#the live chats have become so unbearable

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Hi!!! I just read your Wonka fics and they're all so sweet and I love them so much. I was wondering if I could request a certain fic? Here me out,,,,

So basically since there were only 6 bedrooms at the laundry place, the reader had their own room before Willy came but once he came the reader got switched to share rooms with Noodle since that's who they're closest too. The reader doesn't have their own bed for a few days until after they slowly(?) get closer to Willy, and build up the courage to walk to Willy's room in the middle of the night and ask to sleep with him. Nothing but sweet fluff.

Bonus points if Noodle catches them cuddling the next morning while they're asleep. :)))

Midnight Encounters [W. W]

Willy Wonka x fem!reader

word count: 2.2k

note: first, I have to say that I LOVED this as soon as I read it. I'm honestly afraid I haven't done this wonderful idea justice, so whoever asked for this, I'm very grateful. This is my favorite so far!

taglist: @dyieying @reallysparklychaos [Timothée masterlist]

Scrubitt's wonderful building only had six rooms, and when a seventh guest (a forced worker, actually) arrived, you had to figure out a way to make it work. You and Noodle had no problem sharing a place due to your familiarity and that, of course, you were the youngest, to give the new laundry employee a bed of his own.

Mr. Wonka was a most peculiar man, who had gained your attention immediately and, as the days passed, also your affection. It was something like love at first sight, if there was such a thing, and you didn't know if it was due to his charismatic personality, his beauty, or his completely dreamy aura that had captivated you. Whatever it was, it was clear that every time he approached you let out a nervous sigh and he seemed to react the same way to your presence; somehow you knew he felt the same way, you didn't even know why, you just felt it. 

A good amount of time passed, enough for the two of you to share stories in the long hours you had to spend working, and trust was added to the list of things between you. You thought that the bond that was born between you could also be because you two were similar in age compared to the rest, who were younger or older. You suddenly started to enjoy chatting with him, he became the first one you looked for in the crowd and you also allowed him to help you from time to time, even if it was small things, just to be with him a little more. 

That was why that night, after thinking about it for so many hours, you slipped out of your shared bed with Noodle, ready to go out through the hallway in search of a little warmth to shelter you while you slept. Because if anything was true, it was that the little girl's room had always been colder than yours and you weren’t a person particularly fond of this condition. On the contrary, you would say that as soon as a little wind blew through the window your entire body was already shaking in protest, to the point that it had become unbearable to live through it.

You advanced automatically and when you reached the door of your old room there was a second of hesitation, where all the possible results for what you were about to do passed through your mind; some were more favorable than others, however, you knew that you wouldn't find out what was really going to happen until you dared to cross into the room. Would Willy be upset? you asked yourself. You just hoped you didn't scare him.

You carefully turned the knob, which had once been gold but was now only copper, and you were thankful that it didn't have a lock. There was definitely no time to chicken out, you knew when you watched the boy curled up on the bed move slightly, as if the air that had sneaked in through the door had bothered him.

You noticed that he was wearing only his light white shirt and a pair of pants, without shoes or socks. There was a certain vulnerability in the scene, almost like an invitation for you to take a couple of steps and simply slip into his arms and sleep peacefully. How would he feel? Would his skin be soft? Cozy? Would that grip be enough to help you get your long-awaited rest?

You closed the door behind you and the soft click it made was enough to wake the man, as if that had warned him of the intruder who had sneaked into his room. He sat bolt upright on the bed and squinted to peer through the darkness.

"Who is it?"

“It's me, Willy” you responded and upon hearing your voice he visibly relaxed. However, when he asked himself the reason for your nocturnal visit, he returned to alert state.

"What happened? Everything is alright?"

You had no valid reason to be there. Or maybe you had it, but it wasn't something you could explain to the man without exposing yourself, or exposing your feelings. Even if that were the case, you thought that it would sound absurd to confess to him that you were there just because you wanted to discover what it felt like to have him close to you, to feel his breath close to your face, to be sheltered by his body...

“Y/N?” he spoke again, probably because he thought you hadn't heard him the first time. He was afraid it was an emergency so you were there, not imagining anything of what was going through your head.

You finally found your voice, deep inside your chest, and were able to offer him an answer:

"I'm cold"

You honestly didn't know what else to say and deep down you hoped that was enough, but even so, Willy got up still sleepy and stumbled to reach you. 

“Oh, do you need a blanket?” he asked, while he could put his hands at your sides, holding your arms. His curls were messy and there were traces of sleep on his face. “Or would you prefer that I change rooms with you and Noodle? I wouldn't mind, although you should have told me before. If I had known, I could…”

"May I stay here?" you interrupted him. Your voice was a whisper in the darkness and he was still holding you, looking down at you with slight concern “With you?”

For a second he thought he was hearing you wrong and if he had heard correctly, he thought that perhaps he had not understood what you were trying to tell him. You looked disheveled and wore lighter clothing than usual, but he couldn't help but notice the innocence that bathed your face. You looked so pure and pretty that he felt dizzy, which only increased at the possibility that you were suggesting sleeping there; in the same bed… together.

“Huh… Are you sure?” he asked and instantly felt stupid. He just hoped it wouldn't scare you away.

“I guess I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, right?” you replied, a smile escaping your lips. Suddenly the thought of him not wanting this came to your mind, realizing that it was completely valid “But if you don't want…”

“No,” he murmured, taking his turn to interrupt you. “It's okay if you want to stay here, I don't mind. I also feel a little cold”

If that was just to make you feel better, it didn't matter, after all you knew from the look on you that he wanted to do this just as much as you did. Well, it was that and the way his hand moved up your arm until it reached your face, where he brushed away a chunk of your hair and then kindly caressed your cheek. It was a gentle, loving, and sincere touch. 

Without waiting any longer, you walked between the buckets that stopped the leaks and the man followed you obediently, until the two of you were sitting on the mattress. It was small and worn, with barely enough room for a body to move freely, there was a thin blanket over it and a pillow that covered the entire length of the headboard.

“You look tired,” you pointed out, feeling a slight guilt for having snatched him from his sleep.

“I am a little,” he replied, while he yawned and rubbed one eye as if he wanted to corroborate what he was saying.

You wanted to have the courage to grab his face and kiss him right there, but you didn't dare; it had been too much, you had to control your impulses or you would end up scaring the poor boy to death.

“We have to sleep, then”

Willy motioned for you to take the inside of the bed and when you were lying down he imitated you, forced by the lack of space to position himself a few centimeters from your entire body. You felt small, not physically, but metaphorically, and his attentive gaze and playful expression didn't help much.

"Are you comfortable?"

“Mjm,” you hummed affirmatively.

You felt him stir next to you and then he spread the blanket over you, hoping that would ease whatever had ailed you in the first place. One of his hands began to move down and up your arm in an attempt to give you a little more warmth, which worked perfectly after a few seconds. You felt so spoiled by him.

You were silent for a moment, in which he didn’t dare to look at you for fear that you could read in his expression how nervous he had become. He didn’t expect your visit and feared he was dreaming, although his hand touching you kept him certain that this wasn’t the case.

“I assume I was your first choice for this, was I?”

“You were my only option” you relieved, in a low voice. You weren't going to lie to him, if you had already managed to sneak between his sheets you wanted him to know that you were only thinking about him “I thought your arms would be warm. And I think I wasn’t wrong”

Almost as if your words had been an incentive, he closed the distance even more, placing one of his arms under your head so you could use it as a pillow and using the other to surround your body. Your face felt red and you thought you would die of embarrassment, but instead you just buried your head in his chest. He smelled like chocolate and soap.

“Hey,” he whispered suddenly and you pulled your head out of its comfortable spot to respond.

"Yeah?"

Again he surprised you when you felt that you received a fluffy kiss on the forehead before an answer, managing to add even more color to the skin of your cheeks.

“I just wanted to see your face. Rest"

Would it be possible not to when you were sheltered by such a sweet man, who held you with the care of holding a piece of porcelain? You highly doubted it, to be honest.

Your response was only your arm stretching out from the blanket that covered you to surround his waist and thus become practically fused with him. It didn't take you long to feel the full weight of fatigue settling on you and thanks to the rhythmic beat of his heart, you fell completely asleep, now without a single problem to be able to rest.

In your dreams you thought you heard his voice, but you couldn't make out what he was telling you, and at some point during the night you tangled your legs with his, thus eliminating any remains of the distance you had with him.

Very early in the morning Noodle soon noticed that someone was missing in bed, and although at first she thought you had just decided to get up a little early, she got worried when she went out to look for you and couldn't find you anywhere. The girl wondered if something had happened to you, if you had escaped or even if the mistress had locked you in the closet, just like she did with her. She thought that she had to tell someone about your absence and then she believed that the best candidate would be Willy, because she knew that he would share her concern and help her look for you without any complaints.

She crossed the hallway with her bare feet until she reached the boy's room and once there, she knocked on the door twice.

“Willy?” she called out to him, but there was no answer. That's why she knocked two more times “Willy? Are you there?"

Noodle waited a few seconds for the door to open, but it didn't, and that worried the girl again. What if he had disappeared too? She didn't want to waste time and to find out she turned the doorknob, expecting to see an empty room. But her surprise was great when she looked at what was really behind the door.

It was obvious that the blows had woken the man, so when he looked directly at her he had already put a finger to his mouth to tell her to keep quiet. The girl noticed that there was a bundle curled up next to him, holding him firmly and with its head buried in the crook of his neck, but she opened her eyes widely when she recognized the pattern of the pants that was under the sheet.

At least the problem of your whereabouts had been solved.

"Is…?"

“Yes, but she's asleep,” Willy responded quickly, whispering, “Be good and let her rest, okay? There is still a little while before the laundry opens.”

She nodded, confused and surprised, and waved goodbye to him, closing the door carefully. Noodle smiled to herself as she returned to her room, while she thought that, with any luck, from now on it would be someone else who would have to share the bed with you.

#wonka 2023 #willy wonka x reader #wonka x reader #wonka movie #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee x reader #willy wonka #roald dahl #wonka fanfic #willy wonka 2023 #wonka fanfiction #wonka x fem reader

[girlgenius1111]

no one should be alone on christmas

barca femeni x reader

changed from the request slightly because i've read a couple fics where r tries to hide that she's gonna be alone for the holidays, and thought i'd take a slightly different approach, so as not to copy anyone :) but pinky promise there is tons of angst and fluff!

cw; mention of bad relationship with parents... implied homophobia i guess? not really discussed much though. angst, fluff, :)

The look on your teammates face when you told them you didn't have any plans for the holiday were almost comical; every one of them looked completely horrified. Sure, they knew your relationship with your parents was rocky, but they hadn't realized you didn't speak, didn't see them at all. What was almost worse was that you didn't even seem to understand why they were so appalled by you spending Christmas alone.

You knew, as soon as you left the locker room after your declaration and the room erupted into loud conversations, that your teammates would begin scheming.

Your problem was that you didn't really want to celebrate Christmas. Obviously, it was a big deal back home in England, and you'd grown up celebrating it, but those weren't the happiest of memories. For the first years of your life, Christmas had been fun. As you aged, and your parents started fighting, it didn't stay fun. Your parents had gone off the rails when you were a teenager; they were incredibly religious people, and when they felt you slipping away from this, they tightened their grasp, until it was suffocating.

Maybe the holidays wouldn't be so awful if they weren't such a stark reminder of what you no longer had, of the rift between you and your parents. Christmas 2 years ago had been the worst of your life. You'd fought with your parents all day, until a screaming match left you packing your bags. They'd had too much to drink, said things about you it was clear they were always thinking, but never vocalized. When you confirmed their suspicions in a fit of anger, they became more aggravated than you'd ever seen them.

You lived with friends for a while, once being at home became unbearable, until finally you got your first contract. You lived with teammates, then, and managed to avoid all conversations about the holidays. Since the Christmas fight, you'd sworn off the day, preferring to hibernate in your house, and actively try not to think about your parents. You missed who they were, and hated who they'd become, which made for a very confusing breakdown every year.

This was your first year at Barcelona, though, and your new team was not content to let you sit alone as you normally did. Especially not when you were only 19, and especially not when a lot of them had taken to acting like concerned mothers with you.

You didn't want to celebrate though, you couldn't. In the days following your locker room chat, you noticed your teammates being slightly odd around you; they weren't very subtle, and they were clearly planning something. Whether it was a Christmas kidnapping or a team party, you weren't sure. All you knew was that you wanted no part of it.

Telling the entire team this, though, didn't seem like something you wanted to do. So instead, you went to the only people you knew had the power to stop whatever horrifying red and green themed atrocity was being planned.

You weren't used to this, really, needing to talk to your captains about anything serious. You'd decided to pull Alexia aside after practice, and tried to be as normal as possible so as not to worry anyone. It didn't seem to work.

"What's up, y/n?" Alexia asked, once you were alone in the hall.

"Could we talk once everyone's gone? I just... there's something I need to talk to you about." You internally winced at how poorly you'd phrased that. Alexia's previously relaxed face was now one of worry as she scrutinized you.

"Of course. Just me?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically warm. She'd clearly picked up on the anxiety oozing off your body.

"Um... maybe Mapi too?" you asked. Again, your teammates weren't subtle individuals, Mapi least of all. It had become obvious that she was the instigator of whatever plan was in motion.

"Si, I'll tell her." Alexia stated, before giving you a reassuring smile and leading you into the locker room.

-----

Alexia had directed you to an empty office, shuffling in with Mapi behind you. You sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, as they both perched on the edge of the desk. You felt ridiculously like a kid in trouble at school, as your leg tapped nervously, and the girls both looked down at you. They weren't angry, though, and you weren't in trouble.

"I know you guys are planning to do something with me for Christmas," you blurted, not really sure where to start. Mapi got a sky grin on her face, but Alexia's expression remained unchanged, the unease on your face making her heart clench.

"No, what would give you that idea, pequeña?" Mapi questioned teasingly.

"Please don't. I don't like Christmas, I don't want to celebrate. I know you guys feel bad, but I really, really just prefer doing my own thing." You responded, going with the sentences you'd practiced in your head on the way to practice this morning.

Mapi's face had fallen, and you felt guilty despite knowing that you were just doing what you needed to do.

"Why don't you like Christmas?" Alexia asked, brow furrowed.

"I just don't," you replied, biting tone making Alexia and Mapi exchange looks. You weren't normally so serious, or so defensive. You were staring hard at the ground, as though you wished it would swallow you up.

Mapi extended her foot, poking it against yours softly until you rolled your eyes and looked up at her.

"Why don't you like Christmas?" They weren't letting you out of this one easily. You took a big breath, fixing your gaze back down at your feet, before you spoke.

"My parents were really difficult. Not always, but for a while. I left home on Christmas 2 years ago. I haven't seen them since. It's not a very fun day for me," you explained, working hard to keep your voice from shaking.

Alexia and Mapi were silent, and you chanced a look up at them. Both were deep in thought, frowns etched across their faces.

"It's really not a big deal. I just don't do Christmas, I don't want to do Christmas. So whatever you're plotting, please don't," you said, desperate for them to understand.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude," you started, suddenly alarmed that you'd seem ungrateful, but you were interrupted.

"No, don't apologize. Never apologize for telling us when you don't like something we're doing," Alexia said firmly, seeming to know what to say for the first time in minutes. "If you don't want to do Christmas, we don't make you." Mapi nodded her head rapidly in agreement.

"You were supposed to spend Christmas Eve with Marta and Caro, Christmas with me, and then go to Mapi's for a couple days, but we don't have to do any of that," Alexia continued, and you felt a wave of an unknown emotion wash over you.

You'd expected they'd been planning something, but not that they'd had you delegated somewhere every day of the break. It wasn't an overall bad feeling, just one you weren't used to.

"Thank you," you stated quietly, not really sure what else to say.

"The offers stand, though, pequeña. If you change your mind," Mapi insisted. "Also, ... it's possible that I rigged the secret santa and multiple people have you, and there isn't really anything I can do about that. So you'll get your gifts but you can be alone," she continued, biting her lip. She looked worried, as if you would be mad. Alexia looked slightly annoyed that Mapi had rigged the gift exchange, but much too preoccupied with you to yell at her then.

"Mapi," you groaned, allowing a small smile to form on your face, assuring her that you weren't mad. The gifts, you didn't mind. You could pretend they weren't Christmas related, and they'd be a good distraction.

Mapi launched into an animated story of how she managed to rig the exchange, [she'd just ended up giving more people presents to make up for all the people getting you things,]. The tricky part was, apparently, doing it behind Ingrid's back; this, you didn't doubt.

They walked you to your car, sensing that you didn't really want to talk any more about it, but leaving you with unusually tight hugs. You appreciated them a lot, even if they were too overbearing sometimes.

-----

When Mapi told you she'd messed with the Secret Santa, you assumed she meant that 2 people had you. Maybe 3. You were wrong.

First up at your apartment the first day of break, before everyone departed for their respective homes, was Ona. She'd managed to get you your favorite sweets from England, an entire box full. She stayed and chatted with you for a while, insisting that she didn't have anywhere to be until later. She was quite successful at getting your mind off things, and had you laughing with her after a bit. When she left, you made sure to tell her to thank Lucy for helping her with the gift, and she stammered out an agreement, a deep blush coating her cheeks.

Aitana showed up next, her gift amusedly from both her and Keira, as the ginger had helped her pick it out. It was a new washbag, not unlike Alexia's. They must have noticed you eyeing it appreciatively. Aitana also brought a mass amount of Christmas cookies, making you eat three before she left.

Patri and Claudia showed up next, pushing past you into your apartment as soon as you opened the door. They'd gotten you approximately 8 new games for your switch, and insisted on trying all of them with you. It left you wondering who the gift was really for, considering they often came over to play on the switch with you. Regardless, they stayed late into the evening, despite both having to get up early to head home the next morning.

Mapi and Ingrid arrived, bringing chaos with them. More Mapi than Ingrid. The Norwegian had gotten you a set of light blue ceramic mugs that matched your kitchen perfectly. You'd barely had time to admire them before Mapi was taking them out of your hands, and dragging you over to her absurdly large present. It was perfectly wrapped, like Ingrid's had been, and her cheeky smile told you that she wasn't as innocent as she'd like you to believe. You opened the box, finding it weirdly light. The inside was completely empty, and you looked at the girls in confusion. The doorbell rang then, and your confusion only grew, as Mapi had said she'd be the last to stop by.

You opened the door to reveal Alexia, holding a squirming puppy in her arms, with a bow haphazardly placed on it's head. Your jaw dropped. You'd mentioned wanting a dog a few times, but you'd wanted to wait until you settled in more.

"Is that... mine?" you asked, and all 3 girls laughed at your astonishment.

"Si!!" Mapi shouted, so overcome with excitement that she was practically bouncing up and down next to you. Alexia handed you the dog, and you noted that she was smiling wider than you'd ever seen her. Alexia and dogs.

He was a little thing, a mini long haired dachshund, light brown in color. His tail was wagging furiously, and he snuggled up to you right away, licking your face eagerly. You were completely speechless, almost moved to tears.

"Thank you," you said looking around at your teammates. You really didn't know what else to say; they'd gone so above and beyond, so out of their way to make these days slightly easier for you, to make sure you weren't alone, even if you wouldn't let them be there with you.

You handed the dog to Ingrid, before all but tackling Mapi in a hug.

"Te gusta?" she asked triumphantly, already knowing the answer. You nodded into her embrace, taking a second to pull yourself together, before hugging Alexia and Ingrid in turn. You hoped the hugs would convey what words could not.

They stayed for a bit, helping you get the dog settled, and watching him when you ran to the store to get puppy supplies. When they left, you could tell they seemed slightly sad; everything they'd done, and they still didn't feel like it was enough.

As Alexia hugged you goodbye, she spoke softly into the top of your head. "I'm around, y/n, if you're having a rough time, or you need someone to talk to. Call me, text me. Anytime. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, I don't care."

You nodded in response, entirely sure that you wouldn't take her up on that; she'd done enough already.

-----

The days leading up were fine, fun even, especially with a puppy to take care of. You didn't think the day would hit you as hard this year, which maybe was naive. It hid you harder than it ever had. For the first time in a while, you were experiencing love and care in the way you used to from your parents. It made you miss the old versions of them. This, in turn, had you furious at them for becoming the people they'd become, so vile, so cruel. It was like there were two versions of them in your head; the smiling, blurry figures from your childhood. The angry, mean, much more vivid memories from your teenage years.

You wished that they hadn't hate a part of to the point that they might as well have just hated you as a whole. You were poisoned to them, for something you couldn't control.

You were in the midst of what was becoming your annual breakdown, this time trying to keep your sobs quiet as your puppy was passed out on the couch next to you, when your phone rang. It was Mapi calling. You picked up before you could stop yourself, desperate to hear a kind voice.

"Hola pequeña! Just wanted to check in," Mapi sang over the phone.

"Hola Mapi," you responded softly, not really sure how to disguise how upset you were, now that you'd picked up.

"Are you okay y/n?" she asked, her voice much quieter.

"Yeah. Today just isn't very much fun."

"I'm sorry, pequeña. Is there anything I can do?" she asked, and this was what broke you. She'd done so much, yet she was still so desperate to make it better. It didn't make sense to you, why this person cared more about you and your happiness than your parents had.

You tried to keep your sobs muffled, not wanting to alarm Mapi, but she could tell what was going on. She didn't seem to know what to say or what to do, and you felt embarrassment flood your body at the fact that you were openly sobbing on the phone to your older teammate. You bit your lip, hard, forcing yourself to steady your breaths so you could speak.

"Fuck, I'm sorry Mapi. I'm fine, don't worry. Enjoy your Christmas.

"No, y/n, wait,"

You hung up. You fell apart again, burying your face in the soft couch cushions. Your phone buzzed under you again and again, no doubt Mapi calling you back. Time was a blur as you cried, and you really couldn't have said how much time passed before there was a frantic knock at your door. Your puppy barked, launching himself across the room towards the door.

You knew who it was before you even got up, cursing yourself for not answering one of Mapi's calls to assure her you were really fine. You should have known she'd call Alexia panicking.

Sure enough, when you opened your door, you got a quick glimpse of her face, outfit, hair, all telling you she had left some celebration to come to you, before she was smashing into you, pulling you into her arms. You were crying again, or maybe you'd never stopped, and Alexia pulled back to look down at your face, frantically checking to see if you were physically okay. Mapi's call must have been really panicked, then, if she hadn't explained well enough what had happened on your own phone call.

"What happened?" Alexia asked. You shrugged through your tears, which seemed to be enough to convince Alexia that you hadn't broken any bones. She led you back to your couch, tucking you into her side as she called Mapi back. She spoke quietly to her teammate, letting you feel what you needed to feel, and assuring Mapi that she had you, and that you'd be alright. It was reassuring to you, too, really.

Alexia's presence was unwavering, arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, every so often wiping tears off your face. When you were done crying, finally, she handed you your water, instructing you to drink. You did, placing the water back down on the table, and scooping up your puppy back onto your lap.

"Sorry you had to come," You rasped eventually, running your fingers through the dogs fur, soothing him as well as yourself.

"Don't be. I'm glad Mapi called me. I'm glad she called you, you shouldn't have to be alone when you're upset."

"Your family-"

"-all understood that I needed to be here," she finished, gaze fixed steadily on you.

"Thank you for coming," you said, pausing. "I'm not really used to this. All these people caring."

"Well, you better get used to it, because we all care about you, a lot. And we're always going to make sure you're okay, even when you tell us you are. You're not always very believable when you say you're fine."

Her words hit hard, and you sat in silence for a bit, until your puppy got bored, and attempted to gnaw on Alexia's hand. You both laughed, watching as he got distracted again, this time by your foot sticking out of a blanket.

"Come on, get dressed. We'll take him to go meet my family. Get some of that energy out."

Alexia presented this as a statement, but her face held a question, and you knew she would stay here with you, if that's what you wanted. You were surprised to find that it wasn't. You took her outstretched hand, and she smiled triumphantly. You smiled too. When you'd moved here, you hadn't smiled much. You found yourself smiling a lot more now; because of your teammates mostly. They had changed your life, when you hadn't realized you'd needed it to be changed. It was really amazing, what a little love could do for someone who was hurting.

-----

that was so much longer than i intended!!!! got a tad carried away. also mapi didn't tear her meniscus in this because i said so.

#woso #woso imagine #woso x reader #barcelona femeni x reader #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #mapi leon #alexia putellas #ona batlle #aitana bonmati #patri guijarro #claudia pina

[goldsbitch]

Just don't talk--------

-you might say something that hurts.

p10 to Just don't talk

summary: Enemies to lovers on steroids. The PR teams strike again.

Y/N was unusually giddy while doing interviews on the grid that day. It was hard to be nervous when in the corner of her eye she saw Lando, in his usual glorious unbothered style, seemingly more confident than he'd been the past few weeks.

Smiles shared in secret, both of them being lifted up by enormous amount of butterflies. Yet they both tried their best to keep busy in order to push off their inevitable "what are we" talk.

She was more than sure what she wanted to be to him. But the thought of him not being willing to make the lead was a scary one - so let's just ignore it and keep thinking about his tongue on her neck. And Lando? He was doing exactly the same. Both of them blissfully unaware that their crush has started to become impossible to hide.

//

"Y/N, what do you think about the car on this track? Will you be competetive enough for a podium?" was a simple and boring question that Y/N tried to answer in a creative way, but nothing was coming to her mind. With a great smile, she replied: "Yeah, I have a pretty good feeling that things are turning out for good."

Lando was "not so accidentally" passing by at that exact moment, deliberately taking the rout where he would have to walk past her, because his body just wanted to be near her at any point possible. His school boy instinct kicked in and in the same way as a five-year old boy would pull his crushes hair, he snatched Y/N team cap of her head gracefully in order to tease her.

"Hey!" she screamed in the middle of listening to another question from the interviewer and turned around, knowing well who that was, as she watched him approaching before. A small amused smile escaped her, it was impossible to stop it. Same for Lando.

"Oh, hello, Lando," the interviewer acknowledged him, hoping for some good viral content.

"Hey," was his speedy response, probably not ever trying to hide his own amusement.

Y/N tried to keep it cool and look at his lips. "Give it back, Lando." Nope, she failed at keeping her smile in.

"You know where to pick it up, honey," he said simply, winked and said goodbye to the interviewer as he walked away. Y/N's stomach dropped at how obvious he was with his flirting in public and how impossible she found it to keep herself together. She took a moment before resuming, internally fuming. She was happy and mortified at the same time.

"Well," Y/N said as she turned back to her interview. "Where were we?" And there it was - a fatal smile that would cost her in the future.

The interviewer was full on a mission to not let that go. "I see the mood has shifted between you two, has the previous feud passed now?"

"I guess you could say that, yes," she replied, slowly pulling herself back, heart still beating like after running a marathon.

"Do you guys spend time together off the track? Has that maybe helped?" How the fuck was she supposed to answer that?

Not so confidently, she pulled out a cliché line in order to save her. "We do our talking on the track." It was technically not a lie - what they did in their spare time was definitely not limited to talking.

"I see," the interviewer said, not satisfied with her answer.

"I'd love to chat, but my team is calling," he pointed somewhere off camera, somewhere where there definitely was not someone from her team pointing at her. She excused herself and strolled away, in the other way that Lando went, as quickly as possible.

Yes, she did. Oh god, it was becoming unbearable. How was he so infuriating? How can one manage to be so....ugh!!

The day passed by in a blur of meetings, interviews and fan meet and greets. Since their "joint" interview was live though, it took only few hours for the first edits to appear on social media, hashtags getting created and the two of them going viral once again. It was all a bit overwhelming, Y/N sat there and secretly watched every single edit she came by. There is one thing to fantasize secretly about your crush, another thing is when the whole seems to get on the same boat and romanticize the fuck out it. Was it making the whole thing more awkward? Probably, but Lando's and Y/N minds were too busy thinking about each other in order to take in the point of view of others. The whole grid became aware of the pair quickly becoming a meme.

Oscar limited himself to eye rolling only, as he was more than aware of what was going on.

Y/N was shocked to find Lando already sitting in with his and her team in one of the FIA's meeting rooms. The fact that this was happening outside of their team premise should have been a clear sign - they are being called into the same meeting. Nowhere to hide now.

Lando was sitting there, casually cramped up in a chair in an anatomically impossible position, legs twisted all around. "Can't he not sit like a normal person for once?" was Y/N first thought. The reason he sat like that was to prevent himself from foot tapping the whole building down. Acting cool and innocent, that was his strategy. He was sure they'll tell him to tone it down, not to bother Y/N publicly, he'll just nod at everything they say and then go finally cum all over her chest once again, just to prove to her that she is his. Not a hard task. He glanced at her innocently as she stepped in, doing a real bad job at hiding her shock. He rolled his eyes and smirked. This girl was so innocently cute. His own comms team shot him a warning look, so he just proceeded to stare into the ground. Y/n had very little time to get her strategy ready, cursing herself for not discussing this with Lando prior to this.

"Thank you both for coming on such a short notice," was how Lando's team opened the conversation with. You could cut the tension in the room with a butter knife.

"As you're both aware, we have tried several strategies in the past in order to get your image out in the best light as possible."

Y/N let out a laugh which she could not contain in, to which Lando shot her a surprised, horrified and slightly amused look. Unbelievable.

"Continue, please. I am listening," he said, just to spite her.

"Thank you. Please guys, let's keep this civil and adult," this time her team stepped in to put her down. Lando could not remember having this much fun.

"To continue what my colleague started to say, lots of several approaches which did not bring the ideal results. And with today's development, we feel like this is another time for us to step in. You're both faces of prestigious brands and the teams rely on you being likable characters. Am I right?"

Lando nodded, as if he was lying about understanding a new topic in a math lesson - maybe little too much. Y/N just bit her lip and remained silent.

This whole thing was so bizarre, like being caught for stealing a candy bar while having a stolen gold necklace in your pocket.

"What would you suggest?" Lando asked and Y/N doubted anyone in the room was fooled by his act and must have seen though him. He was obviously having the time of his life. At this rate she would have a hole in her lower lip if she would keep biting it down this was.

"I'm glad you're asking, Lando, and hope you'll be able to cooperate."

"You can count on my sincere involvement in your strategy," he stated seriously and stared at Y/N comms team. His own team knew what was up with his attitude but decided not to call him out just yet.

Y/N glanced at the papers resembling a contact on the table. This is it, she thought, the no contact and no involvement agreement. They're going to stop them from talking to each other in public? Is that even allowed?

His's comms manager took a deep breath. "The numbers on all our socials have spiked up greatly since your interaction became of a positive nature. What we've seen today - that will make our sponsors more than happy."

Lando was quicker than Y/N to connect the dots. His mood changed drastically within seconds and he finally sat up straight.

"No. Not a chance," he burned his team with his hard stare.

"Lando, please, let us finish."

He was not having that. "I know what you're going to say and no, you can't just order us to do that."

"Nobody is ordering you to do anything. We're simply...Putting this on the table.

"Forget that, no way in hell am I ever going to agree with this," he said, pointing at the contracts lying on the table. The room went silent for few seconds.

"I'm sorry, what are we talking about here?" asked Y/N, not really having the dots connected just yet. Lando briefly forgot that she was in the room, suddenly regretting his quick dismissal. But he was not the one to be forced into anything like this. Better him having it break to her then them, right?

This time he was the one to take a deep breath and while speaking to Y/N, he still stared at the comms teams. "They want us to start fake dating for PR." He was hoping he got it wrong. But the silence on the other side of the table just proved him right.

This came as a shock to her. Was this their masterplan? Did they really have to meddle all the fucking time? "I...I didn't think these things actually happened in real world," she stated, honestly.

Why couldn't these two just get a minute to talk among themselves? Y/N's mind was once again stuck in a rut because of Lando Norris existing at the same time as she did. Million questions on her mind, but the biggest one - why was it such a hard and obvious no from him? He did not even consider it. This could have been an easy escape for them.

"What would that look like exactly?" she asked, wrapping her head around it.

She received smiles from the team, them being happy that she was seemingly somewhat on board. "Well, we would set a clear timeline with a deadline and a scheduled break up, set up a social media strategy, you'd accompany each other on social event and the PDA would be very clearly stated upon the mutual agreement between you and your lawyers. Involvement of other people around you would always be discussed prior and clear communication is key. We do not want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. Of course, an NDA is part of this agreement."

It was impossible to look at him just yet. Her head was spinning. She was on the verge of crying and had to somehow hold herself together in front of all those people. She had to get out fast, like fast fast. She had her answer. He did not like her in the same way she liked him.

"Excuse me for a moment, I feel sick," she said and swiftly got up, nearly tripping over her own feet as she sprinted out.

part 11

_________________________________________

@scopeiguess @leclercsluv @sulliamour @starmanv @riverxsq @eviethetheatrefreak @chonkybonky @bicchaan @saachiep81 @chezmardybum

#lando norris #lando norris smut #lando norris smau #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #biting kink #lando norris fanfic #ln4 imagine #formula 1 #formula one x reader #lando norris x Y/N #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fluff #formula 1 fanfic #ln4 x reader #ln4 x y/n #lando norris x y/n #f1 smut #smut #f1 imagine #f1 social media au #ln4 fic #love bites #lando norris angst #lando norris fluff #enemies to lovers #fake dating #PR relationship

[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.

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

[feralforfruit]

Countertop Whispers

A/N: I am writing this on a whim at 8am and I legit created this blog at 6am. I am unhinged and these hours are unholy. We are all here for the vibes and I decided to take matters into my own hands because I have an AA in English that I need to put to use. And this is going to be short btw. You fic writers always tease me like this so this is payback for sure. Xx

Warnings: if you don’t like sex with fruits, I suggest scrolling. NSFW, idek what else this is my first time doing this so please be kind.

Pairings: Tangerine x fem!reader

You hear the shaking of keys and the turning of the door knob of the front door. You pause your mixing, “Hey, my love! I’m in the kitchen!”

He sighs as he sets his keys down and hangs up his coat, releasing all the pressure of today’s hit job as he slumps down on the couch. Blood is sprinkled over his white button down. He rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons the top to reveal his shiny, sweat covered chest.

You look at him, tilting your head sympathetically. You tighten your apron and shake off the bit of powdered sugar you have on you. You grab a cup of iced water and walk over to the living room where your husband is practically meditating in silence. He notices you get closer and he opens his eyes with a glint of relief.

You sit next to him and hand him the cup. His mustache lifts ever so slightly as he sips on the refreshing drink. He pants after he gulps it down, placing the cup on the coffee table coaster. He looks at you lovingly. “Darling, you have no idea how good you look right now,” he says as he grabs your cheek and places a kiss on your temple.

“And you look like a mess but I believe you look sexiest like this,” you say to him while smirking sweetly as his breath hitches at the remark. “Making some cupcakes, wanna help me, handsome?”

“Too knackered to help, love, but I’ll definitely watch.” He says softly as he places another kiss but now below your ear. You giggle at the tickle of his mustache before you get up to continue with your sweetest of hobbies.

Tangerine takes his seat on one of the stools directly across from you on the kitchen island. He admires your dedication to perfecting your baking skills, and definitely has no complaints considering how delicious everything you make is. Usually, on every Friday night, he would always make time to watch you do your thing. He would chat with you about how your days went, what happened at work, how Lemon is doing, all while taste testing everything you gave him. Sometimes he offers to help you out when you needed an extra hand. But tonight, his mind is wandering into a place that makes him grateful that the countertop is covering his lower half.

He can’t get enough of you in that apron. It is wrapped so tightly around your curves that he wishes it were his hands instead. The sounds of your hums put him into a blissful state and it is so cute to watch you sway to the music in your head. The bit of flour on your nose makes him want to kiss it clean. You are used to him staring at you while you bake but right now his eyes are burning right into your hips.

He stays like this for awhile up until you finish mixing up some buttercream frosting. You sigh happily as you grab some with the tip of your index finger and bring it to your tongue. You suck on it for a moment and moan sweetly at the taste. Tangerine’s breath has grown heavy and the tightness in his trousers is becoming unbearable.

“Come to think of it, love, I reckon I would like to help out a bit.” Tangerine slowly walks around the island and stands behind you with his hands on his hips, still looking so dominant as he waits for your command. You squeal at his willingness, “Ahh, yes! Okay, here is the cutting board with some chocolate. Cut it into little pieces for me, will ya?” You peck his cheek and he blushes as he goes to wash his hands before grabbing the knife and dicing up the chocolate.

He is not exactly sure how small you want it cut so he pauses and asks, “This to your liking, love?” You look over to him and say, “Oh honey, I’m sorry, let me show you how it needs to be.” You grab the knife from his hand and slide in front of him, your ass brushing against him as you position yourself to where he was.

He hisses quietly at the contact then bites his lip. He thoughts run wild so he gets an idea and takes this chance to grab your waist from behind and rest his head above your right shoulder to look over it. Internally, you’re swooning at the position, feeling your heart skip a beat. You try your best to focus on slicing the chocolate while his thumbs rubs circles into your back, and you’re struggling not to moan at the sensation.

Tangerine moves his lips to the side of your ear and whispers, “Oh I see how it’s done. You do that so good, baby.” You shiver in response to his praise. “My girl is so good with knives, ain’t that right?” He pecks softly at your neck and you can’t help but stop your movements from your legs beginning to weaken at his words.

“Love, why’d you stop? Don’t you want to finish what you started?” he says as you whine, arching your neck back to be exposed to his affection. His lips continue moving on to the sweet spot below your ear as he starts to lift his left hand from your waist, to your beating chest, moving on to your neck, gripping it ever so slightly.

“I’m fucking starving, and you’re going to be my dessert, darling.”

—

part 2 is up!

#tangerine #tangerine fic #tangerine x reader #bullet train #aaron taylor johnson #atj #atj x reader #aaron taylor johnson x reader #tangerine fanfic #tangerine smut #bullet train smut #bullet train fic #my writing #tangerine x fem!reader #bullet train imagine #lemon and tangerine #bullet train x reader #tangerine imagine #tangerine bullet train

[tokidokitokyo]

ことわざ 16/?

ことわざ are Japanese proverbs, and I have listed some basic proverbs, their equivalents in English, and a rough translation of the meanings of the Japanese phrase.

There is a test for ことわざ called the ことわざ能力検定 (ことわざのうりょくけんてい) and these are the phrases that appear in level 9 or 9級 (10 being the lowest level). For the time being, try one or two of these out the next time you speak with a native Japanese speaker!

ことわざ (こと検9級): 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 More ことわざ (こと検10級): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

歯が浮く

はがうく

cringe-inducing

causing an uncomfortable feeling akin to a loose tooth

歯が立たない

はがたたない

to stand no chance against (opponent/challenge)

teeth cannot stand against the hardness

鼻息が荒い

はないきがあらい

expressing passion and excitement

breathing heavily through the nose

鼻が利く

はながきく

to have a knack for finding money-making opportunities

nose is effective in sniffing out money-making opportunities

鼻が高い

はながたかい

to be filled with pride

hold your nose high

鼻であしらう

はなであしらう

to treat someone with contempt

signal contempt using your nose

鼻で笑う

はなでわらう

to scoff

laugh through your nose

鼻に掛ける

はなにかける

to brag, boast or show off

hang prominently on your nose

鼻に付く

はなにつく

to become tiresome

tiresome behavior that becomes like a bad stench that sticks in your nose

鼻持ちならない

はなもちならない

to become unbearable

bad attitude/behavior likened to a stench so bad you can't stand it even when holding your nose

鼻を明かす

はなをあかす

to outwit, get the jump on, catch off guard

reveal your nose and surprise your opponent

鼻を折る

はなをおる

to take someone down a peg

break someone's nose

鼻を突く

はなをつく

putrid, rank, foul

a smell that stabs the nose

鼻を鳴らす

はなをならす

to whine in an attempt to get your way

to sound your nose

歯に衣着せぬ

はにきぬきせぬ

blunt, straightforward, without 'sugar-coating' it

without applying coating to your teeth

歯の抜けたよう

はのぬけたよう

appearing empty or deserted

like a mouth with its teeth removed

歯の根が合わない

はのねがあわない

teeth chattering from cold/fear

unable to align the base of your teeth

腹が黒い

はらがくろい

deceptive, conniving, black-hearted (also, 腹黒い)

black stomach (disposition)

腹が据わる

はらがすわる

to feel confident

have your stomach (courage) steadied

腹が立つ

はらがたつ

to get angry

have your stomach (disposition) get riled up

腹が減っては戦はできぬ

はらがへってはいくさはできぬ

you can't work on an empty stomach

you can't do battle when hungry

腹に据え兼ねる

はらにすえかねる

to have all you can stand; to be fed up

unable to settle your stomach (disposition)

腹の皮が捩れる

はらのかわがよじれる

side-splitting

makes you laugh so hard the skin of your stomach twists

腹の虫が治まらない

はらのむしがおさまらない

to have all you can stand; to be fed up

unable to settle your stomach worm (from ancient belief that Three Demonic Worms live in the head, chest and stomach and monitor the host's behavior)

腸が煮え繰り返る

はらわたがにえくりかえる

to have your blood boil

have your organs boiling repeatedly

腹を探る

はらをさぐる

to try and infer what someone is thinking/feeling

search someone's stomach (disposition)

腹を割る

はらをわる

to open up (and converse frankly)

split your stomach (emotional center) open

歯を食いしばる

はをくいしばる

to grin and bear it

bite and lock your teeth

膝を交える

ひざをまじえる

to get together for a friendly chat

sit knees crossed and chat

人の口には戸は立てられぬ

ひとのくちにとはたてられぬ

people are gonna talk

you can't erect a door over a person's mouth

一肌脱ぐ

ひとはだぬぐ

to help in any way you can

remove your top and expose your upper body skin to signal intent to get serious and help

腑に落ちない

ふにおちない

unsatisfying (conclusion or explanation)

does not fall in line with your gut (better judgment)

臍で茶を沸かす

へそでちゃをわかす

you're killing me!; that's rich!

that makes me laugh so hard, I could boil tea on my bellybutton! usually said in a mocking manner)

臍を曲げる

へそをまげる

to get cranky

hunched over grumpy making your bellybutton bend

下手な鉄砲も数撃てば当たる

へたなてっぽうもかずうてばあたる

given enough tries, anyone can succeed

even a poorly handled cannon, fired enough times will hit the mark by sheer chance

下手の考え休むに似たり

へたのかんがえやすむににたり

an idiot in thought may as well be napping

a poor attempt at thinking is the same as just resting

下手の横好き

へたのよこずき

a glutton for punishment

unskilled at something, but you insist on liking it

臍を噬む

ほぞをかむ

to regret bitterly

using the futility of trying to chew your own bellybutton as a metaphor for the futility of agonizing over the past

骨折り損の草臥れ儲け

ほねおりぞんのくたびれもうけ

a whole lot of effort for a whole lot of nothing

work til you suffer broken bones and earn only exhaustion

骨が折れる

ほねがおれる

difficult or intensive (work)

work that will break your bones

骨身を削る

ほねみをけずる

to work yourself to the bone

shave down your body and bones with work

骨を埋める

ほねをうずめる

to live out your life somewhere; to dedicate your life to a pursuit

bury your bones somewhere

骨を折る

ほねをおる

to work hard without complaint

break your bones to accomplish something or support someone

#日本語 #japanese #japanese language #japanese langblr #langblr #studyblr #ことわざ #japanese proverbs #こと検9級 #は #は～ほ #tokidokitokyo #tdtstudy

[yawntutsyip]

I’m trying to work on my angst writing… 😒

Why not me?

masterlist

You watched Neteyam behind a tree, smile immediately drops at what you see.

Neteyam was laughing with another girl, she had a hand on his arm while the other one was playing with the beads on his braid twirling it between her fingers.

Why wasn’t he pushing her away? Did he like her?…..

Looking down at your hands, you had a handmade necklace, made just for Neteyam that matched yours.

Tears began to gloss over your yellow orbs and fall onto the, now meaningless necklace. You laugh at yourself clutching the piece of jewelry tight in your fist.

Who was I thinking? Neteyam, liking me?…

Impossible.

You stare back at the two still giggling and chatting as their backs to you walking further into the forest. He looked happy. He was giving her the smile you thought was only reserved for your eyes.

Whimpers begin to slip from your lips as you muffle them with your hand, walking backwards into the tree with your back against it sliding down, not caring about the pain that you felt from the bark scratching your skin.

Pain struck your chest as you continued to let tears fall down. Why couldn’t that be you? Did he not find you pretty? Did he even like you in the first place?

You couldn’t take it anymore, all these feelings began to become unbearable. You throw yourself forward landing on your knees with your hands covering your face as you scream out your sorrows.

Your heart felt as if it had shattered into a million pieces, with your lungs having any air sucked out of them, it was so much pain that you held. You wanted the ground to swallow you in so you didn't have to face anyone, your fragile body could only take so much.

After a while tears no longer left your eyes, you stayed laying on the dirt and grass-covered ground as you watched the sky.

Everything felt numb, as if the world stopped spinning just for you so that you could take your time. You didn’t know what to feel. The one person you were ready to live the rest of your life with, gone with another girl.

How you wished it was you laughing with him, touching him, smiling with him, making memories.

The light from the sky began to disappear as night had begun. Finally, you sit up slowly, breaths still shaking as you take short inhales.

Staring at the necklace in your hands.

How pathetic. You stayed up all night gathering different beads and gems to make it.

All that time wasted. Time you could no longer take back.

Rubbing your eyes with your fist you stand up and look down at the necklace before throwing it off somewhere into the forest. It was useless now.

You walk away. Eyes no longer held that special shine, they now stayed dull, emotions showed no more.

But there was still one thing in the back of your mind you couldn't get out.

Why not me?…

#atwow #avatar the way of water #atwow x reader #atwow imagine #avatar x reader #neteyam x reader #neteyam #avatar #neteyam sully #☆ — neteyam ˖˚⊹

[shinyrhinestones]

Two doors down

Summary: Reader has had a bad day, and tries to cheer herself up by going to a party she has been invited to, where she ends up meeting a cute boy. (Yes, it’s based on the Dolly Parton song). Reader doesn’t work at the BAU.

Pairing: Spencer Reid X Fem!Reader

Category: Oneshot

Genre: Fluff and smut.

Warnings: Alcohol, partying, kissing, Reader has quite long hair, Reader is studying to become an archaeologist, but Reader is about the same age as Spencer. Smut, soft intercourse, petting, protected intercourse, making-out.

This is my first time writing a little more explicit so it might not be that good…

Also English isn’t my mother tongue, so there will probably be some mistakes.

———————————————————————-

Bad days happen, and that's okay. But they definitely don't make the targeted person feel very good. I guess, it's only a bad day if you let it be. But honestly today had just been straight up a horrible day, and I wasn't sure if any of that could be saved. The day wasn't over yet, but still, it felt like alot to make up for. First of all, the weather had been horrible. It was raining heavily. Thunder coming every now and then giving me a shock, because of how loud it is. Everything had been so irritating today. My sleeves kept getting stuck onto doorhandles, kept dropping things and my hair wouldn't cooperate with me.

The rain drops had felt like sharp diamant pieces falling onto my skin and hair. I had let out a deep sigh entering the warm building of my school. But it was the most uncomfortable feeling in the world sitting on those unbearable chairs in my school, and just walking around in general with completely wet and soaked socks and pants. And my long hair dripping onto the floor. My classmates had been obnoxious. Maybe I just felt that way, because I was already in a bad mood and on edge.

I had completely forgotten about the whole party my friend, Elle was having. Work had been taking up my whole mind that day, that when I looked at my calender I almost had a heart attack. Luckily, I didn't need to worry about the weather and having to find a way of transportation in it, because Elle lived just two doors down from my apartment.

I didn't know what to wear or if what I wanted to wear was even clean. So I decided to worry about that later, and jumped into the shower. One thing at a time.

The warm shower, helped with relaxing and clearing my mind. Also, that meant my hair could sit better, than it had the whole day. I found some clothes that fit a party, like the one I was going to. It wasn't going to be anything wild, but just a gathering with some music and games. I never really went to wild parties anyways.

-

Music was playing at a fitting volume, with people chatting and some playing games like limbo. It was entertaining watching how low people could get until it was just impossible, unless you wanted to break a bone. I was watching some of them, smiling and laughing at it. I did feel a little tired, rubbing my eyes here and then, but I found the athmospehere of my friends apartment too comforting to leave. Also, I didn't want to just show up and then quickly scram from the whole event. Unless, I had a good exuse, and I didn't. So I was sitting there on her black couch, leaning an elbow on my leg and resting my head on my fist. I had a can of beer infront of me, but I had only taken like one sip from it. I really wasn't in the mood for getting drunk or being hungover. I felt the weight on the couch shift when a young man sat next to me. I looked over shortly to see who it was, and to my surprise I didn't recognize him. I knew everyone else at the party, except for him. I straigthened my posture a bit, studied his side profile as he looked at the limbo that was happening. He had a sharp jawline, cute button nose and dark hair. Hair that wasn't to short nor was it too long. "Hi"I softly said. The man turned to me, with raised eyebrows and curious eyes. I already loved staring into those brown doe eyes. "Hi" He replied. A small vague smile formed on my face, and I could see one on his face too. "I'm Y/N" I said, and studied his face further.

"I'm Spencer" He said like he had been holding a long breath. He nodded a little at me, as his way of greeting me, and I must've mirrored his gesture. "How do you know Elle?" I asked, and started fidgeting with the can. The can had gone warm, after just sitting on the coffee table for so long. "I work with her. We're really good friends from work" His lips went into a straight line alot of the time, and I couldn't stop staring at them. They were pink and looked so kissable.

Elle had recently gotten the opening at the BAU as a profiler. Maybe that was why she held this little party, to celebrate in a way. I'm not sure. She didn't say so. I looked over at Elle, who was already eyeing me and Spencer. She smiled at me, and then looked back at the game she was occupied with.

"At the BAU?" I asked, knowing the answer already. But it was just to hear more from that pretty mouth of his. He nodded. "Yes, we work as profilers." He said a little low, like he didn't actually want me to hear him. I felt a warm feeling spreading through my chest, just by looking at him. His own fingers were fidgeting, and he looked around alot. Behind me, infront of himself and only managed eye contact for a few seconds. He tucked his hair behind his ears, and I really wanted to touch it myself. Run my fingers through his dark hair and feel the hopefully soft and nice feeling. I could only imagine it being delicate.

"How do you know her?" He wondered. "I met Elle, when I moved here. I wanted to see if law enforcement was for me, and during my search for maybe my law enforcement education I met Elle. She worked with sex crimes." He smiled the whole time I was trying to find the right words, for my explanation. He nodded along the whole time. "So did you choose law enforcement?" He asked. "No. It felt like there was other great stuff out there for me. I think law enforcement would've been fun, but I feel like there was just more fun stuff out there" I tried to explain my best, but I was truly nervous around this beautiful man. Everytime I meet a handsome man, I find it hard to not be anxious just a little. I bounced my leg up and down, looking around the apartment. The window had been opened to probably ease the smell of alcohol. A cold breeze was lingering in the apartment. Cars were driving by and stars were shining down onto earth. "So what do you do?" "I am studying. I want to become an archaeologist."

Spencer had seemed very intrigued by my interest in history, and talked to me almost all evening about facts and stories including the past. I listened to him, finding it cute the way he was talking and rambling. And honestly, I was happy to have met someone who was interested in something I was. After alot of talking, people were moving over to the living room to rest, and sat down around where me and Spencer had been sitting.

"Hey, do you want to maybe go somewhere more private? A lot of people are moving over here. We could talk about it more, if we just moved." I leaned in close to Spencer, so only he could hear me. My voice was almost a whisper. Spencer felt my breath on him, which only made his fluttering heart go wilder.

He'd been feeling so lucky to have been able to keep a conversation with a stranger, and that that person made him feel that special and rare feeling inside.

"Oh..yeah- uhm..sure" He looked down, not being able to look at me anymore. I could see a small blush being painted onto his pretty cheeks. I stood up, and waited for him to follow my lead.

I stopped walking for a moment to talk to him shortly. "We could just go to my place, it's in the same building"

Spencer had agreed with a shy: Yes. And a nod.

-

Elle had given me a funny look, when I told I was leaving as Spencer did too.

But it didn’t really matter what Elle was thinking because I was now in my own apartment with a guy who was very attractive both physically and personally.

He was shy, kind, clever, sweet and understanding. He seemed to actually listen and be interested in what I was saying. I did go to school with a bunch of people who are also interested in it, but none of those people made me feel the way Spencer did. He had a soft nature to him, and it was almost like I could see the goodness ray and shine around him.

“You have a nice place.” He complimented. I wasn’t sure if he felt obligated to say that, but I appreciated the kindness.

“Thank you.” I replied, and sat down on my couch. “You can look around if you want” I’m not sure why I said that, to a man who I just had met, but it slipped.

He looked through some of the books I read, and kept going on these ramblings about facts and whatnot about what these books reminded him of. And I just sat there and listened with a soft smile, and probably pink cheeks.

He sat down next to me, and a small silence filled. He didn’t really look at me, when he sat down. But at one moment he did, and that’s when my I didn’t even think before I acted. I kissed him, and brought my hands up to his face. I let my hands caress his cheeks, and up to his hair. I felt his own hands wrap around my body holding me closer than before. His lips were so soft. I could feel every single butterfly basking it’s wings in my belly.

At one point we had to pull away for air.

We just looked at each other. In to the others eyes, studying them. I know, I could look into his pretty ones for an eternity. I tilted my head while looking at him. My arms rested around his neck, and his were still around me. They were careful and gentle. His hands were large and honestly so beautiful.

Then I kissed him again. I swear I could see the almost hypnotized look in his eyes, and the way his breath got caught in his throat. But he melted into the kiss, just like his body did. I couldn’t keep my hands away from his hair. He started to lay his body on top of mine, which I was only happy to experience. Feeling his weight on me, but of course he didn’t lay all of his weight on me. But it still felt nice to have him so close.

As we laid there just kissing and letting our hands wander on each other, we both got more into it.

So I asked him. Carefully though. I really didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but I wouldn’t know if he wanted to if I didn’t ask. He seemed completely hypnotized in some way. He mumbled a yes, and I had pushed him off me to sit up on the couch both of us. I think that had scared him. That he had done something wrong, but that was not my intention at all. I just wanted to ask him about his boundaries and what he likes, and then I told him my own aswell. I’ve always found it important to know each others boundrasies and no-go’s in order to have a good time together.

I normally wouldn’t really have gone this far with someone I’ve only known for a few hours.

I guess, the reason why I did it was because I had had a bad day and just needed something to relieve all of my tension and frustration.

I remember holding his hand and guiding him to my bedroom, with him following me like a puppy in a crowd.

The light in my room wasn’t too bright because I just turned on the bedside lamp. I went over to close the door, and when I turned around Spencer was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for me. I decided to just lay down on the bed guiding him on me.

He started kissing down my neck and went down to my collarbone. His hands slid under my blouse, and caressed the skin under. I had reached for the buttons on his shirt and started unbuttoning them. I immediately let my hands roam over the already exposed skin on his chest. We didn’t even break the kiss, while we snuck our hands under each others clothing.

But at one point we had to break the kiss to get off each others clothing completely. Being intimate with Spencer was a time worth remembering. He was a lover who really cared.

We were both bare at this point. He had taken my shirt off and didn’t even throw it. He just let it fall from his grip onto the edge of the bed, not even looking where it landed. He kissed down my neck and down my collarbone. I sighed, and my hands ran through his dark hair. His hands slowly and carefully brushed down my belly, and right when he was to touch my most sensitive spot, he looked up at me.

His brown puppy dog eyes looked up at me through his eyelashes. “Can I?” His voice was low and comforting in a way. “Yes” I looked back at him with a subtle smile, resting my weight on my elbows. He ghosted his middle finger above my already wet folds. He didn’t put any pressure yet. He kissed my belly and kissed down my hips, and then let lingering kisses on my inner thighs. I closed my eyes, enjoying the gentleness from a man like him.

I opened my eyes again, looking at how pretty he was exploring me. He caressed one of my thighs with one of his large hands. His other hand softly sliding through my folds, before hus middle finger ended upon my clit. He started to rub his finger against it in circles. I started panting just a little, my breath getting heavier. I let out a barely audible whine, but because it was quiet in my quite small flat, and it was just me and him, he heard it.

I reached for a condom in drawer of my nightstand.

“Could you wear protection?” I asked so I wasn’t just doing stuff without being thoughtful.

He noddded. “Oh- No, yes of course”

I remember how his eyes were observing my figure. He looked completely star struck. I probably had the same look on my face. It was rare for me to see a man who was handsome, cute and beautiful but Spencer was definitely all of those. His eyes were a mix of brown and green, shining with admiration. His hair framed his face perfectly even though it was messy, and all over the place.

My finger traced down his nose. I opened the condom and let the wrapper be on the bedside table.

He had been hard ever since I guided him on top of me. He was holding himself up with his hands on the sides of me. I put it on him, and held him closer to me right when I got it on him.

I kissed him and he immediately kissed back. His thumbs were sliding up the sides of my waist and I slowly guided him towards my entrance. I sighed, and held my arms around him, caressing every now and then. Before I let him enter I reached my hand down to wrap my hand around him, and letting it stroke a few times. His eyes fluttered, and he let out a short moan. Hearing him moan like that, made me a little impatient. It only made me want more of him. I kissed his jawline and then left kisses on his throat, holding him closer to reach him.

I then guided him towards my entrance letting him enter this time. I took in a breath, feeling him like this was a little surreal. This man was so sweet, and here I was being this intimate with him. Spencer let out soft moan, and kissed him on my lips. He didn’t move, until I let one hand reach his lower back and told him to.

“Move Spencer” I whispered against his delicate skin. I whined when he started to move at a steady pace. I knew he was trying to hold in his own sounds. I saw him biting his bottom lip, and how he only let out small huffs every now and then.

“I wanna hear you, Spencer” I said in between breaths. Everytime he hit a spot that really felt good I let out a real moan. But it wasn’t that loud. Not that it didn’t feel good, but normally I’m not that loud. Whenever someone would be moaning with their chest I knew they were faking it. Its supposed to come from the down in the stomach, where the pleasure shoots up. He hid his face in the crook of my neck, before he finally let himself relax and let sounds and noises go.

I closed my eyes, and held him as close as I could. “Hold me” I muttered and he immediately obeyed. His long arms and large hands held me securely but gently in his grip. His chest close to mine.

I’m not really sure how much time had passed, but I guess that doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that it felt good. He was doing it just right, hitting the right spot inside of me. I was panting much heavier now along with Spencer. I felt it building up in my stomach. “I’m almost there” I said almost breathless. “Spencer” I barely whined. His lips parted a little his eyes studying me before he let out: “Oh god” I felt his thrusts getting more slow, but it still added onto the heavenly feeling. My body tensed. I held onto him for dear life, letting out a choked moan. He started leaving butterfly kisses on my jawline, before he let more lingering kisses on my neck. My back arched a little, and my head leaned into his touch.

Shortly after I felt himself let go. I heard his low moan, and felt his body almost collapse on me. His body was sweaty and his eyes closed in a moment of bliss. I relaxed in his embrace and let myself rest against my bed. I let out a final sigh and Spencer smiled at the sight of me. I saw his soft smile at me, when my eyelids fluttered open. A breathy giggle came out of me, and I caressed his cheeks, as he leaned his face into my hands. He crawled next to me and sat up. I admired his figure, before I got up myself to get cleaned up just like him.

Even though the day had started badly it ended up becoming a good day. Or atleast a better day.

———————————————————————

#criminalminds #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spence reid fluff #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #Spence Reid x Reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

VH - Lost Soul

(tw: it’s backstory time for Vampire Hero, and it isn’t very nice. Lots and lots of torture mentions.)

Vampire Hero was in hell, although not for the reasons Villain thought.

According to his watch, he’d been trapped in this maze for hours. Amid the many gifts his vampire nature had given him, a sense of direction wasn’t among them. He’d tried to punch the walls, but that would have taken too long to burst through them. They were even thicker than the skull that had thought of such a stupid thing to build. What he could do was leaving a dent to make sure that yes, he’d been there before. He had his phone on him, but there was no wifi, so no way to use his GPS. He had very little battery left anyhow– he had emptied most of it to send his wife pictures of bats on his way, which was as far as he was concerned a very good and judicious use of it. All of that was already a bore, but to make the game even funnier, the labyrinth was full of traps.

Full of pathetic traps. The ground collapsed under his feet, rocks were falling on him, all of that accomplishing nothing – but it was annoying enough that it disrupted his concentration, preventing him to find a way out. That was not the main problem, though. There were screens everywhere, too high to reach, and Villain. Never. Stopped. Talking.

“What is good and evil ? Do you know for sure what the limit is ? Good is supposed to follow the law, but is the law always good ? Isn’t it pride to do what feels right ? You think you want to stop me, but aren’t you being selfish by doing what you want ?”

She’d kept going like that for hours now. Nails on a blackboard would have sounded nicer. Not only the words were as hollow as a dead snail, but the inflection of that pompous voice was unbearable. Vampire Hero was seriously tempted to hit his head against the wall to stop hearing anything, but that didn’t seem like it’d work in the long term.

At his limit, he stepped up, his lips pinched, and finally yelled back:

“Four words. Grow the fuck up.”

“That’s all you have to say ? You’re not much for philosophy.”

“You call that philosophy ? I hate to break it to you, but knowing that good and bad are social constructs is not some kind of genius insight. All I see is a kid yelling at me that she’s very smart. You don’t give a crap about all of this. You just want to prove to yourself how very superior you are.”

“Do you think you’re better than me ?”

“The bar is low.”

“Oh, because you’re good now ?”

Vampire Hero stopped dead in his tracks:

“Even before, I was better than you."

He raised his arms and bared his teeth, his voice loud:

"You think that you’re bad ? You’ve got nothing on me ! I lured people and made them dance with me over broken glass. I had them rot blindfolded in animal cages for days until they had to lick their own blood. I had cozy nights with them having a friendly little chat in the living room while I was drinking from a corpse, and they knew that if they broke they were next. I made them starve and eat their loved ones. And I loved it ! I loved all of it ! I loved the light dying in their eyes. I thought I was clever ! I am half the reasons you’re shaking at night !”

“Zdiiiiiiiingbonnng,” made the rock on Hero’s head. He sighed in exasperation and stopped talking, wiping gravel from his hair.

“I know about you.” said Villain. “The hero agency’s lackey. Aren’t you ashamed ? You were a great prince, once.”

“Actually, I never was really tall.”

“Go ahead, hide yourself behind this kind of childish retorts. But admit it: you’ve sunk low. You arrest people who weren’t caught like you and you bring them to the authority, like a good dog. Has it ever occurred to you how much of a failure you’ve become ?”

“No.”

“Then why did you stop ?”

“If I tell you the story, will you finally shut up ?”

“Perhaps.”

“Worth it.”

Vampire Hero jumped over a couple of spikes, groaned when he realized that his jeans had a new hole, and said:

“Once upon a time, asshole, I was living happily in my castle all alone. I was rich, I was immortal, I had everything I wanted, and what I wanted was a lot of toys.”

He glanced around him, noticed nothing that indicated he was on the right path, and sighed.

“By toys I mean humans, of course. I chose among the prettiest, kindest, bravest, and I tortured them to death. I hurt them until they didn't have anything to break. I was good at it. I experimented things that would give you and all of you so-called Supervillains nightmares for years. But, you know. Decade after decade, still doing the same thing – I was getting bored. I felt empt- aw man, a dead end again ?”

He turned on his heels, swearing. That was obviously the wrong way to solve his problem. The walls were smooth and impossible to climb, so it had to be arranged. He caught a rock and throw it against the hard surface with a little more strength than necessary.

“Well, anyway. I heard there was a great conqueror who wanted the world. I made my first travel since decades, by curiosity. I wanted to see by myself who could challenge me.”

“And you fought him and you lost ?”

“I told you to shut up. I met her, and not long after I was her lucky, lucky husband. I never had her ambition, but of course I supported her. She encouraged my own little hobby in return, so I became her special torturer. My life was even more perfect, and there was this void inside me, and I hated it, and I didn't understand it. And what happened happened. I tortured the wrong person.”

“Define wrong ?”

“It was the daughter of a vampire hunter.”

“A poor choice.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. The guy was really good at his job. He was already pissed off because of the world-conquering plan, but after I did that, well, he cursed my wife and I – oh, enough with this.”

Punctured by rock impacts, the wall in front of him wasn’t so smooth anymore. Vampire Hero took a run-up, jumped and landed on the top of it. He had a nice view on the labyrinth now. For the first time, he took the right direction.

“ That’s cheating,” complained Villain.

“I don’t care.”

“What then ?”

“What then ? I had a bad century. The hunter couldn't kill me, so he drank my blood to prolong his own life and tortured me. He got good at it, too. I felt what I’d made the others feel, but only at first – after ninety years it was back to nothing. I was 300 years old and reality was fading. I was a leech. I hadn’t made a thing for myself.”

“You mean you went soft because of a little torturing?”

“No. I got old. When you have a couple of centuries, this torture-people-to-death shit doesn’t have the same kind of kick anymore. You try to get creative, but it doesn’t help. You feel nothing. So there’s nothing else you can do but stop. And speaking of stopping, it’s your turn.”

Vampire Hero was now at the center of the labyrinth. He jumped to a silver door, decided he was too done with the whole thing to use the knob, and broke it open.

Villain turned towards him, a small smile on her face, and opened her arms in a welcome gesture:

“Behold, vampire ! This room have been made of silver walls and floor. You won’t be able to enter without squirming in agony and -

Vampire Hero stepped in. Villain braced herself for his cries of pain, but there was none. He still looked bored out of his mind. There was a long silence.

“That’s – that’s not possible.”

Hero laughed. A slow, sinister laugh that made Villain’s eyes open wide.

“What are you ?” she whispered. “You can’t be a vampire. You should be crawling on the ground.”

“Don’t you listen ? I told you I’ve been tortured for decades. You know what an immortal body does when it regenerates back for the hundredth time ?"

He pointed to himself. There was a subtle change in his appearance. He still looked like his unimpressed self, but his usual lightness was replaced by something much darker. It was his eyes. Staring into them was like gazing into some horrible, nameless abyss. There was nothing human about them. They could only belong to some ghastly creature who'd lived centuries, not particularly nice ones.

Vampire Hero chuckled, and Villain shuddered.

"It gets tougher," he only said. "I’ve lost touch and taste. I feel nothing. Nor warmth or cold, and certainly not pain. My body is cut from the outside world. There's not much that feels real to me. You know what it is?”

He walked towards Villain, who took a step back and said:

“I hope you realize you’re monologuing yourself.”

“Habits die hard. I want to go back tonight and kiss my wife on the top of her head, just in the middle. It’s our habit. That’s all that matters. If I have to be on this side to support her, so be it. I don’t care about evil or good, and it won’t prevent me to eat your vocal chords if you’re off again. So, are you going to keep talking or finally shut the hell up ?”

“You know what, I think I’m good.”

*

Vampire Hero is a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Check the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

#hero x villain #hero villain community #writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #my writing #writing snippet #writing drabble #writing dialogue #villain and hero #creative writing #vampire #vampire hero #hero and villain #heroes and villains #fucking finally #this snippet took way too much time and effort let me tell you #I’m sorry villains saying they’re very clever because they know *morality is relative* is a berserk button #no fucking shit genius #it gives me euros holmes flashbacks #“good and evil are not real things I found this all by myself look at me that makes me so fucking clever I’m basically an X-man” #gaaaah #Moffat’s characters were never dumber than when he wanted to show off How Clever they were #anyway. #I’m calm. I’m cool. I’m calm.

[ofstoriesandstardust]

chapter 6 - hate to be lame but i might love you (b.r.b)

a/n: sorry still no happy ending yet!! it’s gonna get worse before it gets better hehe!! thank you to @struggling-with-delia​ who read the first draft, rightfully told me it was shit, and helped me create this.

summary: Rooster and Maverick have a heart to heart. 

title comes from finneas and lizzy mcalpine’s “hate to be lame”

main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist | flight risk masterlist | chapter 5 - same boat | chapter 7 - discussions, divorces, and decisions (oh my!)

folks who wanted to be tagged: @justanothermagicalsara​ @fangirl-316​ @herladyshipxx​ @parker-natasha​ @myhomeworksnotdone​ @pulisvertz​ @lass-that-is-gone​ @frenchtoastix​ @coco-loco-nut​ @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy​ @torresbarnes​ @supernaturaldawning​ @you-had-me-at-dead-welsh-kings​ @katiemcrae​ @gretagerwigsmuse​ @the-winter-marvel33​ @some-lovely-day​ @unordinare​ @hotch-meeeeeuppppp​ @annedub​ @hope-love-equality2​ @coyotesamachado​ @hopefulinlove​ @mak-32​ @daisyhollyxox​ @loveforaugust​ @earth-to-lottie​ @sometimesanalice @cheezit-bradshawseresin​ @none-of-your-bullshit​ @jstarr86​ @caatheeriinee07​

warnings: swearing, alcohol, canon death/near death experiences

word count: 1,932

His thumb runs over the slowly peeling label on the beer bottle as the condensation makes the sticker wet. The beer is starting to warm, making him cringe as he takes small sips of the liquid, trying to keep his thoughts at bay. 

He tries to not let his mind wander too much, to not replay the last few days over on an endless loop in his head as they have been. He tries to focus on the sound of something, to latch on to any other thoughts than the silence haunting his home. 

It’s futile, the bar far too quiet for his liking. There’s only a few patrons, making background noise nothing but a low murmur. His crew has yet to arrive, leaving him with only his thoughts and no distraction. 

He tries not to think about the last time he was here, when another officer from base had flirted with you, buying you drinks and chatting you up. How he had been able to do little but watch as this man tried to feign interest in lending you a shoulder to cry on regarding your divorce. 

He knew what the man really wanted, knew what he was after. 

You’d been nothing but polite to the man, showing no real interest, but Bradley couldn’t help the jealousy that had sparked in his gut, wanting nothing more than to go over there and show the man just who you belonged to. 

Despite the strong urge to march over there and intervene, to stop it, to tell you just how much he loved you, he reminded himself that it was he who had asked for the divorce since the beginning. Had pushed for it, in an effort to not hurt you. 

He was afraid he was pushing you right out of his life.

He can’t unhear the way you had begged him to just look at you on the drive home. He can’t unhear the crack in your voice as you promised you weren’t the one who had spread the news about the divorce, that you never wanted his private life to become so public to his colleagues. 

He didn’t know how to tell you that it wasn’t you. That it wasn’t because others on the base had found out about the divorce. That it had long since been public knowledge ever since Fritz had drunkenly blabbed to another pilot that wasn’t it so sad.

He didn’t know how to tell you he couldn’t look at you without grabbing you by your shirt and kissing you silly. He couldn’t look you in the eye and not tell you that he loved you, tell you that you were all he ever wanted. 

Things had been weird since the night of the gala, since the two of you had stood on the precipice of almost in his hallway. 

But that night last week had made things go from awkward to unbearable. You’d pulled away, no longer going out with him and his friends, no longer even speaking to him. You had distanced yourself from him despite living within the same house and Bradley couldn’t believe that his one stupid moment of jealousy is what had driven the wedge between the two of you. 

He couldn’t quite understand it to be completely honest. 

“Bradley.” 

He blinks once, and then twice, recognizing the figure of his godfather standing to his right. Mav’s hand is on his shoulder, warm and steady. “Hi Mav.” 

His godfather squeezes his shoulder, offering him a small smile as he takes the seat next to him. “You doing okay there Baby Goose?” 

He shrugs, taking a sip of beer, and cringes again, realizing just how warm it’s become. Mav lets out a little chuckle, shaking his head as Penny sits two beers down in front of them. “Thanks Pen.” Mav says, offering the women a soft smile. 

“Of course, you boys let me know if you need anything else.” She says, returning the smile Mav’s offering her. 

He studies his godfather for a moment, taking in the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the light in his eyes, the smile he always wears, the way he seems truly content. 

He’s happy to see his godfather look that way after all these years. 

“So, what’s going with you and Sunshine these days?” 

“I’d really rather not talk about her.” He says gruffly, picking at the label of the fresh beer bottle. 

“Ice tells me you guys are signing the divorce papers in a few days.” 

“Yep. Tuesday morning. Soonest the notary could see us.” 

“And then she’s back on her way to Boston?” 

He nods, sighing a little. “Yeah. Think her flight is the same day.” 

Mav hums, taking a long draw of his beer before setting it on the counter. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it Baby Goose?” 

The chuckles he lets out is more than a little pained. “There’s nothing to talk about, Mav.” 

His godfather studies him for a minute before he sighs, lifting his arms to be propped up on the counter. “I don’t want to pry Baby Goose, because it’s really none of my business-” 

“So don’t.” He snaps, feeling himself start to get defensive. 

“-But if this is hard for you or you’re struggling with it, I want you to know it’s okay to talk to me about it. That I’m here for you.” 

“I don’t get a right to be upset.” He mutters, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, distantly feeling like a small child again. 

“Why not? Divorces aren’t easy.” 

“I was the one who pushed for this. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it. And it doesn’t matter because she’s just my friend.” 

Mav sighs again. “Brad, you and I both know that’s not true.” 

“So what if isn’t? So fucking what? I pushed for this, this was my idea, and I now I have to answer for what I wanted. End of story.” 

“Brad-” Maverick pauses as he chews on his bottom lip, struggling to figure out what to say. “Brad, you’re clearly hurting and I want you to know that it’s okay to talk to me about this. Regardless of if this was your idea or not, you’re still hurting. This is still hard for you and I want you to know that I’m perfectly happy to be the outlet for you to express your anger and hurt.” 

“You shouldn’t.” He mutters, finally taking a sip of his beer. 

“What?” Mav’s brows furrow at the words, a clear signal of his confusion. 

“You shouldn’t be happy to do this for me.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t fucking deserve it.” He snaps. “I’ve been awful to you, said horrible things to you, things I didn’t even mean. I lied to you about her, I asked her to lie to you, I didn’t talk to you for over a decade for fuck’s sake!” His chest is heaving as he stares his godfather down. 

Mav says nothing for a moment, hand coming up to grip Bradley’s shoulder tightly once more. “Brad, yes I should.”

“How?” His voice comes out as no more than a croak, suddenly overcome with tears. “After everything I’ve done, how can you say that?” 

“Because you’re still my son.” Mav whispers, squeezing his shoulder. “You are my greatest accomplishment Baby Goose.” 

It’s quiet for a moment as he leans into his godfather’s touch, unsure of what to say or how to move froward. 

“There’s going to be people in your life who love you unconditionally. Your parents loved you conditionally. I love you unconditionally. And Sunshine well-” Mav breaks off with a chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, if there’s anybody who loves you unconditionally, it’s that girl.” 

“I don’t-” He cuts himself off, unsure if he doesn’t understand or doesn’t want to admit that he has always understood. 

“C’mon Brad. Even if she doesn’t know how to express it, she does. She flew out her for you, lied to me for you, and never even dated anyone else while you risked revealing the truth on more than one occasion. She looks at you and sees the whole world. Some part of you has to know that.” 

He sighs, hanging his head as he breaks eye contact with his godfather. A heavy silence falls in between them as he struggles to cough up the truth that’s been haunting him since the day he thought he might never see you again. 

“You know, when you and I were sitting up there in that F-14, when it seemed like death was inevitable—God, this sounds so stupid—all I could think about was that phone call. It’s so stupid that in what I thought were going to be my last moments, I didn’t think of you or my parents or my own goddamn mortality, but a girl from my undergrad that I hadn’t seen in over a goddamn decade. I just kept thinking about her, that sweet girl getting a phone call from a number she didn’t know, and being informed that her husband was dead. I didn’t know what was going on in her life, if she still even cared about me at all, but all I could picture was that girl and getting that phone call, finding out her friend was dead.”

It’s quiet for a minute more as he returns his his gaze to his godfather. “Mom got that phone call.” Mav nods slowly, his thumb gently rubbing circles into his shoulder as he continues. “Mom got that phone call, and I- Once Hangman took that shot, when I finally realized we had escaped death, I swore to myself that I would never let her go through that pain, that I would-” He swallows, taking a shuddering breath. “This divorce was the only way I knew how to protect her.” His voice drops to a whisper. 

“Brad.” Maverick whispers but he drops his head once more, struggling to meet his godfather’s gaze, a stray tear rolling down his face. Mav’s quick to wipe it away, his calloused thumb rough against his cheek. 

“I know- I know that I love her, Mav. I know that now. I have always loved her, maybe. Maybe I’ve been too scared to admit it, maybe been too scared to believe it, maybe been too scared to let her love me back. But Mav- Mav my life doesn’t change if I tell her that I love her.  My job doesn’t change, the very real possibility that I could die at any time. I won’t- won’t let her go through that.” 

His godfather surges forward, wrapping him into a tight hug. The angle is awkward but he allows himself to wrap his arms tighter around his godfather, the way he did when he was 5 and scrapped his knee on the playground, when he was 11 and didn’t make the baseball team, when he was 17 and saying goodbye to his mother. 

“I care about her Mav. I care about her so much, but I’m hurting her. I don’t know how- I don’t know how to fix it.” 

Mav swallows, pulling back slightly from him. “Brad, if you love her, you need to tell her. Start there. The two of you can’t move forward if you aren’t honest with each other about how you really feel.” Maverick shifts, pulling him into another tight hug, squeezing him. The words muffled, whispered into his jacket, but he hears his godfather’s words all the same. 

“Let her love you.” 

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #flight risk #top gun: maverick #top gun: maverick fic

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

For your modern avatar au What if spider has some sort of respiratory diseases, or other chronic inflammatory lung or obstructive lung diseases. Because he has to were a oxygen mask in the movie.

Alright here is my answer finally @peachycrime

Okay, unfortunately my first thought was the fucking 2001 comedy/romance Bubble Boy, so that's cool.

Luckily for you I've been in the reddie fandom hardcore since 2016 so WE KNOW ABOUT ASTHMATIC HEADCANONS IN THIS HOUSE.

I think I'd pick like severe asthma because it just jives for me, but if you wanna go crazy we could really have a fucking Fault in our Stars/Five Feet Apart moment here. Really lean into locorro or spiri here.

-Spider lived with Norm for years because he was the foster parent they had with the most medical experience, but eventually he just was LIVING with Jake and Neytiri .

-Stay at home wheelchair dad Jake Sully with his three little kids under three had none of the attention or free time to dedicate to a kid with medical issues, but him and work from home Norm become a seamless team in the kids toddler years.

-Neytiri had just finished her residency so she was simply flawless with him. He's pretty much a normal kid, he's just got bad asthma. He does all physical activity he can, but he gets out of breath quickly and has to stop for a puff or two before he can get back out there.

-Neteyam is younger but they're in the same grade because Spider got held back because he was so lil because he was a sick kid before Neytiri and Norm got a hold of him.

-He carries around an inhaler and Neteyam also carries around an inhaler because Neteyam may be younger but he is so protective of Spider and so worried about him losing his breath when they are at school and their parents aren't around.

-Tonowari and Jake meet at the playground on a Saturday and all of a sudden Jake is an after-school care, watching his own four kids and Ao'nung and Tsireya (and neighborhood latchkey kid Rotxo who Spider loves because he was also a latchkey kid).

-Ao'nung gets mad at Spider during a game of pickle where they are both the taggers because Spider stops to tag a puff. Ao'nung insists he has to keep going and Spider does and ends up passing out.

-He's not allowed to run or do anything strenuous for two days and Ao'nung is grounded by Ronal for a week. Neteyam and Kiri don't talk to him for a day. He feels really bad though and after that he yells at any kid who tries to get Spider to do anything physical at school until a teacher has to call home and they all have to have a chat lol.

-Neytiri and Norm we're absolutely unbearable for days, hovering over him and making him drink water, while Jake was treating Spider exactly the same. They are disability buddies and Jake would never treat Spider as fragile because he isn't. In fact, they played catch later that night even though Spider was sitting down and it gave Neteyam an aneurysm.

-Lo'ak always explains to strangers that his brother is cool he just has "shit lungs" because he heard Jake say that one time.

-Reddie moment: "Spider Sully Blasts Off!" every time he uses his inhaler.

#bubble boy is so spider coded #neteyam is prematurely grey in every universe #but especially in one where spider is chronically ill and has lo'ak as a sibling #a lot of this is taken from my kid at work with asthma #also i can't even get started on the myriad of ways lo'ak almost kills spider on the daily #it reminds me of my brother and our close family friend #theyre basically siblings #she is deathly allergic to eggs #and my brother is constantly sticking his knife in her butter or offering her some of his food or accidentally taking her fork #were always like are you trying to kill jessie??? #imagine this but lo'ak while they have family dinner and everyone else has a spice deadly to humans and spider's bowl is human safe #lo'ak sticking his fork in spiders bowl: can i have a bite #eberyone: oh my fucking god #skksks #miles spider socorro #spider socorro #spider sully #jake sully #neytiri sully #neteyam sully #kiri sully #lo'ak sully #norm spellman #ao'nung #tsireya #tonowari #ronal #rotxo #avatar #avatar the way of water

[rebelwrites]

Hi there!

I absolutely lived your Jax Teller story of the female biker president. I was thinking if you could do an imagine on Jax's old lady "girlfriend " becoming the first female Samcro member due to her loyalty and fierceness for the club.

Also hope we can be mutual and get to know each other 😁

Sorry it’s taken me a while to write this. Hope you enjoy 🖤 my inbox is always open to get to know people 🥰🖤

Times Are Changing

Jax Teller x Reader

Jax Teller Masterlist

Summary: Jax needs you back at the clubhouse urgently, panic soars through your veins as you race back to the clubhouse but it isn’t what you think it is.

Slipping into the booth at the small coffee shop you dumped your phone and smokes onto the table in front of you as Lyla waited for the coffees. Gemma followed suit, letting out a sigh of relief as she sat down. Today had been a much needed day out with the girls, everything for the last couple of months has been so unbearable with the club going into lockdown due to a threat from another club.

Everyone has been extremely stressed, including yourself as you did everything you could to keep your old man calm, whilst still helping.

You weren’t an official member of the club, you couldn’t be due to being female and an old lady but that didn’t stop you doing everything you physically could for the club. Even if it meant you and Jax butted heads when he thought it was too dangerous for you. But he never won that argument, you were far too stubborn to not get your way.

As the rest of the girls joined you in the booth, Lyla placed your iced coffee in front of you. You only managed to take a small sip before your phone started violently vibrating on the table with Jax’s face popping up on the screen.

“What does he want now,” Gemma laughed as she reached for her coffee. “He has been blowing up your phone all morning.”

“Beats me,” you shrugged, swiping your phone from the table. “He’s probably wanting me to pick something up.”

Hitting answer you pulled the phone up to your ear.

“Need you back at the clubhouse, Darlin’,” he said, his voice was stern which made your heart instantly drop.

“What, now?” You pouted.

“Yes Darlin’, now.”

“What’s so important?”

“Will explain when you get here, but get your ass to church.”

“Okay,” you breathed, trying not to let your thoughts run wild. “Be there soon, love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line soon went dead, leaving you sitting there confused staring at your phone. Something wasn’t sitting right, the way Jax spoke left you feeling something was going down and that made your stomach churn.

“I’d love to stay and chat but duty calls.” You said quietly, tucking your phone and smokes into the pocket of Jax’s SAMCRO hoodie. “Jax needs me back at the clubhouse.”

“Girl, it’s about time they patched you in with the amount you do for the club.” Wendy laughed.

“That will never happen,” you scoffed, pushing yourself to your feet. “You know the rules, females can’t be patched in.”

“Stupid rule if you ask me,” Gemma added. “The loyalty you have to the club is something that should be rewarded.”

“Try telling them that then.” You said, rolling your eyes. “Anyway I will see you all later.”

Without saying another word you slipped out of the booth, your head was spinning with all different scenarios of why Jax needed you back so urgently.

The moment you got out to the carpark you rushed over to your bike, throwing your leg over the seat. Fumbling with the keys you finally brought the beast to life feeling the vibrations from the engine run through your body. Once your helmet was secured you squeezed the throttle as you hit the kickstand with your foot and sped off to the clubhouse.

You didn’t care how many red lights you ran or if you were doing double the speed limit, Jax needed you.

After what felt like an age you finally pulled into the yard, parking your bike besides Jax’s. Letting out a shaky breath you placed a cigarette between your lips, lighting it before you climbed off your bike.

The place was extremely quiet causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. It was too quiet. Without wasting another moment you rushed into the clubhouse, needing to find out what was going on.

Your feet were carrying you as fast as they could as you barged into church, the doors collided with the wall with a loud bang, your heart was pounding out of your chest as you locked eyes with Jax. There was no emotion showing in his expression which made your stomach churn. This wasn’t good.

“What’s going on?” You said slowly, trying not to let the panic show in your voice.

“Y/N,” Jax said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Times are changing, which means the club needs to adapt to make sure we are as strong as we can be.”

“Jax, you aren’t making any sense.” You whispered , narrowing your eyes at your husband trying to catch any glimpse of emotion, but he always had a good poker face. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

That’s when his signature smirk appeared on his face.

“Someone best tell me what’s going on before I start beating the answer out of you all.”

“That’s what made the decision easy, your whiplash tongue, the way you can figure out problems that have us all stumped, and most importantly your loyalty to the club.” He hummed, now looking proud as fuck. “As I said Darlin’, times are changing which means rules need to change.”

“Still aren’t making any fucking sense Teller.” You growled.

Keeping your gazed trained on him as he rolled back in his chair, you spotted the brand new leather sitting across his lap. The bright white patches caught your eyes, making your heart stop.

“Babygirl, it’s time.” He grinned, holding up the kutte.

“No,” you gasped, pulling your hand over your mouth as tears threatened to spill over your lash line.

“Yes, baby,” he beamed, taking a few steps across the room. “It’s time we made this official, the amount you do for this club doesn’t go unnoticed. So Babygirl what do you say to becoming the newest patched member of the Sons.”

“This isn’t a joke right?” You whispered, flicking your eyes between Jax and the kutte in his grasp. “What about prospecting?”

“Swear on my life, it isn't a joke.” He grinned, “I want you by my side at this table, and fuck prospecting you have already proved your loyalty to the club 100 times over.”

Everyone’s eyes were on you as you took a deep breath, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“Pass me the kutte, Teller.” You grinned. “Although I should kick the shit outta you all for making me panic.”

@chibsytelford @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @pumpkin-spice-hate @talicat713 @band--psycho @little-diable @i-love-scott-mccall @pascal-reyes @fourthwallhateclub @withmyteeth @theysayitscrazy @rosieposie0624 @choochoo284 @meteora-fc @beeroses @princess76179 @darklydeliciousdesires @the-jer-bear @princess76179 @extraneousred @youflickedtooharddamnit @lmao-liz @babypink224221 @daddysgirl2857 @bravo-four-seal-team @garbinge @pedrohoe04 @littlekittymeow @nichia88-blog @zozebo @cherieann-2001

#Jax Teller x Reader #Jax Teller #Jax Teller imagine #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy x reader #sons of anarchy imagine

[mr2swap]

Take Me Home, Country Roads

I have to admit that at first, I was very upset with Johnny, That damn bastard managed in a way that I still don't know to exchange our bodies and our lives, one night I was sleeping in my luxurious apartment in my silk pajamas in NYC and when I woke up to a stinky hot little room in a rusty old trailer. I thought I was dreaming until the smell of my stinky sweaty armpits snapped me out of my weird dizziness and into my new reality.

Likewise, I felt strange and not only because my body was now that of a 19-year-old boy, but something was wrong with my head, it was as if my mind was getting used to the lazy and fucking brain of this boy, all my studies and my Hardboard's diploma were useless now, so I walked into another small room, avoiding the old stale beer cans littering the floor, and entered the filthy, filthy bathroom of the RV where I'd woken up.

My new face was much younger, I barely had hair on my head that seemed to have been shaved at least a month ago, and my skin was much whiter and smoother. Now I had a tattoo on my shoulder -Who the fuck is Jenny?- I surprised myself using those rude words coming out of my mouth without really being angry….

My stupid brain now limited myself, I searched the small and messy house full of garbage until I found a cell phone, but when I finally had it in my hands, my own number quickly disappeared from my mind -SHIT! NO! NO! - Without realizing it, I began to beat my own head trying to think how to get out of this shitty situation.

The heat was so unbearable and annoying that my armpits and the rest of my body began to sweat, and the small space where I now lived still smelled bad, I went to the "kitchen" and opened the fridge to find something to quench my thirst, without thinking about it Too bad I grabbed a can of ice-cold beer, and emptied it into my mouth before I realized what I'd done, but… it felt good.

I took the rest of the six-pack that was in the fridge and opened another can and sat on a sofa that had obviously never been cleaned and started drinking from the second can, I had never tried this cheap brand in my life, but somehow reason the taste was familiar and pleasant, little by little beer after beer I began to relax and watch a soccer game on the small television in front of me, I had forgotten all my problems when I had already drunk 4 cans, I no longer thought about what was happening me or where my real body was, the only thing I was concentrating on now was how big the boobs on the cheer squad were.

I looked down at my pants and had a reaction that I never had in my old life, a boner for a woman. Wasting no time pulling out my new cock and spit on my calloused hands and started jerking off letting the memories of “Jimmy” about boobs, ass, and vagina seep into my mind, my new cock was quite thick albeit a bit small, but I didn't care about that, it was the perfect size for my hands hardened by physical work.

Apparently now I'd be living in the country in a huge parking lot with a bunch of noisy southern families like me...

After that, I never tried to remember my old life or my old body, life in the country is pretty quiet, I work 8 hours a day at the local construction company and after that I go to my new friend's house to smoke, drinking, watching football and talking about all the girls we've fucked, I'm thinking about getting a girlfriend or something it would be great to have a pussy eager for me when I get to my RV.

Hey! You can support me to continue creating stories, see similar stories on my patreon, you can also join my discord if you are interested in role-playing about bodyswap, possession and transformation, m2m!

#bodyswap #body swap #male body swap #body switch #male transformation

[drpeppertummy]

They swallow down a burp they've been holding in, their belly bulging uncomfortably as it builds up inside them for Giuliana?

[stuffing/bloating, discomfort, button pop]

Ordinarily, Giuliana couldn't give less of a rat's ass about who heard her burp. While she was very well-respected, nobody in town had any expectations about her manners; she had a mouth on her that would make a sailor cringe, and she left no wondering what she thought about people who expected her to "behave like a lady." Still, when Dane's grandmother--the only living, respectable parental figure any of them had to speak of--came to visit, she felt inclined to make a good impression.

Angela couldn't cook to save her life, and Dane wasn't much better, so Giuliana had taken it upon herself to make a nice dinner for the occasion. After consulting Dane, she'd decided to try her hand at chicken adobo, having done a trial run the week before to make sure it came out right, along with her specialty, spaghetti bolognese. Dane had contributed a colorful side of squash made just the way his grandmother liked it, and Angela had felt confident enough to prepare a beautiful chocolate cake.

Now, they were sitting around the round dinner table, happily chatting away and enjoying their food. Everything had come out perfectly. Giuliana was relieved that the adobo had been met with approval, and while she was worried that two entrees might have been a bit much, everybody seemed to be enjoying them both. As they ate, though, she became aware of a certain snugness growing in her stomach. She'd been trying all afternoon to avoid burping--something she was not used to doing--and she was feeling much more full than she usually would by this point. Her belly bulged uncomfortably against her jeans, and the waist creaked ominously as she leaned forward to grab a clean napkin.

Giuliana tried to ignore her tightening stomach and pants under the table, focusing instead on the conversation above it. Dane's grandmother was in the middle of telling some wild story about her childhood shenanigans, and Angela was laughing so hard she could barely swallow her food. Giuliana smiled, but her belly let out an uneasy rumble. The pressure building up inside her was becoming unbearable. Her stomach, desperate to release it, tried to push out a burp, but she forced it back down, eliciting another pressurized-sounding gurgle.

"You're awfully quiet," said Dane's grandmother, patting Giuliana's arm. "Are you alright?" She nodded.

"She's always quiet," said Dane. This was true, at least in most situations; it certainly wasn't that she was shy, or even that she didn't have much to say. She was just a quiet type. Right now, though, she at least had a reason. She didn't think she'd be able to get out a full sentence without all the trapped air bloating up her overstretched stomach rushing out in one enormous burp. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold it; her belly felt like it was about to burst, and her pants were straining hard against it.

A loud rumble bubbled up inside her belly, and Angela glanced down at her. With some difficulty, she gulped the air back down before it could force its way out. Her belly rumbled again as it tightened painfully, bulging against the waist of her pants, and suddenly, to her horror, the button popped right open. Angela covered her mouth both in shock and to stifle a laugh.

"Oh, sweetheart, I hope you're not holding in all that gas on my account," Dane's grandmother laughed, giving Giuliana's distended belly a friendly pat. The light impact was enough to disturb the massive bubble that was trapped inside her, and, much to her dismay, it finally erupted in a long, impressive burp. She covered her mouth, mortified. Dane and Angela couldn't help but laugh at the uncharacteristic display of embarrassment.

"Hey, you'll definitely have room for cake now," said Angela through snorts and giggles, and she wrapped an arm around Giuliana's shoulders and squeezed her tight.

#writing #belly kink #tummy kink #stuffing #stuffed belly #message #suggestion #xgiulianax #xdanex #xangelax #burst mention