off guard. Mickey's mouth itched to blurt out some snappy and witty retort but instead it was salivating. His husband stood there, pale skin still wet from his shower, with only a towel covering him from the waist down.

Mickey was aware that Ian had secretly become a little self-conscious lately due to the extra pounds he was carrying. The couple had become lazy and comfortable post marriage, spending far too much time eating take-out on the couch. And the only form of exercise they engaged in was enthusiastic regular sex, not that Mickey was complaining.

"Asked you a question, Mick," Ian repeated, with a long sigh, as he ran his fingers through his damp hair.

Mickey set the gun aside and smirked, biting his lip in a way he knew Ian couldnt resist, as he shuffled forward on his knees.

"Maybe I don't feel like talking right now".

Ian's mouth opened but quickly closed again, when Mickey yanked the towel away. Catching Ian's eye he grinned, as he trailed his fingers down his sides and then across his stomach. To him it was as sexy as ever, with that added roundness, extra flesh that he could grab onto or sink his teeth into.

His hands drifted around the back, grasping Ian's cheeks and pulling a low gasp from his lips.

"Mick," Ian murmured; his green eyes never leaving his face, "You trying to distract me with sex again to avoid an argument?"

Mickey chuckled darkly, as he licked a long stripe up his stomach, towards his chest, before tugging one of his nipples into his mouth. He took it between his teeth, nipping it gently, relishing the broken moan that Ian let out.

He continued to nip at his skin; trailing back down until he found that beautiful stomach again, playfully biting at his sides and front, before alternating with licks and kisses.

"Fuck, this is so sexy," he whispered, peering up at Ian who watched him intently, his green eyes wide and dark with lust.

"Love you with a bit of meat on your bones Gallagher," he teased, as he massaged his cheeks and pulled him in closer, "Got more to hold onto".

He smirked up at him before greedily swallowing him down, Ian's throbbing cock hitting the back of his throat. Ian bucked and hissed as Mickey sucked him hard and deep, moaning around him, totally lost in his sexy as fuck husband.

Truth was, Mickey was gone on him since they were kids and had always considered him the hottest guy alive. Even when he was a skinny lost kid, even when he was manic or high or dancing for other men. It wasn't just his body that had reeled him in, Mickey knew that what they had ran much deeper than that.

But now, fuck, he had never been so attracted to him, so easily turned on, so aroused at the mere sight of him. The goofy annoying kid he fell for had grown into a strong, powerful man. He hadn't just grown up but had grown out, into those broad shoulders and firm muscular back, with those meaty thighs and juicy abs.

Mickey groaned as another favourite body part of Ian's got to work. His big hands gripped his hair, forcing him down, as he thrust carefully; in and out. His husband grunted and cursed, rapidly starting to unravel.

Mickey's nails dug into his fleshy cheeks, swallowing everything he could until Ian gasped and held himself inside.

"Oh fuck baby," he groaned as he started to pulse, "Mick...."

Mickey's eyes fluttered closed and he released a muffled moan, as Ian coated his throat in warmth. A moment later, Ian pulled out but caressed his cheeks, hazily staring down at him. Mickey grinned and nipped at his stomach teasingly, squeezing his sides, before dragging his messy mouth back up.

Ian continued to pant, his chest rising and falling harshly before he shoved Mickey backwards onto the bed. His lips crashed against his, taking his breath away as they kissed possessively and eagerly.

"Fuck, you're a menace," Ian whispered against his neck, which he lavished with attention.

Mickey grinned lazily and lay back, happy to let Ian take control and return the favour. Feeling rather smug that this man was his, his husband, his partner, his everything.

"You know, when we're done here, we're having that discussion," Ian smirked, as his skilled mouth made its way south.

"Yeah yeah...less talking, more sucking tough guy".