#i'd go down on my knees for him aT AN INSTANT

[temeyes]

drew a new Gaz dp <3

[lovegasmic]

⋆ ROUGH SEX WITH SATORU

꒰ request : I'd like to request rough sex with Gojo x fem!reader, with the action being too intense until a bone is broken. ꒱ I cried.

 ★  marathon sex ◞ creampies ◞ multiple positions ◞ no broken bones but the bed breaks, a few objects crash, Satoru gets a cramp, reader is not as bendy as many believe, kinda a crack fic lol. ⋆ join the taglist.

another mission, another higher up acting like a bitch, another pain in the ass. Satoru desperately needs to get home and become the pain in your ass.

it’s not the first time, or the last, picking your bare legs, barely covered by his large shirt and tossing you over his shoulder, “Sat— hmph!” always the same, and the next sound is a knocked out cough by the force of the mattress hitting your back.

“jesus, Satoru, calm down” as if he could possibly have in mind to treat you with care, when the only thing that fills his brain is the need to remove your annoying shirt with long but slightly clumsy fingers, not even taking a moment to remove the mask sliding down his face, blue eyes devouring every millimeter of exposed skin, almost ripping the side seams of your panties. And oh, there it is, your lovely, warm pussy, starting to glisten slightly from the juices slipping out of your hole.

“I need to fuck you,” he pants, voice deep and lust-filled, placing both of his large, hot hands on your now bare breasts, kneading them so roughly and deliciously that they make you let out a small gasp, “I need to be inside this beautiful pussy” and in an instant, he is flipping you over with incredible strength, face down and ass up, exposing your now dripping pussy, making Satoru groan at the sensual sight, the sound louder than the sound of his pants falling to the floor, and seconds later, the wet tip of his cock slides over your slit, forcing gasps from your mouth with each impact against your throbbing clit.

with both thumbs opening your hole, the tip begins to slide inside, filling every corner of your soft pussy, the incredibly easy glide down your slick and his pre-cum. and he’s fucking you so good your toes curl, each thrust of his strong hips causing your body to slide forward, rubbing your nipples on the sheets and crashing the bed against the wall, “g-agh! S-atoruu so rough!” you squeal, saliva and tears dampening the sheets below your warm cheek, each thrust, each delicious slide of his cock inside your tight pussy, bringing you to the edge of madness.

“that’s my girl, my beautiful girl” his voice, tipping the edge between grunts and moans of pure pleasure, punctuating each word with a hard thrust that makes the soft fat of your ass jiggle, “my gorgeous girl, taking my whole cock in her beautiful pussy” you had no choice, and neither were you going to complain.

with your eyes almost rolling, you feel Satoru pull your legs, taking you to the edge of the bed, with knees on the floor and his on each side of your hips, ramming you onto his huge fat cock. now your eyes are completely rolled back.

“SAT... AH...!” moans are now screams, head empty, almost dumb with how Satoru fucks your cunt, using it as his own sex toy, you’ve never felt so full, so well fucked that it makes you lose your fucking mind.

Satoru is on the verge of screaming too, “you’re cumming so much, shit! it feels so fucking good.” his words go in one ear and out the other, completely gone as your pussy cums continuously without your knowledge, squeezing and soaking his cock with your creamy juices.

and it’s never enough for him, huh?

“come here,” Satoru growls, reluctantly pulling out of your pussy, only to carry you to the center of the room, penetrating into the deepest spots of your pussy and beginning to fuck like that, suspended in the air as your combined fluids drip down your legs, making a puddle on the carpet, “shit, you squeeze me so good, I love your pussy, baby” getting a leg cramp and slightly losing balance from how fast he forces you up and down his cock, having to lean back against the dresser and knocking over a few pictures and decorations in his wake. but you don’t care anymore, your brain is completely fried by how Satoru thrusts brutally into you, addicted to your pussy.

how long has it been? you have no idea, now finding yourself on the bed again, uncomfortably bent while screaming out choked sobs, “Sa..... a-ahhhhnghh....!” a mix of screams, cries and moans from both sides, partly relieved that there were no neighbors, or else you were sure the police would have arrived hours ago, “can’t... breathe...!”

“just a little more” is what he repeats for you don’t know how many times, pushing himself into your pussy with force, “I want to cum again” three times was the number of loads of semen that Satoru already pushed into your hole, and somehow, you were still surprised by the amount of semen his balls contained, heavy and hitting your ass while fucking you against the bed into a bigger mess of fluids.

“just one more, let me fill your pussy one more time” he almost begs, his eyes clouded with pleasure while spearing you with his cock, hips so hard, so rough you mistook the strange creaky sound with the rough of his hips wetly slamming against your cunt.

it was really odd, a funny coincidence you could laugh about later, as Satoru’s final, rough and deep thrust, ended up being the last straw of your poor bed, that came crashing down with the headboard almost crushing you both if it weren’t thanks to Satoru’s quick thinking, panting while holding the piece of wood up.

you love and affectionately hate the big boyfriend you got, the one looking down at you utterly amused while you groan in discomfort by the unwelcomed stretch of your limbs.

[fourmoony]

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝟐

f!reader x PT!Jamie (modern au) 1.5k words

summary: reader has a bad gym experience and jamie gets protective

cw: working out, mention of potential injury, mentions of sexual harrassment (ass grabbing)

sidenote, that I've seen a lot of this behaviour in the gym before and it makes me sick. writing about it and imagining how jamie would handle it makes me less sick. imagining big strong pt!james making the world better, one set of keys at a time. please, always be aware of your surroundings if you are working out at the gym, especially alone <3

James pulls you out from under the bar of the smith machine by the hips seconds before it clatters to the ground with a sickening thud and clang of metal. You stumble under his harsh hands, land on the ground at his feet and let out a pained whoosh of breath. Luckily, the gym is empty save for the two of you, sparing you the embarrassment of having people watch the commotion.

He's on you in an instant, gentle hands that cradle your neck as he crouches in front of you and pushes your head from side to side with a little pressure from his thumbs. All you can do is blink, try to process what, exactly, just happened. "You're not sore here?" James asks you, brows furrowed and almost touching in the middle, his fingers pressing into the base of your neck.

Your first thought is that James doesn't suit frowning. A silly thought, considering you almost decapitated yourself with a one hundred kilogram squat rack. "No. Just my ass from crash landing." You don't fail to notice the way your voice sounds distant, detached.

James' hands are warm on your neck, a burning touch that you want to lean into. You don't, and it's gone as James collapses down across from you, his elbows resting against his knees. His face turns stern, "What's going on?"

You feel like you're being scolded, and maybe you should be. It's a well known fact that form is everything, that being distracted in the gym can lead to serious injuries. You'd known you wouldn't be able to focus today, you'd known you should've stopped that set and corrected yourself when you could feel the weight more in your back than your legs. But, you hadn't. You're distracted, you're angry. You'd walked into the gym full of frustration and it'd almost ended terribly.

Tears fight their way to your eyes and they burn. You feel a lump forming in your throat that forces you to look away from James. Kind, patient James, who allows you the moment to collect yourself as you pull your legs to your chest. "Shitty week." It comes out mumbled, your voice defeated.

James nods understandingly. "A shitty week doesn't make you lose focus like that, though. There's something more to it."

It's not like James to push. He's friendly and he's kind, he can be a menace when he wants to be, and sometimes you even think he's flirting with you - but he never pushes. You want to open up, you want to step out of that weird area of professionalism you can never seem to get past with him. But unloading your shitty week on him doesn't feel like the way to do that. So you shrug, pulling your knees to your chest until your chin rests atop them, "I'm just stressed. I'm sorry I didn't say anything, I knew my form was wrong but I was too distracted to stop and fix it."

"I don't care that your form was wrong," James shakes his head as though offended you'd think such a thing, "I mean," He pauses, searching for the words, "Obviously, I care that it was wrong because you almost got hurt. But what I mean is that you should've told me you were stressed, that you were feeling a bit distracted."

You find yourself nodding, eyes downcast at your crossed ankles.

"I was waiting for you to correct the form yourself. If I knew you were distracted, I'd have told you to stop. I'm sorry, too." James' voice has turned soft, less stern. He nudges his foot until it's in your line of vision, tapping it against yours until you're looking up.

He's waiting with a smile, his eyes gentle and patient. It feels odd. New, foreign. You can't really describe the feeling. "A guy grabbed my ass in the gym, yesterday." You breathe out, unsure really of what it is that's made you tell him.

It could be that you trust him. It's hard not to build trust with someone in James' position, it's literally his job to stop things like one hundred kilogram bar bells falling on top of you. Or, it could be that not telling anyone, reliving how powerless you'd felt, going over everything you could've done differently, it's eating you alive. Sharing this with James, who sees every day what gyms are like, how people in some gyms behave, you have a feeling that he'll get it. That he'll help you process.

But, he doesn't say anything. Just stares with a look that you can't read. The muscles in his arms shift, his hands clenching around each other tightly, and his jaw clenches. You think he might not say anything, though, you know James is better than that. The silence stretches until the tears in your eyes abate, then James finally croaks, "He what?"

Your veins crackle with the anger in his voice, the darkness that clouds his eyes. You'd never have imagined James in such a light if he wasn't sitting right in front of you, the very picture of livid. You shrug, as though feigning nonchalance might abate the white hot anger you know very well the feeling of. "I was doing those stupid kick back thingies you're always on about. Just messing about as a cool down, trying to correct my own form. He came over and started giving me advice, which I thought was just him being nice."

James shakes his head, remorse like a white sheet of dread across his beautiful face. You swallow, picking at a hangnail on your thumb, "He kind of just," You shift your hands as though grabbing your own hips, "Grabbed me like that and my throat went dry. When he was leaving he grabbed my ass and said 'you're welcome'."

"You didn't report him to the gym staff?"

You shake your head, lip trapped between your teeth. "I wasn't even planning on telling you until I nearly killed myself with the smith machine."

James sighs, one of his hands coming up to rub at his face. He looks nauseous, almost. "I'll get you a set of keys for this gym. You can work out here, from now on. No one will bother you."

It's a nice offer. It makes your heart swell and your cheeks heat. James has always gone above and beyond. He fits you into his schedule despite your crazy work hours and never charges you for the session if you have to cancel day of. But the reason you don't have a membership at his gym is because it's not in your price range. So you smile, kind, if a little tight lipped, "James, you know I can't."

"I'm not saying get a membership. I'm saying I'll get you a set of keys. You can come and go as you please, even after work, whatever time you want." His voice is thick, his eyes earnest and almost pleading.

"I can't ask you to do that."

James scoots closer, fingers flexing as though he might reach out for you, but is stopping himself. He chases your gaze, waits until he has it, until your lips part under the weight of it and your heart hammers against your chest, to speak. "You're not asking. I'm offering. I can't believe that happened to you and it makes me so angry. I'm not going to sit by and do nothing about it."

You sigh, unwilling to argue when James sounds so passionate, so sure of himself. A smile makes its way to your lips, timid, unsure, "Thanks, Jamie."

He nods. "Any time."

"Are you sure the owner won't mind?" You ask.

James grins, some of the mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes, "He's my best mate, it'll be fine."

He offers you a hand as he stands, the storm clouds passing and the weight already lifting from your chest. It feels brighter, in the gym. You take James' hand, let him pull you up. He does his signature move of tugging you until you're stumbling towards him, his laugh echoing off of the concrete walls when you curse him out for it.

"Start from the beginning?" James asks, moving to return the smith machine to where you need it to be.

You take a breath, watch the way his shoulder muscles strain against his top as he bends and lifts. It brings a smile to your lips, the feeling of familiarity you hadn't felt upon entering the gym earlier. "I believe I was at five reps when I dropped the bar."

James tsks, "Dropping it doesn't count as a rep. Call it four."

"Cruel."

James only winks, offers you his award winning smile as you settle yourself under the bar. This time, with the correct form. He nods, and you twist to unlock, eyes on his in the mirror.

"That's one." He grins, crossing his arms over his chest.

You consider dropping the bar on his head, next.

[stardustloserdoll]

hii can you do friends to lovers with johnnie x youtuber!reader? and the reader is like friends with jake and thats how they met? love your work btw <3

tyyy 🩷

you know i’ll keep you in my locket

“y/n you made it! come, i want you to meet someone!” jake quickly grabbed my hand, dragging me through the crowd pulling me in many directions. until he stopped in his tracks, “ah there he is.” jake spoke turning back giving me a smile. “johnnieee.” jake sang pulling me next to him with a big smile on his face.

“what.” the guy johnnie said looking up from his drink to look at jake. “this is y/n! remember i told you all about them?” johnnie nodded his head sending a smile towards me “yeah you yapped a bunch about them.” johnnie replied, making me laugh. “you know me, the yap king. anyways, y/n! this is johnnie.”

i smiled waving at johnnie “hey, nice to meet you. jakes also told me a lot about you. i like your shirt by the way.” johnnies eyes lit up “you like this band?” i nodded my head “i love them! i have all of their cds and posters all over my room.” i laughed putting my hands in my pockets. jake watching us with a big smile on his face.

“oh yeah johnnie! y/n is also a youtuber! i think you guys should do a collab together. it should be fun.” jake said wrapping his arms around our shoulders. “im down.” i smiled looking over to johnnie. “yeah me too.”

ever since that day, johnnie and i have been inseparable. every time i saw him, the bigger my crush on him got. i always got nervous and stuttered around him, probably making it obvious i liked him. i don’t know if i’ll ever tell him how i feel..

"hi everyone, today i have a special guest joining me…johnnie!" i smiled pulling him in frame "hi."

"johnnies going to attempt to do my makeup. i glanced at johnnie sending him a reassuring smile."i know he'll do great."

johnnie started applying the foundation onto my face, patting it down softly. "how about we tell them how we met." i said moving some hair out of my face.

"ooh you're right!" johnnie smiled moving onto the eyeshadow and mascara, "alright so we met at a party, and jake introduced us to each other. jake told me a lot about y/n, but i never got to meet y/n, but i'm glad i finally did."

"aww, johnnie." johnnie smiled tapping my knee signaling he was done. “how’s it looking.” i smiled. "it looks. pretty good actually. i made a mess though." he laughed cleaning where the mascara smudged. "i bet it looks great. now, the hardest part. the eyeliner." i said lifting it up to him. "oh god, if you look like a clown by the end of this im so sorry." johnnie held my face gently as he began applying the eyeliner.

"anyways,” johnnie said resuming “back to the story. it was an instant connection, we liked a lot of the same things, especially our humor. since then, we’ve literally been hang out like..everyday. i'd have to say my favorite person ever is y/n, sorry jake."

"you heard him jake. IM his favorite." i smiled sticking my tongue out. "okay, i think i did pretty good." johnnie said leaning back making sure the wings were sharp. "im really excited to see the finishing product." i said clapping my hands. johnnie set the eyeliner down and told me to open my eyes. "guys look at the matching necklaces johnnie and i got."

"we have pictures of each other in them." johnnie smiled opening the heart locket. "he looks so cute in this picture." i laughed raising it up to the camera. "y/n looks so pretty here." johnnie smiled looking into my eyes, glancing down at my lips.

“why are you looking at me like that.” i laughed pinching his cheek. “what do you mean!” johnnie yelled lifting his arms up. “you’re looking at me like you wanna kiss me.” johnnie turned away, mumbling something under his breath. “what was that johnnie?” he shook his head mumbling a ‘nothing.’ “wait i forgot the lipstick.” johnnie reached over and grabbed the lipstick, carefully applying it.

"okay y/n, are you ready to see your final look." i nodded my head and raised the mirror. “johnnie.” i gasped. “I TOLD YOU IT WAS BAD!” i shook my head. “NO ITS SO GOOD! you have a magic hand.” i smiled setting down the mirror. johnnie smirked at my comment making me hit his shoulder softly.

“okay guys, that’s the end of the video. thank you so much for watching! make sure to like and subscribe, andddd if you want more of johnnie i will have his channel linked down below. say bye johnnie!” i wrapped my arm around his shoulder waving. “baaaiii!”

“i had so much fun johnnie.” i grinned setting my hands on my lap. “me too, i always have fun with you y/n.” johnnie smiled as he played with the necklace. “uh y/n. can i ask you something.” i nodded my head “yeah of course.”

“well,” johnnie hesitated “um i’ve really enjoyed spending time with you lately, and we’ve gotten really close. the more i spend time with you, the more i start to fall even more in love with you.” i blushed placing my hands on top of his. “i feel the same way. ever since i met you i instantly fell for you. i love everything about you johnnie.”

johnnies eyes widened at that, a faint blush spreading on his pale cheeks. “well, what do you say we make it official?” i asked holding his hand. “id love to.”

[nanaslutt]

Itafushi’s pov of this fic!!

ʚ note: this can be read separately, reader gets with Megumi’s dad in the fic above but not before plotting to leave Megumi alone with his long-time crush Itadori!! This is what went on with them while reader got with Megumi's dad ^.^

ʚ cont: college au, dorks in love, mutual pining, misunderstanding, tooth-rotting fluff, 1 kiss, Megumi is bad at having emotions, getting together

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

Megumi kept his eyes on the door watching you walk out of the room until it clicked shut, leaving him alone in the dark with his long-time crush Yuji Itadori. Sighing as quietly as he could, he pressed his lips together and looked back to the screen, pretending to watch the confusing and quite frankly, awful movie. "I'm sure she'll be back soon," Itadori said, trying to cheer Fushiguro up.

Megumi looked at him confused, his eyebrows furrowing. "I'm not worried about it." He retorted, his eyes staying on Itadori's. "Oh! You just looked a little sad she left." Itadori explained while Megumi looked away to take a sip of his soda. "I get it! If my crush left in the middle of a movie I'd be pretty antsy too." Itadori giggled, trying to lighten the mood.

The pink-haired boy was not expecting the reaction that occurred instead. Megumi shot up from the headboard, leaning over his knees as he coughed and sputtered, choking on his soda. Itadori's smile faded in an instant, a look of worry plastered over his features as he placed his hand on the other boy's back, patting and rubbing it to help him out. "Woah, you okay??" Itadori exclaimed, reaching for his water bottle to hold out to Fushiguro.

Megumi couched into his arm, his other hand pushing against Itadori's hand that tried to hand him the water bottle as he peeked up at him from behind his arm. "You think... I like her?" Megumi asked, his sentence getting interrupted by small coughs as he looked at Itadori incredulously. Itadori kept his hand on Megumi's back, his expression twisting to a more confused one as he retracted his hand that held the water bottle. 

"Don't you?" Itadori questioned, finally removing his hand from Megumi's back. The dark-haired boy couldn't help but miss the warm touch of his hand already. Megumi shook his head in response, "What made you think that?" His tone was a little harsher than he meant it to be, but he was antsy to clear this confusion as quickly as he could. Especially because the one he liked was sitting in front of him, with the mindset that Megumi already had eyes for someone else.

"Well, it's just... you guys are together all the time. I mean she practically spends the night here every other day, doesn't she?" Yuji asked, both boys forgetting completely about the movie as they talked to one another, the voices of the actors droning in the backround. Megumi placed his head in his hands, the tips of his ears growing red before he dragged his hands from his face, looking up at Itadori.

"Yeah, but it's not like that. I think she spends the night here to see my dad getting water shirtless in the middle of the night anyways." Megumi groaned, one corner of his mouth turning down in a smile. Megumi wasn't expecting to hear the sweetest laughter he'd ever heard trickle into his ears. His eyes which had wandered to the blanket in front of him now made their way back to Itadori's cheerful and bright face as he giggled, his sharp teeth glowing under the light of the TV.

"Ah... that's good then," Itadori said, his words making Megumi look at him from the corner of his eyes, an almost unnoticeable blush spreading across his cheeks. "Good?" Megumi questioned, silently cursing himself for even asking. "Yeah, good," Itadori replied, not explaining any further, and Fushiguro wasn't going to press him. His face felt even hotter than before as he cleared his throat, running a hand through his soft hair as he leaned back and tried to relax against the headboard again. 

Just when Megumi thought they had gotten into watching the movie again; Megumi pretended to care about the plot, when really he was hyperfocusing on how loud the sound of his heartbeat was in his ears. "If I'm gonna be honest..." Itadori started, keeping his voice low, "I really like her..." Megumi felt his heart sink to his stomach, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to cry, and his face felt hot, would it be okay to excuse himself to the bathroom right now or would that be too obvious? Should he just hold his breath until he passed out instead? Should he-

"But I'm really glad she left." Megumi couldn't help but turn his head to look at Itadori, who was already looking at him. Itadori had an unreadable expression on his face, one Megumi was fighting to decipher. He contemplated whether or not to respond, but opted to stay silent and just gaze at the pink-haired boy softly, waiting for him to speak again if he would. 

"It's uh... nice to spend time alone with you," Itadori said, a nervous smile spreading across his face as he everted his eyes, rubbing the back of his head shyly. Megumi's eyes grew wide, a shiver running down his spine at his words. He wondered if his face was as red as it looked. Quickly, he placed the back of his hand in front of his face and looked away, his eyes trying to focus on the TV as he cleared his throat.

Yuuji's voice shocked him out of his thoughts again when he said, "Sorry, was that weird to say?" Insecurity laced in his voice, almost unrecognizable, but Fushiguro was observant. "No," Megumi said, turning his head even further away from the pink-haired boy as he stared at his door, feeling a set of eyes on the back of his neck. "I uh, like spending time with you too... alone." He replied, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Never in his life has he ever said such embarrassing words. Megumi felt his heart pound in his throat when he felt a dip in the bed sheets next to him. Turning his head back to the other boy, he noticed the popcorn bowl was now resting by the other's feet, and a large hand was in its place, his fingers slowly moving against the sheets like inchworms. Megumi swallowed all the saliva in his dry mouth before he looked back up to Itadori, whose face now matched the color of his hair.

The two of them looked into each other's eyes were nervous expressions on their faces, their eyes darting back and forth from one eye to the other. Itadori's eyes took in the beautiful dark lashes that rested above Megumi's dark eyes before he traced the strong slope of Megumi's nose, his cupid bow, his lips- "Fushi-" "Soda." Megumi cut him off, looking around at the walls behind the pink-haired boy. "I uh, I'm out of soda. Would you mind getting us a refill? Please?" Fushiguro asked, sitting his body back against the headboard, his body going rigid in fear and nervousness as he stared at the TV, trying to forget the little staredown they just had.

Itadori looked at him with a blank face before he burst out into giggles. Megumi pouted when he felt his hair get ruffled and messed up by a large, warm hand in his hair, lingering maybe a moment too long before Itadori scooted off the bed, taking their soda cans with them. "Drinks in the fridge?" He asked, smiling to himself as he made his way to the door. Megumi made a small sound of acknowledgment as he held his breath, waiting for the other boy to leave to room so he could fucking breathe, the air felt suffocating around him.

When he heard the familiar click of his bedroom door closing, he let out a sigh of relief, his arms falling limply against the bed as he breathed heavily, a furious blush on his cheeks. He picked up his hands only to place them on his face, feeling how hot he was. "Be fucking cool, relax." He whispered to himself, fixing his hair before he got up from the bed walked over to the window, and cracked it open, allowing the cool air to calm his hot cheeks.

Iradori was faring no better, he practically floated down the stairs in bliss as he replayed the last few seconds over and over in his head. He wanted to be closer to Fushiguro, but he knew how shy the other boy could get sometimes. Itadori laughed to himself replaying Megumi's reaction from moments ago. He only meant to kiss his eyelids, his lashes were just so pretty, he couldn't help himself, but as he analyzed his actions once more he could see how Megumi thought he was going to kiss him for real, he did just get done toggling his lips before he called his name after all.

Amid his daydream, Itadori tripped over his feet and crashed to the floor, the empty cans getting crushed by his chest as his knees got rugburned. "Ahhhh, shit." He groaned, pushing himself off the carpet and grabbing the cans. He was so glad Fushiguro didn't see that, he would've died out of embarrassment. Walking around the corner and into the kitchen he remembered earlier from the mini house tour he got, he was surprised to see you sitting on the couch with Megumi's dad, and he was... shirtless?

After exchanging a few words with you, Toji stayed silent the whole time, looking away from him for most of it, he walked back up the stairs with two new, cold sodas in hand, wondering what on earth you were doing with him. Itadori knocked on Fushiguro's bedroom before he walked in, not wanting to walk in on the other boy pacing, trying to calm himself down. He was met with a rustling sound, sounding like Megumi almost doubled over in surprise before he was given the go-ahead to come in. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," Itadori said, smiling at Fushiguro as he walked into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. "You didn't scare me," Fushiguro replied, reaching out for the Soda when Itadori hadned it to him. His blushing cheeks and averted gaze said otherwise. The movie had been paused now, only the air rustling through the leaves could be heard as Itadori cracked open his drink, sitting crisscrossed against the sheets and facing Megumi.

"Feels good in here," Itadori said, watching Fushiguro start to relax as he sipped on his cola. "Yeah." He replied, not looking at the other boy. Right before Megumi was about to suggest turning on the movie again after they fell into a silence, Itadori spoke up. "Oh yeah, when I was grabbing out drinks I saw your bestie hangin' out with your dad," Itadori said, pursing his lips teasingly. Now Megumi was looking at him.

"Please don't say anything else I don't want to know." Megumi pleaded a look of sickness on his face. Itadori laughed, placing his hand on Megmi's knee and caressing it as he tried to calm him down. "It's okay they were just talking." He assured, before adding, "But your dad was shirtless..." Itadori retracted his hand and stroked his chin in thought. Megumi groaned as his head fell into his hands, trying to erase the words from his head that the other boy just said.

"Sorry," Itadori said apologetically, suppressing his smile. Megumi kept his head in his hands while Itadori rubbed his knee, his eyes raking over Megumi's form. "I uh, I wasn't going to kiss you." He suddenly said, his voice quieter than before. The atmosphere changed again, Megumi's body going ridged along with it. "Well, I was, but not- not on your lips," Itadori said, correcting himself. Megumi peeked at Itadori through his fingers, their eyes finding each other.

"You have really pretty eyelashes." Itadori blurted out, his face already fully pink again. He could see Megumi's eyebrows pinch together in his hands. His reaction made him feel more self-aware as he retracted his hand from the other leg and waved it out in front of him. "Sorry, that probably sounded weird. It's not just your eyelashes, well- you're pretty! Oh.. maybe you don't wanna be called pretty, I mean, you're handsome too! Everything about you, you're just-" "Stop." 

Megumi's voice barely came out as a whisper, his face now buried fully into his hands again. "I- I get it. You can stop." He repeated. Itadori would've thought he was offended if not for the bright red tips of his ears, and the crimson color of his cheeks peeking out from under his hands. "Sorry," Itadori said, smiling softly. "God..." Megumi groaned before freeing his face from the confines of his hands and running one through his hair, averting his eyes. 

"Why are you saying all that," Megumi mumbled, his voice quiet and insecure. Itadori stared at the boy who spoke to the door but directed his words at him, a little jealous at the lack of attention. "Look at me first," Itadori said, his voice chipper like it always was, not so serious and bashful and totally unrecognizable to Megumi. It's not like he hated it, not at all, but there was only so much room for embarrassment in one small space, Megumi felt selfish for hogging it all but he couldn't take it.

Megumi took a deep breath before turning his head around, staring at Itadori with a pout. "Can I do something?" He asked, that familiar smile still on his face. "Nothing scary." He reassured, waiting for his answer. Megumi could guess what he was going to do from his earlier babbling. He nodded with a pout, averting his eyes from the pink-haired boys in front of him ever so often. Leaning forward, Yuuji placed his hands on the bed next to Megumi, opting not to touch his knee again, being careful not to overwhelm him.

Megumi looked away, his eyes squeezing shut as Itadori got closer to him, his cologne filling his nostrils. Soon after, he was met with a warm, comforting touch of Itadori's lips against his eyelid, soft, gentle, and strangely familiar. His lips lingered for a moment before he pulled back and the touch was gone. When Megumi peeled his eyes open again, Itadori was staring at him with a smile, his face ever redder than Megumi's own. 

Megumi had been so consumed in his own embarrassment and nervousness that he had accidentally neglected how Itadori was feeling. Megumi noticed that the other boy's hands were shaking, even though his face looked completely normal. "Relax," Fushiguro said, his voice going back to normal as he pouted before laying back down against his pillow, lower on the bed this time, getting more comfortable. He needed to give Itadori some room to freak out a little bit too.

"I... I didn't hate it so... relax." Megumi continued, his own body vibrating with nervousness. Itadori's smile grew as he lay down next to him, staring at the same ceiling as Megumi. Both of them stayed silent for a long while, just their bodies proximity keeping them warm as the cold air tickled their skin, their breathing becoming one. 

Itadori looked under his bottom lashes at his hand, which was dangerously close to Megumi's. He inched his pinky out towards the slender, pale hand. It looked so soft under the dim, blue glow of the moonlight. Itadori held his breath when he felt his hot skin touch Megumi's, an audible gulp could be heard from the boy next to him. Megumi poked his own pinky out, touching it with Itadori's, trying to show him he wanted this too, he wasn't just putting up with it.

Itadori smiled as he fully intertwined his fingers on top of Megumi's, the dark-haired boy's fingers curling under his. Their hands fit together like puzzle pieces. "I feel like I'm gonna pass out right now," Itadori said, making Megumi shake his head in disbelief, a sigh leaving his lips. He squeezed his hand tighter against Itadori's letting him know he was there for him. "I've never done this before... liked anyone like this," Itadori started, turning his head against the pillow to look at the side of Megumi's face. His side profile was so perfect. 

Megumi turned his head and looked at the other boy, his eyes tracing down his chiseled, sweet face. "Me neither," Fushiguro replied, his eyes never once leaving Itadori's as he soon found comfort in them. "We don't have to say anything yet," Megumi added, realizing they hadn't even confessed to one another, even though it was obvious.

Itadori nodded back softly, licking his extremely dry lips. "Yeah, I like this." Itadori replied, "Your hand is soft." He complimented, making the corner of Megumi's mouth curl upwards as he got lost in the other's eyes. He swallowed before he nodded, both of their heads turning back to look at the ceiling. "Fushiguro," Itadori said after a while, making Megumi hum quietly.

"You heard that right?" He asked, referring to the loud yelp that sounded strangely like a moan and sounded sorta kinda like it came from inside the house, from downstairs to be exact. "Please just turn the movie back on." Megumi deadpanned, feeling a headache start to come on. "Yeah, yup, on it." Itadori shot up quickly, keeping his hand intertwined as he found the remote and unpaused the movie, even cranking up the volume a bit to drown out the sounds of you getting fucked by Megumi's dad.

[hwathinker]

"no one's going to look at that dress on you except me."

pairings ; idol!boyfriend!seonghwa x non idol!fem!reader warnings ; just pure smut (mdni lol), yes i have a thing for fingering and licking </3 wn ; i've been very lazy lately but i felt like writing something haha (just want hwa's cock fr) lmk if there are any errors thanks

its your dinner night with your co-workers today, now you're unpacking your things out on the floor one by one. seonghwa had a day off from work after their world tour as they're already finished. he booked a room in the hotel you're going to have dinner at, but instead of booking for one person, he got a bigger room as he's going to accompany you along. honestly the best idea to let him be with you. really.

you and seonghwa went to the mall after you've checked in and already had your stuff in your hotel room. now, hunting for foods to stay in the night. "baby, are you sure you're going to the dinner night? i got a bad feeling about it.." seonghwa said. he didn't want you to go simply because he don't want anyone to look at you with the dress he got you on your birthday. you looked at him, smiling and confused at the same time. "why wouldn't i? its my first dinner night as a co-worker. of course i'd go." you grabbed three to four packs of chips, along with some instant noodles and put it in the basket seonghwa was holding.

"i know but... ahh you know baby?! Sometimes it's quite best to listen to your boyfriend! I mean.." he stuttered, not wanting to let you know about his jealousy over the dress. You didn't bother to say something, bringing him to the counter and pay for everything. After you both had shopped for foods, you head back to your hotel room. To get some rest before going to have fun tonight.

you plopped down on your shared king sized bed leaving the foods unpacked from its plastic bags. seonghwa was still at the front door, taking off his shoes before joining you. he moved closer, grabbing you by the waist. "baby, please? i don't want you to go." he pouts. you caressed his cheeks as you smiled. "its just for about.. until midnight. just like how we're away when you're busy with your schedules." you said, pinching his nose as he smiles. "fine. i'll let you. lets take a nap, shall we? wouldn't wanna let my baby gets tired before her best night." seonghwa said. little did he know, he won't let you go tonight anyway.

8:25pm

strawberry perfume filling the room, with your heat curled hair just on the right length. the red satin dress that seonghwa had bought for your anniversary months ago, hugs your body so well, with a little cut to your knees. everything goes so well along with your perfect makeup you had practiced for tonight. also, your black purse making you look elegant. seonghwa was in bed, already in his favorite black pajamas. behind being busy with his phone, he was too nervous to look at you. "hwa, do i look good?" you said, turning back from the mirror for him to look at you clearer. seonghwa cleared his throat, eyebrow furrowed but his eyes didn't shift a little to even glance at you. "uh.. yeah... it looks very pretty, baby." he said. the reaction he had doesn't excite you that much. you walked towards him, putting your purse down on the bed. hovering over him sweating a little by little. you took his phone away, throwing it somewhere only god knows.

seonghwa, once again cleared his throat. folding his hands over his chest as he looks away except you. you quickly grab his face by his chin, eyes locked to his big ones. seonghwa finally giving in, making an eye contact with you, slowly going down to your dress. scanning your whole profile, he felt himself growing erection. you backed off, giving him more view of your whole look. seonghwa was in awe, sitting up as he's still looking at you up and down, slowly. "so? any comments now?" you said, feeling impatient for his answers. seonghwa simply got up, basically hovering over your still small body even wearing the high heels. he held you by your waist, pulling you closer to him . caressing your hair, gently grabbing some to admire. you smiled, throwing your arms over his shoulder, approving his silent compliments. "oh baby, i bet everyone will love this look of yours." he said, cupping your cheek as he kisses you passionately. his other hand, going down to your ass, gently squishing them.

you melted into the kiss, slowly forgetting about the dinner you're going to have for about an hour. seonghwa pulled you closer, slowly walking backwards to the bed. as you both pulled away from your kiss, he's finally sat on the bed, with you hovering over him. hands on his shoulders, your left leg placed beside his, as his hands are still glued on your body. you looked at the clock on the wall, 8:49pm. "shit, its getting late. i have to go now-" you were about to let go but seonghwa had his arms around you as soon as you noticed. you looked down at him, his eyes were.. full of lust. his tongue pressed on the inside if his cheek. "baby i have to-" "no one's going to look at that dress on you except me." you were once got cut off again by him. looking at him ever so confusingly, you laughed it off. "so.. you begged me not to go because of this dress i had from you?" you said, placing your hands on his shoulder once again.

"i don't think i allow my princess to go around so sexy like this. this look on you.." he hissed, furrowing his eyebrows together as he looks at your curves along with his hands tracing them. "its only for me. for my eyes only, baby." he leaned down, bringing you along as you're now hovering over him again. "do you know how much i've been imagining you with this dress on but you never put it on back then.. i'd love to hear my name moaned out by your sweet voice.. in this dress." he said again. his eyes still admiring your body non stop. you smirked at him, rolling down next to him, signaling him to go on top of you.

"obedient... and controlling much? love, you have no idea how hot you are." he said, grabbing the both of your hands and holding them with one hand over your head. "you love it hm? love it when i use this kind of clothing so that you would have an excuse to fuck me out with your aching dick?" you teased, wiggling your feet to let go of your heels and place them around seonghwa's waist. "you're one to talk." seonghwa kissed you, not rough, but also not so gentle. just the way you love it. he leans closer to you, resting his body on yours as his other hands rests on your neck. you felt his crotch pressed against your wet core, so you tried to thrust upwards to meet his aching dick once again. he noticed that, stopping every movements as he backed off an inch away to look into your eyes. "i thought you were more into the dinner more than me." he said, getting up from you. he flipped you around and took off his pants. you looked back, noticing a patched on his boxer. you smirked in his current state. seonghwa gently press on his erection, eyes only locked on you. "you see this..? this is your fault, babygirl." reaching to your back, he unzips your dress.

exposing your back, naked without a bra. (shh.. you used a sticky(?) bra thing on ur tits ;D) seonghwa licked his bottom lips, caressing your waist as he slid the dress down till it fell on the floor. "baby.. where is your bra hm? really was expecting this moment don't you?" he said, now ripping off your laced black panties. you whined at his hands roaming around your body, basically tickling you in a hot way. "please.. stop." you begged, not wanting to be in the teasing session anymore. seonghwa leaned to you, holding your face up by your chin making you look at him. "please what..?" he licked your earlobe, pecking on it all the way to your shoulder. "p-please.. just fuck me already..!" you whined, feeling his soft lips going down to your wet core.

seonghwa finally reached your heated cunt, looking at every curves as possible. "i need you to turn around for me baby." he said, tapping your thighs twice. you obeyed, rolling to your back as you sigh in relaxation. seonghwa put your legs up, locking them down on the mattress with his arms to get a clear view on your leaking core. seonghwa breathed to your pussy, knowing you would feel it. "baby, you're already so wet now? you are so.. so naughty." he licked your folds, wanting to hear the pretty voice of yours. after giving them kitten licks, he went looking at your cunt again. this time, you're constantly twitching as you wanted more of his tongue. he loved the way you just breath so hard without your words, but your cunt says everything you need just by twitching so much.

seonghwa caress the outside of your folds before inserting one finger in, eyes focusing on your reaction to it. he loves.. like really loves you making those faces while you hold in your moans. "louder love, don't hold them in if you love it." he said, increasing the pace of his finger. "a-ah, mm.. hwa.. please.." you moaned out. seonghwa slowed down once more, "please what hmm..?" sucking on your clit and flatten his tongue on them. your mind was spinning at how good he's making you feel. "just... let me cum.." you quietly said, stopping seonghwa's hand from moving again. instead, his tongue was teasing your clit. "please.. hwa, i just want to cum on your face.. your dick.." you breathily begged. he kissed your inner thigh as approval, inserting another finger inside you as he pump them faster. along with his tongue licking your pussy so good. you rolled your eyes back, pleasure waving over. your thigh was shaking, winning over his arms that was holding them back as you squished his face with your thigh.

when you were close, he pulled out his finger as he gets up. he licks them until they're clean, it made you shiver. "oh baby, need you to cum all over me now." seonghwa went back to his position, this time he's licking your cunt until you cum. his tongue works so perfectly inside you, rolling them smoothly and hitting the right spot. "yes.. more.. ah, i'm gonna-" as soon as you were going to finish your sentence, you moaned out in pleasure as you came onto his tongue. seonghwa cleaned your release so well, not missing any drop behind.

after he licked them clean, he gave your puffy cunt a peck before getting up to get off his boxer. his dick springs out, almost touching your lower stomach. "don't think i am done yet with you. that was only a warmup. well, for me."

-

haa omgg shai posted another seonghwa smut omg ! bro yall have no idea how HORNY i am over the recent concert like... seonghwa be fucking the thin air and i'm here with my aching pussy like... GOD just fuck me already

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Trying Them on for Size

My stepdad's eyes rolled back as my friend leapt into his body. Thanks to my distraction, he had a clear jump, and the possession was instant. The beer in his hand didn't even slip as a new guy took over the thick hunk of meet.

"Goddamn, this guy is big!" my stepdad's voice rumbled in uncharacteristic glee, "My arms feel like a ton heavier with all this muscle!"

"I...I cant believe it worked," I stammer, still processing the fact that Sam, my best friend, is inside Paul, my jerk of a stepfather.

Sam lifts a heavy arm and takes a whiff. "Wow, your dad smells rank! Does the pig shower much?" he groans and laughs, "What'd you say this idiot does again?"

"Mechanic, and he's not my dad," I answer, still trying to get over my nerves, "How's it feel...to be in him?"

"Man, he's so muscular and dense. I mean, I can feel how heavy he is, ya know? He's like really sweaty and kinda gross too, but I feel like I could beat the shit out of anyone right now!"

Sam takes a swig of Paul's beer, making the body look just like the alcoholic stepfather I knew and hated. Normally, I'd avoid the guy at all costs. He'd usually only speak to me in grunts, and that was only when he wasn't ignoring my existence. Now, Sam was using his mouth to yap off like an excited puppy.

I think Sam notices that I'm still a little tense, because he stops staring at his massive arms and puts the beer down. Paul's body steps right against me and grabs my hands as he looks down into my eyes. My stepdad would certainly never have done this before.

"How you doin, man?" Sam asks, but I can't help but feel like Paul is talking.

"Good," I lie, "This is just so surreal."

"Well, what do you want to see your old step daddy do for ya?" he asks playfully, "The jerk is at your whim, dude."

"I don't know..."

"Come on, sonny boy! Wanna watch as daddy Paul gets on his hands and knees and crawls to you?"

Sam pilots the muscular body to the floor, while staring longingly up at me with Paul's normally hateful gaze.

"Wanna see your big bad old man, stick out his tongue and lick your shoes?"

Before I can react, Paul...I mean Sam...has stuck out his tongue and started dragging it up the length of my sneaker. God, the sight of my harsh stepfather licking my shoe is incredible! He'd be so humiliated right now.

Sam pulls away from my feet and up to Paul's knees, "Maybe he needs to find another way to express just how sorry he is to his favorite boy."

Sam's lips hang open as he inches towards my tenting pants. My heart is racing with the anticipation of getting Paul's lips on my aching cock.

"I'm home!" a singsong voice echoes through the house.

"Shit, your mom!" Sam growls with Paul's hoarse voice, "I mean, my wife."

"Shut up," I snap, "Let's go to your house. We can get an early start to phase two."

My grizzled stepdad smirks, and we sneak out. Phase two involves Sam's biggest bully: his older brother, and he just got off work.

Michael was even easier to distract and jump into than my stepdad was. I may have been a little nervous, but after watching Sam do it at my house, I was practically a pro.

"Woah," I gasp in a much deeper tone than I'm used to, "Your brother is tall."

"Yeah, he was the basketball star before he graduated. Now he just bums around in the basement and beats me up after work," Sam explains.

I have to admit that it's a little weird to hear my friend complaining about getting picked on when he's wearing a super mature and muscular body. Though, Paul does look less intimidating when I see him from the towering height of the stud I'm in.

"Where were we?" I suggestively purr, getting a hang of using this guy's voice.

"Paul was about to apologize," Sam flashes a smile which looks foreign on Paul's face, "But I think you should make Michael apologize to me first."

I chuckle and take a step towards him, but almost stumble over the massive feet I have on.

"Damn, he's clumsy," I laugh, "Your brother deserves some sort of punishment, but what do you want him to do? Drop down and kiss your ass profusely or maybe bend over and take a good beating?"

"Both," Paul's mouth gulps as his calloused hands struggle to hide a growing hard-on.

"Or maybe you want to hear your brother grovel and beg for forgiveness?" I go on, dropping Michael's body to its knees, "Or maybe you can find a better use for this pathetic mouth."

"Shit, man!" I hear Paul's voice whine, "We're definitely going to make these straight assholes screw each other! But then we have to take them out tonight. They need to be put through something more public!"

"Oh I like that!" I moan from inside Michael, "Offer these jerks' bodies up for use at every gay bar!"

"At every gas station!" Sam excitedly claps Paul's hands together.

"They can pound Michaels ass while Paul tongue-polishes their boots!"

"Come here!" Sam growls.

"Yes, sir."

I jump into Sam's arms! Well, Michael jumps into Paul's arms. As electric as it feels, I can constantly sense that we don't own the bodies we are in. We're just puppeteering them.

That thought makes me wonder if Michael or Paul can feel all this somewhere deep down. It's a fleeting thought, because I'm already lost in the experience of making out with the jerk of a stepfather while Sam enjoys playing with his bully of a brother.

God, these bodies are hot. By the time, Sam and I are done wearing them, Paul and Michael will be the hottest pair of messes in town...

[rea-grimm]

His clothes - Luffy, Sanji, Zoro

Dragon Luffy

It's okay if you want to borrow some of his stuff, but don't be surprised if he wants to borrow something of yours.

His hat is one of his treasures and he is just as careful about it.

You are always waiting for opportunities when you can borrow his hat without problems.

Luffy was sitting in his favourite spot on the bow of the ship when a strong wind blew his hat off his head - you managed to catch it - Luffy was right next to you and wanted to take it from you when you put it on your head.

"That's my hat," he said, tilting his head to the side.

"Can I borrow it for a moment?" you asked him sweetly, smiling at him. The way you laughed in his hat, he couldn't say no.

"Just for a while," he finally said, but you had to sit with him on the bow of the ship - he sat behind you, hugging you around the waist - that's how he could have you with his hat.

Corpse groom cook Sanji

He doesn't mind if you want to wear something of his because he thinks you look cute in his stuff and will be happy to buy you something to wear in the next town.

Sanji still has a ring with him that he is saving for his bride-to-be, which he has on display on his desk.

You didn't go to his room for a while when you noticed the ring, it immediately caught your attention and you had to try it on - the silver ring fit you like a glove.

Suddenly there was a scream on the deck, you ran there and completely forgot about the ring.

When things calmed down on board you decided to go help Sanji in the kitchen, he was always happy when you were there with him.

You were cooking together when Sanji noticed the ring and his cigarette almost fell out of his mouth.

At first, he'll think you're engaged to someone else, and he'll fall to his knees, that was a blow he didn't expect, he wants to know who stole you from him.

He takes your hand to beg you to change your mind when he notices it's his ring.

Instant change of mood, he has hearts in his eyes “That ring suits you so much!”, he's going to ask for your hand in marriage.

Either you accept it or reject him, it's up to you - if you reject him, expect a valley of tears - then you have to calm him down, which will make him happy because you care for him.

ely promise him that you won't marry him right away, but only later - this will give him the hope he needs and bet that he will start looking for the best ring in the next city.

Tiger Zoro

He has no problem lending you a coat when you're cold, but his pride must not suffer.

Sometimes you steal his chat when Zoro is sleeping and you're bored - you steal his coat, put a bandanna on your head and try his fighting poses with your weapons.

Zoro wakes up to the sound of laughter - still sleepy he finds himself being imitated in front of the others, he is startled when he notices that you have nothing on under his coat - he was instantly on his feet.

"End of the show," he said and he walked behind you and hugged you from behind with his hands covering your chest (even though you  didn't have anything on underneath you had everything under control)

“I'd like this as a private show,” he growled into your ear and you felt your cheeks flush as you knew full well what he meant as his tail wrapped around your leg.

Luffy Masterlist

Sanji Masterlist

Zoro Masterlist

[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.

[littlefireball]

I know you got a Seongwha and Yeosang request for F**k away the pain. But could you do the others too? Ik that is alot. But I'd like to see those

ahh okay 🤣but let me complete it slowly lol (sometimes im out of inspiration TT)

ᴊʜ|ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴛ (ᴍ)

F**k away the pain series: Yeosang, Seonghwa

ᴀɢᴇɴᴛ ᴊᴏɴɢʜᴏ x ᴀɢᴇɴᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ʙᴏᴛʜ ʜᴀꜱ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ ᴏɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ|ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.1ᴋ

Masterlist

What was worse than having period pain?You may say, having menstrual cramps during missions in the harsh winter. Fuck, it was so hurt. Despite the excruciating pain, you maintained your composure and remained dedicated to the task at hand.

Now you two stayed in the wooden house, not far from the enemy's base.

"We have to penetrate the enemy's encampment…"Jongho's calm instructions were lost on you as you traced the infiltration route on the map. The pain was too distracting, and you couldn't focus.

"Y/N? Are you even listening?" Jongho's voice broke through your haze, urging you back to the present.

"Huh?What?" you stuttered, feeling embarrassed. "What's wrong? Did something happen?" His brow furrowed, revealing a hint of impatience.

"It's just period pain," you sighed, feeling helpless. The ache surged once more, prompting you to clutch your abdomen, your complexion paling in an instant. "You need to rest," Jongho insisted. "I can handle the mission on my own." "No, I can't let you do that," you protested. "Alright, convince me how you can do it with period pain," Jongho challenged.

You groaned in agony as the pain once again gripped you, feeling as though a sharp blade had sliced through your stomach. He felt a pang of sorrow as he gazed upon your pallid complexion, unable to bring himself to continue speaking harshly.

"But you can't go out in this condition," he stated firmly. The two of you peered out the window. The unforgiving wind and snow raged on, creating a blinding white landscape. "Perhaps once the blizzard subsides, you'll feel better." "Alright." "Don't worry, I'll accompany you on the mission." Jongho hesitated at your words. Oh well, there's no way to carry it out in this weather anyway.

You remained curled up on the sofa, enveloped in the quilt, yearning for warmth to seep into your bones. Alas, the chill persisted, sending shivers down your spine. Perhaps, setting yourself ablaze would be the only solution.

"Still feeling cold?" he inquired. "I'm alright," you replied, attempting to mask your discomfort. "Don't pretend. Let me take care of you," he insisted, draping his coat over your shoulders. His masculine scent enveloped you, causing a fleeting moment of blush to grace your cheeks.

If only you could bask in his fragrance forever.

As he tended to the fire, the flickering flames cast a mesmerizing glow on his handsome features, captivating you entirely. "Do I truly look that handsome?" he teased, catching you off guard with his sudden question, leaving you blushing.

"Who said I am looking at you? I am looking at the fire." You pouted, looking away, not daring to meet his gaze. "Really? I don't mind you falling in love with my face." A mischievous smile danced on his lips as he found your reaction endearing. He took pleasure in teasing others, especially you.

"Feel better now?"You shook your head, the chill still lingering. "Perhaps you should move closer to the fire?" "I would move there if I could." "It's easy." "What?" His arms slid down to your inner knees, lifting you up effortlessly. "See?" He settled you on the ground slowly as if you were fragile goods. "Th─Thank you…" You two were so close, close enough to feel each other breathing. And, you swore that you saw him blush even though it was short-lived.

"Okay, rest well now. I gotta prepare the garment." You nodded in agreement as he ascended the stairs, leaving you in solitude in the parlor. Goodness, he was on the verge of losing composure when he was so near to you. 'Concentrate on the equipment, don't drift off…' He whispered to himself, slowly regaining composure from the recent panic.

Leaning against the wall, you were embraced by the warmth, causing drowsiness to wash over you. The sight returned to the scene of him carrying you in his arms, you could feel his breathing, heart beating, and warmth…Mustering up the courage, you leaned in to kiss his─ wait, why was there a burnt smell? You opened your eyes slowly and found your blanket was burning.

"Jong─Jongho!!" You put out the fire without a second thought, calling out for help. "What happened?" A thud rang as Jongho stormed out of the room, splashing the water in his hand directly on you when he saw the burning blanket. Fortunately, the fire was out but you were all wet.

"Brrrr" A shiver ran down your spine as you sneezed, causing the blood to spill out, leaving you frozen in place. He gazed at you with a sense of helplessness, unable to do anything but let out a heavy sigh. "Damn it…" You felt a wave of embarrassment as you remembered the intimate dream with him. "I'll fetch a towel for you," he said, breaking the silence. The pain once again tortured you since the sneezing and you got colder.

Another sneeze escaped your lips, causing you to shudder. My goodness, this was even more severe than the time you laid on the sofa. "You gotta change your clothes. They all wet." he remarked as he assisted you in drying off. "But first you have to leave the fire." As he dragged you, holding your hand, you winced at the sudden twinge of pain, prompting him to halt. "Did I hurt you? But I don't use too much force." His voice tingled with worries. "It seems to be getting worse…" You rested your head on the back of his hand, trying to catch your breath.

"Is that me causing you like this?Oh gosh, sorry." He knelt before you, a look of concern etched on his face. "What can I do for you?" "I need something hot…" "So, you need hot water?Or…?" "No." You grasped his hand just as he was about to fetch the hot water. "It's useless." "Maybe painkillers?" You tightened your hold, pausing for a moment to collect your thoughts before exhaling deeply. "There is a better and faster way to reduce the pain…" "Hm? What?" "Can…can you…ah nothing!" NO WAY!HOW COULD YOU ASK HIM TO FUCK YOU?YOU WERE JUST PARTNERS BUT NOT COUPLES!

"What?Do you need my dick to help you?" He chuckled, thinking it was only a joke. "But what if I say yes." The two of you shared awkward glances in silence, your faces flushed like ripe tomatoes. "Are you serious…?" Jongho murmured, breaking the silence. "I…I'm not kidding…" You trailed off, biting your lips and lowering your head. You were too shy to ask him to fuck you directly.

"Can you take it?I may not be that gentle." he raised your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his own. "Do me a favor." His lips pressed against yours upon hearing your answer, making your eyes widen in surprise. His tongue delicately danced within your mouth, intertwining and caressing each other's essence, as if two flames melting together, burning with passion and burning their souls.

Your kisses intensified again after he unbuckled his belt. "You have no idea how long I have waited for this." He whispered against your skin as he explored every part of you; first your earlobes, then slowly descending, burying deep in your neck, leaving marks with gentle sucking sounds.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, his erect member was deeply buried between your thighs. "Jjong…" He silenced you with a fervent kiss, causing you to gasp for air as if it had been stolen from your very being. The aroma of his presence enveloped you, overwhelming your every sense. "So that's what you mean you need something hot. It's quite hot indeed." You bit his lips as a non-verbal refute, pouting. He must tease you with this joke afterward.

"Oh, an angry kitten." He bit you back before leaning over you. Your head rested on the hard wooden ground and he knelt in front of you, pulling your pants down but he hesitated once he saw the blood. "Hmm…You can stop if you don't want to." You said with covering your face. "Just wait for a second." You could hear him leave and come back within a minute. You thought he just brought you a cup of water and painkillers as he couldn't accept it. But he gripped your thighs and placed the towel under your hips instead of running away.

"I don't want others to find us making love here." You smacked at his thighs slightly as he let out a smirk while a blush creeped up your face. Sometimes you just wanted him to be silent for the whole day. He guided his member that wrapped a condom up to your entrance, leaning over your body to allow you wrapping your legs around his waist. Both of your fingers intertwined as he eased into you slowly.

You threw your head at the back as the weird sensation washed over you. And Jongho, also, being surrounded by hot blood was not that easy to accept. You two stayed still as a non-verbal adjustment;his size was a bit too big for you and your blood made him feel uneasy. But the pleasure started to take over as time flew.

Jongho found he could move in and out effortlessly, not to mention to reach your sensitive spot. "Oh my god. It feels good." He thrusted in a steady and rhythmic peace, hitting all the right places, not to mention his ball snap into your ass every time. Falling his head into your crook of neck, he brought your arms to wrap around his broad shoulders, allowing him to give you a hard thrust over and over again.

The grip on his nape tightened, causing your nail to dig into his skin, leaving clear marks. He hissed at the pain but he found pleasure among this. Slowly, the pleasure took over both of your minds and you two moaned at high-pitched. Locking with your lips again, his tongue seeking entrance with a hint of aggression, a silent declaration of his claim over you.

You moaned in his mouth with each hard thrust of his cock, your whole body trembling from his movement. He became rougher and rougher, slapping into you without mercy. Your wrists were pinned against the cold floor, unable to move. "Jongho…jong…too fast….!" "Just hold on." He fucked you as fast as possible, his pelvis rubbed against your clit each time he bumped into you.

"Fuck it." Jongho let out a deep growl as he was on the edge and you also. A knot was formed in your stomach, urging you to release. You rolled your hips to push yourself closer to him. "Stay still. I'm close." He placed your leg on his shoulder for deeper thrusting, this new angle brought you to the climax. With a few slow but powerful thrusts, both of you came. Instead of pulling out, Jongho leaned over you again to cup your face, making out with you gently.

"Hot enough?" A grin played on his lips after he broke the kiss. "Yah." You caressed his round cheeks, letting out a light chuckle. "Thank you. I love you, jjong." "As a co-worker?" "No." You sat up straight, pulling him into a sudden kiss. "It's a partner." "What?You mean my girlfriend?When did you become my girlfriend?"He teased, wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you firmly. "Do you want to be irresponsible?" You replied. "You should be the one who takes responsibility, Y/N. I helped you during your period."

"Then I punish you for being my girlfriend and take responsibility." "Sure." You leaned down to kiss him again.

The snowstorm ceased, and you found yourself in the most exquisite state. Undoubtedly, the task was not overly challenging, and the two of you managed to complete it effortlessly. Unexpectedly, Jongho has become remarkably affectionate and protective since that day. You had always believed he was not particularly fond of physical closeness, yet now he frequently embraces you from behind and carries you around, seemingly fearful that others might not recognize you as his significant other.

"Babe?" He murmured against your ears as he rested his head on your shoulder, his arms sneaking down to your waist. "What?" Your focus was still fixed on the phone. "Are you cold?" "Cold?The heater is 28 degrees." You looked at the heater with confusion, holding his hand to check if he's cold. "You are warmer than me, jjong." "Then it means you need something hot." "Wait─jjong!" Before you could say something, he pounced onto you and took away your phone, claiming you into a hungry kiss.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! I love your writing style and I'd love to see your take on the villain's backstory as they tell the tale of their parent getting murdered by the king for having or using magic when it's banned. Have a lovely day :)

"Are you traumatised, little princeling?" the villain asked.

The teasing nickname felt more like a nightmare now; the memories awash with betrayal and gore.

They villain settled themselves down on the throne; all elegant menace and crackling power. The crown that formed on their head was a thing of magic, shimmering and uncanny, swallowing light. It matched the pitiless hollows of the villain's eyes.

The prince's jaw clenched, his breathing hard and ragged. Bile clawed up his throat. He pushed himself shakily up off the ground, onto his knees. He was surprised he got that far. His whole body trembled.

But everyone else...

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "You got what you wanted. Kill me too."

The villain smiled, faintly, and considered him. There wasn't so much as a speck of blood on them but the polished throne room floor and the prince's hands were slick with it.

"You didn't answer my question, little princeling."

The prince bared his teeth, but couldn't quite master diplomacy in that moment. It was all he could do not to scream, or cry. "Who wouldn't be? You - you-" He couldn't quite articulate the horror of it. He closed his eyes but the memories flashed through his mind all the same.

His body moving through the throne room on someone else's command. A puppet of a prince. A slaughterer.

The magic had felt so good while it ensnared him, even as it was saturated by the nauseous inability to stop, the terror, the merciless guilt.

"You're a monster," the prince rasped.

His hands curled into fists. In an instant he was on his feet after all, body broken, sword in hand as he charged towards the villain.

He got as far as getting the tip of his blade to the villain's throat, and then his body locked. He could not kill nor retreat, nor do much of anything at all. Frozen.

The villain blinked at him, lazily almost, as they tipped their head back like the sword was actually a threat. No. Not lazy. It affected laziness, but it was...

"I was traumatized," the villain said, in the same light and mocking tone of voice as before, "when your father killed mine."

Their eyes met.

The prince willed his hand to move, to cut, to kill.

He didn't. He couldn't.

"And that excuses all of this?" the prince managed. "I am not my father. I am not - I wasn't even alive - I would have -".

The villain could have waited, could have let an old man die with some dignity, could have taken a higher ground, and the world would have changed. The change didn't have to be taken in blood and pain.

The prince didn't even agree with the magic laws. Ever since he'd met the monster in front of him, he'd...

He'd heard bits of the story before. Not the king, but some random attackers in some village, and how the villain had escaped only because the attackers had thought them a child dead already. How the magic had saved them.

The prince had thought of phoenixes, then. He should have thought of the ashes.

The villain flicked a dismissive hand and the magic curling around the prince yanked his arms back behind his back, roughly, forcing him to let go of the blade. It hit the ground with a clatter.

The prince landed on his knees, a stifled cry of pain on his lips, tears stinging in his eyes. Not for the hurt of it, not for that small bit of control, but all the rest.

The villain settled a clean hand atop the prince's disheveled head, like a cruel and gentle benediction.

"Of course," the villain said, as if the prince hadn't spoken, "he didn't do it personally. A man like your father never bloodied his own hands when he could use someone else's. It was his guards. He..." The villain wet his lips, "watched though. I think it made him feel strong, killing magic users. A man-god, clinging to his false power, when he'd never even tasted what real magic felt like. Real power."

The villain's gaze flicked almost idly around the room, around all the royal guard - the prince's friends and mentors and protectors - who the prince's puppet body had killed.

The prince swallowed. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't.

The magic, that taste of real magic, still swirled around him. Oppressive and heady and awful and enticing. Dangerous.

The villain's attention fixed on him again. They caressed the prince's cheek as the prince shuddered.

"So, you understand, that if this was personal, it was only personal in the way that it was personal to your father," the villain said softly. "You were born to this and it was always going to be your fate."

"Then kill me for what I was born for. Be just like he was!"

"I did think you were just like him when we first met." The villain's hand moved down further still, wrapping almost curiously around the prince's throat. "But you've proven quite interesting. Not enough to change anything, but..." the villain shrugged.

The prince flinched, recoiled. "I wish I'd been more like him. Then I would have killed you before you ever did this. Before you even got the chance!"

The villain laughed. The sound didn't reach those eyes. The prince had seen the sadness in them, the loss, and he'd thought...well, it all felt stupid what he'd thought, with all the devastation behind them, with that terrible crown twinkling abyssal night atop of the villain's head.

The prince had been told since the moment he was born that magic was dangerous, that magic users were too dangerous to live. He'd thought there was a middle ground. He'd thought that it couldn't be all of them.

Maybe it wasn't all of them. But maybe it only took one. Maybe that was what his father had known when he'd ordered the deaths of two palace gardeners and their five year old.

The hate tasted like rot and hellfire in his mouth, but it felt better than the grief. The howling pit of what he'd done. Of what the villain had made him do.

"I should have killed you." The tears came then; wracking, poisonous things that he didn't want the villain to see and enjoy, but which he couldn't quite stop. "I should have killed you before you killed all of them."

"You know, my little princeling." The villain pressed the prince's head against their lap; a gross caricature of comfort, and bowed their head down too to whisper. "I remember thinking exactly the same thing. Look how far we've both come."

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

THERES A BOMB STRAPPED TO MY CHEST AND IF YOU DONT TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED W ZEPHRIT THE NIGHT BEFORE IN YOUR COFFEE SHOP AU IT WILL EXPLODE AHHHHHHHHHH

Well apparently threats + enthusiasm are the best motivators ever, so, here you go (I might have been a bit carried away) :

Honestly, Ifrit shouldn't be here. It's late, both he and Ivy have a long shift tomorrow, they should get a good night of sleep to face the next day in the best conditions.

Key word : should.

Unfortunately, neither Ifrit nor Ivy are known to do what's good for them, and Pebble is half their self control. Knowing the man, that is a concerning fact.

Anyway, Pebble's not here, they're catching up with Aether and Dew, which means they end up at a bar, with the objective of getting thoroughly wasted.

Well, not Ivy ; he offered to be the one driving them home, sticking to his soda, though he does make a point to pour it in an empty shot glass and down it at the same time as the rest of them.

Ifrit, knowing he's a bit of a lightweight, tries to take it slow ; he still wants to remember this night, and he'd rather avoid the worst of the hangover that will surely make his shift that much more tiring.

There's a bit of a blank in the conversation, Aether ordering new drinks, Dew out for a quick smoke, so Ifrit let his eyes wander in the room.

His gaze lands on someone sitting alone at a table, stomach immediately flipping. Long hair falling on their shoulders, a Nightmare On Elm Street tee tucked in baggy jeans, held on their hip by a thick belt with a shiny buckle that catches the dim lights. But what really gets Ifrit is the way that person is looking at him, unabashedly staring with a little smirk, lazily twirling their cane in their hand.

Fuck.

For a while, they both only do that. They stare. Check each other out. Ifrit knows he looks good, tight jeans on and tank top threatening to reveal his chest every time he shifts even the slightest bit, but oh does the burn of that person's eyes on him feel like the biggest compliment he ever received.

Then, the stranger leans back in their seat, making a come hither gesture, which really seals the deal. Ifrit is on his feet in and instant, color rising to his cheeks. He hears Ivy sniggering and wishing him good luck, but it's muted, distant, all of Ifrit's attention on the person cocking their head at him.

He's standing in front of them in three strides.

Up close they're even more captivating. Freckles, creases around their eyes, a small scar on their cheekbone. Older than Ifrit is, but he wouldn't be able to know by how much ; all he knows is that there is a hint of grey at their temple and that it's unreasonably hot.

"Like what you see ?"

Oh, fuck, if the croon of their voice doesn't fuel the fire in Ifrit's guts.

"Sure do. Could ask you the same question, stranger," he manages to choke out, though it doesn't have the teasing lilt he usually so easily injects in his flirty exchanges.

The person chuckles, sizing Ifrit up with something almost predatory in their eyes. There's an easy confidence, something sure and steady and...authoritary to them that makes Ifrit want to drop on his knees right here right now.

"Zephyr. Name's Zephyr, sweet thing. And yes, I do enjoy the sight of you and your big doe eyes...?"

"Ifrit," he answers, voice unsteady, face burning, getting stupidly worked up by a basic conversation. But it's the way Zephyr watches him, like a hawk ready to sink its talons in soft flesh.

Ifrit would let them.

"Now I'd love to keep talking to you, don't get me wrong, but I also might keel over if I don't get my hands on you in the next minute or so," Zephyr conversationally states.

"Bathroom ?" Ifrit wheezes, itching to taste them, to feel them.

Zephyr grabs their cane with one hand, Ifrit's necklace with the other, and makes a beeline for said bathroom.

It's baffling, really, how easily Ifrit let himself be led like this, following behind like an obedient pup, struck by the overwhelming need to be good, to please Zephyr every way he can.

The door of the stall slams shut behind both of them, lock clicking. Surprisingly, Ifrit feels a bit intimidated now that he's alone with Zephyr. He's done nastier shit, in riskier and more embarrassing settings, but somehow, being cramped in a narrow space with Zephyr specifically has his nerves acting up.

That is until Zephyr cups his neck to guide him into a heated kiss, all apprehension bleeding out of Ifrit as he leans into it, backing Zephyr against the door, gropping their hips.

"How do you- how do you want me," Ifrit manages to pant against their mouth, distracted by the feeling of hands slipping under his shirt, pawing at his belly, then up, up to his chest, ripping a whimper out of him when deft fingers pay special attention to his nipples.

Zephyr seems to consider as they lick a nasty stripe up Ifrit's neck, reaching the shell of his ear just in time to whisper right against it.

"I want you on your knees."

Well, Ifrit's been ready for that for long enough that he immediately goes down, barely needing to be guided by the hand settling in his hair. His own find Zephyr's thighs, anchoring themselves there while he looks up, aware that their view probably consists of flushed cheeks, ruffled hair, slack jaw and glazed over eyes.

It seems to do the trick, too, because Ifrit can see them fattening up in their jeans, hips jerking slightly. After another glance up to confirm Zephyr is in, Ifrit reaches up, undoing their belt in a record time despite his shaky hands.

"Do this often ?" Zephyr teases, only chuckling at the embarrassed way Ifrit ducks his head down. "It's alright, no shame in it. You are a sight on your knees, sweet thing."

And, okay, Ifrit has heard that before, because he is pretty and fully dedicated to the blow jobs he gives - his oral fixation is to blame for that - but wow, the way Zephyr says it, phrases it, has him throbbing in his pants.

"Now be good and get me in that pretty mouth of yours, mmh ?"

Ifrit might very well pass out.

He does what he's asked, because fuck his need to please is back tenfold. Also, he might die if he doesn't get Zephyr's cock down his throat right this instant. The second their dick is freed, Ifrit takes it as far as he can, gag reflex immediately challenged.

His jaw will ache soon, there's already instinctive tears collecting at his waterline, but Zephyr's heady taste finally coats Ifrit's tongue and they make a low sound as their head thud back against the door, so it's all more than worth it.

Ifrit doesn't waste time, bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks like rent is due. He's good at this, he knows it, and he'll be damned if he doesn't make sure Zephyr knows that by the time they're done.

The hand in his hair tightens, tugging not so gently, sparks of pain only serving to make Ifrit's cock twitch while he extracts as much bitten off moans, gasps and grunts as he can from Zephyr, who's clearly getting lost in the feeling of it all.

Their hips twitch forward when Ifrit swirls his tongue around the head, and he pulls away just enough to whisper in a raspy, strained voice.

"You can fuck my mouth, if you want to."

Zephyr's eyes actually roll back at that.

"Oh, sweetheart," they rasp, grabbing his jaw to shove their cock down his throat again, holding Ifrit still that way, one hand on his face, the other in his hair.

And, to Ifrit's delight, they are not being gentle, snapping their hips forward with hurried urgency, blindingly chasing their pleasure. Despite that, when the tears finally spill from Ifrit's eyes, they wipe them away with their thumb, mumbling a string of praises that warms something in his chest.

"Good boy, taking me so well- fuck, so good, that mouth of yours..."

It doesn't take much longer for Zephyr's rythm to falter as they warn in a breathless voice.

"Gonna cum Ifrit- tell me- where-"

Ifrit is given some leverage to pull away, just barely, to answer.

"In my mouth, please-"

Zephyr is leaning most of his weight against the door now, heaving a sigh at the answer, before thrusting back into Ifrit's mouth, once twice-

With a barely stiffled moan, they come down Ifrit's throat, not letting go of the vice grip they have on his hair until they've come down from their orgasm.

"Oh, fuck, sweetheart," they hum when Ifrit swallows, maintaining eye contact the whole time. It's dizzying, the arousal flowing through him, the taste of Zephyr lingering, the pride of seeing them wrecked that way, barely able to stand on their own, hair plastered to their face, panting. All because of Ifrit.

He's yanked out of his thoughts by the toe of Zephyr's shoe pressing against his crotch, making Ifrit jolt and whine.

"Such a good little thing like you," Zephyr coos, regaining some composure, surely you deserve a reward, mmh ?

Ifrit's out of words, too turned on and throat far too wrecked to do anything else but nod furiously.

"Up you go then," Zephyr hums, offering Ifrit a hand to tug him back on his feet. He let them turn him toward the toilet seat, braces a hand against the wall when Zephyr crowds behind him, working his pants open.

The relief of having his cock, hard and leaking, finally pulled out already has Ifrit weak in the knees.

Then Zephyr wraps a hand around it, breathing in his ear.

"Let's keep this clean, mmh ?"

While he would like to answer, Ifrit doesn't even get to think about what to say before Zephyr starts pumping him, nice and slow, paying extra attention to the head. His eyes roll back, head hanging down, mouth opening around a silent moan.

Truthfully, it takes an embarrassingly short time for Ifrit to start whimpering, already so worked up from just blowing Zephyr, but they don't seem to think any less of him for that.

"There, there, feels good, uh ? I know, I know pretty boy, being so good for me shh, sh, there you go, you close, uh ? I can tell you are. It's okay, it's good."

With so much encouragement, and the feeling of a tight fist around his cock, Ifrit is done for. A few more stroke, and he shoots in the toilet, babbling and half-sobbing the whole time.

Zephyr, turns out, really is perfect, because they stick around, help Ifrit wipe what little mess they made - really, they've been surprisingly clean, overall - and most importantly, they check on Ifrit with a softness laced with an unwavering determination to make sure he is okay that makes his stomach flip again.

So Ifrit let them grab his jaw, gently but firmly, inspect his face, adjust his clothes, ask if he's okay - and returns the favor.

It's only when he's back at his table with a far too nosy Ivy trying to get details, Zephyr long out of the bar, though they didn't leave without one last kiss, that Ifrit realizes he forgot to ask for their number.

Fuck.

Well, you never know what might happen, uh ? Small world and all that.

[isabella-kr]

Can I request a fic?

So I have chronic pain. It is literally everywhere that has joints or muscle but it is the worst in the lower back, neck, shoulders and hands. Sometimes it gets so bad I can't move without wanting to scream. And Sometimes my joints lock or my muscles seize and I literally can't move at at.

Rubbing (not that I can reach it myself) or heating it helps, but I have never been able to get full relief.

Anyways, I was wondering if you could write for a reader with something like this? (Or just normal chronic pain)

Maybe he didnt know about it (I tend to not share as it makes people pity me) till the reader has a bad day or locks up in front of them (sometimes my knees just buckle and I drop) (and then can't move for like thirty minutes) (it sucks) .

Or just anything really, I'm having a bad day and would love the comfort.

All the 141 or just price and/or Konig. I'd be happy with just about anything.

If you don't feel comfortable writing this that's okay too :)

I'm so sorry you're going through this :( I can't imagine how difficult it must be to be in pain so much. I hope I did your request justice. Sending you all the love <33

Also, I know you didn't request everyone, but when I write Headcannons, I tend to include every character on my Masterlist. It's just so people don't have to send in the same request, but for different characters :))) I hope that's okay!!!

Pains

Synopsis: Living with chronic pains was difficult, but they are always there to help you through them

Pairing: Task Force 141, Los Vaqueros, Valeria, Gromsko & Konig x Reader (2nd Person so no pronouns used)

Warnings: None

General Masterlist I COD:MWII Masterlist

John Price

The first time John had seen your knees lock up, was when he was ready to have a go at you for missing a very important meeting

None of the boys knew where you were, and as they went by, and you still haven't shown up for the briefing, he began to grow more and more agitated

Needless to say, once the meeting was over, he was sure to go look for you and give you a piece of his mind

But when he found you sitting on a bench with pain visible on your tear-stained face, all anger left his body

His steps were quiet when he approached you, his eyes growing soft as he crouched down in front of you

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice gentler than normal

"My knees," you managed to speak up, eyes clenching shut as the pain refused to subside, "They locked and I-"

"It's alright," one of his hands moved to your leg, sending you a questioning look

You nodded, and he placed his hand on your knee with a thin smile

He was careful massaging the area around your knee, fingers moving up and down along your skin in an attempt to help your muscles relax

It took some time, but once the pain in one of your knees began to give way, he moved on to the other, his touches remaining just as careful as they were at the beginning

"Thank you," you told him honestly, taking in a deep breath, "I'm sorry for missing the meeting."

"Don't worry about it," he assured you, reaching for your elbow to help you stand, "I'll brief you in now, that okay?"

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Ghost was a stern lieutenant and most, who did not know his as well as those on his team, would even describe him as cold

You knew different, however.

Not just from the way he cared for his team in his own way, always making sure every member was alive an well, but also because you've experienced his care first-hand

You've never told him about your pains, and you weren't planning to. You preferred keeping it to yourself. He didn't need to worry, and you didn't need the pity.

But when your lower back began to cause nothing but trouble, it made it difficult to hide your pains from the rest of the squad

You were sitting on a chair, with his hand on your back when the lieutenant entered the room

Your posture straightened in an instant, and although you tried not to show the pain on your face, your expression seemed to betray you

"Is it your back again?"

What? How did he-

Ghost was observant, and perhaps you should have known he would figure it out without you having to tell him

Beneath that cold exterior, he really did care, whether you liked it or not

You nodded, though hesitantly.

"Come here," he ordered, grabbing a chair and forcing you to sit in front of him

You were about to ask him what he was doing before you felt his gloved hands on your lower back, his fingers massaging your sore muscles in gentle, yet firm circles

It was like he knew exactly what to do; how to move his fingers to help you rid of the pain

And after some time, the rubbing really did help

the pain began to subside, and you felt like you could move properly again

"Thank you," you told him, a grateful smile on your face

He just nodded, patting your shoulder as he pushed himself back on his feet, "Don't mention it."

John 'Soap' MacTavish

Soap was good at reading those around him

You didn't have to tell him something was wrong for him to know

He could see it from the way you carried yourself, and from the smile that didn't quite reach your eyes

As such, it didn't take him long to figure out what was wrong

You were about to begin your sparring session when you painfully rubbed the back of your neck

It had been a pain since that morning, making it difficult to move your head without letting out harsh hisses

You were dreading the sparring session, certain it was only going to make it worse. But you weren't about to mention it to him; to cancel your sparring session and have him pity you. No. You could do this.

"What's wrong with your neck?" he asked, tilting his head curiously

"Oh," You hummed, "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"I get them, too, you know," he suddenly told you, "The pains - in my neck, especially. Don't think they're as bad as yours though."

You sent him a questioning look, but only shook your head when you realised you already knew the answer. There was no way he hadn't noticed how uncomfortable you sometimes were, he just didn't mention it. For your sake.

He moved behind you and placed his hands on your neck

You were hesitant at first - wanting to pull away - but when his fingers dug into your muscles, you let him

It felt nice. His fingers were firm, and yet also careful to not cause you more pain instead of helping you get rid of it

You let out a small hum when you felt the pain slowly leaving - allowing you to move your head once again

It was like a breath of fresh air, and when soap felt you relaxing in his hold, he finally let go

"Let's take it easy today," he told you before sending you a wink, "You can beat my arse tomorrow instead."

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Gaz was emotionally aware

He could sense your sour mood even if you didn't outwardly express it

He could see the way the corners of your lips curled downward when you thought no one was looking

He could see the way your eyes clenched shut when another wave of pain stiffened your shoulders

He could see how tense you seemed to be, even if you did your best to hide it from others

He knew no matter how much you wished he didn't

It was late in the evening, and you were sat outside rolling your shoulders every couple of minutes

The pains was unbearable, and you couldn't help but let a stray tear fall down your hot cheek

His footsteps were quiet - almost silent - when he approached you

His eyes showed no pity, but rather concern for his friend

"You alright?" he asked, sitting down beside you

You wiped the tear off your cheek and nodded

You were sat in silence for a short while, not a word muttered between you both

And the pain only kept getting worse

"Can I help?"

"What?"

"Can I help?" he gestured at your shoulders, "Just... just turn around, okay?"

You wanted to say no; to tell him to stop. But you couldn't massage the muscles by yourself, and the offer was too tempting

And so, you turned, with your back now facing him

He got to work quick.

His fingers were on your shoulders, thumbs digging into your tense muscles

His hands were like magic, and your shoulders were slowly but surely growing less painful as the time went by

By the time he was done, you were feeling miles better. Maybe the pain wasn't fully gone, but it was much more bearable than it was before

"Thanks, Gaz."

He smiled, patting your back, "'Course."

Alejandro Vargas

Alejandro could tell something was off when you entered his office with a sour look on your face

You quickly placed the paperwork on his desk, and was ready to head back out when he stopped you

You hesitantly sat on the chair on the other side of his desk and tried your hardest to not give away your discomfort

Your neck had been on fire all day, and as the hours ticked by, it only seemed to get worse

Alejandro was an observant superior, and he knew whenever one of his soldiers was in pain, or even just uncomfortable

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you

He had that certain look on his face - the type that told you lying to him wouldn't do you any good. Not that he would believe you if you did lie to him.

"It's my neck, sir," you told him, "I get those really sharp pains sometimes."

He listened intently as you explained the extend of your pains; how they would interfere with your every-day life, and how the pain could quickly become unbearable

He told you to wait as he left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts

You were rubbing your neck when he suddenly returned, and before you could turn to look at him, a hot, moist cloth was placed around your neck

"Sit here until it gets better..." he told you, "At least a little."

You only nodded, allowing the warmth to seep into your sore muscles and slowly ease the pain that has been haunting you since that morning

Rodolfo 'Rudy' Parra

Rudy was just as emotionally intelligent as Gaz, perhaps even more so

He could see you were in pain from the moment he saw you that day

Your fingers kept locking, and even clenching your hand into a fist caused you unbearable pain

Holding things wasn't much easier, to the point you had to cut your shooting practise early that day, which is when he decided to approach you

You sat on the ground with a frustrated huff, clenching and unclenching your fingers in a failing attempt to make your joints feel better - to be rid of the pain that was making your day a nightmare

He wordlessly sat beside you, sending you the sweet smile he so often did

"Here," he muttered, his hand reaching for yours in a gentle manner, "Let me help."

You were too tired - too frustrated - to argue, or even pull your hand away

You let him word on your aching bones

And work he did. The pads of your fingers massaged your palm, moving up and down to ease the tension that resided in your muscles

And although the pain was still there, it slowly became less sharp.

The soft massage was helping, and you couldn't help but send him a grateful smile

"Come," he eventually spoke, "Lets wrap your hands in something warm, it should help."

At times like these, you were glad he was as caring as he was

Valeria Garza

Working with a Cartel was hard

The job itself was a nightmare, with your life being on the line practically 24/7, but with your frequent, sharp pains your work only became more difficult

You did your best to not let it show. You didn't need pity from men who killed on the daily, and would most likely use your condition against you when it could work in their benefit

You were doing a great job hiding it from everyone, but you might have underestimated just how observant she was

Your knees have been killing you that day, every step causing a wave of pain throughout your body. You wanted nothing more than to sit down, or better yet lay down and take some time off

But this wasn't the type of job you could call in sick to. You couldn't call your cartel boss and them them you were feeling under the weather

You had to be there, whether you wanted to or not

She pulled you aside at one point, taking you to a secluded room under the pretense of wanting to discuss some serious matters with you

You followed. Of course you did, how could you not

She forced you to sit down one one of the chairs, and whilst you were relieved to finally have a small break, you did not let it show

She moved wordlessly around the room, but you didn't dare let your eyes follow her.

Not even when you heard water running, quiet curses leaving her lips when it no doubt splashed on her shirt

When she moved to stand in front of you, she had two wet towels in her hands, her face as stoic as ever when she told you to roll your trousers up

Weird request, but you obliged

Once they were rolled up just above your knees, she placed the towels over them, allowing the warmth to relax your muscles and ease the pain in your joints

"Stay here," she told you, "Until you feel better."

Gromsko

Gromsko is a medic. He can tell you're in pain, even when you do your best to hide it from him and the rest of your squad

He can see the way your brows crease in pain, and the way your roll your shoulders in an attempt to rid yourself of the growing tension

The harsh pain made it difficult to do the simplest of task. Pick up a gun? Too painful. Train? Too painful. Make some tea? Hell, even that was a nightmare

He approached you when you were in the kitchen, and promptly asked you to follow him

You did as you were told, entering a secluded room where he sat you on a chair

You looked at him confused, but did as you were told nevertheless. The look on his face told you not to argue with him at that moment

He moved behind you and placed what felt like a heating pad on your left shoulder

The warm was a welcome feeling against your sore muscles, but when his fingers began to apply pressure to your other shoulder, you couldn't help but close your eyes in relief

His fingers worked like magic against your muscles, rubbing them generously to ease the pain that made your day a living nightmare

"Better?" he asked with a concerned look

You nodded, replying with a quiet hum

He smiled happily in return, switching the heating pad so that it now rested against your already-massaged shoulder as he worked on the other one

"Thank you," you mumbled

"No worries."

König

This man is a silent observer

He kept to himself most of the time, which actually allowed him much unnecessary knowledge on the people he worked with

They talked loud, and it was often that he heard things he didn't necessarily want to know about

Most of the information was useless, but when it came to his friends - people he actually cared about - his skills were more than useful

He could tell something was wrong before you even sat in front of him

He didn't say anything, but he did not pull his eyes away from you either

When you grabbed onto your fork, and your brows creased in pain, he already knew what the matter was

He knew about your pains better than anyone

You tried to keep this information from him at first, but since he practically figured it out on his own, there was no point in keeping this from him any longer

Thankfully, his eyes didn't hold the pity you were afraid they would hold

Instead, they were supportive, often concerned when you fell to your knees writhing in pain, but never pitiful

Once lunch was finally over, he gestured for you to follow him, and he led you to a bench outside - in the warm, fresh air

He had your hands in his in an instant, his fingers rubbing firm circles into your muscles and joints

After many times of helping you through the pains, he knew exactly where to press, where to push, and where to rub to ease the tension in your bones

"Thank you," you had to tell him, grateful for always being there to help

He smiled -not that you could see his mouth, but you did see the way his eyes crinkled in the corners

"Of course!"

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

birthday countdown 2024, day 7: bodyswap snippet

it's my birthday next week! and while i'd love to have a new fic to share with you on the day, the fact is i don't have anything ready to post, unless you count the short little notfics i throw out now and then—and if i shine one of those up, it's more of a present for my ao3 subscribers than for y'all.

but i do have a lot of works in progress, so i thought i'd share a couple snippets from my wips here on tumblr!

today, i have for you a bit of mihawk pov from the shuggy bodyswap fic, tentatively titled let's exchange the experience:

Mihawk set the flat of Yoru under Buggy’s chin and lifted, and this pressure he could not use his powers to get away from.  He raised his head up, staring at Mihawk without a trace of fear in his eyes.  He was defiant, and furious, and… amused? Mihawk knew those eyes. Those weren’t Buggy the Clown’s eyes.

(about 1k below the cut)

Bad enough to be associated with Buggy the Clown on paper.  Worse still for the posters, newspapers, and gossip to suggest he was subordinate to that clown.  And to be surrounded by his garish aesthetic at every turn—well, that was beyond words.  It was too awful to be described.  But somehow, being forced to participate in that ridiculous treasure hunt… that was the worst thing yet.

Fortunately, his co-conspirator in this little operation seemed to be fully in agreement with Mihawk.  It was with no small amount of pleasure that he watched Crocodile shove the clown face-first into the carpet, the heel of his shoe grinding down on Buggy’s skull and forcing his nose down and out of sight.

Mihawk briefly fantasized about leaving them like this, about smothering the thorn in his side until it was no longer his problem.  Alas, it wasn’t to be.  As trying as Buggy was—and he was very, very trying—he did have his uses.  When Crocodile lifted his leg to get a better angle for the next round of attacks, Mihawk interceded.

“Remember,” he said, the blade of Yoru all that separated Crocodile’s ire from Buggy’s body, “he still has a purpose to serve.”

Crocodile chewed on his cigar furiously for a moment. “You sure about that?” he asked.  They could still hear the ecstatic cheering echoing from across the island; Buggy’s loyal followers, inspired by his ridiculous declaration of intent to acquire the One Piece.  Almost certainly the biggest waste of time and money Buggy could have thought of for Cross Guild—and with the numbers on his side, there was no way they were getting out of it.  “If I haven’t reached my limit by now, I don’t know where it is.”

“We’ll know when he’s outlived his usefulness,” Mihawk said, staring Crocodile in the eye, “when both of us are too furious to hold back.”

“’Ppreciate… your restraint…” Buggy mumbled around a mouthful of bloody carpet, struggling to get to his knees.

Mihawk had Yoru’s edge against his neck in an instant.  “Don’t sass me, clown,” he said, walking a slow circle around him, until he was at Buggy’s back and by Crocodile’s side.  “I’m not advocating for your life here—just against your death.”

“The nuances are beyond his comprehension, I suspect,” Crocodile muttered under his breath, giving one last kick to the clown that knocked him flat on his stomach again.  “But you’re right,” he said, acknowledging Mihawk’s point.  “It’s too early to give in to such petty impulses.  And besides… if I’m to have any hope of my plans coming to fruition, this childish little venture may provide a decent smokescreen.”

Buggy made another muffled comment, but he seemed to have given up on trying to stand.  His shoulders shook as he sniffled—ugh, was he going to start crying again?  The emotionality repulsed Mihawk, but he wasn’t about to withdraw.  Not until he was certain the clown had conceded—and what had become clear today was that, so long as he was making smart comments, he hadn’t fully given up.  Buggy’s shoulders went stiff, then spasmed, and Mihawk realized he’d given the clown too much credit.  It was only a sneeze.

On the far side of the room, the former senior officers of Buggy’s Delivery, now occupying reduced positions in Cross Guild, went silent.  They exchanged indecipherable looks, then turned as one to stare at Buggy.

Buggy pushed himself up on his elbows, saying, “Oh, ow, that smarts.  Did things really need to come to this?  Surely…” He turned his head and froze, that bulbous nose not half an inch from Yoru’s blade.  His eyes flicked up to meet Mihawk’s, and there was something wrong about them.  “Surely, Hawkeyes, we could have come to some kind of an understanding without things getting… violent.”

“You’re the one undermining the understanding we already had in place, clown,” Crocodile griped, stepping forward and squatting down to talk to Buggy on his level.  Raising his golden hook to press against Buggy’s cheek, he slid it back into his hair and got the hook thoroughly tangled there.  He yanked, to pull Buggy’s head back, and said, “How quickly you forget—” before his words fell away.

Because Buggy’s head had not been pulled back; his hair was still tangled around Crocodile’s hook, but it was a free-floating piece, chopped free by Buggy’s Devil Fruit powers.  And his eyes…

Mihawk set the flat of Yoru under Buggy’s chin and lifted, and this pressure he could not use his powers to get away from.  He raised his head up, staring at Mihawk without a trace of fear in his eyes.  He was defiant, and furious, and… amused?

Mihawk knew those eyes.

Those weren’t Buggy the Clown’s eyes.

“I was wrong,” he said to Crocodile, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him away from the impossible thing before them.  “You should have killed him.”

“Oh?”  Crocodile glanced between Mihawk and the blue-haired man on the floor.  “Why the change of heart, Hawkeyes?”

“That isn’t Buggy the Clown,” he said.

They watched as the man carefully got to his knees and turned to face them.  He sat before Mihawk and Crocodile in a casual, sprawling posture that still managed to radiate unbelievable power.  His jaw shifted, and without breaking eye contact he spat out a broken tooth.  “Gee,” the man with Red-Haired Shanks’ fearless eyes asked, voice almost cheery, “what gave me away?”

[dsireland86]

Take Me First PT. 2 (Never Know)

(Prequel for Noah in The Things We Could Never Change)

"Lying Is Hard But The Truth Comes Out Anyway" The Grey

A regretful mistake, a car accident, and a baby. God didn't listen to Noah when he begged him to take him first the night of the accident. God had other plans it seemed; plans that brought Noah down to his knees cursing, crying, and praying. In time he began to believe he was nothing but a lost soul trying to find his happiness in the ugly world he lived in, until... she found him and began to return the lost parts of him, piece by piece, he'd thought he'd lost forever.

TAGS: @lma1986, @myownthoughts12, @xslavicprincess, @foliosgirl, @glitterydeputyshepherdwagon, @jilliemiw86, @sthnog, @lookwhatitcost

 “Show me you're better off without me/ Choking on every word you said, we'll see, we'll see / Don't breathe another word about me I'll leave and you can finally rest in peace, we'll see” -NEVER KNOW-

Noah,

By the time you read this, I'll be gone. You have to understand that it's better for both of us this way if I just vanish from your life and wipe your slate, your consciousness completely clean. Once you're finished with this letter, I guarantee you will hate me and loath just the thought of me. My name will become a bitter poison on your tongue and the tongues of those who will no longer be my family because of their loyalty to you. You'll never want to breathe my name, let alone any other words about me, to anyone. I'm warning you now, Noah, what I'm about to tell you is going to ruin you. It's going to break your heart so badly that you're probably going to wish you were dead. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm doing this to you, but it's the only way. You have to know the truth about what happened during those three days in Montana on that last tour we were on together; you deserve to know because it was the moment that everything changed for us. You're better off without me, and in time, you'll see. In time, you'll be able to rest in peace. 

Noah:

“I didn't want to finish the letter. Knowing she was already gone was enough, and reading it, having it spelled out in front of me would’ve only made things worse. But I chose to finish it anyway but regretted the instant I did. I swear I could feel myself slowly slipping away as her words started to bring out the worst in her that I never knew existed."

I rested my forehead against the back of her shoulder.

“I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you were feeling. Being abandoned is hard, but the lonely place it takes you to is worse.” “You would know, wouldn't you,” I said while playing with her fingers. She leaned back against my chest while sitting between my legs. Turning her head at just the right angle, she glided the tip of her nose softly along my jawline that filled with a deep yearning to be inside her again. “Not the same way you do.” I shivered when her lips left a trail of soft kisses on my skin. “Read me more, please. I want to know everything,” she urged. I sighed, and even though I really didn't want to, I knew sharing this part of my life was important for us. So, I continued.

“Lying in between the memories choking me, and I don't know which way to go, but I'm okay to never know” -NEVER KNOW-

The night you told me the truth about cheating on me, it broke me, but not in the way you might think. I was angry, full of guilt, relief, sorrow, and regret that created a huge mess of emotions I didn’t know how to deal with. Running was my only option. I had to escape the pain of knowing how horribly I'd hurt you and you didn't even know it. Noah, you were brave enough to be honest with me about what you did. You admitted your guilt and how ashamed it made you feel. You truly believed you'd hurt me and watching the way it tore your mind and heart apart left me in agony. I wanted to tell you the truth then, but I just couldn't bring myself to, so I took the coward's way out and ran away. 

I called Jolly and cried to him. He couldn't understand anything I was saying, let alone any idea of what I was talking about, but he did his best to console me anyway. The guilt I felt, knowing what I’d done to his best friend just made everything numb and blur together. The way I was driving I didn’t see the headlights of the other vehicle in my lane. Jolly was still on the phone when I screamed right as the collision happened. That was the last thing I remembered before I woke up in the hospital. So, what is the truth that was too hard for me to tell you even though I was given the chance to say many times? Noah, I hope you're sitting down because what I'm about to say is going to be the death of whatever peace your mind had about me.

Noah:

“Noah?” Her soft voice calling to me made me lower my head and when her hand collided with my cheek, her touch brought me back to reality. The past wasn't real, but she was, and so was the feeling of her naked body against mine. Turning herself around so that her legs were on either side of me and her arms were resting on my shoulders, she leaned in and kissed me, slipping her tongue inside my mouth little by little. She was making me so hard and I knew she could feel me between her legs, pressed tightly against that sweet soft spot of hers I loved so much. I couldn’t control the constant twitching that was happening each time she purposely pushed herself into me either.

"She knew exactly what she was doing to you, and that’s what hurt you the most. I'm sorry she hurt you,” her voice whispered in my ear before she took a little bit of it in her mouth. “Ughh, fuck baby,” I moaned, squeezing her hips tighter and tugging her closer to me. “That’s what happens,” she said, brushing her breast up against me, her perky nipples grazing across my skin, making it scream. “You let people in and they destroy you. But I won’t.” She sat back and looked at me, the look in her eyes nearly making me cum. She had me wound up so tight that I swallowed hard when she pushed herself into me again and her warm, shaky breath washed over my face. “You deserve so much more than you believe you do, Noah.” Slipping her hands beneath the waistband of my box-briefs, I lifted my bottom up and she slid them down my legs, tossing them aside, retaking her spot over me. “I’ll give you the world, if you want it,” she admitted, laying her mouth on mine and taking my lips to hers as if she owned them; she did. “The moon, the fucking stars. Anything you ask, it’s yours. I’m yours. You can have all of me,” she confessed through a shaky, tear filled voice.

I pulled her way to look at her and my heart felt like it had busted through my chest. She had tears streaming down her cheeks, but the prettiest smile on her lips. I sat up and kissed her tears away tasting their saltiness. “I want all of it,” I admitted, brushing some hair out of her face. “I want all of you, but not just what you let the world see. I want all the broken, busted up parts too; the parts that make you, you. I meant it when I said I would fight the battle for you. I would, I still will. If I have you, then you have all of me too.” She started to cry and I pulled her into me as she laid her head on my shoulder. I fucking loved this girl in my arms more than I ever thought possible. More than the girl in the letter, and that scared me.

After a few moments of silence had passed and I was about to continue reading, but the warmth from her hand found my hard cock. Slowly she  ran her hand down my shaft, then back up, the grip she had applying the perfect pressure needed to stimulate what I was dying for on the inside. I laid my head back against the couch, zoning into nothing but the feeling of what her hand was doing. The faster she went the harder her grip became and reminded me of what being inside her felt like; heaven. I found her entrance between her wet folds and quietly slipped a finger inside her warm sex enjoying the way she melted into my touch and sucked in a quick breath, followed by a beautifully moan that filled the room. I felt her wetness coat my fingers, making me feel like I had all the power over her I wanted. The truth was though, she was the one with all the power. “I need to be inside you, now.” I ordered. She didn't hesitate to obey but instead shifted enough so that her pussy was aligned perfectly with my hard length.

“Noah, look at me,” she commanded and I listened. Her eyes were vibrant and full of something indescribable, something that I could never put into words; but I felt it and I knew she did too. “I fucking love you.” It slipped out before I could stop myself and I was scared I crossed a line. But her smile took that feeling away. It was genuine, and made me feel the exact way, if not more, I felt when I first saw her. “I love you too; all of you.” She pushed into me and took all of me into her and I watched her expression change as soon as I filled her. Her tight, wet walls closed in on my throbbing cock now buried deep inside her, searching for that special spot that was going to pull all the pretty cries and moans from her that I loved to hear. I gripped her hips, sighing once she began to move slowly, with her hands placed firmly on my chest. But I wanted more and I knew she did too. “I want you to grind on me, baby, ride me till you're satisfied. Ride me till you cum.”

That seemed to be all she needed. Soon I had her crying and moaning so loudly that she dug her nails deep into my skin, squeezed me tighter with her thighs, and let my name fall from her lips like a sacred prayer. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. She pulled my hands to her small breasts, indicating to me she wanted stimulation and I all too willing obliged her. I took each nipple between my finger and thumb, squeezing them until she cried. Once hard and perky, I dragged my tongue lazily over the soft, delicate skin, circling and lapping every part until taking it in my mouth. Her moans pulled my organism closer and I knew I wasn't going to last much longer. Luckily, I didn't have too. Her hands found the back of my head, holding me in place while she fucked me slow and gently and I got her off by sucking my favorite parts of her. “Noah, baby,” she didn't finish her sentence, but she didn't have to. I looked up, grinning at the face I saw. With eyes closed, she was in perfect ecstasy. “Are you gonna cum for me, Princess.” She didn't say anything, just moaned and nodded. “Cum for me then baby, let it go and give us both what we want.”

Her lips crashed into mine and our tongues danced as she came undone all over me and I quickly followed. It wasn't loud, it wasn't messy; it was just us, falling apart for one another together quietly. It was love making in its purest form and in that moment with her I realized the difference between straight fucking with foreplay and making love and how they were very different. We weren’t each other's first. She had a fucked up ex and I had many experiences that left me feeling used. But what she and I had just shared had so many emotions involved, ones that I didn't even know I could feel anymore. She pulled them out of me somehow and allowed me to willingly feel what I had buried away. They were tangled together, knotted and rooted in the dirt of my past. But, thanks to the beautiful human in my arms, for the first time in my life I felt the difference and wasn't afraid to feel them. She made me feel so fucking alive and I loved it. 

“Speaking in languages we can’t read, no need for you to spell it out for me/ Swallowed up and I’ spit you out, like a drug that just wouldn’t stay down" -NEVER KNOW-

Montana was beautiful, Noah, and the idea of visiting it with you was a dream come true. I'll never forget when you came home and told me that it was on the list of states the band was playing. Your excitement was contagious and the way your eyes sparkled and lit up your entire face will forever haunt me. It was one of the last times we were truly happy together. Those three days haunt me, Noah. They hold the worst, but also the best memories. So here it goes… the whole truth.

The first show day went smoothly; you remember I'm sure. We all went out and had a small celebration in that little country bar where Folio rode the mechanical bull until he bled… like seriously bled. I thought I was going to pass out seeing all the blood from his arm. The day of the second show, however, was utter chaos and hell. Everyone woke up late, the venue wasn't unlocked when we got there, and some of the equipment malfunctioned. You were miserable and because you were miserable, so was everyone else. I tried to help, but now know how worse I actually made it for you. And the moment you yelled at me in front of not just the crew but the guys too, I knew things were going to be different between us. It wasn't that you yelled at me, Noah, it was what you said that was the slap to my face. You accused me of being selfish and too self conceited to understand what you were going through, and you know what? You were right. I was, I am those things. And to prove I was, I decided to get back at you in my own way; the way I regret now more than anything. 

After storming out of the venue and turning my phone off, I found a bar away from the venue, away from every memory of you. I wanted you out of my head, but mostly out of my heart because I was hurting. So, the first guy who sat down next to me and bought me a few rounds was it. He was the one I chose to make my biggest mistake with. He took me back to his hotel room, which ironically was in the same hotel as ours, you were just one floor above me. I was too drunk to worry about anything, not even caring if the receptionist recognized me. 

Noah, I will save you the details of what I did with that man in that hotel room that night. It wasn't at all what I thought it would be, and in the end he left me hurting way more than when I started out. Not just emotionally, but physically too. Thankfully there were no marks on my body, yet, but the bruises would show the following day. I lied and said you did them to me and the look on your face was devastating. I felt like a piece of shit. Maybe I was. No, I know I was. I should burn in hell for what I did to you; what I said to you. You didn't deserve it. But the worst was yet to come when the events of the night you fucked some girl who wasn't me happened and you found out I was pregnant. Nicholas said at first you were too shocked, but when it was time for me to leave the hospital, Matt said it was all you could talk about; how you were going to be a dad and how you had so much faith that the baby would be the thing to tie us back together after your actions ruined us. It wasn't you who ruined us, Noah, it was me, but I couldn't tell you that. Not now. Not with a baby on the way. So, I kept my silence and avoided you as much as I could, using your cheating as the excuse. And I lied to you every day up until… well you know when. 

Losing the baby was never, ever the intention, that, I promise, you can believe. I never wanted any harm to come to my baby. But when I woke up last month at seventeen weeks pregnant in a pool of blood, I knew it was over. The lies could stop, the truth could come out and everything would be okay. Except it wasn't, was it? Losing the baby was too hard for you. It made you do things you regret doing and I regret watching, knowing I had the power to stop it all. I know the feeling of loss is still very raw in your heart. You're wounded and reading this letter, knowing I'm long gone, soon to be nothing but a distant memory you'd do anything to forget, is going to throw salt on that wound, but I think it's time for me to help you put your demons to rest. 

Noah, the baby…. the baby was never yours to begin with. I mean, honestly, think back to the first time we had sex after that fight. Think…. and you'll remember. If you don't let me help. You wore a condom, Noah and you filled it, but I lied to you and told you it broke because I was scared. The night I spitefully killed us in every way possible was the night I conceived another man's child. 

So, you see, none of it was your fault after all. It was mine all along. Did I feel guilt? Yes. Remorse? No. Not until now. Now that I’m walking away from you, I feel every bit of remorse possible, but it’s too late now, isn’t it. The you I knew and loved is gone and so is the girl you knew. And that’s the difference between us, Noah. You felt remorse and it made you so vulnerable. 

I hope the next girl you fall in love with is good to you. I hope she is never afraid of your darkness or the demons who dance in your eyes sometimes. I remember the time when you thought no one could ever love you if you revealed what lurks inside you. You’ve always been different, Noah, you know that and how could anyone understand that? But I hope she understands and is never afraid to follow you into your darkness so that she can learn to love the beast that’s inside. I tried to, but in the end I realized that sometimes, true love comes in the form of a loving demon, or a protective monster, or even a dark angel who sits and waits patiently for you to arrive. You are all those things Noah; and I hated you for it. I’m sorry I hated you, because now I know that you were the only one to ever, truly love me. 

With All My Love, Always, Sarah

Noah:

I woke up, flat on my back, head off the pillow, but the blanket over top of me. As my vision cleared, Sophie was nowhere to be seen. My heart started pounding, thinking maybe she regretted last night; the things we did, the things I said. Was it all too much and she felt pressured or overwhelmed? I started to panic, running my hands over my face, trying to convince myself everything was okay, but it didn't help. I sat up, looking around for my shirt only to remember that I'd used it on Sophie, making me remember the corner I threw it in; it was still there.

I needed to find Sophie and make sure everything was good between us, especially now that she knew the truth about me and Sarah. I needed to know if she was still willing to commit herself to me, to us, with this kind of baggage attached, but first I needed a shower. My stomach suddenly hurt, the anxiety nipping away on the inside and it felt like there was a giant hole in me. I needed to fill that hole. I need my girl.

Chapter 1: The Things We Could Never Change

[h3rmess]

THE ZENIN GETS ME WETTER

-> fem!reader x cullinggamesarc!maki - suggestive , set post culling games arc, reader has a crush on maki, uni au

notes: I literally have the biggest crush on maki ever known to man. I love her so so much. May be a little inappropriate, so here's your warning now!

Walking into the house, the blaring sound of the music deafened me immediately. It was a Saturday, which meant one thing ; it was time for me to relax and have fun after a long week of hard work and effort ( I attended one class).

My black dress hugged my body perfectly, barely covering the important parts. I felt the click of my heels against the wooden floor, my eyes searching for my friend, Choso. He was my brother's best friend and a family friend in general. My parents had always tasked him with taking care of me when I went out as we attended university at the same campus.

My medical course had been draining the life out of me, so a party is just what I needed to get me feeling alive again.

My eyes landed on him quickly as I extended my arm, waving him over. He wore a white graphic tee with a pair of baggy jeans, the black locks of his hair cascading from two pigtails. His baby hairs sat on his forehead, making the effect of bangs. He gave me a soft smile, which quickly disappeared after he saw what I was wearing.

"What the hell are you wearing?" He shouted over the music, his voice barely audible.

"Oh, come on! It's just a one-time thing. I just felt like being hot today!" I said in reply, smiling widely.

"Yeah, you do look hot, but that's what all the other men are gonna think! Who knows what kind of lewd thoughts they'll be having about you?" He protested, attempting to cover me from being seen by others.

"I'm not interested in what the men think." I told him plainly, my eyes surfing the crowd to see if she was here. Choso rolled his eyes and mumbled at me before I spotted my friend, Yuuta.

I pushed Choso away as he went to join a different group of people, telling him I'd message him later. I walked over to Yuuta, who stood in a corner with a boy who I knew to be Inumaki. He was studying software engineering here. He wore his usual turtle neck, which made me wonder if he would ever come out of his shell a little more.

"Hey, Y/N!" He said, handing me a red cup. I looked at the liquid in it, downing it quickly, the burn in my throat boosting my adrenaline. As I finished up my drink, I looked at the boy who looked pleased to be here.

"Didn't take you as the party type, Yuuta." I teased. "You too, Inumaki. Why are you guys here?" I asked them as they laughed.

"Yeah... we just wanted to try something new, y'know! But I'm not sure we wanted to try something new." Inumaki spoke quietly.

"Fair enough. Parties are always a nice way to let loose." I looked around awkwardly, not wanting to ask the inevitable.

"I know what you're thinking." Yuuta spoke, causing me to look at him promptly.

I hummed at him as my face flushed, causing both him and Inumaki to chuckle.

"She's here, don't worry. Although she didn't seem too happy about it." My face lit up at Yuuta's words, the thought of seeing her making my day.

As if my mind had been read, she strutted toward us within an instant. My heartbeat quickened, seeing her in a pair of tight, black, leather trousers and a black sleevless top to match. My jaw practically dropped as my eyes remained glued to her perfect frame. I almost drooled, my knees giving in, causing me to almost drop down and beg her to hold me. I looked away quickly, trying to mask my pure infatuation. She smiled as she approached us, stopping in her tracks once she was close enough.

"Hey, Y/N. Didn't know you were here." She smirked, swirling her cup slowly.

"Oh! Uh, yeah! I didn't know I would be here either, aha... But here we are!" I stuttered, my embarrassment engulfing me when Inumaki and Yuuta snickered.

"Where'd you get the dress? Looks good." Maki complimented, making me go crazy.

"Thanks! It was a gift, actually." I replied, trying not to sound like the lovestruck girl I was.

"You sure are drawing attention with it." Her eyes dropped to my exposed cleavage, causing me to yelp quietly.

Inumaki and Yuuta looked at each other, muttering something about going to the toilet before scurrying away.

Traitors.

I felt my underwear dampen by the second as the girl inspected me, her eyes tracing every line of my dress.

"Who you looking good for, hmm? Can't be doing all this for no reason." She probed, inching closer towards me.

"Well, uh." I hesitated, the alcohol taking over as I became unfazed by the possible consequences. "You."

Her face became strewn with mischief, her hands slyly groping my waist as we were now flush against each other.

"All this for me? I love being spoiled by pretty girls." I blushed at her words, hanging my head slightly. She placed her hand on the bottom of my chin, lifting my head up so my eyes met hers. She leaned in, her breath lingering on my earlobe as she placed a soft kiss on it and whispered. "If you look so pretty now, I wonder whats underneath."

I was soaked.

Her lips met my neck, placing gentle, sloppy kisses along my skin. I hummed at the contact, a feeling of lust completely taking over my body.

Maki Zenin wants me? I must be dreaming...

-> love pnd over here

-> another chapter of 'where our blue is' is coming! just taking me a lil longer than usual but expect something by Wednesday!!

-> this was just something I wrote quickly don't expect too much pls 😔

-> I wanna write more one shots lmk who you wanna see next!! byeee