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bubbledumbbinch · 7 months

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— IT’S A RICH MAN’S WORLD.

The wealthiest man in Snezhnaya wants you. Is it a blessing or tragedy just waiting to unfold?

꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱ . . . f!reader. yandere!pantalone. dubious consent. coercion. blackmail. power play. unprotected. pee & uh cum. fingering. finger sucking. reader is smaller than pantalone. he’s a very nasty man and downright crazy.

++ anyways! it has been… weeks? months? since i’ve last written a one shot. this is my first yandere content that i’m actually a little proud of. a breakthrough. it cracked the writer’s block out of me fr. i’ve had so much fun writing this and i hope you’ll feel the same while reading! if ever i’ve forgotten to include a warning, please tell me! it’s 12 am where i’m at rn and my mind’s a biiit foggy. tell me what u think! <33

The air is sharp with perfume, rivaled by the redolence of wine placed in the hands of nobles completing the hierarchy in Snezhnaya. Bejeweled to the teeth and garbed with the finest silk, they filled the main hall of Zapolyarny Palace like scattered gemstones against the crystal blue shades of pillars and gothic windows. Buzzing noises of business talks, gossip of who wed who, which lord cheated on his wife, and the anticipation of whatever such lavish revelry might offer has taken over the place.

“We’re up in a few minutes,” a girl whispered before muttering the same to the other person standing beside you.

A feast is dedicated to the Harbingers’ return to Snezhnaya after months of diplomatic work. All over the country, everyone who possesses an invitation bolted to their favorite seamstresses and lapidaries. Even markets, shops, and stalls have all been occupied by the preparation. While you, on the other hand, have spent most of your days in the theatre to perfect the dance for the festivities.

You palm your stomach, blowing out the anxiety poking your belly with a few deep breaths. It’s not always that chances to wander around the Palace’s halls are bestowed upon someone like you. Hailing from one of the poorest villages in Snezhnaya, the elders would consider it the highest of honors to walk on the very halls as the Tsaritsa. However, your mirth has been lost to the acid in your throat, ignited by your need to flee.

If this night hasn’t been a turning point in your rather mundane life, you would’ve done just that. But the stakes are high and you couldn’t risk a misstep.

Even with knowledge of what is to come, you start as the drums begin to roll. Heads turn expectantly towards the huge frescoed doors. All face luminous except yours, as one by one, the Harbingers march into the hall clad in their regalia.

The throng immediately parts to make way for the Harbingers and Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. They say she is as cold as the snowflakes blanketing Snezhnayan soil and just as pretty. Seeing her in all her glory, the songs and poems proved to be true: she is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid your eyes on.

Forgetting for a moment the current plight you are situated in, your lips part in awe as your eyes trail her walking towards the crystallized throne. Heartbeat wild and frenzied, you’ve made a mental reminder to savor each moment. But your thoughts have been snuffed out like embers embraced by snow when your eyes moved a little further to her right.

In blatant recognition, Pantalone tilts his head at you. There he is, eyeing you like a predator. He walks into the place knowing exactly where you are. Watching and looming over like a storm gathering in the middle of the sea. Afraid of its familiar intensity, you are, but a small part of you seeks refuge in sniffing out its whereabouts to better equip yourself on how to escape its havoc. An endeavor you were yet to accomplish. Despite your swift effort to sever the connection, his eyes have lingered. They always do.

“It’s time,” the same girl says, bobbing her head before proceeding towards the made-up stage in the corner of the hall.

At the first beat, you attempt to steer your mind away from thoughts of Pantalone. He makes you unsteady. His very presence is hard to bear most especially when he looks at you like he owns you. Which, in more ways than one, is true.

You twirl and sway to the music, plastering a toothed smile whenever you spin to the center. If all goes well tonight, the theatre could attain favors from the Harbingers and the Tsaritsa. You could be a performer in Zapolyarny Palace and your future, as well as your family’s, will be secured. Perhaps, then, you won’t need to lean in on anyone for help. Such small hope but hope nonetheless.

Years of performing and blending your very soul with the stage have not prepared you for the attention that followed after the dance. For some reasons unknown, men and women alike flocked in your direction, congratulating a job well done. Alien you might be to the nobles’ way of conversation, you have treated the courtesy as your liberty from Pantalone’s presence.

If you can entertain these nobles long enough, perhaps you wouldn’t need to cross paths with the Harbinger tonight.

That has been the bane of your existence, has it not? Thinking that you can undermine, even for a little while, Pantalone’s eyes.

Your heart sinks as a hand slips around your waist, pulling your body close to a solid chest.

“I see that you have been enjoying the night without me, darling,” he whispers, shooing away the men attempting to approach with stares alone.

“Your Grace,” you breathe, hand tightening around your glass. Stomach coiling at the endearment, you shake out of his grip but he proves yet again how it’s futile to do so. He’s bigger than you. Stronger.

“It seems to be a challenge getting a hold of you tonight. What with all the men circling you around like vultures.” He looks down at you with a glint of mischief. His hand makes fast around your waist. “Worry not. They will not bother you any longer.”

You nervously sip from your glass, wondering when will you ever have the tongue to tell him that you’d rather conjure up fake smiles with the nobles than be in his company.

“I’m quite alright, Your Grace,” is all that you’ve managed to say. “And… and I wouldn’t want to deter your reunion with your fellow Harbingers,” you follow, hoping that he’d remember the comrades he has abandoned.

“Nonsense,” Pantalone scoffs. “In truth, I’m growing tedious of conversing about work and I’d assume you are, too. We shall retire to a quiet room.”

He leads you through the body of the crowd, as though parading the both of you together. Noticing the curious eyes thrown upon you by guests, your confidence evaporated. With his hand on your waist, claiming more than protecting, you know exactly the source of the next gossip in town.

Such a straightforward display of affection by a Harbinger, no less, is not to be taken lightly. You grow uneasy ruminating about what might be the impression of people around you by now.

The discomfort settles deep in your bones when Pantalone opens a door to a secluded room. Far from the crowd, no doubt, the distance muffles the music from the hall. Standing on the threshold, you hesitate for a moment, debating whether to run and make for the exit.

“Come on in,” he encourages, tone honey-laced. If he sensed your hesitation, he’s hidden it quite well with oblivion. But only when you’ve stepped inside the chamber does he finally look away.

Pantalone shuffles out of his fur coat, revealing his turtleneck sleeveless shirt embedded with jewels near the collar. “You may leave us now,” he commands the servant poking the hearth with a metal rod, whom you failed to acknowledge because of your nerves.

He politely bows to you both before departing the room.

“Come sit near the fire,” he says with a mirthful twitch of his brow on your unmoving frame. “One might think you’re afraid to come close. Come here.”

Mustering up all courage, you ask, “Why did you bring me here, Your Grace?”

There is nothing but the sound of wood crackling and liquor pouring down into two glasses after your question. Warmth might have enveloped the space, but you remain cold against his penetrative stare.

“Why, you ask? I know you’re not one for social gatherings. Therefore, I took it upon myself to save you from such dull conversations. Political matters aren’t your thing, I surmised. And they ken nothing else but politics,” he explains before walking towards you, offering the other glass with a smile.

Stop the charade. You know nothing about me.

“It matters not,” you insist, voice feeble as you reach for the glass. Frustrated are you by his theatrics, you have not forgotten that he is a Harbinger. Through and through, he gives away no sliver of doubt about his capabilities regardless of his laidback demeanor. “I have to be there with the others. This night is important to the theatre. We have to be there for when the Tsaritsa—”

“When the Tsaritsa, what?” He caresses your cheek, invading your personal space once again. “When Her Majesty bestows the theatre a favor of being permanent performers in the Palace?” he narrates as if he’s reading your mind.

“Is it a far-fetched dream, Your Grace?” You blankly stare at him, heart thudding.

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he says before turning away, taking your hand to sit you down on the sofa before the fireplace. “The dance was impeccable. But it failed in comparison to you.”

To that, you refuse to say anything.

Pantalone leans over your shoulder, tracing the side of your neck with his finger. “Although I have to remind you that for it to happen, the Harbingers need to be unanimous.”

Your breath hitches at the skinship. Reminding yourself that you need only get through the night, you close your eyes. “Are they, Your Grace? Unanimous?”

“Nothing has been decided yet,” he whispers against your skin. “But they’ve been quite enthralled by the performance— and by you, no doubt. I’ve seen it in every man’s eyes tonight.”

“Surely, you’re mistaken, Your Grace,” you reply nervously, sensitive to the direction of the conversation.

“They want you,” he insists. “And I’m not one to share.”

There it is— the words. His adamant claim to mark you. To claim you. To make you his territory.

“I’m not certain I understand, Your Grace.” Your throat bobs deeply, eyes fixated on the dancing flames as you await his response.

Pantalone sighs and takes a step back before circling around to crouch in front of you, blocking the flames from your sight. It has taken everything in you not to flinch when he took your cold hands in his warm ones.

“The Harbingers need to be unanimous,” he repeats while brushing your knuckles with his thumbs, as if consoling. And yet there is nothing in those eyes but unadulterated determination and yearning. So flagrant that his pupils dilate because of it.

“And you…” You release a shaky breath, realizing what he truly means by being unanimous. “You do not plan to agree, do you?”

He sighs in relief, as if grateful that you’ve finally understood his dilemma. “It is far beyond my patience to watch these men ogle at you—”

“Why are you doing this?” you croak suddenly, throat burning with anger and the need to lash out. “Why are you doing this to me?!”

It’s not only your life that’d crumble. The others… the whole theatre… and he cares not even the slightest bit.

Pantalone squints a little, confused at your unforeseen rage. He stands up, towering over your frame. “You look at me as if I’m wicked.”

Your nails dig into the soft flesh of your palms, restraining the rancid words you wish to throw at him behind clenched teeth. How powerless you are under his mercy. It’s pathetic. It eats at your bones from within, leaving only a rotten mess behind.

Receiving silence, Pantalone tilts your chin up with a mere lift of his finger. “Am I truly that terrible?”

“It is… it is a terrible thing to be desired by you.”

At the look he’s given you, cowardice snakes into your ire and poisons what little bravery it has offered.

“Why? Because I want all of you and I have not a mind to share with anyone?” An odd sense of curiosity tints his voice. It sounds as though your disapproval over the matter downright confuses him.

“Pardon me, Your Grace. I am in dire need of fresh air.” You stand up but he catches your wrist swiftly, crashing your body onto his forcefully enough to have elicited a wince from you.

“Look me in the eyes. Say that you’re willing to face the consequences of leaving this room and I’ll let you go.” The threat echoes as a whisper. Sharp and baleful.

“Consequences?” Seized by terror, your lips went ajar and pallid. You face him completely, wrist hot under his fingertips.

He brushes the skin below your eye, as if plucking an invisible thread. “This is hardly the time to bring out the list, is it?”

The list. The list of everything your parents owe him: loans, mortgages, and debts. Who in Snezhnaya doesn’t owe him something? He’s the bloodline in which mora flows freely. A man of great wealth and influence, no one would dare displease him on purpose.

“One day, I swear, I’ll pay everything we owe you. To the last penny. After that, you won’t hear from me ever again,” you hiss, clueless as to where you’ve gained the courage. Perhaps it’s rooted in your hopelessness and exhaustion towards having to bend on his will.

“And I’ll do everything in my power to prevent such a horrible day,” he says, unaffected by your attitude. If anything, the determined set of your brows only deepened the flush on his cheeks. “Now, be a good girl and I might just change my mind…” he extends the last word, taking off his glasses before closing his mouth on yours.

Everything, up to this moment, is weighing on a scale. Perhaps ever since your family has been indebted to him. The other side of the scale fattens and grows heavier with each mora beside your parents’ name.

One day, Pantalone’s list will become as blank as your mind tonight.

One day.

Despite the frantic need that is evident in his eyes, Pantalone’s kisses are patient. He’s like an ocean on nights like this: dark, blood-curdling, and yet tempting. You couldn’t deny, no matter how you fight the admittance burning on your tongue, that he knows exactly where to touch and kiss you. How to coax lecherous sound after lecherous sound from your lips whenever his fingers would reach inside your cunt, curling and pumping until your stomach tightens.

“Don’t be shy,” he sighs a breadth away from your lips, breathing in your heavy pleas. “Let me hear you.”

You want to refuse him the pleasure of watching you melt under his playful ministrations. Want to extinguish the carnal lust painted in his eyes as he sucks and bites on your tit. Silence would wound his pride and crush his ego underfoot. And yet silence is the weapon missing from your arsenal.

“I do appreciate your efforts in trying to keep your moans.” The corner of his lips tips up. “But your cunt is so wet. Nobody will believe your displeasure.”

Panting, your mouth opens for a rebuttal but he quickly shoves his fingers on your tongue. Overwhelmed with a whiff of something vinegary, you gag.

“Taste yourself,” he commands. “Suck.”

At the first swirl of your tongue, Pantalone grabs your throat with his free hand to steady your head. He hisses on your cheek, “I’ll fuck you so hard tonight you won’t think of anything else.”

And he did fuck you. Hard. In many positions that have kept you exposed and embarrassed. He moves with his back flexing as he pounds your cunt.

Your eyes blurred with tears when he flipped you on your stomach, ramming his length completely inside from the back. You have been stretched open, reduced to a whining mess. And he, grunting and groaning, drives himself in and out while securing your waist with big hands.

Pantalone feels his cock growing harder, balls plumped and full of unreleased cum. His stomach clenches down to his cocktip. But before his release, he pops his cock out of your wet cunt. It bobs eagerly under its weight, shaft glossed with your arousal and ringed with white around the base.

The interruption has given you but a few seconds to breathe before he pulls your leg and guides himself completely inside once again. You both gasped at the continued connection. You shriek when he hooks your other leg over his shoulder and starts to fuck you sideways.

It’s embarrassing. The position is far too crude yet feels so good. It lasted for a minute before Pantalone shifted to face you. Both of your bodies are bouncing to his movements.

“I’m close,” he declares in the crook of your neck followed by a gutted moan.

Along with your head being fuzzy, the need to pee arises. “W… wait—” you rasp, palming his chest away. “I need to pee. Stop— stop!”

He stiffens and slows down, rising above you just enough to press a hand on your lower abdomen, before picking up his pace again.

The knot in your chest slides to your abdomen, to where his hand is pressed down your flesh. You look up at him, a harsh cry escaping your lips. Utterly devastated with pleasure, you haven’t the strength to stop yourself from gushing around his girth. The warm liquid secretion from your cunt squirts everywhere— on the sheets, your thighs, and his thighs.

“Archons,” you hear him sigh before an interval of unrestrained moans and grunts leave him. He gathers you in his arms, cock throbbing sporadically inside your walls.

You know, by then, that he had come hot and needy straight to your womb. The last you’ve seen are his eyes, stricken with nothing but satisfaction and desire before sleep tugged you in its embrace.

It’s the slip of the sun’s rays through the curtains that woke you up the next day. Sitting up on the bed, you’ve found yourself alone in the spacious room. No signs of Pantalone, and yet you still feel him in every corner of your body as if he’s stuck himself in your skin. Shivers thunder down your spine at the remnants of last night. The flashes of memory you’d rather forget have rendered you hankering for a good, long bath. And yet you have been faced with a dilemma right after stepping out of bed: your clothes are gone.

Panic rising, you clasp the sheets around your body before checking under the bed. The floor is spotless.

How are you supposed to leave now? You might’ve already sold your soul to the devil named Pantalone, but you hold a sliver of self-respect to even consider marching naked out of Zapolyarny Palace.

“You’re awake.”

You jolt at the sound of his voice.

He might’ve noticed your alarm, for he chuckles and raises his hands in defense.

“Where are my clothes?” you rasp, putting as much distance between you as physically possible.

“Oh, that?” He pumps his shoulders up in realization before snapping his fingers, then a servant carrying a huge box enters while looking at the floor. “I could not let you in those rags so I had someone burn them while you sleep.”

Stupefied beyond recognition, words have unfortunately failed you when you needed them most. You feel faint just sorting through his revelation. Rags? And burned them without your permission?

He motions to the servant, who placed the box on the bed beside you. “Go ahead and try the dress, my love. I’m certain the color will suit you.”

There is no doubt about it. The dress has been bought from the most expensive shop in the city. You know this because of the name written on the box. Once, you’ve dreamt of possessing a dress made in that shop. Yet now, all you can feel is dread.

“I can’t,” you counter, “I can’t take this. I have not the mora to pay for this.”

“Leave us,” he commands and the servant ran off without a backward glance.

Pantalone closes the distance between you, breaching your personal space and claiming it as his own. He takes your chin and says, “It’s a gift. And it’d please me so if I see you wearing it.”

“I do not want to please you.” You wag your head to take his hands off you. “I’d rather dress in rags or go home naked than… than wear that.”

From your peripheral, you’ve witnessed him wipe the sides of his mouth. He’s turning impatient, that you are certain. However, he reaches for your hand and holds it tightly despite your struggle.

“Although the latter entices my imagination, do you want me plucking out the eyes of each person that’d look your way? I suppose not.” He grips your chin and made you look at him this time. An eerie smile, one that would’ve appeared lovely to a stranger’s eyes, shapes his lips. “However, you do have a choice, my love. You always have.” Then he kisses your forehead and leaves the room.

Choice. You want to spit at the word. Trample on it until it’s reduced to pieces. He talks of choices but in truth, you have been left with none.

It’s either you wear the stupid dress or remain in this stupid chamber with your stupid pride. Nothing matters. Whatever it is you decide to do, it will end up pleasing no one but Pantalone.

do not repost, plagiarize, copy, or edit anything published by wtfkuni. check masterlist.

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bubbledumbbinch · 7 months

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Hi binch it's theo (formally th30d0ra3o22) Just want to you know that moved here! It's so nice to see you here once more!

OMG HI!!!!!!! AAA so good to hear from you!! I haven’t officially made a comeback nor do I plan to write for a while, but decided to check it out and reblog some neat stuff :3 HOPE UR DOING WELLLL 💖

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bubbledumbbinch · 7 months

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Confession

CW: Yandere content means yandere content y’all, stalking, dub-con/non-con, masturbation, disgusting themes, panty stealer, fingering, oral (receiving), overstimulation, breeding themes(slightly?), creampie, power bottom Idia, slight masochist Idia, kidnapping, shit ass writing, I think that’s all, etc…

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland

Character: Idia Shroud x GN! Reader

Word Count: 7.2K words

A/N: This is a birthday fic for one of my IRL besties, an Idia simp. Another thing, this is a yandere blog so it’s not canon to their personalities at all but more my interpretation of them if THEY were yanderes. So take that as you will! This is with a GN reader so there is no anatomy assigned or pronouns other than they/them (I did proofread it but lmk if there are any errors!)

‘ Click’

Yellow eyes darted across from the screens as he was looking at the contents. Classes were over and his homework was completed quicker than he used to have it done. He was still a housewarden with duties and responsibilities after all, besides he needed the rest of the day free to partake in his favorite hobby. Stalking [Reader] of course. He could access several cameras from different angles as he attempted to track them down.

‘ Where are they? Their class ends around this time and they usually stay a bit longer in the classroom to wait for the freshman and Grim. They’re taking too long. . .shit! Did I miss them? Did they already leave?’

Idia frantically typed away at his computer to try to locate them. After a couple of tries, he found [Reader] and Grim, with the freshman of course, walking out of their classroom. Sighing in relief, he continued to observe as normal. Unfortunately, these cameras were limited as they had no audio but it would do for now.

‘ So they DID stay longer in the classroom. Phew, good thing nothing has changed so far.’

The screens were the only source of light in his room as his lights were turned off. He didn’t have any club activities today so he there was no need to leave his room. He sat on his desk chair while holding his knees to his chest. Raising his thumb to his mouth, he bit down on the tip of his nail. How did it come to this?

“We’re going to be late! Crap, where is the housewarden?”

“Doesn’t he have his club? Do you think we can leave it with Ortho?”

“Uh maybe. . .man why did Professor Trein dump this on us? If only Idia attended in-person classes, but oh well. Oh, wait-[Reader]!”

[Reader] was walking through the hallways, but turned when they heard their name was called out. There were two students, from the Ignihyde dorm looking stressed.

“Yes?”

“Sorry for this, but could you do us a huge favor? Professor Trein asked if we could drop these papers with Houseward Idia, but we can’t find him! Not to mention, we’re already late for our club activities enough as it is! We’ll make it up to you, promise!”

“Hm, sure I don’t see why not. Not like I have anything better to do, give them here.”

Sighing in relief, the students wasted no time in handing the documents over to [Reader].

“Gosh, you’re a lifesaver! Thank you so much, both Grim and your meal are on us!”

The students turned and ran off to their club. Leaving [Reader] alone.

“Grim would appreciate that, it sure saves me money for one day knowing his appetite. Anyways, just where is Idia?”

[Reader] debated going over to the hall of mirrors and just entering the Ignihyde dorm but they decided against it. It would be too much work if Idia were still on the main campus grounds and they were in their dorm. Was Idia even in a club? If he was, it would be worth it to check some classrooms in case he was. Thinking back on it, it wouldn’t seem likely but it didn’t hurt to check. [Reader] had been walking for about 20 minutes, popping inside classrooms just to survey the area. To no avail, Idia was not in the classroom.

“Just where could he be? Maybe I should head over to his dorm. Oh, hey Azul!”

Azul was walking on the opposite side and [Reader] ran up to meet him.

“Ah, [Reader]. What a coincidence, I would have figured you had returned to your dorm by now.”

“Normally I would have, but I’m helping some classmates drop off some documents. Hey, this may be a stretch but by any chance, do you know where Idia might be?”

“ Idia? Oh why, yes I do. He’s still in the classroom. We just finished up our game board club meeting. He lost to me so he’s staying back to finish cleaning up. Why?”

“He’s the one I’m dropping the documents off to. So, where is the club room?”

“ Down the hall, turn right and it’s the second door on your left.”

“ Thank you, Azul! I’ll see you around, kay?”

“Of course. If you however require my services sooner, you know where to find me.”

“Nice try, but at the moment I’m not interested in making a deal right now. Maybe later if I forget to study for an exam.”

“But of course, take care.”

Azul left back to his dorm, leaving [Reader] to seek out his directions to the club room. When they arrived, they opened the door to see Idia sitting at the desk on his phone.

“Oh hey, Idia-”

Idia jumped in his desk, whipping his head around to stare at [Reader] in a frazzled state.

“W-what a-are you doing h-here!?”

“Calm down Idia, not here to hurt you. Anyways, someone asked me to drop off these papers to you. One of your housemates. Anyways, what are you doing?”

“You c-can leave them on the t-table.”

Idia’s eyes avoided [Reader’s] and he ignored their question. [Reader] walked closer, leaving the documents on the table as asked. They turned to look at his screen, looking at all the graphics displayed on the screen.

“That looks interesting, what’s this about?”

“It’s a game. . .”

“Right, I can see that. What is it about?”

Idia continued to advert his gaze, muttering under his breath under the assumption that [Reader] could not hear him.

“Like you would care. . .”

“I would actually.”

A snarky and slightly offended response left [Readers] unamused face. Idia let out a squeak, he didn’t think [Reader] would hear that. [Reader] let out a huff, pulling a chair out and sitting across from Idia.

“Idia, you know I’m not from here right? I don’t know much about media and franchises here in Twisted Wonderland, but I was interested in content like this back in my world. So humor me, what is this game about?”

Though he was still unable to look them in the eye, not that [Reader] minded, he continued to explain the game franchise.

“It’s an adventure-based role-playing game following an adventure party on a mission to take down the demon king. The party consists of characters that you get to pick, unlike most games where you’re given a party member. This game is different because it relies on your choices to advance as well as you making your combat type distinct. It has an online server where you can complete side quests while the main story updates.”

He spoke fast, never sparing a glance at [Reader]. He was just waiting for them to become uninterested or to look at him in annoyance. He was waiting for the insults and the questionable glances of ‘you’re weird’ and ‘fucking loser’.

“Hm, so it’s a fantasy-based combat game. Does this mean that all the party members are different fantasy races? I’d like to see the party members that you can pick, or do you get to customize them as well?”

“ O-oh u-uh. . .”

Idia has always seen the negative side of everything, but being realistic he didn’t give you enough credit. Sure, most people stop listening after that initial description but a few brave soldiers still stick around until he continues. He’d surely lose your interest with his extensive knowledge of the game's lore.

“Well, not exactly. You can make your character, but the other party members are already designed and have a story to go with them. All you do is equip weapons and artifacts to strengthen them.”

“Oh, I love customizable characters. Can I see yours?”

Alright, so you’re one of those few brave soldiers who may be interested in a nerdy ramble. Idia began to click and swipe at his screen, eventually passing it to [Reader]. [Reader] began to inspect the character, looking at all the features that Idia placed on them.

“Woah, they look badass. I like your character’s style, but it looks like they aren’t human-like. Are they fantasy-based characters? What kind?”

Idia couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but his face softened and went from stoic to a more relaxed one. His eyes began to shine with passion as he began to talk about his character, gaining [Reader’s] undivided attention. [Reader] nodded and paid attention when he spoke, asking questions about the game’s lore and characters. Idia answered all their questions with a more enthusiastic chirp, throwing some jokes here and there. The atmosphere changed from tense to a more comforting one as they continued to speak losing track of time.

“. . .but you don’t meet this fantasy race until act III in the game, even then they’re an antagonistic species until you clear the next three acts, that’s when it clears up. Eventually, you can add this character to your party or can update the way your character looks after-”

The sound of the classroom door opening snapped Idia from his daze, and he turned to look at the door.

“Idia, here you are!”

“Ortho. . what are you doing here?”

“Idia, it’s been three hours since you were supposed to be back. I came to see where you were. Don’t you remember, the new update for the game was dropping later tonight?”

“Three hours. . .?”

[Reader] and Idia panicked, both scrambling up from their chairs,

“ Oh my gosh, I had no idea time went by so fast. I need to get home and do my homework!”

“I forgot about my game! S-sorry, I probably bugged you with my spiel-”

“Not at all, Idia! Honestly, this game sounds cool I might check it out. Well, I wish I could considering I don’t have a platform to play it. Crowley is very stingy with what he gives out. I don’t even have a phone to use, or else I would have asked for your contact info. I’ll catch you later, hopefully maybe one of these days I can see you in class. Take care, Ortho!”

[Reader] patted Ortho’s shoulder before leaving the classroom. Ortho nodded enthusiastically, wishing [Reader] the same. He turned around to where Idia was standing. Idia was quiet, his eyes wide, and on his face was a dopey grin. His cheeks were lightly flushed, adding color to his pale skin.

“ Iida? What’s wrong?”

“Ortho, I’m going to class tomorrow.”

It had been roughly two months since that encounter. Idia never expected it to get this bad. They kept their promise, and [Reader] continued to talk to him even if it was after class and in private. He knows they didn’t mean anything bad by it, but he loved the idea of being their little secret. Held occasional yet school-related conversations in public, but the moment the class ended [Reader] and he would talk for hours. Sometimes, they would come over to the Ignihyde dorm to play games with him or indulge in certain content and media. Ortho was very excited, not only was he able to see his brother form a friendship with someone so close instead of online, but he could also see his brother having a slightly more positive outlook on life. However, he remained haunted by the grim reminder that he would be head of the S.T.Y.X organization and wouldn’t be able to enjoy the luxuries he was experiencing now. Despite all that, he was smiling a lot softer and looking forward to the next meeting. So in other words, everything was content and alright. There was no need for him to hijack the cameras to stalk [Reader], but he did it anyway.

“Well, no matter. What’s done is done. Now I need to make sure they get home safely.”

Idia softly smiled at the cameras, looking at [Reader] talking to Grim. They had a smile on their face as well, no doubt teasing the poor kitty.

‘ They’re so pretty. . .hopefully they like my surprise.’

[Reader] was walking with the freshman to the Ramshackle dorm. They were going to drop off some stuff before heading out to the hall of mirrors. As they arrived at the entrance, they were greeted by a ghost.

“Good afternoon, [Reader] and Grim! How were your classes?”

“ Afternoon! Nothing too busy, but we just got assigned a major project.”

“Man talk about annoying, Riddle kept reminding us how important this project was for the freshman.”

Ace complained with Deuce sharing a similar face of dismay, clearly stressed about the project itself.

“Vil was the same, he said that I could not afford to get a low score and tarnish Pomefiore’s reputation. This must be a pretty serious project.”

Jack rubbed the back of his head, “Leona hasn’t mentioned anything yet. If all your housewardens are saying something no doubt when I get back to Savannaclaw he might mention it.”

“If the project must be this serious, then I cannot score anything but the highest marks! The pride of Diasomnia, no. . .the pride of Malleus-Sama rests on my shoulders!”

“Cool, anyways. . .”

The rest of the group disregarded what Sebek was spouting about. The ghost chuckled, before leaving to the living room and returning with a package in hand.

“Someone came by to drop this off. We don’t know what it is or from whom. There was no name on the package.”

“Oh, for us?”

“Seems like it.”

Curiosity spread among them as they were all devising in their heads what it could be.

“You don’t think it’s a. . .no it couldn’t be!”

“But it might be. . .”

“It might be a what?”

Grim turned to Ace and Epel who shared mischievous smiles, “Oh you know. . .”

“Pay them no mind, Grim. They’re just trying to scare you.”

Deuce waved the two off and reassured Grim that it was all right. [Reader] examined the box, shaking it a little. It felt heavy, but there was no sound with the shake. It might either take up the whole box or it might be very secure. They walked inside their dorm with the others following suit. They sat on the couch and proceeded to open the package. Ripping open the box, they turned to see that it was a new phone.

“A phone. . .?”

“ WOAH! NOT JUST A NEW PHONE, IT’S THE LATEST MODEL!”

Everyone exclaimed, eyes wide as saucers.

“It is. . .?”

“Hm, you don’t suppose Crowley got it for us do you?”

Grim turned to look at [Reader] who scoffed at the idea,

“Hell no, since when has that man cared for us?”

“Fair enough, but who do you think it was from?”

“ Not sure. . .”

“ Well whoever it was, they must be loaded!”

Ace pointed out, [Reader] looking up at him.

“Surely it can’t be that much... could it?”

“It’s over 200,000 Thaumarks!”

“THAT MUCH!?”

Grim and [Reader] turned to each other in shock. There was no way Crowley would cough up that much money for them, surely this was a mistake.

“ Do you think they maybe got the wrong address?”

“Nope! The postman that delivered it said the package was addressed to a [Reader].”

“So who could be this generous patronage?”

“Who knows, but whoever it is. You better take care of that as your life depended on it!”

“ Got it, maybe I can ask Idia how to set it up. Surely it can’t be too different than the models back in my world, but if it is that much I can’t risk it. Alright, let us go now.”

“ Do you guys want to go to Monstro Lounge to eat and talk about the project?”

Sharing nods, everyone set off to Monstro Lounge. Idia was observing through the cameras, looking to see everyone entering the Octavinelle dorm. The moment he saw [Reader] enter, he stood up and made plans to leave his dorm. He closed off all the cameras and locked his room to be safe. He turned to the door, preparing to enact his plan. He left the Ignihyde dorm, turning to the path to the Ramshackle dorm. He walked at a brisk pace. It was the perfect time, no one was near or around to see him. Upon arriving at the dorm, he turned to peek inside the windows. Luckily, the ghosts that were occupying the house didn’t seem to be near. He pulled out a key and swiftly unlocked the door. He remembered one time when he swiped their keys and made a copy of them. Casually returning them to [Reader]. He climbed up the stairs and entered their room. Looking around, he could see a very plain room. Nothing too out of the ordinary but he didn’t mind, he knew that [Reader] was hardly getting any funds from Crowley. That was why he gave them the phone, something to be able to reach them faster. Though the room was plain, there was something that did manage to catch his eye. [Reader’s] used clothing hamper. His breath hitched, slowly and carefully making his way to it. Fear that the slight movement could alert someone, even though he was alone(or was he?). Once he made it across, he peered inside. Just normal clothing, sleeping garments, and so forth. The one thing that did make him turn red, was the sight of [Reader’s] used undergarments.

His throat was dry as he debated reaching in and taking. What would they think of him? Would [Reader] look at him in disgust? Here he was, a pervert thinking about taking the used underwear of the one he loved. Who knows what he was going to do with them? Idia shook his head, reaching in swiftly and swiping the used underwear. He shakily raised them to his face, placing the crotch area close to his nose. He inhaled deeply, [Reader’s] scent quickly invading his mind. His pants began to feel tight and his dick was hard. He was lost in a trance until he heard a voice come from the living room.

“I wonder who could have gifted the phone to [Reader]. Do you think they have a secret admirer?”

Idia’s eyes widened as his body temperature rose. He was horrified, beyond terrified. Tears began to well, he was going to be caught! Idia quietly scrambled to the hallway but skillfully remained undetected as he peered over the stair railway. All the ghosts were in the living room, but they weren’t near the front door. If he played his cards right, he could make it out of the dorm without bringing too much attention to himself. Idia began to walk down the stairs, luckily the ghosts were too into their conversation to hear the creaky stairs. Idia shoved the used garment into the pocket of his jacket.

“ If they had a secret admirer, do you think it might be that fae boy who sometimes comes here at night?”

‘The WHAT!?’ Idia internally screamed. Fae. . did he mean Sebek? Sebek knows better than to appear at night, so was it the devilish third-year Lilia Vanrogue? Sure he was an eccentric one, but even he would have morals. Idia was close to the front of the door. Idia was so into his thoughts, that he failed to notice the ghost that was standing near the gate. The ghost turned around, with a surprised look asked,

“Are you here for [Reader]?”

Idia let out a squeak, holding both his arms in a defensive stance. The ghost noticed this and quickly assured him that he did not mean any harm or to spook him.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, but [Reader] isn’t here right now. They’re at the Monstro Lounge working on a project with some peers.”

“O-oh. . .I see. . .”

Idia knew they weren’t here, but couldn’t raise any suspicion. The other ghosts soon came to the front door, staring at Idia.

“Oh, what’s this? Are you a friend of [Reader]?”

“I-I u-uh. . .d-did [Reader] get the package?”

“ The package? Oh! Are you their secret admirer?”

Way to go Iida, he was digging a deeper hole for himself.

“A-a friend of mine a-asked me to make sure they got it. . .”

His gaze was adverted to the side and his fingers were twiddling.

“They did it! By any chance, can we know the name of your friend? Tell us, do they like [Reader]?”

“ Y-yeah s-something like that. T-they’re a little shy so. . .well then, that’s good. U-uh, I’m going to leave n-now. . .”

“ Take care, be safe walking back to your dorm!”

The ghosts all wished him safe travels. Idia nodded and began to walk slowly, once he was away from the ghost’s sight of vision he scrambled back to his dorm.

“You don’t think he was. . .?”

“Maybe, but wait. . . isn’t he the one [Reader] likes?”

Idia managed to make it to his dorm without being spotted. He entered his room and locked the door. Once he caught his breath, he made it to his bed and plopped down. He was tired, hopefully, the ghosts didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and remained still for a brief moment before he turned, feeling the fabric of his pants rub against his hard-on.

‘Oh’

His cheeks reddened and his hair changed from a blue to a purple shade, close to pink. He reached into his pocket, taking out the used underwear. His other hand went to his pants, slowly freeing his hard cock. His breath hitched, he placed the used underwear up against his nose and inhaled deeply. His eyes rolled back at [Reader’s] scent and his free hand went to his dick, wrapping around it. Pre was already forming at the tip, he rubbed his cock up and down slowly, starting a soft pace.

“Fuck. . .”

His lidded and glossy eyes stared on, he slowly opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. He gave a long striped lick, tasting whatever remained on the underwear. Whatever little control he had broke, he began to gradually fist his cock as he inhaled and exhaled. He was constantly giving licks as well, his body was moving on his own. He rolled over and entangled his legs with his bedsheets. He let the underwear fall on the pillow and dove nose-first into it. With his right hand, he began to grip the sheets. He rutted into his fist. His mind wandered to [Reader], how would they feel. If they saw him right now, what would they say? Would they call him a disgusting pervert? How dare he get off on your used underwear. How pathetic he is, rutting into his hand thrusting into his bed trying to find the right pace and friction to get off. Fucking pathetic, look at this loser jerking off to the idea of even being able to touch you.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-oh fuck-!”

He imagined if [Reader] was into it as well. Would they step on his disgusting dick? Would they tease him, call him all kinds of names? Would they make him fuck himself before he even had the chance to fuck them? Idia was thankful for his pillow, other than being able to rest the used underwear so that he could smell and taste as much as he wanted. He was also able to hide his pathetic moans and whines. He was drooling, eyes rolling back and tears welling up.

“Fuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna-shit I’m gonna come-”

How their warm insides would feel. How their hole would clamp and clench around his dirty and pathetic cock. Imagine how it would feel to relentlessly fuck them.

“W-wanna touch them, w-wanna fuck y-you, [R-reader]!? W-wanna c-come i-inside you-ha fuck!?”

Would they let them come inside? How it would feel, leaving his warm thick sticky cum inside them. When he’d pull out he’d see the thick glob that left their used and abused hole that was stretched out just for him.

“C-Cumming!??”

Idia’s eyes rolled back as his back arched, his right hand gripping the sheets and his knuckles turning white, blowing his load into his hands. His cum shoots out to stain his bedsheets. His cum was warmer than average, how would they feel? Would they feel warm and satisfied? Sweat was coating his skin and he struggled to catch his breath. His left hand released his now limp dick and his right let go of the bedsheets. He lifted his body, getting on his knees and he looked at the pillow and [Reader]’s now soiled underwear.

“I l-love you so much. . .[Reader].”

[Reader] kept true to their word and turned to Idia for help setting up their phone.

“Oh, okay so I do this right?”

“You’re no better than a noob finally learning how to use a handheld console.”

[Reader] sent Idia an unamused look, but let out a laugh. Idia smiled, but changed his face the moment [Reader] turned to look up again at him.

“It’s standard, it’s similar to most models back in my world though some features are completely new. Hey Idia, can I ask you a question? Is this really the latest model and worth 200,000 thurmarks?”

“It’s the latest model and now it’s super rare. Those who preordered one when the sale dropped months ago were 100% guaranteed one with a small percentage that they would be sold in stores. They only released a few in-store ones so if you didn’t get one then, it’ll be months before you get one.”

“Woah, so it’s that special? Ace was telling me all the new stuff it was supposed to have but I just nodded and went with it.”

“Here.”

Idia handed [Reader] their new phone back, stuck on the contact screen. The contact read his name, ‘Idia Shroud’, with his phone number saved on it.

“So now you can reach me. M-maybe play the game now. . .”

“Thank you Idia, I was going to ask you about that too by the way. Do you mind if I lie on your bed?”

“Hm, no I don’t-WAIT YES I DO!”

Idia’s scream rang through his room. [Reader]’s eyes widened as they backed away from his bed.

“S-sorry, my bed is. . .messy.”

“Oh, I really don’t mind but if you do that’s fine. I can just sit here unless you don’t want me to?”

“N-no no, there is fine.”

Idia calmed down, scooting over to [Reader] to explain how to download the game and how to set it up.

It was like that, consistently for another two months. Idia wasn’t sure what to do, he had planned on confessing but how. Every time he thought it was the right time, someone just had to take [Reader’s] attention or ruin it for him. They could never understand them the way he did. After months of observing [Reader], playing games with them, and sharing deep meaningful conversations, Idia was the only one who could understand them. That’s what he believed, so why was it so hard to be able to confess them? No one was able to understand them to the capacity that Idia could and certainly, no one was worthy of them. Granted Idia himself didn’t feel worthy, but if he was the worm crawling underneath their shoe the other’s were the smears on the concrete. Idia huffed in annoyance, he was typing along to his online friend, Muscle Red.

Gloomurai: Can I vent to you about something happening IRL

Muscle Red: Of course, what’s wrong?

Gloomurai: How do you confess to someone you like?

Muscle Red: Oh, relationship issues?

Lilia scratched his head, geez. This was an awkward situation, it’s been a while since Lilia courted someone. He wasn’t sure how to proceed with the conversation but he was young once so it couldn’t be too hard.

Gloomurai: Not really considering there is no relationship yet, it’s more like I like someone but can’t bring myself to confess to them.

Gloomurai: When I want to, something always happens like the universe doesn’t want us to be together.

Muscle Red: I don’t think that's the case. I think you may need to set up a scenario where you are completely alone to confess, so you don’t have any interruptions.

Lilia winced a little when he read that back, it didn’t sound okay at first. Hopefully, Gloomurai doesn’t look too into it.

Gloomurai: It’s a little hard, they’re quite social. Almost everyone wants to talk to them.

Muscle Red: I’m sure if you asked to speak to them about a personal matter, they might set time aside to hear you out. Maybe that is when you confess?

Gloomurai: I’d probably stutter over my words to get it out, they’re just too cool. . .

Muscle Red: How did you meet them? Is this a close friend or?

Gloomurai: You could say that. They like the same stuff I like, we became friends with mutual interests.

Lilia let out a breath of relief. Unlike back then where you either knew the person from growing up together or being interested in them because of one interaction, common interests bonded people. So this should be easy.

Muscle Red: Hm, so then they probably know you and will feel more comfortable being near a familiar face. When trying to court someone you may want to start with a small gesture of kindness and trying to find time alone to be able to confess to them. That was how most of the time it worked then, but since this is a close friend they might already be able to pick up signs. [MESSAGE UNABLE TO SEND. TRY AGAIN.]

Muscle Red: You may have to be bold. Do something that they might never expect from you. Try to get them to see you in a different light than just a friend. If you’re able to do that then surely you can win them over, who knows maybe they’ll fall for you just as much.

Muscle Red: Do something that still falls within their comfort level to show that you still care and know certain things about them. I think once you’re able to show them how you care for them but also make them see you, I think that helps a lot. They already like spending time with you and enjoy common interests, so really, it shouldn’t be too hard. [MESSAFE UNABLE TO SEND. TRY AGAIN.]

Gloomurai: So try something bold, something that makes them notice my feelings for them?

Muscle Red: Exactly.

Gloomurai: Hm, thank you. I think I know what I should do. Thank you for this, really :)). Thank you for helping me defeat the boss too lol. C U!

Muscle Red: see you!

Gloomurai left the chat.

Muscle Red left the chat.

Lilia looked to the bottom right screen on his PC, looking at the symbol representing the internet.

“My, of all times it seems that the internet went out. Hopefully, they were able to read my messages and understand what I was trying to say. Oh well, they seemed to understand so hopefully it helps. Ah, young love certainly never fails to move my heart. Now, onto the internet.”

And so, that is where we find ourselves now. Idia was pacing around his room, biting his nails and muttering to himself.

‘Shitshitshitshitshitshit, what do I do? What do I do, what do I do, what do I do?’

[Reader] was sleeping soundly, snuggling into the bed. Clearly, this wasn’t their room and if they were to wake up, surely they would panic. The last thing [Reader] remembered was resting peacefully in their bed with Grim cuddling next to them.

“I did use a pretty strong spell, hopefully, they wake up soon. . .”

Idia peered over to see [Reader] they were still unmoving. He nervously made his way to them, getting on his bed and slowly crawling to them. The bed sank with his added weight, but nonetheless, they did not waver. He eyed their body, their features. Their chest was slowly rising with their steady breathing. Idia swallowed hard, his fearful expression didn’t leave his face either while he shakily extended his hand to touch [Reader]. His hand grazed their skin and his cold fingers met their warm skin. Tracing his finger from this shoulder to their forearm, touching their forehead and caressing their cheeks. He stopped breathing, afraid that it would ruin this soft moment for him. His eyes trailed down, to their chest. He removed his fingers from their cheeks and instead began to trail from their collarbone to their chest. With deep breaths and a flushed face, he started going lower. From their chest to their stomach, to their hips, and eventually, their crotch.

“You’re so pretty. . .wanna see you more. . .”

Idia lightly rubbed at their crotch, lazily stroking up and down. He didn’t intend to do anything and he certainly didn’t expect to hit any major pleasure zones. Idia continued to touch, not really doing much. He wondered if they were awake, what would they do if they saw him like this? Surely they would scream, be disgusted, and threaten to hurt him.

‘Be bold’

Idia nervously looked over to [Reader]with their eyes still shut. He looked over at their legs, placing his hands in the middle and prying them open. His head peeked up again, no movement. He got on his knees at the foot of his bed, dragging [Reader’s] legs down too. Idia placed his hand on their bottoms, dragging them agonizingly slow. He managed to take them off without stirring them and he left them in just their undergarments. Idia began to drool at the sight but he knew the surprise was waiting underneath the undergarments. Reaching above, he pulled them down swiftly and looked. [Reader’s] sex was exposed and visibly aroused. His cold fingers went to touch their most sensitive bit, lightly tapping it. Trailing their finger up and down, they noticed their hole clenching around nothing.

“What I would give for you to think of me touching you in your dreams.”

Idia shakily moved his face to their sex, giving it an experimental lick. Trailing to their hole, licking around the area. He removed himself and began to such on his fingers, once they were coated with his saliva he moved them to their hole. Inserting his middle finger inside. Idia let out a soft squeal when he felt their hole clench around his finger.

“F-Fuck. . .y-you’re so tight. . .”

Inserting his finger in and out, creating a soft pace and causing enough lubrication to insert another finger. Idia let out a small chuckle,

“It’s like you’re greedy hole is devouring me. . .I wonder what you’re dreaming about, [Reader].”

As Idia continued fingering [Reader], they turned to their sensitive bits and began to lick up and down, pressing light kisses on them. He continued to do this for a bit, lightly teasing them and pumping his fingers inside them. He began to suck and that’s when he noticed it, their body twitched. Thinking it was from pleasure, he continued to tease and explore their body. Their sensitive bits were being toyed with, sucked, licked, pinched, and stroked while he fucked his fingers into them. He didn’t notice the noises they were making as they were stirring, but his heart dropped when he felt his hands wander into his hair.

“[REA-]!?”

“D-don’t stop. . .p-please Idia. .m’feels good.”

He had to be dreaming! There was no way this could be real, but he didn't care. If it was a dream, then what a lovely dream it was. He nodded and returned to abuse their sex.

“F-fuck, right there-!”

Idia was overheating, he was eating them out with such intensity. Drool covers their sex and mixes with their juices. His fingers continued their assault, stretching them out in a scissoring motion while also reaching even areas they couldn’t with their fingers.

“M’ feels g-good, f-fuck g-gonna cum Idia-!”

[Reader] was coming undone, the feeling of Idia’s long tongue playing with their sex, sucking and kissing along with his fingers was a pleasure overload. When Idia’s fingers reached that soft and spongey spot inside them, curling his fingers to hit, they came. Grabbing his hair and pushing his face against their sex and bucking their hips, riding out their orgasm as they came on his face.

“C-Coming!”

Once they came down from their high, they released his hair. [Reader] raised their forearm to cover their eyes as they worked to catch their breath. Idia got up from the floor and got on the bed, crawling to them.

“[R-reader]. . .I-I-I-?!”

[Reader] removed their forearm, looking at him with glossy eyes. Idia could only gaze upon them with such love. Their body was covered in sweat, their skin was warm to the touch and their post-orgasmic face was divine. [Reader] propped themselves on their elbows, struggling to sit up on the bed. When they managed to, they turned to look at him with a dazed-out expression.

“Idia. . .wanna make you feel good too. . .can I?”

[Reader] asked in a slightly whiny voice that made Idia’s rock-hard cock strain against his bottoms. His breath hitched,

“E-EH? I-I N-NO Y-YOU DON’T M-MEA-EEP!”

Idia shrieked when [Reader] pushed him down on his bed, straddling his hips and rubbing their exposed sex on his clothed crotch. [Reader] raised their arms to remove their shirt, turning to remove his bottoms. [Reader] was able to pull down his bottoms and remove his boxer, exposing his dick. Idia’s hair turned into a pinkish hue with the rest of his skin burning up. He was embarrassed that his crush who he went down on, got to see him in a similar position. [Reader’s] hands were warm to the touch and they began stroking and rubbing his cock, jerking him off. Idia threw his head back, moaning uncontrollably and gasping as he felt their fingers play with his tip, rubbing it back and forth. Their free hand began to fondle his balls, creating a feeling of immense pleasure. Tears began to form and Idia looked at [Reader] with a face that was begging for mercy but at the same time, more.

“O-Of fuck! F-feels so fucking good! H-having my disgusting cock t-touched by you, [Reader]! F-fuck me, please I want it s-so badly!”

Before Idia could come, [Reader] let go of their dick. They went to their sex, rubbing their hole and inserting their finger, making sure they were stretched well. They leveled themselves to Idia’s cock and began to lower themselves down. Idia closed his eyes at the feeling of their hole clenching down hard on his dick. [Reader] was struggling themselves too, Idia managed to stretch them out pretty well. After a while, [Reader] began to move, slowly creating a slow pace while riding Idia, Their hands went underneath his shirt and to his nipples, playing with them. Their fingers caught them and began to pinch them.

“Fuck! H-ha…f-fuck, so tight!”

“Y-you’re so big, Idia. Feels so f-fucking good!”

Rolling their hips to meet Idia’s small thrusts to reach that deeper part within their insides. Idia’s hands went to grab and hold their hips, keeping them steady. Idia’s left hand went to touch their sex, rubbing and stroking to make them catch their high. Both their bodies were covered in sweat and their moans echoed throughout the room. [Reader’s] movements were getting sloppy, the feeling of their climax was right around the edge. Idia could feel it too, he wasn’t going to last long but he wanted to. He didn't;’t want this moment to end.

“I-Idia, hm feel’s so good, feel so full! W-wanna c=come. .-ha!”

“F-Fuck [Reader]! C-Come, please c-come!”

Relief was granted when Idia thrust one last time, spilling his seed inside them. [Reader] threw their head back and ended up cumming all over Iida. The room smelled of sweat and sex. Idia and [Reader] were both trying to catch their breath, until Idia began to thrust again.

“W-wait I-idia! I can’t, it’s t-too much! S-still sensitive-!!”

[Reader] placed their hands on his stomach, steadying themselves and that’s when they saw it. Idia’s glossy eyes, tears staining his face but his face was red. He looked like he was ready to cry again from the overstimulation.

“P-please, w-want more of you. W-want to feel you-!”

Idia began to relentlessly thrust upwards, hitting their deepest spots and continuing to play with their sex. It continued for a while until Idia had his fill, pushing [Reader] until they were no longer able to form coherent words just mindless babbles of their pleasure spilling out. Idia finally finished and managed to release inside them. He let [Reader] lie on the bed to rest, but never pulled out of them. They stayed connected even when Idia was no longer hard. [Reader] looked over at Idia who was avoiding their gaze. [Reader] smiled, breathing out before speaking,

“I love you, Idia.”

“H-HUH!? N-no, surely you’re just pulling my leg-”

“Idia, we just fucked. I’m not pulling anything, you think I don’t know that you were stalking me?”

Idia let out a whine, diving headfirst into their chest to hide his embarrassment. Wrapping his arms around their waist, pulling him closer to them.

“I know you’ve been stalking me around. I also know you were the one who got me the phone, the ghosts told me you stopped by my house.”

Idia peeled himself away enough to look up at [Reader] who looked at him with adoring eyes.

“ You probably hate me, you must think I’m disgusting aren’t I.”

“I don’t hate you, but I do think you’re pretty disgusting. I don't mind, I like how disgusting you are about me.”

Idia gazed into their eyes before shying away, continuing to shove his face in their chest. His pink hair was a dead giveaway that he was completely enamored and not okay with that response.

“ Oh, and I also know you jerked off to my used underwear.”

A sob left Idia’s lip.

Bonus:

Muscle Red: Hello, it's been a while. So, how did it go with the one you wanted to confess to?”

Gloomurai: Hello. It went well, I went bold as you said. I kidnapped them and I guess they were into that lol. Thank you for your advice. Now, do you want to do that quest?

Gloomurai: Muscle Red? [MESSAGE COULD NOT BE SENT. USER MUSCLE RED IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE]

Gloomurai: Muscle Red? :(( [MESSAGE COULD NOT BE SENT. USER MUSCLE RED IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE]

A/N: I have no words because I lowkey hate the writing because I split it up into several days of work so it’s not only consistent but I think I cannot write smut to save my life as well I used to and well yeah. Happy birthday IRL bestie.

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bubbledumbbinch · 7 months

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bubbledumbbinch · 8 months

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can you not post nsfw :(

you come into my home uninvited and tell me how i should arrange my furniture? what a fool you are. skeleton divine death blast

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bubbledumbbinch · 10 months

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👄🐙🐬🦈

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bubbledumbbinch · 1 year

Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

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

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

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

“Well, they should.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t planning to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must be losing your mind.

“Rough match?”

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

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

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.”

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

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

“Like?”

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

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

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.”

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

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

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

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrogant brat, you mouth back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is a—haah—a good look for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not, you freak.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Let go of—”

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

“Try again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

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

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

“But I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

“And yet here we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Scaramouche—”

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

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

“Not a chance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please be gentle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.”

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

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

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bubbledumbbinch · 1 year

Note

Hi! I'd like to order assorted macarons + sparkling champagne from the mis. menu with Tartaglia, Kazuha and Azul (separate), with red velvet cupcake + red bean mochi from the midnight menu, please! Best wishes for you 💜💜💜

yandere!tartaglia, kaedehara kazuha, azul ashengrotto x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, toxic ex-lovers, nsfw, non-con, (cyber)stalking, obsession, gaslighting/emotional manipulation, murder & use of knife (for tartaglia’s part), mentions of alcohol/intoxication (for kazuha’s part), mentions of disordered eating (for azul’s part) note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! best wishes for you as well! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ᴛᴀʀᴛᴀɢʟɪᴀ

☆ Tartaglia seeks the thrill of battle first and foremost; romantic love has usually been second to that. Though after spending many months in a relationship with you, he’s seen just how enjoyable it truly is. As ideal as settling down would be, it’s a lifestyle he can’t yet enjoy because he’s a Harbinger and the nature of his job has him traveling often when he’s given a new mission.

☆ For those reasons, he can’t spend nearly as much time with you as he wants to, and he hasn’t told you of what he does for a living. You could dig if you really wanted to know the truth; he wasn’t going to stop you. But when you meet with him next and you tell him that you don’t think this relationship is going to keep working, he realizes two things. One: He likes you more than he initially thought, no longer seeing you as a passing amusement. Two: He knows more about you than you know about him, and what you don’t know is that he loves a good chase—salivates over it like a starved man at a buffet.

☆ Tartaglia will be casual about the break-up. He understands it because his job has him traveling all over. He might even offer you a bashful apology to further smooth things over, telling you that you deserve someone with a more open schedule. And it’s a very calm break-up; you look so relieved after the fact. He treats you to one last meal before the two of you part ways for good, with you assuming all is well. Tartaglia offers you one final smile under the stunning lantern light in front of Liuli Pavilion. “See you later,” he says, his sincere features illuminated under the light.

☆ Tartaglia is not Tartaglia in your eyes. He’s always insisted you call him Childe. Childe was sweet and fun, always spoiling you and keeping you away from the Fatui for your own good. Tartaglia, on the other hand, is everything Childe did not show you: a ruthless, battle-hardened hunter who hungers for a good fight. It’s easy to use his time for missions to stalk you, especially the ones that place him in Liyue, where you’ve been living.

☆ At first, you’ll think you’re seeing things when you spot a familiar head of orange hair amidst the crowded marketplace. But then you’ll catch him too often in your peripheral and it feels like less of a haunting and more like a tangible thing.

☆ And then you’ll conveniently run into him, and he’ll be charming and sweet to you, acting as he always has, while he offers to pay for the fruits in your hands or take you to another restaurant for lunch. You take him up on his offers because who are you to decline good things? Despite being ex-partners, you can still be friends.

☆ He becomes a stifling presence in your life. It will feel as though you’re always running into him, always accepting his goodwill, always leaving satisfied and pleased to know there is no hatred between the two of you even after the break-up.

☆ But then the line between friends and something unhealthy is crossed when he breaks into your home. Of course you don’t actually know if it was him. But there was a home-cooked meal left for you on the table (your favorite dish, actually), along with a beautiful, handcrafted accessory you had been saving up for, and you have an inkling that it might be Childe. But Childe isn’t like that; he’s sweet and harmless, right?

☆ You think you saw him standing at your bedside one night. You’re not sure how he gets in. You think you might be going insane because every night you think you see him he’s never truly there. But there are traces of him scattered throughout; you think he’s doing this intentionally—to show you that no one else is capable of tormenting you quite like he can.

☆ So you play his game. You decide that you’ll stay up late in hopes of catching him and reporting him the Millelith. You even commission a Millelith solider to stand guard outside your house for the night, promising to pay him handsomely if he just watches over your residence for the evening while you remain inside, holed up in your room with a knife. You’re ready; you’re not sure what you’re ready for, but you’re ready nonetheless.

☆ Until you aren’t. At some point, you’ve slipped into slumber and when you wake next you find yourself pinned under Childe, who smells terribly of iron. There’s a faint speck of something on his cheek and you don’t dare look at his clothing, horrified at the thought that he managed to kill someone so stealthily and you never woke to a single scream. He smiles at you, a hunter having caught his prey, and you’re too frozen with terror to do anything but stutter through a myriad of hopeless questions.

☆ “Cat got your tongue?” he asks, smiling down at you, and he plays soft so masterfully. But his eyes betray him. Empty and soulless—devoid of any form of warmth. Blank slates. It occurs to you that he’s holding your knife. “You should be more careful, you know... Sleeping with knives isn’t very smart, sweetheart.” He could use his Vision if he wanted to—could summon a pair of dangerous water blades and hold them at your neck—but there’s something much more exciting in pure physical strength and the sharpness of a blade not created by the elements.

☆ Twirling the knife in one hand, he runs the blade up the length of your nightshirt, the tip nearly at your throat. There’s a wild look in his eyes now, a crazed glint that tells of his true intentions, and the horror only allows you to plead in desperate whispers rather than attempt to fight him.

☆ “Don’t be like that,” he says with a soft tut, having sliced through your shorts next, his free hand palming your most private area. “We’ve done this before. You know how I am in bed. I wouldn’t hurt you.” He exhales a breathy chuckle. “Too much.”

☆ When he slips two fingers into your mouth to coat them in your saliva, you almost bite down. You think he’s expecting you to do that because he laughs at you and says, “If you’re going to teeth, you’d better be prepared to be repaid tenfold...” You don’t have the bravery to test him on that.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ᴋᴀᴇᴅᴇʜᴀʀᴀ ᴋᴀᴢᴜʜᴀ

☆ You will never see a bad side of Kazuha. It’s not that he actively hides terrible sides from you. It’s just that he’s always so sweet, polite, and patient that there’s never any chance for remotely bad things to slip through his usual demeanor. And since he always seems like the perfect partner, your relationship must have reflected that. It did, until you realized that the life of a wanderer is not very ideal for you, especially since you have friends and family that you’d rather not leave behind for extended periods of time.

☆ So you’d made the tough decision to break up with Kazuha after nearly a year of traveling alongside him. If he was surprised by your admission, he didn’t let it show. Kazuha is aware that all good things eventually end, and so he tells you that the time he spent with you will always be valuable. He shall cherish the memories he’s made with you thus far and, should the wind will it, the two of you will meet again.

☆ The wind must really wish for your paths to converge frequently, for you almost always find yourself stumbling into Kazuha one way or another. The first few instances were completely coincidental (or so you thought). He’d happened across you while you were fishing, while you were running some errands in the city, while you were eating breakfast with friends at your favorite restaurant.

☆ Though you thought each meeting was going to be terribly awkward, Kazuha was so friendly and his amiable nature immediately puts you at ease and warms your friends to his presence. He’d ask if it was all right for him to join, if it was all right for him to lend you a hand, if it was all right for him to accompany you on your walk home. And you’d said yes every time because how could you not when he’s so princely?

☆ You thought it was strange, the way he’d start to make appearances in your daily life so often you began to question whether he really intended to continue his lifestyle as a wanderer. When you asked him about it, he had smiled pleasantly and said that he was in the process of planning his next journey, which would have satisfied you if it didn’t feel so...uncharacteristic. Kazuha only ever plans the bare essentials, preferring to let happy happenstances guide him in his travels.

☆ You’re not sure if it’s stress or paranoia or a mix of both, but you’re certain someone’s watching you. You feel eyes, but you never see them. You confide in Kazuha and he offers to be your guard for the time being. He’s skilled in combat; he can protect you. You agree, but it’s only because you know how well he wields a blade and utilizes his Vision. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that the eyes only ever cling to you when he isn’t with you.

☆ Kazuha loves every side of you, including the ones that are most clumsy. He finds them to be endearing facets of you—facets that make you stand out amidst a crowd of many. He would never hurt you. In fact, it weighs heavy on his heart to know you’re so frightened. But he assures you it’s nothing. He says that the wind has a habit of making those who feel particularly guilty watched. But that shouldn’t be the case with you, right? You haven’t done anything that would warrant guilt, have you? It’s manipulation in the smoothest of forms; you never suspect he pulls at the emotional harp that resides within you, plucking strings to create a tune befitting a believable story—a story that makes him seem right each time.

☆ The one night you’re afforded a break from everything is the night you find yourself drinking with some friends, drowning fears and sorrows in lively chatter and alcohol. Kazuha’s with you, as always. He had claimed it was to be there for you in case you drink yourself silly. At the time you said that that wouldn’t happen, but hours later you’re leaning on him for support as he helps you trudge back to your lodging for the night.

☆ With this close proximity, he can admire your lovely features without having to worry about looking impolite for staring so much. He tells you how perfect you look, but the words don’t quite reach your ears. You mumble something drunkenly, burying your face in his shoulder, and he can’t help chuckling. You’ve always been the cutest.

☆ Initially, he had planned to take you home and look after you until the morning sun rose or you had woken—whichever first—but with the way you’re rubbing against him, coupled with your very soft mumbles, has him redirecting your route to a secluded strip of alleyway in a quieter part of Inazuma City. He has you pressed against the wall of a building, the both of you shrouded in blood-red lamplight, with his knee sliding between your legs.

☆ At first you kiss him back, licking into his mouth with desperate, heated fervor, your arms thrown around his neck, and he relishes in the taste of you, even if most of you tastes like fine sake. But then you’re pulling away, placing your palms on his chest to hold him back. You try to look at him, but you’re so intoxicated that you sway, your eyes flicking all about him.

☆ Your speech slurs when you tell him that the two of you shouldn’t do this. He looks at you like he’s working out a difficult problem. “Why not?” he asks, an eyebrow raising curiously. “I thought you loved me.” And you do. Wait. No, you broke up a while ago. You only see him as a friend now.

☆ Kazuha still smiles even as you struggle to work through a coherent sentence, leaning in to press a kiss to your throat. He tells you of how much he loves you in all manners of ways: poetic, filthy, filthily poetic. His hands wander all over, squeezing you in the softest of places. He adores every inch of you, and though his touches once soothed you in the past you seem intent on stopping him.

☆ It does sting to know you’re so averse to him even in a compromised state, but you won’t be once he’s slotted himself inside you, keeping you pinned against the wall while he holds you up and ruts into you in the exact way you like. You can try to protest, but when your tongue is tied between objections and breathy moans the latter is quick to drown out the former. He’ll swallow all protests in sweet smooches.

☆ By the end of it, he gathers you in his arms, holding your shivering frame against his flushed one. He asks if you love him. You say yes, but deep, deep down that’s not true. And the eyes that have pursued you for half a year now finally close.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ᴀᴢᴜʟ ᴀꜱʜᴇɴɢʀᴏᴛᴛᴏ

☆ Azul had smiled through the break-up, nodding along and uttering words of understanding. He intends to look civil about the entire thing, but he certainly doesn't feel civil.

☆ By his standards, two and a half years mean everything to him. Time is money, as they say, yet when it came to his relationship with you time felt much more precious and priceless. In the back of his mind, he always had his doubts and fears that you might leave him one day and he’d be all alone once again.

☆ It’s fairly simple to keep tabs on what you do. He had been with you long enough to know all about your habits, the places you like to frequent most, the friends you talk to, and even what days you shop for groceries (which he makes note of in a journal). He’s a busy man, so most often he’ll send one of the Leech brothers (most likely Jade because Floyd prefers to approach you outright and that goes against the entire meaning of discreet) to track you throughout your day.

☆ If you’ve blocked his Magicam account, he’ll just make another secret account. And another. And another. And another. He’ll make as many as he must in order to stay updated on the happenings in your online life, to see what posts you have been tagged in, to follow your digital footprint like a bloodhound.

☆ Azul wants to make it seem like he’s moved on when he goes about his daily life, all charming smiles and pressed suits, and when he’s distracted with work it’s easy to temporarily forget about what ails him. But when he’s alone and he gives himself time to think, thoughts of you come creeping in. He’s had to stop himself from spontaneously texting, calling, even emailing you just to connect with you again so that he doesn’t look like a desperate, pathetic ex-boyfriend.

☆ Azul won’t allow you to cut him out of your life. The two of you were meant to be together forever. Who else could have loved him, flaws and all, but an angel? Sure, you may have broken up with him as softly and angelically as you could (and he may have cried over it for hours later that same day), but that doesn’t make you a bad person. He still loves you, even if you hurt him, and he wants you to love him again.

☆ If there’s something wrong with him, he’ll work to fix it. If it’s his looks, he can change his diet habits and eat less to become prettier and skinnier. He can change the makeup brand he usually wears for something you like. If it’s a certain part of his personality, he can bury it and pretend it doesn’t exist. He can mold himself to your ideals. He can become your perfect lover. Whatever it takes to be loved by you again, he’ll do it.

☆ Azul thinks he’s dreaming when he gets a call from you, and it takes all of his restraint not to answer with a hasty confession of how much he’s missed hearing your beautiful voice. He forces himself to sound calm and collected and civil while you explain that you found some of his belongings in your apartment while cleaning and that you want him to pick them up within the next few days otherwise you’ll give them away.

☆ Azul cannot contain his smile, nor does he realize how fast he’s agreed. He says he’ll stop by bright and early tomorrow morning. Nothing else matters in this moment. The frigid indifference in your voice doesn’t matter. The fact that you ended the call right away after that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s going to be able to stand in your apartment and see you again after months of watching from afar. He’s so excited he’s not sure how he’ll fall asleep.

☆ Your apartment is exactly how he remembers: comfortable, warm, and welcoming. You’ve put everything of his in simple, unlabeled boxes, which stings a little. Do you really dislike him that much that you’d prepare everything in advance just to avoid spending more time with him?

☆ You can’t even look at him. When he steps inside with a kind smile, you greet him curtly and tell him to take his stuff. He watches you walk off to the kitchen to continue cooking a breakfast that smells so delicious. He’s always loved your cooking. Azul glances between the boxes and the kitchen that waits down the hall. He can gather his belongings later; right now he has to appreciate this moment and draw it out for as long as he can before you force him out.

☆ As usual, there’s a certain peacefulness that envelops you when you’re so focused on cooking, your back turned to him when he steps into the kitchen. He’s not sure how many times he’s fucked you against that very countertop, in this very room while you were preparing a meal, but he misses those moments of intimacy.

☆ You don’t startle when he presses himself against you from behind, his arms caging you in against the counter, but you do attempt to shrug him off. You remind him that if he’s taken his belongings he should leave; you’ll even walk him to the door. But Azul doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay here. He wants to be able to hold and kiss you again, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

☆ “I love you so, so much,” he’s telling you, mumbling it against your skin through kiss after kiss, playful bite after bite, while his hands slide under your shirt to fondle your perky nipples. You can protest and call him names all you want; soon you’ll be feeling too good to keep up those nasty insults. Soon you’ll love him again.

☆ It’s been so long since he’s been inside you—so long since he’s had you folded over on the counter, babbling incoherently through yet another orgasm, but it feels so nice to touch you, to hear you crying and moaning his name so sweetly, to smell you, to be with you once more. And though he may have made a few mistakes in the past, this time he’s going to show you every bit of his honest love, even the sides that are twisted. Since you’re his angelfish, you’ll accept him as he is, won’t you?

931 notes · View notes

bubbledumbbinch · 1 year

Note

hello! I'd like to participate in your event and check in at this lovely hotel of yours! could I ask for a flower bouquet from Idia? I would like some lemon squares and perhaps sugar stars (teratophilia/monster of your choice or werewolf whichever is easier!) if the latter is off the menu then just the lemon squares is fine. Thank you for hosting this event!

yandere!idia shroud x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, dub-con, teratophilia, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, implied stalking note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

Beyond limestone pillars twined with verdant strands of ivy, past orange groves in full bloom, and situated in the center of a marble platform raised ever so slightly, the culmination of humanity—a perfect, precious mortal of flesh and blood—sits in slivers of sunlight and brings brush to canvas. It is not the artistic ability that has left such a hellish, frightful creature so wonderfully enthralled but, rather, the nature in which you resign yourself to the arts, blinded by a celestial cloth, enveloped in the natural temperatures that surround you. Your hand is led by sensitive intuition, acutely aware of the colors that stain a weathered palette, and you grant life to marvelous mirages.

It is that same tender, loving hand that shall slay him, should he step beyond his bounds and interfere with the era of human creation. The world, as it has now become, is dictated by categories so studiously documented on stone tablets and spoken freely in the streets and on hilltops by philosophers excelling in all subjects. And within these groupings the gorgon is feared as the fiend and the human, most often, is celebrated as the courageous hero. Idia is neither fiend, nor hero, but for the sake of human comprehension he must be viewed as the former.

Humans are cyclical creatures, bound by schedules and the times brought on by night and day. Despite the routines they subject themselves to, whether out of necessity or for the sake of comfortable pleasure, humans continue to fascinate. Idia was never partial to them, and yet whenever he admires you his opinion regarding humankind brightens just like the far-off horizons you often portray. And every other day when the sun is at its lowest, just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting everything in creamy yellow-orange hues, you stand at your makeshift easel and paint the world as you hear it, smell it, taste it, feel it.

Idia is content to watch from afar, studying you as though you are the most abstract art he has even beheld. Most days, he’s grateful for the cloth that keeps your sense of sight contained, for if you were to look upon his ghastly countenance you would most certainly harden into an artifact lost to time.

And yet it is the allure of the unobtainable that pulls him to your person.

You feel the disturbance before you hear it. He’s standing near you; you're sure of it, and for a moment you halt your activity, head tilted skywards so that you may listen to the one who looms behind you. With a gentle breeze combing through the greenery and the sounds of various animals filling the silence, the atmosphere is rather tranquil. It’s broken by the fast-paced thrumming of Idia’s heart and his nervous, labored breaths.

Interactions with humans—especially with his most beloved—are petrifying. But he persists in his endeavors, rooting himself to his spot, unwilling to retreat when he’s managed to accomplish this much. His hands hover above your bare shoulders, and for a second he wonders whether delicate, human hands would fit in clawed, monstrous hands. He’s far surpassed the point of no return and so, with shaking arms, he lowers his hands onto your shoulders.

You don’t flinch, but you do turn your head towards him and by some frantic instinct his eyes and the eyes of a dozen snakes squeeze shut. It is not you who will turn him to stone—this he knows well—but it’s the dread that you might remove your blindfold and bear witness to such a grotesque visage that has him shrinking away.

“May I be of help?” you ask, and your voice wavers in a way that tells of uncertainty, of candlelight struggling to survive as it’s slowly snuffed, of worries laced with underlying curiosity. “Your hands are very…cold.”

Of course they are. He’s always cold. So cold. So lonely. What he’d do to warm himself in your embrace, to curl into your anatomy and feel that warmth between every sugared smooch, to tear the chiton from your figure and place frigid palms upon a perfect, pretty canvas.

“S-Sorry… Sorry,” he whispers, cursing himself for his inability to speak syllables without a stutter or a hiss. “I… You… I… U-Um, I…”

With this proximity, he can smell the flowery fragrance that envelops your person. Even your canvas is decorated in shapes reminiscent of the most beautiful blossoms. Experimentally, he squeezes your shoulders, claws just barely raking over skin, and you flinch away.

“W-Wait! I just want…” He swallows his apprehensions when one of the many snakes wriggling atop his head nudges him encouragingly. Another one lowers to your cheek, prodding you with its smooth head. You try to take a step back, but the tiny reptile hisses a low warning and you go obediently still. “I just want…t-to stay like this…a little longer…”

Please.

It’s wrong and many levels of forbidden, but the contact is everything he’s ever dreamed of. You’re a sanctuary—a beauty not meant for a monster—and if he could just show you that he could be your haven, in spite of snakes and scales, you might come to accept him. An impossible fiction, perhaps, but even so it’s all he’s desired.

With anxiety-riddled submission, you remain rooted to the marble platform. Idia’s grown daring now, a hand snaking along the length of your arm to entwine his thin, spidery digits with yours. Your breath hitches; he’d like to taste your heartbeat, feel it between pointed fangs, and savor your every sigh.

Carnal instinct leads him in a one-sided waltz. He presses himself against you, caging you between his arms and the easel, and ruts his hips slowly, awkwardly. He’s every bit as inexperienced in this as he is with the intimate intricacies of human affection, but then it’s the friction and the sound of your quiet, quickening breaths that has him hardening against the fabric of his own chiton. His presses kisses into your neck, stamps each one onto you like a special marking, until you’re shuddering in his arms. Tears dampen the cloth wound tight around your eyes, tracking down your cheeks in fat, salty drops.

“D-Don’t cry! Um… I… Ah…” Gingerly, he brings a finger to your face to swipe the tears away. Another snake nuzzles your arm, and another presses its head to your lips, a forked tongue flicking out to smell the potent scent of fear clinging to you. You whimper, and it’s equal parts heartbreaking and enticing. “It… It’ll be okay.”

It’s a promise.

Trembling hands take hold of the fabric of your chiton, lifting it to reveal your rear. He’s thought of this moment for ages—though for a human ages could only mean a decade. It feels as if Idia’s fallen at your feet for worship ever since he opened his eyes on the world.

“I… I’ve always thought about you—about this.” He places his palm upon the small of your back and observes how your spine straightens in alarm. “I think you’re…” His voice lowers anxiously. “R-Really nice…to look at.”

Your mouth opens and shuts, only to open once more when you gasp. His cock curves up between your ass, and he grinds against you with more determination this time, fueled with newfound confidence. Two fingers prod at your mouth and you deny him with a dismayed whine, but then there’s a cacophony of hisses coming from the many snakes on his head and you part your lips slowly. The digits slip inside, and you suck on them weakly, your cries coming in muffled hiccups.

Idia exhales a giddy, breathless giggle. “Cute… Really cute…” Fondly, he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

If only he could brand this experience into the forefront of his mind forever…

Unless there’s a next time, and there will always be a next time.

A forked tongue traces along the shell of your ear. He’s smiling a wide, toothy grin as he rolls his hips, searching for that fabled seventh heaven. And perhaps it's a delusion, but he thinks you’re matching his movements now.

Delusion or not, he’ll carve it into his very existence until he’s a sculpture chiseled whole.

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bubbledumbbinch · 1 year

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If you are still acepting ideas for kinktober, maybe sexual mindbreak (kinda like brainwashing by pleasure???) with any character of your liking from Twisted Wonderland? Or public casual cockwarming? ....AAAAAaaAa I hope those aren't too weird or hardcore

yes!! omg don’t worry love, not at all too weird or hardcore 💕 i chose mindbreak because i already have a cockwarmimg fic for kinktober & i chose idia because i’ve been itching to write some crazy yandere idia!!

𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝑒 ( 𝒾 𝓉𝑜𝑜𝓀 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓎𝑜𝓊 ) ⎹ 𝓘.𝓢.

❝ ғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ⤻ twisted wonderland / kinktober 2022 / @dollsotome-library

❝ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs ⤻ yandere idia shroud x reader ( f! )

❝ ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ⤻ nsfw! none of my writings are meant for anyone under the age of 18, and any minors interacting will be blocked on site.

❝ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs ⤻ dark fic, dubcon turned consensual, mindbreak, past bondage mention, idia has some homemade toys for reader, overstimulation and multiple orgasms, anal and vaginal penetration, suggested hostage / stockholm syndrome

❝ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ⤻ 1.3k / mini musing

❝ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴇ ⤻ i do not consent to having my work reposted / translated / stolen in any capacity for any reason. please reblog and leave a comment to support content creators! my work is very rarely proof read so mistakes may be present. all characters / pairings i write for are 18+ with no exceptions.

Idia was terrified of being away from you. just the thought of you left unsupervised on campus with your fellow classmates was enough to send him into a fit of jealousy— he wished he could go with you to every class and ensure that not a one even spoke to you, but the need to stay hidden was just as overwhelming.

still, he knew what a gem he had in you, and surely the others could see it, too.

what if they tried to steal you from him?

he couldn’t let that happen.

that was why he’d brought you to his dorm, and you’d never left. with tablet in hand, as he sat as his desk, he watched your visage squirm on the bed in the other room. he could hear you moaning from the open door to his left, and every single time you’d call out for him he wanted to sprint to you, attack you, and bury himself so deep inside you that you felt him in your bones. but every time, he’s restrained himself. you hadn’t been ready.

however, when you cried out this time, and your back arched off the bed, he could hear the desperation for him in your voice, and he knew you were ready.

his hands were shaking, so he gripped the tablet with one and shoved the other in his hoodie when he meandered into the bedroom— he knew the second he caught sight of you squirming on his bed he was done for. one hand up against the pillow, and the other gripping your own breast, your hips were rutting up into the air, and his little project, two thick and pumping dildos fastened to a makeshift chastity belt, was whirring at the speed he’d set. you’d endured so many orgasms today alone that there was already a puddled wet patch of sheets under you, and your thighs glistened with sweat and essence. from where he stood in the doorway, he could see the base of each, thrusting into you at opposite rhythms, keeping both of your holes occupied. and then there were the vibrators: three high powered, blue bullets that he’d modified with tacky, flat bases that were stuck to your body— one glued to your clit beneath the waistband of the device, and the other two sucking on either nipple.

the goal had been to override your brain with so much pleasure that it simply malfunctioned. and, by the glassy look in your eyes and the drunken half smile on your lips when you saw him watching you, it’d worked. maybe he’d even overdone it.

his eyes fall to your wrists. he made a mental note that the rope burn had almost completely healed. restraints were no longer needed, you didn’t tell him that you wanted to go back to your own dorm anymore, you didn’t beg for him to turn the device down or to let you go back to class.

“I—Idia…!” you mewl, grinding into the air.

Idia took his time though, taking slow steps into the room, and his golden gaze drops to the tablet in his hand; one swipe of his thumb and he’d switched over to the device’s accompanying app, and he rolled the pad of his finger along the virtual dial. the machinery whines in response, pumping into you faster and harder. “It’s hard to focus on doing both of our assignments when you moan that pretty,” he muttered, but he was breathless. you gasp, and your head drops back, and his heart skips a beat. “You’re… so damn distracting…” he comes closer, watching you with hungry eyes, and his free hand comes up, pushing wild blue flames away from his face. they hiss in submission, curling behind his ears and down his back as he sits on the bed beside your writhing form. “Should I make you another cock to suck on while I work to quieten you down?” but truth be told, he didn’t want to do that. if he couldn’t hear you moaning, whimpering, screaming out in ecstasy— then it wasn’t worth it.

you push your lower lip out in a heart-melting pout, trying to force your heavily lidded eyes to stay open so you can look up at him, “Mmm— missed you…” you pant, both of your hands grabbing at his hoodie, trying to pull him closer. “Missed— you—“

heart pounding, fingers twitching, Idia’s eyes are alight with joy to hear how needy you sounded, and feel you pawing for him. “Say that again.” it was almost a plea as he scoots closer, dropping the tablet against the ocean of sheets. both hands grab and cradle your face.

“I missed you!” you moan, eyes threatening to roll back from how furiously you were being stretched and filled.

the confession alone is enough to have his cock twitching against his thigh, and he leans closer, until he can feel your hot, little puffs of breath on his mouth. “You want me to stay with you?” you nod, squirming, “Beg me, baby.”

“Please, Idia, mmnn, please please stay with me!”

“And you don’t ever want to leave me?”

you shake your head, brows knitting together. your breathing was ragged, and your toes kept curling, the muscles in your thighs and your belly contracting— you were on the brink of another orgasm.

“You’ll… never… ever… leave me.” he rasps out, lips ghosting over yours as he forms each word. you’re desperate to taste his lips, your own parting and trying to catch his, whispering each word he says under your breath as if reciting a mantra. “You’re mine. You’re happy to be mine.”

“I’m happy, fuck, Idia, I’m so happy!” another nod, and you hold on to his hoodie for dear life, “Kiss me, please,” you whine, “kiss…”

it was beyond tempting, and his tongue flicks at his couplet in anticipation, but he merely stares at your expression as your eyes close, before pressing an open mouthed kiss to your temple. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby?” he asks, and he glances to the tablet on the bed as you nuzzle your face into his neck. you didn’t even mind when the flames of his bangs flicked at your cheeks, you peppered his cool skin in loving, sloppy kisses instead. “So close…” with your face smushed against his throat, you nod, fervent, and he reaches over to tap twice on the screen of his tablet.

the device slowed to a stop, and you began to fidget, babbling in protest and trying to rock against the toys. “W—wait, wait, wait, I—“

“Shh,” Idia replies, kissing all over your forehead, willowy digit tapping another button and swiping; the machine releases from your body, toys pulling out, and then falls against the bed, “shh, baby, hold on to it. Don’t let it slip,” he’s already shoving the device aside and peeling out of his hoodie, nudging himself between your trembling, open legs, “this one is mine. I want to fuck it out of you myself.”

you stare up at him, eyes glazed and mouth hanging open. you’re happy. “I’m yours.” you whimper.

you’re happy.

you’re so fucking happy to be his.

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bubbledumbbinch · 1 year

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ah hello. 😀

I’m kinda sorta but not really(?) back, I don’t think I will be writing, but I’ve been silently here reading fics and stuff from the tags and characters i like :3 I haven’t been active for a while. I’ve had a lot of crazy life updates tho so !! I think that makes up for things imo ?

If I find any I think you guys will like I will reblog them for yall!!

Also I want to let you know i’m so psyched about having so much support on this app still :) you guys are awesome and i’m glad you like my old content 💖

#binch.txt

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bubbledumbbinch · 2 years

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—YOU DON’T KNOW HOW OBSESSED I AM ୨ ︎ˎ-

STALKER!ROOK + BIMBO!READER ˖*°࿐

18+, a little NONCON at first, stalking, yandere behaviour, noncon breeding, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, rushed, not proofread, manipulation, DARK CONTENT, readers skin color is not mentioned

Girl, rooks room is very sus I might say, so my baby @spaceace5834 got the idea of yandere!rook (bless her mind)

Rook and you are really good friends, he might be a little weird but hey..a little weird is fun!

And he asked you to help him renovate his room, you thought it could be fun so of course you would help him!

Rook knew you would say yes, such a cute and bubbly little girl..once you arrived and he invited you in with a big hug where he picked you up to spin you around.

Keep reading

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bubbledumbbinch · 2 years

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𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂 ⎹ 𝓡.𝓗. ᵒⁿᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰʳᵉᵉ

fandom twisted wonderland / @dollsotome-library

featuring dark!hunstman!rook hunt x princess!!reader ( f! ) [ suggested dark!king!vil x princess!reader ]

rating none of my work is meant to be viewed by minors (anyone under the age of eighteen), and i will happily block any that interact with my posts or my blog. all characters featured are 18+

content warning this is a dark fic. do not proceed if the following warnings make you uneasy. mentions of noncon ( and eventual noncon in the next chapters ), cat and mouse, mild bondage, use of rook’s bow, very tiny blood/injury mention, also i don’t speak french so some of the french might be inaccurate, sorry

summary a volatile king’s reluctant bride has disappeared, fled into the night, and it’s up to his loyal huntsman to track her down and bring her back, but the hunter may have his own motives for tracking the runaway.

word count 1.9k / part one

attention do not repost or translate, even with ‘credit’. just don’t do it. reblog instead of like! if you enjoyed it, please consider letting me know; i’d like to post the rest of the story if my readers like it.

you were trying not to panic.

your hands began to shake as you turn the corner, half expecting a whole brigade of soldiers to carry you back to your room. your escape had been going suspiciously smoothly, with no sight of your betrothed or his heavily armed sentinels since you’d crept from your bedchamber and headed for the castle entrance. much to your surprise, the corridor lain before you is abandoned too, even the Royal Guard seemed to have abandoned their post on either side of the great, gilded double doors. a flash of a glance over your shoulder, peeking from under the dark rim of your black hood, you confirm that you weren’t being followed, either. perhaps that should’ve worried you. after all, you’d not been given a moment to yourself since you were brought to this dreadful, cold palace, and now it was as if the castle was totally empty, save for you.

however, instead of allowing anxiety to still your feet, you push forward. you could dwell on how bizarre it was when you reached the forest, and disappeared into the trees.

your eyes dart back and forth as you sprint the length of the ruby runner, your bare feet giving only soft thuds against the rug, as you check every open archway for an ambush. nothing. no one. you reach the doors. freedom lies beyond them.

you started to feel hopeful.

opening one of those doors, even a crack just barely large enough to squeeze through, took nearly all of your strength— you’d had to slam your body into it and dig your feet into the floor until it groaned in submission, and you slipped through. as soon as you were on the other side, you stumbled forward, nearly lost your balance, and the door slammed back into place with a great clang that shook the floor beneath your feet. you wanted to wince, to flinch, but you were frozen, breath caught in your throat.

you could hear the blade cut through the air with the faintest whine.

an arrowhead.

it narrowly misses your face, the edge kissing the apple of your cheek as it whizzes past, the force of the shot pushing the wind to pull the hood back and reveal your identity to the archer. the arrow buries itself in the door behind you, but you don’t dare look back to see just how it managed to penetrate gold. you didn’t think you wanted to know, anyways.

it takes merely a fraction of the second that follows to realize your skin was broken, when a warmth races down your countenance in a thin strip; a single thread of blood.

“A thousand apologies, princesse,” Rook’s thickly accented baritone breaks the night’s eerie silence, followed by the faint clicking of the heels of his leather boots against the stone ground as he steps out from under the shelter of a black shadow. he shoulders his bow, the generous rim of his plumed hat dips just enough to obstruct his wicked gaze from locking on to yours, but you know he wants to, “however, it is quite dangerous to wander the castle halls unattended and so late at night.” you take a step back, but he makes up for it with his stride towards you, clearing the distance you’d hoped to put between you.

“I…” your mind races to come up with a lie that might fool him, “just—“

“You just?” his tone is taunting, and yet expectant. as if he was telling you to finish the sentence, but he wouldn’t believe it, either way. “You were trying to find your way back to your bedchamber after saying goodnight to your husband-to-be, perhaps?” Rook flicks his wrist with an air of nonchalance, and you nod, sheepish. he takes a moment, studying you carefully, “C'est vrai?”

he knows. your mind was screaming it, and you just wanted to flee, but you tried to play along.

“I should be getting back, now...”

Rook chuckles and the sound sends a shiver down your spine. “So much for your grand escape. I will admit, I’m disappointed.”

your heart stutters, pounding hard against your rib cage. “What did you just say?”

Rook was beaming, even in the dark, visibly proud of himself. “Oh, ma chére,” he croons, taking another, daring step towards you, “has anyone ever told you that you are as clear as crystal? Such an easy feat, seeing right through your façade. Your true intent sparkles like jewels behind your eyes, did you know this?”

Vil’s loyal huntsman had always made you uneasy— the way you would sometimes catch his piercing, emerald gems trained on you, and that dastardly smile that tugged at his lips. even if you didn’t catch him staring, you could feel his eyes on you, and you’d tried your best to ignore it, telling yourself that as long as you were surrounded by guards and the king himself, whatever the hunter’s wicked intentions may have been wouldn’t matter.

however, in this moment, you were alone with him.

“How Vil never saw it remains a mystery to me,” Rook allows his hand a flippant wave, “you’ve been a very naughty girl, princesse. Plotting is one thing, but to actually will your feet to run from your king—“

your eyes narrow at the title. it turned your stomach to even hear it. “He’s no king of mine.”

you hadn’t even realized you’d spat it until Rook blinks, legible expression fading into a puzzling one that had you wishing that you hadn’t opened your mouth at all.

“Quelle belle vue,” he purrs, impressed by your outburst, a wide grin spreading over his porcelain countenance, “those flames in your eyes burn hotter than the sun itself. You truly loathe the idea of calling him your king.”

you take another half step, and your back hits the cool, golden-crested door. your eyes flicker to the arrow, dug into it and parallel with your countenance. you look him down once, and allow your eyes to lead slow, back up to his, and they sparkle with ill intent. one, gloved palm plants itself against the door beside your head so he can lean in close to you. “Even when you moan for him, it sounds just like poison dripping from those pretty lips—“

“No.” you attempt to counter with a soft shake of your head, but you weren’t sure what you were even combatting.

the other hand comes up, reaches for your face, but you grab his wrist to stop it, refusing to flinch. but your eyes widen; how did he know what you sounded like when you moaned? “Now, now, chérie,” he croons, his blonde brow arching upwards, “what is it that Vil says to you, late at night, when you press your fragile hands against his bare abdomen whilst he pins you to the mattress?” your face is blazing with humiliation at the detail he provides, as if he’d watched the king take you. had he? had he watched every time? every time you thought that it was just the two of you— Vil and a pathetically hopeless you, but Rook had been there. he’d been the audience. “Come now,” Rook goads, allowing his lips to crest over the shell of your ear, “you know the words.”

“Resistance…” you whisper, shaky, as you stare straight ahead, “resistance is… Unbecoming.” your hand drops from his wrist when he laughs.

his forefinger hooks underneath your chin and angles your face up towards him when he pulls back, studying your features carefully. “Our beloved king does believe that.” your jaw draws itself taut, grinding your teeth, your brows knitting together. Rook seems not to notice, or he doesn’t care. you assume the latter. “But I do not.” that wicked grin that curls his tiers up over sparkling, white teeth has you all but mesmerized. “Perhaps it’s my hunter’s heart,” he murmurs, his breath warm on your lips the closer he gets, “but I think prey is its most beautiful in the heat of the chase.” he takes a moment, svelte digits careening over the shape of your cheek to scoop the ruby droplet before it descends towards your chin, and stares at it staining his glove, thoughtfully “That is why I cleared your path.”

“W—what?”

Rook takes one look at your perplexed expression and guffaws. “You didn’t think the Royal Guard up and abandoned post, did you? My, my, you are a simple, little thing. Weren’t you the slightest bit curious when you didn’t see a single guard on your little voyage?”

“You got rid of them…” you stare in confusion and awe.

“Temporarily incapacitated.” he waves his hand. “As luck would have it, they have a difficult time holding their wine. They will all wake up tomorrow morning with terrible headaches and Vil will be furious when he finds that his petit princesse has run away. He will, no doubt, task yours truly with tracking you down and bringing you back to him.”

you frown, the back of your head pressed against the door. “So this is all… a head start? So you can chase me like I’m some kind of animal?”

Rook gives one, subtle nod. “Precisely. If the prey makes it too easy by sitting pretty, then the predator tires of her. The idea of having you as my latest quarry is all too exciting, but only if I can chase you properly, so I cannot help but give you a few hours advantage.” the curve of his mouth nearly grazes your trembling couplet when he speaks, and you fear that he can hear how hard your heart was pounding because he looks you over again, emerald eyes training on your lips for a moment more, before he pulls back completely. “Run fast and far, princesse.” he steps aside with a bow, a genteel facade that contradicts the words he’s spoken, “Do not make the game too easy.”

you only stare for a moment, unsure if you should take the bait he’s lain. you take an experimental step, peeling yourself off the door. you reach up to pull the hood back up over your head when you take another step. your eyes remain careful and trained on him as he appears a statue, unbudging when you scurry past him. another quick step. and another. another. until you’re breaking into a sprint, fleeing the castle grounds.

you chance a glance over your shoulder, half expecting Rook to have his bow drawn, an arrow trained on you, but instead, you see him slink back into the shadows, but you swore you could hear his voice, faint, when he calls, “We shall meet again very soon.”

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bubbledumbbinch · 2 years

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Im not sure if you're still open request until now, could i have maybe a smut for yandere overblot idia with afab reader/mc? (if you haven't heard because of chapter 6, then its okay if not overblot idia)

where reader/ mc finally gave up for escaping and end up loving him, reason he kidnapped reader/mc cuz he liked (obssesed) reader and he remember a story when he was a child about hades and persephone's (love) story, thinks it would "romantic" if he tried it just like in the story, he also wanted reader to "made love" with him.

✧ ft. yan!idia shroud x reader

✧ fandom: twisted wonderland┊genre: dark┊w/c: 6.1k┊format: fic

✧ content: fem!afab!reader, mean!dom!idia, dubcon, stockholm syndrome, shameless smut, somnophilia, masturbation, nonconsensual recording, finger fucking, cunnilingus, breeding kink, a bit of degredation kink, dacryphilia, overstimulation

— a/n. i didn't use ob idia on this one. since i didn't think the plot of twst is changeable enough but i still followed the plot you've sent and i hope i did it a bit of justice so enjoy bby <3

An old tale says more towards one's way of life. It tells the story of kingdoms - how they came to be and how they continue to exist. But such tales often spread through word of mouth. It's been altered, revised, paraphrased. Sometimes, different versions are in conflict which makes these stories an unreliable source of information as it's on the verge of losing its original meaning.

With this in mind, legends of love stories become dangerous to dwell upon.

‘Once upon a time’ turned into a cautionary tale instead of the fantasy most people dream of.

But Idia ignored and continues to ignore this taboo. Perhaps it's his own creativity that keeps him apart from his peers—Quiet, reserved and keeps his thoughts to himself. He's a bit egotistic that's for sure. Believing in a false narrative yet looking down on others who call him insane. Further down the rabbit hole, Idia finds himself in a sense of longing one that he can't blame Eliza for when she forced her to marry him.

But her love story is different from his.

Because the one he yearns for follows the same portrayal—Kind, innocent, and above all, beautiful. If old tales are a guide, surely he must be doing something right, right? Ortho already voiced his concerns regarding his unhealthy fixation on this tale but he refused to listen, already across the line between fiction and reality, which is uncharacteristic of him.

As a full-fledged otaku, he shouldn't bring mere stories into reality. He shouldn't use escapism to such a dangerous degree. It's shameful but unprecedented that he's too far gone, romanticising the idea of love in the most horrible way possible.

For a long time, all he ever wanted is a speck of freedom, to be free from the responsibility he's shackled with. Realising that his small dream will never be achieved, Idia settled for the next best thing.

A tragic love story that he can easily recreate as long as he finds the perfect person.

Unfortunately, that's you.

Hours, days, months, perhaps even years have passed. You're unaware of where you are or why you've been brought here in the first place. But everything is tailored to your liking - every favourite food, every material needed for your hobbies, everything. Beginning to question is one thing but beginning to accept your predicament is another.

It's been a long time since you've seen the outside world and you reminisce about those old nearly forgotten memories. You've wandered long enough in the Land of Grief and you've come to realise that you're never going to get out of here. But does that seem so bad? Your caretaker certainly doesn't think so and in fact, he's been nothing but hospitable, understanding and patient.

A shiver runs down his spine when you realise where your train of thought is headed. The simulation of the fake clouds somehow eases your worries. You see the familiar strike of blue hair in the distance and you're not sure whether you should be upset or not.

Idia is the only person you can talk to and even if you want to, you're not allowed to interact with other people physically. His jealousy is something you won’t reckon with. "Ah, I assume you're taking a bit of fresh air," He says in a rather dainty manner which you always question. You wonder whether his spiritlessness is an act to lower your guard down.

"Yeah. It was getting a bit stuffy in my room despite being alone." You humour him by answering his question.

The insinuation makes Idia flinch before he sighs in dismay. "Is that so? You know you can always call me if you need me." He offers the same offer you've been refusing all this time. Sometimes both of you aren't sure whether you're stubborn and prideful or uncomfortable with his presence, despite Idia doing his best to place you as his top priority.

Your eyes shift to the ground, spacing out as you observe the dirt beneath your feet. Before he leaves, you stop him by replying. "Sure." Short and simple, yes but it surprises Idia, halting him in his tracks. It's the first time you've willingly replied to his offer, let alone reply to him positively as a small smile stretches across your face.

It's an odd feeling - the unfamiliarity of a person within the vicinity is making him nervous but the new fondness for interaction allows him to yearn for more. He doesn't rush and allows you to do as you please except run away and be free. It's a fair trade, at least to him, it is - considering how he grew up. Idia can only assume that maybe his parents got married for the same reasons you're there on the island.

"You're staring." Your words make him jump. The flames on his blue fiery hair turning into another colour, allow you to read his expressions like a book. It's one way to decipher his feelings and emotions. He isn't exactly the best at communicating with others. You shake your head at his reaction but your smile is still present.

The employees at STYX greet the both of you as you pass them through the halls, reaching the door to Idia's room. "Now that I think about it... I don't think I've been to your room before," You say as Idia opens the room and you enter. It's relatively normal, something you should've expected knowing that he's an otaku.

You flop on the bed and the mattress slightly bounces because of the force and you take in your surroundings a bit, trying to etch it into memory. "...Do you have anything you want to do?" His voice is timid. You're almost shocked to see that this is the same person who stared at you coldly when you shunned him away. Meek and shy is the only thing you can get from him as he sits a bit farther away from your form on the bed.

"I do have one question in mind… And I was hoping that I’d finally get an answer from you.."

And there it is, the icy glare he gives when he's angry. The colour of his flames doesn't change and it's probably because he's withholding his anger, choosing not to show it which terrifies you more. You pick the words in your head making sure you don’t allow the situation to escalate.

"I'm not going to ask you all the things I've asked before which you've clearly left unanswered. But I at least want to know why I'm here." He blinks, his animosity no longer there as he begins to contemplate while averting his eyes. You lean forward but only for him to back away, mumbling something you couldn't hear.

You squint your eyes before scooting closer. "...What was that?" Idia panics a bit, trying his best to stop himself from pouncing on you. Close, you're getting too close to his liking. He feels his cock twitch in its confinements when your doe eyes stare at him in curiosity. Cute, you’re cute. You have no idea how much he wants to smear his cum across your lips, shoving his cock down on your throat if he has the chance. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows nervously. “....Wife.” Idia manages to say before he backs away from you.

Your eyes widen at the word, blinking repeatedly as your jaw drops at the sudden realisation. “I’m here to be your wife...?!?” You exclaim as you stand up, shouting at the man, who winces at your sudden outburst. “Day after day, I was stuck here against my will and not knowing I’m meant to marry you?!?”

Idia simply avoids your gaze, seemingly unaffected by your ranting. You scoff at his indifference towards this situation, running your hand through your hand in frustration before sighing and sitting on the bed.

Your shoulders slump as you rest your head on your hands, fingers massaging your temple. Upset is an understatement. “Why-” You turn to him but don’t even bother, shaking your head before standing up. “I think I should go back to my room. I don’t want to argue with you and the last time we had an argument I was locked in my room. Thank you for your time.” You let out a small patronising laugh before curtly leaving.

Wife. The word sends all these alarming signals. Does that mean you have to spend the rest of your life here? Living in a place where your freedom is no longer valid? You let out another sigh as you finally turn the knob of your bedroom door. Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks. How could you think that there was any other reason why you’re here? What did you even expect? You drop your weight onto the bed and you close your eyes, trying to sort the events in your head.

Becoming Idia’s wife sounds like a joke after being kidnapped by him. Though now that you think about it, you haven’t been seeing Idia frequently because of his time at school and as much as you don’t want to admit it, his presence became comforting so it’s becoming lonelier when he isn’t around.

You groan out loud before grabbing a pillow and hugging it for comfort. Resting your chin on the object, you curl and think about the idea of being a wife further. Frankly, the idea doesn’t sound too bad.

He has always respected your boundaries, only except when you’re not putting up a fuss. You somehow always get your needs and wants without any complaints from him. But considering how Idia treats courtmanship, you’d be forever stuck in this place forever.

Moreover, STYX has always been the family business and Idia is the next in line to lead it. But wouldn’t that mean children are necessary for businesses like this?

Your face heats up when you reach that conclusion, tensing as you imagine the picture of being bent over fucking you from behing.

Having sex with Idia doesn’t sound too bad either... You shake your head before you throw the pillow you’ve been embracing against the nearest wall - huffing in annoyance and pursing your lips in annoyance. You let out a deep sigh before laying back on the bed, the ceiling engulfing your field of vision.

Idia doesn’t even look too bad, though he’s a little pale. He looks warm too. His hair never burns your skin but it leaves a searing feeling. You stare at the ceiling and begin thinking about these miniscule insignificant details but one thing makes you question your own consciousness.

How would Idia Shroud fuck you?

Will he take it slow? Will he be rough? Will fuck you until your unconscious? Until you’re begging for him to stop? Your cunt clenches around nothing and you feel slick slowly building. How big will his cock be? Will it be long and slender? Will it be fat and thick? Will it feel like he’s splitting you open?

You scold yourself internally for these silly thoughts but can’t deny the heat, radiating off of your own body as you rub your thighs together while thinking about how his cock would feel inside you, stirring your insides as Idia chases his release.

What if there comes a time you deny him and he fucks you despite saying ‘no’? What if he ties you up and forces you to do everything he wants? What if he fucks a child in you without your consent because it’s necessary to have another shroud? Shit. Your thoughts are getting more and more dangerous when you imagine him, no, you want him to take you against your will.

You wonder why he’s never touched you, keeping this short distance between the two of you.

Your panties feel drenched against your pussy and your clit hurts, begging to be touched. “Fuck.” You say breathlessly before a hand snakes down your sweatpants, past your underwear and pinching the nub. Your whole body jerks at the action as sudden jolts of pleasure overwhelm you. You’re too sensitive to be doing this but you’re too sexually frustrated to care. Since when have you last touched yourself? You can barely remember. To think you’d result in fantasising about this situation.

Impatiently, you pull your sweater off of you and unclasp your bra, the cold air brush against your hard nipples before finally removing your sweatpants and ruined panties. You put two fingers in your mouth, saliva coating your digits before you begrudgingly insert them inside you. You let out a mewl when you move them inside playing with your own insides making you body twitch in delight before you knead on breast, tugging on the nipple harshly.

You can imagine it - his sharp teeth grazing your skin, hands bruising your hips gripping them to force his dick inside your virgin cunt selfishly and indulging himself with the pent-up sexual frustration he’s experienced around you. Has he ever been hard around? Has he ever fucked his fist imagining it’s your pussy wrapped around him? The thoughts are enticing but at the same time they ridicule you and your damned pride.

The phone on your nightstand rings, cutting you off from your own thoughts and your groan in exasperation before picking up the phone. “What.” You say, clearly annoyed as you continue to roll your hips against your hand and prevent yourself from moaning into the line. “...I just w-wanted to ask if you’re still mad.” Idia’s voice seems stuttered and it’s literally the worst time to call you right now - not when you’re thinking about getting dicked down by him. "Mmm... No, not anymore. Hah, I'll talk to you tomorrow." You gasp when your thumb presses down on your clit before cutting the line off.

The screen is clear and Idia shudders a moan when hears another high-pitched whine from you, playing with the tip of his cock and letting his head fall back. It's not the first time he's done this immoral act, watching you at your most vulnerable point. It's his guilty pleasure.

It wasn't intentional. At least at first, it wasn’t…

One time, he accidentally saw you naked after your shower. Your body freshly soaked and dripping with water as your perky breast on display. Idia nearly drooled at the sight of you, his member painful in his trousers. He engraved that memory into his head, rubbing one out in desperation when he thinks of you - your eyes rolling at the back of your head as your squirt on his cock for the nth time

But these thoughts of his slowly get darker and darker, imagining different scenarios he can do to you - gagged while he leaves both of your holes stuffed with toys that’ll overstimulate you until he gets home. Fuck, he swears if he doesn’t hear your cute moans and whimpers, he’ll lose his sanity.

Curiosity got the best of him. Cameras with working microphones are in your room and near the shower head in your bathroom. Each day he can see it - changing your clothes, showering… Each curve of your body and each patch of skin, even the way you’d bend over when changing your clothes. He’s sick, atrociously so, moaning like creepy pervert when he fucks his hand, watching your pussy press against your pants when you change.

One faithful day, however, he caught one precious video, one that he still has a record of - your moans, your tits, and your entire body splayed on the bed like it was presented to him in such a lewd manner.

It was way better than any doujin or hentai he’s seen. But the fact you were only a few steps away, makes it harder for him not to end up fucking you silly.

Today, he felt a bit risky. Calling you in the middle of your personal session and he finally gets a glimpse of another side of you, one he's been desperate to see. The cameras give him an entire show of your lies as you subtly moan during line. Plunging your fingers into your cunt as you drool on the sheets, jaw slacked open as you moan. Blood rushes to his cock and it's almost painful for Idia. His hand, alone, isn’t enough to satisfy him but hearing your moans are bringing him to the edge.

For a split second, Idia halts the movement of his hand when he hears the faint moan of his name. He must've been hallucinating but then he hears it again. "Idia, please fuck me."

The man can't even believe his ears and he nearly came just by hearing you call out to him wantonly as you spread your legs, giving him the full view of your cunt swallowing your digits. A grin makes its way to his face as he fucks his fist to the sounds of his name and the squelching of your pussy when you pick up your pace, imagining his cock taking the place of your fingers.

You're acting like a bitch in heat and he can't help but love this side of you.

A series of curses flow at your lips and you clench around your fingers, squirting on the bed as you scream his name as if he's the one doing this assault to your body. Simultaneously, Idia cums on his hand, the white cream coating his palm. "Fuck..." He whispers under his breath before chuckling to himself while getting tissue to wipe his sins off. Idia supposes he should pay you a visit but he wonders how long it'll take to break you.

"What is wrong with me?" Your voice interrupts his thoughts and it seems you regret your actions. He scoffs at your dumb resolve but continues to watch you through the screen.

You stare at your own sticky essence coating your fingers, playing with them as you spread your fingers apart to watch them fall apart in your own hands. Your head drops to the pillow. “Not enough.” You whisper as you glare at your own hand as if it was at fault.

You shake your head before you pull up the sheets to cover your naked body, choosing to rest after that humiliating act. Sleep seems appropriate and hopefully, this ridiculous concept of having sex with your kidnapper leaves your brain when you wake up.

Idia sees your form slowly fall into deep sleep. Pouting a bit that one orgasm is your limit. He wonders if he can test that theory. He wonders if he can do it now. His flaccid cock twitches with renewed interest, remembering the way you called out to him like a desperate whore. If he'd known from the start, he wouldn't have to deal with his problem alone.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Idia tucks his cock back into his pants before he leans back into his chair and contemplates - waiting for the opportune moment or taking what should’ve been his in the first place. You belong to him and him alone and he can’t wait to pamper that greedy cunt of yours when the time is right.

With a hint of malice, Idia chooses to replay the video he just witnessed, cutting the part where you moan his name and saving it. A cruel grin makes its way across his handsome features before he saves it on his phone. All this time he’s been nice, composed and considerate. He hums as he opens the door and it even looks like he’s nearly skipping across the halls in excitement. He wants to wait until you’re the one begging to be fucked.

But not anymore… Not when you moaned his name until you creamed all over your fingers. Your cute little cunt serves well to take his cock. Idia feels a shudder run down his spine when he gets closer to your room. He’s a freak, yes. A selfish freak that’ll end up cumming in you, making you his little breeding doll. He smirks to himself when he takes in the sight of your room, the sight of you which he last saw shamelessly mastubating to him on his screen.

You’re sleeping soundly, the blanket slowly rising up and down as you breathe. You look peaceful like this. The back of his hand touches your cheek softly as he places a kiss on your temple. You squirm at the contact and lay on your back, contrast to your previous position in which you were all curled up.

Even when you’re in your sleep, you’re just adorable - making everything so easy for him. It’s easier to manhandle your form like this and it’s evident when he pulls down the blanket.

Idia curses under his breath as he drags the fabric further down, only to see you pressing your thighs together for heat due to the cold atmosphere of the room brushing against your skin. Why does every single part of you seem so loveable? So precious that the thought of ever seeing you with another person angers him? Idia despises the idea and the fact there’s still a chance it might happen snaps something unruly inside of him.

His hands roam around your body, caressing your shoulders, to your arms and stopping at your waist. He presses his palm on your stomach and he envisions this idea of creating a family with you - imagining how his thick cum will look like dripping down your cunt, full of his seed.

Trapping you between his legs, Idia leans down to leave soft trails of kisses around your neck and you whimper in your sleep. Idia smiles against your skin when he garners a reaction from you from the smallest of touches, taking advantage of your sensitivity. His tongue begins licking stripes across your chest - swirling against your nipple, before sucking the nub and his teeth grazing it.

You’re too pliant like this and he loves the fact he can do anything to you at your current state. Unconscious and unknowing of what he does to your body, using it as he pleases. He wonders if you know how many times he cummed on his hand, jacking off in front of your sleeping face during nights where you fell into deep sleep.

Surely, you must know. You must know how desperate he is - to the point, it hurts to see you without thinking how well you’d look, losing all sense of self because of the pleasure only he can give you. How awful he is to be taking advantage of you like this. But when the narrative shifts and his brain circulates - all he can think of is you moaning his name, relying on your fingers when you could’ve been riding his cock.. He doesn’t understand why you don’t talk to him when he can give you everything - everything except your freedom.

If only you weren’t so stubborn.

His free hand moves from your waist to between your legs, his fingers feeling the slight slick when he plays with the opening of your pussy - finding his knuckles slipping easily through your hole so he doesn’t waste time before he’s fucking his fingers into you.

As much as he enjoys this power over you when you’re asleep, he wants you to wake up - hearing you scream his name at the top of your lungs as his cock repeatedly slams into your cunt. The onslaught to your poor hole jolts you awake, your hands trying to pry his hand away. “Idia!” You shout before moaning as his free hand pins your waist down to the bed to keep you from squirming away in his grasps.

Your eyesight is blurry - your conscious mind is already clouding up as you take in his fingers roughly playing with your pussy. “What the hell are you doing?” You question as you try to make sense of your surroundings. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t act like you don’t like this.” You attempt to defend yourself but he cuts you off. “Not when you squirted all over your fingers thinking about me.”

The sentence catches you off-guard and you clench around his fingers to which he laughs boisterous at. “Aw, look at that. You do like it.” He coos in a patronising manner and your face burns in both humiliation and ecstasy. “You’re a freak, Idia… Hah, fucking hell, hng - How long have those c-cameras been there? You perverted fucking creep.” You say in your sudden daze and anger.

Idia raises an eyebrow in amusement, a knowing-smirk across his features, feeling his cock throb a bit when you insult him. “A creep, huh? I guess I am one.” He admits but the pad of his fingers brush that special little spot inside you - making you arch towards him. “But if I’m a pervert, what makes that of you, Y/N?” He whispers in your ear as he continues stimulating your poor pussy.

“You fantasised about the same creep, who’s been fucking his fist for you - the same perverted creep whose fingers you’re creaming on. Tell me Y/N. What does that make you?” Your breathing is uneven and you can’t think about anything besides how he’s knuckles deep inside you, reaching deeper than your fingers could ever have, pressing on the right places.

“It makes me wonder what you could’ve been thinking of, Y/N. Mind telling a pervert like me? Give me a few ideas on what I should do to a selfish little whore like you? Hm, go on. You weren’t so shy when you were alone. Why can’t you do it when I’m here with you? You’re adorable, don’t you know that?” He says before he kisses the top of your head like a sick way of comforting you.

This man can’t shut up to save his life and clearly, he has a talent for pissing people off with words. How is this the same Idia that looks like he’s about to run off every time you’re a little too near for comfort? But the little statements of his, cruel as they may be, make your jaw slack as you, pant like a bitch in heat.

“Idia- wait,” You grab his hand but to no avail. “Wait? What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? A bit selfish for you to ask me to wait when I can have you right now, can’t I?” His fingers don’t stop even when your walls start convulsing around his digits, liquids spraying on his hand. “Wait, please- gonna cum.” You moan oh-so sweetly, red flushing your cheeks as you stare at him with a fucked sense of longing he keeps goading. “You’re really a squirter, huh?” Idia says as if it’s the most normal thing playing with the sticky substance on his hand, pleased at how it stretches on his fingers. He turns his attention on you and there you are, crying against your arm and he can’t help but laugh a bit. He knows he’s being but can’t help it - not when you look so fuckable like this.

You’re not in the best mental state after that orgasm. You feel disgusted with yourself, utterly embarrassed that you cummed on his fingers but that’s not the worst part of it all. The worst part is that you liked it. No, you loved every second of him abusing your little cunt and furthermore, you want more.

“Don’t be like this, Y/N.” You choose to glare at him, making Idia roll his eyes at your adamant behaviour. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and plays your indecency out loud. Hearing yourself moan for him, calling out to him so you can satisfy yourself with his dick serves that you no longer have the right to deny him of anything.

You feel his hands grab your thighs placing them over his shoulders and you can feel his unusual hair, tickling your skin - a bit surprised that it’s oddly warm in contrast with his cold body. “W-what.” Idia doesn’t answer, only manhandling your legs to give him access to your cunt before his tongue dives into your hole, licking and slurping obscenely. Your hand immediately grabs his fiery hair, to which oddly feels warm against your hand.

“Idia…” You whimper, shifting a bit when he sucks on your pussy like an uncivilised man. More, you need more. You don’t struggle, allowing him to do as he pleases and when he notices, a hand comes down with him to play with your nub, pressing on the sensitive bundle of nerves. You whimper into his name a little louder, realising his little game of exchange and reward.

“Don’t be mean.” Your little whisper makes him grin, giving you a few more harsh licks before pulling away. You moan in protest, hand running through his hair. His eyes meet yours and you fall deeper into a bottomless pit of agony and fulfilment.

Is this what it means to be a Shroud?

Idia pulls off his shirt before spreading your legs open and pulling down his sweatpants. His cock is lined up at the entrance and you feel the head of his cock twitch against your lips. The excitement etched across his face when he looks down on your hole, clenching around nothing and just as desperate to feel friction. “I’ll try to be gentle.” His seemingly kind words act to comfort you but Idia knows that their purpose seems useless.

Yet you humour him by pushing his hair back since it was draped over your body. You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. “Just get it over it.” You snarl as if you’re tired of his games, even though you’re just as aroused of this fucked up situation.

“All you ever have to do is ask, y’know?” Idia jokes lightly as he leans into your touch, enjoying the warmth you provide him. His heart is pounding in his head when he thrusts slowly, the tip of his dick having trouble pushing past the tight ring of your hole. “You have to relax or I’m going to split you open.” He warns and you glare at him for that quip of his.

Idia would like to to think that he’s joking but when you’re being this submissive, he doesn’t know how long his self control will last. He doesn’t know how long til’ he’s ignoring your pleas to stop and keep thrusting with no remorse. Fuck, he doesn’t want to hurt you but who the hell knows how long that resolve would last?

Mustering the courage to move, Idia manoeuvres you a bit before his dick sinks slowly into your hole. You feel the burn in your nether regions and for once, you’re actually thankful you took his fingers before you took his cock. “Idia.” You grit your teeth, trying to ignore the distressing feeling of your hymen being taken apart.

Idia knows he should feel a bit more sympathetic but it’s harder for him not to shove all of his dick inside of you to make it fit. It’s your first time - both of your first time together. He should at least be mindful. It’s something that should take time and patience to make both parties comfortable and satisfied at the end of it and he agrees with the sentiment!

But the delirious spiralling of his mind and how your tight cunt barely gives any room for his cock to slide in, squeezing him so well, suffocates him and he’s so close to breaking you, ruining you. You feel way too good. “C-Can I move?” He stutters, a bit ashamed that he’s unable to mask his eagerness. Seeing you nod is what he needs to push two or so inches into and this time, both you and your cunt react to him.

You moan and walls invite him further, the amount of accumulated lewd juices allow him to slide effortlessly, burying his cock to the hilt. You curse at the top of your lungs and your nails dig into his back, surely leaving marks for tomorrow morning.

Shit.

Finally feeling your cunt around his entire cock, he doesn’t know how long he’s been fucking his fist but this is borderline dangerous. Your little whimpers and your erotic expression only heighten the overwhelming feeling, making him pull back only to thrust harshly - forcing a moan out of you. The reclining feeling of pleasure building up is messing with him and his hips begin to move on their own.

“This is bad, Y/N. This is really bad.” Idia whispers in your ear before laughing like a mad man. “My hips are moving on their own and I don’t think I can stop myself.” He warns before his continuous thrusts become harder, rougher and faster. In his mind, he’s aware but it short circuits, silently deciding that he’s going to pamper and breed your fucking cunt every single day. His hand is no longer an option when your cunt brings him into heights of ecstasy like a drug he’s slowly becoming addicted to.

All the while you could only release high-pitched moans, relishing the way his cock feels around your walls and filling you up the way you want to be filled up. His length and the places he’s reaching is making you see stars, your eyes crossing and tongue hanging out. Drool starts to run down your chin and you’re too cockdrunk to care at this point, only set on squirting on his cock.

“M’sorry. You just feel so good. Cute little cunt is taking me so well.” He moans salaciously and you could barely register his words but you know he means well.. Your hand pulls him into a deep kiss, swallowing each other's whimper and groans. His tongue desperately searches every crevice of your mouth, entangling and dancing along with your tongue as he fucks you with vigor. You’re the first one to pull away and your high-pitched whines resume as his cock nudges your cervix lightly.

“Fuck Y/N. You have no idea how much I wanted this - how much I, shit, how much I wanted to shove my cock inside you the first time I laid my eyes on you, just thinking about my cute little wife giving birth to my children.” Idia hisses when you give another involuntary clench. “If I only knew you were such a little whore - if I only knew this cunt I’ve been craving would swallow my cock greedily, I would’ve done this sooner.”

His thumb wipes down the tears cascading down your cheeks as you hiccup and whine with each drag of his length against your overstimulated walls, building up your impending release. The knot in your stomach gets tighter and tighter and until it finally snaps. “Idia, m’cumming!” You scream as your cunt convulses around him repetitively, and he chuckles under his breath - almost like it’s his own little way of coping due to the immense bliss he’s experiencing.

“I’m gonna cum inside you, m’kay?” His forehead is pressed against yours as he closes his eyes, hearing you hum in affirmation. “And you’ll be taking it all like a good little wife you are, won’t you?” He huffs, before he lets out a loud pornographic moan and you nod in agreement. “Good fucking wife.” Idia whispers under his breath. His cock fucks you through your orgasm and as he chases his, he can’t help but hold you closer. Mine, he thinks. Every single part of you belongs to him and this is the fate you’ll be burdened with.

If you ask Idia, there’s nothing more that he wants than to prolong this little session. Don’t get him wrong, he knows he can have your cunt any time after today but this very moment is special to him. It wasn’t supposed to go like this but you keep clinging onto him, moaning his name like a siren beckoning him to drown further in his obsession with you.

Idia presses his lips against yours, kissing you with such passionate like every feelings he’s never said is being communicated through one single action before finally painting your insides white, fucking you through his high. He takes deep breaths, refusing to pull out and enjoying the heat from your walls and both of your cum mixing together. “Y/N?” He calls out your name softly but realises that you’ve fallen back to sleep.

It’s a bit concerning that you fall asleep this quickly but he can’t blame you after today’s matter. Idia shakes his head but a smile is present on his handsome features. The room smells of sin and the more he stares at you, the more he can’t believe that everything transpired. But it’s real. You’re his - mind, body and soul. Shifting to change his position, Idia chooses to spoon you while his cock stays buried inside your cute cunt. After all, we have to make sure it takes, right?

Hopefully in the morning you’re not sore enough for him to fuck another batch into you but for now, he should let you rest because he won’t be kinder tomorrow.

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