#my lemon looks terrible to me
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my eyebags are so deep that it looks like I’m wearing makeup and suddenly I am pretty
#lemon man talks#Have I mentioned I’m like slowly turning emo#I’m on my metamorphosis process#I’m wearing my black makeup and nail polish and fingerless gloves and clothes that make my parents call me homeless and my hair is so#I am such a pretty princess#Little emo guy. Look at him go#Listening to his emo music and having terrible posture and eyesight and not having a good sleep schedule
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𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲
summary: hiding your relationship with rafe from your friends is fun... at first.
word count: 2k
now spinning: freak by lana del rey
author's note: this one put me in a silly mood <3 i love this man <3 so cute it'll rot your teeth! enjoy!
He’s a bad habit. Your worst habit, in fact, one that you hide from everyone like a dirty secret.
At first you’re just embarrassed. You’re supposed to be a Pogue, you try to remind yourself every now and then, you’re supposed to hate him and everything he stands for.
You’re supposed to hate the pretty jewelry he buys for you on a whim, hate the stupid—or something like that— look in his eyes when he puts it on you and presses a kiss to the soft skin of your neck or wrist or ankle, and you’re especially supposed to hate the way he spends money on you.
You’re supposed to hate all of it, but you don’t. In fact, you think you’re falling in love with Rafe Cameron.
Which is bad, so so bad, you don’t even have words to describe how terrible it is. Rafe—who your closest friends despise, and for good reason. He becomes an ass outside of the sheltered, private walls of your tiny bedroom, getting into fights and egging everyone into violence.
He’s completely different, like an entirely new person, and you should hate him for what he does to your friends and goads them into doing.
Hate is the furthest thing from what you actually feel. You’re not even embarrassed anymore. You’re protective, because you know your friends won’t understand, that they’ll try to talk you out of your feelings, and you’ll have to show them the thing that you’re dreading the most of all, that you would defend Rafe to them. That you would take his side.
That you would become that girl you used to make fun of, screaming at your friends because you don’t know him like I do, and then running home, running to him, to feel better.
It’s gotten bad, and to avoid all of this, you don’t bring up your relationship to them at all. What started off as chance encounters and graduated into quiet, peaceful hours spent in each company without another care in the world, has now turned into a real relationship. A secret relationship, at that.
Rafe wants to tell the world, and he especially wants to tell your friends. You convince him that it’s romantic to sneak around, with plenty of hidden kisses and longing gazes and making a fool out of everyone right in front of their eyes.
He buys the act for now, but you know he won’t for long. You think that he wants to rub it into your friends’ faces, that he got you despite how much they hate him. He doesn’t tell you it’s because he has to know, has to be sure that you aren’t ashamed of being with him.
𝜗𝜚
The first time you almost get caught is in Rafe’s truck—parked along the beach, in what was meant to be a cute little date. You pack sandwiches and fruit, freshly squeezed lemonade in a mason jar that you and him pass back and forth.
The two of you watch the sunset from the safety of his car, specifically because you’re worried your friends will catch you if they spot you on the beach with someone.
“This is good,” Rafe says, taking another sip out of the jar, his lips shining with the sugary juice. You want to lick it clean, but you hold off for now. “Where’d you get it from, again?”
“I made it, Rafe,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “We have a lemon tree in the backyard. My parents like to grow their own stuff.”
“Well,” he says, licking his lips. Damn it, there goes your chance to sneak a kiss in and act like it was for some other reason. “You should make more. Shit’s good.”
“Then take me on another date. I’ll make you a whole pitcher.”
“Our next date is gonna be way better than this,” is his response, looking down at his half-eaten, heart-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
He notices your eyes get big, like you’re upset, and immediately follows up his own sentence.
“Not that this isn’t perfect,” he says, resting the mason jar in the cupholder. “It is. Perfect. Couldn’t ask for more. I just meant, next time, you won’t have to pack anything or juice any lemons, like a restaurant. All you have to do is wear something pretty and show up.”
You smile, giddily.
“You have some lemonade, right there,” you say, pointing to the side of his lip, leaning in for a kiss, just about to close your eyes, when you hear the unmistakable hoot that is your boys, as in your other boys. “Shit-” and you duck, head resting on Rafe’s thigh as you try to get out of their eye-sight. You don’t sit back up until you make Rafe triple-check the coast is clear.
“Y’know, if you wanted to get freaky in my car, all you had to do was ask-”
𝜗𝜚
The next time is a month later, a month of bliss and joy that you still haven’t told your friends about. Rafe came over to help you finish baking lemon squares, but really just creating a mess and kissing you with sugary, citrusy lips and flour-coated hands.
You take turns showering to clean off, because as much as you would love to rinse off together, your shower is not like the one Rafe has in his Tannyhill bedroom, and sadly, barely big enough for one. You go first, washing your hair and complaining about icing remnants, and send Rafe in after you while you dry your hair.
On his way in, he tells you not to get dressed just yet. You sit in anticipation, wrapped just in your towel, brushing your hair absentmindedly. You drop the brush on your foot when you hear three sharp knocks on your bedroom window.
Crap.
When you turn to look, it’s just Kie, and you sigh a breath of obvious relief. You wouldn’t be able to manage lying to everyone, but if it’s just Kiara, you might be able to get away with it.
She climbs in through the window, lying flat on your bed and starting to explain what’s going on—her feelings for Pope and some old feelings for Jayj that are coming to the surface. You half-listen, feeling like a terrible friend, but your heart is currently showering in your tiny bathroom, probably complaining about the luke-warm water and thinking about all the things he’s going to do to you when he gets out.
“Is your shower running?” Kie asks, ever-observant. “Dude, that’s like, so bad for the environment.”
“Oh, I-” your brain turns to mush. “I just stepped out to brush my hair, I’m going right back in. I’m so sorry Kie, I’m so distracted today. You know, I-I hate wasting water.” You stare at her for a second, wondering if she bought it.
“I’m just glad you care. JJ and John B don’t even recycle their beer cans. I’ll come back later, then?” and you nod, maybe a little too excited. “Are you gonna finish showering now?” she questions, watching you linger by the door.
“Yes! Yes, I am. Bye, Kie,” you say, opening the door and closing it quickly, hoping Rafe doesn’t speak up. You drop the towel and climb into the shower, clasping your hand over his mouth quickly. You wait to hear your window close, and then the noise of her car driving away.
“Y’know, kid, if you were feeling that impatient, all y’had to do was tell me,” Rafe says, leaning in for a hot, wet kiss.
𝜗𝜚
It all breaks down because JJ is like a walking metal detector, eyes flitting to anything shiny and new and the questions never-ending, even when you’re glaring at him.
Rafe bought it for you. A gleaming, pretty silver bracelet with a little pink heart hanging off, complete with the letter R engraved on the back of the charm. You try to sneak it in with your other bracelets, the beaded ones Kie makes, the thread friendship bracelets all of you share in matching colors, and you even throw on a watch just so no one notices something new on your wrist. It doesn’t work.
“Wow,” JJ starts, letting out a whistle. You freeze instantly. “What’d you do, rob a Kook and not invite us?” He comes up closer, taking your wrist in his hand and raising it above and below, inspecting it.
“No, no…” you trail off, mind going completely blank on how to explain this to your friends. All you can think about is the soft way Rafe kissed your wrist while helping you put it on, and the not-so-soft two hours you spent at Tannyhill after. “I, uh-”
“What, you found it?” Pope throws in, and you start to nod, even though your friends know you better than that. “Because you should really turn it in, I mean, they’ll get you for that-”
“Trust me, I would know,” John B says, coming around to look at it closer. “I feel I’ve seen that before.”
“Yeah, I bet all the Kook princesses have ‘em and compare with each other.” JJ puts on a goofy, high pitched voice that would normally make you laugh. “Mine’s silver. Mine’s gold. Actually, guys, mine’s encrusted with diamonds.”
“You know how much child labor funds the entire jewelry industry? They have kids mining in caves-”
“But that would actually make sense, Kie, because, like, they’re so tiny they’re the only ones who can just like, sneak on in there with their little tools, and just like-” JJ imitates, what you can only assume, is a child mining for gold with his hands.
“They can grow diamonds in labs now. It’s so unnecessary and dangerous,” Kie says, looking back at you. “We should burn it, so it goes back into the soil.”
“Woah, woah, woah,” JJ says, getting up and putting himself between you and Kie, like a barrier. “Why would we do that? We could probably go get a couple hundos for that thing. Y’know how much beer we can buy with that?”
“He’s got a point there,” John agrees. You’re speechless.
“Well, does it have any markings? Because if we just return it, the owner might give us a reward for finding it.” JJ scoffs.
“Yeah, right, they’d probably think we stole it.”
“Well, we did, that’s like the definition of-” you cut Pope off before you can stop yourself.
“I didn’t steal it!” It comes out like a yell, even though you don’t mean it, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I didn’t steal it, okay, it’s mine, so can we please just drop it?”
You notice the boys lock eyes with each other, eyes wide, probably wondering what just happened. You turn away from them to look at Kie, about to apologize because you know she’s totally right about the whole child mining thing, when you see her eyes are fixed on your wrist.
“R?” she questions. “What’s the R stand for?”
You drop your hand to your side, eyes shutting on their own as you release a tight breath. You really have no idea how to get yourself out of this one, until a voice pipes up from behind you.
“Why don’t you idiots take a wild guess?” The voice belongs to your boyfriend, your secret boyfriend. You guess it’s not such a secret anymore.
JJ is the first to react, exactly like you thought he would, too.
“No, no, gross, gross!”
John B stares at you like you’ve just run over his puppy. Kie has her eyebrows raised like she’s questioning everything she ever knew about you. Pope’s eyes are wide like coins, fist clenched like he’s about to start swinging.
You let out another breath.
“Was that really necessary?” you ask, turning your head to question Rafe, standing right behind you, his arm hanging around your shoulder now.
“Had to tell ‘em eventually, kid. Guess today’s the day,” and then he uses his hand to squeeze your cheeks together, giving you a sloppy kiss and waltzing off in the direction he came from.All you hear is JJ—gross, gross, gross!
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Midnight Pals: Shedding
[mysterious circle of robed figures]
JK Rowling: hello children
Rowling: i have terrible, bone-chilling newsss
Rowling: did you know that india willoughby exisssstsss?
Rowling: thiss makess me ssso mad
Rowling: i know you're all ussed to me being ssubtle
Rowling: you know, talking about womensss ssafety and all that
Rowling: but i'm done with that
Rowling: now i enter endgame
Rowling: tonight my rage ssshall fuel my final transssformation
Rowling: tonight i sshed my ssskin for the lassst time
Rowling: gone will be the resspectable normie lib ssspotted patterning
Rowling: henceforth i shall wear banded patterning [puts on arm band]
Rowling: now i sshed my ssskin and obsserve my transformation to full blood purity fascism
Helen Joyce: but dark lord! it's too obvious!
Joyce: what if the rubes notice?
Rowling: just point to that old "wear whatever you want" post and pretend i meant it
Rowling: i'll be right back, gonna go shed a sskin
Rowling: now before i leave one lasst directive
Rowling: you lot don't do anything ssilly while i'm gone
Rowling: you know, anything that would make our entire causse look dumb or anything
Joyce: you can count on us, dark lord!
[Rowling exits]
Joyce: so
Joyce: anyone wanna hear this new fan fic i've been working on
Jesse Singal: when does mommy get back
Joyce: so
Joyce: so my story has draco/hermione otp, noncon, dubcon, cuckolding, underage, lemon, coffeeshop au, crackfic
Kathleen Stock: noooo helen! don't read fanfic! don't you know fanfic turns you trans?
Joyce: sorry its a risk i have to take
Joyce: for science
Joyce: look, i'm going to scientifically prove that fanfiction turns you trans
Joyce: luckily i'm built of stronger stuff
Joyce: the rest of you just plug your ears
Stock: what about you, helen?
Joyce: lash me to the mast
Stock: i've been writing a fan fic too
Stock: it's about the love between the Unknown, an evil choclatier who lives in the walls, and this mysteriously sexy lady oompa loompa who everybody loves who is named Stathleen Kock [permaberry, leaking juice, enjoyment, enemies to lovers]
Rowling: ok i'm back
Helen Joyce: dark lord! how does it feel to shed your lib skin of plausible deniability to don your extremely online skin of blood purity?
Rowling: i feel sstrong! powerful! like a new ssnake!
Rowling: i feel like i can sssay
Rowling: ALL THE SSSLURSS!!!
Rowling: tinktonk! cricklecrack! boofnoggin! i can sssay them all!!!
Rowling: no now mudblood can ssstand in my way!
Rowling: doess india willoughby still exissst?
Joyce: yes dark lord!
Rowling: [coiling in rage] the cheek!!!! the audacity!!!
Rowling: ugh, look at india willoughby, performing feminine joy!
Rowling: womanhood isn't about joy!
Rowling: true femininity is being miserable all the time, posting and also being banned from seeing your grandchildren
#midnight pals#the midnight society#midnight society#jk rowling#helen joyce#kathleen stock#jesse singal
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Title: First Meeting (The Sunshine Verse)
Summary: You come face to face with the leader of the Batclan mob
Warning(s): Possesive behavior, scarring, kidnapping
You don’t remember being drugged, you don’t remember losing track of Lyre, you don’t remember going anywhere and yet you’re here, stuck in an unfamiliar room, a chain on your ankle. You’re unsafe, you know this, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The room is clean, not a speck of dust anywhere, and it smells like lemons, not lemon scented cleaner but real, fresh lemons. You hate it. It's not your first time being kidnapped but usually you’re confined to a dark room or messy, dirty basements that make you want to throw up. This is your first time being kidnapped since joining the force (you had a really unique childhood okay) and you can’t help but wonder why you've been taken, if someone thinks you'll have real information for that.
Soft, well muffled sounds start up next to the door but quickly fade to silence. You hate it here, the thick silence, the not knowing where your best friend (brother) is, the chain that rests on your ankle. Speaking of the chain, you haven’t tried to walk yet and you can’t help but be curious. Slowly, carefully,, you get yourself out of bed and walk to one of the doors, letting it creak open. It;s only a bathroom. There’s one other door in the room and you’re pretty sure that you know where it leads. Out of here. You start walking towards that door but the chain stops you before you can get too close. Going back a few steps, you make a few loops in the area that seems safe and attempt to run towards the door. Immediately the chains are pulling you back and you slam to the floor. Well whoever has you certainly isn’t an idiot, which makes your job all that much harder.
Eventually you pull yourself off of the floor and crawl to the bed. As soon as you’ve arranged yourself in a manner that doesn’t hurt too much, you’re asleep.
“Lyre,” you call, listening to the echoing chirps of the birds, trying to ignore the sounds of “lyre, lyre, not lyre,” to themselves, loud as can be. It’s foggy out today, but not so much that you can’t see in front of you. The walk to work is weird without your best friend, but peaceful, even though the birds are chirping loudly, mocking birds calling Lyre’s name. As you’re approaching the police station, you note the crowd of people, how their murmurs grow and change. They’re all saying his name. You get closer and your best friend (brother) is just laying there, spread out on the pavement, his blood staining everything a terrible shade of red. You kneel down, staring at him. Lyre’s eyes are wide open, unseeing and you can’t help closing them. Your hands are red now.
You wake up screaming.
It takes a minute of blind panic for you to calm down and become aware of your surroundings again. You’re in the same room as yesterday and still sore as fuck. The only real change is that there’s a chair in the middle of the room, well more like a throne (you may or may not role your eyes) and a man sitting on the throne. He’s wearing a venetian carnival mask, black with a white bat around each eye. Every gothamite knows it as Sire’s mask.
You’ve been kidnapped by the fucking bats. Shit!
“May I help you?” You ask politely as you can manage. Sire’s mask, cold and porcelain keeps smiling,golden even as the man takes off his fucking mask. You’re going to die, you’re going to fucking die. You look down so you can’t see his face. The man sighs.
“You can look up. I have no plans to kill you. Rather I’d like to thank you. You took care of my son while he wouldn’t allow me to.” Now you’re confused. You chance a look up and meet the eyes of bruce fucking wayne, gotham’s biggest philanthropist. You don’t even know what to say, because the man who’s been credited for saving Gotham is the one keeping it in order as the cruelest man on the east coast. “I don’t understand Mr.Wayne. I don’t know any of your children.”
Bruce Wayne smiles faintly, “Not even Jason?” Every single person born and bred in Gotham knows the tragedy of Jason. It’s said that a mobster went after him and killed him, and in revenge Mr. Wayne swore to oust the mob from Gotham city. Knowing what you know now makes you wonder what really happened. “No offense but I’m pretty sure that Jason is dead.” Wayne laughs bitterly. “We thought so but when your friend Lyre had to go to the hospital,, my doctors found something pretty interesting. A blood match. Would you like to guess who exactly is the match” everything starts to fade out and go dizzy. You were the one that made Lyre go to the hospital because he’s always hated hospitals. “Was it Jason?”
“It was Jason.” Wayne unless his legs, neatly rearranging himself. “I’d like to tell you a story.” You shrug, looking away. “When my son was a child, he lived on the streets. One day I had a meeting in Crime alley and he was crazy enough to try and steal the tires off my car.
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you. It’s so much like the Lyre you know that you know, mischievous and carefully reckless, always doing something that he shouldn’t be. What was real? “And when I came back to my car, there was this tiny vicious little boy fighting my guards and fucking winning. I’ve always been fond of stubbornness and there was something about Jason’s desperate desire to survive that stuck me so I brought him home with me. He’s been a member of the family ever since.”
When Wayne talks about Jason, you’re reminded of a Pet owner talking about their best show animal or something. He’s not talking about them like they’re humans but as if they’re prizes to be won. He sounds like a collector, marveling over his trophies. You can’t help but want to upset this man, can’t help but dislike him.
“If he was a member of your family, why did he leave you?” Maybe he’ll hurt you, maybe he’ll kill you but either way you’re going to mouth off for lyre. Wayne’s expression doesn’t even change. “I have six other children,” he explains, “and half of them have anger issues. Do you really think that you’re going to phase me?”
Your logical mind reminds you to be polite, your desire to live tells you to go apeshit. “That doesn’t answer my question,” you snap, ignoring his question all together. He doesn’t even blink. “Jason left because he didn’t agree with our methods. He did not understand the reasons I allowed my youngest to work in the basement at twelve nor did he appreciate our love. “
You’ve heard the stories from Lyre about his family, about the scars he carries from their love. Now that you've met Wayne you can’t help but wonder how many of those scars are physical. There’s a scars on Lyre’s back, tally marks, five of them to be exact. Are those from here? Are his tattoos from here?
“When do I get to see Lyre again?”
Wayne smiles Serenely, and for a moment he doesn’t look like a monster, instead he looks soft, and almost genuine. “When Jason calms down enough to be safe to be around again.”
You tilt your head, wonder what he means and carefully do not ask. “Am I stuck in here permanently?”
Wayne shakes his head politely. “No you’ll be coming to dinner tonight and Alfred will help you order anything that you might need.” That’s not what you mean. You want to go home. “Can I go home?”
“This is your home.”
You scoff and bear teeth. “My home is a little apartment by the wharf, not a mansion full of crazy people.”
Wayne’s smile turns sharp, vicious. “I’d like to remind you that your privileges hedge on your good behavior. It’d be very easy to lock you away until you’re feeling more polite.” You get the feeling that wayne isn’t making a threat. He’s making a promise.
#yandere#platonic yandere#yandere writing prompts#yandere platonic#yandere batfamily#batboy tag#yandere batfam#yandere batman#yandere bruce wayne#yandere x reader#the sunshine verse
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Smoke Eater - Part 7
Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader
Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.
That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.
🔥 Series Masterlist
AN: So I don't know why it takes me exactly seven chapters to get to the smut, but so far that's three different series where that's happened. 😂 (Never Say Goodbye, Break Me Down, and now Smoke Eater. Go figure! 🤷🏽♀️)
Word Count: 6,200
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! For smutty smut and baking shenanigans, tinge of angst.
Part 7: “Cherry Pie & Lemon Drizzle”
You liked Dean’s apartment. It was on the second floor out of three, and a modest, clean, comfortable space.
Though overall it felt very “dude bro” in décor. You supposed that made sense, considering it was just Sam and Dean living here.
And while you still hadn’t met Sam (he was working late tonight), it gave you a chance to do something you’d been very much looking forward to doing with Dean…
“Not for nothin’, this is probably one in three of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth,” said Dean.
True to his word, his mouth was full. You giggled as a flake of pasta spewed from his mouth.
“Oh really? Makes me curious about the other two,” you said mischievously. And you handed him a napkin to blot his face.
You sat across from him in the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. The table itself was barely big enough to fit in the space, feeling more like a nook than a room, but it sat three people. That was usually enough for Sam and Dean, and occasionally Eileen when she came over.
Dean chuckled, his brows dancing. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out.”
Your face warmed at that, despite your amusement. You had made dinner, for which Dean had been more than enthusiastic.
“You mean I get an actual chef making me food? Sign me the hell up,” he’d teased.
Never mind that you weren’t an actual chef. You had focused on patisserie in culinary school. He didn’t seem to mind though, as he’d devoured two servings of salmon and fettucine alfredo, even down to the steamed broccoli. You had to admit, it warmed you inside to see him enjoy your food.
You’d promised to cook for him last week, and he hadn’t let it go until both your schedules opened up enough for you to come over.
He now hummed in satisfaction as he finished off the last bite on his plate and wiped his mouth with the napkin.
“Thanks for this, sweetheart. I needa have you around here more often,” he said, tossing you a grin.
You smiled back. “It’s my pleasure.”
It wasn’t the first time Dean had invited you over to his apartment, but for the life of you, you didn’t know why it had taken you so long to accept.
…Well, okay, you did know why. You were reluctant to leave your grandfather alone, potentially all night. But George had been adamant about you going out for as long as you wanted, on the promise that he’d check in every few hours until he went to bed.
“Okay, ready for dessert?” you asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Dean said. He still thought about those cookies you brought to the firehouse, almost a month ago already.
Damn, has it really been that long? he thought as he helped you collect the dishes from dinner. He followed you into the kitchen, where you already knew the lay of his land.
Sam couldn’t cook for shit, so it usually fell on Dean to be the figure of culinary expertise. But he had no problem making way for you, especially if you were going to look over your shoulder and wink at him like that.
“Good, because you’re going to help me,” you informed him.
Dean’s smile grew. “All right…what did you have in mind?”
While he started on the dishes in the sink, you hauled out even more ingredients from a big grocery bag you’d brought and stored in the refrigerator. He watched you out of the corner of his eye and spotted lemons, among other things.
“Lemon drizzle cake,” you replied. “One of my grandma’s recipes. I just need a mixing bowl and a cake tin.”
“Good, because we’re not very Betty Crocker in this place. Let’s just say my kitchen tools are limited,” he said, raising a brow at you. “You know, if you wanted to bake, I’m sure you’ve got all the proper bells and whistles at your house. We could’ve done this over there.”
You paused to consider the question he wasn’t quite asking, because he had a point. You could’ve invited him over your house instead. You joined him near the sink and leaned against the counter, tapping your nails on the tile surface.
“Well, as you know, I live with my grandpa,” you said.
“Good ol’ George,” Dean grinned. “That guy��s hilarious. Like the fourth Stooge.”
He particularly liked the story you’d told him about the time George had bought you your first makeup palette when you turned fifteen, but hadn’t told you it was face paint…the kind that clowns used.
“And I’d love for you two to get to know each other better. Don’t get me wrong. But barring the fact that we probably wouldn’t have much…privacy,” you pointed out with a subtle smile, trying to ignore Dean’s resulting smirk. Never mind that you two hadn’t needed “privacy” just yet.
“I guess I’m just not used to inviting people over. I’ve been trying to limit the exposure to germs in the house,” you admitted. At Dean’s quizzical look, you had to explain.
“My grandfather had cancer last year,” you said. “He had surgery to remove the mass, and did well, considering his age. He’s in remission now…but I’m still looking after him.”
You’d gone with him to see his primary doctor a couple of weeks ago for that persistent cough. While the doctor seemed to think it was George’s asthma acting up, you’d still scheduled an appointment with his oncologist.
And while your thoughts led you down an all-too familiar path, Dean processed this with a nod of his head. He shut off the sink. After drying his hands, he looked over at you and brushed your cheek with his thumb.
“I’m glad he’s doing better now,” he said. His brows furrowed. “And your grandma passed just a few years before that?”
You nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s been a long few years.”
So, Dean took an inventory in his mind as he rested a comforting hand on your back. You took care of your family. You could cook. You were beautiful. And still, you kicked ass at your job and seemed to have the rest of your shit together.
He had to admit. The more he learned about you, the more he liked you.
“Anyway,” you shook your head with a smile. “Sorry. Ready to bake?”
Dean’s lips quirked as he followed you to the other side of the kitchen. He stepped behind you and letting his hands fall to your waist. His lips skimmed the side of your head, pressing a kiss there.
“Okay, Rachael Ray,” he teased. “Teach me your ways.”
You were trying to measure out some sugar in the bowl first, but you giggled with a warm blush as he kissed his way down your neck.
“Are you actually going to help, or are you just going to distract me?” you volleyed back.
Dean hummed against the crook of your neck. “Can’t I do both?”
You picked up and egg and raised it level with his face.
“Hmm, should I try cracking this against your forehead?” you pondered.
His teeth playfully nipped your skin in retaliation, making you flinch with a yelp. The egg actually cracked in your hand.
“Shit,” you laughed, and you quickly dropped as much of it in the bowl as possible. But getting fractals of the shell in the bowl disturbed your anal sense of meticulousness. When it came to cracking eggs, you typically had nothing if not precision.
You shot Dean an accusatory look over your shoulder. He just grinned back at you.
“Am I helping yet?” he joked.
You chuckled dryly in response. “Just you wait.”
A few more minutes and “helpful” distractions from Dean later, you successfully had a cake batter in the bowl. You were hand mixing up a storm and sorely missing your Kitchen Aid mixer. Dean was right though; his cupboards had little more than one cake pan, one mixing bowl, and one wooden spoon.
At home, you had a modest collection of cookware and bakeware that rivaled Williams & Sonoma. Though that had been a gift from your grandparents, when you graduated from culinary school. (Your grandma had picked them out before she passed.)
“What’s your favorite dessert?” you asked Dean. You were pretending not to catch him sampling the batter with a finger while you buttered the cake tin.
“Ever?” he asked, rubbing a licked finger on his jeans.
“Yeah. Number one top favorite.”
“Hmm,” he contemplated with a cross of his arms. “Pie, I guess.”
You smirked. That explained his little man-child display a few weeks ago, when you’d tried to share his blueberry pie on your second date.
“What flavor?” you asked.
“I dunno. I’m not real picky,” he said.
“Come on. Everyone has a favorite flavor,” you reasoned. “I’m more of a cake girl myself, but even I love a blueberry pie.”
Dean eyed your teasing grin with a growing smirk of his own. He remembered that day in your office just as well as you.
“Okay, fine. Apple, I guess,” he replied. You gave him a mocking look.
“Really, the most basic of them all?” You tsked at him, shaking your head. “What happened to Mr. Rocky Road?”
Dean chuckled, but he leaned against the counter next to you. Instead of giving it to you right back, as usual, he looked more thoughtful. A gentler look grew on his face. It caught your attention.
“You know, one of my earliest memories…” He looked up at you then, more self-deprecating.
You realized he was about to admit to something, maybe embarrassing, or maybe just vulnerable. Your smile softened too as you paused in what you were doing.
“You can’t leave me hanging on that one,” you said. And you drew closer with a hand soothing up his arm.
He glanced over at you. “I remember being…four, probably. My mom made pies during Christmastime. Cherry, pecan, whatever. But my favorite was her apple pie. I still remember it, because I haven’t had a pie since that tasted like that one.”
Your heart clenched, but your insides also warmed. Not just at the story of his mother, but the way Dean told it, his voice softer, steady, and deep. It told you a lot about him without him having to explain; just like you, he knew what loss was.
You curled your hands around his bicep and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Then your gaze drew back up to his.
“Have you talked to your dad since the last time?” you asked, a bit cautiously. “About his investigation of the fire?”
Dean sighed deep through his nose. “No.”
But despite his father’s warning, he had spoken to Sam.
“It’s different this time, Sam. The brand marks are the same,” Dean argued with his brother, this time in the living room. He sat on the couch while Sam stood, trying to process everything Dean had just told him about Mary’s potential murder.
“You saw the pictures yourself?” Sam asked.
Dean frowned. “No, but Dad—”
“Dean,” Sam cut him off as he gripped at his temples in frustration. “This is what he does. He sees evidence where he wants to see evidence. I’ve been down this road with him too, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean gritted out. John had roped Sam into helping him a few times, using his ADA status to look into different leads that ultimately hadn’t panned out.
“They always look like connections to him, but they never end up being anything more than his obsession,” Sam said.
He was firm, and Dean understood why, but his gut was telling him that it was different this time…
Still, he had no choice but to let it go. For now.
Dean shook his head of that memory. Instead, he tried to focus on being here with you. He liked this little yellow sundress you had on, despite the fall chill starting to set in outside. As usual, your hair was clipped up away from your neck while you got ready to put the now full cake tin into the oven.
He came over behind you and freed your hair from the clip, letting it all tumble down. You yelped and glanced over at him.
“Dean,” you chided, even though you were smiling. “My hair’s going to get in the batter.”
“I’ll keep it away, don’t worry,” he said lightly. He curled some of your hair around his hand so he could once again press a tantalizing kiss to the back of your neck. He felt you shiver.
You subtly leaned back against him, even as you whined in protest.
“Can you just let me get this in the oven?” you asked on a laugh. He smirked against your skin. You did manage to get the cake in the oven, but his lips and teasing hands were unrelenting as you tried to start cleaning up.
So you felt you had to take matters into your own hands. A mischievous idea had you smiling. You reached out for some flour that had spilled on the counter.
You turned, and before he realized what you were up to, you marked his forehead with an arch of white against his skin.
“Simba,” you said in a deeper voice, trying to mimic Mufasa from The Lion King.
Dean’s brows rose along with his widening eyes. He’d never seen you do something that childish, but it sparked his competitiveness as he blinked a bit of flour out of his eyes.
“You’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he asked.
Your little smirk was answer enough. You flicked a bit more flour onto his shirt.
Dean chuckled darkly. “Okay, you asked for it.”
Both a gasp and a giggle caught in your throat.
“Oh, no.”
He reached past you for some flour off the counter and flicked it down at you, into your hair, across your face. He grabbed your flailing wrist and marked your cheeks. All the while, his grin grew ever deeper at your shrieking protests.
But you grew devious. You stuck two fingers into the bowl and scraped out a gob of raw, yellow batter. You were fully prepared to fling it into his face, but Dean grabbed your wrist.
“Ey, ey!” he raised a warning finger with his free hand. “You’re about to take this to a new level.”
You met his gaze through your lashes with a playful smile. “So?”
Dean raised a brow at you. He could admit, you had audacity. All he could do was call your bluff.
He took one of your battered fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widened at the feel of his soft tongue swirling around your finger, sucking it clean. All the while, his eyes never broke from yours.
Lord have mercy, you thought. Really, it was the only coherent one in your head.
He soon released you with a soft pop, before he did the same to the second finger.
Your breath hitched, and your blush was a living thing spreading down your neck, even as warmth pooled between your legs. By the time your second finger slid out of his mouth, you had to reach back to grip the counter just to steady yourself.
His arm slipped around your waist, and you reached for his face with both hands, bringing him down for the hottest kiss you’d ever had in your life. Teeth clicking, lips and tongues warring and devouring. Your fingers slipped roughly through his hair, while he gripped your hips and ass with a passion just shy of bruising.
You almost didn’t register the way his hands slipped under your thighs, to then heft you up onto the counter. You gasped into his mouth and clung tightly to his shoulders. He chuckled and positioned himself to stand between your legs.
“What, need a little warning?” he teased. Though he was breathless as your soft lips veered away from his, starting a burning path across his jaw and down his neck. You left the remnants of your lipstick all along the way, but it was the occasional graze of your teeth that had him moaning for you.
“Maybe,” you whispered coarsely against his skin, uttering a small laugh, “Sometimes I forget how damn strong you are.”
He scoffed. “Sweetheart, if I can heft a grown man on my shoulders up a flight of stairs, I can get you up on a little counter.”
You snorted in response. Perks of dating a firefighter.
And you shoved off his plaid shirt from his shoulders. Dean helped you by letting it drop the rest of the way to the floor, followed by his black undershirt.
You couldn’t believe this was the first time you were seeing him with his shirt off. It was a damn shame, really. But you caught the bit of smugness curving his lips at the way you were ogling, first with your eyes, then with your exploring hands over his toned arms and chest, and the solid plane of his abs, all the way down to his belt. You started undoing the clasp.
Dean couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he stopped you with his hands gently curling around your wrists. You looked up at him in confusion. To him, you looked unbelievably sexy then. Thoroughly kissed, hair tousled, a strap of your dress fallen to one shoulder while your lacey black bra peeked through.
Just the memory of having your curves in his hands had his dick hardening in his jeans, but he blew out a breath.
“Dean?” you asked. “What’s wrong?”
His hands tightened on yours as he peered down at you. “Are you sure?”
You blinked incredulously. “Did I look not sure?”
He paused, licking his lips. He raised a hand to hold your cheek.
“I just…you know I’m trying to do this right with you,” he said. “I just want to know…”
He couldn’t seem to finish what he was trying to say, but you thought you understood. You smiled up at him warmly. You leaned up for a kiss, softer this time.
“Dean, I trust you,” you said. And you could finally say it with no reservations. “I think this feels real. More real than anything I’ve had in a long time… What about you?”
When Dean smiled, it was warm, melting away the doubt in his eyes.
“Yeah, me too,” he said.
He seemed sincere. Maybe this man spared few words when it came to how he felt, but you’d seen a glimpse of the deeper parts. He felt things deeply, down to his bones.
His fingers sunk into your hair, and he guided you into a kiss. It was slower, but no less heady and wanting than the first. Your arms wrapped around his middle, letting you flatten your palms against the muscles in his back. But just as you were getting comfortable, Dean broke the kiss. He flashed you a smirk.
Before you could ask what the hell he was about to do, he’d hefted you back into his arms and over his shoulder. You squawked in protest as your whole world tipped over. Your face thudded on his back with a soft oof, your hair loose and falling like a curtain. Your hands accidentally fell against his ass.
“Ooh, someone’s handsy,” Dean teased.
“Dean!” you exclaimed, despite your peals of laughter. “Is this really necessary? I think I can find your room just fine.”
“Call it an officer’s escort,” he supplied.
“That’s for policemen!” you argued.
You couldn’t see it, but you could imagine the way he was grinning from ear to ear as he carried you through the apartment. You never noticed just how long his bowed legs were as he strode onward. But it felt like his shoulder was digging into your appendix.
Grunting in frustration, you slapped his ass again for good measure.
Dean laughed. “Hey, you’re only fueling my fire, baby.”
He slapped your ass right back, since he had an even better vantage point. He even slipped a hand underneath your little sundress and squeezed the inside of your thigh teasingly.
Your answering yelp, and the futile kick of your feet, had him laughing harder. His cheeks were aching.
Finally he reached his room, where he shut the door with his foot. He was gentle as he eased you off his shoulder and laid you down on his bed. You let out a breathless huff once your head hit the pillows. Your face was all red from being suspended upside-down, your hair a mess, and your dress pooling over your folded legs.
You gave Dean a playful glare. “Get over here.”
His smirk deepened, but he obliged you. He chucked his shoes off first, just like you let your sandals slip off the side of the bed.
He soon made his way up the bed, until he was hovering over you with his arms braced on either side of your head. He liked the way you were all laid out for him over his sheets, your wild hair spread over his pillows. He’d pictured something like this before, but nothing came close to having you for real.
He just didn’t know you’d been dreaming of the same thing.
You hadn’t allowed yourself to truly fall for someone, not in a long time. You’d been too focused on pivoting after school, on building your career, on taking care of your family. You’d dated here and there, but nothing had stuck for more than a few months. Even then, you’d never felt half of what you felt right now.
It scared you a little, but it also made you feel alive. Being with Dean made you feel that way.
So you took his face between your hands. His stubble rasped against your palms and the pads of your fingers. You didn’t mind that though. He’d left it a bit long for a shave last week. When you’d mentioned off-hand that you liked the thicker scruff (thinking it made him all the more handsome), he’d kept it for you.
Now, he seemed like he was waiting on your cue.
You guided him down to you. He kissed you hot and slow, while a hand moved to your waist and clenched in the material of your dress. He slipped a heavy thigh between both of yours. The pressure was welcome, but you wanted friction.
You bunched up the skirt of your dress and aimed to slip it off, but Dean stopped your hands.
“That’s my job,” he teased.
“Then how about you get to it?” you countered with a smile. He rose a brow at you.
“A bit bossy, but I can dig that,” he smirked.
His kisses dropped against your neck, down your exposed neckline, and he peeled down the straps of your dress one by one. Your breathing became more labored as he touched you, squeezing a breast over the bra as he exposed more inches of your body.
Your fingers carded through his hair on a sigh as he made his way further down. Though he finally got impatient enough to work your dress off all the way, followed by his jeans and your bra and matching lacey panties. He lavished attention what felt like all over your body.
Really, he was just strategic. He stopped in places where you lost breath, moaning his name. Like the spot just under your ear, where he sucked hard enough to make you see stars. Or over your breasts, taking a pebbled nipple in his mouth, swirling with his tongue like he had the cake batter off your fingers.
His hands mapped out the soft planes and curves of your body for the first time, sometimes smooth and grazing, sometimes adding pressure that made warmth continue to pool between your legs.
He went further still, wrapping an arm around your thigh and pressing nipping kisses along the inside. All the while his mouth drew closer to the place you wanted him the most. Even though you still raised up on your elbow and gave him a questioning look.
“Really? You want to…” Your voice came out in a whisper.
Dean looked up at you with puzzled brows. “Why not?”
You shook your head, your eyes widening marginally.
“No reason, I guess. I, um…I’ve never had someone do this for me first.” And certainly not on the first time having sex.
Dean frowned.
“Really?” he asked. “A guy’s never gone down on you first?”
You blushed. “Well, maybe with his fingers, but not…”
He shook his head and let out a breath. You felt it between your thighs, and your core clenched in anticipation.
“Okay, baby. I gotcha,” he said. He guided you back down with a gentle hand. “Just lie back and relax.”
You smiled, despite your lingering blush, and you stroked the hand that rested above your stomach. That hand soon slid down as he once again kissed and licked down your thighs. They quivered a bit as his fingers slipped between your folds.
“So fucking wet for me already,” he said in approval. You peered down at him, unable to help a smile.
“You want a medal?” you quipped.
Dean’s brows rose.
“Oh, I’m about to earn it.” His eyes found yours. “You know what my real favorite pie flavor is?”
Your brows knitted together. “What?”
A familiar smirk crossed his lips. “Cherry.”
Before your choked surprise could be broken with a laugh, he began.
And he wasn’t lying, about any of it. The pads of his fingers began toying with your clit, and that alone had your breath hitching and your hips squirming.
He held you down with one hand on your lower belly while his tongue joined his fingers, seeking your heat and finding the hot channel where you craved to be filled. You gasped.
“Oh, God,” you uttered. Once his warm tongue began rolling inside you, you almost couldn’t breathe.
He worked you over with fingers, lips and tongue until you were arching off the bed, fists clenched in his hair and in the sheets, releasing broken gasps of his name. He didn’t relent until your thighs stopped shaking around his head. Your knees were damn near pinning him there.
He eventually withdrew, wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. He moved smoothly back up your body and heeded the pull of your hands on his arms, and then his face. You tugged him down for a sloppy kiss.
“How’s that for a first?” he asked breathlessly. His tone was teasing, but he was half-serious you thought, by the look in his eyes.
You were honest, without a hint of a joke. “Fucking incredible. Just like you.”
Dean wouldn’t admit it then, but what you said warmed him. He looked down on you with a smile.
Your hands caressed his face, down his neck and firm chest, and further still to caress his straining length over his boxer briefs. Dean let out a halting moan at your gentle touch.
“What if I want to return the favor?” you asked with a smile. He made a sound deep in his throat when you cupped him more firmly, letting your thumb brush over the head.
Well hello, you thought. He was thick, and a bit longer than your first thought. Your already sensitive core tightened at the thought.
Meanwhile, Dean squeezed your arm. His hot gaze bore into yours.
“Very, very tempting.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “I’ve no doubt you’ve got some talents yourself.”
You smiled under the pad of his thumb. Part of you was contemplating some retribution, sucking it into your mouth the way he’d done to your fingers in the kitchen.
“But I’m thinkin’ I want to skip to the part where I have you coming apart all over again,” said Dean. His head bowed near your ear, though his lips skimmed the side of your face. “This time, from the inside.”
His voice was deep and threaded with grit. You bit your lip on a giddy laugh. You managed to nod, sweeping your shaky fingers through his hair.
“Okay, next time then,” you promised and gave him a sensuous kiss. “But first, just want to make sure you’re ready for me…”
You leaned down to slide his underwear for him, down to his knees. He helped you the rest of the way, kicking them off his legs. When he came back, you were sitting up.
You soothed warm hands along his thighs and took his cock into your hands. Dean dropped his forehead onto your shoulder with a grunt, again squeezing your arms as you touched him properly for the first time.
Dean had a habit of impressing you, and this was no different. You liked the feel of him in your hands, warm and thick and heavy.
After licking your hand to coat it with some wetness, you experimented for a moment in how you stroked him, trying to get a feel for what he liked just as he had for you. He gasped and jolted on one particular twist, and he finally stopped you with a hand on your wrist.
“Okay, baby. Keep that up and we’re not gonna get much farther for a while,” he said coarsely.
It was satisfying to know you’d made him feel even a fraction of how he’d made you feel.
You pressed a purposeful kiss into his neck. “I told you, next time I’ll take care of you for real.”
He chuckled, cupping the side of your face.
“Oh, you’re about to. Believe me,” he said.
He kissed you long and deep, until you were once again breathless. The two of you were kneeling in the middle of the bed like you had all the time in the world. And yet, you wanted him more than ever.
“I’m on birth control,” you told him between more fervent kisses, hands drifting, feeling skin to warm, dewy skin, breaths mingling.
“And I’m clean,” he said. You nodded, hesitating…
“It’s our first time,” you said. “Condom, just to be safe.”
He hesitated only a beat before he nodded back, agreeing to your request. “Yes, ma’am.”
He broke from you briefly. He turned and dug into his nightstand while your nails drew light patterns down his back. It was distracting in the best of ways. A trill of excitement had his hands moving quickly, ripping the foil packet open and fitting himself with the condom.
When he was ready for you, he turned and hooked an arm around your waist. You twined your arms around his neck, and once again, you let him lay you down. His kiss came first, and then his fingers between your legs, past your folds to stroke you back to life.
You moaned into his mouth and wrapped your legs around his hips. Though he surprised you again by hooking your legs over his shoulders. Your brows raised at him, and he shot you a wink.
“Trust me, you’ll like it this way,” he said.
You did trust him. Your hands caressed down his neck, down his chest, and you subtly urged him with your heels on his back, encouraging him where you both knew he needed to be.
And with one slow push, his cock was stretching your inner walls with slow, delicious friction. You both groaned at the feeling. His forehead pressed against yours. His hand trembled slightly, brushing your hair away from your face. And he began moving inside you in steady strokes.
Dean was putting his all into this tonight. He thought your promises to take care of him next time were as endearing as they were sexy as hell. Even now, you were touching him wherever you could reach, occasionally moaning his name in his ear, encouraging him with every thrust inside you.
Fuck, he was right, you thought. He was reaching places deep inside you, filling you to the very brim. And you were already on the edge of pleasure, brows furrowed, biting your lower lip so hard that your teeth nearly broke the skin…
Your fingers slipped down between you to further part your folds and rub your already sensitive clit. Dean caught the hint and moved your hand to do it himself, as in time with his thrusts as he could. Finally, you unraveled for the second time that night. Your gasp gave way to a moan.
Your tightening walls gripped him like a vice. His release hit him with the same force, choking a near shout out of him. His hand was a bit too tight in your hair, he realized, so he forced himself to ease up.
He petted over your hair instead as he came down with ragged breaths. After he released your shaky legs back to the bed, he leaned mostly on his elbow and thigh instead of sinking all his weight onto you.
You appreciated that. You soothed up and down his back while you panted for breath.
“Wow,” you managed to say.
Dean’s chuckle took him by surprise too.
“Yeah,” he agreed. He turned his head to press a sloppy kiss where your neck met your shoulder.
Just then, a distant-sounding jingle reached your ears. It was familiar…and you remembered it was the alarm on your phone, which was probably in the kitchen.
“Oh shit,” you gasped. “The cake’s still in the oven.”
He blinked. “Well, I don’t smell burning, so we’re good.”
“Dean! You’re a firefighter, remember?” you laughed, but you still tapped his shoulder so he’d roll over. Reluctantly he did, but he still took you with him, even after he’d slid out of you.
You yelped and clung to his shoulders to balance yourself. “I gotta get the cake!”
“Five more minutes,” he grumbled into your neck. He also liked the way your breasts were pressed against his chest.
“It’s going to be so…damn…burnt!” You punctuated each of those syllables with a playful smack on his arm, until he finally released you with a lazy smirk.
You shook your head and huffed in amusement. Sliding out of bed, you searched around your dress. The first thing you found was his discarded undershirt. You slipped it on real quick and cautiously padded out of Dean’s room. You didn’t know if Sam was back from work, but this was not how you wanted to meet him.
The halls were quiet, so you didn’t think he was home yet. You managed to get to the kitchen unscathed, where you turned off your timer and grabbed some oven mitts. You opened the oven and pulled out the cake, setting it down on the counter. Your eyes narrowed at the almost perfect dome on top.
“What’s the verdict, Chef Ramsay?”
Dean leaned in the doorway, dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else. The view was delectable, but you sighed and gestured at the cake with a shake of your head.
“It’s burnt.”
“What? No, it’s not,” he refuted. He joined your side and stared down at the top of the cake, which was half browned. “Looks all right to me.”
“Trust me, it’s going to be dry,” you said, “even with the lemon drizzle on it.”
It was the perfectionist in you that smarted with disappointment. You didn’t want to serve anyone something you weren’t proud of, especially Dean. But he just leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.
“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “I’m still gonna eat the crap out of it.”
You glanced at him, unable to help a small smile. He grinned back.
“Anyway, I think it was worth it. Don’t you?” Dean said. He pulled you in towards him by your waist, and you went willingly, resting your hands against his bare chest. You let your nails drag against his skin a little as you contemplated.
You looked up at him with a grin of your own.
“Yeah. Definitely worth it.”
Dean later sat with you again at the table, this time with your chairs closer together as you each ate large slices of delicious cake (even if it was a bit dry). Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the copious number of dishes still left in the sink and the flour and batter sprinkled across the counter.
He knew Sam was going to have a conniption when he got home (in the morning at this rate). He was probably crashing at Eileen’s apartment tonight.
Good, Dean thought. That meant he’d have the place all to himself, with you.
“You know, I just realized something,” he said.
You knew that look in his eyes. He was about to say something smartass.
“What’s that?” you asked. He reached out and thumbed at your chin.
“I just got my dessert twice in one sitting,” he remarked. “That’s pretty damn good, if you ask me.”
You snorted in laughter. You also blushed, but you were unable to stop smiling either.
You set down your fork and eased back from the table. Your hand on Dean’s shoulder encouraged him to do the same, so you could sit across his lap. He welcomed you with a warm hand on your bare thigh. Already it was creeping under the shirt you borrowed.
You stroked his cheek with the back of your hand and gave him a mischievous smile.
“Think you could handle another serving?”
AN: 🫣 Was it everything you wanted it to be? lol I love me some baking innuendo. What did you like more: eating the cherry pie or making the lemon drizzle? 😏❤️🔥
In Part 8, Dean's past comes a knockin'...
Next Time:
While you were getting dressed, a phone buzzed on one of the nightstands beside the bed. It was Dean’s phone.
You went over to it curiously as you fixed the straps of your dress. The screen showed a missed text message from last night, around 10:00 p.m., and another one this morning. You read the latest one with a sinking feeling in your chest.
From Marissa: Surprised I didn’t hear back from you last night. The offer still stands. 😘
Keep Reading: PART 8
Dean Winchester Masterlist
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short washing machine headcanons...
How would the Mashle characters react if they found their s/o stuck in the washing machine? + personal ratings (I know, no one asked)
For Mash, Dot, Finn, Lemon, Lance, Rayne, Abel, Abyss, Wirth, Margarette, Carpaccio, Orter, Renatus, Ryoh, Kaldo.
Warnings: SLIGHT spoiler for Margarette? Other than that, none. ratings are purely subjective, please don't bury me alive.
Note: none of this is canon so some charas might be ooc, don’t take it too seriously! Might write for Domina, Meliadoul, Famin and Delisaster one day, idk
MASH...
He’s probably busy eating or making cream puffs when he hears you call for help. It isn’t common for you to do such a thing so he freaks out a little bit at first, but upon finding out the mess you’ve made while trying to empty the washing machine, he just stands there, completely dumbfounded.
He’s a little dense, so it takes him a minute or two to figure out that you’re actually stuck. He’s never been in this situation before, therefore he’s sweating a little and panicking internally. “T-t-t-t-this is bad. I-I-I have to help them out.”
Pulling on your legs would be a terrible idea, considering his strength, and he’s just completely clueless on how to get you out.
Would 100% rip open the washing machine and leave you completely astonished as he does so, then pat your shoulder in a comforting way with a thumbs up.
Overall very cute, even tried to comfort you after such a “traumatising” ordeal. 8/10.
DOT...
He thinks he’s the main character, we all know it. He’s probably checking himself out in the mirror and saying cool protagonist lines when he hears you call out for help, and suddenly, his main quest has changed!
He walks in on you, stuck head first in the washing machine, and much like Mash, he just looks at you for a bit before taking in the situation. Of course, he’s going to help you, but he needs to gloat about it first, you know it.
“Damn, how could you ever get out of here without my help, huh?” He’d just take on dramatic poses that he assumes are cool (they are not), and try to pull you out by himself. “Can’t be helped, huuuh?”
Despite all his efforts, he doesn’t manage to get you out and he just starts mumbling things about the washing machine being a worthy opponent before actually grabbing his phone and calling someone for help.
Dot is just being Dot, after all, but he’s full of good intentions. 5/10, at least you had a good laugh..?
FINN...
Finn immediately interrupts his studying when he hears you call out for him, and he’s running like his own life depends on it! ���What’s wrong, (Y/N)?!”
Upon seeing you stuck in there head first, he gets into panic mode! It isn’t completely horrible either and it’s just purely annoying to be stuck, but Finn sees it differently. If you called for help, then SURELY you must be terrified or in pain!
He’s going to pace around the room for a minute, wondering “How do I get them out? How do I get them out? How do I get them out?” before deciding that he’s going to take it step by step!
Gently guides you out of the washing machine without too much trouble and doesn’t judge you even once for it! He gives you a big hug afterwards because he’s convinced you were very scared (you weren’t, but he was)!
I physically cannot give Finn anything under 9/10. He is bebe.
LEMON...
She’s probably making a cute keychain for you when you call out for her. She will make you her utmost priority and cheerily trot up to you. “Yeeees~ what is it?”
You’re… stuck. She blushes dramatically and screams out something like “Kyaaah! Just like in those movies! You perv!” But then carefully inspect the position you’re in and how the hell you got stuck in there.
She’s going to try pretty much everything in her power, from pulling you out to switching your position and figuring out a way to painlessly get you out of there…
And eventually get you out! However, be warned: she will give you the side eye with a blush every time she sees you for at least a month and giggle. Who knows what’s going through her head?
Helpful, cute, and funny. 8/10 would recommend.
LANCE...
He’s reading a book when you call for him. He will automatically assume something bad happened (well, technically yes, but.. yeah) and quickly run to the laundry room. “(Y/N), what happened?!”
Looks down on you without you knowing. The display is pretty ridiculous and laughable, but he won’t make a sound. He’s just going to pat your back. “I’ll get you out of here.”
He’s a very smart guy, so he just has to look at the way you’re stuck for a few seconds before figuring out the most efficient way to help you, and it takes him very little time.
Will sigh and shake his head in disapproval, but internally scream when you pout at him for sighing because he thinks you’re adorable. He’s going to look away and clear his throat so you can’t see his blush.
Efficient and definitely nice, he won’t even tease you about it. He did look down on you though, 7/10.
RAYNE...
Where is he anyway? He’s taking his sweet time when you call for him, and when he does finally arrive, you’re met with his usual neutral voice. “Yes, I heard you calling the first time.”
You can’t tell, but when he walks in on you stuck like this, he gives you the look… but again, it’s probably his neutral face. How’d you get stuck in there anyway? You really can’t do anything by yourself, can you?
Much like Lance, he’s extremely smart, so he’s going to pull you out of there very quickly, and he sighs while doing so. How can you be so clumsy? It’s almost as if you did it on purpose.
He’s about to lecture you but notices that you’re very embarrassed and can’t even look him in the eyes, so his expression softens just a little and he decides not to say anything mean and just gives you a comforting pat on the head. “Don’t get stuck again, alright?”
Very thoughtful despite the cold look he gives you, efficient and nice. 8/10.
ABEL...
Abel rarely stays away from you for very long, so he was probably there when it happened and he saw you getting stuck. He also noticed how you couldn’t get out by yourself. “It appears you need some help.”
You’re now aware that he saw you and it’s just fully embarrassing, but he’s part of the clever ones, so you’re pretty sure he will help you out quickly. Or will he? He’s always been a little odd, even around you anyway.
It’s really curious to him, how you managed to get stuck that fast yet you just can’t get out by yourself. Will definitely ask if you did it on purpose while keeping a straight face and blank tone.
Gets you out in a longer time than he should’ve because he was busy trying to understand how you got in there in the first place. He won’t judge you for it, but he will absolutely bring it up around other people like it’s no big deal.
It’s nice that he was already there, did help, but embarrasses you in front of your friends. 6/10
ABYSS...
No matter what he’s doing when you call out for him or where he is, he will Acceleraise his way to you immediately! You are his top 1 priority!
He will however take a second to appreciate the display and chuckle a little bit to himself like “Hah… cute.” before actively looking for a solution because he can literally feel your embarrassment.
“How did you manage to do this?” He mumbles, and makes sure that you aren’t hurt or in any pain first of all. He will 100% reassure you through the whole process!
Abyss is smart and will get you out quickly and without making fun of you. Unlike Abel, he won’t mention it around anyone else, and makes a self note: needs to buy a bigger washing machine so you don’t get stuck again.
Sweet and efficient, very nice and comforting. 10/10, would get stuck again.
WIRTH...
He’s training and trying to improve his capacities when you call out for him. He’s used to you getting into such and such situations, so he just takes his time now. “What is it this time, (Y/N)?”
A bit dumbfounded when he sees the way you’ve managed to get stuck, will crackle up in laughter because as used as he is to see stuff like that with you, it always manages to surprise him.
He’s going to keep giggling as he helps you through, and you just wish you could wipe that smirk off his face but you can’t really do anything and just wait for him to help.
He even hesitates and feels like he should leave you like that, but he doesn’t want you to be upset at him, so he will get you out pretty easily and tease you about it later on. “Aww, c’mon, don’t sulk now~!”
Kind of a jerk, but in a lovable way. You need to find something to tease him back with, 7/10 though.
MARGARETTE...
They’re probably rehearsing or composing another one of these musical masterpieces to play on the piano when their beloved calls out for help.
They’ll gently chuckle and crouch down next to you. “Oh my! How’d you get in such a situation, dear?” Their arms are a little too bulky to reach out for you from the outside, so they’ll shift into their true form and easily reach for your shoulders so they can pull you out!
Margarette is one of the smart characters and will get you out of the washing machine in no time, very gently and gracefully, making sure you don’t get hurt or anything in the process.
Will give you a hug and gentle pats on the head to comfort you. “There, there~.” They won’t tease you about it nor make fun, but will definitely chuckle a little upon remembering it.
A mother figure, very nice and gentle. Cannot wait to hear the masterpiece they were busy composing, 10/10.
CARPACCIO...
He’s experimenting on lab rats and seems very engrossed with his occupation, so it will take him a little bit of time to hear you calling out for him.
Freezes when he sees you stuck head first inside the washing machine and stares blankly without a word for way longer than necessary. He’s got a little smirk and his lower eyelids rise up in amusement.
“Heh.” is all you can hear before he makes his way towards you and inspects you while he considers leaving you like this for a bit longer because it sure as hell is funny for him. But he knows you’ll be upset and he doesn’t want you to give him the silent treatment.
If he doesn’t find a quick way to get you out, he will stab his way through the washing machine (and give you a good scare as he does that) to free you! Terrifyingly sweet, he’s just staring with a very slight smirk and you know he will tease you about it.
Mean but at least he helped you out. You got scared for your life even though you know he wouldn’t hurt you. 7/10
ORTER...
He’s reading a book and he’s sure as hell he heard you call for him. He will carefully put down his book and look for the source of the muffled cry he just heard.
Despite being quite the jerk around others, Orter is a mature man, and he isn’t going to make any snarky remarks or make fun of you. He will sigh upon seeing you squirm, crouching next to you to check the mess you’ve been making.
“Calm down. If you’ve managed to find a way in, there’s obviously a way out.” Very rational throughout the whole process and effectively gets you out of the washing machine, inspecting you afterwards to make sure you aren’t hurt.
Much like Abyss, he will make a mental note to buy a larger washing machine, and kindly help you back up without teasing you or ever bringing it up around anyone else. If you apologise, he’ll tell you it’s nonsense.
Very logical and calm, efficient and polite. 10/10.
RENATUS...
Sure as hell taking a nice nap when he hears that scream of his name that could wake up the dead. He groans and stands up to lazily make his way to the laundry room.
He whistles when he sees you stuck there and gives a snarky chuckle. “Woah, just for me?” and you can physically feel your face heat up. He’s going to get closer to check the way you’re stuck and…
Whack! He’ll give your butt a playful slap before helping you out and laughing out loud at the ridiculous situation. After all, it’s not everyday that he gets to see his s/o in such an embarrassing state!
He will however stop teasing you if he sees you get uncomfortable and wrap his arms around your waist to comfort you with a softer chuckle. He might tease you later if he ever remembers this happened.
Again, jerk but in a lovable way. You need to give him that spank back tho, 7/10.
RYOH...
Like Abyss, you are his utmost priority and he will immediately drop anything he’s doing (probably admiring his reflection in a mirror) when he hears you call out for him!
He’ll chuckle when he sees you stuck in there, and you can tell his mind is running! But there is no time for this. If Ryoh's s/o is stuck in the washing machine, he must overcome this trial!
Will get you out in a manly way (whatever that means!) and you’ll even wonder how he did it so easily, that’s how flawless his whole performance is.
He might tease you if you’re comfortable with it, winking at you way too many times and making it pretty obvious what kind of ideas he has. If you aren’t, it’s also fine, he’s just going to cuddle you into forgetting it.
Ryoh is just a W man. There’s nothing else to say, 10/10.
KALDO...
It’s good that you called him, he was about to ruin yet another perfectly fine dish by pouring an ungodly amount of honey on top of it. He will pout in disappointment but come check what’s up.
“(Y/N), dear, are you having fun in there~?” He teases with a chuckle. “Can I join?” But upon hearing your frustrated groan, he will go into thinking mode and consider his options.
His first thought is to use honey to make it easier to pull you out, but he quickly dismisses it. He will, instead, pull on your clothes to avoid hurting your skin when you get out.
Will get you out, but your clothes are ruined, so he’ll give you his coat so you can cover up and not be too embarrassed. He might bring it up later and pretend he forgot how embarrassing it was for you, but really, he just wants to tease you.
Playful and cute, but he did ruin that shirt you liked a lot. 7/10.
#mashle#mashle x reader#mashle imagine#mashle headcanons#mashle x you#mashle reader insert#orter madl#kaldo gehenna#abel walker#abyss razor#carpaccio luo-yang#carpaccio royan#finn ames#rayne ames#dot barrett#mash burnedead#margarette macaron#margaret macaron#lance crown#lemon irvine#orter mádl#renatus revol#ryoh grantz#wirth mádl#wirth madl#orter madl x reader#kaldo gehenna x reader#abel walker x reader#abyss razor x reader#carpaccio luo-yang x reader
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the incident ♡ part i (boxer!steve x librarian!fem reader)
summary: a brutal argument and steve's terrible temper drive you away from your malibu home. steve loses you again, and this time, you're both left wondering: has he lost you for good this time?
uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.
✶ the king of the ring
✶ part ii, part iii
✶ main masterlist
tags: angst, so toxic, more manhandling (mostly just Steve grabbing her), shoving, brutal verbal argument, Steve is genuinely terrible, also there's like no build-up, we get straight to it lol.
a/n: this is it, folks. this is the incident, the one that changes everything for steve and libby. it's rough to read, and this is your warning now that it's bordering domestic abuse. but once again, i will never write explicit violence against women (as in, he will never hit her).
malibu, california, november 1992
"Every time. You do this every fucking time, Steve."
The back of your head was just as pretty as the front, but Steve hated the sound of your voice when it was yelling at him. He deserved it, of course—he always did. But that sharp, scolding snap—it enraged him. No matter how much he deserved it, no matter how awful he'd been. Steve hated being yelled at.
"Do what? He was askin' for it."
"Asking for it? Do you hear yourself? You knocked him out cold, you fucking prick!"
Steve stopped short in the open doorway of your Malibu home, holding the doorframe. Freshly cleaned, scented of lemon cleaner, a little slick on the floor. He watched you stomp up the carpeted stairs in your little heels, bag swinging with every pound of your feet. You had that pursed, scrunched look on your face he knew all too well.
But when you yelled at him, he just wanted to yell back.
So, he followed suit, quickly closing the distance between the pair of you. He reached the bedroom just as you threw your purse onto the bed, whipping around to head toward the closet.
"So fuckin' what? I'm just supposed to let some creep—"
"—oh my god, Steve! How many more times are we gonna do this? Its-it's fucking driving me insane!" you shrilled, turning to stare at him in exasperation from his position in the doorway.
Steve huffed, stepping into the closet toward his array of black fabrics on the other side. He whipped his shirt off and let it pool on the ground, belt clinking as he slid it from the buckle.
"Yeah, whatever. How d' you think I feel when I see guys like that all over you, huh? I mean, Jesus Christ, he was practically drooling on your tits, Libby," Steve snarled, hands waving in those open, empty gestures that you always rolled your eyes at.
You paused in your pursuit of changing clothes. Comfortability could wait. Steve needed to understand how infuriating it was to be tugged at and shielded like a doll. How enraging it was to be treated like nothing more than his object, something to possess and hold onto.
You felt like a toy in the tight grip of a boy that refused to grow up.
"He wasn't doing anything. We were talking, Steve. Would you have reacted that way if it were a woman?"
Steve rolled his eyes this time, shoving his jeans over his thighs toward his ankles. He kicked them off, reaching for a pair of loose, black Nike shorts that he usually wore around the house.
He kept his back to you as he yanked them over his hips, slung low enough to show the newly cut muscles he'd gained over gruesome training for higher-stake title fights. He'd been training at a rigorous pace that worried anyone not on his payroll—you most of all.
He was always littered in bruises, always sporting some kind of migraine bordering concussion—and most of all, his anger was at an all time high. If it wasn't something you did, it was something you hadn't done. If it wasn't you, it was anyone nearest you that breathed wrong. It was anyone, anywhere, anytime. No one was spared of Steve's wrath.
But you bared the brunt of it.
"No, because a woman wouldn't be slobbering all over you—"
"—we were talking, Steve! Something you and I don't seem to be doing lately. So yeah—"
"—what? What the fuck are you talking about?" Steve's face screwed sideways, body turning to face you finally.
"—yeah, I'm gonna talk to someone who actually listens to me. It's like talking to a brick fucking wall with you lately."
Steve reared back, then jutted forward: chin first, eyebrows furrowed, eyes squinted inquisitively. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He hadn't been listening to you?
"Well, maybe I'm fucking tired after working all day, honey. Maybe I don't wanna hear you whine and complain about how boring it is—"
"—ew, God, did you just say that? Do you hear yourself? You think you're so fuckin' important. So fuckin' high and mighty now that you're in Hollywood, right?"
Steve glared at you, jaw tightening. "You know I don't give a shit about—"
"Oh," you snapped, brows raising. "Oh, you don't? No? No, you didn't throw a tantrum after you lost that fight last year?"
"No—"
"You didn't freak the fuck out when Title didn't cut you 'what you deserved' after the Davidson fight?"
"No, don't twist my fuckin'—"
You were standing toe to toe now, Steve half-clothed and barefoot, the dress you'd been wearing all day still sticking to your skin from Californian heat and a humid gym. Your feet were killing you. Your face was flaming hot. Steve's nostrils were flaring rapidly and his breathing was growing unsteady.
This had been building up. After months of fighting and making up, after weeks of giving silent treatments only to be suckered into his kisses and murmured apologies. Months of picking up pieces of picture frames he broke in outburst, deciding to hang them up without the glass to keep from breaking because you couldn't afford his temper. Weeks of wondering when you'd break, when you'd finally snap and ask what the hell happened to the man that protected you, loved you, made you feel like something special and cherished?
Because the man standing in front of you was nothing like the man you first met. The man standing in front of you, millions of dollars richer and all the worse for it, was a cold, hard shell of who you once knew.
"I know you, Steve. You might think you can fool me by pretending you don't care about Hollywood and money and fame but—I know you, Steven. And all you care about," you stepped closer, glaring up the tip of your nose at the broad, fuming boxer, "is your ego."
It was the one-fingered push to his chest that set him off. You were on your way through the door, heading back into the bedroom to put space between the pair of you. But Steve wouldn't let you have the last word. Steve wouldn't let you be right.
"Oh, but it's my 'ego' payin' for all this, isn't it? Huh? I haven't heard you complainin' about all those diamonds around your neck, right?"
The grip Steve had on your arm was all too familiar, and he used it to yank you back around with a force that made you flinch. His hand burned where it wrung your bicep, and you ground your teeth to keep the tears at bay. You wouldn't cry prematurely. You had every right to scream and rage right now.
And with the way Steve was looking at you right now, all condescending pouts and head tilts, chasing your gaze when you wouldn't give it to him because he wanted to corner you—it made you feel truly insane.
"Yeah, you don't care so much about my 'ego' when I'm fundin' your lifestyle, do you, sweetheart? When I'm buyin' all those pretty dresses and fueling a fuckin' jet." Steve punctuated the sharp snap of his teeth with a tightened grip on your arm, using it to yank you into his chest.
You shoved at his chest, eyes starting to burn. "So fucking take it, Steve. I don't want any of it."
Steve tipped his head again, face too close for your liking. You suddenly didn't find those swampy eyes so endearing. The menacing sneer he wore in the ring wasn't so handsome up close.
"No?—"
"No!" you snapped, shoving him again, glaring up at him with wet eyes. "Take it all back, you fucking asshole! It means nothing to me. I was here for you. I was here because I loved you!"
You were crying now, and you hated yourself for it. Why wouldn't you just be strong, breathe through it? Why did he always have to get the best of you? Why did he always have to make you cry?
Steve was silent this time, and it almost made you feel worse. Since when did he have nothing to say to 'I love you?' With a whimpered grunt building in your throat, you shoved your forearm into Steve's stomach, urging him away. His hand loosened around your other arm just enough for you to rip it away, and with another shove to his chest, you yanked free from his hold and stomped toward the closet.
"Here, take it all back, you fucking dick!"
You hurled your clothes toward the bedroom where Steve was fuming at the end of the bed, glaring at all the items piling on the plush, cream carpet. Dresses, skirts, shoes, purses. When you returned to the bedroom, you yanked the pearl drop earrings from your ears and tossed them toward his looming figure. His eyes hardened when they barely brushed his nose.
"There, have it, Steve," you snapped.
You stomped toward the door, rushing for the stairs. Stepping over the mess you made, Steve was quick to follow, bare feet padding the freshly cleaned wood until they met the carpet of the stairs again. You ignored him, sniffling and wiping at your tears, until he took one large step in front of you. You took one back, bumping into the entryway wall as a result.
Blocking your path to the kitchen, Steve crossed his arms and glared down at you. He had you cornered. "Don't act like you're so fucking innocent here, honey," he sneered.
You rolled your eyes, mirroring his stance and folding your arms. "Yeah, I'm sure you'll find something to dock me for, Steven. What did I do this time, huh? Did I breathe wrong?"
"You always fucking flirt with them. You always flirt with other guys, and you know what that does to me. You do it just to fuck with my head." Steve tapped his temple and you tipped your head back with a groan.
"God, you're still on this? I don't flirt with anyone, Steve! The only man I want to be with is you!" Though you weren't so sure you even wanted that anymore.
You wanted Steve—grumpy but lovable, privately sweet and adorable with a dry sense of humor that always made you giggle even when he wasn't trying to be funny. You wanted the Steve that brought you flowers every time he came to pick you up back home in Indiana. You wanted the Steve that begged to wash your hair because he 'liked how your shampoo smelled,' and the Steve who watched you sleep because 'you looked so pretty.'
You didn't want Steve 'The King of the Ring.' You didn't want the Steve that glared and screamed and treated you like another opponent in the ring.
"Oh, yeah? Well what was so fuckin' funny that you had to caress that guy's arm today? Tell me, baby. Was he just so fucking funny—"
"—Jesus, Steve, shut up!"
The tip of Steve's finger bumped your nose when it came to point in your face. "Don't tell me to shut up."
You smacked his hand away, rivaling his mean stare with one of your own. If stares could slice, Steve's head would be in pieces by now.
"Or what?"
The apple of Steve's cheeks were round and red, and a splotchy trail of heat began to scale the length of his neck. You should have shut up. You should have walked away.
You should've left him months ago when you cut your finger cleaning up another one of his messes and he told you to 'be more careful.'
You shouldn't love a man like this.
"Stop it, Libby," he told you lowly, head shaking. "I don't wanna do this with you."
You scoffed, brushing your hair away from your forehead. It was starting to gather a sheen of sweat. "Yeah, right. You only wanna yell at me when I don't yell back, right? You push, and push, and push, and then call me crazy when I finally explode, right, Steve?"
Steve dropped his arms and placed his hands on his hips. His shoulders shrugged in that cocky, douchebag way that always had you boiling.
"I mean...if the shoe fits."
And it was there that any chance of dropping this argument went out the window. It was there that you truly lost it.
Bobbing your head, you dropped your own hands and used them to shove Steve's chest, punctuating every word with a little nudge. You were only adding fuel to the fire, but you were too enraptured by your own fury to care. Finally you were angry, and finally it felt good.
"Oh, is that right? Well, you know what they say about you, Steve? You're just. Like. Your. Daddy."
The house fell silent. You weren't sure Steve was even breathing. But he was staring at you, eyes void and face blank. The only sound that filled the emptiness was the thump of your own heart, like a gong reverberating in your ears.
The regret didn't have a moment to sink in before Steve lunged back into place and slammed his hands into the wall on either side of your head. You jumped, freezing stock-still between his arms caging you in. Your breathing shallowed, caught in the center of your throat.
"Oh, yeah?" Steve growled, tipping his head to find your eyes again. "That's how you feel, honey?"
"Well," you swallowed, steeling your nerves. Steve wouldn't get the best of you today. "If the shoe fucking fits."
"Shut up!"
The impact of Steve's fist against the drywall felt like a firework in your ear. Earth-shattering, ear-splitting, jolting you so hard you lost your breath for a moment. You felt the whoosh of air when he reared back, felt the boom of his hand breaking the foundation. It crumbled in chunks of shattered plaster, clattering against the hardwood.
The room around Steve seemed to vignette. Shadows gathered around the shape of his face, and the space in your lungs shrunk to a minuscule amount. You suddenly couldn't breathe. There was no room in your body for air. Your ears hurt and your cheeks felt swollen, the way they do when you're about to be sick. That sore, stinging ache that came from the onset of tears gathered behind your eyes.
Steve's face went through a series of shifts in the next few palpable moments of silence. First, contorted in anger: brows furrowed and angled down, lip curled into a sneering scowl, cheeks flushed hot red. Then: the brows softened and knitted together, his cheeks dimmed to a soft pink, and his mouth fell agape. His fingers uncurled from their place in the wall. More plaster fell to the floor in chips.
"Oh...oh, god, baby—"
You were out of there. You were so out of there.
You ducked under Steve's arm, still crowding you against the wall. You sprinted for the door, unconcerned about your purse or any of your belongings strewn around the house. The only thing on your mind was getting away.
"I-I'm taking the car," you stuttered out, though you weren't sure why. Maybe you were talking to yourself, reminding yourself to keep moving, to not stop. You couldn't stop. You had to keep going.
"No, don't take the car, baby—"
The jingle of keys between your fingers sounded miles away. As did Steve's voice, following you out the door with a pleading upturn and a nasally whine. He was crying. In the back of your mind, you registered that. Someplace in your head, you saw his tears, heard his pleading.
But you just kept going.
You slid into the car and slammed the door, immediately encompassed by the thick heat collected inside. The brown leather was warm. The engine rumbled to life.
Steve ran across the driveway, all flat grey stones he had redone. His bare feet collected flecks of dirt, little pebbles lodged in his heels. But he had to get to you. He lunged for the car—his car, with you in the passenger seat leaking a shower of tears he wasn't quite sure you knew you were shedding.
Steve banged on the driver window and winced at the sight of his own hand: swollen, split at the knuckles and seeping hot blood. It trickled down his hand and raced for his wrists. He hated how it stained the glass of the window, how it got all over the handle when he yanked at it.
"No, baby, please. Please, baby, open the door. Please, please, please."
You yanked the car into reverse, fingers unsteady and buzzing with some far off, tingling feeling. Everything felt like someone else's actions, someone else's body. It felt like you were watching from a distance.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't go. Baby. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry."
You were hiccuping and choking on your own breath as you slammed your foot on the gas and whipped the car around. In the rearview, Steve jogged after the car, half naked and bleeding, and you hurried to put it in drive and haul off. You squealed out of the driveway, down the hill, and toward the end of the street, sobbing the whole way.
It was about five minutes later that you managed to get ahold of yourself. You slurped up whatever snot attempted to escape your nose, wiped it with the back of your still-trembling hand, and clicked on the turn signal to go right.
There were only two other people you knew in Malibu. Right now, you needed a friend.
♡ ♡
to be continued...
#rolly!#boxer!steve harrington#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fic#steve harrington au#steve harrington fanfiction#king steve#steve the hair harrington#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fandom#steve harrington angst#steve harrington hurt/comfort#joe keery#stranger things fic#stranger things#steve stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fanfic#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington x fem#boxer!steve#steve harrington blurb
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Smiling Critters x sick! employee reader
You twisted and turned in your sleep. Sweat collecting on your cold body. Even with a blanket on. All windows and doors were shut, no cool air could flow into even the smallest corners of your room.
So why were you so damn cold?
Oh. A fever.
You woke up with a stuffy nose, an aching head, and a sore throat mixed with a high temperature(ME!!!).
Maybe you shouldn’t go to work today.
But money…
But getting better…
But money… :(
Eh whatever. Just take some tylenol and you’ll be fine.
You woke up at your designated time—
SHUT UP!! I woke uh(up) ah(at) my.. Uhhhh. Deserted time! And.. Ate.. Uhm..
… Will you let me speak?
Uhm.. NO!! I ate.. Uhhhh, someeee Eggo waffles!!! Yurmy.. With syrup bcus.. I like syrup! And.. A cup of orang juice..
Lovely explanation of your morning.
May I speak now?
You.. MaY!!
Thanks. You sloppily trotted around your kitchen, trying to find something to eat. You couldn’t even see things right, ughhh. And you were just soooo HOT!! But you got chills at the same time!!
Maybe you should stay home.
NO!! I need… THe mONey!!
Alright. You looked in your freezer, finding some eggo waffles you could munch on. Now for a drink, since you had a fever, maybe some orange juice would help calm it down.
It isn’t THAT bad. The orange juice I mean, your health state is terrible.
Mmm… What should I consume next?
Maybe a spoon of honey and lemon? It helps with your throat. Like a lot.
Hmm… OkAYY!!
You took the spoon of honey and lemon, now for some vitamins(zinc and vitamin c, that’s what I took) and now you’re off!
You were still not right in the head, so you may have tripped on your own feet while walking to your car. You entered it, and sat down with a sigh. So you’re not coughing up the workplace, you decided to suck on a cough drop.
They taste gross, but it’s worth it. You sat there in your car seat for a few minutes, just thinking about what’ll possibly happen at your job. Maybe the other employees will notice and ask if you’re okay. Or maybe the Smiling Critters will notice how sick you are and try to take care of you.
Heh.. Little animals taking care of a whole human. How is that even possible?
.
.
.
Pretty possible if I do say so myself. You stepped into work after scanning with your id— This place is always so high with security, it could even have those red beaming laser beams from movies.
Anyways, you said your hi’s and hello’s to your employees, including toys of course. How could you miss out on saying hello to such cuties?
And those cuties could see how sick you were, but were too busy with the workers or the children that just LOVE receiving some toy attention.
You went over to Playcare, preparing to deal with possibly another headache, even if yours is gone now. Another headache from the kids’ yelling and screaming, from their shrieks of joy, much more reasons to make your head throb with annoyance.
Being sick makes you grumpy.
“Hey coworker!” A voice from behind erupted, from how bright and loud it was, you could tell it was a certain dog.
You turned around, slightly closing your eyes from his bright aura, “Hey Dog—” You interrupted your greeting with a cough, “Day.. How are you today?” You had a wobbling smile on your face, trying to make it seem like you were the most healthy person alive.
“Um, I’m good! Are you alright? You seem kind of out of it..?” Dogday asked, he was worried about you and your well being. Kind of similar to that scenario you came up with in your head…
“Yeah I’m—” You coughed, a bit more aggressively compared to other recent one. “... Are you sure..?”
“Yeah—” You fainted, falling towards the ground.
Waiting for a thud to be echoed around the big place, but only a soft one. Including some fur and a vanilla scent. Had he.. Caught you? How? He’s like 5 ft?(In his more kiddish form, not his bigger form)
“Oh geez..” He said, calling to the other critters to help him with getting you somewhere where you could rest. As you were slowly falling asleep, you could hear many worried voices. But by the time words could clearly be said, you were gone.
You were slightly waking up, slowly blinking your eyelids. You wanted to go back to sleep, but you have a job to do.
OH SHOOT YOU HAVE A JOB TO DO!!!!
You abruptly woke up, fully awake or not. But the sudden motion really messed with your head. The whole world was blurry, even the colorful blobs that were small in your vision.
“Oh my!” You could hear a soft pitter patter of paws hurrying over to you. Why's the red blob getting bigger?
“Mmm… Muh?” You couldn't properly possess words at the moment, so whatever came out your mouth was unauthorized sounds.
“You should rest! Sitting up that quickly can mess with you!” A paw gently grabbed your hand.
“Buh.. Bear?” You sounded like a 3 year old trying to pronounce words..
“Oh! Yes, I'm a bear..” You couldn't process the face right, but it looked like the bear was smiling. Why was the bear red? Aren't they supposed to brown? Or white, or black and white..? Or something.. This sickness is really messing with your head..
“Now rest, please…” The worried voice calmly said to you. Not pushing you, just holding your hand.
“Work.. I—” You leaned forward and fell cheek flat on the bear’s face.
“Ee—!” They made a slight squeak at the contact. “Alright. That works.” They chuckled.
Hours later, you finally woke up. You could hear conversations while you blinked your eyes open.
“And then— they fell on me!” Laughter was spread around the room from different voices and tones.
You figured that whoever was speaking, was talking about you…
One of them looked over and saw you—
“Guys, they’re up!” They said.
They all looked over at you, as you slowly but surely sat up. Your head wasn’t as woozy, still had your stuffy nose and hurting throat though..
Now that you didn’t quickly get up, and were more rested, you could finally clearly see the animals that were once blobs.
“Oh.. Hoppy? And Bobby—” They all rushed over to you, wanting to see if you were okay to even get out of bed. You weren’t sweaty, your voice was kinda ehh.., your nose seems stuffy, you didn’t have a headache because they would’ve noticed the second you sat up.. But you’re still not in the right condition to work!
“Are you okay?” What was this one’s name again..? Dogday?
“Uhhh, yea Dogday, I’m okay.”
“No headache or anything?” A soft voice said, that was Craftycorn, right?
“Luckily, no. I took a tylenol so I was fine when I woke up.” You let out a cough, covering your mouth while doing so(no spreading germs!!).
Throughout the day, you had little animals taking care of you and your sickness. You had a couple of spoons of honey and lemon, took some vitamins, ate, and had a humidifier on all day. Also you were secluded in their little room they all had. So the ‘sunlight’ was on you all day, as if you were some sunflower..
You were wondering if the employees were even thinking about your disappearance.
At the end of the day, you ended up sleeping in Dogday’s bed, cuddled up to him. He said, “It’ll help with your sickness! And make you feel better!”
You woke up the next day, and yeah— it did make you feel better.
A/N|| I apologize for not including all of the Smiling Critters, I did try to include at least some of the ones that weren't always in the spotlight(I mean the ones that aren't talked about too much).
Another A/N|| Hip hip hooray!! I'm back ^_^
#poppy playtime#smiling critters#poppy playtime x reader#gender neutral#gn reader#gender neutral reader#dogday#dogday x reader#catnap#catnap x reader#bobby bearhug#bobby bearhug x reader#craftycorn#craftycorn x reader#kickinchicken#kickinchicken x reader#hoppy hopscotch#hoppy hopscotch x reader#picky piggy#picky piggy x reader#bubba bubbaphant#bubba bubbaphant x reader
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lemon tart
word count: 1297
azriel x gn!reader
authors note: azriel is cute when he panics. cassian loves to mess with him too. look out for future parts!
pt.2, pt.3
taglist: @andrewgarfield2022
azriel was gonna kill cassian.
how could the general of the night court, the man responsible for the high lords' armies actually be so forgetful?
cassian told him it was something about a new mating bond, which azriel knew was ridiculous, cassian and nesta have been mated for 100 years already. he probably just wanted to sleep in with his wife, something azriel figured he would also want if he knew what it was like to be mated to someone.
either way, he was still pissed off.
it was also unbelievable that the only thing feyre wanted to eat during her second pregnancy were lemon tarts. lemon tarts specifically from the new bakery the high lady was obsessed with, Lemon Dreams.
she could have anything in the world and she chooses lemon tarts?
azriel was really reconsidering how he felt about his High Lady.
he supposed the place was cute… in a country farmish sort of way. it wasn’t really his style, but he supposed he could see the appeal. calming jazz played in the background, while daisies were lay scattered across dark wood counters, and the coffee and berry aroma’s filled the air. it seemed so out of place compared to the dark blue’s, purples, and blacks that normally filled the spaces of velaris’ cafes.
“anything you’re looking for specifically?” a voice broke out from behind the counter and azriel’s heart fell to his feet.
there you stood, bright and beautiful and smiling up at him, and oh gods you were beautiful… and speaking right at him! what did you say again? “huh? oh sorry, i-i just completely zoned out, what were you saying again?”
You blinked at him once… twice… and then you giggled at him and azriel thought that if could bottle it up and carry it with him, he might never have to go to majda for healing ever again.
“its okay. must just be one of those days right?” you clearly carried the sunshine in your smile, otherwise the shadowsinger wouldn’t have to turn away when you made eye contact.
“yeah,” was he actually out of breath right now? great mother, he was pathetic.
you made your way further down the counter before turning to him again, “so are you looking for something specific?”
“yeah, my friend she wanted a couple of lemon tarts? you have those right?”
“which ones was she looking for?”
“which one?” azriel was confused. isn’t there only one kind of lemon tart?
“yeah, i have lemon-mint, lemon-berry, original, lemon and cream, and i can make specialty tarts for future orders if she’s looking for something in the future.”
it was then that azriel realized why this bakery was called Lemon Dreams. the display trays were filled with lemon desserts. “wow, uh sorry. i didn’t realize that there were so many kinds of lemon tarts… original i guess?”
“original?”
“yeah! that should work… i hope?”
“hmm…” you started, “who’s it for?”
“what?” there was no way you could know who wanted this lemon tart! velaris is a busy city, you could hardly ever know all the people in your own neighborhood.
“is she a regular? i remember all of my customers.”
“all of them?”
“every single one! just give me a hint, i think i could figure it out.”
azriel pondered for a moment. it wasn’t like he was putting the high lady a risk… if she really came here so often you probably knew her. and you looked terribly cute, with those hopeful eyes staring into his, “she’s pregnant.”
“feyre?”
he blinked.
you clapped your hands together, lit up and full of joy, “seriously? i almost thought i was gonna get it wrong!”
“how- how could you possibly know that?” he was shocked. there had to be many pregnant faes who loved lemon tarts!
“i’ve never met someone so passionate about lemon tarts quite like our high lady.” you began pulling various lemon tarts into a bag, nodding towards his left, “she made me that painting right there.”
azriel turned to see a painting of a field of lemon trees under the night sky. it looked exactly like the work he had seen in feyre’s studio a few weeks before. “i didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“she says this place inspires her. sometimes she brings her sketchbooks and drinks tea in here for hours.”
“really?”
“oh yeah! honestly, i think she does it to try and get more people in here. i was kind of dying before she started coming around.”
“really? but it's so… peaceful here.” azriel couldn’t imagine people not wanting to be in this bakery. he wanted to be in here all the time (mostly just to see you smile but regardless he wanted to be there).
“it’s not very night courtly is it though? i mean that’s fine! but i can see why some might be hesitant to stop by. for you?”
azriel realized you had probably been waiting for him to add to the order, but he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than to see you smile again, “what’s your favorite?”
“my favorite?”
“yeah. i’ll take whatever you like the most.”
your eyes light up, “cake or pastry?”
“pastry now, cake next time.” azriel couldn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth.
“lemon danish?”
“is it your favorite?”
“today it is.”
“it changes?”
“every day.”
“well then, i guess i might need to come back and see what else is good?”
you handed him the bag of lemon-flavored treats, “you should.” azriel reached in his pocket to pay you but you stopped him before he could, grabbing his hand and moving it away from his pocket and towards his chest, “it's on the house.”
“what? no. i should-”
“any friend of feyre’s is a friend of mine. you can pay next time.” before azriel could argue any more, you had already walked back into the kitchen leaving him alone at the counter. still he dropped a rather large bill in your tip jar, determined to pay.
---------
he walked back to the house of wind with a smile on his face, only for it to be replaced by a scowl when he saw cassian and nesta lounging on the couches with the rest of the inner circle.
“you’re late, brother.”
“cas if you don’t shut it i’ll rip your wings off.”
cassian visibly flinched at the threat, but still looked toward the bag of goodies, “whatcha get for me?”
“nothing,” azriel slapped his hand away, “you’re not pregnant are you?”
“i could be if you loved me more.”
the group erupted into laughter as he handed the bag to the high lady, “for you, sister.”
she began digging through the bag, “thanks, az! i can’t tell you how much i’ve been craving these.”
“it’s all she asks for.” sighed rhys, voice tired from his mate’s antics and new love of lemon tarts.
“oh, what's this?” feyre lifted a pastry into the air.
“mine. sorry, i forgot to take it out.”
“is that a lemon danish?” mor exclaimed, entirely perplexed as to why the shadowsinger knowingly purchased a treat, let alone a lemon-flavored one.
nesta scowled, “why are you freaking out over a lemon danish?”
“because azriel hates lemons?”
“you hate lemons?” asked, feyre.
“he’s hated lemons for as long as i can remember!” cassian jumped up, “cute cashier or something?”
“i like lemons!” argued azriel.
cassian just gave him a look, “then take a bite.”
“fine!” the shadowsinger argued, before sinking his teeth into the treat, immediately regretting the decision. It was entirely too sweet, too sour, and just not at all something he liked. His face twisted, clearly not enjoying the dessert, while his brothers cackled at his misfortune. “i hate you both.”
#Azriel#azriel shadowsinger#azriel x reader#azriel imagine#azriel fluff#azriel acotar#acotar imagine#nessian#Feysand
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some of my eddie munson headcanons
1. loves liquorice.
i know a lot of you guys probably HATE liquorice, but something about him screams ‘i am a liquorice lover and proud of it!!’. and he doesn’t like the strawberry kind.
2. races to press the button in the elevator
“MOVE OUT OF THE WAY, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” “EDDIE, IT’S MY TURN!”
3. was rlly short before he hit puberty
eddie has obviously been subjected to a hell of a lot of bullying over the years, and just to add to that pile of angst, we have the idea of short eddie. gareth went through the same thing, except he didn’t grow as much. “how’s the weather down there, munson?” “fuck off, tommy.”
4. he’s either really hot or really cold
he’s wearing 3 layers half the time, and as little clothing as he can the other half. freezes during winter and sweats his ass off during the summer.
5. gets sensitive teeth
this is because he’s made himself eat a basket worth of lemons just to brag about it later on multiple occasions
6. enjoys watching b movies
those shitty low budget films? oh, yeah. eddie loves them. for one reason; he cackles the whole time over how crap they are. a great pick-me-up.
7. chews on things when he spaces out
the inside of his cheek, his lip, a pencil, and you can’t forget that one time he chewed on a pen for so long that all the ink spilled into his mouth and he was gagging in the middle of class
8. had a major crush on princess daphne from dragon’s lair
definitely fought over her with his friends. he was incredibly jealous of dirk the daring.
9. doesn’t like trying new foods
he’s attached to foods from when he was a kid (macaroni and cheese, cereal, mini pizzas, grilled cheese, and dishes from his mum) and refuses to branch out - unless you ask him to
10. swears he only listens to metal, but doesn’t
he wants to keep his ‘scary ‘music’ reputation, but it’s hard to do that when robin finds eddie’s abba and wham! tapes tucked away in his room
“i thought you were a, and i quote, ‘strictly metal-only’ guy, but i guess you were just a big pop fan this whole time” “quit it, robin”
he also doesn’t mind the country music wayne forced onto him when he was younger
11. twirls the phone cord around his finger
when he’s talking to you over the phone, you swear you can picture him clear as day; big sly grin plastered on his face, and his ringed finger wiring around the phone cord connected to the wall
12. graffitis
but only in the school bathroom cubicles and the hideout bathroom cubicles. occasionally you’ll go to one of his gigs, and then you’ll go to the toilet and there’ll be little drawings on the wall. a guitar, eddie the head, and the occasional shameless penis
13. used to ride bikes everywhere
USED to because he fell over while riding it when he was 9 and scraped his knee and declared he would never ride a bicycle again (thought that declaration broke in 1986)
14. loves roller coasters
specifically ones that take pictures of you - he loves to act all calm and collected while everyone else is screaming their heads off
“eddie, this is a terrible photo” “no, it’s a terrible photo of YOU. you look like you’ve shit yourself, and i look cool as ice”
15. thought babies hatched out of eggs
safe to say that when he learnt how babies are REALLY made, he was flabbergasted and very, very grossed out
#eddie munson#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson angst#eddie smut#stranger things headcanons#eddie headcanons#eddie munson headcanons#headcanon
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YOUR DISCORD MOD SCARA...I am thinking about him so hard. I've never even considered becoming someone's discord kitten before but I'd do it for him (even if he's terrible). SO... could I get a layered cake and sweet lollipops (him and his kitten not long post-abduction) from the miscellaneous menu, along with lemon squares and sea salt caramels from the midnight menu, all with my babygirl discord mod scara?
yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader
cw: yandere, modern au, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, drugging, obsession, loss of virginity, alcohol/intoxication, force-feeding, brief use & threat of knife, coercion, scaramouche calls you kitten a few times, implied stockholm syndrome
note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order!
[lunar love hotel]
There’s a warm meal waiting for you on the foldable table, its delectable aroma enticing you to eat despite your apprehensions. You lift your head from where it once rested on your knees, staring at it from where you remain huddled in the corner on a certain someone’s bed. A metal cuff clings to your ankle, and from it a chain extends to connect to one of the metal bed frame poles, only going far enough to let you walk into the adjacent bathroom. You’ve tried to squeeze your foot out, but doing so has only succeeded in chafing and tearing your skin; and so now you sit against the wall and sulk in defeat.
Scaramouche—at least that’s his Teyvatcord alias; he’s yet to tell you his real name—plops down in his gaming chair, running his hand through his hair and exhaling a slow, measured breath. His kitchen apron matches the color scheme in his room, making him seem like a chameleon in a space composed of reds and violets. His three monitors are alight behind him, framing his face in a halo of light. One of them is open to Teyvatcord, displaying the chat log of a server you were once part of—and still are if you haven’t yet been kicked for prolonged inactivity. You think it’s been a few weeks since your kidnapping, but at this point time doesn’t serve any purpose here. It’s all the same within this room, blending together like pastel watercolors on canvas.
“I didn’t know you could cook. You’ve only ever served me the bare minimum, so this is new. Feels fancy.”
“Shocker, right? Be grateful I’ve gone to the trouble.” You peer at the meal that sits before you, brows furrowed. Scaramouche rolls his eyes, scoffing noisily. “Don’t tell me you actually thought I eat all that gross instant shit.”
You shrug. “Dunno. It suits you. Shitty diet for a shitty person.”
“You…” His eye twitches and his hands curl into fists. “Whatever. Either eat or starve.” He swivels around in his chair with a huff. “Not like I care either way.”
But you do, you think, looking back towards the food, steam rising in wispy curls. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have spent so much money on me. You wouldn’t have told me to go to sleep early, to eat three meals every day, to drink enough water, to continue living.
“This isn’t going to kill me if I eat it, right?”
“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”
“Oh, so you draw the line there?”
Scaramouche whirls to face you, his pierced features twisted in a nasty scowl. Your eyes are drawn to the snake bite piercing on his bottom lip, and for a minute it stuns you that such a pretty face could be so vile both online and offline. Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t talk at all. Maybe then you could appreciate him from afar, never having to confront all of the bitter hatred he seems to harbor.
“You’re even more unbearable in person. I can’t believe I let someone like you kick my ass one-hundred-something times during every game we’ve ever played.”
“One-hundred and sixty-eight to be exact,” you correct, scooting closer towards the tray to inspect the rice dish one final time. “Someone had to humble you. For a mod, you’re awfully full of yourself. They don’t pay you to collect kittens and police VCs, you know.”
“Well, they should.”
You fail to contain your laughter. “That was…actually kind of funny.”
A thought flutters into your head: I’m losing my mind. Since when was he ever funny?
His stare is fixated on you when you gather a bite on your spoon and bring it to your lips. As criminal as he is, he’s been surprisingly tame in the time following your captivity. You suppose you just haven’t seen the worst of him yet and that these civil moments are merely the result of his desire to connect with you. Before you found yourself on the sixth floor, tucked away in his apartment, you spent most weekends talking to him through games. You’d chat about your character builds, swap tips on strategies for certain FPS games, spend hours constructing towns in creative open-world games, and even laugh about the placements in the tier lists you’d compile.
You could call what the two of you had a competitive companionship (or if you wanted to get technical: a Teyvatcord mod who was spoiling his kitten outside of the competitions), where both of you were constantly trying to best the other. If it was a matter of money, Scaramouche always had you beat; he’d emptied plenty of that into his favorite games to amass a vast collection of rare gear and resources so that he could claw his way to the top of the weekly leaderboards.
If anything, you admired his determination. Beyond games, you only knew that he lived alone and had a few piercings and liked to wear chains and rings. He’d talked about it before when the both of you had strayed from gaming and had discussed fashion styles and aesthetics late into the night. He appeared normal beyond the bratty attitude he often displayed during rematches. You even found yourself wanting to know more when he’d divulge little facts about himself on occasion.
But now that you’re sitting in front of him, entirely against your will, you realize this relationship should have remained in Teyvatcord.
Underneath your artfully crafted bravado and sarcasm, you’re absolutely horrified that he had found your address so easily and had been able to pull off such a clean kidnapping. He’d pulled you into the darkness of his car while you were on your way home, pressing a knife to your throat and insisting you stay perfectly quiet otherwise your neck would be mired in red. At the time you were too overwhelmed with raw panic to even consider the familiar intonation of the man who had so suddenly stolen you from your peaceful life. But it became clear when he’d forced you into his apartment after a long drive, and you’d finally gotten a look at him in the light when he shed his disguise.
An introduction wasn’t necessary; you recognized him, and he seemed to know everything about you.
Now it’s almost humorous to consider that a Teyvatcord mod actually went outside, touched grass, and collected a captive all in one night. And you never suspected a thing, completely oblivious to his mounting obsession. Although how could you have ever noticed it when he was so intent on masking infatuation with hatred?
You wonder if things would have transpired differently if you hadn’t been living within the same city. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been tempted to take you away from your life and confine you to a single room where the sun never breaks through the curtains and you’re constantly bathed in the sensual hues from the LED lights that border the room. Maybe he would have lost interest and you could have continued your one-sided rivalry without any unhealthy attachments.
Those what-ifs don’t quite matter anymore, though, do they?
Flavor explodes on your tongue when you sample his cooking, and you hastily gather a second bite and then a third. Scaramouche watches from his chair, looking quite satisfied with your submission. Foregoing etiquette altogether, you eat as if this is the last meal you’ll ever have the pleasure of enjoying, so fulfilled by the fluffy rice and bitter tea that tears gather in your eyes. You stop halfway to wipe at your glassy eyes, sniffling pitifully.
You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.
“It’s okay,” you mutter around another mouthful. “Better than convenience store snacks.”
Scaramouche chuckles. “For something that was just ‘okay,’ you had no problem getting your tears in the bowl.”
You bark out a laugh, but it comes out strained and sad. “Lay off, will you? I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in forever. It was a little nostalgic, even if it’s coming from you.”
Scaramouche stares at you, his cheeks tinged the softest shade of pink, before he turns in his chair. “Whatever. Don’t get used to it.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
You set the now empty bowl back on the tray and retreat to your corner, observing Scaramouche as he clicks through various tabs before he returns to Teyvatcord. His fingers, adorned with sterling silver rings, fly across the keyboard to respond to some user you can’t quite see from where you sit. Noisy click-clacks fill the air, and it’s a sound that pulls you closer towards sleep. By the time Scaramouche has swapped to his second monitor to play a game—the very game that got you into this nightmare to begin with—you’re already falling into the void of unconsciousness, tugged under by drowsy tendrils.
It’s the soft thump that alerts Scaramouche, who turns slowly in his chair to see you slumped over on his bed. He rises to his feet, crossing the distance to gather the bowl and accompanying utensils. Before he departs from his bedroom, he leans over to press a lingering kiss to your cheek.
“Dummy,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. “Never eating proper meals… Honestly, what would you do without me?”
Though he told you not to get accustomed to homemade meals, Scaramouche has presented you with breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day, all prepared by his generous hand. It’s a luxury to be served food that has been assembled out of some form of crooked love—Scaramouche claims he’s only keeping you well-fed so you won’t die and rot away on his bed; the smell would be horrendous, so he claims. There’s one meal that always manages to put you to sleep. Whether it’s just the result of a satisfied stomach or your own frazzled nerves in desperate need of sleep, you always slip away shortly after finishing it. As childish as it sounds, you often wonder if he’s put a spell on it.
Or maybe you’re just always hungry, craving his cooking because he’s the only one capable of feeding you when you’re stuck in chains. And luckily for you he’s memorized all of your gastronomic preferences.
You’re not sure if you’ve surpassed a month’s time, but when you wake up one morning to Scaramouche slamming his cat ear headphones down on his desk, which is followed by a foul tirade of grumbled curses, you feel as if it’s already been a year spent in his room. To think that you’re starting to find it normal, as if waking up to him is to be expected in this situation.
You must be losing your mind.
“Rough match?”
Okay, you’re really losing your mind if you can be so casual with your kidnapper.
Scaramouche deflates in his seat, groaning at the ceiling. “More like a rough team. None of these idiots know how to play! I’d have better luck digging through the dirt and assembling a team of worms than continuing to rely on these guys.”
“Then just leave and join a new lobby.”
“‘Just leave and join a new lobby,’” he mocks in a high voice. “I can’t. These teams are locked in for the upcoming tournament. I’m stuck playing with a bunch of losers.”
I’m more stuck than you, you almost blurt, but you hold your tongue.
“Like?”
“Like Tartaglia, Dottore, Signora… They suck. I hate them. And they expect me to tolerate them for a bunch of rounds? That’s not even a good joke. We’ll just look like fools trying to force teamwork.”
You peer at his monitor. He’s muted himself, so they have no idea of the complaints he’s launching at you as if you’re a suitable outlet.
“Sounds tough.”
“Believe me, it is.”
“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”
“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”
“Never said that.”
“You’re implying it.”
“Oh my—” You flop back onto his bed with a groan. “It’s not that serious!”
“It is when it’s a competition. You think I want to look stupid in front of the other teams? We’re up against some lame group that calls themselves the Knights of Favonius. I am not about to lose to them.”
“And what’s your group called?”
“The Harbingers.”
“You honestly think that sounds any better?”
He turns in his chair to glare at you. Before he can retort, he’s fit his headphones back over his ears and unmuted himself to address the VC. “Can you stop spamming the chat for five seconds, Tartaglia? Damn!” There’s a brief silence and then he adds, in a low hiss, “I’m not running away! I muted for one minute! Come off it, Signora.”
Absorbed in the conversation, which sounds more like an argument that’s quickly boiling over, Scaramouche exhales slowly and resolves to try again through grit teeth. You can’t hear his teammates, but you think they all reach a mutual agreement because within the next few seconds you’re watching another practice match on his monitor. Your gaze slides away from him and centers on the posters and tapestries that adorn his walls. Some days, if you ignore the metal cuff on your ankle, you forget you’re a prisoner and he’s your warden. Some days, if you really force optimism, you picture him as a friend and a roommate.
Most days you wonder if you’ll ever get outside. You miss the sun and the wind, lively aspects of nature that are nonexistent in this stifling cave of a bedroom. And, as odd as it may seem, you miss your old life, struggles and all. You miss ranting to your friends about finances or an empty refrigerator. You miss staying up late into the night playing games, laughing about casual enjoyments, and indulging in a freedom you took for granted. When you were struggling, you could be comforted knowing that there would be better days, even if those days only consisted of small joys—like feeding a stray cat or feeling the sun’s rays smile upon you with bright warmth. Now you live your days in a loop, waking and eating and sleeping, and this sort of cyclical madness is more entrapping than Scaramouche’s infatuation with you.
Although perhaps it isn’t right to call it an infatuation when it feels so far from one. Aside from meal times, he hardly acknowledges you during the day, too swept up in a game to pay you any attention, and when he does speak to you you’ve already submitted to your dreams. He never touches you (at least not when you’re awake). In fact, he treats you more like an annoying pest rather than the person he supposedly loved enough to kidnap. Perhaps, instead of an infatuation, it is an obsession driven by greed and the twisted desire to control every inch of you, down to the very foods you ingest.
You know one thing is certain: He is the kidnapper and you are the kidnapped.
You’ve sorted through all possible means of rebellion. You’d refused to eat anything the first week, which was why he chose to feed you cheap convenience store snacks out of pettiness, and by the end of the second week you were beyond starved. You’ve thought about destroying his monitors out of spiteful anger, but that wouldn’t accomplish much aside from satiating your hunger for revenge. You would remain shackled no matter how many things you trashed, which makes destruction a useless venture. All you can really do is feign friendship, if only to keep your current predicament peaceful.
But lately you’ve wondered if there are other ways to get Scaramouche to trust you. It’s obvious he still has some level of distrust for you, evidenced by the terrible cuff attached to your ankle and the fact that he never leaves you alone in his room for more than five minutes. Perhaps there’s an easier way to shatter his defenses.
After all, the reason you’re here is because he likes you so much. And if it really is a hidden infatuation, you plan to poke at it until it’s no longer his little secret veiled within manufactured hatred.
Scaramouche is scolding Tartaglia for his “stupid, shitty aim” when you slither off of his bed, standing behind him with an expression so pensive it’s as if you’re considering life or death. Although perhaps this idea of yours really is akin to that.
Briefly, while eyeing the headphones that rest on top of a head of midnight-hued hair, you wonder if you’d have the confidence to attack him while he’s distracted. Your arms reach out, readying to tear his headphones off and coil around his neck in a chokehold, but then it occurs to you that if you really do hurt him no one will be around to feed you. You’ll shrivel in his room, alone, cuffed, and cold.
You decide, with mounting unease, that your original plan is much better (and safer) than murder. And so you lower your hands with a muted sigh. Even if he’s the worst person you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting—even if he’s taken you from your life and forced you into his—you still couldn’t bring yourself to fatally injure him.
But you can bring yourself to your knees, swallowing shame in order to survive.
If Scaramouche realizes you’ve slipped under his desk, he doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, his eyes tracking his screen as he shouts into his mic for Dottore to cover him. You peer up at him from where you sit, studying his facial features as they morph into various expressions, all centered on frustration, impatience, and the occasional glare-frown. It’s your hand on his thigh that momentarily strays his focus, his eyes flitting down to you for a mere second, glazing over with an emotion you can’t quite place. Your lips quirk up in the beginnings of a sly smile, and he huffs, nudges your side with his foot, and returns to shouting orders at his teammates.
Slowly, as if moving with weights attached to your wrist, you reach out to palm his flaccid cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. Scaramouche nearly flinches out of his chair, his head snapping down to look at you.
“W-What the hell are you—” He’s silenced when you squeeze just slightly, gazing up at him through your lashes. “N-Nothing. Just…talking to my cat. Shut up and focus on the match, losers,” he grumbles, not to you but to his teammates.
You intend to draw away, thoroughly pleased after having gauged such an amusing reaction, but his fingers pursue your wrist, pinning your hand in place. He’s not looking at you, but his cheeks are warming considerably.
“I’ll kill you if we lose,” he mutters, and this time you know the threat is meant for you.
But, as you’ve come to learn, this is his own version of acceptance, however frigid it may have sounded. Scaramouche likes a good competition; that much is apparent from how engrossed he becomes when playing any type of game. Most importantly, you think he just enjoys the prideful satisfaction that comes with being labeled a winner. If you look at it from a gaming perspective, this is just another challenge—another rematch the both of you have agreed upon in order to determine who’s the best.
And, like always, you’re certain victory will be yours.
His hand slides away from yours, returning to its rightful place on his desktop, and it gives you the opportunity to continue your teasing touches. His stare hardens into something deadly when he attempts to retain his focus, his fingers mashing the keys in a loud cacophony of clacks, but within just a few minutes of experimental squeezes his cock is straining against his pants. You admire the outline for a brief moment, considering an approximation of his size just from the bulge alone. He’s definitely larger than any of the beginner dildos you’ve browsed online out of sheer boredom and curiosity, and the idea that you’re about to willingly subject yourself to this is enough to cow you into premature defeat.
I won’t make any progress if he doesn’t trust me, you tell yourself, steeling your electrified nerves and reaching out to slide the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down to free his cock. It springs out, pre-cum beading at the tip, and your eyes follow the curvature. For such an aggressively high-strung moderator, he’s surprisingly well-groomed. You wonder if he’s always lived a life so nicely assembled. Perhaps you’ve misjudged him entirely and he’s never been the stereotypical gross, smelly, hermit of a Teyvatcord mod everyone likes to think he is. Maybe it’s just his personality that’s so foul.
You were confident before, but then he’s passing you a bottle of lube and now what little courage you could muster is beginning to ebb away, squeezed out of you much like the dollop of lubricant pushed from the tube. Your eyes flick to his. He holds your gaze for a minute before a sly smirk crawls across his face.
Hope you like swallowing, he mouths, indigo irises flashing with arousal, because if you get a single drop on the floor I’ll end you.
Arrogant brat, you mouth back.
You roll your eyes and wrap your slick fingers around the length of his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, chewing his bottom lip bloody to muffle any suspicious sounds that are eager to slip out. You’ve only ever viewed handjobs in erotic films, and you’ve never given one to another person before. So you slide your fist up and down, mirroring the movements from memory, in hopes that the experimental pace you’ve set isn’t too awkwardly inexperienced. Scaramouche seems to pay it no mind, for his shoulders shudder with every exhalation, and he’s bent forwards, his elbows resting on his desk.
There’s no way he’s this easy, but that thought quickly evaporates when you squeeze just a little tighter, and he whines through grit teeth. Your eyes snap up to find his foggy hues, which are clouded with lust and peering right through you rather than at you, and it becomes abundantly clear that perhaps he truly is simple to seduce. Or, at the very least, it’s only easy because he’s stressed and needs release; or maybe it’s because this is the first time you’re touching him of your own volition, stringing him along with every graceful pump of your hand.
I’ll never understand him, you think, halting your movements once he’s been brought to the very edge, his cock flushed pink and leaking.
The vicious, disapproving scowl he sends you is such a sight to behold! When you’re viewing him from below, it’s almost as if he’s a vindictive deity sitting pretty and untouchable on his throne and you’re the mere mortal granted permission to kneel before him, an amusing comparison considering he has, in a way, proven to be your saving grace on many occasions. Even riddled with impatience, he’s pleasant on the eyes. If only the same could be said for when he opens his mouth.
“Did I give you permission to stop?” he hisses, humping into your hand to force friction.
Your gaze strays to the cat ears on his headphones; you wonder if his teammates can pick up either of your hushed whispers. “What happened to your oh-so-important practice match?”
He narrows his eyes at you and reaches to seize your chin in a vise-like hold, forcing you in close proximity with his cock. “You can do much better things than sit there and run your mouth, so finish what you started.”
“Anything for His Royal Highness,” you mutter and close your mouth around his tip.
Scaramouche inhales sharply, his fingers ghosting over your head as if he intends to grip your hair and force you to take more of his size, but then you hear obnoxious keyboard clacks. He’s back to berating his teammates, albeit in a louder, higher voice than before, leaving you to your own pace. You pull away, tasting flavorless lubricant and pre-cum all at once, and lick a stripe up the underside, which has him humming through a clenched jaw. With your confidence restored, you lean in once more and, fingers wrapping around his length, slowly fit him in your mouth, only stopping at where your hand rests halfway.
Despite your initial unease, you manage to settle into the rhythm as naturally as you possibly can, bobbing your head back and forth in slow, even motions. Your other hand slithers up his leg, fingers creeping like spiders, and rests between his legs to fondle his balls, squeezing ever so slightly while your mouth works him towards the edge of ecstasy. It prompts a guttural groan from him, and your lips twitch around him, as if attempting to rise in an amused smile. He’s falling apart in his chair, shivering through every salacious sigh and curse, all produced in barely restrained hisses. He mutters something to his teammates, but the words hardly reach your ears when you’re so hyper-focused on pleasing him.
You continue your careful ministrations, hollowing your cheeks in the same manner you’ve witnessed actors in films do, and at some point you’ve shut your eyes and have resigned yourself to the moment, relishing in every lewd sound. His reactions bolster your pride, feeding it as though it’s a ravenous monster, and you muster enough bravery, courtesy of your inflated ego, to peek at him through lidded eyes.
Scaramouche is peering down at you once more, but this time his headphones are off and he seems to have ceased playing altogether. You attempt to pull off of him to ask, but his hand rests atop your head, mapping lazy patterns in your scalp in a way that’s almost reminiscent of petting, and that’s enough of a response for you.
“I thought you’d be terrible at this, but it looks like you’re good at something after all,” he remarks with a mean smirk. “Or maybe...” He moans lowly. “Maybe you’ve had practice.”
Or maybe your standards are low because no one’s ever touched your dick before, you think, closing your hand in a tight fist just to draw another pathetically desperate whimper from him.
His fingers curl into your hair and he tugs you up to meet his haughty countenance. The head of his cock prods impatiently at the inside of your cheek and you narrow your eyes at him, drool running down your chin. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, running over the piercings that reside there like twinkling stars. With a breathy chuckle, his other hand traces the bulge in your cheek and his lips only seem to widen with exhilaration. There’s a near-manic glint in his eyes now—an unhinged sort of sparkle that could only shine so brightly in the midst of pleasure. He’s a frightening sight, but then of course he’d be when he had so callously held you at knifepoint all those weeks—or has it been months?—ago.
Now it makes sense—all of the mean jeers and insults. Scaramouche likes to see just how small he can make others when they’re caught in his shadow like vulnerable butterflies in a spider’s wicked web. And aren’t you just the most unlucky butterfly?
“This is a—haah—a good look for you.”
You’d bite him if you were feeling particularly masochistic, but there’s no telling what he would do in retaliation. So instead you continue your pace, idly stroking him in time with the movements of your hollowed mouth, holding eye contact for the entirety of it. He keeps his hands on you the entire time, locking you in place between his legs, and your warm, wet mouth and tongue send delectable bolts of pleasure racing through him. It causes more delicious sounds to spill in plentiful amounts from his parted lips, enticing you to work more vigorously. He gasps through backhanded praises, each one meant to chisel you into something weak and self-conscious, but all it does is prove your previous observations.
“Hey.” His knuckle is on your cheek again, and you blink tears away to look at him more clearly. “You haven’t done this with anyone else before, have you?”
You know it’s a trick question. No matter what answer you give, it’s going to prompt a visceral reaction either way. Rather than a clear, concise response—not that you could possibly give one when he’s stuffing your mouth full—you hum lowly, and the vibration has him twitching on your tongue.
Scaramouche scoffs and attempts a glower, but it crumbles when he arches in his chair. “What… Whatever,” he manages through grit teeth, swallowing yet another sweet love cry. “Consider yourself lucky I’m here, otherwise—hah… Otherwise you’d have no one to practice your lousy, little technique on.”
This time, you’re afforded the chance to detach yourself and your mouth comes off of him with a wet smack, strands of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock. He peers at you, studying your face for a moment, and if it weren’t for the dim lighting in his room you’re certain his blush would be brighter than the sun.
“You seem to enjoy my lousy, little technique,” you purr, leaning in to press your puckered lips to his tip. Your hand slows its once quick pace, and you watch miserable frustration stretch across his features. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, I’ll just stop and—”
But the rest of that sentence is shoved down your throat when he catches your head in resolute hands and forces you to take all of him in a rough thrust. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, and you choke on it with a gagging cough. Your hands grasp his wrists in an attempt to steady yourself, but he pays it no mind as he continues to pound into your mouth, a string of filth falling from his parted lips like torrential rain. Tears prick your eyes, obscuring your vision and blurring reds and purples into a haze.
It only takes a minute, but it feels like many when he eventually halts his erratic pace, his cock lodged in your mouth, and shoots his load down your throat. You have no choice but to force yourself to swallow, your eyes squeezed shut as you choke through the deed. Scaramouche laughs at you, a short, sudden sort of sound that’s more grating than nails on a chalkboard. And only after he’s shuddered through the aftermath of his ecstasy, heaving soft breaths as he settles from his orgasmic high, does he finally release you.
You pull away with the residue of his spend sitting heavy on your tastebuds, sticky and bitter, and you’re only allowed a moment to catch your breath before he’s gripping your face with one strong hand, the cool metals of his rings digging into your cheeks. You stare at his sickly sweet smile and narrowed eyes, two indigo pools reflecting haughty victory, and your heart sinks with his next words.
“Oh, and nice try.” His finger flicks your forehead, and a taunting smile darkens his features. “But I’m not taking the chains off, kitten.”
It was worth a try, you think, swallowing a scoff and resolving to try again next time. You are nothing if not stubbornly resilient.
It’s a dangerous game, waiting and watching, hoping for a moment in which you can execute your plan. When Scaramouche isn’t glued to his monitors, when he isn’t feeding you meals that immediately send you to sleep, and when you aren’t on your knees satisfying him in the most carnal of ways, you’re wrapped in your thoughts like a mummy perfectly preserved. For a while you weren’t sure if it was worth the risk, nor were you sure if he could even come to trust you, if only slightly, but by some miracle you’ve sacrificed so much time tending to him and it has paid off handsomely.
Though the cuff remains, he’s grown to exercise some leniency, allowing you to sit on his lap while he browses online, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder. Sometimes the two of you watch a movie; other times you play a game, gambling your dignity in exchange for a chance at victory. Lately Scaramouche has been on a winning streak—though you’re certain he’s just cheating, even if he claims it’s pure skill—and more than once have you found yourself at his mercy, submitting to wandering hands and lips, dutifully playing the role of his obedient prize. He always gloats, flashing his teeth at you in a cruel taunt, and you have no choice but to accept it. Everything you do is for the sake of survival; you’ve reminded yourself of this fact when you wrap your arms around him at night, pressing yourself against him and slowly slipping into sleep just as he cautiously returns your embrace.
You usually fall unconscious after you’ve had lunch, condemned to sudden sleepy spells that are beginning to seem more drug-induced than natural, and this unfortunate happening leaves you completely gone for many hours into the afternoon and early evening. You’ve narrowed your options down after observing Scaramouche for so long, committing his cyclical ways to memory. Either you force yourself to wake at the crack of dawn and hope he isn’t still gaming, or you wait until he’s left the room to prepare your lunch. You’ve deliberated over both, almost acting on one when the opportunity presents itself, but you’re always stopped by the uncertainty. Will this work? Will you be fast enough?
And if you aren’t successful, what will happen to you? Will he truly kill you like he claimed he would all those months ago when you first started living with him? You suppose there’s only one way to find out.
There’s a specific person you have in mind while you lie curled and comfortable in Scaramouche’s bed, feigning sleep to ward off the jittery sensation in your nerves. If he still exists within the server—and you’re hoping he does because your escape plan hinges on his presence within it—he will be your ticket to freedom.
You almost flinch out of your skin when Scaramouche’s hand rests atop your head, stroking your skull so fondly. “I’ll wake you up for lunch,” he whispers to you, pressing his lips to your cheek. And then his hand is drawing away, and your pulse settles once more. You can feel his eyes pinned on you, and you picture him standing at the bedside, casting a terrifying shadow over your slumbering form.
“It’s too quiet when you sleep so many hours,” he mutters, and you strain to hear the rest of his complaint. You think he might be in the doorway because you can’t sense him near you anymore, and his voice is distant and soft, a strange contrast to the harshness in his usual intonation. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re here.”
He says something else that doesn’t quite reach your ears, and you listen to his footsteps as he retreats to the hall and then the kitchen. You wait until you hear movement before slowly sitting up. Even though you’re alone and he’s a good distance from you, you fear he might hear your quick heartbeat. It pounds inside your rib cage, on and on like the loudest war drum, and you clutch at your chest with trembling hands.
Without wasting another second, you slide off of the bed as carefully as possible, mindful of the noisy chain at your feet, and creep over to his desk. All of his monitors are on, each luminescent screen displaying something highly contrasting from the previous one. The screen on your left showcases an online shopping site (the page he’s currently on is new microphones, each more high-quality and expensive than the last). The screen on your right blinks back at you, and you spy a photo album of pictures screencapped from every social media connected to you.
You’re not surprised, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t disgusted. Gross, you think, biting back a shiver. If he touched me with the same hand he used to—
But then your attention is stolen by the middle monitor and before you know it your fingers are gingerly tapping out keys one at a time, so agonizingly slow that you think your rapid pulse might give you away before the clacks do.
Alatus, you’re thinking, eyes skimming the member list. Alatus. Come on, Alatus. Where are you?
Miraculously, you spot his profile picture before his name—a cute, mint-colored bird with fluffy plumage and narrowed eyes. For such an adorable image, the one behind it is so silent and intimidating. You wonder how you even managed to befriend him when he’d been so terse in the early stages of your online friendship, but you’re glad to have this connection.
Relief floods through your system when you notice the tell-tale green circle near his profile. He’s online! And with that, you pull up a private chat and begin to write to him, your heart skipping a beat with every word added to your desperate SOS message.
this is gonna sound crazy but this is (name) from server need u to help me out ive been kidnapped by scaramouche call the authorities or someone just let them know i’m missing please believe me
You don’t have time to proofread it, nor can you even consider adding anything else in your frenzied panic, and so you hasten to send it. Your finger just brushes the Enter key when two arms coil around your waist, yanking you away from the desk with so much force that the horrified gasp sticks in your throat. Before you can register the danger, you’re on the floor, the chain rattling with the movement, as if foretelling of the threat that’s about to descend upon you like the Grim Reaper coming to capture a wayward soul, and Scaramouche stands over you, a kitchen knife held in a trembling fist. There is a foul tempest raging within those ominous eyes of his, each dilated pupil darkened with thick, syrupy betrayal.
You attempt to sit up on your elbows, readying yourself to reason with him before he can slice your throat to ribbons, but then he’s pointing the knife directly at you, his face contorted into a glower so monstrous it has you flinching away.
“You’re a special kind of stupid,” he snaps, and you press yourself into the floor as if you intend to melt into it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I was so foolish that I wouldn’t suspect the motive behind your little game?”
You open your mouth to profess faux innocence, but the words won’t come. They’ve dried up on your tongue, leaving you to wallow in silence. You’ve never been so obviously, painfully guilty before, and the evidence of your disobedience is printed blindingly bright on a screen for his perusal. Scaramouche gazes at his monitor, cold, cruel eyes taking in every word. Ice crackles through your veins, crystallizing your blood, and for a brief second you consider what might happen if you seize the knife while he’s distracted. Perhaps it works in your head and your attempt to force him to his knees with the threat of death is successful. But realistically you know it wouldn’t be that easy and he certainly wouldn’t give you the chance to one-up him like this, especially not when so much is at stake.
For once, this has nothing to do with the childish concept of pride.
“Alatus, huh?” he muses with a monosyllabic hum. “Is that your friend? Well, it’s not like it matters. You don’t need friends.”
With a sunken heart, you watch as he deletes the message you mustered the courage to draft. Within seconds the faulty plan you’ve considered for months crumbles before your despairing stare.
“I hate you,” you whisper. Brimming tears are on the verge of overflowing and you will them away with quick blinks.
“Yeah? Not the first time someone’s told me that.” He turns to face you, and you follow the knife as it’s set delicately on his desktop. It’s an obvious trap, but even so your hand still tenses as if you intend to lunge for it. He bends down to where you remain on the floor, his elbows propped on his knees. “I should commend you for your bravery. Were you working yourself up to this? Were you counting down the days until the moment for rebellion arrived? I’m not sure I should even call it a rebellion. You’re not very smart. I mean, you had access to the internet! You had so many resources at your disposal and yet you chose to message some loser on Teyvatcord! Just how moronic can you possibly be?”
What irks you more than the degradation is the fact that, unfortunately, he’s right.
He clicks his tongue at you, laughter in his tone. “I would’ve been in trouble if you actually used a sliver of your puny brain. Lucky me, huh?” His fingers cling to your chin, pulling your face closer to his. “I have the cutest, stupidest kitten.”
You narrow your eyes at him and, gathering your mounting revulsion, spit at him. It spatters on his cheek and he seems to pause momentarily, a tense beat stretching taut between the both of you, before he releases you with a huff. The next thing you feel is the harsh sting of his slap as it comes down upon your cheek. It’s more so the shock that has your head turning in time with the impact rather than the dull ache, and you lift your hand to feel raw skin beneath burning fingertips. The tears are now falling in silent streaks.
It’s hopeless. You’re stuck here forever.
Scaramouche swipes his thumb along his cheek and scrutinizes the saliva coating his finger with a frown. “Not fond of ‘kitten,’ huh?”
“Of course not, you freak.”
“Ouch. That smarts.” Feigning offense, he dries his thumb on his kitchen apron. “A shame. ‘Kitten’ suits you. They’re soft and clumsy and weak. Just like you.”
He retrieves the knife and, after admiring the red-and-purple lights that reflect off the silver blade, offers you a smile so sweet it contrasts his sour threats.
“But as cute as you are on the ground, looking oh-so-terrified, it’s not going to save you from your punishment.”
You watch him carefully, awaiting a catastrophic change in temperament. Despite how cheerily nonchalant he appears, you’re certain there is anger swelling within. It’s clear in his eyes; his glee stems from sadism.
“Should I even ask what your idea of a punishment is?” you venture. You intend to sound bold with your inquiry, but your heart is still stuttering with the aftermath of your failure and it causes you to trip over your tongue. “L-Living with you is punishment enough…”
Scaramouche hums, unfazed. “If you were in my position, what punishment would be most fitting?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not answering that. You just want me to list the worst possible things.”
“Perhaps,” he drawls, tapping a fingernail along the blade. His gaze strays to his desk drawer and he opens it and withdraws something you can’t yet see. The jarring jangle of handcuffs alerts your keen ears, and your expression must have twisted into something akin to potent odium because he chuckles. “Wandering hands ought to be properly restrained, don’t you think?”
You hold his gaze for a long minute. “Why? What’re you going to do?” When he doesn’t reply, merely continuing to watch you with that deceptive smile of his, fear sizzles within your electrified nerves. He takes a step towards you and you scoot away instinctively. “Seriously, what is it? Don’t you dare put those cuffs on me.”
“And allow you to misbehave again? As if.” He stands over you, peering down at you with a mixture of disgust and distrust. His foot is pressing on your stomach before you can even think to grab at his ankles and force him to the floor. “In case you’ve forgotten, kitten, you’re mine from now on. So unless you’d like me to tear you a few extra holes with this knife, you’d better shut your mouth and let me put these cuffs on you.”
He seizes your forearm, yanking you up with surprising strength, and you squirm in his unyielding hold, kicking out uselessly. It does nothing to deter him, but it does spark a wrestling match between the both of you, in which you fight desperately to grab hold of the cuffs or the knife before either can find themselves on your person.
“Let go of me! You can’t put those on me!” You elbow him in his ribs and he responds by shoving you down onto his bed, slotting his knee between your legs. His fingers dig into your arms with a harshness that has you wincing.
“Should’ve thought twice before you decided to act like a brat!” he hisses, squeezing tightly.
The discomfort soon becomes the least of your worries when he pins your wrist to one of the metal bed frame posts, readying it for one of the cuffs.
“No! Let go of—”
The knife is at your throat next, promptly silencing your terrified protests, and you don’t dare open your mouth.
“Try again.”
It’s spoken like a demand or a particularly harsh dare, the ice in his voice a perfect match for his scary expression. For however long his eyes bore into yours, you return his ogling with the same amount of ferocity, challenging his overbearing aura despite the blade poised at your jugular. You’re not sure how sharp it is, but you aren’t intending to find out with misplaced disobedience.
Eventually, the first cuff clicks around your wrist, and you watch warily as the next cuff attaches to the bedpost. Your arm hangs limply from where it’s been restrained, and the other receives the same attention shortly after he’s retrieved the second handcuff pair. While he’s fumbling one-handed with it, the knife is held in place in his white-knuckled grip. The cool metal kisses feverish skin; you can already smell the river of iron that will drool from a precise slice. After it’s closed around your wrist and the bedpost like its predecessor, you yank arms to test the resistance. Your wrists have been secured tightly, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Rather, it’s the uncertainty that settles under your skin, lighting your senses with raw anxiety.
“Please don’t kill me,” you whisper, gazing at the handle of the knife. It’s close—too close.
You think he lives to torment. He must, otherwise there would be no plausible explanation for why he presses the sharpened edge deeper into your neck, applying just enough pressure to break skin.
“I’ll make one thing clear, so listen and listen well.” His voice drops a few octaves, a perilous murmur. “Don’t ever touch things that aren’t yours again.”
You think he says something else along the lines of, “And don’t ever think you’ve earned a shred of leniency just because we’ve been intimate,” but the words sound far-off and muffled like they’ve been processed through a jar of cotton or an unfathomable depth of sea. Registering them doesn’t seem so important, though, not when the sting in your throat worsens and a thin rivulet of something slick trails its way down your neck, staining your T-shirt—Scaramouche’s shirt (but you refuse to dwell on that distinction). And this time you don’t need any laced meals to slip away. This time it’s the stressful threat of near-death that puts you to sleep.
With the world having slithered away, narrowed down to a singular point devoid of terror, you fall into a familiar darkness.
At first you think you’ve woken enshrouded in muddy earth, buried alive in some forsaken place, but then the haze of LEDs is piercing through your eyelids and you know you’re not resting amongst soil. With an exhausted groan, you peel your eyes open, searching the room for a figure who is oddly absent. Intending to sit up, you’re stopped short when your wrists catch on the cuffs, the metal digging into sensitive skin, and there is a spreading stiffness in your outstretched arms that’s becoming more unbearable with every passing second.
Something soft and scratchy is wrapped snugly around your throat. A bandage, you think, and it brings forth the not-so-distant memory of the knife and the blood and the dazed look in Scaramouche’s stare. As if he was not entirely there when he was pushing, pushing, pushing the blade into your jugular
As if he intended to carefully saw through sinew as if cutting slices from a block of cheese.
Inhaling a steadying breath, you consider your options. Escape has become a daunting challenge—an impossibility if you’ve ever known one—and with the way you’re so tightly restrained you’re certain you won’t get close to freedom anytime soon. After all you’ve endured, you’re not sure you want to fly close to that sun again.
Is it even worth it? you catch yourself pondering. I’m under a roof. I’m fed. I’m washed. This isn’t any different from my usual routine, only I have a housemate now and I’m living here permanently. Right. He’s a housemate. A housemate. A housemate.
He’s not a housemate. He’s a horror wound into human anatomy—a perfect shell for what you assumed was a normal person. But does the distinction truly matter now? Kidnapper. Housemate. The latter sounds much nicer, but then the latter is also a lie sweeter than caramel and it’s easier to swallow a delusion than confront the looming truth.
You sigh, your gaze sliding towards the monitors. They’re off this time, three dark voids silenced in the corner in which they’re kept. You tug at your restraints even though you’re aware they won’t come off no matter how much you struggle. For however long it takes Scaramouche to return, you lie on your back, watching the ceiling and counting the tiny bulbs in the strand of LEDs. Finally, there’s movement beyond the room. He pushes the door open with his foot, carrying a tray of food and bringing with him all manner of kitchen scents.
“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” he teases, and you muster your meanest scowl. He laughs. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Scaramouche sets the tray on his desk, picks up the bowl of ochazuke, and gathers a bite between wooden chopsticks. “Don’t drag this out just to be a pain in the ass. Sit up and eat.”
Slowly, you manage to sit up, your wrists still confined. “I’m not eating unless you remove these cuffs.”
“Hm. Let me think about that.” Scaramouche drums his fingers along the ceramic bowl, considering. “Not a chance.”
“Looks like I’m going hungry.”
“You are so insufferable. You had no trouble eating yesterday.” He narrows his eyes. “Licked the bowl clean and everything.”
“That was before you decided to nearly kill me!”
“But I didn’t.”
“You say that as if you’re proud! Eat your own food. I don’t want it.”
“Alas, I made it just for you,” he says with a dramatic sort of flair that does not fit the smug pride that drapes itself over him like a linen shroud. “With love and everything.”
Your lip curls into a hostile sneer. “Let me think about that. Yeah, no. Not a chance.”
“You do realize you’ll starve if not for me.”
“I look forward to that.”
“You little—”
Scaramouche covers the distance with graceful strides. He sets the bowl on the bedside table and, much to your dismay, you can’t reach it with the position you’re stuck in, unable to swipe or kick at it. After pulling his gaming chair up to the bed, he lowers into it and takes the bowl in his hands, chopsticks poised. You turn your head away when he tries to feed you and the bite he’s gathered misses its mark, poking your cheek instead. Grains of sticky rice adhere to your skin like glitter. Despite your obvious refusal, Scaramouche persists, pushing another bite of ochazuke at your lips. He’s calm for all of three seconds before the thread of restraint snaps and he grabs your chin, yanking your head in his direction.
“If you don’t want me to shove these chopsticks so far down your throat, then stop being difficult and open your mouth.”
Still, your lips remain sealed and he huffs indignantly, digging his nails into your skin in hopes of eliciting a reaction. You swallow the wince and frown instead. The next bite prods against your lips and you narrow your eyes, silently daring him to try again. And he does, his fingers tracing along your jaw to find your cheek. He pinches—ruthlessly, unforgivingly rough—and you open your mouth to snap at him. Knock it off, you intend to say, but the words never leave your mouth because the next thing you know you’re tasting a mouthful of fluffy rice flavored with bitter tea, strips of nori, and salmon flakes.
You almost spit it out, but you’re already chewing, relieved to taste gastronomical goodness. Scaramouche smirks at you, his thumb rubbing circles against your cheek.
“I win.”
“Whatever,” you mutter, turning away, mouth ajar for another bite.
He feeds you with a hum. “That wasn't so hard, was it? It’s almost as if acting like an annoying baby made this entire thing more unbearable than it should be.”
You scoff around a mouthful. “You’re the unbearable one.”
“And yet here we are.”
You don’t protest at that. What else can possibly be said? Instead, you resign yourself to the meal, finishing every bite he offers and clearing out the leftovers in the bowl. And, as usual, it’s delicious.
Scaramouche pats your head when you’ve finished, a smile sharpening on his lips. “Good job.”
You roll your eyes. “You could’ve been nicer about it.”
“I was very nice,” he says, his tone clipped, as he sets the bowl down and lifts a glass from the table. “See? I even brought you a drink. Aren’t I a portrait of magnanimity?”
He’s a pain in the ass, you conclude, but you allow him to bring the glass to your lips so you can drink. You expect a mouthful of water; what you don’t expect is the sheer burn that comes with swallowing, and your noise of surprise comes out as a cough. Scaramouche sits back in his seat while you stare at him, searching for any indication that he’s joking.
“Scaramouche—”
“You’ll be a good kitten and drink it all, won’t you? I’d hate to waste something special I picked just for you.”
Your lip curls in abhorrence at his utterance of that dreadful name. “Maybe if you stop calling me ‘kitten.’”
“Not a chance.”
He takes a sip from the glass and leans in until his face is centimeters from yours. Your eyes find his, and for a moment you’re connected only by this contact. But then, within the next second, he’s closing what little distance remains, pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy, sake-tinged kiss. His hand cradles the back of your head so that you’re pinned on his mouth as it molds against yours. His snake bite piercing pushes against your lips and when he licks into your mouth to savor the alcoholic notes on your tongue you think you taste the cold sterling silver of his tongue piercing. With mounting unease, you realize it’s not a terrible sensation. And though saliva and sake drip down your chin in a thin, sticky rivulet, it’s not the worst kiss you’ve ever had.
It’s over before you can even think of reciprocating. Thankfully—otherwise you’re certain doing so would have been more sickening than a simple teasing nickname.
He pulls away to observe your dazed expression, his dark eyes alight with manic glee. His laugh comes out breathless, almost like a gasp, and he touches two fingers to his lips. “Your lips are softer than I thought…” he mumbles, curling his fingers against his chin.
Before you can retort, the glass is poised at your mouth again, enticing you to drink, and you struggle to swallow the amount that’s tipped onto your tongue. You taste tropical citrus this time, flavors reminiscent of sunny days and palm trees and sparkling seas, each one so out of reach in your current predicament. Things you might never see again. Scaramouche climbs onto the bed and sits between your legs, preventing you from shutting them. With your back pressed against the bed, wrists still bound, you have no choice but to remain where you are, entirely at his mercy.
“That’s a good expression,” he purrs, reaching out to pet your cheek. You turn your head away with a scoff. “To think you could be so cute when you’re terrified of the unknown.”
“Not funny. Take off these cuffs and get me some water. My wrists hurt.”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me an ocean.” His free hand splays across your stomach, applying just enough pressure to your pelvic bone, and a devious smirk twists his lips. “That’s not the only place that’ll hurt.”
The reality of his intentions—of why he has you restrained—dawns on you like a sun risen from the grave, blindingly, searingly hot.
“You can’t be serious.”
You intend to squirm, to kick out at him with your legs, and push him as far from you as possible, but your legs just won’t move. It’s as if you’re attempting to tug yourself free from a pit of molasses, crushed under a new weight. You manage to lift your foot a mere centimeter from the bed before Scaramouche gingerly lowers it back onto the mattress, all the while clicking his tongue at you.
“No need to panic. I’ll take good care of you.” He glances at you, spidery digits tracing tantalizing lines along the length of your leg. “I always have.”
The grogginess spreads throughout the rest of your body like the thorny tendrils of vindictive vines, stifling all possible movements and replacing your usual taut, alert muscles with a sleepiness that's awfully familiar. It doesn’t take long for you to reach a harrowing conclusion: He’s drugged you. Again. You blink rapidly to gain your bearings, and it takes you a moment to recognize the glass that’s at your lips. Foolishly, you drink because he’s already tilting it and you’re not sure how many more sips you take, but by the end of it the glass is empty and your head is spinning, nerves buzzing with static.
Scaramouche slips off the bed with graceful steps, practically floating about his room, to retrieve a bottle of lube and a pair of scissors. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, coming to you in nonsensical clumps as the alcohol thins your rationality, numbing you to the encroaching unease that so desperately wishes to fill your veins. Rather, you’re overwhelmed with a very pleasant, dizzying warmth. You peer at him from where you’re slumped against the headboard, and the red-and-purple lighting in his room paints him in hues so alluring you find yourself at a momentary loss, staring blankly at him like he’s a fascination you’ve only just fallen for. And then you’re reflecting on the way his lips fit against yours, soft and sweet and metallic…
The scissors run up the fabric of your shirt in a flawless snip. When the tattered material is pulled from you and you feel the rush of cold air upon bare skin, prickly realization manages to sober you.
“W-Wait…” You shake your head slowly, tongue heavy and clumsy just like the rest of your limbs. “I’ve never… N-Never done this before…”
He gazes at you, searching for a lie. Finding no such thing, he chuckles and leans in until you’re practically breathing him in. “I would’ve thought otherwise.”
“And I…” You try to narrow your eyes at him, but he’s placed his hands on your hips and so your gaze is inevitably drawn downwards. “And I would’ve thought you were letting me win all those times.”
“Not this time,” he promises, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. “If it means having you all to myself like this, I’ll gladly indulge in the pity prize.”
If your wrists weren’t bound to the bed, you may have pushed him away. Or perhaps you would have embraced him, tugging him closer against your chest so that you could feel his heartbeat, taste it on your lips, allow it to thrum between the both of you. The sake muddles your mind, aiding the muscle relaxant in soothing pre-sex jitters. As Scaramouche’s hands wander, fingers tracking up and down your waist, sliding across your bare stomach, climbing further upwards to pinch your nipples between dexterous digits, someone starts to whine, each faint gasp just barely slipping past lips that have been chewed bloody.
You realize, when he pulls away to grab at the waistband of your sweatpants, that you’re the one producing such sinful sounds.
“Wait,” you whisper when he’s yanked it down to your knees. He peers at you with glazed eyes, and you’re certain you’re looking back with the same amount of lustful ferocity. “S-Scara, I don’t know if… Don’t know if we should…”
You shake your head, utter a frustrated curse, and squeeze your eyes shut. What do you truly wish to tell him? You wonder if it even matters anymore. He has you right where he wants you and, frighteningly enough, this is exactly where you’d like to stay. You have to remind yourself it’s the alcohol and the drugs and the sensual lighting that twist your reasonable senses. Even so, your fear trumps any lust that might have been simmering under heated skin.
But before you can verbalize these anxieties, he’s tugged your sweatpants down with ease. Your underwear goes next, leaving you utterly, humanly bare. Scaramouche stares for a moment, taking in the sight of you, and his licentious ogling is enough to send a bolt of embarrassment rushing through you. Avoiding his eyes, you manage to shut your legs, which earns you a breathy chuckle from him. Scaramouche lifts his shirt over his head next, casting it aside without hesitation. You’re treated to the view of his chest, porcelain-pale, creamy skin aglow under the dimmed lights, and upon noting your wide-eyed stare an easy smirk sprawls across his pierced lips. When he cocks his head to the side, you follow the way the tiny chains on his ear cuffs tilt with the movement, star and moon charms jingling faintly. He’s touched by the very cosmos above, shaded in light so beauteous he’s seraphic.
“There’s no need to be so nervous,” he whispers, drumming his fingers along your knees. “You’re in good hands.”
You open your mouth to object—I don’t want this; I’ve never done this before—but his hands part your legs, spreading them agonizingly slowly as if the universe has benevolently graced him with all the hours in the world. You watch him consider your nude form splayed before him, and the temporary stillness is interrupted when he reaches for the bottle of lube sitting so patiently on his bedside table.
It’s a chore to follow his hands as they uncap the bottle and squeeze a generous amount onto his fingers. Everything spins and blurs into a messy portrait of colors and shapes. You taste the raw acidity of bile in your throat and promptly swallow it and the rest of your apprehensions, forcing yourself to turn off what’s left of logical thinking and submit to the moment—to allow yourself to be fondled by such good hands.
The slick index prodding curiously at your unrelenting hole tightens the tangle of nerves in your stomach and has you squirming once more.
“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”
“It’s only my finger, scaredy-cat.” He laughs and lies beside you, one hand between your legs and the other curled under your chin. He moves your head until you’re looking right at him, and he’s already moving in, lips ghosting over yours. “Unless you’d rather take it raw without any prep. That can be arranged…”
With a half-lidded stare, you spy his lips rather than his eyes as they capture yours in a sloppy smooch. He chases after your breath, swallowing reedy, needy gasps, and traces a circle along your hole before sinking his finger inside. You choke on a whine and wriggle your hips in discomfort. He pulls away only for a brief respite, soon reclaiming your mouth in his greedy pursuit, experimentally curling the lone finger inside you. You’re on fire, burning up with sheer desire and shame and a dizzying intoxication, and everything tangles into a mess fueled only by mounting lust. Fears shrugged away like worthless fabrics, you melt into the mattress’s cushiony embrace, lashes fluttering against your cheeks, as Scaramouche draws little gasps and groans from you, each one spilling out in between kisses.
The hand on your chin falls away to grasp your nipple between cold fingers, and the chill slithers through your flushed form. You whine a pitiful sound.
“Look at you, falling apart on one measly finger.” His voice, hushed and husky, wraps around your head like the softest scarf. “Am I the first to touch you down here?”
Foolishly, you try to nod and shake your head all at once, but he seems to catch the truth veiled in your response, for he hums into your mouth again. You kiss back with more desperation this time, chasing his tongue with a delightful fervor. He pushes a second finger in, slick enough as to not cause discomfort, and it soon finds residence with the other digit curled within.
“No wonder why you’re so easy. It’s almost cute.” Scaramouche lazily works you open with the two digits thrust up inside you. Lewd squelching permeates the otherwise quiet room, and it spurs you into submission. Instinctively, you arch your back when he pinches your nipple harder than before, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “See? Isn’t it better when you’re enjoying yourself? And all it takes is a little reciprocation.”
“I… I’d never—mmh—never reciprocate,” you mumble, but the words are spoken in a gasp.
“It’s a little too late for delusions and denial, kitten,” he says, practically singing the sardonically spoken pet name.
You grit your teeth in an effort to stifle your sounds, turning your head away when he tries to steal a quick kiss. “Hate you,” you mutter, jaw clenched.
Scaramouche barks out a disbelieving laugh. The finger that had been toying with your puffy nipple traces an invisible pattern along the expanse of your chest, sliding further down under he’s gracing your privates with feather-light touches. A moan hums low in your throat, betraying your poor attempt at defiance.
“That’s not what your body’s telling me.”
He scissors his fingers, stretching you wide enough so he can slide a third in. You hardly feel the pain when you dig your nails into your palms. It’s so fierce you think you might break skin, and if you do the muscle relaxant prevents you from truly feeling it. You peer at his sly smirk, but the disgust melts away when, combined with the fingers working you open and the hand petting your sex, you find yourself shuddering through a sudden climax. Scaramouche marvels at the way you clench around his fingers, and before you can even try to avoid him he’s pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple.
“Look at you, cumming from three fingers.” He removes each finger one by one just to watch you writhe bonelessly beneath him. He presses two slick fingers against your lips, tilting his head as if you’re a morbid curiosity he spies through the bars of an invisible cage. “My cute, pathetic, virgin kitten. I quite like that dazed look in your eyes. Perhaps you should look at me like that more often…”
You manage to roll your eyes, unamused. “You had your fun. Now take the cuffs off.” You fix him with a pout. “Please?”
“I couldn’t possibly when we’re just getting started.”
There’s a playful lilt in his voice, and your eyes follow his hands as they grasp the waistband of his boxers. It’s only then when you realize he’s painfully hard in his underwear, his cock outlined so starkly against the constrictive material, and your heart plummets into your stomach.
“Hold on. Wait. H-Hold on…” You try to shut your legs, but the sedative in your system has you reacting as if you’re pulling your limbs through unforgiving tar. Every inch of you craves the comforting release of a long slumber, but the alcohol keeps your nerves sparking with a fiery need that greatly outweighs any languor. “N-Not inside…”
“Why not? We’ll be closer this way.” He wipes the cold sweat from your forehead before placing a gentle kiss upon it. The look in his indigo hues is lionizing, and when he cradles your cheek in a warm hand he is uncharacteristically fond. But then of course he’d be; he likes you, after all. For all of the cruelty, you forget he does this out of love. “Don’t you want to be closer—to find all of the right spots together? We’ll fit together so perfectly…”
He’s already squirted lube onto his hand, and he runs it up the length of his erection, all the while holding smoldering eye contact with you. You swallow dread so thick it almost lodges itself in your throat, mumbling a slew of slurred protests that fall upon deaf ears.
Scaramouche forces you to look at him next, his hand still on your face, and you lean into it out of emotional instinct. He smiles—it’s tender this time, almost welcoming—and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “You’re okay,” he whispers, sincerity weaved into the promise. You blink tears away and your breath hitches when the soft, fleshy head of his cock kisses your puckered hole. His fingers trail along the bandage secured around your throat, and his eyes glaze over with an unknown emotion. “You’ll be okay.”
And hearing it twice has you believing it with a mindless nod of your head.
If your hands were free, you’d reach out to touch him, run your fingers along his porcelain chest, loop your arms around his neck to pull him into you so that your puzzle could be complete. Instead, you look up at him with pleading eyes as he cages you between his arms.
“Please be gentle.”
He noses the crook of your neck. “We’ll see.”
But his words are warm and inviting. And—oh. Oh, he cares for you! Scaramouche, the one who’d ensure you were always fed, who’d go out of his way to check in at night after a long day, who’d entertain you with an argumentative back-and-forth regarding his favorite games, who’d let you win every single match just to be able to spend more quality time with you...
Who loves you more than he loves himself, relying entirely on you in order to fill the cavernous void in his heart with sugar and sincerity and serenity.
He cares for you, and no one has ever quite cared for you in the way he does, as sickly obsessive as he may be. Knowing that someone likes you enough to look after you is more saccharine than honey.
Illuminated in red-and-purple luminosities, you shimmer beneath him, a lone star plucked from a dark, desolate sky. His hand falls from your face, finding your hip instead, and he rubs soothing circles into it as he presses in, the head of his cock pushing past rings of tight, lubricated muscle. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you thought it would, but then the relaxant and the alcohol have you at ease. His brows are knit in concentration, breath hot and wet on your bare skin, as he slots himself inside inch by inch.
A shaky groan spills from his lips. “(Name)...” Your name is candied ambrosia in his mouth, the sweetest song. “(Name), (Name), (Name)...”
He exhales slowly, tears glimmering in glassy eyes, and locates your lips in the gloom, drawn in like a fool blinded by the deceptive light of an anglerfish. You kiss back as if this is the last time you’ll ever have the chance to do so, pursuing his whimpers in the same fashion he seeks your keening cries. And when he snaps his hips forwards to fill you completely, joining your bodies in unholy communion, you throw your head back and sob like you’ve never sobbed before. It’s a wonderful fit, snug and tight, and he rocks in experimentally. You shiver under him, crying out a string of incoherent phrases.
“Scara… Scaraaa,” you sigh dreamily, and his hands brace themselves on either side of you so that he won’t crumple when he thrusts in, settling into the rhythm, following the thrum of your conjoined heartbeats. “Aah… Don’t stop. Please, Scara, I want it deeper… Haah… Please don’t stop.”
“Kuni,” he corrects, breathing it into you in an open-mouthed kiss. “My name. Kunikuzushi.”
It’s lovely. It’s everything. It’s your own heavenly delicacy.
“Kuni. Kuni. Oh, Kuni…” you parrot, voice thick with need.
He’s moving in and out gradually, savoring each time he thrusts up into you and your bodies meet in a perfect connection, slowly rolling his hips into you as if he’s too fearful to destroy something so fragile. Or perhaps he wishes to keep himself intact—to prevent himself from crumbling into a love-drunk mess. When he kisses you, it’s flavorful passion, and the both of you exchange saliva and breath as if you’re each other’s lifelines. You’re not sure what you’re saying anymore, or whether any of it makes sense, but then he’s murmuring all manner of things into your skin as if every admission will tattoo itself upon your very being, engraved into your soul.
Though it’s spoken in a voice barely above a whisper, you catch it. Faintly, like flickering candlelight, admitted like prayer, he says, “I love you.”
And with that you fall, vision whiting out as your orgasm seizes you, and you whine your relief when he fucks you through the highs and lows of it. Your chest is heaving when you return, and you bury your face in his shoulder, wanting to feel all of him, to have his warmth affixed to you.
In that moment, there is no such thing as hatred or revulsion. There are no drug- and alcohol-induced feelings. No handcuffs or shackles. There is only love. Lots of it—all of it—filling you to the brim entirely.
The shadowed space you’ve been confined to is slightly brighter now that you’ve found a star for yourself, and he is a celestial comfort crafted by the threads of fate—for it’s handcrafted destiny that brought the two of you together in a virtual world. Regardless of what awaits you when you’re shaken from this inebriated fantasy, you hope it is just as bewitchingly dazzling as the puzzle you make with Scaramouche.
“I love you… Kuni, I love you.”
He’s crying then, tears falling in twin rivulets, and in response he drives his cock in so deeply it has you arching your back, the motions coaxing precious love cries from the depths of your very heart. Sealing what’s left unsaid in a final kiss—every other emotion, all of the twisted obsession and the horrors of the past month—he empties his load inside, moaning into your mouth. Like a lotus at midnight, you open so obediently for him, your legs wrapped around his waist to pin his body to yours like butterflies spread on an entomologist’s board.
Of course you love him. After all, there’s no one else for you to adore in this vast, lonesome outer space.
#yandere genshin impact#yandere genshin impact x reader#yandere scaramouche#yandere scaramouche x reader#lunar love hotel 2023#tw: drugging#tw: dubcon#n/sfw
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Hi, so excited your requests are open! The morning after a very steamy sex session with Tangerine?
Tangerine x gn!reader (gender is not specified but reader is referred to as having the body of a person fab.)
Warnings: NSFW, smut, fluff (18+ Minors DNI!!)
Disclaimer: As per usual English is not my first language, I tried my best with the British slang. Also this isn't proofread so all mistakes are my own.
A/N: Since its the new year I thought it'd be fun to theme this around that. Hope you enjoy it!! This is also my first time writing smut so pls go easy on me, the plan wasn't even to write this with smut, but somehow we ended up here.
You could feel Tangerine's warm breath on your neck as you slowly awakened from your sleep, his arm holding your body tight to his own.
Looking over your shoulder you could see he was still fast asleep. The usual frown on his face was no where to be seen. He looked so peaceful and innocent.
Innocent was the last thing the two of you had been last night. It had been one hell of a night to say the least.
This had been your first New Years Eve with the twins. More over, your first New Years Eve with your new boyfriend, Tangerine.
You'd spend the entire evening playing various board games. Tangerine had been more than happy to participate after you made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
"If you do this, I'll let you do whatever you want with me tonight." You'd whispered in his ear.
Tangerine's eyes had gone wide, his body stiffening under your touch. And even though he was terrible at board games he did all of them, like the perfect boyfriend he is.
After the countdown, new years kisses and a lot of champagne Tangerine almost pushed Lemon out of the front door.
"Time to hold up your end of the deal, darling."
Everything after that was a blur to you. What you did remember however is that was the most mind-blowing sex you had ever had.
That's how you ended up here. In Tangerine's bed, tangled up in each others bodies, the smell of sex still in the air.
Wanting to take a shower you tried to untangle yourself from your boyfriend. He however had no intention of letting you go. Tangerine's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer to his chest.
"Stay in bed with me." Tangerine whispered as he nuzzled his face in the side of your neck.
"Tan, I feel disgusting I'm gonna take a shower."
"You didn't think it was disgusting when you were screaming my name last night." You felt him smirking against your neck.
"Don't get cocky."
You gently moved Tangerine's hand off of you and went to sit on the side of the bed. You heard him whine at the loss of your touch.
Before you could even sit up his hands were all over you, pushing you back down on the bed as he straddled your hips.
"Come on, admit it, no one can fuck ya like I can." The smirk on his face almost reached his eyes.
It's true, though you'd never admit it out loud. It's not like his ego needs the extra boost anyway.
You playfully rolled your eyes at him and tried to push him off, but he didn't budge.
"Uh uh, I'm not lettin' ya leave 'till you fess up."
You tried to look annoyed, but you were loving this and he knew it. If he had his way, and let's be honest he probably would, you two wouldn't be leaving this bed all day.
"You know you want to." He teased, placing kisses from your jaw to your collarbone.
And god you did, but you were loving this game a little too much to confess right away.
Your breathing started to get a little heavier when he trailed his hand down to your pajama pants. Sliding inside them, he rested his hand on your clothed clit not applying any pressure to it.
"Tan.." you whined.
He always knew exactly which buttons to push and you hated how easy it was for him. In a matter of seconds he's already got you on edge again.
"Yes, love?" His accent thick, smirk returning to his face. If you weren't so turned on right now, you'd slap that stupid smirk off of his fucking face.
"Please-" you breath hitched when he started applying a bit of pressure on your clit.
"All ya gotta do is say it."
You shook your head, wondering how long you'd be able to keep this up. Your question was answered when he firmly pressed two fingers down on your still clothed pussy.
"Fuck, shit okay, you win, please.. I need you." You basically pleaded with him, not being able to withstand the build up anymore.
"Still haven't said it, darlin'." He said, continuing his kisses down your neck.
"No one can fuck me like you, Tan, now will you please get on with it?"
"That wasn't so hard now, was it?."
Finally he slipped his hand into your panties, pushing one finger inside your folds.
You threw your head back at the sudden feeling of being full. Without warning he added a second finger and started pumping them along your walls.
Your moans got louder as his pace started to get faster and faster. Using his thumb to circle your clit.
"That's it, love. Taking my fingers so well, aren't ya?"
"Y-yeah" you failed to get anything else out of your mouth. Your hands found his hair pulling him down to capture his lips in a deep, hungry kiss.
Tangerine could feel that you were close. He decided to insert a third finger, before crooking them inside you, sending you over the edge.
"Cum for me." He whispered in your ear and that was all it took.
"Fuck." You cried out as you clenched your walls around him, cumming all over his fingers.
You whined at the loss of his fingers when he pulled them out, trying to get your breathing under control.
Never breaking eye contact between the two of you, Tangerine moved his fingers to his mouth and slowly licked your juices off of them.
Fuck, this man really was something else.
"You did so well." He praised kissing the top of your head before laying back down next to you.
"Happy New Year, love."
"Happy New Year." You repeated, turning to face him to capture his lips once again with yours, still being able to taste yourself on his tongue.
You did in fact not leave his bed all day.
A/N: hope you liked that, not bad for a first time I think, feedback is always welcome.🥰 Please comment if you wanna be on my Tangerine taglist.
And most of all, have an amazing 2023!!
Taglist: @bratdoll666 @assmaster37 @waiting4ff
#tangerine x reader#tangerine x you#tangerine bullet train#bullet train#aaron taylor johnson#tangerine smut#aaron taylor johnson smut
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i just wanted to say a massive thank you for the writing advice specifically, i havent seen very many things focused on that
are there any specific words to describe black hair texture that you would like to see used more often?
Thank you! And oooohooohooo I wanna offer this one to the floor too! I'm gonna expand a little, to how I want Black hair described more often just bc I got excited:
Adjectives of beauty. Our hair and hair textures are beautiful and versatile, and I want to see writers take advantage of the opportunity to laud it in the eyes of the beholder.
The way it feels! Soft, coarse, coily, curly, silky, moisturized, strong. Even if it's not a good texture in the moment, it still strengthens the description if you actually know what the hair feels like. It lets me know as a Black reader that you're not just making something up that you know nonblack readers will just skim on by (for example, I once read a fic where the character was supposed to be Black, but his natural hair was described as "able to run his hands through" and I was like.... That's not the majority of us. And it wasn't intentional writing, either. Kinda fucked up the whole experience for me.)
The way it smells! Look. When I spray my hair with my rose water oil mix? My lemon herb mix? Peppermint oil? Coconut or almond oil? Omg the way our hair smells during wash and oil (at least with the right stuff!) is PHENOMENAL! Like it smells like a fresh damn garden lmao. SO good. (DON'T ever say straight castor oil smells good though. Idc how good it is for our hair, it smells terrible, I'll stand on that 😤) so like... Yeah, however you feel when you smell those smells (refreshing, uplifting, relaxing, rejuvenating, etc.) why not try that?
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This might be the second worst thing that’s ever happened to Gareth while wearing these stupid shorts, or in general he guesses. The first being when he was in gym class and the got caught on the fence he tried to hop in order to skip said class, successfully exposing his lemon yellow carebear boxers, the only pair he had left because everything else was in the wash. Luckily it was only the gym teacher, Mr Carrey, and Linda Stern, a girl that kept to herself so unlikely to share such scandal. Neither brought it up again but that doesn’t mean Gareth was free of the memory, or free of reliving it whenever he opened his drawer to pull out some underwear.
But it’s not just the shorts that tie Gareth’s ‘most embarrassing and traumatising events of my life so far’ memories together. No, the instigator of both of these events also keeps them joined in Gareth’s mind. Edward Munson. It was Eddie who insisted that skipping class while in said class would be the smartest move to make ‘think of it Gareth, imagine it, skipping right under Mr Carrey's nose? He'd never expect it! High class rogue moves for sure!’
So of course Gareth was convinced by Eddie’s manic eyes and excitement and successfully flashed his gym teacher while the mastermind was laughing and pulling him down off the fence. Mr Carrey must have felt sorry enough for Gareth to let him run and isn’t that a fun addition to an already horrific memory?
Anyway, back to Eddie Munson; worst person to enter Gareth’s life. Because now? Now Gareth is stood outside a stupidly big and stupidly fancy house, in the offensive (now repaired, thanks Granny) gym shorts, and a pair of plastic and bent out of shape fairy wings. Originally he was supposed to be in a white vest too but he drew the line there, adamant he’d be wearing his Iron Maiden shirt to save some sort of dignity. And to top it all off it’s a beautiful day so of course people are out mowing their lawns, families are walking their dogs, children are playing in the streets and just enjoying the surprisingly mild february weather. All of them staring, quite obviously, at what they see as a strange teenager in wings being shouted at by an equally strange kid hiding behind a, not nearly big enouhg, bush for ‘stealth reasons’ apparently.
‘RING THE DOORBELL MAN, COME ON!’
Gareth slowly turns to look over his shoulder to glare at Eddie who is peaking around the shrubbery.
‘YOU RING THE FUCKING DOORBELL!’
‘GARETH YOU PROMISED! DON’T BE A DICK’
‘YEAH, BECAUSE YOU TRICKED ME!’
‘NO I DIDN’T, YOU SAID YES NOW RING TH-’
Of course that’s exactly when the door to the stupid house opens and the reason Gareth is here steps into the doorway.
Gareth grits his teeth and begins to recite his lines ‘Steve, o steve. You are beauty that has to be seen to be believed. Wont you be mine until the end of time?’ He finishes and stands glaring over Steve fucking Harrington’s shoulder
‘DO THE FUCKING REST GARETH’ Eddie’s voice emanates from somewhere to the back of Gareth, probably still hiding behind the stupid bush. So Gareth ‘does the rest’ he does a very slow and deliberate 360 spin before crouching down to one knee and shooting a plastic bow and arrow at Steve’s chest. Of course the arrow just rattles to the floor, sad and pathetic, just like it’s shooter Gareth thinks to himself.
‘Gareth? Why…umm, are you okay?’ Steve is obviously trying to hold back laughter and doing a terrible job of it. His face is convulsing like he’s just eaten a whole lemon, rind and all. And well, who knows, maybe he has, maybe it's a secret trick for keeping his hair so big, Gareth isn’t here to judge, he just wants to leave.
‘Dude please just answer the question and put me out of my misery’ He’s still half on the ground and his knee hurts and it’s hot and he’s kneeling at Steve Harrington’s fucking door dressed as a fucking cupid because he couldn’t say no to his fucking stupid fucking best friend. Gareth pulls himself away from thoughts of despair when he sees Steve’s mouth open to speak. He’s got one hand on the door frame, the other on the back of his neck
‘Oh, uh, yeah? I mean, yes? This is for Eddie right?’ Gareth stopped listening after the initial ‘yeah’, instead standing and turning to the, very small, hedge Eddie was doing an awful job of concealing himself behind
‘HE SAID YES. CAN I GO HOME NOW?’
Suddenly there's a whoop and an air punching Eddie Munson who realises he’s exposed his ‘perfect’ (shitty) hiding spot and is in full view of Steve. The idiot even tries to play off the air punch by combing his hand through his hair which obviously gets stuck on his rings and then tries to play that off by just keeping his hand in his hair while waving with the other, not trapped hand. With a violent yank he manages to free the entangled fingers with only a small whine.
‘Uhh…Hi Steve’ Eddie says with a dopey smile and somehow, somehow he’s got an equally lovesick looking Steve smiling right back at him ‘Hi Eddie’. At this point, Gareth has quite frankly had enough, Eddie and Steve are slowly walking towards each other like some romcom end of the movie scene and he’ll be dammed if he’s watching those two tragically flirt at each other. So he grabs the van keys out of Eddie’s pocket as he passes, resigning himself to an hour of shooting Eddie’s empty cans in the back of the van while he waits. Gareth is almost off the lawn when Eddie must get brave
‘NICE SHORTS BY THE WAY CUPID’
‘FUCK YOU!’ Gareth snaps the arrow in two trudges off, wings flapping behind him.
—---
Three weeks ago
Gareth was at his desk, he was trying to practice some drum rhythms when Eddie flounced in and dramatically dropped onto his bed. For the past half hour Gareth had been regaled with yet more ‘reasons why Steve Harrington is my dream man’ from Eddie
‘You don’t understand man. He was just driving and the Eagles came on. Don’t look at me like that, I know it’s the eagles, but it was life in the fast lane and he was singing along to it dude. The line! You know the one! I swear it was an instant hard on, thought I’d came by the end’
‘DUDE STOP. STOP. I’ll do whatever you want just please never talk to me about your Steve related dick events again’ Listen, Gareth loved Eddie, he did. But there's only so much a man can withstand and Eddie could monolgue for hours if given the chance.
‘Whatever I want?’ There was no obvious devious tone here but Gareth still should have known better than to agree. If he had clocked Eddie's face he would have seen an expression so devious that he'd be running out the door.
‘Yes! Fuck, just no more. My ears are never going to feel clean again’
#fun fact Gareth kept the wings and wore them to the next cc gig and people started calling him moth man#Eddie got INCREDIBLY jealous#bought his own pair and was called mothra#they now have a moth band side project#well my guys I was going to wait but the anxiety of it sitting in my drafts is too much#so here’s some questionable content that I hope people may find even slightly funny#this is SILLY#I am SORRY#I just!!! thought this would be funny!!!!#stranger things#eddie munson#steddie#steve harrington#gareth emerson#gareth stranger things
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[FLUFFBRUARY FIC] Love, Rain Down on Me
Rated: M
Word Count: 2272
Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, human AU, writer!Dream, professor!Hob, stargazing, care packages, acts of service, kisses in the rain, realizations, confessions, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, 5+1 fic
Notes: Final entry for Fluffbruary 2024; turns out I wasn't done with this Umbrella Boys AU just yet. Shoutout to @academicblorbo for asking about Dream's pov and suggesting the first 'I love you' as an idea; my brain said 'Oh yes' 1489-Hob-style and while this is not exactly what I first envisioned, I'm still happy with where we ended up.
Fluffbruary Prompts:
Day 25: fox twilight sweat
Day 26: fluff woolly care package
Day 27: table blush laundry
Day 28: reward shelter piano
Day 29: breakfast valley sign
alt prompts: wish hot solid
Summary: 5 times those Three Little Words go unspoken, and one time they do not
On AO3
1.
The first time Dream realizes it, Hob has taken him to the astronomy department at the college, after hours, to look at the stars. "Gale lent me the key," Hob had laughed when Dream expressed trepidation about breaking into Hob's place of work. "I'm allowed to come moon over the stars sometimes, and I'm allowed to bring you with me if I want."
So they are taking turns looking through the telescope, peering into the perpetual twilight of the heavens and marveling at the beauty that cannot be properly seen with the naked eye nor from within the light-polluted aura of the city. Hob laughs when Dream observes as much. "Maybe come end of summer we'll take a drive out of the city, camp out for a night in the countryside and do some real stargazing. Sound good?"
And Dream looks at him, this beautiful man squinting up at the skies through his colleague's telescope, the way his hair falls around his face, the scruff of his three-week-old beard and the elegant line of his nose, this beautiful man who offers anything he thinks Dream might like as if it's nothing. Hob has shared with him the woes of past breakups, the consensus that he is too intense, moves too fast, is too much to put up with, and he has admonished Dream to please please tell him if he ever oversteps or pushes too hard, too far because he is trying to do better, but all Dream can think in this moment is how warm he feels in Hob's affections, how priveleged to receive his time and attention.
I love this man, he realizes, like camellias blossoming beneath his ribs, like the sun breaking over the horizon.
"Dream?" Hob is looking at him now instead of the stars, eyebrows raised, mouth curved in a patiently-amused smile.
"That. Would be lovely," Dream answers at last, smiling warmly back at Hob, and cradles his newfound revelation close in the hollow of his chest.
2.
The second time, Hob is away at a conference and Dream has emerged from a morning of fitful writing to discover a neatly-wrapped package delivered for him, tied with a ruby red bow. His sister has brought it up and left it by his door rather than interrupting his writing time, as they've agreed. Upon opening it, he finds a letter from Hob atop an airtight plastic container.
Hey Dream, reads the letter, just wanted to say that I'll miss you while I'm gone and can't wait to lavish you with sweet kisses when I get back. Meantime, I made you some of those lavender-rosemary-lemon biscuits you love and here's my shirt you can sleep with if you want. Enjoy ~♥
Delighted by the package and the letter and the biscuits, and the intent behind them, Dream lifts the container out of the box; beneath it, there is a compact umbrella nestled in what turns out to be one of Hob's favorite t-shirts, worn just enough to smell like him. Dream presses it to his face and inhales, absurdly touched, and smiles as he picks up the umbrella.
Of course Hob has sent him an umbrella; that is their 'thing', that is how they met, and he is also terrible at remembering to bring one with him. Tied to the handle he finds a piece of card stock about the size of his palm, with a drawing penciled on one side. It's a rough cartoon figure that is recognizably Hob, smiling brightly and holding a sunny yellow cocktail umbrella that has been carefully attached through the card so that Hob's penciled hand appears to grasp the toothpick handle. Don't forget! says his speech bubble, and Dream feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as his smile grows too wide for his face to contain.
I love you, Hob Gadling, he thinks, both hands wrapped around the umbrella, and presses his lips gently to cartoon-Hob's precious happy little face.
3.
"You did not have to do my washing, Hob," Dream protests, somewhat futilely as the deed is already done, dried, and being folded. "I am a grown man, capable of doing my own laundry." Never mind that his clothes had been accumulating in Hob's flat all week while he worked through additional revisions to The Seeds of Fate; Hob's space was conducive to this particular story, he found, and Hob was generous in allowing him to hole up here during the day while Hob was at work and on into the evenings when he returned, overnight when Dream wished it.
Hob shrugs. "They were here, I had a load of darks, they fit. Don't worry, my washing powder's the allergy-free stuff and I checked your tags for temps and such. Which reminds me." He sets the black jeans he just folded aside, takes up a pair of his own. "Your fancy lace shirt's hanging in the shower; hand washed it in cold just like it said and put it up to drip-dry."
Dream is keenly struck by the soft warmth of Hob choosing to do mundane everyday chores for him, taking care with his things, simply because he wants to and he can. It is not new, by any means; Hob has engaged in little acts of service the whole of the time Dream has been acquainted with him, from the very moment he first offered shared use of his umbrella to Dream. The domesticity of this moment settles something deep within him, something that sings of home and happiness and contentment.
"Hob Gadling, you are a chivalrous and wonderful man," he says, when what he means is I love you. "Truly, you make my life so much easier." He comes close, presses a kiss to Hob's cheek.
Hob just smiles, soft and warm and pleased, and continues folding his laundry. "You're welcome, duck. My pleasure."
4.
"Here, take ours," Hob says, handing his umbrella to the woman with the toddler at the bus stop as the skies open up.
"Oh I couldn't!" Her eyes dart from the umbrella (which Hob is of course holding over her and her child) to Dream and back to Hob. "That's very kind, but then you'll get soaked!"
"We're not far," Hob assures, pressing the umbrella into her hand. "I insist. We'll be fine."
"Well…if you're quite certain?" She clutches it gratefully.
"Of course. Take care." Hob offers a friendly smile, the kind that makes his nose scrunch up adorably, and they turn to leave.
"Thank you!" the woman calls after them.
Dream finds that he doesn't mind the rain, is not inclined to run for shelter, not with Hob beside him, not when their getting soaked is because Hob does not hesitate to offer kindness to strangers. It gives him a warm glow inside, to know that he loves a man who works to put kindness out into the world, to brighten the days of those around him when he can. Damp clothes and wet hair are a small price to pay, and the summer rain is not so cold.
Halfway to Hob's flat, Dream steps around in front of him and drapes his arms behind Hob's neck. "That was a very kind thing you did," he murmurs, stepping backwards, drawing Hob with him so they do not stop moving onward. It is very much like a slow sort of dance down the street, and Hob's arms wrapping about his waist only heighten that impression.
"Yeah?" Hob shrugs, smiling. "She needed it." Like it is truly that simple.
To Hob, it is.
Dream kisses him, pressing close while the rain falls upon them. "Not many would give up their own comfort for a stranger." His lips brush Hob's with the words and then Hob is drawing him back in, warm, hungry. Dream fancies he can taste the rain, between them.
"Not a hardship, not when I've got you to keep me company," Hob finally says, nipping softly at his lips, water dripping steadily from a loose lock of hair.
"Such things you say." Dream is intoxicated with the moment, the atmosphere, the swelling of feeling he holds for this man and the tender warmth in Hob's eyes gazing back at him while the skies wash the world around them in soft hazy grey.
I love you, he thinks, kissing Hob again, pulling him close in the falling rain, I love you, I love you, I LOVE you—
5.
He thinks it next when he is tangled with Hob in his bed, breathless and sweating and coming apart in Hob's practiced hands, when every time Hob moves within him he is crying out, starlight bursting behind his eyes.
He thinks it as Hob shivers to a halt, pulsing hot inside him, trembling in his arms.
He thinks it laying in Hob's embrace after, Hob's chest solid and warm beneath his ear, rising gently with each of Hob's sleeping breaths. I love you, I love you, I love you, he whispers in his head, in time with the steady beat of Hob's heart, and lets himself drift to sleep, content.
One day, one day when the moment is right, he will say it aloud; until then, he hoards it like a precious secret safe in his heart.
+1
Dream wakes on Sunday with a groan, protesting the sunbeams that have found his face; they had not closed Hob's bedroom curtains last night and he is paying the price for this oversight now.
"Morning, sleeping beauty," Hob says, leaning on one elbow beside Dream with his head propped in his hand. He is supremely unbothered by the brightness, leading Dream to surmise he awoke some time ago.
"You are watching me sleep, now? You will not convince me that it is entertaining." He blinks once, twice, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
"Entertaining is not the word, no, but I do enjoy it. You're so pretty when you're asleep, soft and relaxed and at peace. I love that I get to see it." Hob smiles, reaches to trace a fingertip down his cheekbone. "Was trying to decide what to make you for breakfast, actually."
Dream squirms onto his back, throws an arm over his eyes, stretches his toes. "You need not make such effort—" He cuts himself off with a jaw-cracking yawn.
"You're worth it, though," Hob says easily, and Dream rolls his head to the side, meets Hob's eyes again. The sun is striking them exactly right, illuminating the depths of the brown to amber, honey.
He is so beautiful.
"Very well." Dream smiles, indulgent, lazy. "What will you be offering to please my discerning palette?"
"Fry you up an egg and a couple slices of bread? Tomato too, if you want. Blueberry jam for your toast and your sweet tooth. And if you're hungry enough, a nice hot juicy sausage?" He waggles his eyebrows.
Dream arches one of his own in return, and Hob grins. "Yeah alright, that's for later. But I will cook you actual sausage too if you like."
"I will take actual sausage with breakfast, yes, and 'sausage' when I am awake enough to enjoy it." He swings himself out of Hob's bed and makes his way to the toilet, the warm sound of Hob's laughter following him.
By the time he wanders into the kitchen, having donned his pants and a t-shirt of Hob's, bare feet and bare legs and bare arms because he's comfortable and because he knows Hob likes it, Hob has sausages and tomatoes frying in one pan with eggs and bread in another. He's tied an apron over his bare chest and joggers, captured most of his hair in an elastic band, is whistling cheerfully over the stovetop with a spatula in hand. The kettle is going, and Dream retrieves two mugs from the cupboard.
He preps Hob's tea once it's steeped, a quarter the milk and sugar that he puts in his own, and offers it to Hob to taste once he's finished plating their breakfast.
"Perfect," Hob pronounces, handing it back and picking up the plates to carry to the table. "Why's it always taste best when you make it?"
"I infuse it with my charming personality," Dream quips, deadpan, and Hob huffs a laugh.
"God, I love you," he says, his smile still broad, bright enough to rival the morning sun outside the kitchen window; and then he stills.
Dream, too, has gone still; Hob has never said those words to him before, and it sets something joyful and effervescent singing through his veins.
Hob loves him.
Hob loves him.
But Hob is shrinking in on himself, just a little, as if he could hide behind the plates in his hands and the apron he wears—every inch the man who fears (too much too fast I always come on too strong) the consequence of words he had not intended to speak aloud. Dream will be sad about this later, that he has failed somehow to make clear to Hob beyond the shadow of any doubt how welcome his affections are, how endearing his intensity, and he will vow to do better; but now, in the moment, with his heart soaring, the solution is simple, so simple, as easy as breathing.
He has never said the words aloud either, but they are as familiar to him as the beating of his own heart and they are spoken with as little effort.
"And I love you, Hob Gadling." He leans over the corner of the table, kisses Hob soft and sweet on his blossoming smile. "Now, where is my blueberry jam?"
=
Started: 2/26/24
Drafted: 2/29/24
Posted: 2/29/24
The lavender-rosemary-lemon cookies were first written by @softest-punk and then brought to life by @carnelianmeluha; you can find the original fic and the recipe via this link
One day I will brave my utter dearth of kitchen skill and make these myself. One day.
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