#genshin impact n/sfw

[cravingsfromatwistedone]

master kink with batman- i mean diluc??? i know everyones heard about this but..

imagine… you teasing diluc at the tavern, its nightime and close to closing time. people are filing out the door until it’s just you left. you are still sitting in front of him, teasing him about how he likes grape juice. and in your drunk haze you don’t have control over what your saying, you end up asking him if he has a master kink. diluc doesn’t know what’s gotten over him but he quickly replies with, “wanna find out?” and regrets it until he sees you looking away. the night ends with you bent over the table.

no one knows what happened to you that night, or why you exited the tavern with a perverted smirk on your face while looking so disheveled.

rip donna, also i sincerely apologize this sucks

-🌧️ anon

DRUNK DAZED [ DRABBLE / NSFW ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: OH, IT'S ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL MY DARLING!~ I JUST LOVE THE BUILD UP OF THE SCENES AND DON'T APOLOGIZE OVER IT! HOPEFULLY, MY WRITING SATIATES YOUR DESIRE AND ANY FEEDBACK IS MUCH APPRECIATED! TW: DUBCON (READER IS HALF DRUNK), USAGE OF PETNAMES (MEINE LIEBE), IMPROPER USE OF FOREIGN LANGUAGE (THIS IS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR ME TO INCORPERATE GERMAN I SWEAR!!) DILUC RAGNIVINDR X FEM!READER

"Master♡!" You cried out

Never in a million years would you have thought that while being a drunken state, you were getting yourself fucked silly by the sole owner of the Dawn Winery, Diluc Ragnivindr himself as he bent your half exposed figure over one of the tables of his tavern; his cock repeatedly pumping in and out of your sopping wet cunt. The red-haired male let out a low hiss of pleasure as he feels the walls of your insides clenching on him, his gloved hands gripping your hips in bruising grip before opting to lift one of your legs up which gave him a much needed space to snap his hips back into yours with even more ferocity.

"God, you're all spread out prettily on my cock…Who's your master, meine Liebe?" Diluc whispers huskily into your ear, his lips pressing hard against the shell of your ear. "Y-You-Ah♡!-You're my Master♡!" You moaned, your words coming out all slurred from the intensifying pleasure that had taken root in your brain. You could hear an audible groan coming from Diluc's throat as his pace quickened, your answer being the source of his hastiness of reaching his release "Genau das, was ich hören wollte, meine Liebe…" He whispers gently before continuing to fuck you senseless

TRANSLATION NOTES:

1. 'Meine Liebe' - my love

2. 'Genau das, was ich hören wollte, meine Liebe…' - Just what I wanted to hear, my love...

[pinkjoy-cons]

Lemme Help

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: 𝑪𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒆/𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒂 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Word Count: 2248

Warnings: Modern AU (just cause), use of Childe's real name, face sitting, 69 position, spanking (I think), fingering, Childe kinda degrades you, pet names (baby/girlie/princess/darling), he calls you slutty, exageration of sexual activity, praise, hair pulling. I think that's it.

Note: I wrote this as a joke but I thought it was okay so I wanted to post it. I am still very new to smut so this is probably not very good. My galfriend is currently going through a Childe kick and smut makes her flustered so I wrote this for her :)

It was a long day. Work had been less than satisfying and you were just grateful for the long weekend that was ahead of you. You made sure to finish as much of your work as possible so that way, come Monday, you could enjoy your day off without a care in the world. As you hummed to yourself you could hear the sound of the front door opening followed by a loud “I’m home!” Childe had just arrived it seemed. He always made himself known when he came home so you wouldn’t worry about who may be entering your apartment. 

Typically, he would have entered the bathroom and probably taken a shower with you, but today he didn’t do that. Rather, you had a peaceful, albeit, lonely shower. You finished up, dried your hair, and put on one of his shirts along with a pair of panties before making your way to the living room where he was laying on the couch. He already changed into more comfortable clothes and seemed to be waiting for you as he smiled when he saw you walk in.

“Hello baby girl. How are you?”

“Good, are you okay?”

“Yeah darling just fine. Why?”

“Well,” You shifted nervously on each foot. Scratching the side of your arm and looking at everything but him. 

“Well?” He urged you to continue as a goofy yet confused smile graced his lips.

“Well, I just finished- I mean you didn’t- You didn’t join me in the shower.” You trailed off the sentence as you took the risk of looking at him. Childe had the biggest smirk on his face. “Normally you do when you come home and it’s the weekend so I was just- I thought something was wrong…Are you mad at me?”

“Aw no baby girl, I’m not mad at you.” He sat up on the couch and held his arms out to you. “Come ‘ere.” He beckoned and you all too happily went to him. As you straddled his lap and wrapped your arms around his torso, he chuckled and returned the hug; kissing your cheek as he did. Childe sighed with content as he took in your scent from the shower. You were cool to the touch and as he rubbed his hand up and down the small of your back.

Then, he chuckled again, “Did you really miss not having me in the shower darling?” You eyes widen (not that he saw), unsure how to answer the question. You buried your face further into his chest before you answered.

“No. I was just making sure you weren’t mad or upset. It’s sucky to have to live with a pissed roommate after all.”

“Right right, I’m sure that’s all it was.” He heard you huff in annoyance as he laughed further at the situation. His hand wandered from your back to your hair, gently moving his fingers through your locks. You hugged him tighter as the tension from the day further left your body. 

“Ya know, I did feel a bit stressed today.” Childe began, “And part of the reason I didn’t join you in the shower was because I wanted to know if you could help me relax.”

“Of course my love, how can I help?” The hand that was in your hair moved to your face. Childe, with his thumb and index finger moved your chin to look at him. Mischief and lust could be seen in his ocean eyes and you gulped at what was to come.

With a smile, Childe leaned in closer to you and whispered in a husky voice, “I want you to sit on my face baby girl.” 

You sharply inhaled as it took your brain a second to process the request. You were certain that there was a smirk on his lips as he kissed your ear, cheek, and neck waiting for your response. 

“A-are you sure? I could give you a massage if you’d like? Or I-I could make your favorite food? Doesn’t matter how late it is.” 

The deep chuckle he gave at your stammering was filled with lust and went straight to your core. Unconsciously you grind yourself into his crotch as he sucks a spot on your neck that makes you moan into his ear. “Getting yourself ready for me Princess?”

“N-no!” You whimper in protest but you couldn’t stop the way your pussy rubbed against his slowly growing erection through his sweats. It also didn’t help that Childe had his hands on your hips and was encouraging you to move.

“Whaddya say girlie? Ride my face for me?” You looked at him. How Childe was able to look innocent while making such a lewd request you’ll never figure out. But you gave in and got off his lap. You felt him watch you, the warmth of embarrassment starting from your chest and working its way to the back of your head as he took in your every movement. Childe remained relaxed on the sofa as you shyly took off your now soaked panties and dropped them on the floor. Now it was his turn to get ready. He layed back on the cushions like how he was when you first walked in.

Carefully, you climbed on the couch and you placed your knees on the side of his head and you heard him hum in anticipation as he stared lustfully at your sopping pussy. You didn’t realize this but a string of your slick began to stretch and he eagerly opened his mouth and let it fall and he savored that small taste of you. You hovered about a hand’s width away from his mouth, still nervous about this whole situation. 

“Gimme your hands.” His voice was barely loud enough for you to hear but you allowed him to take them and lace them into his hair. “You pull as hard as you want, I don’t mind.” You could feel his hot breath on your wet pussy and it made you shiver. You were still nervous out of your mind. How could you do this? How could any one? “Come on baby, you can do it.” You could hear the reassurance in his voice, Childe could tell how nervous you were and his palms rubbed soothing circles on your thighs. “Ride my face Princess. Lemme do it, please.” It was enough to make you lower yourself on his mouth but now before he said that’s a good girl and he began to eat you out.

It was slow at first, you were still getting used to this position but god did you get into it very quickly. You moaned softly as you lightly tugged his hair. The sounds he made were absolutely disgusting but he didn’t seem to care. Rather, Childe reveled in the act. The moans he made sent vibrations straight into your pussy and you could only chase after that feeling. You began to grind against his mouth, dragging your wet cunt against his tongue as he laid it flat for you to move on. The wave motion your hips made was tantalizing. Childe had his eyes shut in pleasure but it wasn’t enough for him. Sure, this was amazing but he wanted you to ride is fucking face. 

So, he linked his arms around your thighs and forced you down on him. His tongue made it home inside your wet hole and the moan that left your lips was down right pornagraphic. 

“Fuck! Ch-Childe! I- FUCK!” That’s exactly the reaction he was waiting for. You tugged so tightly on his hair it made him smirk into your pussy and he continued to suck and move your hips. He set a pace for you that you all too eagerly followed, even speeding up when you saw fit. His nose would sometimes brush against your clit and he pushed you a bit forward so he could press his mouth against it and gave it a vigorous suck. 

“AH FUCK! More! Please Childe MORE!” It was a yell he wasn’t expecting but he loved it either way. He gave your ass a hard smack and grabbed the soft flesh roughly. You looked behind you to see that, in his joggers, his cock was straining so beautifully against the fabric. 

“Wait! Childe! Wait wait wait!” He stopped and he could tell that you were bashful without even seeing your face very well. 

“What is it Princess?” 

“I- can I?” You leaned back and pulled the band of joggers down to see his briefs had a dark spot of precum on it. “Can I?”

“Oho I see.” He kissed your cunt and you nearly fell over from how sensitive it now was. “You wanna suck my cock girlie? I won’t stop you.” He began to lift your leg but you stopped him.

“Hang on. I wanna still do this though. I wanna…suck your cock at the same time.” 

“Fuck Princess. You wanna 69?” You could practically feel the smile on his lips as he kissed your inner thigh. “Well, whatever my Princess wants,” He bit your thigh to leave a mark, “My slutty Princess gets.” Childe helped you move your position so you laid on his torso. He lifted his hips just enough to lower his joggers and briefs in one go. This caused his dick to spring out and hit you in the face. It shocked you for a moment so against your face it rested and you swore you could feel it throb against your skin. “Fuck I wish I had a camera right now. I bet you look so fucking slutty.” 

“Fuck you.” It was a whisper you knew he heard because he laughed at the response. Adjusting yourself you held his dick in your hands. Using some of the precum on his tip you spread it along the rest of his length reslishing how heavenly it felt in your hands; just wishing it to be in your mouth. 

“Are you still okay with this?” Childe’s question made you return to reality. 

“Yes.” 

And that was enough for him. He brought his hand to your pussy and started to smear your juices on your lower lips and he hummed in content. As he commanded you to Start sucking.

Not having to be told twice you kissed his tip and let his pretty mushroom head past your lips and gave a hard suck while fondling his balls. Childe moaned uncharacteristically loudly and threw his head against a pillow. You didn’t give him time to recover and went straight for the deep throat. You squeezed the base of his cock as you hollow your cheeks and ran your tongue along his girthy length. Childe bucked his hips and pushed himself further into you.

“Fuck! Play-playing dirty are we Princess? Just like-ah- that ah fuck you’re so good.” He grounded himself again and went back to your pussy this time, adding two fingers straight into you. You pulled off his cock with a pop followed by a moan.

“TARTAGLIA!” You screamed out his given name and he knew you were close. The thrusting of his fingers only increased as he both fingered you and sucked you for all he could. It was a difficult position but if it meant that he could catch any of your juices that dripped from your pussy into his mouth he didn’t care.

“Fucking cum in my mouth Princess. Cum on my face; make me proud.” You shut your eyes and got his dick halfway into your mouth. The moans only felt that much better when he could feel them vibrating his cock. You sucked and bobbed your head and stroked whatever you couldn’t take in your mouth. The unholy sounds that reverberated in the living room would make anyone blush. Between your combination of gagging and mewling and Childe’s growls, slurps, and squelching, you felt like your entire body was going to burst.

“Cum on my face Princess, show me how good you feel!” You keened on his dick. Mewls getting louder and it was when Childe hooked his fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot you absolutely knew he was missing on purpose, that he felt you clench around his fingers. And, just as quickly, he pulled them out and replaced them with his open mouth to catch the juices that you produced. 

It was enough to leave you shaking as you released his cock to sit up straight and grind your pussy on him. Childe felt your cum running down his chin. He smacked your ass to encourage you and only when you slowed down to a stop did he let you go. You were panting as he laid you down and sat up. You were positive that you wouldn’t be able to walk for a while as your legs shook and pussy throbbed from your orgasm. However, Tartaglia (of course) had the biggest grin on his face.

“That was amazing, Princess.” Childe leaned in for a kiss. It was loving and passionate, a stark contrast to what just happened. “I’m gonna take a shower, join me.” It was a command, not a request. 

“But? I- We just-”

He laughed, a sound you loved but for some reason now it brought lust to your gut and a throb to your pussy. “Yes, yes. I know we just finished this and you already took a shower but I haven’t.” His blue eyes darkened as he looked at you with a predatory gaze. “And I’m still so fucking hard Princess.”

[xianyoon]

napping with wriothesley ... when he can finally rest in the arms of his beloved light. your touch is so soft, a saccharine sweet – oh, how greedy he is for more.

he wants you. every fibre of his body is reaching out, yearning, craving the warmth of your body against his. and so you, he holds.

"is it warm enough for you?"

"mhm." wriothesley lets a soft chuckle slip past his lips, as he brushes a stray hair away from your face.

"good."

you stay like that for a while – him stretched out across the couch, you draped across his frame, your pretty head perfectly fitting into the space between his neck and his arm. you think to yourself that it's almost as if the space was perfectly chiseled to fit you.

and for a man that was gifted a cryo vision – your lover is surprisingly warm.

there is nothing but the lovely, sweet silence that the two of you share. you lay in his arms, cradled close to his chest like you're the most precious thing he could ever have the pleasure of holding. nothing could break the peace, right? now that you've found yourselves in the arms of each other.

"time to get up, my love. i believe the bed would be far more comfortable than this." wriothesley looks down at you, a cheeky smirk plastered on his face.

"nooooo!"

[opultea]

Abnormal Love Languages

Genshin men with weird ways of expressing their love for you - Gender Neutral Reader (No Pronouns) - SFW - Romantic - Fluff/Crack

ft. Alhaitham, Wanderer, Heizou, Tighnari, Dottore

Alhaitham

The Scribe of the Akademiya, a renowned scholar, and a totally awkward boyfriend

So what does this intelligent, well-known, socially unaware man do when he wants to show you he loves you?

Infodumping

Knows a lot and makes sure you know it too

If he fell in love with you that means he respects your intelligence and curiosity enough to find interest in your company

So whenever he's on the couch with a new book on Theoretical Quantum Mechanics, he will be reciting the facts to you as if he's doing an oral presentation

Alhatiham keeps one of those big rolly whiteboards in his house (usually used to lecture Kaveh) and you know that when he pulls it out then it is officially date night

He pours you both a glass of wine for a nice candlelit dinner, but then you ask him about his new book and suddenly it's a romantic candlelit lecture

Lucky you find his intelligence attractive ;)))

If you ever need gift ideas for him just get a pack of multicoloured whiteboard markers, he always needs new ones

Even though you might end up regretting enabling his little habit

Wanderer

Traumatised Tsundere (TM)

Has never wanted anything more than to be loved the way he observed in humans, but has always believed he could never be loved in any way. It has only been proven to him that it isn't possible

So he protects himself from rejection by teasing and swatting you away, almost trying to make you hate him so he can at least expect what reactions to get from you

He views it as safe, he knows how humans are when they are angry and hateful, he's experienced it firsthand, so he knows what will come of it

Even though he's secretly saddened by feeling like he has to hurt you

So when you respond to him bonking your head with laughter and a smile brighter than he's seen on anyone in his direct presence before, it startles him

When he pushes your face away with his hand and you retaliate by latching onto his arm he freezes (Wanderer.exe has stopped working)

Calls you stupid and insults your survival instincts

"Honestly, if a complete stranger were to push you away like this, would you still clutch their arm like a lost puppy? How absurd, you obviously couldn't survive without me protecting you, since you evidently can't tell good intentions from bad ones,"

Then you pout and tell him that of course you don't do this with other people, you do it because it's him!

He stops working again

Shoves you to the ground to avoid you seeing how red his face is

Heizou

Riddles and puzzles/tries to quiz you by making you help him solve a case

Brings you to crime scenes even though you are not a detective and definitely aren't allowed to be there just so he can test your skills

"So, what can you gather from this crime scene? This case isn't particularly difficult, so I have no doubt you'll be chasing down the perp in no time,"

Honestly your whole relationship is like an escape room

You want to get into your house but forgot your key? Well knock in morse code and maybe Heizou will let you in

You want to have a nice lunch date with your boyfriend? Well you best be prepared for an intense game of shogi while you eat

You want Heizou to pass you a pen? Well first you must answer these questions three!

But seriously, he makes it fun for you and makes sure to let you know that it’s his way of telling you how much he respects you and he values your input and intelligence

Tighnari

As an Amurta scholar and a forest watcher who has seen way too many cases of mushroom-based food poisoning, Tighnari has learnt to be prepared to dish out medical treatment

So if you cough even once, or sneeze in his presence, Tighnari will begin an impromptu check-up to ensure you're still feeling your best

You try telling him you're fine, people sneeze all the time without being sick, but he just scolds you even more for thinking you could get away without him making sure you're alright

"Don't be so proud, you idiot. What am I going to do with you if you go and get sick?"

Tighnari would hate if you fell ill under his careful watch, but if you do get sick or injure yourself, prepare for a two hour lecture and a bowl of fresh creamy mushroom stew to help you get back into tiptop shape

He's usually incredibly busy with his forest watcher duties, but will somehow almost never leave your side if he's tending to you

When you aren't sick, he makes sure you're eating well, going so far as to prepare your meals or make a nutrition table based on the vitamins he thinks you need more of

Always reminds you to drink water and take any medication you need, your health is his top priority

Dottore

Psychopath (Endearing)

Takes x-rays of you just to admire your lovely bone structure and hangs them up around your shared bedroom as if they're regular date pictures

He loves to have you sit in his lap as he caresses your body and coos at your flesh, whispering sweet nothings in his suavest voice about your organs, and telling you what a strong heart you must have because he can feel it through your shirt

Unwinding with Dottore almost always goes this way, with you getting a shower of what you're pretty sure are compliments about your internal systems and physical attributes

He once shocked you with a mini electric buzzer just to see your central nervous system go off. You were naturally quite annoyed about it but he just shrugged it off, claiming that he just loved to see your body at work, although he never did it again

His doctor brain never turns off, so be prepared to have his fingers in your mouth as he goes on about what wonderful teeth you have

It certainly makes you feel... special

You should feel special, he definitely doesn't do this with anyone else

Dottore is so enchanted by your being that he grows human organs in his lab that are exactly the size and shape of yours, saying it's so you can see for yourself just how beautiful you are

[merakiui]

Helloooo! I’d like to order a flower bouquet + strawberry ice cream from the misc. menu as well as some lemon squares + custard donuts from the midnight menu for Scaramouche <3

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, friends with benefits, forced pregnancy/baby-trapping (no pronouns; reader has a pussy), modern college au note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

You’re writing a paper.

Sitting at your desk, scrolling through clothes online, you wonder if your meager paycheck will cover the shipping costs. This is all research. Research that is very necessary in the paper-drafting process, of course! You click on an outfit just as Scaramouche looks up from his phone.

Correction. You’re trying to write a paper.

“Great progress. I can really see the thought you put into this.”

“I’m envisioning it as we speak.”

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem to be getting you anywhere.” He sets his phone down and leans closer. “Last I checked you’re not writing about clothes.”

“Last I checked,” you say, mocking him, “I didn’t ask for commentary. Don’t you have anything better to do?” 

A smug smile sharpens on his face. “I can think of a few things.”

Groaning, you shove him away. “No way. Not today.”

“Why not? It didn’t seem to bother you that last time when we did it before your lecture. You were so out of it you didn’t want me to leave you alone. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Not my fault I was tired! Don’t tell me you’ve never said and done stupid things when you’re running on three hours of sleep.”

“Not once,” he declares, looking quite proud. As if it’s some grand achievement. Does he want an award? “And even if I was, I wouldn’t be reduced to sugary, sappy putty.”

“I called you ‘sweetheart’ once by mistake. Get over it.”

Scaramouche rests his elbow on the desk, his cheek in his hand. “I don’t think I want to.”

Shutting your laptop, you turn in your chair to face him. “And I don’t think I want to fuck you today.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, you’re gonna do all the work?”

“That’s the plan. Be grateful I’m so good to you,” he teases, leaning closer and closer until—

You block your lips before he can capture them. “I really can’t today. Paper aside, I don’t have any protection and I’m not on birth control right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be inside.” He sits back in his chair, exuding casual confidence. “Unless you want to risk it.”

You try to put enough ice in your glare, but it melts quickly. You really shouldn’t. It’s not a safe day. You really, really shouldn’t…

Scaramouche raises a brow, waiting for your reply.

Despite everything, you’re wheedled into it anyway. You’re not even sure what you want. Is it yes or no? It’s been months since you fell into this arrangement with him—the campus’s infamous lone wolf who goes out of his way to make himself unapproachable. Or, according to your friends, he’s more of a lonely stray cat in need of a friend. Scaramouche had scoffed when you told him that.

Your friends are idiots, he said with a scowl. It only made him look even more like a grumpy cat in need of companionship. Not that you’d ever tell him that. It would only serve to stoke the flames of his ire.

But right now, looking up at him while he ruts into you, sweat sticking in all the right places, his hair falling over his eyes, you’re inclined to agree with that observation. There’s a depth to his gaze that draws you in, a sad glimmer hiding behind the ardor. There’s never been any attachment outside of the bedroom. You’re not even sure if he considers you a friend.

Still, you wonder…

“Scara, do you—” You cut yourself off with a startled gasp, your nails curling into his shoulders. He’s holding you down by your hips, fucking into you like the world’s about to end. “S-Slow down. Wait, I—aah—oh!”

He sucks in a staggered breath through grit teeth, his jaw set firmly. “You’re never going to leave me.”

Your brain stalls out, and suddenly you’re not sure how to respond. He doesn’t lessen the brutal pace at which he thrusts, so you’re forced to piece together a half-coherent answer amidst your groans.

“N-Not anytime soon—mmh… Why? What’s up?”

Scaramouche lifts his head from your neck. A strange smile turns the corners of his lips up. “It’s not a question. I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

You blink back at him, lust-drunk and dazed. The horror edges in, slow and steady like invasive rot. It isn’t until he’s pinning your legs up by your ears to force you into another position that the implication finally catches up to you. You claw at his back with weak strokes, babbling futile protests against his mouth. In response, his cock throbs inside of you, pressed so deep in this position you fear the repercussions. He kisses you with much the same force, insistent on driving you into the mattress—on pinning you here until you finally submit. Until the last of your resolve withers away, stamped out and replaced with something agreeable.

“Even if you wanted to,” he says around a shaky laugh, seeming positively deranged, “you couldn’t.”

You think you should be worried, but you’re so stunned with this development that your brain can’t keep up. Embarrassingly, you cum with a strangled sort of cry, your pussy clenching tight. He hisses through his teeth, fucks you through the high of your orgasm, and then falls with you, his own climax fast like a flash.

You’re panting in the aftermath. What just happened?

Scaramouche keeps you plugged with his cock for as long as he possibly can before he’s sliding out, flaccid and spent. For now, you suspect, for there will certainly be more later if your wits aren’t about you by then.

“Pill,” you mumble, voice hoarse from crying. You shake him, hoping he’ll climb off of you and get to it. “Scaraaa…”

Oddly, for someone who never shows any vulnerability, he clings. “We’ve got time. I’ll get it. Don’t worry.”

You don’t believe him. Not when his hand strays to your stomach. His palm brushes over the area once. He sighs, wholly satisfied.

“We’ve got time…”

Nine months of it, in fact. But that goes unspoken. If not today, there’s always tomorrow. You know he won’t rest until then. Neither will you. Your heart is too big, too soft, for that lonely stray cat, and part of you wonders if he knows that.

[midnightmoonkiss]

18+ , Minors DNI

Sub! Xiao x GN! Reader

“Y-you-!” Xiao gasps, hips and thighs quivering with the sheer effort it took to hold his lower body up.

It felt so good. So good it was overwhelming..

Your soft hand that was currently wrapped tightly around his leaking cock, rapidly twisting and squeezing up and down his throbbing shaft, thumb pressing and gliding against a vein that lit his nerves on fire, made his mind gooey.

“You h-ave no r-respect for the.. the Ade- nghh..! Adepti!!”

The yakasha was practically choking on his words, drool dribbling out the side of his agape mouth, dampening the pillow below.

He couldn’t help but weakly thrust his hips while letting out the cutest mewls, fucking into your hand that was making his brain melt.

Xiao felt so exposed, so vulnerable, all he could do was claw at the sheets and whimper - blush burning his shoulders, neck, and cheeks.

Who knew such lovely sounds could be coaxed out of him through that sinful mouth of his?

Smiling, you leaned down over his arched back to press a sweet kiss at his nape, “That so?” You hummed, already amused.

“Aghh?!”

You promptly stopped your movements down below, “Hwaah.?” Next, you removed your hand from his aching cock completely.

“No!!” He whined loudly, hips subconsciously chasing after your hand for a split second just to feel your touch again.

Tears that had been welling up in his hazy eyes from the pleasure finally fell, “No, no, no, please! Please!”

“Oh no, dear. I must respect the adepti, you see? I’m sure you know best when it comes to it.” Your teasing tone made him bite his lip in regret, “I’ll take your word for it, I won’t touch you any mo-“

With a speed only he possessed, he quickly reached behind himself and grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand back down to his poor, now neglected dick, “No! Please, please touch me again! Please..”

Shame bubbled in his gut, closing off his throat as he sobbed, “Please I-I need it.. please, (Y/N)...”

His voice got quieter and quieter as he begged, hips shimmying as if trying to entice you.

So cute.

Your sweet little yaksha.

“GuAHh!” He cried out the second you gave him attention again, your chest flushed with his back as you used both hands to pleasure him.

One resumed pumping him, cock slick with pre-cum, the cute wet noises from how turned on he was returning and bouncing around the room — the other switching from squeezing and massaging his sensitive balls to giving his oozing tip some much needed attention.

Perhaps, in some way, you wanted to break him, make him cum so hard he’d thank you for weeks and beg for more.

“Nn-nnGHH! A-Aah! AH! AaGh!”

The mighty Xiao, Conquerer Of Demons, was crumbling below you, completely at your mercy.

[ruqa22]

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CHILDE is the affectionate lover. He’s clingy and the golden retriever of the dynamic. He always has to be around you or he’d probably go insane. Hopefully not.

Holding your hand or even by intertwining your pinkies together would be enough. He just needs to be in your presence. Expect cheek and nose pecks. Although very hyperactive and outgoing, there are times where he’s serious. Someone dared lay a hand on you and you wonder what happened to them? Don’t worry, they’ve been taken care of so they can no longer hurt you.

Fighting.. dates? He wants to spar, even if you’re a beginner. He’ll definitely go easy on you and perhaps tease you as well. Hey, he can’t help but do it when his pretty little partner is being so adorable! Maybe afterwards you’ll go on a proper date. If you convince him to settle down enough, that is. But when he does, eating snacks with you under a tree full of shade — it’s the perfect way to spend quality time with you. His favorite person.

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a/n: yay!! this man is something else, imo. very cheery but kinda cute tbh. this was a nice headcanon to make!

hopefully it was good enough. （╹◡╹）♡

[it-happened-one-fic]

Overindulgence - Baizhu

Author Notes: Happy (belated) Valentine's Day Genshin fandom! I debated about whether or not to write a Valentine's fic or not before finally breaking down and deciding to do so. I actually had a fair bit of fun writing this one. As per usual, reader is gender neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender Neutral reader/ Fluff/ implied romance/ sfw

Word Count: 1121

“What are those?” Even though I wasn’t facing him as I sat down the plate of chocolates I knew exactly what expression on Baizhu’s face. I'd easily known him long enough to know that and clearly picture it solely based on the tone he used.

It was the one that was usually reserved for particularly disobedient or poorly behaved patients. The frustrating ones who wouldn’t do as instructed and would automatically complain when the didn’t recover immediately despite not having done as they were told.

I was proved correct as I turned to look at the doctor with a smile that was perfectly at odds with his frown. But I was wholly unperturbed by the frown on his face as I gestured to the little chocolates on the plate, “Dark chocolate. I helped Qiqi make them.” 

I paused, tilting my head and letting my amusement creep into my voice as I finished, knowing my next words would seal the deal, “She wanted us to have them.”

I watched as Baizhu pursed his lips, unable to turn down the little girl’s gift despite his general distaste for candies.

He’d dealt too often with patients suffering from a stomachache or some other sweets-related ailment to be fond of such foods.

“Where did she get the idea of making chocolates,” His tone sounded weary, but I knew it had more to do with the situation than actual fatigue as I sat down next the table that now held the candies.

“Yaoyao was talking to her about the ways that Valentine’s day was celebrated. I think she decided she wanted to make something after their conversation but then didn’t really know what to do with all of it so she gave some of them to us. She’s giving the others to Yaoyao,” I explained calmly, wondering how long it would take for him to give in and just accept the chocolates.

After all, I wasn’t going to be the only one pushing him about this.

“Surely just one wouldn't hurt?” Changsheng’s tone was almost judgemental as she looked at the doctor and I didn’t even bother to hide my smile as he shot her a look. It wasn’t common for Baizhu to get annoyed with his serpent friend, but it seldom failed to be amusing when it did happen since it was almost always over something like this.

“Did you know that dark chocolate is a very good source of antioxidants?” Baizhu looked my way as soon as I spoke, a smile slipping onto his face at my words. But they were true, and he knew it.

“Yes, but if over-indulged in they can lead to a myriad of health issues,” His eyebrows lifted and crossed his slender arms as he responded. Automatically picking up on my change of tactics and not falling for it.

I nodded agreeably though, humming slightly as I picked up a candy and looked at it carefully. After just a bit of practice Qiqi had picked up on how to shape and powder the candies quickly. And though she wouldn’t remember doing so later, I really did feel like she’d enjoyed herself in her own quiet way, and I knew Yaoyao would be ecstatic to receive such a gift.

And even if he wasn’t admitting it, Baizhu was too. It was just that he tried very hard to follow the same diet he prescribed to so many of his patients.

“So can overdoing medicine and other foods.” I glanced over, meeting Baizhu’s stare before I held the little candy out to him with a smile, “Balance is important for health and life in general. I know you know that, Baizhu.”

I tilted my head as he sighed, seemingly accepting his defeat even as I continued, “One or two pieces aren’t going to hurt you.”

He was smiling at me in an almost rueful manner as he plucked the chocolate from my fingers, surrendering easily just like I’d known he would when I first came into the room. Baizhu could certainly be stubborn about matters pertaining to health, but he was also pretty bad to indulge both me and Qiqi and could be quite reasonable.

He smiled down at the chocolate, chuckling slightly and shaking his head, “I suppose you're right.” He popped the candy into his mouth, humming to himself and nodding as he quickly finished and looked my way, with a proud smile, “She did a good job.”

I felt my smile widen before I nodded, agreeing with him, “She picked up on how to make it very quickly, and I think she enjoyed herself too.”

I watched as his gaze softened and he nodded, smiling more to himself than anyone else now, “Good.”

Changsheng watched him before letting out a sigh and shaking her head before looking my way, “You know, the balance of things goes two ways.”

Both of us now looked at the snake whose eyes stayed on me as she continued, “Too little of something can be detrimental to one’s health too.”

I nodded slowly, agreeing with her, but wondering where she was going with this even as I popped a candy of my own into my mouth. We’d already been victorious in getting Baizhu to accept his chocolate.

“I guess you're like that for Baizhu. If you’re away too long then he becomes useless.” Changsheng’s nonchalant words had me sputtering as I barely managed to swallow the chocolate without choking.

I looked over, wide-eyed, at Baizhu who looked just as startled as I was, if a little mortified while Changsheng continued to gaze at me with a now smug expression.

“We don’t actually know if it goes the other way yet. It seems like it's impossible for him to overindulge in your presence, though he does get distracted some-”

“That’s QUITE enough Changsheng!” Baizhu interrupted hurriedly, causing the snake to look his way in an almost indignant manner. She didn’t get to snap back, though, since he continued in a scolding tone even though he himself was most definitely flustered, “You’re going to make them uncomfortable.”

Chengsheng let out an unimpressed hiss, sliding down from his shoulders and to the ground before making for the door. Only pausing to look back at us over her shoulder, “Suit yourself. But you’ll have to talk about it sooner or later, otherwise we’ll have to start conducting studies to see if there is such a thing as too much of Y/n for you.”

She slid out the door before he could say anything back while I sat, dumbfounded in the chair.

Silence fell heavy between us until Baizhu at last recovered, letting out an awkward cough and gesturing to the side with an uncharacteristically inelegant smile, “Tea?”

[stardustsorbet]

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 ― ♡

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⁞ mentions of unrequited feelings, mentions of death and lost loves, kitsune!reader, there’s a little bit of poetry I lowkey pulled it out of my ass

“Escort me, my memory is a bit hazy,” she lied. She knew the path like the back of her hand, allowing her friend to take the lead. (Y/N) loved to tease him, the silver-haired judge, Neuvillette. He wasn’t gullible per se but sometimes oblivious to jokes.

He couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter, you really wanted to go back. To that lake where you spent your youth. When you were just a young kitsune and he a youthful dragon. His horns were so petite, and your tails were so small, yet soft. Where there was so much unresolved tension, unanswered questions he had.

“That lake holds many of my memories,” he spoke, trying to keep his words to a minimal, just small talk. With his arm hooked in hers, he couldn’t help himself from trying to appear to others as maybe being her lover. The press would sure milk this for all its worth, but he almost wanted that. Fontaine’s dearest kitsune, a sweet woman, and the cold Chief Justice.

“Wouldn’t you think it’s rather romantic to go somewhere like this, especially so late at night?” He whispered, leaning down so she could hear. His height was quite different compared to yours. A smile crept onto his lips; this was his way of flirting with you, and you knew that better than anyone.

“Aren’t you presumptuous?” A laugh escapes her lips, playfully shoving her friend, not enough to hurt him. “Just.. take me there, okay?”

The walk from where the two had dined to their lovely lake was not too far, and he could not pretend like he didn’t enjoy being with her in pure silence like this. It had been years since their falling out, but now? Things were so much different. They’d both grown, both changed in so many ways.

She took a seat in the rustic swing hooked onto a branch of a cypress tree, swinging gently as she gazed into the water. The pale moon reflected Neuvillette’s features so beautifully; she had forgotten just how beautiful he really was. She couldn’t help but notice in such an intimate moment like this.

He sat himself next to her, worried the swing wouldn’t be able to support them both, but alas, it did. It was rather old, much more used to supporting two young teenagers and every conversation they had. “You look most beautiful tonight. I’m not sure I told you that already.”

“Thank you.. and you look just as beautiful. This moon makes every feature of yours that much easier to see and therefore appreciate.”

“Hah, thank you, (Y/N). I wonder, do you still remember every moment we shared here just as I did?” He asked, gently taking her hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles.

“My kitsune mind betrays me.. you’ll have to remind me.” She knew he wanted to tell the story, but of course leave out his embarrassing moments. If she brought up how he’d fallen in the lake all those years ago after kicking a rock out of anger, he’d become a blushing mess.

“I remember how we’d enjoy the morning sunlight reflecting on the lake, hiding under the ripples of the water as the wind blew and storm clouds thundered. Things were so much different then… Do you still care for me as much as you did then?”

“Time decays the friendships between mortals, and though it has been centuries now since we’ve crossed paths, I feel like nothing has changed between us. I could reminisce in these moments forever and still hold the same comfort I’m bathing in now, despite all that has happened. If only time could pause, how kind would that be, Neuvillette?”

Her eyes were tired and emotional, every memory she had flowing through that bright mind she held.

“Pausing time, we could never find a way. But, I wouldn’t mind spending all my time with you, dearest (Y/N).” His eyes watched her so lovingly, his old friend. His friend he’d messed things up with so badly.

It was nice to sit in silence, your fingers intertwined. No romantic connotations, at least on your end, he just enjoyed being comforted like this. The touch of his warmth next to you made everything feel okay again.

“I remember I buried my book of poetry around here, I’d like to read you some of my writings.” He knew exactly what she meant, smiling at her. It didn’t take long for them to find the book with the leather cover, the dirt covered pages, and the writings of all (Y/N)’s feelings.

“Do read me some of your writings,” he spoke, helping her into the swing again, sitting beside her with admiration beaming from his blue eyes.

“Ahem… gosh, this is embarrassing, haha. Vintage clothes, antique catches. All the cracks and burns from matches. I love the imperfection of these things. Humanity, so precious, like diamond rings. Everything about you is so raw, so real. So unrealistic how you appeal to me.”

He smiled at her words, they were beautiful and vulnerable. With each word, he knew there was something in her heart when she wrote them down. “Who was this about?” He questioned. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“A general. I fell in love with him. He died in the cataclysm.” Her breaths weren’t shaky, and her eyes weren’t full of tears. Enough time had passed now, it wasn’t something she dwelled on. “He was a very dear friend of mine.”

“Ah, I’m very sorry. I’m sure you were very dear to him, you’re so bright and beautiful.” He had a hard time comforting people, according to Navia (he’d taken that very personally).

“It’s okay, these things don’t haunt me anymore. I’ve moved on. I hope that lived up to your expectations. It was just my younger mind, all very real with her feelings.”

“Is there any more?” Neuvillette inquired, resting his chin on her shoulder as you flipped through the pages.

Flipping over the pages, scanning the words quickly, she found one she’d be okay sharing. “Beautiful, even when you’re wrong. You are like the static and crackle in lightning. Please, just give me time to leave. Your soul is old, but your thoughts are new. Your mind is bright, but your heart is blue.”

He listened to the way she wrote about this mysterious general, her heart was dedicated to this man. His mind wandered astray, wondering if maybe one day she could think of him like that. Alas, he was too shy to ask her something like that. He wasn’t as bold as he was when he was younger.

“Have you ever been in love with someone other than him?”

“Feelings are so complicated. They change, just like weather patterns. In our youth, things were different, but now… I’m too work oriented to care about romance anymore. I see it as just a distraction.”

Neuvillette understood that notion, and in a way almost felt similarly. It was hard to find time for your heart in a world like this, where they were both always so busy.

He fell quiet for a few moments. Perhaps the alcohol from dinner earlier had gotten to him, but there was so much he wanted to say now. “Could I ask something of you? It may be a bit invasive and awkward, so don’t be afraid to shut me up.”

With a nod of her head, she allowed him to continue. “Have you ever felt affectionate toward me?” His face was almost sad, nearly desperate. She knew her answer would break him, and it was awfully inconvenient she didn’t bring her umbrella.

“I know our feelings.. changed. You grew to prioritize your profession more.. And I respect that. But, I can’t help but wonder. Did you ever feel anything.. for me?”

“I… don’t know what I feel. Feelings are just so complicated to understand. I just don’t like dedication. I enjoy the feeling of freedom and independence, not being tied down by housewife work and kids running around!”

“I understand. I feel similarly. But, that’s not the key to a relationship, it’s the love you feel for one another.” He smiled, feeling her head against his shoulder.

“But the distractions become just that.. distracting. It’s hard to be close when there are things leading your attention astray.”

“It’s just additional effort, I suppose. But, it’s not for us all. That I can most certainly understand.”

Their hands were still intertwined, her peace sinking into him as well. She was quiet, breathing slowly against him. Letting him do all the talking was easier, especially on tired nights like these. “My thoughts are hard to understand, I’m sorry.”

She spoke after a long while, biting her lip almost uncomfortably. “I find it easier to not love then to love and lose it.” Her way of thinking was clearly damaged, but he’d wait. He’d done it this long, he would do it longer. Because, at the end of the day, when the moon went behind the lake, when the bugs lurked around the shoreline, the chief Justice was sure of one thing. Neuvillette was most definitely in love with his dear friend, (Y/N).

Sorry about the corny ass poetry I thought it would be nice to add. I’m embarrassed whjdsjdb

[sarahsartistportfolio]

Knight X Princess AU with Albedo

wc: 3,926

Ok so many many months ago I had made this post and the lovely @witch-hazels-musings decided to pick it up and turn it into a series. Back then I had little interest in actually writing fanfic but now I'm dipping my toes in it. And I have the inspiration for knight Albedo so I tried to write. And it ended up pretty long lol

Um there are some author's notes at the end. And Hazel if you end up reading this, your writing is truly such an inspiration. You completely have my blessing if you wanna use anything I wrote here in your own knight series❤

Once upon a time, you’re the youngest princess of Mondstadt.

At the tender age of seven a strange woman approaches your father with a proposal. You watch secretly behind the grey stone wall as this foreign woman talks to your father, the king. The woman’s hands are resting on the shoulders of a child beside her, a little golden-haired boy about your age. You're too young to make out any sense of the conversation they're having. And it isn't until your older brother spots you, and rushes you away that that little boy looks behind him to catch a glimpse of you.

 This mysterious woman not only convinced your father to take this young boy in but also that he will be your future personal knight. 

Your father stands behind tiny you as he introduces you.

“ Y/N, this is Kreideprinz, he’ll be training with the knights of Favonius. You’ll be spending a lot of time together when you're older.”

Albedo’s piercing icey blue eyes seem to look right through. He barely moves, only taking a low formal bow with “Princess.” as his introduction.

You extend a curtsy back towards him(or at least try to, your sister has been desperately teaching you how to perform one right)

Your gruff father’s voice cuts through

“His mentor told me he’s developed a skill for the arts at such a young age. Just like you Y/N.”

This moment marks the start of a fond habit the two of you will share in the many years to come. Given parchment and colorful pastels by your father you and Albedo draw together out in the open courtyard. And although he doesn't say much and you’re a bit too nervous to say anything towards him, you make a small attempt. 

“Kreidepr-”

“Albedo.” he cuts you off with an unchanging neutral expression.

“Please call me Albedo, your highness.”

From that moment forward you two become a familiar presence in each other’s lives. When you weren’t being taught your sixth lesson by your governess and when he was done with training with the order of the knights, you two played together. He would show off his newly learned sword stance or a raw material he was gifted by his teacher in his alchemy lesson. You quickly learned he was a curious child. Not afraid to pick up the creepiest of bugs or tornest of plants.(You even watched him eat a spider much to your shock.) He would tell you random facts about the stars, the weather or flowers that grew on the castle’s grounds. You rarely saw him smile, his expression always remaining so indifferent. It was like he hadn’t learned how to smile yet. 

Meanwhile you shared with Albedo the juicy gossip you overheard from the visiting diplomats or a map you stole from your father’s collection of newly discovered lands from outside your kingdom. You two developed a love of drawing together whenever you both could escape the pressures of the adults. It's peaceful, drawing together on a large piece of paper. Of what you hoped your futures to look like, what countries you’d like to visit, what new foods you’d like to try.

When you’re about 15 years old it's when he officially becomes your guard. You’ve noticed as you’ve grown older Albedo seems to keep his distance from people. Except you, as he’s quite forced to be your shadow. It really feels like nothing has changed at all except now he wears the royal uniform and he’s the first face you see when you wake up and the last before you retire for bed.

You don't quite understand his love for science but you indulge in his hobby nonetheless. You listen to him ramble about experiments and data that just go right over your head. But you really do try to pay attention! Because you consider him your friend now. Plus his voice is so calming, you could listen to him talk about anything for hours. 

On the occasions you are able to, if you find a rare preserved bug or rock said to have fallen from the sky, you gift it to Albedo. (Even if on occasion he says a bit sheepishly “I already have one of these in my collection” he still accepts it from you regardless).

You’re the first one he shares that he’s been gifted a vision. He tells you way too calmly for having been blessed with such a powerful item but you get excited for him.

A few more years pass and Albedo could actually count on one hand how many times he’s actually had to defend you. He’s grateful really, that’s it's been so little, that his job is relatively boring. He’s thankful that so far your life has been safe. 

He does remember although, the first time he ever saw you truly fearful. A few years back when you two were still teenagers. A siege from a neighboring kingdom, one who wanted more power, marched right up to the city’s gates. You and your siblings were barricaded in an enforced room deep within the castle. “If the enemy starts to breach the outer room of these walls, I want you to take my sister and run, escape from here through the underground passage.” Your older brother had told Albedo secretly earlier.

Albedo had never seen you genuinely afraid before that day. As the sounds of screams and combat can be heard from within this room's thick walls. Your clammy and tight grip on his hand never leaves him as your other hand clenched at the fabric of your dress. 

The sound of cannon fire shaking the walls has made you jump in surprise and even has shaken Albedo’s usual calm demeanor.

“We’ll be alright.” He reassures you although his slightly nervous tone betrays his words. He squeezes your hand “I promise we’ll survive this.” 

And it's through your closest friend’s unwavering certainty that you find it in yourself to give him a weak smile and nod. 

And as if the gods hold true to Albedo’s word, the battle never reaches inside the castle. Your loyal army causes the enemy to retreat. Its safe again at last. But when your siblings start to exit the room, You find yourself breaking down. You were trying desperately to hold it together in front of your family but now just in the presence of Albedo tears being to fall. He stops and moves right in front of you, his hand now resting on your shoulder as he tries to brush the tears from your cheeks. A rare look of concern and worry on his face as he quietly calls your name. 

“I’m sorry.” you sniffle and try to regain some composure in your voice. “I’m sorry. Look at me crying while everyone else is relieved. I should be stronger than this. A royal should be stronger than this.” 

As he glances back at the doorway waiting til it's just the two of you left in this room, he embraces you, in this brief quiet moment he holds you close. 

Yes so far you’ve been kept safe. Even skillfully dogaging a marriage proposal or two. 

That is…until the curse catches up to you.

You see there’s been a long past down story that your family will one day suffer from a curse. But that’s all this is right? A story? A story of some ancestor of yours angring a deity or magical creature and getting cursed that one day your royal bloodline will die out. But that’s just a fairy tale right?

It starts with your father the king. But he’s already old and frail so his death, while heartbreaking, is not all too unexpected. Albedo is still there at your side as you lie a flower down on your father’s tomb. 

Now your oldest brother inherits the throne. You’re happy to see him in power, your family has been very close. He’s only about seven years older than you and healthy for his age. 

So two months after his coronation, when he falls ill. It's a shock to you and your two other siblings. The royal doctor has no answer, you call for healers outside your borders, offering huge payments in return. But within a week, your dear brother is gone. 

Albedo watches as you try to put on a strong facade for your sister and brother. But he can see the trembling in your hands. This isn’t normal, this shouldn’t be happening. Let alone to someone as undeserving as you. 

Now Albedo is no doctor but there must be something he can do, some way he can help. He scours the castle library for every book on rare illnesses and even dips into your family’s genealogy. When nothing there serves his pursuit he ventures out into the city, even to the outskirts of Mondstadt for any scrap of information that could help him. 

And within this short time Albedo is searching, your older sister takes the throne and a month later she is dead. 

Albedo watches as you attempt to reassure your last remaining family member. “It's the curse isn’t it?” your brother replies with paranoia. 

But it can’t be. Albedo tries to convince himself. He has studied magic extensively, curses aren’t unheard of but. To think this tragedy would touch you? The only person in his life he considers a friend? 

Albedo is a man of science, of tangible proof that you can hold in your hand. A curse that was placed on your family for some unknown reason, generations ago by most likely some being or person that’s long since passed? He thinks back to when he was 15, glancing to his side as he kneels before the king to take his vow, to see you trying to hold back a gleeful smile as you watch him take his oath to serve by your side till his last dying breath. 

A curse? He will not just bend it but break it completely. 

He neglects you a bit again during this time. So into his research as he has been many times in the past. He reassures you this time it's to help you. Your brother only makes it two weeks before he’s caught a fever. Albedo closes his book, leaves his lab, and returns to your side as you say your last goodbyes to your brother. 

The young man feels as if the world is crumbling beneath his very feet with how fast both of your lives have changed in such a short amount of time. He wants to return to those carefree days of when you two drew together out in the courtyard, not to now where he has to watch the joy leave your eyes, not one where he has to watch you bury your family, where he’ll have to watch you be-

No no no he can’t think like that. Not now. Not when there’s still time to change the future. But he just can’t bring himself to leave your side right now. Not now when your skin is growing pale, you're losing your appetite and your eyes grow tired. You two are friends. He understands this, you taught him what friendship is, what it looks like, feels like. But recently with this suffering that has fallen to you, he can’t feel but feel a new emotion, one he can’t comprehend. Recently he’s had such a strong desire to embrace you more often. Hold your hand. And when you're standing too close caressing his cheek, kiss you. But is this love? Could something that’s not even human grasp such a raw emotion?

“Albedo…” you weakly beckon him closer, offering a piece of charcoal in your hand. He knows why you're doing this. But it won't be the last time, he swears to himself. 

“Remember when we were kids,” you start with your horse voice “I drew us climbing to the top of Dragonspire, that’s what I saw in our future.” you smile nostalgically as you brush off loose charcoal off your paper. 

“We can still do that.” He says unwaveringly. “When your strength returns to you I’ll take you up there. As I’ve done myself many times in the past.” His vibrant blue eyes hold a conviction that you admire so much about him. It's surely one of the reasons you’ve fallen in love with him. All you can do is smile a bit pitfully back at him “Keep your promise.” 

Once you become bedridden he can not will his legs to leave your side. Only once the inconvenient pain of hunger or sleep pulls him away from your side. Although he can not bear to be in the room with you as you dictate your will and last testament to your royal advisor. 

The next morning as he just barely got enough sleep, as he’s making his way to your bedroom he hears faint crying and fear just takes hold of his heart. His trembling knees almost give out at the sight of you lifeless on the bed, your attendants weeping besides you. His mouth dry, eyes wide with dread.

 “She’s alive but she’s asleep…” the priest standing over your bedside says. “Nothing we do will wake her.”

 Albedo stays by your side attentively the next few days. It's true nothing he does or gives to your body will wake you. There’s only the steady rise and fall of your chest and quiet breathing. The image of the princess’s most loyal guard resting at his knees beside your bed with his hand in yours, this image is forever stuck with the servants and remaining court who catch a glimpse of it behind your door. 

“Are you sure about this Albedo?” Jean questions him with concern as she hands him his last supply bag. Albedo sits on top a sturdy horse, at the city’s gate, early in the morning when the sky is still a mix of orange and purple. The sun illuminating the back of the castle, casting a large shadow over the city. It could be the last time he ever sees his home, the last time he ever sees you. “Absolutely.” he answers the grand master. 

This is not an aimless journey for Albedo. He has leads, names, places of interest that have ties to your family’s name. In the beginning he felt immensely guilty. You could have passed away one, two days after he left Mondstadt. He doesn't know how long he’ll be away from your side. He could return to a kingdom in disarray, a power vacuum left by your passing, he could return to see your name on the family tomb. He travels farther and farther. Past the neighboring kingdom Liyue. On a boat to Inazuma, where he watches the leaves fall and snow dust the ground. He’s quiet during this time and single track minded. He rarely interacts with the people living in the lands. Except for when he overhears your name or family's name spoken in a conversation. Then he stops said person and with an impassive expression demands they tell him more. 

On a boat to Sumeru is where his next hunch takes him. As he counts the consolations in the night sky on the rocking ship, he finds his mind drifting back to you. When he sees a woman with your same hair color out of the corner of his eye, he thinks of you. When he sits at his campfire late at night, bathed in an orange glow and sketches, he thinks of you drawing at his side. When, with just the little tools and materials he carries on him, he’s able to transform one element to the next, he thinks of your face of innocent amazement as you applaud him for what he believes is a simple feat. Archons he misses the sound of your voice. 

With nothing to show for his efforts in Sumeru he treks through the sweltering hot desert for Fontaine. Catching a small boat to the port he recalls a memory from your shared childhood. He remembers as children you two would talk about traveling to vast unknown lands when you were older. Now he has slain so many alien beasts, came face to face with ancient deities that have been around since the stars formed, he’s walked through lands that didn't even feel real, like he was walking through a dream. There’s now a deep white scar from his wrist to his elbow. He wonders if, no when, you see it will you scold him for being so reckless. He imagines you tenderly tracing the raised skin as you tell him to “please don't be so reckless for my sake”. He smiles. The only time he smiles is when he thinks of home or you. 

He silently promises you that he’ll recount every adventure and monster slain to you when you’re awake. 

By the time he reaches Snezhnaya the usual snow has melted, breathing spring into the once fridgen landscape. Outworldly Albedo looks defeated. His eyes are so tired. And he just misses you so much. He never thought his pursuit to awaken you from your endless sleep would take him so far from the city of freedom. He used to think himself so smart and capable. But even in Snezhnaya every written or spoken word of your family’s curse brings him no closer to the truth. No matter what god he begs to or monster he strikes down he still gets no answers. He recalls the court alchemist telling him “You’re a curious student Albedo. Your perseverance for the truth will lead you far in life.” 

But now as Albedo sits at the far end of a dimly lit tavern, he feels like such a disappointment to you, to the one his heart yearns for. He should have told you he loved you. He should have told you so many months back. But at that time he was still coming to terms with what “love” really felt like. 

If Albedo wasn’t so lost in thought he would have picked up how the tavern’s bard is singing an all too familiar song. Lyrics about a mysterious and silent knight who is on a quest to bring his beloved lover back to life. But Albedo’s mind is ruminating about the past. 

It's only after the music has stopped and the boisterous tavern has quieted down does Albedo take his leave. Although once outside to the oddly soundless streets he hears a voice. 

“You should return home loyal knight.” It's the bard that was singing inside the tavern. His dress and accent oddly Mondstadtan. “This act of love is enough to save her. I felt your devotion long before you arrived here.” 

Yes…maybe it is time to return home.

His journey back home is heavy. As the spring turns into the hot and humid days of summer. But he is returning home empty handed. No real world proof that this curse is even real. I have failed the only person who has mattered to me the most. At this point Albedo desires nothing more than to let his dreary eyes close as he rests at your side, so he can at least tell you he loves you in your dream. 

He’s grateful to see that Mondstadt still looks the same. The castle still stands in the distance. And as he nears the city he overhears the townsfolk speak of you as if you’re still asleep. So all my effort?...All my research?...What good was the pursuit of knowledge if it could not return to him the one he holds dear to his heart. 

At least he can see you one last time. 

As he arrives inside the castle's walls he sees a cluster of favonius knights huddled together, discussing something with vigor. And when a familiar face notices Albedo’s tired and weary figure, they spirit over to him. 

The pure astonishment on his colleague's face is the only thing Albedo’s mind registers as the person word dumps onto him.

All Albedo catches through his hazy thoughts are 

“It's you! You’ve really returned Kreideprinz.-”

“We thought you were-”

“-amazing! Just an hour ago-”

“-she asked for you. First word she said-”

And that’s all Albedo can hear as his feet move on their own to your room. Where all the castle’s attendants are congregating outside your bedroom door, weeping joyfully and thanking Barbados. 

He pushes his way past the crowd and despite his disheveled appearance he’s recognized and allowed to enter. 

He feels like he just stepped into a dream. A beautiful, idealized dream. There you, awake, standing, walking. Talking to one of your ladies before your eyes meet his. So much time has passed. What if you don't recognize him? What if you don’t remember him at all? His own voice caught in his throat as he watches you bring your hand over your mouth. And with pure disbelief in your voice “Albedo?” and that’s all he needed. 

It's as if he’s moving through the haze of a romanticized storybook page, he runs toward you and takes you into his arms. He holds you like you might slip through his fingers at any moment. It's a dream, it must be. Maybe some ghastly creature killed him some time ago and this is celestia. He would happily embrace it.

“Albedo.” you call his name through a broken sob. It's tender, and it's all he wants to hear for the rest of his life, as hot tears roll down his cheek and disappear into your hair. 

And for you? It's like walking straight into heaven, back into your knight’s arms. You’ve missed the touch of his blonde hair and the smell of his clothes. You dreamt about him, over and over again. Even through the endless darkness of your nightmare. Your heart clung to every precious memory with Albedo as if absolutely refusing to forget him. 

He lets out a deep sigh as you can hear the smile in his quiet voice “This is a dream, I’m dreaming.” it’s whispered against your neck. 

You let out a laugh and not even angels above could compare to the sound. 

“I’m real Albedo. I’m right here.” You run your fingers through the loose strands of his hair. “I’m right here.” You prop your chin on his shoulder so he can hear you clearly. “And I love you.”

Ah you beat him to it

All throughout his life you’ve been a consist. You’ve remained by his side even when he’s pushed others away or neglected them. 

Under normal circumstances Albedo would never be this brash but with your warm body under his fingertips he can’t think rationally anymore. 

His lips find yours, and it's all passion and yearning. And a little clumsy, as it's both of your’s first kiss. 

“I love you.” He can finally tell you as you are awake to repeat it back. 

…..

Now, up on top Dragonspire peak, there lies a piece of paper, held down by four rocks on each corner. On the paper is a child’s drawing, depicting a girl wearing a crown and a boy wearing the royal guard seal. They are holding hands, standing triumphantly on top a mountain. 

….

….

Oh and now instead of Mondstadtians telling stories of your family’s curse. Every mother tucking their children into bed, every old storyteller over a bonfire, is now recounting the story of a devoted silent knight, braving the seven corners of Teyvat, all to save his true love.

A/N: So when thinking of what situation to throw knight Albedo and princess reader in, I thought of childhood friends to lovers because it felt so natural. I don’t know, I could totally see Albedo falling for his childhood friend where one day when he’s older he just realizes “oh my god its you. Its always been you.” Thoma would make a great childhood friends to lovers now that I think about it lol. Also thinking about what foil to pit him against. I was thinking ok he’s a scientist. Let me pit him against something he can’t understand, something that can’t be solved with equations or facts, but only by the arbitrary logic of some ancient deity that casted a curse on you. And as a lover of Grimms and Anderson’s fairy tales this was fun to write.

[xoxodiluc]

i love you | kamisato ayato x female! reader

genre romance, angst, hurt / comfort

cw arranged marriage, ayato tries to win you back but he's scared of messing things up again, ayato breaking down (so kinda ooc) | not proofread.

notes if u don't like flowers...... PRETEND U LIKE THEM PLSLSJHDGHSJKHD FOR THE SAKE OF THE STORY LOL / also i actually don't think this is . good ugh but shit oh well ... i'm probably gonna edit this when i have free time 💔

sequel to in my dreams, you love me back

Kamisato Ayato thought the first few months of you not living with him anymore was fine.

But why... Why was he missing your presence? Whenever he comes home, he has the urge to call out your name, only to remember that you were gone.

He knew he had no right to miss you. He got what he wanted, right? He should be grateful for it.

"My lord, could you repeat what you said again?" Thoma was stunned.

"...Bring these flowers to Y/N's home."

Thoma stared at the flowers in Ayato's hands, then cleared his throat, taking them from him. "O-Okay, my lord."

"Flowers?" Your cheeks warmed, accepting the flowers Thoma gave to you. "From whom?"

He was noticeably nervous, "Uh... From Lord Ayato..."

You involuntarily dropped the flowers as soon as you heard his name. "Oh. Tell him that I do not accept these." Thoma gulped, nodding as he picked up the flowers.

"I will."

Sighing, you crouched down and helped him. "I'm sorry for suddenly dropping it, I—"

"It's okay, milady! I understand."

You gave him a small smile as you both stood up. "Thank you. Um... Have you eaten dinner? I still have some." You pointed to your back, where you cooked yourself some food for dinner, not knowing it was too much for one person.

Because you got used to cooking food for Ayato.

"Oh, I appreciate it, milady." And you invited him to your home for dinner, forgetting about Ayato for a while.

Ayato knew you wouldn't accept the flowers he offered, especially when he wasn't even the one who gave them to you personally. He called himself a coward.

He sighed, sitting on his chair. If Ayato showed up instead of Thoma and offered you the flowers, would it still make any difference?

Well, take the risk or lose the chance. Ayato was determined to let you know he was sorry.

Thankfully, your house wasn't that far away from his.

Your mood immediately became sour when you saw your husband at your doorstep. "What do you want, Ayato?"

For the first time in years, he felt nervous. "You didn't accept the flowers."

"I see no reason why I should."

He agreed. "I... I apologize."

"Okay. I don't forgive you." Your words hurt more than Ayato had expected, though he knew you would never forgive him.

Ayato nodded and gave you the flowers, "At least accept these." About to shake your head, he whispered, "Please."

Once you hesitantly took it, he turned around and walked away. You feel your heart breaking as you watch his figure disappear further.

The next day, you got ready to buy some groceries. You reminded yourself to stroll around Inazuma City for a while afterward, but you disregarded that thought once you saw Ayato again in front of your house. Now, you wanted nothing more than to sulk in your home. What does he want?

"I don't mean to disturb you, Y/N." You almost rolled your eyes because he did disturb you.

"What are you doing here?"

He sighed, "Please, let me make it up to you."

"And you think I'd still forgive you?" You scoffed, walking past him as Ayato closed the door for you. You get that you were being a little harsh, but you wouldn't forget what he did to you back then.

"No, I know you won't."

"So why are you still bothering?"

"Because you didn't deserve the way I treated you. So from now on, I'll treat and respect you as my wife, even if you ignore me, even if you don't talk to me. If I could, I'll do anything to take back the things I said and did to hurt you."

You felt your heart beating quickly. You won't forgive Ayato, but he could still make it up, though you didn't trust that he wouldn't hurt you again.

With a little hesitation, you nodded. "Fine."

A hopeful look flashed on his face, "All right. May I accompany you wherever you go?"

"Sure, do whatever you want."

Days, weeks, and months passed by, and Ayato would accompany you every day. You wondered, how could he have so much time for a busy person?

It seemed that he kept up with what he said, though. Even when you ignored him like how he ignored you back then, he treated you like you were his wife, like... the love of his life.

He walks you back to your home every time you go out and sends you your favorite flowers and other things you showed interest in when you walked around Inazuma City. Funny how you were once putting an effort into your relationship, and now it was the other way around.

You were confused as well... about Ayato and your feelings for him. Were you actually thinking of forgiving him? You had to know if he was being genuine. How would you know he wouldn't hurt you again?

So when you were walking back home along with Ayato, you asked, "What do you want from me?" The question came out to be harsher than you intended.

He stopped in his tracks, and he couldn't answer. You turned to look at him with furrowed eyebrows and see him clenching his fist as the tears threatened to fall from his eyes...

"I..." He gulped, "I don't know what you're—"

"Why do you care?"

"I don't—"

"That's what I thought. I won't be living here anymore."

Ayato remembered the day you left his home. "No, I didn't mean— Please, don't leave..."

Your eyes widened, "Ayato, I won't leave." The man in front of you who is usually composed sobbed and got on his knees. The sight cracked your heart, and you crouched down to soothe his shoulder. "Hey..."

Because even after everything, you still loved him. You were just scared of getting hurt again.

Soon after Ayato calmed down, he couldn't look at you, so he stared at his hands instead as he started speaking. "I wanted to win you back. I want your love, even though I know I don't deserve that… So for as long as it takes, I'll wait. And if you don't have the heart to take me back, I understand and I'll leave you alone."

"You idiot... Don't you think you've waited for too long?" He looked at you with wide eyes, "It's okay, Ayato. I forgive you."

"But—"

"I still love you. I guess I just was just scared of getting hurt again."

He hugged you, finally saying, "I love you. Archons, I love you very much."

You buried your face into his neck, "You mean that?"

"Of course, yes." He pulled away to caress your cheeks with his hands. "Let's try again. Let's get married."

"Aren't we married, though?" You said, hiding the smile on your face.

Ayato shook his head, "I meant that we should get married as a real couple. I really want to, Y/N. Please?"

He got your answer when you kissed him on the lips.

Not only in your dreams, but in reality, he loves you back.

xoxodiluc © 2022 | all rights reserved. do not claim as your own, modify, copy or repost.

[cravingsfromatwistedone]

Hi Hana! I just saw ur post and it's perfectly fine if you can't write for Twisted Wonderland. Is it alright if I have the same prompt but with any Genshin character of ur choice? -🎐 Anon

PRAISE TO BE [ DRABBLE + HC / NSFW ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HELLO THERE DARLING! I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE FOR TAKING MY TIME TOO LONG BUT INSPIRATION HAVEN'T HIT ME ENOUGH LATELY! (⁠´⁠；⁠ω⁠；⁠｀⁠) SO HOPEFULLY WHAT I WROTE FOR YOU TURNED OUT WELL! ANY KINDS OF FEEDBACKS ARE APPRECIATED!

DARLING REQUESTED: Could I request overstimulation by toys hc with [!!!] and other characters of ur choice but as mean doms with a Fem or GN reader!

TW: IMPLIED OVERSTIMULATION, USAGE OF TOYS, PET NAMES, A MIX OF PRAISING AND DEGRADING, SWEARING/CURSING, PETPLAY, USAGE OF COLLAR AND LEASH

KAMISATO AYATO X FEM! READER

"What a pretty girl you are, so obedient just for me♡"

The male chuckled to himself before scratching under your chin as drool seeped out from your lips, your eyes glistening with tears. "A-Ayato♡—" You pant out, only for him to place a finger against your lips. "Ah-ah, did I say you could talk dearest?" He slyly spoke. He laughed when your head started dipping down, your gaze fixed to the floorboards instead of him. Kamisato Ayato found it endearing that you were hanging on to every single word he said, almost like a kicked puppy so to say.

Tugging on the leash that was connected to your collar, you were forced to look up to your benefactor. A pleasant grin carved into his face as he held up a small controller in his hand "Now, let's try turning it up a li~ittle higher alright, puppy?♡"

[ H E A D C A N O N S ! ]

• Despite his refined and elegant appearance, you'd never guess that he was such a perverted man

• He'd gently coax you into acting out his deepest desires, with the promise that he'll take good care of you once you're done

• Of course, he's the kind of man who'd leave you in the dark; waiting just around the corner to surprise you with whatever he had in mind that day

• He was particularly fond of petplay, where he'd often place a collar on you before tying a leash to it, grinning to your flustered face as he walks you around in his private quarters

• He takes it to the extreme where he even bought a vibrating butt plug that had a furry end to it, your 'tail' as he calls it and that you should never take it off without his permission

• Kamisato Ayato is also a cheeky man, he'd 'accidentally' turn on the plug to its highest setting before excusing you and himself to the guests as your knees start to buckle; to which you shakily let out an agreement

• Once you've arrived in his bedroom, he's taking his sweet time in undressing you, your soft supple skin simply covered in sweat and that you were begging to have your needs filled

• "Go on, keep crying like a bitch in heat, dearest♡" He says, gripping on to your hips as he forces you down on his cock; relishing the way your cunt tightens around him as your moans fuels him even more

• As soon as the bed has been thoroughly wet ( by your mixed fluids ), the male does a stupendous job at cleaning up; carefully setting aside your fainted figure as he places on to a new mattress to sleep on for the night

[yandere-romanticaa]

Baizhu would be so fucking funny when it comes to sex, the man would thrust ONCE and he's immediately reaching for the medicine, it's too much for him. You're gonna have to do all the work because otherwise his heart might actually stop working.

[xianyoon]

saturday sunset ┆ my great, lost love

childe x gn!reader | university au written with the MV for NIKI's oceans&engines in mind. part one out of five. goodbyes are hard, esp when it's childe. 1.6k words. fluff & angst. ꕀ reblogs appreciated, thank uuuu !

goodbyes are always bittersweet. mutual goodbyes are a touch sweet, a little salty, words left unsaid hanging off the roof of your tongue – did we really have to say goodbye, childe? the air feels a little warmer, the lingering humidity forming beads of sweat on your forehead. the sweat could be from something else, you weren’t sure. you weren’t quite sure of anything right now.

you were sure of the man in front of you, though – purple hoodie pulled over his fringe, that childish, toothy smile you fell deep in love with plastered on his face. said man was to depart today, at 6pm, 5 hours from now.

“come on, we have to go.” you hated the words that came out of your mouth. you didn’t want to go at all. your feet stayed planted firmly on the ground as your words betrayed you.

“i don’t want to go yet! we have, like, five hours to go,” childe whines, pulling you closer to him. he was seated on the edge of your bed, almost savouring the last bits of your room – the scent of your bedsheets, the blue throw blanket he laid over you when you always fell asleep first, and . . . you. i don’t want you to go either.

“okay, but if we want to reach the airport on time, we have to go now so we can eat first.”

“i’m not even that hungry yet!” he sounds almost like a petulant toddler, and you almost hate that. he doesn’t deserve to not want to go – childe made the decision after all, didn’t he? archons, it hurt.

“come on.” you poke his sides, eliciting a shriek.

“okay, okay!” childe lets out a laugh as he lets himself get tugged – you let out a small scream from the unexpected lack of force, thrusting you against your bedroom wall with a slam.

“shit. i’m sorry.” he bursts into quiet laughter, rubbing your back. childe looks so much taller than you now – he towers over you, hands against the wall behind. anyone who had come in after your roughhousing would have thought that it was the result of a kabedon. he locks his eyes with yours, pressing a saccharine sweet kiss to your forehead.

his kisses, usually bursting with unparalleled passion, seems somewhat . . . lacking today. it’s almost as if the sombre realisation that he wouldn’t be able to kiss you for a long, long time set in, bleeding bittersweet into the warmth of his touch.

“a proper kiss, love.” you pout, pulling him closer once again.

“i’m sorry.” childe chuckles and presses a kiss to your lips this time – warm, pure, loving, everything. that was his proper kiss. he pulls away slowly, soft smile etched onto his features.

“thank you.”

“hm?”

“thank you. for everything.”

“you know i’m happy to support you.” your words feel like they fall short, but it’s all you can offer.

“no, i’m serious. i know how hard it was for you to accept my decision.”

you look away, unable to meet his eyes. a part of you wants to blurt that it was nothing at all, no, it was your role as a partner to support and love him in everything he did – but you couldn’t quite deny the hurt and pain you felt after the tear-streaked nights, arms wrapped around yourself in an attempt to get used to it as a replacement of his own – you had already been thinking too far ahead of the nights you’d have to spend away from his arms.

childe’s hand lays outstretched, and you bring your smaller hand next to his. our secret handshake. this overly complicated sequence that ended up with you in his arms. please, don’t unlink your pinky from mine, you want to whisper. his touch seems to last a little longer after your plead.

the universe seems to lend grace to you with how long the last few hours together feel.

the sky, darkening with time, paints a beautiful picture streaked with reds, oranges, yellows blending into one another – the sun bids goodbye in a masterpiece of a painting. the air feels salty with the ocean breeze, a cacophony of shouts and yells of other beachgoers in the background as you and childe sit on the hood of your car, precariously balancing burgers and drinks on your laps.

“heh, you were right. i was pretty hungry.” he grins as he wolfs down a cheeseburger, the local speciality in your hometown – you silently praise whatever force urged you to get two of them, just for him. you indulge childe with a soft, i-knew-it look, eliciting a laugh from him.

i’m going to miss you, childe.

the car bounces up slightly, breaking you out of your stupor as you watch him lean into the window to turn up the music. his wrapper sits balled up, paper crumpled and left to the side as he stretches his hand out to take yours.

“dance with me?” a cheeky grin appears. please don’t do this, love. it’s not like we have all the time in the world. you grab his hand anyways, twirling yourself under his arm. it’s not like we have all the time in the world. you let your mind wander once you’re safe in his arms, just like the night of your school prom.

“i have news, babe. you might want to sit down for this.”

“is everything alright?”

“yeah, yeah! more than alright. everything’s great. uh. just take a look.” he thrusts a piece of paper into your face, waggling it – you try your best to read it with all his movement, but take it into your hands instead.

To Mr. Tartaglia,

We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to Teyvat University in the fall of 2024.

teyvat university.

that was over ten thousand miles away.

ten thousand miles away from childe.

“…are you alright, (y/n)?” you want to cry. he sounds so earnest, so excited, that you feel like you must be happy for him. even if there was a nagging feeling pooling at the bottom of your stomach. gotta say i’m okay.

“i’m… i’m so proud of you.” you force a smile onto your features, hugging him tightly. keep smiling, and maybe it’d feel natural. it’s just a shock to your system, after all. that’s all it was. right?

you feel the warmth of his arms pull away in the present moment, replaced by the cool sea breeze, to see him laughing and dancing to the song on the radio. what a pleasure it is to see him so carefree.

“it’s time to go.”

“already?! noooo.” you let out a soft laugh at that, tugging him towards the trash bin to dispose of the mess, and back to the car. it was time to greet the airport, and to give childe a goodbye.

“i don’t want you to leave,” you whisper, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder. you can feel his boarding pass sticking out of his ticket tickling the back of your neck, but you nestle deeper into him – time seems to stop for your embrace, travellers in the airport moving in slow-motion as he gathers you in his arms for one last hug.

“i know, i don’t want to leave you either. i’ll call you every other day, and i’ll come back every chance i get. make sure to not get sick of me, yeah?” he playfully tussles your hair.

“i can never get sick of you.” your words are muffled by his thick hoodie.

the chime of his plane’s announcement is heard over the airport system – it’s real now. childe is leaving, and he’s leaving now. you’re not going to see him for a few months once he goes past immigration.

“please don’t forget me,” you whisper almost desperately, clutching the back of his hoodie. there's a quiet vulnerability to your words, tears unshed waiting to make their appearance, begging him to stay.

“are you alright?” childe brings a hand up to your forehead. “i’m not going to forget you just because i’m studying overseas, darling.”

“okay then.”

“but i really have to go now.”

“i know.” you hold him tighter.

he laughs, kissing you on the lips one last time before breaking away from your embrace.

“i’ll be back before you know it. we’ll go back to all the places we used to go to, okay? the diner, the bookstore we hid in when it rained, and the beach, and ooh! the aquarium we brought teucer to? we’ll go back there too. maybe we’ll get a discount for being regulars.” childe wraps both arms around you one more time.

“okay. i’ll hold you to that.”

“i love you, babe.”

“i love you too.” you close your eyes and hate yourself for wishing that your boyfriend’s achievements were only a fragment of your dream.

you find yourself back in the same spot where you had dinner with him, perched on the hood of your car and admiring the fading sunset, the sky blue with hints of yellow from the sun’s final goodbye for the day.

you’re not even gone yet, but i miss you already.

a loud roar of a plane’s engines brings your eyes up to the sky – the very same plane carrying childe flying overhead. your eyes immediately shift to the airplane windows, hoping to spot a glimpse of the messy ginger hair, or a small bit of that purple hoodie he always wore. you don’t see anything, and a sigh of defeat parts your lips.

please stay like you, childe. you’re the one person i can’t outgrow.

[opultea]

Where's My Kiss?

Genshin men see you kiss something, and can't help but want one for themselves... ft. Dottore, Zhongli

Fluff - Romantic - SFW - GN Reader (No Pronouns) - Drabbles

Warning: Very slight swearing in Dottore’s part

Part 2 - ft. Gorou, Wanderer

Dottore

Your husband had been on his official trip to Sumeru for some time now, and before his departure, he naturally left you and the segments to continue the work in the lab. Although you had been working with Dottore for years in his experimentation and lab work, it still filled you with pride to know he trusted you enough to leave the work in your hands for a time, especially with how commanding he liked to be.

Dottore was due to return today, and as thrilled as you were at the thought of seeing him again, you thought it best to throw yourself into your work until his homecoming. After all, the more you could complete before his inevitable inspection of your progress, the better.

You called on one of the younger segments today, many of the older versions of your husband away in meetings or on official business. You knew that some of them were not as happy as you to know Prime was returning, so you let them take their time away. The younger segment, Theta, looked just like your dear lover when he was straight out of being expelled from the Akademiya on account of manslaughter and the propagation of unethical sciences. Ah, what cherished memories.

The two of you set to work, yourself constantly and eagerly glancing at the clock, anxious about Dottore's return. Theta sees this but makes no comment, that is until about another five of your time-checks.

"Ugh, will you stop that! I can't imagine why you'd even be so eager for him to come back, it's not as if he cares about us!" The outburst felt rather sudden, making you step away from the machinery in front of you for a moment.

"Whatever do you mean, Theta?"

"It's not as if you of all people would understand, he wouldn't say a thing against you if you decided never to pick up a beaker again! But we just get all his tasks that he can't bother with, and then a scrutinous comment about how it should have been done! He never cares to acknowledge that we are just as intelligent as he is, that bloody-"

Theta saunters around the lab, raising his arms and yelling in frustration. Before he went too bold with his exclamations, you decided to step in and calm him down. Theta’s situation with Prime would only worsen if he came back in to find him insulting his name.

You stepped around Theta's tense form, gently placing your hands on his shoulders to ease them, moving slowly as you smoothed his coat down.

"Come now, Theta. He's not so bad, and I'm sure he understands exactly how much you are truly worth, he was you, at one time, you know," Theta melts a touch at your soft voice and caress, but holds his grimace.

"Hm. As if the ancient bastard remembers,"

"Hey, that's enough of that," You pout, causing the segment to tense his jaw and look away, crossing his arms with a huff. "Theta?"

"I... apologise," he hisses, but you smile even despite the delivery. You cup Theta's face and press a kiss on his cheek, the clone's face reddening and his body tensing back up.

"What in Teyvat are you doing?"

The two of you turn to the door, where a bitter-faced Zandik stood, apparently just having entered, and just having returned to Snezhnaya.

You immediately separate from the segment to greet your husband happily, although his gaze did not leave Theta's unmoving form.

"You. Leave. Now." Theta huffed at the order from the Doctor, yet obeyed all the same.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Dottore turned to stand over you, his intimidating frame not quite so for you. How could you be frightened when the object of your affection was finally here?

"What was that?" he questioned harshly.

"He looked like he needed it."

A silence overtook you, neither of you needing to move nor speak for the conversation to continue across your minds.

"Do you need one too?"

"I do not need anything. Although I fully intend on taking what I want."

You hardly had a moment to process before the doctors hand firmly clasped the back of your neck, bringing your lips to his. You blinked, but eventually relaxed, allowing you and your husband to indulge in reuniting.

The two of you parted, and you smiled as you brushed his bangs away from his mask.

“Welcome home, Zandik,”

Zhongli

After leaving the Funeral Parlor for the evening, locking up and leaving behind a hard day's work, Zhongli's immediate first thought was to find you. His beloved partner, who loved him enough to step down from godhood alongside him, who had been loving him for centuries, and promised with a gold band never to stop.

There were only a few places you would be at this time of day, but Zhongli knew that with the bright sunset and cool breeze, you'd likely be gazing over the world at the height of Jueyun Karst. An old habit of yours that never died was to watch the world from above, especially as it turned dark and the stars took watch. As the god of clouds, it was natural that you had an affinity for the spires of rock that Zhongli had created in his youth.

You laughed bashfully when he told you many centuries after he’d made them that one of his motivations for doing so had been to impress you, and the other to have an excuse to be closer to your domain.

The memory made the former god smile as he walked through the plains of Liyue, admiring the scenery and the image of you in his mind. It wasn't long before Zhongli was stepping up the slope of Qingyun Peak, looking around expectantly, waiting for you to come into his view. And when you finally did, he couldn't help but stop to stare.

Zhongli let a sighing breath out through his smile, watching as you gracefully kneeled to inspect the bud of a qingxin flower. It seemed that the others around it were in full bloom, but this particular flower was falling a little behind. Zhongli watched with interest as your brow furrowed in worry before you leaned your head down, and gave the bud the lightest peck.

Even with your stepping down from heavenly grace you still held a great deal of power, and from your simple touch, the flower grew taller, its stem widening and leaves unfurling with its petals. Soon, the small bud had become a fully bloomed qingxin, shining pure white under the moon. Zhongli felt his heart expand in his chest at your action. It seemed that no amount of time spent with you could prepare him for how much he loved and admired you. His gaze was particularly attached to your lips, teasing him with the softness they portrayed when you blessed the flower with their touch.

It was at this time that you raised your head and spotted your husband, chuckling at his awed smile. You approached silently, head bowed but smile apparent.

"Hello good sir, what pray tell might you be hoping to gain by ascending the sacred stones of Jueyun Karst?" You tease, stopping just short of leaning against the man.

"Why, I had no intention of offending the kind, bewitching deity that resides in these mountaintops, although I simply had to affirm the legend of the god's beauty myself."

You hummed, taking Zhongli's face in your hands and caressing his cheek gently.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed," the former archon affirmed, bringing his arms around your back to pull you to him. "You are ever the most enchanting creature to have walked the skies, my love,"

You broke the flirtatious atmosphere with a snort, followed by a series of giggles, leaning against Zhongli's chest as he raised his eyebrow with a smile.

"Is there something you find funny, dearest?"

"I wasn't exactly expecting a pun, that's all."

"Ah, I had not intended..." Zhongli coughed into his hand to alleviate the embarrassed crackle in his voice. "Although it is forever true that you enchant me. Fully and truly. In fact, I would be honoured if you bestowed a blessing on me, perhaps the same one you have placed upon the lucky bloom?"

Your face warmed at the implication that he'd seen you kiss the flower. Somehow there were still moments of shyness in your relationship, despite its infinite length. However, you didn’t so much mind that your heart still fluttered around Zhongli. If anything, you found it quite comforting.

You placed your hands gently across Zhongli’s chest, leaning into him. In turn, the geo-wielder brought his hand to your chin to guide you into a sweet kiss.

Zhongli sighed into your touch, enjoying you thoroughly, yet smiling in the knowledge that neither of you would be satisfied with just one kiss.

[merakiui]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

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

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

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

“Well, they should.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t planning to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must be losing your mind. 

“Rough match?” 

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

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

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.” 

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

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

“Like?”

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

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

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.” 

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

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

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

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrogant brat, you mouth back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not, you freak.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Let go of—”

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

“Try again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

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

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

“But I didn’t.” 

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

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

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

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

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

“And yet here we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Scaramouche—”

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

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

“Not a chance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please be gentle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.” 

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

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