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lovebugism · 1 year

Note

Some blurb with grumpy fem reader and sunshine eddie?

He's constantly flirting with her and she only teases him or talking him down.

One time some cheerleader trying to flirt with Eddie and reader is so possesive, taking his hand and walking away. Eddie is wide-eyed, big smirk on his face and going after her with jumpy steps full of joy.

✶ ┄ SHE'S SO UNUSUAL !

summary: eddie's pretty sure he's loved you since the day he met you. you're pretty sure love is a neurochemical con job pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 2.8k warnings: none? maybe just the faintest hint of angst? a/n: let's play a game of spot the steven universe reference because a clip popped on my tiktok fyp a couple days ago and even though i've never seen it, i simply haven't been able to stop thinking about it <3 anyways thanks so much for your request! hope you enjoy!

( BLURB SLEEPOVER ) | ( MASTERLIST )

Eddie’s pretty sure he’s loved you since before he understood what the word really meant. He didn’t know a lot of things, really, especially not as a lanky-limbed teenager trying hopelessly to navigate puberty in a world filled with assholes and uncertainty.

The only thing he could be certain of was all the love he had for you.

He’s seventeen and hopelessly stupid and you’re beautiful and eons out of his league. He concludes that having the majority of your gen-ed classes has to be fate and that making fun of you is the easiest way to talk to you without feeling like he needs to throw up.

So he takes to bothering you every day before class and sitting at the table beside you — despite the fact that it had been assigned to someone else at the beginning of the school year — until the teacher ultimately gives up and lets him sit next to you. He pokes fun at your Blondiemerch and how the same She’s So Unusual Cyndie Lauper cassette has been in your walkman for a week straight and the way you dot your eyes with pretty little hearts.

Every joke is sprinkled with the faintest hint of truth, though.

He tells you that he hates Blondie but that the shirt looks good on you, because everything you wear looks good on you. He says it’s hilarious that you can’t seem to listen to anything other than Cyndie Lauper but that he understands because he’s been obsessed with Metallica lately — and that he’d love to show you some of their music sometime. He says only children put hearts over their i’s, but that it's real cute when you do it, when you do anything.

“You’re so annoying,” you inevitably tell him with the roll of your eyes when he tells you exactly that. He can’t tell if the way the corner of your lip quirks up is from a half-concealed smile or a look of disgust.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he shrugs and knocks his leather-clad shoulder with yours. “It’s not my fault that I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you. Actually, now that I think about it, it’s kinda your fault.”

He says it all with a playful lilt to hide how much he means each word. That he’s in love with you and has been since you were in middle school, when he had a godawful buzz cut and loving Rocky Horror Picture Show was your entire personality — at twelve.

“Love at first sight doesn’t exist,” you argue while you mindlessly jot down notes from the textbook spread open between you, dotting every i with a practiced heart. “Love takes time and work. At the bare minimum, you should at least probably know the other person — and you don’t have a single clue who I am.”

He’s momentarily knocked asunder at your words, at how profound they are. It’s like a century-old philosopher is using a pretty highschool aged girl as a mouthpiece, and it only makes him love you more.

“Well, I could get to know you,” he retorts with a frown. “You just won’t let me.”

“Did you hear anything I just said?” you squint over at him.

“Yeah. That love takes time,” he echoes and a grin pulls slow at his lips. “Good thing we’ve got all the time in the world, sweetheart.”

When two years fly by, and you’re finally a senior (and Eddie’s repeating his last year of high school over again because the one before it knocked him on his ass), you realize that he wasn’t kidding around. He still tries hopelessly to get to know you and jokes that he’s a second-year senior only because he “didn’t want to leave you behind.”

“Couldn’t just leave you by yourself, sweetheart,” he says with a defiant shake of his head. “No way. Not with Jason Carver and all the other freaks roaming around here.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they’re the freaks here, Eds,” you monotone as you put in the combination for your locker.

He immediately notices the use of the nickname. It took you a year to call him anything other than Munson, and now he’s moving into Eds territory? It feels like his heart might burst. But you don’t seem to notice it so Eddie decides to keep it to himself, like sunshine in his pocket, lest he brings it up and he never gets to hear it again.

He presses a hand to his chest and leans in next to you. “Ouch, babe. I’m wounded. Truly. Sorry for wanting to protect a sweet little thing like you.”

You scrunch your nose and swat his hand away when he tries to squeeze your cheek.

“Some would say I actually need protecting from you.”

“I am capable of pretty dangerous things, sweetheart.”

“Like what?” you scoff.

Eddie only grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You ignore the chill that his words shoot down your spine and pretend to be unbothered by the way they make your heart race. You choose to roll your eyes at him and stuff your arms with textbooks. “You better have a massive dick to back up that attitude, Munson, or people are gonna be real disappointed.”

“And by people you mean you, right?”

“Obviously not,” you monotone.

“Well, joke's on you, I’ve already disappointed everyone I know.”

“That’s not true, Eds—” you shoot back but then swallow the words when you realize you were about to say something too sweet. “There are billions of people in the world you haven’t met yet. There’s still plenty left to disappoint.”

“You’re real sweet, you know that?” he jokes with a smile. “Besides, if you’re really worried about the size of my dick, we can always break out a ruler and, you know, test your theory.”

“Ooh, sorry,” you wince. “I left my magnifying glass at home. Maybe some other time?”

“How about tomorrow?” he answers quickly and easily falls into step with you when you shut your locker and head towards your next class.

“I have a date tomorrow, actually. No can do.”

His heart stops and his throat swells and he forgets what words are for a moment or two. He can only blink at you for a few seconds. “A— A date?”

“Uh-huh. Jason Carver. He asked me out this morning.”

“You’re kidding,” he retorts bitterly with a scowl on his face. Then you start laughing at him and the world starts spinning again. He starts laughing too, but it’s more of a sigh of relief than anything else. “You— You are kidding?”

“Obviously I’m kidding,” you shove him. “Hell will freeze over before I am willingly anywhere around that guy.”

Eddie’s freshly beating heart starts to swell. It feels like more of an honor than it already has been, for you to want to willingly be around him.

“Oh, so you were just trying to make me jealous, then?” he squints over at you.

This time, you’re the stuttering mess as you try to figure out what to say.

He chuckles at you. “Because it worked, sweetheart.”

A couple of months or more go by and graduation nears — well, for you. Eddie’s still hellbent that he’s going to have to repeat another year, but you’ve made it your mission to get him to pass English.

He doesn’t even mind that it means he actually has to do the homework, as long he gets to spend time with you in the Hellfire room after school or share a snack with you at the picnic tables at Forest Hill.

It’s got him living in a state of grandeur. He’s hopelessly deluded, not only that he’s in love with you, but that you’re in love with him. And, for obvious reasons, you know that can’t be true.

Neither of you can be in love because you’re kids and you’re stupid and you don’t know a single damn thing about anything, let alone something as trivial and philosophical as love. It’s a neurochemical con job, everyone knows it. It’s not real.

Everyone thought Nancy and Steve were in love at one point, and then she called him bullshit at a party before fucking off with Jonathan Byers.

Everyone thought Jason and Chrissy were in love, too — that they would be everything Steve and Nancy couldn’t — and then she dumped him in front of the entire school after catching him being an asshole to a bunch of Hellfire club freshmen.

So, obviously, no one knows what love is.

And by that logic, they can’t know when they’re in it either.

So you chalk up the butterflies and burning cheeks you always get around Eddie to being a dumb teenager who’s lonely and touch starved. Because it’s not love. It just can’t be.

Eddie begs to differ, though, and he swears he’s got the test to prove it.

It’s the spring assembly at Hawkins High, which means everyone’s gathered in the gymnasium on bleachers that are not nearly big enough to accommodate everyone, doing fuck all and grateful for not having to do any actual work.

The cheerleaders do a couple of dances, the basketball team prances around the court — it’s all hopelessly pedestrian as far as you’re concerned.

You and the rest of Hellfire are located at the very top of the bleachers, as far away as you possibly can be from whatever the hell is going on below you. It checks out, though, because everyone else opts to keep their distance from the lot of you, too.

And you’re not exactly sure how the conversation started, but somehow you end up talking about crushes, and Eddie makes the too bold proclamation that you’ve got the fattest crush on him of all people.

“Leave her alone!” Dustin scolds him over the band, the only one actually trying to stick up for you. “Maybe this is something you should discuss, I don’t know, in private?”

You roll your eyes. “There’s no need. Because I don’t have a crush on you, Eddie Munson,” you tell him, stern and unwavering, as you squint over at him. Your glare follows the boy as he paces up and down the bleachers, two levels below you. “Sorry to bruise your ego.”

“Oh, so you won’t care if I tell Chrissy that I wanna take her on a date?” he asks you with a knowing grin.

“Why would I care?” you retort, then grumble. “It’s not like she would say yes anyway.”

“Well, she did ask me first.”

That quietens you instantly “…You’re lying.”

“Wanna bet?” he teases and leans down, resting his weight on the seating in front of him, until his face is level with yours. You can smell the nicotine on his breath and the mint gum he smacks between his teeth.

If you were alone — and in some godawful teenage drama — you might’ve pulled him in for a kiss right there. At least, that’s what your brain tells you to do because your lips have started to tingle just thinking about it.

You hope Eddie hasn’t noticed the way your gaze falls on his own pink, plump, and very kissable ones. But the grin that paints his features then tells you that he has.

You play it off with a stoic expression and crossed arms. “Chrissy going from dating the captain of the basketball team to the town’s local freak would be an unprecedented low.”

“I’ll be sure to tell you all about our trip to Lover’s Lake tomorrow morning, sweetheart, don’t worry your pretty little head,” he promises before rising and spinning on his heels. He makes the trek to the lower level of the bleachers — a feat made more difficult by the crowd and the distance between it and him.

He makes sure to turn and look back at you every now and again, to make sure that you’re still watching him. You are. Of course, you are. And you hope the seething anger in your chest doesn’t show on your face.

“He’s not actually gonna ask her out, right?” Mike wonders.

“No way,” Dustin denies with the shake of his head. “The president of Hellfire can’t date a cheerleader… Right?”

Gareth shrugs. “He’s obviously bluffing.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t do that,” Jeff agrees. He turns to look over at you. “He’s been in love with you since middle school. He just wants to upset you.”

“Well, it’s fucking working,” you grumble under your breath. Your heart races and your vision swims as you watch him near the group of cheerleaders sitting on the floor of the gym.

You want to believe that he’s bluffing, you really do, but you don’t doubt that Chrissy’s asked him out.

After she dumped Jason, she’d gotten strangely protective over the Hellfire club — constantly making an effort to talk to them all, ensuring that the rest of the school wasn’t acting total assholes around them. Hell, she’s even started being nice to you and you weren't even in the damn club.

She’s been hanging around with Eddie a lot more lately, catching up in the library and ranting about tests between classes. Everyone’s seen it. You’ve seen it. And it’s made you unbelievably jealous.

Maybe you never noticed it before now because you used to be the only girl interested in talking to Eddie. But now he’s got the head cheerleader around to keep him company, to ask him out on fucking dates, and it leaves you seething in your rage.

And if love is anger, then you’re head over heels for Eddie Munson.

You rise suddenly from your seat and shove your way through the bleachers, muttering lackluster excuse me’s under your breath as you go and elbowing those who refuse to get out of your way.

You reach Eddie just before he’s about to tap on Chrissy's shoulder. You take that hand and nearly jerk it from its socket the way you pull at him. Eddie is stunned, for all of half a second, thinking it must’ve been a fuming Jason Carver at the force of the grip around him.

But it’s just you, all but dragging him out of the gymnasium with the strength of ten men in one angry teenage girl, and it makes him smile so hard it hurts.

He traps the grin between his teeth and locks eyes with the rest of Hellfire from across the room. He brings two fingers to his forehead in salute before he’s pulled out of the gym entirely.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teases as you lead him down a long hallway. “Thought you didn’t give a shit if I asked her out?”

You don’t respond to his teasing. You just keep tugging him by his wrist through the empty school. He’s not even sure if you’re even breathing just now, or if you’re moving strictly on autopilot and rage.

You shove him into Mr. Kamisnky’s vacant classroom and lock the door behind you.

Eddie’s chest rises and falls with the heavy breath he exhales. “Well, shit, sweetheart... If I knew making you jealous was all I needed to do to get you alone, I would’ve done it a long time ago—”

“Say you didn’t mean it,” you interject, less than amused at his teasing.

“…What?”

“That you wanted to take Chrissy on a date,” you elaborate with arms crossed over your chest, protecting yourself, your heart. “Say you didn’t mean it.”

And Eddie laughs. He fucking laughs. Like everything’s a joke to him, like the mere thought of you being heartbroken over him liking Chrissy is funny to him.

It’s not. Well, at least not that bit. It’s laughable to him that you would even think he wanted anybody but you after he’s spent so many years fawning over you.

“Of course, I didn’t mean it,” Eddie scoffs. He tries to take a few steps closer to you, but you back away, not believing him. He softens. “I just wanted to make you jealous, sweetheart. I didn’t wanna… hurt your feelings.”

“Well, you did,” you monotone.

The boy’s brows furrow. “Hurt your feelings or make you jealous?”

“…Yes.”

A smile pulls slow at his lips. He tries to hide it but fails miserably. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I just wanted to see how you would react. And I am very pleased by this reaction… Even though my wrist feels like it’s broken.”

“Sorry,” you murmur to yourself, already embarrassed at how angry you’d gotten.

“Don’t be sorry,” Eddie declines with the shake of his head. This time when he walks toward you, you don’t back away from him. You even let him take your elbows in his hands and rub his thumbs over your warmed and jealousy-prickled skin.

“Actually, you know what, do be sorry,” he corrects playfully. “And make it up to me by taking me out. Somewhere fancy.”

You purse your lips to the side in attempts to hide your smile.

“Benny’s Burgers?” you offer after a moment.

“Ooh. Burgers, fries, a milkshake, and a hot date?" he lists with a nod of approval. "You really know how to get a guy to swoon, don't ya sweetheart?”

#published by bug #stranger things x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #stranger things imagine #eddie munson fic #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie spaghetti drabble #st drabbles #bug's blurb sleepover

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silvervioletvalentine · 3 months

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‘I know I've got a big ego, I really don't know why it's such a big deal, though!’

Pairing : Lewis Hamilton X FemOC Candy!

Summary- in which she’s a spoilt , Primadonna girl and Lewis will do anything to get her to be his girl.

Candy didn’t know when this whole thing had started, what it was about her that had him so hooked and so obsessed with the idea of getting her to become his girl , to let him be her man.

She had done everything she could to deter him , she turned up to a high class bitchiness level that she had never even reached before . More cunty and more cruel than her friends could believe , getting great amusement out of putting one of the hottest , arrogant men down a few pegs every time she seen his pretty face .

But sometimes he got beneath her skin and wormed his over the top affections , his poetic words and endless promises of the a luxurious life he could give her.

Candy was certain that he would give her his kidney If she so much as hinted at wanting it, his promise of never ending supply of love and gifts never did fade .

Even when she thought that maybe , just maybe he had finally grown sick of chasing after her like a dog after his favourite ball.

It had been quite for the last three weeks , far more quite than she had grown accustomed to over the last year of knowing Lewis.

It unsettled her , a weird ache settling between her chest as she contemplated the fact that maybe he really had grown bored with her silly games , of her constant mean rejections and petty excuses to deny his affections time and time again.

And candy thought that she would be fine with this , that it wouldn’t bother her when things came to a still end like they always did with men’s attention waned on her after time had passed .

But instead of the indifference that she expected to feel , she just felt like a hole had been run right through her .

A frown settling over her pretty face the last few weeks when she realised that Lewis really wasn’t reaching out anymore . He usually never went a couple days or more without some type of communication .

It bad her rattled and she didn’t like it at all.

So she picked up her phone and dialled his number before she could find the reason in her brain telling her not to .

She was almost surprised when after only a couple of rings , he actually picked up. But she was too annoyed and too keyed up to even think of why he sounded so amused when he sang a pleased hello.

She cut straight through him without even wasting a single breath .

“Have you been in a terrible accident ? Have you lost your legs? Your voice? Have you sudden developed amnesia and forgotten who I am?” She bit out at him , offended by his lack of attention these past three weeks.

Despite the way that the last time she had seen him, she had told him to shove his designer gifts for her where the sun didn’t shine and to leave her the fuck alone.

To be fair , she had been on her period . Pissed off from the constant pain and moody from her suffering . And secondly , she hasn’t expected him to actually leave her the fuck alone.

This wasn’t how their game went at all. He should have been here with some pretty , sparkly things while telling her how much he had missed her.

What the hell was he playing at , ignoring her like this?

“Missed me sweetheart? I thought you didn’t want to see me? Changed your mind again?” He teased her , a giddy tone in his phone at the thought of her missing him so much.

It had been torture for him not to be Constantly on her ass and around her like he usually was , but he had just wanted to see what would happen if he really did follow through with her demands to fuck right off.

Half expecting Her to never reach out again, he was pleasantly surprised to hear her furious voice shouting at him again. It made his body relax and a smug grin settle on his face .

Candy let out a infuriated noise “no I didn’t! I was actually - I was actually just calling to let you know that I’ve moved on! adiós to you!” She shrilled.

Picking up her fluffy cat and hugging him to her chest with her free arm for comfort , the same rag doll that Lewis had gotten her for simply looking pretty this summer.

Lewis let out a chuckle , knowing her like his favourite well read book.

“Oh yeah? And who’s the lucky guys name? Anyone I know?” He played along. Putting his phone on speaker as he drove along the familiar road to her home .

Candy scowled to herself , angrily pacing her room at how amused he sounded . Her eyes traced the framed pictures on her wall, landing on one from her favourite band .

She blinked .

“No you don’t know him. His name is - his name is axl. The hottest man I’ve ever seen, we’re in love.” She blurted out wanting to make him as upset as he had made her these last few weeks of ignoring her .

Lewis was clearly grinning , she could hear his smug , beautiful grin through the damn phone .

“Cool name . Well If you’re happy…” he trailed off .

Candy was officially enraged “you don’t care?!” She almost screamed angrily. Tears filling her eyes .

His voice was careful as he replied smugly “do you want me to care sweetheart?”

She paused , sniffled then huffed loudly . “No. I don’t care if you don’t care!”

Lewis grinned to himself “okay cool. So just to be clear , you’ve moved on with some guy named Axl and you don’t care that I don’t care?” He teased.

Candy put down her poor cat and threw herself down onto the couch with a scowl on her face , wrapped herself in a blanket and tried not to cry.

“Correct.” Was all she hiccuped “well then- I’m glad we’ve cleared this up asshole. Thanks for not caring!” She made sure to get the last word in before she angrily hung up the phone .

Then she screamed into her pillow .

Only Abruptly pausing her long scream halfway when a loud knock echoed on her door.

She quickly straightened up and threw on Lewis’s hoodie that he had left last time he was here annoying her . Stomping to the door with the sourness of someone who felt like she has been dumped even though she wasn’t even in a relationship to start with.

What was her life?

She threw open the door ready to grab whatever parcel was being delivered , then froze as she came face to face with a grinning Lewis at her door.

Dressed in a beautiful dark red tracksuit set , skin glowing and hair braided back perfectly . Candy suddenly felt self conscious as she became acutely aware of her messy bed hair and mascara rimmed eyes , dressed in nothing but pj shorts and his hoodie .

“Hey baby.” He simply said after a few seconds of her gaping at him with wide eyes. Then he casually shuffled past her body, his band grazing her hip gently as he stepped into her apartment like it was his own.

It took her a few moments to gather her bearings before she was slamming the door shut and turning to him with a mean glower on her face . Heart racing in her chest at his sudden arrival.

“What are you doing here?!” She exclaimed shocked , and annoyingly relieved that he was finally there with her .

She kicked his foot , hard. Angry with him.

Lewis just smiled , leaned forward to gently run his fingers through her hair affectionately.

“Came to see you and your new boyfriend Axl.” His eyes darted to her picture of Axl rose on her wall as he said it.

Candy swallowed leaning into his touch for a moment before coming to her senses and batting his hand away.

“You just missed him.” She lied.

Lewis chuckled , amused ? knowing that she was lying and knowing that she knew that he knew that she was lying too.

“How convenient.” Was all he replied before taking a seat at the end of her couch, sitting on the arm of it . He looked up at her with his smile softening into something more warm and lovely .

“I’ve missed you. You look as beautiful as ever.” He told her softly , taking a hold of the hem of her shorts to tug her closer between his legs .

She let him. Cheeks flushing lightly as she gazed into his warm eyes , feeling her body turned to mush.

“Really?” She wondered then looked around him with a slight frown “where’s my gift?”

Lewis let out a loud laugh at how spoilt she was, though he supposed it was partly his fault. He never did arrive without a gift for his sweetheart after all.

“Don’t I get a hug first? I know you missed me.” He teased her, trailing his hand up to her waist and gently rubbing her soft skin beneath his hoodie .

She let her arms rest over his broad shoulders , pouting down at him.

“You said you didn’t care that I moved on.” She mumbled annoyed with him still.

He chuckled , hugging her to him . Resting his chin on her stomach as he peered up at her beneath his dark lashes .

“What? Moved on with Axl rose your imaginary boyfriend? Don’t be silly baby. You know I’m the only one for you.” He told her softly , smiling up at her with affection written all over his beautiful face.

Candy frowned down at him , playing with the diamond stud in his ear .

“I don’t like you.” She reminded him just out of habit by now.

Instead of getting upset , he just giggled at her stubbornness to Admit what he already knew. “Then why were you upset that I didn’t care?”

“I wasn’t upset and I don’t care that you don’t care Lewis. I just think it was mean to abandon me like that for three weeks . I thought you were dead.” She dramatically snapped .

She had watched him at his races . She knew that he was perfectly fine. Which only upset her more because then what other excuse did he have for ignoring her like that then?

Death was the only reasonable excuse to do that!

He rose a brow at her , lifting her hoody to look at the sparkly diamond H belly stud that she had on. The same one he had given her last time he saw her.

He bent down his head and gently kissed it, smirking to himself as he felt her whole body shiver against his lips.

“Don’t like me ignoring you? Now you know how I feel. Isn’t nice is it?” He mumbled against another soft kiss on her belly . Only pulling away when she slapped his forehead not so gently .

He looked up to see her glaring down at him, furious.

“I do not ignore you like that!” She denied.

He rolled his eyes “you told me to go fuck myself the last time I was here. Then refused to pick up my calls the rest of the week.” He reminded her.

She just scoffed “I was upset! I was bleeding from my vagina Lewis! Not everything is about you! I wasn’t in the mood for your games!” She argued.

He paused, then tilted his head with a slight frown. “You could have just told me that. I would have gotten you a heating pad and some chocolate. You didn’t have to be so mean baby.” He said.

She just sniffled at him , gently rubbing at the back of his neck with her fingers absentmindedly. “I’m not mean.”

The look he gave her was full of disbelief “no? Then why aren’t you my girl then?” His question had her stumped.

She spluttered for answer , blinking rapidly . “Well- cause I’m not impressed.” She answered him shortly.

He barked out a laugh “no?” He grinned looking up at her with eyes full of amusement .

“The jewellery and the clothes weren’t enough? The cat , the paid of loans and your car? Still not impressive enough?” He listed off all of the things he had gotten her this past year . Growing more amused by the second as he watched her stubbornly shake her head at him.

“Nope.” She muttered arrogantly .

“Then what would it take for you to be my girl?” He wanted to know.

She searched her mind for something “a mansion like yours. With a king size bed. And - and your Ferrari.” She said the most ridiculous thing she could think of. Something he couldn’t give her.

His eyes searched her face for a long moment before simply humming . “Will you stay at mine tonight with me? Roscoe misses you.” He said already getting to his feet .

He grabbed her phone and keys from the table , not even waiting for an answer before heading to her door. Knowing she would follow him.

She did .

“What will we do? I don’t want to bored all night.” She huffed as she followed him out.

Letting him lock her door, absentmindedly grabbing his hand as he lead her down her apartment stairs . Missing the way he smiled down at her , shaking his head fondly .

They were almost to the car when he finally responded , making her skin flush red and knees weaken as he bluntly told her

“I’m going to fuck you so hard till you know no other name than mine . Then I’m going to eat you out for however long it takes for you to realise that there’s no one better for you than me baby.” He kissed the side of her head before pushing her down into the passenger seat casually .

Candy just blinked up at him in shock , face red and belly fluttering . “Oh. Okay.” She weakly spluttered in response .

Lewis just smirked and flicked her chin lightly before closing the door shut, jogging around to the drivers side quickly .

And Lewis never broke his promises. And by the time the stars were twinkling bright , his name was all she could scream .

When candy woke up the next morning , it was to the sound of Lewis ‘awwing’ loudly at something .

She grumbled to herself as she pushed herself out of his bed , blushing at the fact that she was wearing nothing but his shirt .

Lewis having put It on her while she exhaustedly let him look after her and tuck her into his chest , kissing her head gently as she drifted off to sleep.

Yawning loudly , she stomped her way down the fancy stairs of his home . Grumpy from being woken up .

“What the hell are you awwing at you weirdo?” She called out to Lewis the moment she caught sight of him in the hallway.

He looked over at her with a bright smile on his face , beckoning her over for a hug. She immediately fell into his chest , still tired as she lazily hugged him back.

“Roscoe loves kitties . It’s so cute.” Lewis casually told her , stroking her hair away from her face as she tried to wake up properly.

“Huh?” She let out confusedly wondering why he looked so smug and amused . Then she turned her head and froze as she saw roscoe cuddled up with mr snuggles , her cat .

She blinked at her cat in Lewis’s home , with his dog. Wondering if she was still dreaming .

Then She glanced over to the front room and saw her Tiffany lamps and her cushions on his couch , glancing down at the carpet to see her heart shaped rug there too.

She gasped loudly in shock “what the fuck?!” She immediately turned back to Lewis with wide eyes, gaping at him.

“Why are my things In your house? Why is my kitty here? What the fuck?!” She shouted in absolute disbelief .

Lewis just smiled at her serenely , clearing pleased with himself . He leaned down to stroke her cat when he walked over to him purring , leaving Candy to just blink at him in disbelief .

“You said that the only way you would be with me is if you had a mansion with a king side bed and well…” he pointedly looked around his mansion and the king sized bed she had gotten out of . Grinning proudly at her as he did so.

“What’s mine is now yours baby. And also…” he dug his hand into his hoodie pocket and pulled out some keys .

He opened up her placed and gently placed them in her hand. “There’s my keys to my Ferrari that you wanted as well.” He said.

Candy felt like she was going to pass out .

Gaping at this insane man that was more than happy to give her everything he had. She felt her heart swell in her chest, briefly looking down at the Ferrari keys in her hand and all her things in his home .

She spluttered “but-what? I can’t just live with you! That’s insane!” Her hands were trembling

around the keys at his casual devotion to giving her whatever the hell she wanted .

Lewis just shrugged casually , walking over to her slowly like she was a spooked animal. And maybe she was , she sure felt like a deer in headlights then.

What the fuck was her life?

“Why not? I’m in love with you and I’m pretty sure you’re in love with me. I want you by my side , always. And what better way than living with you?” He simply explained like it was that easy. And maybe for him it was .

Candy just looked at him like he had grown a third head.

“That’s pretty arrogant to assume that I love you Lewis!” She snapped at him stubbornly . Blushing red. “What if I hated your guts? This would be real awkward for you!”

Lewis just laughed at her attitude “oh yeah? So the ‘please Lewis! Fuck me harder Lewis! Just like that baby! all that was because you hated me was it?” He smugly copied her high pitched voice screaming last night .

Making her quickly slap his bicep with a embarrassed gasp, face feeling like it was on fire.

“Lewis!” She shrieked while he just giggled harder

“shut up! I do not sound like that! How dare you?!”

Lewis rolled his eyes at her fondly “how dare me? How dare you! Why are you being so god damn stubborn? Why can’t you just admit that you love me? We could be married by now if you just stopped being so mean!” He exclaimed right back at her in exasperation.

But never angry, no, not with her. He loved her

Too damn much after all.

“I’m not mean! Fuck you!” She yelled back.

“You already did and will again after you just admit that I’m right!”

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you? Mr always right!” She sarcastically shouted back.

Lewis snorted a laugh “so you don’t want me then? Don’t want to live with me and drive my Ferrari?” He challenged her.

She paused , then fidgeted with the diamond tennis bracelet that Lewis had gotten for her , on her wrist .

“I didn’t - I didn’t say that-“

He grinned smugly “admit it then. Go on.” He gave her a nudge , utterly beaming by now .

Candy huffed like a child and rolled her eyes at him . “I just - are you serious?” She eyed him like he was playing some nasty , elaborate joke on her . Waiting for him to shout ‘gotchu girl!’.

Lewis squinted his eyes at her in disbelief “are you serious?” He returned the question to her in slight annoyance at her doubting him after everything .

“I’m obviously very serious baby , my god! Your cat is in my house and I just have you my Ferrari! What a weird, expensive joke that would be!” He exclaimed.

What a strange woman he was in love with he thought , so suspicious of him , Jesus!

Candy sniffed , clutched her diamond necklace on her neck (another gift from him) and slowly nodded her head.

“right . Well..” she uncomfortably cleared her throat , not one for being sappy or emotional over a man but damn , her heart was about to burst right now.

“Thanks babe.” She settled on lamely instead.

Lewis looked at her grimacing face then burst out into hysterical giggles . “You’re so welcome sweetheart. Come ‘ere” he tugged her over to him by her folded arm, grinning into her hair as he hugged her tightly to his chest .

His stubborn , spoilt girl.

Candy hugged him back without any hesitation, squeezing his waist tight . Sighing in content , she planted a gentle kiss on his chest .

“Lew?” She spoke up after another minute of just standing there cuddling in the front room while their pets stared at them like they were watching a entertaining show .

His smile was evident in his voice “yeah baby?”

She sighed in defeat , too happy to care about her pride anymore . “You’re so right by the way.” She admitted to him quietly .

He hummed smugly “yeah?”

She nodded with a huff “yeah.” She pulled away slightly to look into his eyes , he was so fucking beautiful it made her want to cry.

All mine. She almost growled , kissing his mouth just because she could . Lewis sighed against her lips happily

“Say it baby. Come on..” he whispered against her mouth , lips curling into a grin when she just sighed again.

“I love you. So much. And I missed you so don’t do that shit to me again. I’m not one to be ignored.” She told him sternly , pointing a nail into his chest.

He giggled and kissed her again “noted. Do not ignore my girl again.” He murmured then “and I love you too. You stubborn, mean girl.”

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I have your Mercedes too? Just for Wednesdays?”

A pause , then “why Wednesday’s?” He asked amused.

She shrugged as she let him pull her down onto the couch to continue making out , side eyeing her blanket on his couch.

When the hell did he even do all this? She wondered? Still In disbelief that he had all her things moved into his home (their home now?) while she was asleep.

Was a sneaky little guy.

“Just to shake things up a little.” She replied simply.

Lewis didn’t even hesitate to agree.

Maybe she’d buy him a vegan waffle for dinner to repay him, she thought with a grin as she accepted his Mercedes car keys too.

She needed some new keychains , she thought mindlessly . Imagining the looks on her friends face when she rolled up in his Ferrari for their weekend brunches .

If this was a game , she had totally won. She thought to herself contently as she felt Lewis trail kisses down her neck.

A new mansion, two new cars and Lewis fucking hamilton as her man.

Oh yeah, she had totally won in life .

#lewis hamilton imagine #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 fic #f1 oneshot #formula 1 imagine #lewis hamilton oneshot

234 notes · View notes

merakiui · 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 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.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere scaramouche x reader #lunar love hotel 2023 #tw: drugging #tw: dubcon #n/sfw

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taytrashmouth · 8 months

Text

Just finished rewatching game of thrones and the Jon snow obsession has been reborn.

This is a long one!

TW: rape, abuse, crying, murder, etc, all normal GOT stuff.

Jon snow x reader.

:readmore:

Looking at the empty walls of the stone cell I’ve been trapped in for weeks I can’t help but feel that these walls of winterfell that I’ve known for so long are no longer the walls I call home. This is a prison.

I pushed myself back against the furthest wall as I heard the keys rattle in the door. The chain around my waist felt heavier than normal.

As the door opened I felt a tear escape my eye…Ramsey

“You’re not excited to see me?” He pouted and wiped my cheek.

I tried to hide my fear and pain and sadness but I knew he could see through my act.

“I’m going to meet with lady Bolton tomorrow.” He sat down in front of me.

I thought about Sansa….I thought about when we were little, how we would sneak into the kitchens after everyone was asleep, how we’d laugh and talk, how we would dance in the snow outside and go for long walks in the snowy hills. She was bigger now, more mature. The last time I saw her was at the wedding…she got locked in Ramseys room and I got locked in a cell. I heard people talk of her escape through the small widow towards the top of my cell, I’d never been that relieved in my life.

Sansa never treated me as her handmaiden, only ever as her friend.

“Her bastard brother will be there too…” Ramsey spoke.

I couldn’t help my reaction, I let out a gasp and tears fell from my eyes.

Jon was alive.

“I want you to come with me to meet with them tomorrow…”

I looked up at him and frowned, there was a catch, Ramsey was insane, he liked to play games.

“You see… I know that Jon cares for you…and lovers should always be reunited at the end of every story.” Ramsey smiled as he touched my cheek, I tried to move away but he held me still.

“But I’m afraid this story doesn’t have a happy ending…” he pouted. “Jon will have to see what I’ve done with you.” Now he smiled.

He began to untie my dress, I tried to move away but he held me down and the chains were too heavy. After not being fed for a week I could barely have the strength to push him off.

He grabbed my hands and held them high above my head as he sucked hickeys into my neck, and put bite marks all over my skin.

Eventually I stopped screaming, I just accepted him inside of me, I cried and looked away, knowing there was nothing I could do. I thought of everything that wasn’t Ramsey. Then eventually I didn’t think of anything at all, I didn’t even feel as though I was in the room anymore. I was somewhere deep inside my own mind, somewhere I couldn’t even place.

I felt Ramsey hit me and become rough but I just lay there in the cold cell…hopeless.

When he was done he had his guards unlock the chains around my waist and wrists, and lead me to a room in the castle….Aryas old room.

They locked me in there for the rest of the night I had a bath and scrubbed my skin till it was raw and red trying to get Ramsey off of me…

I put on the dress that was laid out on the bed, it showed off my shoulders and my sides, exposing the bruises and scrapes all over my body. I brushed my hair that had grown a lot since I last saw myself. I tied it back into a braid exposing my face and neck like Ramsay instructed

I looked at my thin figure, I could see my own ribs. I looked awful. I drank the soup that was left on top of the dresser.

And I waited…to see Jon again, to see Sansa.

I walked out of the dining hall to see Jon hitting a training dummy repeatedly with his sword.

“I think it’s dead.” I smiled as he turned around.

He smiled softly, something he didn’t do often. “What am I missing?” He asked gesturing back into the hall

“Ned’s angry because Arya flicked food at Sansa.” I spoke. He laughed under his breath. “So nothing new?” He smirked.

I shook my head.

It was quiet for a moment, the music from inside distant. The air was cold.

I had liked Jon since I was about 10, he often caught Sansa and I in the kitchens late at night and instead of telling Ned, like Robb sometimes did, he would join us.

But I’d never say anything, I couldn’t…technically he was a stark, and technically I was a prisoner, a Greyjoy. Although the starks had never made me feel like a prisoner.

“Why so frustrated?” I asked him.

He looked down at his sword and the blisters he’d caused on his hand.

“A lot on my mind, my lady.” He replied.

“I am no lady….just a handmaiden, My lord.” I spoke back, knowing he only ever wanted me to call him Jon.

He smiled to himself. “Just Jon.”

“Okay….just Jon, may I have this dance.” I asked as the band began to play another song that could be heard vaguely through the closed doors to the dining hall.

“Anything for you, princess.” He spoke slowly and made his way over to you. Putting his sword against the stone walls of winterfell.

“I am no-“ you were interrupted when his finger pressed to your lips. “You are to me.” He whispered.

He valued me, always. He never treated me like less, in fact he always treated me like more, like royalty, like a princess.

I smiled up at him. He placed his hands on my waist and i put mine on his shoulders.

“I must warn you, just Jon I’m not a good dancer.” I spoke.

“I know, I’ve watched you dance with sir Cedric Mormont a few years back, and sir Jamie earlier tonight.”

I playfully smacked his arm and he smiled.

“I’ll tell you what princess y/n Greyjoy…I’m not that good either.” He smiled.

We swayed and laughed when Jon jokingly spun me around, or when I tried to lead. We ran around the castle walls for about 3 hours before lady Katlin caught us.

We both froze when she saw us.

“Sansa was looking for you y/n.” She spoke firmly. Glaring at Jon.

“My lady- I-“ you stumbled.

“It was me! I wanted to try on Robb’s armor, see what it was like, to be a knight. I had lady Greyjoy assist me putting it on-“ Jon interrupted. He never lied, but he was protecting me.

I glanced worriedly at him.

“Typical.” She whispered under her breath, and shook her head. My blood boiled. “Y/n get to Sansa’s chambers immediately, Jon… out of my sight.” She spoke loudly.

I quickly walked off to Sansa’s bed chamber, thinking about Jon the whole way there.

“Where we’re you?” Sansa spoke.

“I’m sorry, I-I was with Jon.” I blushed.

She squealed. “Tell me everything.” She spoke, handing me her hairbrush as she sat down at the dresser.

It was like having a permanent best friend, I was only two years older than Sansa.

I carefully undid the intricate braids in her hair and brushed her copper locks.

“We danced…sort of.” I smiled.

“Was he any good?” She frowned.

“No.” We both laughed.

We giggled and spoke until she had to go to bed. Laughing about Jon and how she was to marry prince Joffrey.

You walked along the empty passages towards the servants quarters. Through the snow covered courtyard.

I was pulled from the happy memory when the lock to the chamber rattled and Ramsey and two of his guards entered.

I dropped the soup onto the floor, my hands must have been shaking.

“Oh clumsy are we? You’ll need a new dress I suppose.” Ramsey pouted.

Tears filled my eyes.

“Luckily I have the perfect one for you.” He smirked and held out some purple material…open back.

He wanted Jon to see my pain, to see that I belonged to him. I shook my head and tears fell from my eyes.

His guards grabbed my wrists and shoved me onto the bed, i sobbed when they began to tie my hands to the headboard. They ripped away the gown I was wearing and I could no longer see Ramsey, and that scared me more than anything.

“This will hurt darling.” I could hear the smile in his voice. And I screamed and sobbed as a hard whip hit my back, digging into my spine, I felt blood pour down my back.

It hurt again and again, 20 times he hit me, 20 times I screamed and 20 times I did not prey for help, I wished for death.

He left me tied there, facing the wall, bleeding.

I cried for a long time until I fell asleep from exhaustion. Naked and beaten.

The morning was a rush, Bran had fallen from the tallest tower and hadn’t woken up. Lady Katlin was devastated and Ned had informed Sansa and I we were leaving for kings landing tomorrow. He had been offered the position of hand of the king.

He also informed me that Jon was to become a man of the nights watch.

I walked as fast as I could to his room, my dress blowing behind me in the wind. I tried desperately not to cry.

I shoved his door open and there he was packing his things.

As he turned to me I slapped him, hard.

“Were you not going to tell me!” I yelled, the tears began to fall.

He swallowed hard and looked down, and then at me…my face.

“I didn’t know how-“

“Lies!” I screamed, tears falling like snowflakes.

“I love you! And I didn’t know how to say goodbye to the one thing! The one good thing in my life! The only thing that matters!” He yelled too now.

You cried harder.

“You are the only thing keeping me from going! But I can’t love you, n/n….I can’t! I’m a bastard, and I refuse to force you to burden that name too. You are going to king’s landing tomorrow, you’ll meet a Duke of something there and you’ll grow old in a castle, and have beautiful daughters and strong sons.” Jon was crying too, he held my shoulders.

“No-“ I shook my head. “I don’t want that…. I love you Jon snow. I will never love anyone else. I want to run away with you, I want to carry your children, I want to grow old with you!” I sobbed.

He shook his head, and pressed his forehead to mine.

“I don’t care if you’re a bastard- it’s a stupid title. Like king or queen it’s just a name. But you’re so much more than that you’re brave and kind, loving, you’re funny and smart and-“ he kissed me, gently but passionately.

For a moment everything made sense. All the stars aligned and the puzzle fit together beautifully.

But then I pulled away.

“I love you.” We stated at the same time, we both laughed lightly.

There was a heavy silence after that. I knew I had to go to kings landing, and he knew he had to go to the wall, to make something of himself.

“Promise me.” I spoke slowly as he held my cheeks. “Promise me when I see you again you’ll kiss me, like you just did, promise me that someday we’ll grow old together. Promise me-“ I choked and he kissed my forehead. “Promise that I’ll see you again.”

He nodded. “I promise.” He knelt to the floor and kissed my hand, “ I promise I’ll come back for my princess.” He spoke.

I smiled through the tears as he stood.

“Promise you’ll write to me…every day.” He whispered as we hugged. I nodded.

“Promise you’ll write back.” He chuckled and nodded against my head.

That was goodbye.

I rode with Ramsey on his horse, my back aching and my lips blue. I was freezing in the revealing dress. Bruises, gashes, hickeys, scars and deep wounds covered my body.

We stopped after a long ride. I saw horses approaching in the distance. My heart sunk, I didn’t want Jon to see me like this. What if he had moved on.

I must have looked terrible because Sansa took in a sharp breath before demanding my release. There he was, Jon…my Jon.

I almost smiled when I saw him, almost.

He looked older, a fuller beard and darker eyes, he was taller. He was handsome.

He looked devastated when he saw me. I looked down at the floor, not seeing the tears fill his eyes.

They debated the war that was to come, tomorrow. And Rickons release.

I began to shiver.

“Give her a coat she’ll freeze!” Jon yelled. His voice was husky and sad. I looked at the anger on his face.

Ramsey smiled.

“Jon don’t-“ I tried to explain it was just one of his games but Ramsey hit me, across the cheek.

Jon’s horse jerked forward as he drew his sword but his men held him back.

And then we rode away, at the perfect angle for Jon to see my back.

Ramsey threw me back into my cell, I cried…I didn’t want Jon to fight- I feared Ramsey would win.

I felt my heart sink…I had imagined seeing him again for so many years and it broke me to know that might’ve been the last time.

Last I saw him he was 16, only a boy. I was 15, a young girl who knew nothing of the world outside winterfell.

I knew not of vicious fighters like sir clegane or horrible woman like Cersei. I wouldn’t have imagined such an unfair ruler as Joffrey. Or such an abusive leader as Ramsey.

I wouldn’t have ever imagined seeing Theon like that….like reek. Ramsey told me he’d to the same to me if I disobeyed him. Another Greyjoy to his collection.

I hadn’t looked death in the eye the last time i saw Jon and yet now I had seen so much of it, it all seemed insignificant.

I heard of Jon’s battles, I even heard of his death. Seeing him again was like seeing a ghost. I wasn’t the same girl he left at winterfell but I had the same heart.

“You’re going to take someone’s eye out.” I smiled across the courtyard as I saw Jon and Robb attempting to sword fight in the snow, they kept slipping on the ice.

“That’s the point my lady.” Robb smiled.

“It’s not that simple.” Jon huffed.

“Can I have a go.” I asked gesturing to their swords.

They both chuckled until they realized I was serious.

“The arena is no place for a lady.” Robb spoke, he looked a bit sympathetic though.

I frowned.

Jon was about to speak until Theon called them to lunch.

That evening when I was lying on my bed I felt something shake me awake.

“Jon?” I frowned in the dark. He nodded.

“Come on.” He pulled me out of bed.

“Where are we going?” I asked but he shhhhed me.

“You’ll see, it’s a surprise.” He whispered.

He dragged me out to the courtyard, where he lit a bunch of candles.

I smiled.

“Jon it’s beautiful.”

“Like you.” He responded, both our cheeks flushed.

“You sure you’re ready?” He asked me, changing the subject.

“For?”

“You’re greatest opponent.” He smiled and threw me a sword which landed on the floor in front of me. I smiled.

“Thank you.” I looked at him. He nodded.

He spent the rest of the night trying to teach me how to fight, and by 4AM I could have a basic spar with him.

He quickly blew out all the candles and lead me back to my chambers.

“Was I any good?” I asked.

He nodded as we walked.

“Are you just saying that?” I asked again.

He smiled. “You were better than Theon let’s put it that way.”

I smiled.

Ramsey chained me up and dragged me outside of winterfell with Rickon. We both got a bad hit when I hugged him, I was so relieved he was alright.

I watched as Ramsey explained the rules of his stupid little trick, how rickon had to run across the field to Jon. It was too easy. There was a catch.

I watched as he began to run and I watched Ramseys men began to load their crossbows.

I began to scream. “Nooo! Stop!” I screamed and they hit me, but I didn’t stop, I had to warn him.

Jon began to ride towards his brother… holding out his hand. But there it was, another stark gone.

My own scream was silent in my ears, I couldn’t hear anything as I watched him fall to the floor.

I sobbed. I watched Jon loose his horse and begin to take on an entire army by himself. I screamed again.

I felt Ramsey pull at my chains and drag me back to winterfell. Leaving the battle of the bastards. His war that he wasn’t even fighting.

Leaving the carnage. He took me to the courtyard. He put me on the execution platform and tied a rope around my neck. He explained how if Jon came to save me, the floor would disappear and so would I.

I waited, I saw the bodies pile up through the windows in the castle walls. I watched the giant break down winterfells gates. I smiled and cried when I saw him….just Jon.

“You’re too late.” Ramsey smiled and pointed at me. Jon’s face dropped he was covered in blood.

“No!” I yelled as I watched one of Ramseys men move to pull the lever.

Jon began to run towards me, as a red haired man threw an axe at the soldier. It killed him as he pulled the switch. I closed my eyes and took in a sharp breath.

I opened my eyes, Jon had caught me. I smiled as a tear ran down my cheek. He looked at me, examining my face.

His red hair friend cut the rope and jon put me down.

Ramsey began to load his crossbow.

“Jon.” I said and pointed at Ramsey.

His hands left my hips, and I almost missed his touch.

He used some debris as a shield as Ramsey fired arrows at him, he grew closer and closer to him.

I watched as Jon beat him up. A part of me liked that Ramsey would die here, today. A part of me knew it was wrong.

“Stop!” I let out. Jon looked at me and then at Sansa, still punching. And he did, he stopped.

He walked off into winterfell.

I ran across the courtyard to Sansa and we held each other. Tight.

“Are you okay?” I asked her. She laughed.

“Are you?” She scoffed.

We quickly decided Ramsey should be reunited with his pets. He didn’t deserve to live. Not even as a prisoner.

Later that evening I found myself in Aryas old bed chambers attempting to stitch up some of my cuts. I heard a knock at the door and looked up.

Jon.

“Hello.” I spoke.

“Hi.”

I slowly stood up.

It wasn’t long before his lips were on mine. We kissed for a long time, passionately. A kiss that made up for all our time lost.

We pulled away breathless, both crying.

“You stopped writing letters.” I spoke, he smiled.

“You stopped writing back.” He answered.

He hugged me, gently. I hugged him back as tightly as I could.

“You’re taller.” I smiled.

“You’re shorter.”

We both laughed.

He sat me on the bed and helped me stitch up my wounds. He held my hand tightly as he poured alcohol on my back.

We spent hours catching up.

We both sat on the end of the bed, my head on his shoulder.

“I thought you were dead.” I told him. “Twice.”

He chuckled. “You gave me a few scares too.”

“How was the wall?”

“Cold.” He looked down at me. I laughed.

“Is it true? The whitewalkers?” I asked more seriously now.

He sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“I’ve fought them, they’re too strong. I fear we won’t win this battle. But I’ll make sure you’re as far south as south goes-“

“No!” I interrupted, shaking my head.

Tears brimmed in his waterline.

“I’m not leaving again….I just got you back. We’re going to grow old together, remember?” My voice broke. “Even if you’ve found someone else-“

“There’s no one else.” He brushed his hand over my cheek.

“If you fight, I’ll fight.” I spoke.

“You did have a really good teacher.” He stated. I playfully nudged him as he smiled.

“I love you…just Jon, I always have.” I finished.

“I love you too, princess y/n Greyjoy.” He kissed me again gently.

“Snow.” I corrected and he frowned. “Queen y/n snow.”

A smile took over his whole face.

“If you’ll have me, that is? King Jon snow.”

#jon snow #jon snow x you #jon snow imagine #jon snow fanfiction #jon snow x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #ramsey bolton #sansa stark #winterfell

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nattysstargirl · 7 months

Text

Alone, again.

Mafia!Wanda Maximoff X Reader angst

Brief Mafia!Pietro Maximoff X Reader

Short blurb

Age gap (undisclosed)

I thought the way Pietro treated me was bad, but it was nothing compared to what his sister has done. From him I expect nothing less than selfishness and disloyalty, but her? No. It has been a week since we slept together for the second time and I awoke in her room alone again. I was disappointed and wished that she would have woken me to say goodbye, but I didn’t for a second doubt that we would talk later in the day.

The rose-tinted glasses I have worn since I was old enough to think Wanda Maximoff was a mixture of superhero and goddess, have left me vulnerable to the fact that she is as capable as her brother of using and discarding women. At least Pietro never pretended to be anything different. He told me explicitly that he didn’t love me right before we had sex.

Wanda sucked me in. She gave me a taste of what I have craved for so long. I felt safe with her, protected. My eyes roll every time I think of the warmth I felt when she called me baby or my darlin’. How naive and stupid was I that I thought that meant she cared at all for me? Wherever she has been sleeping this week, she has probably been whispering the same sweet words into another woman’s ear.

My cheeks redden with the humiliation I can’t shake. The feeling that I am pathetic. All I am worth is a political marriage. My mother can’t see me past her self-obsession and my father, he sees me as a pawn in his miniature game of thrones. My half-brother fucking kidnapped me, for goodness sake. The fact remains that the only person who I have ever truly felt loved by is Bucky and he has been lying to me too.

He spends more time with Sam than he does with me now anyway and I feel our special bond slipping away. I’m glad I have Natasha, but our friendship is still new. We bond over work dramas, the gym members who hit on us, and all the normal bullshit. We hang out, but she doesn’t know all the inner workings of my complicated life. The past week I have been a zombie.

I don’t want to speak with anyone. I have stayed at the Maximoff house because being near my parents would only make me more miserable, but I haven’t seen Wanda. I snuck into her room the first night in the wee hours of the morning and she wasn’t there. Her bed was still as I had made it that morning. The second day I text her.

Y/N: Hey? Is everything ok?

But I didn't get a response. That was when I knew that she was avoiding me. There was no alarm in the rest of the family that she was missing or out of touch. It was just me she avoided. Bucky tried to comfort me. He called his cousin all sorts of names and was on my side. But he kept pushing me back towards Pietro. His solution to my heartbreak was for me to throw myself into my sham marriage.

“You’re only saying that because it’s what the Famiglia wants!” I screamed at him. “When did you stop giving a shit about me!”

The guilt on his face told me I was right. He was working toward an agenda, not caring about his oldest friend. Interestingly, Piet has been nice this week. His cheerfulness has been a reprieve from all the angst. He took me out for brunch on the third day and although it was nice, his hand on my lower back as we walked through the cafe felt wrong. He is the only one who seems to get how shit it is to have your life at total mercy to what the Famiglia dictates.

We have bonded over our mutual hatred of the control being exerted over us. Now, it’s six nights since I last saw Wanda and I’ve sent several texts which have all received no response. Miserable, I sneak into her room again. I can’t sleep and pathetically, I think maybe if she still isn’t there, I could just sleep in her bed.

Maybe her scent on her pillows will help me drift off. I pad barefoot down the hallway wearing one of Bucky’s massive t-shirts and slip into Wanda’s room. I pause, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark room before tip-toeing toward the bed. A dark form lies entangled in the blankets. She is home. She’s here and she didn’t reply to a single text or check I am ok. I want to throw things at her sleeping body. Wake her up with my hurt screams.

But instead, I walk around to the other side of the bed and slip under the covers. I crawl over to her and turn around so my back is to her. I rest my head gently on the bicep of her outstretched arm and she instinctively pulls me in close, curling her body around mine. I loathe how good it feels. My eyes fill with tears and my heart with self-hatred.

“Y/N,” Wanda groans, sleepy and exasperated, a few moments later.

“I hate you,” I reply, my voice thick as I battle the tears threatening to fall.

She is silent for a moment and then sighs. “I know, baby. I hate myself too. Go to sleep.”

And I do. In her arms, I slip into the easiest sleep I have had all week. I know that the morning will bring with it more heartache. She will push me away again. But for now, I feel safe and exactly where I’m meant to be. I wake up before Wanda. She is still wrapped around me, and every fiber of my being cries out for me to burrow deeper into her arms and go back to sleep. Thankfully, I have a tiny bit of self-preservation left, and instead, I gently peel her off me and creep back to my own bed. Sliding into the cold sheets feels like salt in the wounds of the past week, but I do it because I can’t bear the thought of waking alone in her bed again.

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader angst

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fuckyeah-jessicabiel · 1 year

Photo

GQ Magazine - July 2007

The Summer of Jessica Biel

To celebrate Biel’s being in a movie actually worth seeing, we sent Adam Stein to play carnival games with her.

When I told various friends I’d be interviewing Jessica Biel, I got the responses you’d expect—jealousy, mild rage, a plea to give her a phone number because she’s the one person that a friend’s wife would give him a free pass to sleep with. The uncanny thing is, when I asked these guys what they thought of her as an actress, most of them drew a blank. They hadn’t seen a single motion picture of hers. Okay, one or two had girlfriends who’d brought them to see The Illusionist, but otherwise, nada. As my friend Taj put it: “I’m obsessed with a girl I’ve never seen move.“

Well, that’s about to change. Later this month, men across America will see Jessica being very good in a very funny movie, and the nature of their love for her will…deepen. She’ll still be inhumanly beautiful, sure, but now they’ll have to contend with genuine talent, too, and that one-two punch can be disorienting. You know what else can? The fact that despite her recent tabloid exposure, she’s actually sweet, funny, earnest, occasionally a little crude, and—if my time playing carnival games with her can be used as evidence—uniquely driven to conquer whatever stands between Jessica Biel and what she wants.

I am waiting for her at the Santa Monica Pier, sitting on a stool next to one of those games where you shoot water from a gun into a clown’s mouth. I haven’t shaved for a week, because I read somewhere that Jessica Biel likes guys with beards. I’m inspecting mine in the reflective back of my iPod when a nice-looking young woman materializes in my view. “Excuse me,“ she says. “Are you Adam?“ “Jessica?“ I ask, ridiculously. Of course it’s her, in wraparound sunglasses, an open gray sweater over a white blouse, and faded jeans. She wears checkered Vans, like Jeff Spicoli. On the pier, no one recognizes her, which I suppose makes sense: There’s little resemblance between the pinup girl and the sneaker-wearing civilian out on a Monday afternoon. She doesn’t stick out as we walk the wooden planks of the amusement park; she blends in. She is, you might say, a very chill girl.

“Can we get a photo next to a star?“ she asks, stopping in front of a booth hawking photographs with huge cardboard cutouts of celebrities. It’s an impressive, eclectic array: Bill Clinton, Mini Me, Michael Jordan, Hilary Duff, Enrique Iglesias(!), Jean-Claude Van Damme, DiCaprio in Titanic. “They’re all kind of old,“ she says. I don’t know if she means the cutouts or the celebrities themselves (because to me, Mini Me will never age). She’s only 25 years old, so it could go either way. I ask her who she’d most want to pose with. She scrutinizes the assembly and makes her call: “I’d probably pick Van Damme, cause he looks the coolest.“ She takes the Muscles from Brussels over Leo—a victory of might over sensitivity. Nice.

Then she decides it’s time for the games to begin. She passes up the Riptide Ring Toss (“That one is impossible,“ she says) and focuses her attention on the Pier Plank Plunge. The PPP is basically a rope ladder suspended horizontally over an inflatable mattress. The trick is to climb, perfectly balanced, to a taunting red button placed approximately ten feet away. Press the button, win the prize—an enormous Sonic the Hedgehog. I ask her if she’s ever Pier Plank Plunged before. “Yes,“ she says, assessing the structure, looking for its weaknesses. “But I’ve never been able to achieve it.“ She begins barraging the bored-looking carny with questions. “Do you have any tips?“ (It’s all about balance.) “Have you done it before?“ (Nope.) “Has anyone ever won?“ (Yeah.) “Has anyone won today?“ (Not yet.) She turns to me, and I have to say she seems genuinely excited. “This is our chance,“ she says. “It’s our chance to win.“ I’m beginning to get the distinct impression that winning is important to Jessica Biel. “Ladies first“ being the imperative, I take the initial go-round. It’s harder than it looks. My arms shake. Everything shakes. I can feel her hopefulness—Do it, get there—but I fall off within seconds. The shame is truly surprising. I wanted to do it for Jessica and failed. She throws me a “good try“ before stepping up herself.

Jessica was a gymnast when she was younger, and the training appears to be paying off as she mounts the unstable rope ladder. (It also occurs to me that the view I currently have is one the paparazzi would kill for.) She deploys a disciplined crawl, gets tantalizingly close to the red button, reaches for it—and loses her balance, flips over, and lands flat on the cushion, laughing. “Holy shit,“ she yells. “It’s so hard. That’s so frustrating.“ The carny asks if we’d like to try again. She pauses for a moment, looking at the button, and then, with obvious reservations, demurs. “You were really, really close,“ I tell her. “I know,“ she says, still staring at it, reluctant to move, apparently, without conquering the damn thing. “That’s how it gets you.“

Next up is something called the Hi-Striker, a game in which you swing a mallet to test your strength. I take three feeble swings, each one less successful than the last. A huge Hispanic man laughs every time I bring the mallet down on the metal block, and when I exit the cage and hand it off to the female attendant, she takes one exhibition swing and makes my emasculation complete. Up goes the projectile. Ping goes the bell.

J.B. watches, rapt. “Look at her awesome stance,“ she whispers, absorbing the details, memorizing the motion. Some actors “find“ their characters via a process of internalization—investigating emotions, plumbing psychology, creating an “inner life.“ This is known as the inside-out approach. Other actors work outside-in—developing a walk, a gesture, a physicality. Look at, say, Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby. Look at Jessica Biel in the Hi-Striker cage.

Mimicking the attendant’s, her first swing easily skunks my best effort. And she improves with each attempt. She’s getting into character. As she exits the cage, there’s a look of satisfaction on her face. She returns the mallet to the attendant, who looks at me and says: “She did better than you.“ As we leave, I ask her: “Is it more technique than strength?“ She shakes her head. “Brute strength,“ she says. “You just throw it up and slam it as hard as you can.“ On our way off the pier, we pass Zoltar, the animatronic fortune-teller who turned that kid into Tom Hanks in Big. Zoltar senses us and speaks: “Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved.“ Zoltar makes Jessica smile. She digs his philosophy.

Jessica Biel’s destiny, at least of late, has led her to a prominent place in the trashy supermarket gossip rags. First it was snapshots of social excursions with second-banana studs (Chris Evans, Ryan Reynolds). Then, upping the ante, there was a beach fling with a sports icon (Derek Jeter). And then, in February, she grabbed the tabloid brass ring for reportedly nabbing the world’s most eligible bachelor, Justin Timberlake. Unsurprisingly, it’s not something she’ll discuss.

One thing she is happy talking about, though, is the unladylike girth of her knuckles. We’re getting dinner at an unassuming Italian trattoria across the street from the pier when she flashes those meaty joints and describes her nascent production company. “It was almost called Fat Knuckle Films. Because I have fat knuckles. See?“ she asks. “They don’t really look that way until you start putting rings on them, and then it stops right there.“

I have to say, Jessica Biel’s chunky midfingers are endearing, human, attainable—a word she uses a number of times in our conversation, as if to remind the world that she’s just a regular girl from Boulder, Colorado, who happens to have been called, by Esquire magazine in 2005, the Sexiest Woman Alive.

“At first I felt really embarrassed about it,“ she says. “You know, it’s a weird thing to talk about. Like, Hey, guys. Guess what?’ You don’t just go telling everybody that.“ She shifts her weight forward and goes on: “But after I got over that, I just started to embrace it. I started thinking, If I ever do have kids, and if they have kids, I can tell them: You know what? Your grandma in 2000-and-whatever was the Sexiest Woman Alive. How about that, kids?’ That’s what I started to think about. I’ll always have that picture to say, That’s what Granny used to look like.’ “

Before coming out here to get my ass handed to me at the Hi-Striker, I immersed myself in Jessica Biel’s Collected Works. She got her start in the mid-’90s on 7th Heaven, the WB dramedy that made a splash with the moral-values set, before leaving around 2002 for bigger (and badder) things. It’s been a grim scene ever since: Summer Catch (2001), which starred Freddie Prinze Jr. and stands at number forty-nine on Rotten Tomatoes’ 100 Worst- Reviewed Films of All Time. The Rules of Attraction (2002), notable only for Fred Savage shooting heroin between his toes and saying things like “I can feel my dick.“ (Remarkably, Biel comes across as fresh and charming, despite the astonishing pointlessness and nihilism of the flick.) The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003), which was Biel’s first top billing and is her biggest box-office performer to date, with a take of about $80 million. J.B. screams her head off throughout the movie and is entirely believable in distress, but you can’t help thinking as you watch her, There’s got to be better material than this. Sadly, no. There was an atrocity called Cellular, in 2004, and Blade: Trinity that same year (in which Biel kicks much undead ass as a midriff-baring vampire hunter). But the nadir has to be London, in ’06, a delusional piece of trash that starts off with a sex scene, Biel on top, saying, “Are you coming? Are you coming?“ before she proceeds to another not-quite-dignified act and then dips out of the frame to, presumably, swallow. Like I said, a grim scene.

And then, just in the nick of time, salvation arrived. A script called The Illusionist, to star Edward Norton and Paul Giamatti. There was a problem, though. The filmmakers didn’t want to give Biel an audition. They weren’t convinced the vampire-hunting Hollywood creation could rearrange herself into the role of a refined fin de siècle Hungarian duchess.

But Jessica Biel has a hard time taking no for an answer. And when another actress “dropped out“ of the film, her tenacity paid off. They finally brought her in. She arrived wearing a full period costume. She made them take her seriously, she says, and three days later, an offer arrived.

The Illusionist wasn’t what you’d call a “hit,“ but it got good reviews, made decent money, and changed the industry’s perception of her. Doors that were closed began to open. They just weren’t opening fast enough for her taste.

She sets down her after-dinner tea and says, “I want choices. I want options. I want to lay out all the directions I could go and have the ability to choose. I’m slowly starting to have that now.“ It’s the “slowly“ that kills her.

One film that will almost surely expedite the process is I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, which will be released this month. It stars Adam Sandler and Kevin James as two Brooklyn firefighters who pretend to be a gay couple in order to receive domestic-partner benefits. J.B. plays the female lead, their hoodwinked attorney who falls for Sandler by the end of the picture.

Chuck and Larry is Jessica’s first real shot at popular, mainstream film success. Unlike her previous big-budget endeavors, it doesn’t rely on CGI or fetishistic weaponry to make its points. It is also—apologies to Freddie Prinze Jr. —her first comedy.

“It was a little bit intimidating,“ she says. “I really admire Adam and Kevin, but then, I didn’t try to equal them or one-up them, and the character I created didn’t have to be that. She’s the straight woman, but very fun and very cool and just—attainable. That’s the kind of part that I’d like to play more. I mean, a vampire hunter? Is that really attainable? I’d just like to play something a little more quirky, interesting, outrageous. And uninhibited.“

“You’re not worried that she can do comedy,“ the movie’s director, Dennis Dugan, tells me. “You can tell she can do comedy. So we just met her and cast her. I really think she can have one of those diverse, Oscar-winning careers. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no horizon to her talent.“

The sun has gone down, and we’re standing on the sidewalk in front of the Italian joint, across from the pier. I’m holding a small stuffed Spider-Man doll that Jessica won as a prize back at the amusement park and which she’s given to me to give to my son. I ask what she’s doing tonight, and she says she’s playing chaperone to a girlfriend on a first date. “Basically, I’m her wingman tonight,“ she says. “I’ll probably slip away if it’s rolling along well.“

She graciously agrees to a photograph with me, which I would include except for two reasons: (1) I don’t want to make Justin Timberlake jealous, and (2) you never quite understand how unattractive you are until you see yourself in a picture with Jessica Biel.

I watch her as she walks toward the pier. I know it’s where her car is parked, but I have this image of her heading straight back to the Pier Plank Plunge. The carny won’t know who she is, nobody on the pier will recognize her, and she’ll just hand over her fiver and go at it. That red button, almost within her reach. Attainable.

#jessica biel #gq #gq 2007 #articles #magazines #cover #interviews

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 8 months

Note

AITA for telling my two friends that they might be “soulmates”?

okay for privacy sake i will use abbreviations… so i (27NB) have two coworkers-turned-friends named T (28M) and B (27M)… they had known eachother before i ever met them and were both to my knowledge straight and cis

the three of us game a lot and have hung out every week over the past 8 months since i met them. T and B feel like they could have been my brothers separated at birth; we get along great and have the same humor. they treat me like “one of the guys” and it gives me a lot of euphoria as a transmasc enby

some nights we spend listening to eachother talk about specific interests that each of us has. B is a DM and is obsessed with D&D, T loves politics and history so he rants about it a lot, and i’m into psychology and personality typing. we each like talking about these things but are casual-enjoyers compared to the respective person who has more of a die-hard obsession. it’s a good way to unwind; getting drunk or high and listening to somebody else go off the rails about a topic you enjoy

i just recently got a new book about personality typing. to sum up, it deals a lot with how others interact with eachother and what each person values (it’s a socionics book). tbh it’s all just fun for me, i love reading theories about behavior. both T and B have had me “type” them and they’re entertained by it so when i got this new book and we hung out two nights ago i was excited to have some drinks and rant about the book i’m reading…

they were excited, too. i was tipsy while ranting but i remember a lot of laughing and me pacing around while i talked. i may or may not have accidentally knocked over one of B’s lamps when i walked past it. but it was all just positive reactions to what i was talking about. i talked a lot their own personalities, but neither of them seemed bothered. they’ve said before that they kinda like it when i “psychoanalyze” them…

here’s where i maybe am an asshole.

after i got too drunk to keep ranting, we started playing mario kart. playing mario kart while drunk is hilarious tbh and we aren’t competitive people much. T and B are always pretty nice to eachother about it. so, in the last round we were playing B knocked T out of first place at the last second and other than a playful slap on the arm/joking insult T didn’t really seem to mind. he even complimented B on managing to do it while drunk. i’ve definitely had friends play mario kart and attack me for doing a lot less than what B did

so, stupid and drunk, i made the connection in my brain what two types they might be from the book i’m reading. i told them as much and they both seemed interested but want to know why i thought that. i pointed out that they are both a little soft around eachother and tend to have similar values. i explained the two types i thought they each fit and they seemed to agree up until i explained… that those two types are considered “soulmates” (the book also calls it “duality”) which might be why they are so close

immediately T got kinda defensive. he asked me what i meant by that and i stupidly told him more about it rather than noticing his tone. he was a little too quiet after i finished talking so i tried to make it better him by telling him it was “just pseudoscience” because honestly it is. when T didn’t speak for a minute or two after that, B got up to go to the bathroom.

i don’t have a super clear memory of what B’s reaction was since i was focused on T, but i vaguely remember him looking happy about it before T spoke and until i saw his face when he got up i figured he hadn’t been bothered. B is a bubbly kinda guy, always smiling, but when he left he looked hurt, sad…

i was pretty confused. i’m not great at social cues and even worse if nobody tells me how they feel. jfc add drunk on top of it and i’m lost. T and B are usually patient about that and talk it out with me but we only ended up hanging out for maybe 20-30 mins afterward and when T and i left to go home nothing had really been resolved.

i had kinda forgotten about it when i went to bed that night but the next day i woke up to a text from T that essentially said “can you not talk about B and i like that we’ve had this issue before and we’re not gay”

as a queer person, both trans and bisexual, this is always a weird situation for me to be in. i’m not sure how to explain to a straight cis guy that “soulmates” can be platonic. i just texted back saying okay and kinda left it at that and B hasn’t mentioned it not even when i saw him at work yesterday. he seemed kinda quiet once or twice but not much different.

but tonight i have a shift at the same time as T and i’m worried i was already an asshole but that i’ll be an even bigger asshole if i push this topic any further. idk it feels unresolved

tl;dr i implied two of my straight cis guy friends were “soulmates” and one of them got very awkward/defensive about it but the other got kinda sad. i want to ask them more about it and talk about it with them. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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clownboymcchucklefuck · 3 months

Text

Zecharias Theory

Before I start rambling, I do want to say that surprisingly a song lyric was what inspired me to write this theory because it made me think of Zecharias and therefore my brain started going off the charts with theorizing. I’ve also wanted to do something with Zecharias for a while now so if this also ends up being a analysis and also a theory at the same time then yall gonna have to deal with it.

“But you made me want to plan out my last days on earth, eating you. The tips of your teeth fit perfect in me. You’re a shower of light I’d devour any day of the week.” -LIGHT SHOWER by Melanie Martinez.

Now you might be thinking how this made me go into full theory mode. So let me explain.

It’s been mentioned a few times/implied that Zecharias has had muses before MC and in the NSFW alphabet it has even mentioned somebody but I’ve only seen who ever this person is mentioned in this one part and hasn't even been asked about smh.

“He hasn't been able to meet a lot of other people, much less get the chance to do the deed with them. At most, he likely could have done it with one person, but they're as inexperienced as he is.

Who is this person? Well, you’ll find out in the game. :>”

But here’s my thing, if what we know about Zecharias not being human then he’s probably immortal especially that I’ve noticed a few implications that he might be a god or demi-god (Hell, bring Percy Jackson into this and say possibly half-blood.) with one part of Be My Muse and there was a few lines about MC being into greek mythology and he brought up the god Mnenmosyne. (HELP I JUST REALIZED THAT'S HIS LAST NAME WHY AM I ONLY PUTTING THIS TOGETHER WHILE I'M WRITING THIS) Well now that I just figured that out it just puts more evidence to back up my theory and of course with all of those powers he has and everything. Now I know that in the SFW alphabet did somewhat imply that he would die for MC if it was to protect them but I think that just might have been figurative language. .

Zecharias eats people too, but it’s also been said he just does this as a way to survive so I’m not about to bash him about that.

“He’s only interested in adults to be his muse or his meals.”

ANYWAYS, Finally to my main theory that made me write this. Zecharias is likely immortal or lives for a very long time. But (from what we know) all of his muses have been human including MC. It makes me wonder what happened to the old muses, I mean of course it’s very likely they died inside of the backrooms, maybe from old age or something else. BUT that also brings the question of what happened to their bodies so going back to the lyrics that made me think up of this theory. I think it’s very possible that Zecharias could have probably eaten the old muses? Since its for his survival to eat humans and him being obsessed with them could prove this. Or he might just have those fuckers stored somewhere in the backrooms lmao.

I don’t know what else to go on about without going into a full analysis of Zecharias which would include me going more into what we know about his backstory so far and me explaining his motives and all that good stuff but I guess I’ll see how this theory does before starting to write all of that jfnlaajan.

Also keep in mind that this is all a theory, A YANDERE VN THEORY- *gets hit with fridge*

Word count: 647.

Zecharias belongs to @letmeremindyouvn

_______________________________

Taggy tags:

@dont-wannadothis-anymore @mr-ritza @mysticnebula

#hehehehehehehe #Yall going to be getting alot more big posts like this now lately dont yall worry #I wrote this in one sitting btw because I'm just good like that 🤭#I really love Zecharias #He has alot of potential and I can't wait until Let Me Remind You comes out #yandere vn #yandere visual novel #yandere #male yandere #visual novel #yandere male #letmeremindyouvn

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justash02 · 1 year

Text

Rebound.

Pairing; Wilhem x Fem!reader.

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A/n: I’m so obsessed with this man, Edvin has my heart so I just wanted to make a little smut with our boy Wilhem. (Kinda weird to say that bc my dead grandpas name is Wilhem-) I think Wilhems sexuality is still unlabed pls if not text me and I’ll delete it. (Writing this at work btw-)

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Warnings; Smut! UNDER 18 DO NOT INTERACT GO PLAY IN THE PARK.

*^*^*

I’ve been texting Wille all break and I am confident to say that we are good friends at this point. His taking his break up with Simon don’t well… like at all.

Ever now and then I see him out side of class and he just looks drained from all the emotions he’s feeling. And I definitely can’t blame him. He’s having a bomb of emotions at this point that he has no clue how to deal with.

Seems like I’ll be of to the store, I put my phone back into my pocket in a swift move and turned on my heels.

*^*^*

Later that night I went over to Willes room, number 15 and knocked on the door. I heard shifting around in the room and second later a tired looking Wilhem opened the door.

His dirty blond hair hung in front of his face as his brown eyes pierced mine own. He opened the door fully so I could come in and closed it later.

“Is he that bad?” Wille could only scoff as he grabbed his laptop, “Hes fucking awful, like, every thing he does disgusts me.” Ploof, he laid on the bed close to me. His body heat instantly warmed me up making me drop my eyes a little at the comfort.

“What did you get your crown prince?” He asked raising his eyebrows. I rolled my eyes and hit his arm, “we agreed you wouldn’t abuse that power anymore with me.” He just laughed at looked at me as I pulled my rainbow bag onto the bed.

“I got you some cherry soda.” His eyes peeked up from the bag as he instantly sat up, “All those are mine?” I nodded and handed them to him. “Wait… how did you know I love cherry?” He asked smiling.

I could feel the heat travel up to my cheeks as I coughed a bit. “U-uh, you told me a few weeks ago. I have a pretty good memory of my friends and what they like.” He stared down at the soda and back up at me and smiled.

“You’re the best, might keep you all to my self.” Sadly you’re just joking. “I also got you some Chips and some candy.” He leaned over and instantly his cologne filled my senses. Weirdly enough his whole excisions screams comfort.

“Wait, does this mean you didn’t have dinner?” He suddenly asked, I just shrugged but he definitely wasn’t having it. He picked up his phone and called the Royal court.

“Hey, Jan-Olof. The food in the cafeteria hasn’t been that good lately and I’ve started to notice that it affects my studies, could you can me some (Fav food) and could you make it two portions? I’m extremely hungry.” He said, I heard Jan-Olof agree on the other side of the line as Wille closed his phone with a smug smile.

“You did not just call the Royal Court just for food-“ I said laughing, he just laughed with me and started scrolling through the movies.

“Horror?”, “meh, everything I’ve seen on Netflix was shit.”, “Romance?”, “You want me to be that miserable?”, “Comedy?”, “Eehhh I don’t know.” This went on for ages until we decided on The Hunger Games.

“You’re so lucky I like you.”

“You Royal people just don’t have taste.” I said winking. He smiled and avoided my gaze until Jan-Olof knocked on the door. I quickly hid and waited till they were done.

“Thank you, bye Jan-Olof!” Wille said waving the older man goodbye. “Here you go darling.” Oh- I heated up a bit and took the bag from him. “wait, how did you know what my favorite food is?” I asked Wille.

He just shrugged and winked at me before tearing open to boxes of food, he grabbed me a small bed table for my box and set the laptop in front of us.

“Don’t you want it?” I asked pointing to the table, “Nah, I don’t trust you with food on my bed.”, “Ok, rude.” He just laughed and started playing the movie.

After a while we were both finished eating and we had moved a bit closer to each other. I regretted coming here in just my tank top and some shorts as the cold air creeps in the room ever now and then.

“Uh Y/n.. want a sweater?” Wille asked flustered, “Mhm?” I looked at him seeing him already looking at me, but he wasn’t looking at my face.

I followed his vision and they landed fully on my breasts, my hard nipples showing through my tanktop. Oop- my hands clapped around them accepting his offer only to have Wille not respond.

“Have I told you I’ve never been with a girl before, like sexually?” He asked, his eyes still not leaving my now covered breasts, he slowly looks up with something in his eyes I’ve never seen before from him.

“N-no, you haven’t… didn’t think it was appropriate to ask the crown prince that…” I said, his lip got caught between his teeth as he ran his hand though his hair. “C-Can I.. maybe…” His voice was soft and insecure.

He glared over at my lips before inching closer, moving so slow as if he was giving me time to push him away in need.

“Wille…” I whispered, he gently closed the gap between us and kissed me, it was soft and gentle. His hand slowly moved to my face to cup it as I kissed him back.

I moved my arms around his neck and pulled him closer and he pulled me into his lap. His lips still ever so gently moving against mine. Fuck, what the fuck am I doing?

“W-wait Wille.” I said pressing against his shirt covered chest, “I’m not going to be a rebound, you’re not thinking straight.” I said as confident as I could. Did I mean it? Partly? Would I still let him fuck me even if I would just be a rebound? Yes.

“I-“ BANG, before Wille could finish the door of his room swings open revealing Henry, I quickly pushed myself off of Wille and covered myself up with his blanket feeling extremely exposed at the moment. “Hey we are going to prank- oh shit- uh, hey, y/n. Uh, I uh, I didn’t mean to cock block I promise.”, “Henry.”, “Yes?”, “Leave.”, “Yes sir.” Henry blurred out and threw the door closed.

The rooms was silence for a few minutes, the sound of Wille’s clock next to his bed was almost echoing through the room.

“I’ll go get you-“

“Maybe I should go-“

Panic seemed spread through Wille as he jumped up standing in front of me, “N-no don’t leave.” He said, he turned around and grabbed me a sweater and signed me to put my arms up.

I looked away and did what he asked as he put the sweater over my head. “Don’t worry about Henry, he won’t say anything.”

I just hummed, scenarios filling my mind as Wille sat down with a puff next to me. Silence filled the room once again as Wille started moving uncomfortably next to me.

“You good?”

“Y-Yes just- I’m hard…” oh. “I get it if you don’t want to do anything anymore, here.” He said handing me the laptop, “I-I’ll just be in the shower- you know… getting rid of this.” He said, I just nodded I stared into space a bit but I couldn’t keep my mind off of the feeling of his lips onto mine.

I could feel the heat getting more bothersome as I heard the shower turn on, just thinking about the unholy stuff he’s probably doing at this moment makes me completely insane. Truth is I’ve always thought Wilhem is extremely attractive and I think he knows I like him.

I leaned back against his pillow and closed my eyes, I started imaging how good his fingers would feel as they fucked into me. I could heard Wille soft groans and moans and that made me lose my mind.

I slowly stood up and moved closer to the bathroom, his delicious whimpers filled the room as I softly opened the door. What on earth was I doing?

I pulled my hair out of the bun I made earlier and stepped inside, I gently closed the door trying to be as quiet as I could and started undressing myself.

I was so far into my daze that reality doesn’t even set in anymore as I stepped in behind him, I slowly laid my hand of his waist as he jumped a bit. He turned around and his brown eyes met mine.

His cheeks were bright red but he quickly recovered and held out his hand for me to take. His wet warm hands cupped mine as he pulled me into him. I felt his dick press against my leg as I let out a gasp from surprise.

He didn’t say anything instead he just inspected my body and curves, his long fingers traced over my skin as he soon got a look of my stretch marks, “You’re beautiful…” he said in awe.

If I didn’t know he was so head over heels for Simon I would think he actually meant it. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth as his lips make their way to my neck, I sigh left my lips. God he was so good.

“Im starting to think you want a different shower than this.” He said, the cocky tone in his voice didn’t help me much, I could feel myself getting more and more hot and bothered as he cupped my butt messaged my cheeks roughly. His lips soon left my neck and intertwined with mine again.

“Do you need me to prepare you?” He asked against my lips, the words were rushed and hastily. I pulled away and gazed down to his cock, I reached over to it gently cupped it making his breath hitch.

His pretty pink tip looked so nice and red almost angry, he was the perfect size in my opinion. He seemed to be well groomed which was definitely a plus point. Finally a guy who takes care of himself.

“I don’t think so.” I whispered as my mouth started to water. He smirked and wrapped his arms around my legs pulling me up against the walls he sat me on the little seat as he roughly spread my legs.

“Be a good girl for me and keep your legs open for me?” He asked but it seemed more like a order, he cupped his dick with his hand and slowly started leaning closer to my entrance.

“Are you sure?” He whispered extremely impatient, “yeah-“, “No I mean like. Are you sure you want to do this and risk falling in love with me?” He said smirking. I laughed and smacked his chest.

“Cheeky cunt-“ I couldn’t even finish my sentence as he thrusts his cock in, I gasped and wrapped my arms around his neck making him lean closer.

He sighed almost out of relieve as he felt my pussy welcoming his cock so nice and good. He leaned his forehead against my shower and gently kissed the skin there.

“Fuck, Y/n/n. I might cum faster then I thought I would.” He said laughing a bit. “I don’t mind,” I whispered in his ear, “Do whatever you want baby.” He whimpered a bit at the nickname making me smile.

Soon he started thrusting his hips back and forth just hitting the spot making my eyes rol back a bit, I could just feel that my reaction was giving him the confidence he needed because soon he tried to hit the spot more and more just to get reactions out of me.

Soon the sounds of skin clapping filled the room, the wet noises and the steam around us added to the passion we were both feeling.

“F-fuck, Y/n-“ He fucked harder into me, he fucked into me so good that I almost forgot about being quiet. But as close as I was to cumming too I couldn’t help but let my mind wonder off to the fact that I am very much I love with him.

No y/n you can’t do that to him, it’s not fair-

Hé leaned over closer then before and pressed his thumb against my pearl of nerve, flicking it with the most concentration that he could have at the moment as he was getting more and more pussy drunk.

“Ah- shit… Wille.” I whined out, he sped his speed up a bit and with that his thumb went faster too, pushing me over my edge.

My legs started to shake, my eyes began to water and I couldn’t hold the loud moan that left my lips. He quickly grabbed my chin and planted his lips on to mine in another kiss. But this kiss felt different. Almost as it.. it was love?

I purposefully squeezed my walls around his cock making him groan as he fucked out my high, “Cum in me.” I could see the hesitation in Willes eyes for not even a second before he cummed. He was shaking in his legs at the powerful orgasm he had and fucked into me just to get the last drops of cum in me.

“F-fuck.” He groaned, his cum filled me to the brim making me feel ever so full. He pulled out and he sat on the ground of the shower. He pressed his legs against his chest and covered his face.

“Wille?” I quiet sob come from the boy making me worried, I choice to ignore the cum running down my legs as I sat on my knees in front of him. “Wille? Are you okay? This doesn’t have to change our friendship.” I said placing my hands on his knees leaning slightly over to see his red eyes as tears ran down his face.

“I-I think I’m having a p-panic attack-“ He gasped as he lets go of his face, his eyes quickly met mine as he keeps gasping for air. I quickly placed one hand in his chest to feel his heart and one of his cheek.

“Wille, im here, you’re ok… I promise.” During his gasps more tears start falling down as he completely breaks down. “I-I’m not ok.” He whimpered out. That broke my heart. His bottom lip started shivering and his eyes shot all over the place as he tried to find something else to focus on.

“C-Can you just hold me?” He cried out and he reached out his arms, now tears were running down my face as I quickly wrapped my arms around the boy. “I-I think I’m in love with you.. but also with Simon. I don’t know what to do anymore.” He said crying.

With pain in my heart I knew that he would pick Simon over me any day and that I was just a one time thing to me.

A rebound.

#x reader #young royals #edvin ryding #wilhem young royals #prince wilhem #Wilhem x reader #smut

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irregularcollapse · 9 months

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Hi! it’s illegal for you to feel down about yourself and your work because i believe you’re really bringing a quality of work that is super rare in fanfiction in general, even rarer in this fandom!

my question because i can’t resist; regarding damen’s slavery, is there any BTS tidbits on how it came to be in this time period? ie, without laurent and assuming laurent’s uncles influence in the trade to specifically fuck with laurent (unless a form of laurent exists in the fic but from reading it doesn’t seem so) is jokaste/kastors main reasoning being the whole humiliation aspect? what does the regent get out of it? does he know, in this universe that it’s damen? and was the abuse damen suffered in arles different without canon laurent being there?

First of all, I don't even have words for what that compliment made me feel when I first read it. I've been so down in the dumps the past week or two, for a lot of reasons, and when I'm feeling bad the first thing that takes a confidence hit is my belief in my writing. Getting this message was like... I can't even tell you. Just, thank you so much. You cheered me up immeasurably.

Something else you did is give me motivation to write something! You've asked such an interesting question, and I can’t answer it without referring back to the books themselves – which means that what follows will be a highly harebrained, obsessive game of connect-the-dots between info revealed in the series, leading to what I’ve chosen to do in the fic. Hopefully, by the time I’m done, you’ll see what I’m thinking and where I’ve headed with it.

In the books, the abuse Damen suffers is largely analogous to what was done to Laurent at the hands of the Regent. In other words, nearly everything (flogging excluded – that’s an intentional departure, though) that Laurent does or orders done to Damen, was done to him first. To look at one example, the chalis:

Laurent’s idea, to make Damen weakened and pliant in the ring. How does he know about chalis’ effects, and its use as a weapon rather than a recreational drug? It was given to him.

The drug that Laurent has actually been poisoned with is not chalis, but an Akielon drug that “lead[s] from virility to abandonment,” which Laurent is also clearly personally familiar with (“I am aware of the effect of the drug.”) – but his familiarity with chalis is actually revealed by Damen’s observation about tit-for-tat: “It was sordidly believable that he would revenge himself on Laurent with the same tactics that Laurent had thrown at him.” This is the crux of Laurent’s treatment of Damen. He is seeking revenge not only for Auguste’s death, but for the abuse he suffered at his uncle’s hands, which he equally blames Damen for. This is also why, in their first few encounters, Laurent is fixated on the idea of Damen being raped.

It isn’t just sexual assault he wants for Damen, though: it is specifically the idea of being abused by someone larger and more physically powerful, someone in a position of greater power, and – the most telling slip – with “a beard like [his] uncle’s.” There’s something almost juvenile in that addition, highly revelatory in the way it shows Laurent’s lack of ability to separate his own experiences from his ideas of vengeance. This exchange is also a potent indicator of how Laurent truly views slavery, in the way he couches it as an outlet for hatred. This is compounded by his reaction when Damen argues for the wellbeing of the other Akielon slaves.

His shock and confusion stems from the belief that Akielons – barbarians that he thinks they are – would only ever treat slaves in the same way (or worse than) they are being treated in Arles. In this moment, Damen challenges his notions of both Akielon sensibilities and the abuse that Akielon slaves are subjected to. Laurent has been harbouring the belief that Damen personally would be capable of the exact horrors that he was subjected to: to Laurent, it is almost as though Damen himself did them. This is why he is so consistently surprised when Damen protests raping children, or when he calls for kind treatment of those who should (in the true hierarchy) be under his power.

It is worth noting that this is Laurent’s first encounter with Akielon slaves, which raises the question of where he got these ideas about their treatment from. Of course, his learned prejudice against Akielons is a large part of it: at this stage, he sees them as invariably aggressive, stupid, primitive. Indeed, for all his feelings about slavery itself, the Akielons being Damen’s “countrymen” (as he describes them) is part of the reason why he doesn’t see anything extreme about their mistreatment. He is also laying blame for the war, and therefore Auguste’s death, on all Akielons more broadly – this view is only shaken when Damen says to him, “They're not like me. They're not soldiers. They haven't killed anyone. They're innocent.” His apparent disregard for the Akielon slaves is therefore also motivated by his belief in slavery as an outlet for hatred: Akielons, in Laurent’s grief, all deserve punishment. It bears mentioning that prior to this moment, not only did Laurent not have the motivation to help the Akielon slaves, he also didn’t have the opportunity: he has recently been stripped of most of his property and income, and as he says to Damen, “You overestimate my influence over my uncle.” Only the arrival of Torveld even gives him the opportunity to make a play for the slaves – and it comes at a cost of ‘offering’ himself in a way he, according to stories circulating the palace, has never (willingly) done before.

It is interesting, and telling, that Damen pleading for the “innocence” of the slaves is what makes Laurent falter – especially given that descriptor is only used about one other character at this stage: Laurent himself. Damen observes Laurent’s impression of innocence twice previously (his “blue eyes as innocent as the sky,” then his “wide-eyed expression of injured innocence” for the Regent), and then there is this:

It is a particularly sick exchange given that the Regent is the one who took advantage of Laurent’s innocence, but it also cements something else: the abuse Laurent suffered and his trauma, perpetrated by the Regent, being thematically linked to the abuse and trauma of slavery. This is reiterated when “innocent” is used by Laurent to describe a third character: Damen, when he is accused of attempting to murder Laurent.

The association is compounded through the motif of kneeling. First thing to note is that pets don’t appear to kneel, except when performing a service:

They all, Nicaise included, seem to sit beside their masters/the courtiers, while Damen is forced into kneeling at Laurent’s feet. Both Damen and Erasmus are made to kneel, and indeed to crawl, while the pets are allowed to walk around freely and only take a knee when they have a cause to (and obviously, Ancel kneeling to give Damen a blowjob is more about Damen’s humiliation via having control taken away from him in that moment, than it is about Ancel’s subjugation). But then, there is this:

And this:

An intentional parallel between Damen kneeling for Laurent, and Laurent kneeling for the Regent, reinforced by the repeated order to “Kiss it.” The moments are remarkably similar in other ways, in that the comments made centre around the ideas of defiance and service, and the notion of “forced” (or motivated and justified) punishment. Indeed, Laurent’s comment that “Every dog can be brought to heel,” is eerily present as the Regent discusses with the council how best to punish his nephew, and talks about reigning in his behaviour, saying “Something must be done to discipline him.”

Kneeling is used as a symbol of willing subservience, the idea of which continues to be degrading and humiliating to Laurent, no matter the setting – he struggles to kneel when giving Damen a blowjob in Kings Rising, and still when washing Damen’s feet in The Summer Palace. Indeed, this association is truly emphasised when the Regent says, “He has kneeled for me” to reveal his abuse of Laurent to Damen: the sexual connotations are at the forefront, as is the idea of willingness. As a motif, it serves the exploration of the theme of power and control, particularly the dichotomy between the horror of forced powerlessness, and the beauty of giving power and control over willingly.

Survivors of CSA commonly report feelings of powerlessness, a loss of a sense of self and personhood, and feeling a lack of control or autonomy as a result of their trauma. This is Laurent’s experience; it is also the experience of an Akielon slave. It isn’t that the text says that Laurent was a slave – it is that the traumatic situations are echoes of each other, and the effects for the characters are echoes as well. It is a thematic link, not an actual direct comparison. It is also shown in Laurent’s treatment of Erasmus. In Captive Prince, Laurent is shown to be genuinely kind to only two characters: Nicaise, and Erasmus. It is much more obvious to the reader why Laurent is friendly with Nicaise – he assumes an almost brotherly role, teasing and playing games, attempting to reassure Nicaise about his intent to protect him. He sees Nicaise as a version of himself, one he has the opportunity to rescue. But even without this context, his kindness toward Erasmus surprises Damen more:

It’s a moment where Laurent’s true “sweetness” comes through, but also a moment of self-recognition through the other. Erasmus is, for Laurent, a manifestation of his own innocence and blind trust. He is briefly gentle with Erasmus in acknowledgement of the way his own innocence (and he is still innocent in a lot of ways, not only because he is only 20 years old here, but because CSA is often linked to arrested development — think of him believing the Regent would never try to kill him, of him saying “He would have stopped you” to Damen re: Auguste in Kings Rising, of asking “Why?” when Damen is recounting the moment he killed Auguste in The Summer Palace) requires gentle treatment.

He does not rest on Erasmus being a mere pawn in the games that are at play, rather making a small gesture of acknowledging his personhood in a way that he personally has been refused: he brings Erasmus into the plan, effectively says ‘you have a role to play in this game, and I know you are capable of it.’ He does this without Damen’s prompting. The uncommonness of the meeting is reinforced when Damen says of the Regent, “For a man of his status to visit a slave at all was unlikely and bizarre.” The outcomes of these meetings of supposed ruler and slave are opposites, though: while Erasmus comes away with respect for Laurent, Damen’s wariness of the Regent increases. In fact, in this same section, we find the line that brings everything together, especially in regards to EIAT:

The Regent does not have Laurent’s trauma, his motivation for revenge, or his inherent sweetness. He is not driven by grief (both for Auguste and Laurent’s sense of self), and he has never been a victim. His only drive is power, but he prefers to wield it against those already weaker than he is. It is also a reminder that everything cruel about Laurent, the Regent made: as Laurent himself says later on, “You keep offering me all these chances to improve myself … Teach me how to thank you.” As much as it is likely a deliberate echo of abusive rhetoric levelled against Laurent by the Regent, it is also an iteration that everything Laurent has done, he has been taught. The abuse becomes cyclical – from the Regent to Laurent, from Laurent to Damen, over and back again – but always with the same root. The exchange that precedes this particular observation is an exercise in double-speak: beneath the Regent’s pleasantries is not only manipulation and a particular form of grooming, but a revelation of his resentment for Damen – or, at least, what Damen represents.

The manipulation in the Regent’s words is likely obvious (“You’re a man,” “You are quite diplomatic,” positioning himself as being on Damen’s ‘side’ against Laurent), but there are a couple of backhanded revelations here. Following “You are quite diplomatic” with “For a soldier” almost hearkens to for an Akielon, i.e. for a barbarian. Then, the comments about “leadership [being] a quality that ran naturally in the blood of a king’s heir” – a veiled criticism of Damen, who finds himself enslaved. This is the insult also levelled against him by the Regent in EIAT. It is an incredibly slippery conversation, where the Regent plays with flattery, gaslighting, belittling, and threats. It isn’t that he personally believes that Kastor is more fit to rule, but he is certainly trying to break Damen down by suggesting it. In the Regent’s plan, Damen’s “fate … would probably have been even more drawn out than Laurent's, a long, lingering execution before crowds.” He was intending to use Damen to start a war with Akielos, yes, but it was also a revenge of his own kind.

The Regent wants to rule Akielos; he wants to subjugate it. He doesn’t have any higher an opinion of Akielons than anyone else in Vere – in truth, he evidently sees them as easily manipulable and readily dominated. Remember that the Regent does not do things personally; he always recruits others into doing his dirty work. In this case, as much as the orchestration is about abusing and punishing Laurent, he is using Laurent as a tool. But manipulating the circumstances of Damen’s abuse and intended execution isn’t only about symbolically dominating Akielos – there is also the petty motivation of a man told he was not suited to rule, taking revenge against another man who was. The result is a fatal underestimation of Damen’s actual power: the Regent fails to recognise that Damen is an effective leader not because of birth, but because of the person he is. It is Damen’s compassion that leads to his escape in EIAT – as Laurent assesses about his legacy in Chapter XV, and therefore his true strength: “they remember the way that he love[s].” This is the textual precedent for what Damen and Laurent assess of the Regent’s motivation in EIAT:

The Regent’s motivation in the books is not only about continuing his abuse of Laurent, although that is definitely his primary goal; he also garners personal satisfaction from Damen being subjected to slavery. He is asserting a hierarchy as he sees it, is demonstrating his self-perceived power and superiority, and is putting a supposed ‘rightful heir’ in his place. That is what I have attempted to maintain in EIAT, and that is why the primary ‘use’ he tries to put Damen to is performance/entertainment. The Regent’s motivations, the ones external to Laurent, are maintained in EIAT – the playbook is slightly different, the available pawns assembled from elsewhere, but ultimately the plan and the abuse it enables are still coming from the same man.

“You’re a man,” the Regent tells Damen as he invites him to stand. Men don’t kneel; slaves do. Men don’t sexually submit; slaves do. Men are Kings; slaves are not. This is the motivation for the Regent, fuelled by his own insecurity of position and need to assert his fragile control by actively weakening those who are stronger than him.

I haven't even touched on Kastor and Jokaste! And there is so much more I could say about how Laurent's trauma plays out in his treatment of Damen beyond just Captive Prince -- everything he does, all weighted by his internal struggle between the blame he lays on Damen and the feelings he is developing for him. And don't even get me started on the theme I mentioned above: power and control, and willingly giving them up as an ultimate display of trust and love. Then there's the conversation they actually have about slavery in Kings Rising -- soooooo many layers in that exchange alone. But, I've probably said enough for now! I hope it was interesting, and a bit of insight into how I read the original text and what I've drawn from it to build certain parts of EIAT.

Thank you so much for this question! It certainly gave me something to focus on, and it was super fun to get the opportunity to write it all out ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

#my writing #even in another time fic #captive prince #this is soooooooo long i'm very sorry #i just got. incredibly excited to dissect some quotes and make some connections #hopefully the point is clear!!!#asks #anonymous

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