#The wolf lurking in the shadows is so cool

[stargrillzz]

THE MORE WRINKLED THE RAISIN, THE SWEETER

SUMMARY: You know what they say, the more wrinkled the raisin, the sweeter it is. Oh and wasn’t he sweet...

NOTE: Peter is so hot, damn.xoxo

The storm outside cracked like a live wire, lightning flashing through the steel beams of Derek’s loft. Rain slammed the windows like the sky was trying to get in. It was late—past midnight—but no one in the pack was yawning.

Not with the way Derek paced in front of the makeshift war table, arms crossed tight, brow locked in that signature "someone’s gonna die tonight" furrow.

“We found claw marks on the walls of the clinic,” Derek started, tossing a photo across the table. “And not the usual kind. These went through concrete.”

Scott leaned forward, examining the grainy image. “So we’re not sure if it’s a rogue Omega or something… else?”

“It’s not an Omega,” Peter’s voice cut through the room like a blade dipped in honey—smooth, dangerous, and sharp. He stood against one of the support beams, arms folded over that fitted black Henley, looking deliciously bored. “No one that pathetic has claws like that.”

You were curled in one of the armchairs near the corner, chin resting on your hand, only half-listening.

Correction: You were listening—but not to Derek or Scott or whatever threat was clawing up buildings.

No. Your eyes hadn’t moved off Peter in the last ten minutes.

There was something about how he stood—casual, calculated, like he was in on a joke no one else could hear. The soft stretch of his shirt across his chest. The faint shadows beneath his eyes that made him look a little too wolf, a little too unhinged. God, he looked like the kind of man you could ruin your life with.

And you wanted to. Boldly. Repeatedly.

Peter caught your gaze mid-glance. One brow arched.

And then he smirked.

“I’m just saying,” Peter added dryly, loud enough for everyone to hear, “if the big scary monster lurking around town is stupid enough to leave claw marks like a trail of breadcrumbs, maybe we should give it a helmet instead of a fight.”

Stiles huffed from the couch. “You’re such a dick.”

Peter smiled wider. “Accurate.”

You tilted your head, biting your lip. “Maybe he just wanted to get caught,” you said suddenly, loud enough to make half the room turn to you. You shrugged innocently, meeting Peter’s eyes like you were peeling him open with your stare. “Some creatures like being chased.”

Peter’s smile twitched—amused, intrigued—and laced with that dark, wolfish hunger he tried so hard to hide. You saw it.

Scott side-eyed you, blinking. “Y/N—can we focus?”

“Sorry,” you said sweetly, standing up slowly. “I just… get distracted.”

You circled the edge of the group, careful steps echoing across the floor. The storm cracked again, and the lights flickered. You stopped right behind Peter, leaned close, and spoke into the back of his neck without touching him.

“I like when you’re cruel,” you whispered, voice silk and fire. “Makes me wonder if you bite.”

Peter didn’t move. But you felt his pulse shift. Like something ancient and hungry stirred beneath his skin.

His voice came out low, controlled—too controlled.

“Little girl,” he murmured back, still facing forward. “You really want to go there?”

You smirked and leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of his ear.

“I’ve been there. I live there. I set up a fucking tent.”

Peter’s jaw clenched.

“I’m going to murder her,” Stiles muttered from the couch, half-joking. “Like—just a little bit. Just a smidge.”

“You won’t,” Peter said out loud, cool and calm, but you felt the heat radiating off him now. “She’d haunt you in lingerie.”

You chuckled—soft, filthy.

Scott groaned. “Can you not flirt in the middle of a supernatural crisis?”

“I wasn’t flirting,” you said, rounding Peter and standing beside him now, all close and magnetic. “I was… observing.”

Peter finally turned to look at you fully, blue eyes locked on yours. “And what, exactly, did you observe?”

“That you’re dying to touch me.”

The room went silent.

And then Derek snapped, “Enough.”

Everyone flinched. Except Peter. And you.

Derek’s eyes glowed faintly as he glared. “If you two are done turning this into a goddamn mating ritual, maybe we can get back to planning before another body shows up.”

Peter gave a slow shrug. “Fine by me. I’m only here for the entertainment.”

You leaned against the beam next to him, casual, letting your arm brush his. “Well. I’m very entertaining.”

Peter didn’t respond right away. His eyes dragged down your body like a promise, slow and hot and filthy. Then he turned back toward the group, lips twitching.

You grinned, smug and glowing. Victory.

He was close. So close.

But for now, he turned his attention back to the others. Like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just tongue-fucked him with a glance.

But his hand stayed pressed lightly to the edge of the beam—fingertips brushing yours, barely there.

Touch-starved. Hungry.

And yours.

Eventually.

-

The meeting had dragged. Thunder rolled low above Beacon Hills like the earth was growling, warning them about whatever new monster was crawling into town.

But the real storm didn’t break until after the pack started heading out.

“Y/N,” Scott called from beside his bike, keys jangling in his hand. “You riding with me or Stiles?”

You didn’t even glance at him. Your eyes were locked on Peter, who stood beside his black SUV with one hand on the door and the other in his pocket, smirking like he knew something no one else did.

Which—he usually did.

You smiled slowly. “Neither.”

Scott blinked. “What?”

“I’ll go with Peter.”

He straightened up slightly. “Why?”

You tilted your head innocently. “Why not?”

Behind Scott, Stiles made a dramatic groaning noise. “Oh my god. Here we go again. Just let her ride with Satan if she wants, man.”

Peter said nothing. He just opened the passenger door and stepped aside like a gentleman—or something that wore the skin of one. His eyes burned into you like a promise.

You walked past Scott without another word and climbed in.

The doors clicked shut. The outside world disappeared.

Inside, it was warm, dark, quiet—except for the low hum of the engine and the slow turn of the wipers dragging rain across the windshield.

Peter didn’t speak. He just drove, hands loose on the wheel, eyes forward. Focused. Dangerous.

You watched his profile—how the shadows carved into his cheekbone, how his hand tensed just slightly every time you shifted in your seat. You loved how he always tried to pretend you didn’t affect him.

But you did.

You always did.

And tonight… tonight you were done pretending you didn’t know it.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and crawled slowly—deliberately—into the back seat.

Peter’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “What are you doing?”

You spread your legs across the leather and leaned back on your elbows, smirking up at him. “Drive,” you said. “Or do something about it.”

Peter’s jaw clenched.

The car skidded a little to the right before he yanked it into a side lot, tires splashing into a puddle as he parked under a broken streetlight. The glow from it flickered once, then died.

Silence.

Then the soft creak of his door opening.

You stayed sprawled out, heart pounding as you listened to his boots hit the wet pavement, circle around the back, and open the rear door.

He got in.

The door slammed behind him.

And then he just looked at you—like a wolf who'd been stalking his prey for miles, and suddenly found her naked and grinning in his den.

“You,” he growled, voice low, fraying, “are a goddamn menace.”

You smirked, shifting slightly so your knee brushed against his thigh. “And you love it.”

His hand shot out, fisting in the front of your shirt and yanking you closer, your faces inches apart now. His breath was hot against your lips, his fingers flexing like he was deciding whether to pull you in or push you away.

He did neither.

“You think I won’t ruin you?” he hissed.

“I want you to.”

That broke him.

Peter grabbed the back of your neck and crushed his mouth to yours, tongue demanding and rough, devouring you with filthy need. You gasped into it, moaning when his teeth scraped your bottom lip, when his fingers tangled in your hair and pulled hard.

You kissed him back like it was the last thing you’d ever do.

Your hands slid up under his shirt—god, he was burning, muscle under your palms, skin twitching when you scratched. He growled again, shoving you back until your shoulders hit the seat, his body following, crawling over you like a predator who had finally, finally taken the bait.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered against your throat, licking a slow line under your jaw. “To make the bad wolf snap?”

You whimpered, grinding up against him. “More.”

“More?” He nipped at your skin. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me,” you breathed, fingers dragging down to the waistband of his jeans. “Be the wolf, Peter. Fucking bite.”

And he did.

Your back hit the leather with a soft thud, legs still parted around him, his hand fisted in your shirt like he might rip it off, like maybe he should. The heat between you two had gone nuclear. Your skin was buzzing, your breath short, your mouth already wrecked from the kiss you barely survived.

And Peter was watching you—his blue eyes dark and glowing, fangs just barely peeking from under his lip. The wolf was there. Right under the surface. And you had called it out.

You brought your hand up, tracing your fingers down the front of his chest. “Come on, Peter,” you whispered, voice syrupy and shameless. “You know you’ve been dying to fuck the attitude out of me.”

He groaned—visceral, like the sound was torn from him. Then his hand was under your thigh, yanking your hips toward him hard enough to make you gasp. His other hand curled around your throat—not choking, just holding, thumb pressing beneath your jaw with filthy reverence.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered against your neck, but his hand was already sliding between your legs.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you moaned, arching into his touch.

His fingers pressed against the heat of your center—your shorts soaked through, no panties. You heard his breath catch.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed.

You smiled lazily. “Told you. I came prepared.”

Peter didn’t answer—he just shoved the fabric aside and slid two fingers through your folds, slow and deep and filthy. Your head tipped back with a broken moan.

“Oh my God—”

“Not God,” he rasped. “Just the wolf.”

He leaned in again, biting softly at your lip as his fingers began to move—rhythmically, slowly at first, then harder, faster. His thumb circled your clit with the kind of precision that made your legs tremble.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, biting at your ear, “so fucking long. Every time you opened that smart mouth, every time you walked into a room like you owned me…”

You whimpered, rocking against his hand, clutching his shoulder. “Then take it. Own me.”

Something in him snapped.

He pulled his hand away for one agonizing second—long enough to yank your shorts down and toss them somewhere in the dark car—then he shoved your thighs up and apart, climbing between them like he belonged there. Like this was a fucking claim.

And maybe it was.

He shoved his jeans down just enough, fangs glinting now as he dragged his tip through your slick folds, teasing, eyes locked to yours.

“You want this?” he rasped, voice barely human.

“Yes,” you breathed, grabbing his jaw. “I want you.”

He slammed into you with one brutal thrust, burying himself fully. You cried out, arching, clawing at his shoulders. He didn’t wait. He didn’t ease up.

He fucked you—hard, deep, filthy—every thrust making the car creak on its suspension, windows fogging instantly. The smell of rain and sex and wolf filled the air. Your moans were ragged, high and loud, but he didn’t tell you to quiet down.

He wanted them.

Peter grunted as you clenched around him, biting into your neck—not enough to break skin, just enough to mark. His hand stayed wrapped tight around your throat, fingers flexing with every snap of his hips.

“You love this,” he growled. “You love knowing how wrong this is.”

You were nearly sobbing with pleasure. “Yes—fuck, Peter, please—”

“You wanted the bad wolf,” he snarled. “Now fucking take him.”

Your orgasm hit like a car crash "Oh my God, fuck yeah" hot and endless, your body convulsing around him as he held you down, fucked you through it, didn’t stop. You screamed his name, scratching down his back. Peter groaned into your throat, and with one final thrust, he spilled inside you, deep and possessive, a growl rattling from his chest like thunder.

You both collapsed, panting, your limbs tangled, hearts pounding like war drums.

His forehead rested against yours. He was still inside you. Still hardening again. Still hungry.

-

The bonfire cracked like it had secrets to tell.

Sparks flew up into the inky sky while laughter echoed from the logs surrounding it—pack members sprawled on blankets, roasting marshmallows and talking over each other. It was one of those rare nights when no one was dead or dying. Just warmth, woodsmoke, and the edge of summer in the air.

You were curled on a blanket next to Scott and Lydia, letting the heat of the fire lick at your bare legs while your eyes, once again, found him.

Peter Hale stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, the flames casting shadows across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and the glint in his eyes. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just watching. Guarded. Calm. Until you looked at him.

Then something in him shifted—his mouth twitching into a dangerous little smirk, eyes dipping down your body in one unbothered pass before returning to the fire.

Your thighs clenched.

You had been teasing him all night—lingering touches on your way past him, sitting just a little too close on the log earlier, whispering filthy little jokes under your breath only he could hear.

And now, sitting across from him in that short skirt and that smug grin, one leg swinging lazily as if you weren’t driving him insane, you knew he was at his limit.

Time to push.

You stood up slowly, stretching—arms above your head, shirt lifting just a little too far—and you made sure Peter’s eyes followed.

Then, without a word, you turned and walked toward the woods.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

You heard the crunch of his boots on the forest floor thirty seconds later.

By the time he caught up, your back was already against a tree, breathing fast from the thrill of being chased, of being wanted. Peter stepped out of the shadows like a goddamn wolf, eyes gleaming, mouth a flat line of hunger and restraint.

“I swear to fucking God—” he growled.

You grabbed his collar and yanked him into a kiss that stole the rest of the sentence from his throat.

It was filthy. Immediate. No teasing now—just mouths crashing, teeth clashing, lips parted and desperate as you gasped into each other. His hands were already under your skirt, grabbing the backs of your thighs, lifting you. You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, moaning when your back hit the bark behind you.

“Jesus,” Peter rasped against your mouth, grinding his hips against your center. “Do you ever stop?”

“Why would I,” you panted, licking into his mouth, “when this is how you act when I don’t?”

He chuckled darkly, biting your bottom lip. “You think this is me acting?”

You whimpered when he rocked against you again, the heat of his jeans grinding into your panties, soaked and sticking to you already. Your head thumped back against the tree.

“You’re such a little brat,” he growled, sliding one hand between you, cupping you through your underwear. “Getting me hard in front of the whole fucking pack. Whispering shit only I could hear.”

Your hips bucked. “Couldn’t help it,” you gasped. “You look so edible next to fire.”

Peter growled, shoved your panties to the side, and dragged his fingers through your slick, slow and filthy. You gasped.

“Jesus, you’re wet—”

“You did that,” you moaned, clenching around nothing. “Fix it.”

He didn’t need more.

Peter undid his jeans, enough to free himself, the sound of his zipper somehow the dirtiest thing in the woods. He lined up with you, looking at you like he could tear you in half and you’d thank him for it.

“Quiet,” he warned as he pushed in. “Or I’ll make you scream.”

You bit down on his shoulder to muffle your cry as he buried himself inside you in one brutal thrust, your nails clawing at his back.

“Fuck,” you whimpered. “Peter—”

“Shh, baby,” he hissed, thrusting again, slow but deep, each movement shoving you higher up the tree. “Don’t want your little friends coming to check, do you?”

You shook your head, moaning into his neck. The idea of Scott or Derek or Stiles stumbling into this? It made you wetter.

Peter felt it. “Oh, you like that,” he sneered. “You want them to find out how desperate you are for my cock?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, not even thinking. “I don’t care.”

His thrusts got harder. Meaner. The tree bark dug into your spine but you didn’t feel it—just the thick slide of him inside you, your thighs shaking around his waist, your body strung so tight you were seconds from unraveling.

“You wanna cum?” he whispered, filthy, fanged, dangerous.

“Please,” you gasped. “Peter, please—”

He reached between you, rubbing your clit in rough circles until you were gasping, head thrown back, toes curling in your boots. He slammed in one more time, and you broke apart—shaking, clutching him like a lifeline, moaning loud into his mouth as you came.

He groaned as you clenched around him, hips stuttering, and then he was following, burying himself deep with a low, guttural curse.

He held you there for a second, both of you panting in the dark, sweaty and still tangled together.

Then—

A snap.

A branch breaking.

Voices.

“Peter?” That was Scott. Close.

Peter pulled out quickly, helping you stand, yanking your panties back into place and pulling his jeans up with inhuman speed. You adjusted your shirt, shaking from the aftershocks and the adrenaline.

Peter leaned close, lips brushing your ear.

“If they catch us,” he growled, “I’ll make you ride me in front of them.”

You nearly collapsed.

But he straightened, smirked, and stepped out of the trees—calm, smug, like he hadn’t just fucked you against a tree with the entire pack 30 feet away.

You followed, flushed and glowing, hair mussed.

Scott and Derek looked up as you reappeared, both raising eyebrows.

Peter walked past them like nothing happened, but then Derek’s nose twitched.

He frowned. Deeply.

“You smell like her,” Derek muttered.

Peter glanced back with the laziest, dirtiest smirk in history.

“Then I must smell fantastic.”

[extinctlesspains]

Can we have a part 2 of the Yandere Sensei Wolf? It was really good and tbh I see him as a Yandere, like when I look at him I be like “yep Yandere fr”

Thank youuu

A/n: GRAHH HI HI!! Honestly, I think sensei wolf is DEFINITELY a yandere just because of well like... It's obvious he would? So, hope you enjoy! ♡

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 [𝑆. 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ! sᴇɴsᴇɪ ᴡᴏʟғ/ғᴇɴɢ xɪᴀᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴇᴇᴋs ᴏғ sᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, sᴇɴsᴇɪ ᴡᴏʟғ ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴜʀᴇs ʏᴏᴜ, ᴅʀᴜɢɢɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴀ sᴇᴄʟᴜᴅᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟs "ʜᴏᴍᴇ." ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ sᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsɪsᴛ, ᴡᴏʟғ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇs ᴛᴏ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ—ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

You should have left after the tournament.

You told yourself it was over, that Sensei Wolf’s obsession would die down once he had time to cool off. But deep down, you knew better. You had seen it in his eyes, that raw, unhinged devotion, the way he had snarled your name as he was dragged away.

You weren’t just his fixation. You were his purpose.

And now, you were his target.

It started subtly. At first, you thought you were being paranoid.

A shadow lurking too long outside the dojo. The feeling of being watched when you walked to your car at night. Strange calls where no one spoke, only deep, controlled breathing on the other end.

Your students noticed your unease. You put on a strong front, telling them to focus on training, but your senses were on high alert.

Then, things escalated.

Your apartment was broken into. Nothing was stolen, no signs of forced entry—but things were…off. Your laundry had been disturbed, and some clothes we're missing. Specifically, two pairs underwear. A drawer was left slightly ajar, even though you always closed it. Your bed smelled faintly of cologne you didn’t own.

You called the police, but there was no evidence, no sign of anything. “It’s probably nothing,” they said.

But you knew.

Wolf was getting bolder.

The final straw came one night after practice. Your students had all left, the dojo empty except for you. The silence felt oppressive, pressing in on you as you locked up.

Then you felt it. A shift in the air. A presence.

You spun around, your breath catching in your throat.

He was there.

Wolf stood in the dim light of the dojo, leaning casually against the wall as if he belonged there. His dark eyes gleamed with something twisted, something insatiable.

“You look tired,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Have you been sleeping well?”

Your stomach twisted. “Get out.”

He sighed, as if disappointed. “That’s no way to greet me after everything.”

“After everything?” you repeated, incredulous. “You’ve been stalking me, breaking into my home—”

“I was protecting you,” he interrupted smoothly. “Making sure no one else got too close. You don’t realize how vulnerable you are.”

You clenched your fists, rage bubbling beneath your fear. “I don’t need your protection. I need you to leave me alone.”

Wolf exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. “See, that’s the problem, Sensei. You still think you have a choice.”

Before you could react, he moved.

A blur of motion—too fast. You barely had time to step back before his hands were on you, strong and unyielding. You struggled, but he anticipated your every move, his grip like steel.

“Let go of me!” you shouted, twisting, but it was useless.

Wolf chuckled, low and almost affectionate. “I was hoping you’d put up a fight.”

You barely registered the prick of a needle in your neck before your vision blurred. Your body went weak, limbs heavy as your strength drained away.

The last thing you saw before the darkness took you was Wolf’s face, his smirk filled with triumph.

Then everything faded.

When you woke up, the world was wrong.

Your head throbbed, your limbs sluggish. The air smelled unfamiliar—clean, sterile, but tinged with something deeply personal.

Sheets. Soft. A bed beneath you.

You forced your eyes open, blinking against the dim lighting. Panic surged through you when you saw the room.

This wasn’t your apartment.

The walls were dark, lined with heavy bookshelves and soft lighting. The door—solid, reinforced. There was no window.

Then you saw him.

Wolf sat in a chair near the bed, watching you with a quiet, satisfied expression. He looked completely at ease, as if this was normal.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re awake.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Where the hell am I?”

Wolf leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Home.”

Your blood ran cold. “This isn’t my home.”

He tilted his head. “It is now.”

You sat up too quickly, your head spinning. A chain and collar was around your neck, stopping you from running. “You’re insane,” you spat, voice hoarse.

Wolf didn’t flinch. “I prefer determined.” He reached for something on the nightstand—a glass of water. “Drink.”

You knocked it away, the glass shattering on the floor. “Let me go, you psycho!”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a flash, he was on you.

He grabbed your wrist, pinning it against the mattress, his face inches from yours. “You need to understand something, Sensei,” he murmured, voice dangerously soft. “I’ve been patient. I’ve given you space. But you keep pushing me away.”

You glared at him, heart pounding. “Because I want nothing to do with you.”

His grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you hissed. “I’d rather die than be yours.”

Something flickered in his expression—pain? No, something worse.

Then he smiled.

“Then I guess I’ll have to break you first.”

Your stomach dropped.

Wolf released you, standing up with terrifying calm. “You’ll see, Sensei. I know you better than you know yourself. And eventually, you’ll stop fighting.”

Your hands curled into fists. “I’ll never stop fighting.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what I love about you.”

Then he walked toward the door, locking it behind him as he left.

You were alone.

Trapped.

And this time, there was no way out.

[lilithrosexoxo]

Fated Mates Ch.2 Answered Prayers

You feel his warm hand cup your face and feel fireworks dance between your skin where you two touch. Your nose smells an alluring scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafting from him and the scent has your brain melting. Wait but there’s no way your fated mate can be THE Prime Alpha Sung Jinwoo of the Nocturne kingdom can it? The legendary hero that has an army at his command lurking in the shadows giving him the nickname Shadow Monarch? The Jinwoo who was every omegas dream alpha and even had some omegas questioning their loyalty to their mate and completely going against their nature?

Your brain begins to malfunction that your fated mate yes your mate is indeed THE Sung Jinwoo. You look at him with shock clear on your face. He looks at you with worry, “Are you hurt? Was I too late?”, he says with concern, lacing his voice. He moves you gently with his hand as he checks you over. “Your hand has been damaged here, have a healing potion it should heal you right up with no scar”, he says while grabbing a potion from his inventory. You gratefully accept it and as the cool drink travels down your throat realize you’ve been mute this entire time. 

“Th-Thank you Alpha Sung”, you say lowering your head, your omega clearly submitting to the alpha.

“Please just call me Jinwoo”, he says looking down at you with a kind smile that has butterflies tap dancing in your stomach.

You were openly staring at him but you couldn’t help it. He was just so incredibly handsome in person and towering over you. He helped you up and you took note of the sparks that seemed to set off every time you two touched. You couldn’t believe that your alpha was the ALPHA among alphas. 

“Wait he is my alpha right? You know you felt a zing but what about Alpha Sung?”, you think to yourself.

You take note of the ballroom and see that the fight has greatly dwindled and that the elves are losing badly.

“You wait here, I’ll finish off the leader”, Jinwoo says while patting your head and walking away calmly.

“Alpha Sung, why are you here!? We have no quarrel with the Nocturne kingdom!”, the elf shouts while he gets into a defensive position.

“I was invited by a friend to this royal ball and decided to visit that friend. A friend you chose to attack and for that you will pay with your life”, he grits out through clenched teeth. Even your sharp eyes couldn’t register the alpha’s speed as you didn’t even register he moved until the elf leader was sitting in front of you in pieces. 

All the remaining wolves cheered and howled in delight at the end of the battle. After all was said and done only 29 wolves were lost while all 300 elves that attacked were slain. You figured Alpha Sung and your father were a good reason for those numbers.

Your father may be a king now but he was married into royalty as your mother is the current prime omega. He lived his early years as a wolf on the streets and even made a name for himself in the underground fight rings before he met your mother. You are the prime omega of your generation which was why it was so crucial of you to find a mate and why your family insisted on having these glamorous balls but you never imagined that your parents would invite Alpha Sung especially when he has his own kingdom to rule. 

Alpha Sung walked to your father after making sure you were okay. 

“Alpha Sung, I must thank you for saving not only many lives of my kingdom but, my precious daughter the prime omega as well”, your father said bowing deeply in gratitude which caused the remaining wolves to gasp.

Your father also wasn’t as pretentious as other royals so humility was big with him and something he instilled in all his children including yourself.

“Please raise your head Alpha Ravencrest. We are both kings, we are on equal footing well we were”, he says with a chuckle.

“Were?”, your father questions in confusion.

“Yes, I believe I have found them, my fated mate”.

The whole room erupts in gasps and shouts and omegas start pushing each other out the way as they clamor in front of Alpha Sung.

“Is it me Alpha Sung?”

“No it has to be me!”

“Stay away, I saw him first!”

“Obviously it’s me!”

You see tensions rise and a sour scent of jealousy waft through the air and into your nose. You sigh yet again what were you thinking of course there’s no way someone as grand as Alpha Sung would be your fated mate.

To everyone's surprise Alpha Sung walks back to you and grabs your hand, “The prime omega is my fated mate. I humbly request for her hand in marriage”, he says kneeling in front of you.

You hear gasps all around and see some omegas collapse at not being chosen. You feel your heart leap to your throat at the realization that he felt it too. It wasn’t all in your head, the moment that you’ve been waiting for your whole life was finally happening.

“Wait no this can’t be. Y/N is mine!”, you hear someone from the crowd shout as they push their way through and unfortunately for you it was Bazz, an alpha that swore up and down that you were fated mates even though you felt nothing towards him. It got so bad that you both had to travel to the holy temple and take a blood test to see if you were lying but the test never lies and proved that you were not fated mates. Even with that being done he still swears up and down that you were his. Jinwoo sends a murderous glare his way and you see Bazz hide behind another alpha.

“What Y/N is your fated mate!?”, you hear your sister Elowen screech.

Of course not all your siblings would be happy for you. Even though Elowen found her fated mate when she was 16, she was always a miserable cunt. You know you shouldn’t think that way about your sibling but she was part of the reason you felt you were never going to find your fated mate as the years went by. She would say that the lunar goddess cursed your kingdom when they had a prime omega like you and that you were defective. That she should’ve been the prime omega. It makes sense that something like this would irk her.

“Elowen watch your tongue when talking to an alpha, especially one as capable as Alpha Sung!”, your father chastises. “Alpha Sung me and my prime omega would love to discuss this more but, I must ride out with the knights tonight to restore order to the kingdom. We have received reports of ice elves attacking multiple cities”.

“Of course Alpha Ravencrest, your people come first. I will send some of my strongest warriors to assist you. Igris, Beru, come forth”, he commands as his shadow warriors step up.

“I would like both of you to assist Alpha Ravencrest into restoring order to the kingdom” he orders.

“Of course my king”, Beru says while Igris simply nods.

After the initial shock wears off Astrid hugs you.

Jinwoo notices and something inside him twitches. Seeing another alpha hug you and touch his precious omega has something dark squirming inside him. All of a sudden you smell a sour scent of burnt paper waft through the air but with all the commotion it’s hard to pinpoint the source. Astrid feels Alpha Sung’s murderous gaze and releases you with a clear of her throat.

“Thank you for protecting me princess Y/N but I must ask you to not put yourself in danger because of me. I swore to the lunar goddess to lay my life down for you, not the other way around”, she says looking downcast.

You know it must’ve hurt her alpha pride at being protected by an omega but, your body moved before your mind did.

“Of course Astrid, I understand”.

“Astrid, I leave the castle in your hands. Keep my family safe”, your father commands.

With that the knights and your father departed promising to return in a week. Before your father left for the night he gave instructions for the handmaidens to prepare a room for Alpha Sung in the same corridor as you. You were retiring for the night until you heard a knock on your door. 

You opened it and felt heat rush to your face as you realized you were standing in front of Alpha Sung with a white lace teddy on. You quickly went to cover your breasts but Alpha Sung grabbed your hands. His eyes glowed lavender and his canines and nails lengthened and sharpened. You could tell that he was having a hard time holding his alpha back.

“May I enter your nest princess Y/N?” he says as his grip on the door frame tightens to the point that it splinters under the force.

“Of course Alpha Sung”, you say hastily moving out of the way.

“I told you to call me Jinwoo, we are fated mates, there's no need to be so formal with me. I just stopped by to say one thing”.

“Yes Jinwoo?”, you say as you flutter your eyelashes looking up at him with (e/c) eyes.

He felt himself shiver hearing his name come out your mouth. God he was doing so much to keep his alpha from taking over. He was screaming at him to take you, mate you, make you scream his name until it was the only thing you knew but he knew he had to control himself and wait.

You felt Jinwoo lean by your side and whisper in your ear, “Enjoy your peaceful nights princess Y/N, once we’re married you won’t be getting any rest for a long time”, he whispered seductively in your ear. God the effect his voice has on you makes it feel like someone was wrapping your brain in silk. You swore you had an eargasm every time you heard him speak. You took deep breaths to calm yourself and once you felt yourself begin to come down back to earth you felt a wet tongue lick across your scent gland and that pleasure went straight to your clit. You came with a strangled cry and felt your claws dig into Jinwoo’s biceps as your slick sprayed across the front of your teddy and drip down your leg.

Jinwoo's eyes widened in surprise; he didn’t think a simple lick would make you cum he just wanted a taste. “Sensitive omega, I like that. I look forward to our lunar union, my omega”, he says his breath fanning across your neck against your scent glands, “Sweet dreams, I’ll see you tomorrow”, he says as he walks out the room back down the corridor.

[felassan]

Next is the BioWare Gear store variant of the artbook, which comes with this print of this new art of Solas. [image from the Gear store] (Felassan stuff here). Felassan aside, it also reminds of Andruil's golden Spear (Felassan tells a story where Fen'Harel is captured by Andruil..). I looove this art, it's so pretty. :> the armor he's wearing reminds me of this one. of course, the focal point of the image is the Lyrium Dagger, which he is pointing to. Solas' eyes glow blue, like the Dread Wolf's here, like the blue dagger, like they do when he uses his restored powers in Trespasser. (sometimes, the wolf's are depicted as blue, other times they're depicted as red. it's always 👁️ when wondering about the possible meanings of that choice). his cape is a deep navy or blue-black kinda tone and it billows, looking almost like a flowing river. I think this is a cool idea given stuff like all the watery language/imagery around the Fade, and I wonder if it was intentional given that the wavy lines in the background end where the cape begins.

the wolf is beside him, or maybe it's more accurate to say it kind of lurks in his shadow? there's also a blue wavy line, watery-kinda effect over much of the image. it's particularly emphasized around the bottom and on the wolf, with blue lines coming from its eyes. in general and kind of compositionally this image also reminds me of this one from a past trailer: you've got the billowing cape, the wolf, the glowing blue eyes, the wavey blue effect etc.

the most 👁️ aspect of this art though is his golden crown/headpiece. it reminds a lot of the Evanuris heads with their headpieces in the dragon's wings on the 'Black City' side of the vinyl cover

and more so of (given its shape is more similar to these ones), Flemythal's crown and the one Morrigan now wears in DA:TV.

Does this print depict a scene from the ancient elven past? Fen'Harel maybe with his own headpiece in his own right, or maybe a Mythal-similar headpiece when he was in her service or something. I hope we see him wearing this in the game. :D

[evanchantingpeters]

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 7 - Final)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Summary ─ A couple of months after Jake’s (Evan’s friend) tragic accident left him fighting for his life in intensive care, Evan is spiralling, lost in despair, a shadow of his former self. Just as a sliver of good news about his condition offers a ray of hope, Y/N steps in, determined to bring some light into Evan’s shattered world. She starts with a seductive dance and builds to a night of passion. But Evan has a surprise—one that will change everything in a way Y/N never saw coming.

Warnings ─ Obscene language, lap dance, oral (both receiving), overstimulation, mild daddy kink, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cowgirl, missionary, extra smutty—like you like it.

Read Part 1 | Read Part 2 | Read Part 3 | Read Part 4 | Read Part 5 | Read Part 6

Word count ─ 5.1K (I had a lot to say 🤫)

18+ This is ADULT content. I’m not your mummy to supervise your net access. If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Previously on: How I met Evan Peters (Part 6)

“W-what’s up, Jeremy?” he stutters, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s Jake,” Jeremy blurts out, his expression twisting into one of anguish. “He’s fallen off the roof.” Jeremy’s words hit like a punch to the gut, the colour draining from Evan’s face. The room goes deathly quiet, the weight of his words sinking in. The room spins as everything comes to a screeching halt.

Two months after Jake’s accident 

Thursday, 16:42 pm 

You settle into the cosy corner of his New York apartment, the city’s hustle muffled by the soft hum of the radiator. A rustic wooden desk hosting your work setup and a quirky lamp, which has seen better days but adds to the character, stands against the wall. A plush bean bag chair invites you to sink in while a baroque rug sprawls beneath your feet, and a bookshelf stuffed with books and random knick-knacks lurks by your side. Sunlight streams through light, breezy curtains, making it a perfect workspace for your remote routine. With Evan busy with press and meetings for the next few weeks, this place feels almost like a retreat—if only you could shake off the looming frustration of the Excel table before you.

You’d think by now you’d have mastered the art of not losing your shit at work, being the corporate girlie you are, while dealing with this stupid spreadsheet, but nope. Here you are, puffing like the Big Bad Wolf trying to blow down formulas that refuse to behave.

As you’re fighting and suffering through, your hand drifts toward your phone. You know how it goes. Brain’s fried, and next thing you know, you’re aimlessly scrolling through the endless pit of Instagram reels without even realising it. Well, this time it’s Evan’s name glowing like a beacon of your favourite “distraction,” and your stomach flutters, your heart racing.

Oh, hello, messages!

You open the chat, expecting a quick “I’ll be back in 10’, baby. Can’t wait to kiss you” text or maybe a meme about cats judging people (you know, standard fare). Instead, what do you find? A picture. But not just any picture. Oh no, this man, YOUR man, is standing there in a white tee, his pose giving swagger “yo” next to Todd McFarlane, a comic book legend. The whole shebang.

And here comes the string of messages:

“Babyyyy, look - Todd McFarlane in da house for the press conference!!” 

“he’s signed the Amazing Spider-Man hardcopy!!” 

“ill bring it home and we frame it ;)” 

“we’re going live.. tune in xx” 

“changed into the blazer and stripy tee you picked for me. Love you so ♥️”

Let’s pause here. Not at Todd McFarlane – who, mind you, is hands-down a god in his domain, but no. Your eyes, traitors that they are, keep sliding back to that picture of Evan.

Because damn.

Todd’s cool and all, but Evan in that white tee and messy curls? Where do you even begin? The man looks like he rolled out of bed straight into a photoshoot and decided to smoulder for no apparent reason. You know the one—that half-cocked sly smile that screams, “Yeah, I know what I’m doing to do, and you’re welcome.”

You catch yourself zooming in and drooling over him like a total goofball. The scrunched-up grimace. The luscious Tarzan hair. The way his eyes carry a hint of sadness and fatigue but with residues of that familiar spark he always has. It’s weird how something as simple as a picture can make your heart do that silly backflip thing over and over again after more than a year with him. 

Snap out of it, girl. Spreadsheet’s waiting. But no, instead of getting back to formulas, your brain takes a little detour down Memory Lane. Suddenly, you’re remembering the last time Evan was kneeling in front of you. Not in some adorable, “let me tie your shoes, princess” way, but more of an arousing “let me worship you, queen,” Roman Empire situation.

Oh, yeah. That night. 

You’d seized your throne aka that big armchair in the middle of the dimly-lit living room. And there he was, on his knees, completely surrendered to you. His tongue was lapping on your wet folds like you were the sweetest cake frosting he’d ever tasted. His slender fingers were plumping in and out of you in all the right spots as he slurped up your syrups and juices, sucking on your clit like it’s cherry on dessert.

His tongue would thrash and french kiss your puffy sobbing walls up near the throbbing bulb of your sensitive clit. You tugged on his hair, his brown curls wrapped around your fingers like reins as he pulled you apart, inch by inch. Your jaw tightened as his tongue and fingers mercilessly rutted into you, giving you crazed whiplash as you squirt, all while licking you clean with eager choked moans. 

Your body tremors and orgasmic vibrations were seismic… just like they are now as your cunt pulsates and aches for him, even though you’re sitting at the dining table, fully clothed and miles away from him. 

Funny how memories can sneak up on you like that, isn’t it?

But here’s the kicker. As much as you’d love for a repeat performance, that’s not where you guys are at these days. Not since Jake fell off the roof at the party he hosted at his place. You get it–one of Evan’s best friends is in a hospital bed, clinging to life while in a coma, and Evan’s drowning in his own sea of emotions and sorrow. The man is dragging so much weight on his shoulders right now. 

And you respect that. You really do. Your sex life has justifiably taken a backseat, but you’re not here to push or force him. What you have and share with him isn’t mere lust; you love him, and you acknowledge that he’s having it rough at the moment. You’ve been trying to be his rock, the one who keeps him grounded while he navigates the heavy blizzard of the tragedy. 

But you can’t help it. 

Sometimes, your mind slips back to those sizzling moments where your bodies speak in a language only you two comprehend. Because, let’s be real—he might be wearing the blazer you chose for him in the morning, but under all that fabric, you’re the one who gets to undress the real Evan. And if that’s not worth waiting for, you don’t know what is.

You sigh, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, but you’ve left the spreadsheets and work far behind with all those cheeky little fantasies that gnaw on your brain. Still knee-deep in wet daydreams of Evan and his—well, *coughing* talents, when the universe decides to slap you in the face with reality. 

That “we’re going live, tune in xx” text blinks back at you from the chat, practically yelling to stop fantasising and actually be the supportive girlfriend you claim to be. 

Gasp.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. Gasp again.

The press conference! You need to watch it. Like, now. 

You scramble up from the table so fast, you’d think the chair is lava, and launch into a desperate hunt for the TV remote. The remote is like a cryptid—always hiding in the most inconvenient places at the worst times. Last week? In the fridge. Don’t ask. Today? Who knows. You’re flipping couch cushions like you’re on an archaeological dig.

“WHERE IS IT?!” you yelp, your high-pitched voice bouncing off the walls like you’re a banshee in panic mode. Female rage core.

Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. It’s like the remote’s decided to pack its bags and set off to Narnia with no return ticket.

Curse you, technology masterminds.

Plan B. 

You rush back to your laptop, slide your fingers along the trackpad to wake it up, and—oh no, what’s this? Your whole screen’s been hijacked by the most evil of phrases:

Software Update: 30% Complete.

Are. You. For. Real. 

You stare at the loading bar like you can will it to go faster. Or pretend you’re not watching, so it speeds up. Smart but nah, that’s placebo—no such luck. This thing is moving slower than a Monday morning during rush hours, and if you wait for it, you’ll be watching Evan’s interview in the past tense or through his narration once he’s back home. 

You let out a huff that could probably power a small wind turbine and whip out your phone, praying to every deity that your Wi-Fi doesn’t fail you amidst crisis. 

“Come on, come on,” you mutter through gritted teeth, frantically tapping apps like your fingers are on caffeine overload. And just when you think someone is playing another cruel trick on you—boom, there it is. The live stream. 

The screen lights up, and there comes baby Evan on stage, looking all sleek and profesh in his blazer (you knew the combo with the stripes underneath would work wonders *proud stylist smiling*). He’s sitting on a stool along with his co-stars, all of them gathered in this massive amphitheatre for their upcoming movie press tour. 

He’s got the mic in his hand, finishing up a sentence with that smooth, husky tone. You know, that voice that sounds like a lullaby wrapped in velvet. But there’s also the twist of dorky humour and the cute brow furrows he taps into when he’s either totally in his element or way too awkward. 

The interviewer gives him a nod, then sighs. Your stomach drops.

The next question is about Jake, as he’s guy well known for scripting some of the most beloved TV shows. If there were a Hall of Fame for TV writers, his star would be as big as a small planet. He’s adored by fandoms for his wit and creativity, and now you’re all grappling with the fallout from his misfortune.

You can see the shift in Evan’s face from media charm to something… darker, melancholic. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, but you know him. That tiny flicker of anguish behind his eyes filters through the cracks.

Evan takes a sharp breath and clears his throat. “Yeah, Jake was moved from LA and remains in ICU here in New York,” he admits, voice steady but edged with quiet vulnerability. “But there’s… a... there’s a glimmer of hope. He moved his hand today.”

For a second, the world stops spinning. Did he just say—? He moved?!

Your heart does a somersault, and you can’t help it—you cheer and clap right along with the audience, even though you’re alone in the living room in your mismatched socks, overstretched yoga shorts, and messy bun. Who cares, honestly? Jake moved his hand. 

Evan lets the crowd’s enthusiasm bubble up for a second before he delicately taming it. “It’s good news,” he continues, his voice like a fuzzy blanket, soothing yet cautious. “But let’s not start planning the parade just yet—there’s a long road ahead for him. We’ll have to see how his health evolves from here. I just wanted to share this little nugget of hope. His family’s already spreading the word, and they gave me the green light to pass it on to all of you.”

There’s a tightness in his voice, and you can tell he’s got a fortress built around his emotions, probably fighting not to let it crumble in front of all those people and cameras. Your baby’s always been strong like steel this way, the type who carries everyone’s baggage on his shoulders without ever letting on how heavy it is. 

You sit there, phone in hand, staring at his face on the screen. There’s so much going on behind those eyes, and you know he probably feels like crap underneath that calm exterior. 

You wish you could reach through the screen and just be there with him in a “I’ve got you, you’re not alone” kind of way. You’ve been weathering this storm together, and it’s been tough as hell. It’s taken everything in him just to stay afloat, but he’s doing it. He’s really doing it...

There’s something about post-work Thursdays that sends you into this frantic, impulsive must-clean-everything-in-sight mode. Not that Evan cares if there’s a pile of laundry in the corner or if the dishes are threatening to stage a rebellion in the sink, but still. He doesn’t expect you to tackle it all just because you’re working fully from home; he can do it himself, but you want the place to look neat and tidy. You know, like “I have my life together and didn’t just spend the last two hours binge-watching cooking videos on YouTube” level of very demure, very mindful adulthood.

So here you are, in full-on cleaning tornado mode—scrubbing the counter with the kind of intensity that could probably burn calories—when your ears perk at the rustling sound. 

That magical jingle of keys. The ignition. The click of the door unlocking.

Baby Evan’s home.

You drop the sponge like it’s on fire and just bolt. You don’t even think. It’s pure instinct, like you’re a puppy who heard the treat jar open. Your pulse leaps, your feet fly, and before you know it, you’re flinging the front door open just as he steps in. And there he is.

Your man. Your whole heart.

He’s got his arms full—takeout bags in one hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder, looking more mouth-watering than anything that could possibly be in those containers. His hair’s a little ruffled, his shirt rumpled from the day, but to you, he might as well be walking straight out of a rom-com.

“EVIEEEE!” you squeal, pouncing at him with the enthusiasm of a kid on a sugar high.

“Whoa!” he chuckles heartily, catching you mid-air. He spins you around even though you can sense the stiffness in his body as he battles not to drop the dinner. He’s out of breath, but he holds you tight, like he’s afraid to let go. His backpack slides down his arm, and for a second, you’re just tangled together—glued around him, his hands grasping on you firmly.

“Couldn’t wait to see me, huh?” he teases, his voice hoarse from the long day. But you can see it in his eyes—he’s just as hyped to be back in your little cocoon as you are. 

“You have no idea,” you breathe, and before you can utter anything else, his lips are on yours, kissing you like he’s been starved for weeks. You’re pretty sure you hear the bags crinkle between you two, but whatever… they can wait.

It’s not just a kiss. Oh no, this is the you-just-got-kissed-senseless kind that says, “I’m never letting you out of my reach again.” It’s deep and sloppy, and you feel it all the way down your toes. Little lewd moans escape your bodies as your tongues greet each other, swirling around in a lustful dance. He tastes like toffee, baby powder, warmth, comfort, and home.

You melt into each other, completely forgetting about the bags or the fact that you’ve still got soap on your hands. You twirl faster together as his hands mischievously squeeze your ass, making you giggle into his mouth.

“I was counting the hours to get to you, Y/N, and time was a total bitch today,” he grumbles, and it’s a husky purr near the nape of your neck. Your plump lips curl into an “awh, my poor baby” pout, cupping his cheeks in your palms as you swarm his face with little pecks. 

When he finally sets you down, you’re both grinning like idiots. Your heart’s doing cartwheels, and your stomach feels like you’ve swallowed a whole bunch of butterflies. You missed him. Not just having him around, but all the little things tied in—his laugh, his hands on you, the way he stares at you like you’re a precious gem.

Closing the door behind you, you pace together towards the kitchen, and get the itch to drop the question, “Did Jake really move?” Your voice is hopeful, but there’s a little tinge of fear there too. You know how much this means to Evan, so you need to tread about cautiously.

He pauses, chucking his backpack aside before turning to you. His eyes soften, and he nods, stepping closer. His hands find your waist again, his face buried in the crook of your neck. “Yeah. He really did.”

Before you can even process the relief, Evan’s lips are on yours again, soft whimpers rolling off him. This time, the kiss is slower, more tender like silky ribbons on your mouth. His lips trail from your mouth down to your neck, his breath tingly against your heated skin. “Gosh, how much I needed you today,” he whispers between kisses, his voice dense with emotion as he presses his mouth lower, toward the neckline of your sports bra. His fingers gently graze your sides and rest on your hip bones before massaging your ass, and your breath hitches.

You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension melt out of him as his body leans into yours. “Me too,” you huff out, because honestly, you feel like you’ve been holding your breath all day, just waiting for him to come home.

But then you pull away slightly, the thought of Jake scratching the back of your mind. “Can we go see him now?”

Evan sighs, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, his breath warm and steady. “Not tonight,” he exhales, taking a couple of steps back. “It’s just family. They wanna keep it low with the visits.”

You shake your head in acknowledgment, nervously biting your fingernail. You get it—you really do—but there’s still that little sting of disappointment tugging at your chest. “How ‘bout tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, glancing over at you again as he tears the bags apart and unpacks the food. “We’ll try tomorrow afternoon. His family’s still adjusting, but I’ll talk to them.”

The relief that washes over you is like a pleasant, summer breeze, calming your frayed nerves. Tomorrow. You let out a breathy, “Okay, great,” your shoulders finally loosening. As you approach him to help dispose of the bags, Evan’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in one quick, playful motion, pulling you flush against him. 

You barely have time to gasp before his lips crash against yours, his tongue barging in your mouth without warning, assaulting yours in tantalising ways that are better left unsaid. You loop your arms around the back of his head and drag him closer, your tits cushioning his shredded chest.

“Don’t leave, please,” he hushes, his lips caressing yours. His voice is huskier now, a bit rougher around the edges, and you can feel the warmth from his body merging with yours. His free hand slips down to the supple flesh of your waist again, fingers curling just under the hem of your top to tuck underneath.

You smirk against his mouth, tilting your head slightly. “You know, we do live together, sir” you tease, playfully pinching the tip of his nose.

“That’s a reminder in case you forgot,” he quips, nuzzling into the slope of your neck. His broad shoulders are curved over you from behind like a shield, throwing every organ in your body on high alert, your heart drumming violently.

He pulls back, and before you can react, he gives your ass a quick, cheeky smack that makes you jump. Your mouth drops open in surprise, but he just grins smugly, like he’s fully aware of what he’s done, and he’s proud of it.

“Hey!” you whimper, swatting at him, but there’s no denying your pulse thumps fiercely.

“What?” he squeaks sheepishly, throwing his hands up in exasperation, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “You look too good to keep my hands off. Plus, guess who was stuck in my head the whole day. Hint—it’s not the burgers,” he fires back, waggling his eyebrows at you. 

You roll your eyes comically, but your heartbeat is up now. There’s something about the way he’s staring down at you—like he’s hungry, and it’s not just for the takeout. You notice it when he leans in again, this time with a heat that wasn’t there a moment ago. His lips trace a line of open mouthed kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. Your fingers twist around his shirt, gripping it, as his hands roam a little lower, tugging you closer until you can feel every ounce of him pressed against you.

“Speaking of burgers, if food’s your love language, then you’re speaking mine fluently,” you chuckle, but the second you catch the look Evan gives you—whoa, buddy. Food’s officially second on his menu. His eyes are a pair of flamed balls, fixed onto you like you’re the main course, dessert, and everything in between—like you’re the most appetising thing in the room.

And, let’s just say, he’s a lot more “warmed up” than usual. His kisses grow deeper, rougher, and the way he’s touching you are the real giveaway… The man’s practically simmering.

And oh, honey, you’re more than pleased to help him get away tonight. So, in your most casual, not-at-all-planned-in-your-head-already way, you decide tonight’s the night to put up a show… Literally. 

You let your hands glide down his chest, feeling every erratic beat of his heart beneath his shirt. “You’ve been through a lot lately,” you murmur softly, your fingers dipping lower until you’re just hovering over his belt buckle, toying with the metal. “How about I pamper you tonight?”

You let your tongue slide over his upper lip, and damn if he doesn’t shudder. His eyes flash with thrill and curiosity—mixed with something darker, more primal. “Oh?” His voice comes out in this sexy rasp like he’s intrigued but still playing along, letting you lead for now.

You bite back a smug grin. Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.

With a playful wink, you step back, making sure to drag your hand across his chest one last time. “Sit tight, big boy,” you purr, backing away with just the right amount of sway in your hips. “This show’s just getting started.”

You saunter down the hallway, feeling his gaze burning a path down your back. You can feel your heart pounding as you head into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. The second it clicks shut, you lean against it for a second to catch your breath. The adrenaline makes your hands quiver a little as you rummage through the drawer.

There it is: that little black number you’ve been saving for a night just like this. 

A lacy, black lingerie piece, sheer in all the right places, hugging curves like it was made for you. You shimmy it on, adjusting the straps, making sure everything’s sitting just so. 

A quick glance in the mirror as you set your hair free from the bun—tousled, sexy-but-effortless vibe, check. The lace hints at more than it conceals, and your lips curl into a slow smile. Oh, yeah, he’s done for. You toss on a silky robe, leaving it untied, the lace peeking through just enough to give him a preview. A little fragrance spritz and a light touch of your lipstick, and you’re sorted.

When you open the door and walk back into the living room, you find him perched on the couch, his eyes snapping to you like magnets, intense and feral, as you come into view. His posture is stiff, knuckles blanched as they grip the cushions like he’s holding on for dear life. His pupils, wide and black with want, devouring the sight of you as if you are something forbidden, yet irresistible.

His gaze lingers, darkening when it catches on the soft peek of skin where your robe parts. He swallows hard, audibly, and when you let the silky fabric slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet, his jaw clenches—hard (hint: and not just his jaw).

The low light of the room encases you as it casts a sensual glow over the room, deepening the shadows and sharpening the tension between you two like a blade.

“F-fuck,” he wheezes, like the breath’s been knocked clean and shallow out of him. He tries to maintain some semblance of self-control, but the sharp despair in his voice betrays him. He sinks deeper into the couch, spreading his legs slightly, shooting you this look that’s pure, unfiltered desire as he drinks you in. 

You want to torture him, enjoying how his gaze rakes over every inch of you, so you slowly strut over to him. Each step is deliberate, your hips swinging in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that’s nothing short of tempting. His composure slips just a little more—a twitch in his jaw, a harsh swallow, the way his chest rises and falls, faster with every second. His eyes flick down to the curves, then back up to your scandalous tits before snapping back to your face.

The heat from his body radiates into yours as you come to a stop, your thighs rubbing against his knees, and his hands instinctively move to grab your waist. But you’re not giving in that easily. “Uh-uh,” you purr, wagging a teasing finger at him, your lips forming a sly smile. 

His fingers freeze, but his eyes burn with frustration as you stretch, purposely slow, letting your ass hover just above his lap. The unmistakable press of his hardness through his jeans sends a jolt of arousal through you, and you can’t help but smirk. “I’m in charge tonight, remember?” 

Evan lets out a furious groan, his head falling back defeated against the cushions, hands flexing in silent restraint. The power you hold over him tonight? Oh, it’s delicious, addictive. You throw him one last, seductive glance before turning around, giving him the full view of your barely-there lingerie—delicate straps criss-crossing down your back and framing your ass like a gift he’s dying to unwrap.

You hear as a muttered curse slips past his lips, low and guttural. He’s so close to breaking, and you haven’t even actually started yet. You scroll through your phone’s playlist, cueing up the perfect song for the occasion. The room is soon filled with the slow, sultry beats of Beyoncé’s ‘Dance For You,’ wrapping around both of you like a spell. You start slow, letting the music guide your hips, rolling in hypnotic circles. 

You saunter towards a nearby chair, aka your prop, bending over it as your body flows like liquid heat to the beat. His eyes religiously follow every motion, waiting, his breathing growing heavier like he’s holding on a thread with every flick of your hips, every arch of your spine.

You roam your fingers up my body, teasingly stopping at your hips before dragging them higher, skimming over your breasts. With agonising slowness, you untie your bra, holding his attention and eye contact hostage. The second the lace slips off your body, you toss it in his direction with a devilish grin. He catches it with a hungry grunt, burying his face in the fabric like a man possessed, his smirk turning malicious as he inhales deeply.

“God, you’re killing me,” he groans, eyes exploding with thirst for you. The sight of him, chest heaving, lips slightly parted—oh, it’s so sadistically satisfying. 

You’re gonna make him beg for it. 

Leaning forward, just enough for your bare breasts to graze his chest, you bring your lips up to his ear, hot breath fanning the side of his face, “Good,” voice dripping with a promise for more. You pull back just a fraction, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’m just getting started.” 

You circle behind him, and he twists his head, tracking your every move, but you’re not finished (no pun intended).

“Please, Y/N. Come sit on my lap, or my face…just—” His voice breaks, raw and pleading, his body squirming as he shifts, desperate for release. The power thrumming through your veins is out of this world, and you bite your bottom lip knowing you’ve got him right on the edge. 

You start with the lightest touch, dragging your fingers over the hard lines of his shoulders, tracing down the sculpted muscles of his chest, feeling the shudder that runs through him as you slide lower. Your fingers brush over the taut muscles of his thighs.

His stiff length twitches beneath your touch, his growl of desire low and animalistic. His hands stretch again, desperate to reach for you, but you chuckle softly, knowing he’s at your mercy tonight. His usual command is gone, flipped on its head, and that hunger in his eyes tells you he’s loving every second of it.

The music pulses through the room as you circle back around to him. You bend low, your curves on full display, just close enough for him to grab a handful of your ass with an eager groan that rumbles through his chest. He finally pulls you into him, lips attacking your skin, trailing down your spine with feverish kisses as he peels your thong off. His breath brushes against your slit and clit as he descends, his lips so dangerously close it sends your body humming with desire. 

He can smell your fertility; the pheromones emitting from your body intensify his animal instinct to breed. His breathing is erratic now, his body practically vibrating with need to take you, but you still “hold the leash.”

He breaths come out in heavy bursts as he watches you straddle him, knees planted on either side of his hips. You grind down slowly, feeling the friction as you move in slow, sensual circles. His hands latch onto your thighs, his grip harsh and desperate, leaving marks that make your skin tingle. But still, you don’t let him seize control. Not yet.

Leaning in, you pepper steamy kisses along his neck, feeling his rapid pulse beneath your lips, your teeth tracing the sharp edge of his jawline. You tenderly bite at his earlobe, and he growls lowly, his hands spasming with despair to grab you, but even then, you won’t allow him to touch you the way he wants.

“The more you resist, the harder I’ll fuck you,” he warns with a hiss, his voice dark. It’s a threat and a vow all rolled into one that sends a heat pooling between your thighs.

“Perfect,” you retort in a hushed whisper against the shell of his ear, lips barely brushing the corner of his mouth—teasing but not quite giving in. “That’s the idea, baby.” 

You’re serving cunt, and he knows it well.

With a slow, calculated slide, you lower yourself down his body, your hands stripping him of his blazer as you go. You let your hands trace over his thighs and the hardened, erected mound in between. Kneeling between his legs, you lock eyes with him, watching the way his breath stutters, anticipation swirling in the air. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, your fingers stroking his length just enough to drive him nuts as he lets out a shaky gasp.

You pop the button on his jeans and pull down the zipper with your teeth. The second you free him from the tight confines of denim, his aching cock springs out, pulsing with raw desire for you, the fabric of his boxers barely able to contain him.

You glance up at him again with a smug smile before leaning down, your lips brushing along his head. His hips buck instinctively, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. But you take your time, taunting him with light flicks of your tongue. 

Finally, you wrap your lips around him, licking his sensitive red tip with the end of your tongue. You swirl it around and lap up the shiny little pearls of precum that keep seeping out in his pent-up arousal. “F-fuuuck, Y/N. You’re gonna make me blow in a sec,” he grunts out with a hitched voice as you take his whole size in your mouth. 

Your eyes flash up at him, filled with mischief as you take him deeper, your lips stretching to fit his full size. “Isn’t that the point?” you murmur, your voice on a seductive octave. “I want you to cum hard... fucking hard all over me.”

Your fingers trace the thick vein along the underside of his shaft before squeezing his hardness and pumping with a fast and firm tempo. Your hand works in sync with your mouth as you suck the upper half of his delicious cock, pulling him in and out, each movement making him gasp and buckle uncontrollably.

His head falls back, eyes screwed shut, muscles tensing. Some inaudible drabble slips off him as he thrusts into your mouth. Pools of saliva are pouring out of the edges of your lips, your eyebrows knitted together as you keep gagging at his cock hitting the back of your throat. You push further, your lips tight around him as you meet his gaze once more, your eyes wild with intensity. His fingers weave into your hair, but he doesn’t force you—he doesn’t have to. You’re in the saddle tonight, guiding him closer to his magical release.

Your hand reaches for his, fingers intertwining as your head bobs up and down on him, earning little moans of delight from his chest. He’s a hot mess; trembling under the weight of the pleasure you’re generously giving him as you slide your mouth down his dick, your cheeks hollowed in a blend of sensual sucks and frantic pumps. 

The sound of you gagging, the wet slurp of your lips, and the way you glance up at him so innocently, brow furrowed with effort, has him reeling. “Ahh, yeah, keep going,” he breathes out, biting his bottom lip.

He gets a good yet gentle grasp of your hair, thrusting into your mouth in shallow, desperate strokes, but you maintain control, building him up slowly, methodically. He adores your lips, especially the way they loop around his dick and release these mewling sounds against it.

But now, his whole body is shuddering, his cock jerking inside, and you can feel the tell-tale sign he’s about to bust his load in your mouth. The blood rushes to his dick, draining any sane thought and cell in his brain, leaving him driven only by his primal instinct and craving for climax.

You slide onto his throbbing cock once more, gobbling on it like the insatiable whore you are. He presses your head down and keeps you there for a few seconds. As you detach from his member to draw a breath, his body immediately locks up, his abs contracting, and then—he’s there. 

His head snaps back as he erupts shivering whimpers of your name, painting your face with copious amounts of his thick, white, and deliciously salty cum, his release spilling over your lips. 

You open your mouth, tongue stretched out, catching the last drops as you pump him, milking every ounce of his release. His cum drips down your chin, and you let your fingers swipe off the remnants from your face, licking them off slowly, savouring the taste. Nothing goes to waste as you look up at him, lips wet, cheeks flushed with the aftermath of his orgasm.

“You’re one hungry bitch, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice strained, still shaky from the intensity of his high. He laughs weakly, dragging his thumb across your cheek with a tender caress, though his hard-on still convulses, not quite ready to soften. He winces as he tries to adjust himself, zipping up his jeans with difficulty, but the look of satisfaction on his face is unmistakable.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, licking your lips as you flash him a sly, knowing smirk. His chest rises and falls heavily, his face reddish, eyes droopy, still lost in the haze of afterglow. 

Without wavering your eyes from him, you crawl up and climb to his lap, feeling your pussy drip with every inch of his skin that presses against you. He ogles your naked torso like a dog drooling over the bone. You position yourself just right, his semi-clothed swollen tip nudging against your slippery entrance.

“I am hungry for you, baby,” you purr with a pout as your fingertips draw lazy circles over the ridges of his abs. His eyes darken, filled with a renewed lust as he watches you, licking his lips like a predator eyeing its prey.

Letting out a dark, throaty chuckle, he wastes no time—he hammers his lips against yours, shoving his tongue deep into your mouth and kissing you with reckless abandon. His hands greedily paw at your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers, tugging them just hard enough to make you moan against his lips. 

The arousal between you is electric as your body grinds against his, the friction sending sparks flying through you both; it’s like static rubbing off against each other, and you are about to feel yourself short circuit any minute. 

His hands hook around your ass cheeks before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp in pleasure, the sound echoing through the room. You press your lips harder against his with a mewl, tongues tangling.

“Evan,” you hush out between sloppy kisses, barely coherent amidst loud teeth smacking and clashing together. All thanks to his fingers dipping between your legs, teasing your clit with maddening eights as he grins victoriously, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you.

“My slut’s ready for me?” he hums, giving your ass another smack, the sound of flesh against flesh making you quiver with delight. Your hips swerve on his raging boner, the body-against-body friction igniting an ever-powerful spark within you both. To say you’re a ‘mere’ tease for him is an understatement. 

“You’re doing so good, my baby girl,” he gruffs, and his rough, veiny hands glide possessively toward your rocking waist as you begin to rub yourself against his thigh, slowly... teasingly. Every roll of your hips has him biting his lip, his eyes glued to the way your body moves against him.

“You’re in night care, baby boy, remember?” you hush, your voice laced with dominance as you lift your hips, fingers deftly undoing his trousers again. Your hand wraps around his cock, positioning him at your slick slit. Slowly, achingly slow, you sink down onto him, inch by inch. The stretch forces a moaning gasp out of you as your body adjusts to accommodate his size. Fiery electricity surges through you both, and he hisses watching as your pulsating pussy desperately tries to swallow his cock.

His hands tighten on your hips as you take him deeper, your nails digging into his biceps when he bottoms out, filling you completely. The fullness makes you shudder, your breath leaving you in a jagged burst as his tip presses snugly against your cervix. The deep groan that escapes his throat vibrates through your body, making you clench around him involuntarily, his hips stilling cautiously.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, languid circles, setting a rhythm that’s equal parts torture and bliss for both. His hands grip you harder, leaving faint red imprints on your flushed flesh, but he doesn’t push or pull—he’s letting you have the upper hand in riding him, his eyes dark and hungry as he admires you, mouth parted. The way he’s looking at you though? Like you’re a goddess descending from the heavens just for him. Oh, that does something to you.

“Look at you, baby. So fucking gorgeous, taking me like that,” he murmurs, pride and desire dripping from every word. A crooked smile is etched on his face hearing the sloshing whines squawk out of your poor needy folds as they cling to his cock. Every thrust, every grind, every little whimper from your lips makes his large member throb inside you, stretching you deliciously as you plop up and down on him.

You lean down, sealing your lips in a hungry, desperate kiss, your tongues twirling in a messy dance. It’s all teeth and moans again as he hits that sweet spot deep inside. It’s the type of kiss that makes time stop, like nothing else exists except for the raw, primitive connection between you two. 

His hands trail up your bare back, fingers tangling in your hair, keeping you close as you grind down harder. Your bodies move in sync, perfectly attuned to each other, and you can feel his cock twitching inside you with every movement. His eyes dart down to your bouncing breasts and toned stomach, but you quickly grab his jaw, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “Nu-uh,” you whisper against his lips, your voice tinged with authority. “Eyes on mine, boy.”

He lets off a hearty chuckle, even going so far as to wriggle your ass back against him. “You feel so damn amazing, baby,” he huffs, voice rough with desire, talking over your whiny babbles. He cranes his neck to kiss the edge of your jaw before tenderly nipping at the skin.

Panting heavily, you exhale, “I could do this all night.” Your hips move faster, sliding up and down his thick length, the friction sending bolts of euphoria through you. His breathing grows ragged, and you can feel the tension rising, winding tighter and tighter. You’re so soft—sweet gummy flesh compressing around him with such ease, wringing him tight like a vice. He chokes when your pussy flutters—the way you clamp down on his dick makes his body go slack and his eyes roll back.

He lets out a low groan, barely holding himself together as your walls squeeze around him. “Thaaat’s it, hngh. This pussy knows it’s place,” he grouses, and your eyes widen, realising the shift in dynamic—he’s reclaimed control, already winning ground, sis. Before you know it, his plumpish tip drills further between each corner of your dripping cunt. Your small sobs amplify as he starts to move beneath you, his hips thrusting up harder, making your entire body quake with each deep pound.

“I love fucking you so much,” he grunts, nearly whining, his head tilting back as his cock jerks inside you.

Before you can fully catch your breath, Evan’s grip tightens on your hips. With one fluid motion, he lifts you off him, his arms hook beneath your thighs. You gasp, caught off guard, your body hanging in his grasp as he stands up, practically growling with primal need.

“You’re mine now,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, sending a bolt of excitement straight down your spine.

Without hesitation, he spins you around, carrying you across the room, your legs instinctively bundling around his waist. You’re in such a sweet, sexual brain fog that it takes you a second to get what’s going on. With one swift movement, he sweeps his arm across the dining table, sending glasses, cutlery, and whatever else is there crashing to the floor in a chaotic symphony of clatters.

“Evan!” You giggle dazedly, hands clasping on his shoulders as he sets you down on the table, the cold wood against your back making you shiver—but not nearly as much as the fire blazing in his eyes.

He leans over you and shushes you with a kiss, his lips brushing against yours as he pushes your legs apart. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You don’t have time to argue—not that you want to. He grabs your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the table, his body wedged firmly between your legs. There’s no remorse in his eyes—just pure, animalistic desire. One hand snakes under your ass, the other glides down your left thigh, lifting it effortlessly over his broad shoulder. The way he leans down and looks at you now, almost in slow motion... gosh. It’s like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed… like nothing else matters but taking you right here, right now, and it sets your entire body on fire.

He wants to smash, and he’ll get it.

The scent of your cunt is intoxicating, stirring every primal instinct inside Evan that he knows he must keep in check. He draws his hips back slowly, only his tip nestling inside you, then jams just once inside you. Your whole body jumps at the impact, your pleading eyes boring deep into his, a breathy hum punched out of you. He pulls back and slams forward again, growling through his teeth. Your pillowy walls are cuddling him, his heavy balls aching to be drained, eager to breed the fertile womb his tip is wedged against.

His hands roam up your thighs, grasping you like he can’t get enough. With each slow, deliberate stroke, he sinks deeper into you, your body arching off the table in response. The sensation of him rutting in and out of your sobbing sex is overwhelming—every movement has your breath hitching, your fingers clutching the edge of the table, desperate for some kind of anchor.

Your orgasm is building again, fast and intense. As the pressure inside you give way to climax, tears cascade down your burning cheeks, your features contorted in ecstasy. 

“E-Evan, I can’t take it! T-too much!”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Say please, baby,” he grits out, his voice low and commanding. His hips thrust into yours harder, making you lose all sense of logic. Your mind is blank, mouth hanging open, unable to form words as the pleasure consumes you.

“P-please,” a pained mewl tumbles out of you, and that single word tips him off the edge. His hips stutter, and with a series of deep thrusts along with a carnal chant of “ah, ah, ah, ah” pouring from his lips, he gushes inside you—creamy gooey ropes of cum dribble into you, not missing at all.

He’s panting heavily, hips jerking involuntarily as he empties himself, filling you to the brim with thick, sticky cum.

His groans of satisfaction blend with your breathy moans as you cling to him, feeling his weight stick against your skin like it’s adhesive. You bite into the soft skin of his neck, muffling your whimpers as he continues to thrust lazily, drawing out every last bit of his orgasm.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice low and raspy, each word filled with the same raw desire that’s coursing through your veins. “I wanna feel you.”

That’s it—the words, the intensity, the feeling of him completely owning your body, claiming you in a way that makes your head spin—have you on a chokehold. You suck in lungfuls of air as the incoming pangs of orgasmic waves smash over you with impossible force. You can’t hold back the loud moans spilling from your lips, your body arching up and writhing beneath him as you come hard, your walls spasming around his cock.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand gently stroking your cheek, his breath hot against your lips. Your body convulses uncontrollably in his arms as he rides out your climax with you, his cock still throbbing inside your over-sensitive core. 

As you come down, your breaths laboured and uneven, he buries his head to your chest, his mouth warm against your skin as his kisses travel down to your boobs, his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. Each subtle touch sends aftershocks of pleasure through you, your body still buzzing from the intensity of it all.

You huff, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. “You’re a menace, you know that?” you whisper, still trying to catch your breath. But he’s not done yet. You giggle softly as he moves lower, planting tingly smoochies to your skin, his breath like a warm breeze against your thighs.

“You smell like honey… I wanna taste you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into the soft curve of your inner thigh. His fingers part your sloping folds, spreading you open for him as he watches the glistening cum leak from your swollen pussy. His primitive need to eat you up tests his sense of control. 

His tongue plunges between your labia, stretching them up with a slow and deliberate lick. Your thighs quiver around his head in the aftershocks of your climax, straining moans and semi-shrieks falling from your lips as his tongue dives deeper between your folds. The wet sound of him slurping up the mix of your juices and his cum is obscene, but it only drives you wilder, especially as he mumbles the moto, “Y/N... Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Your fingers lace in his drenched thick, curly brown locks, holding him in place. The untamed animal inside him is finally sated, fed well at the meal between your thighs. His teeth sink ever-so-lightly into the plump pout of your lips, and you can’t stop the desperate little wails flipping from your throat. 

Your eager pussy can’t help but drool. Streams of your slick cascade down between the crevices of your thighs and coat the entirety of his fingers. With a rosy flat tongue, he pads and licks you clean, taking every few seconds to pull his fingers in—only to push them right back out. As he re-enters, he pokes against your g-spot again, and again, and again…

That’s all it takes for the sharp twisting coil to snap within you for the second time, and your thighs turbulently shake within his feeble grasp. “Fuck, fuck,” you choke out, your breath coming in hollow bursts as you feel his hushed praises and loving words ghost against your clit. You can’t stay still for the life of you—it’s as if every muscle in your body rips apart once you come into his mouth, your jaw slackened and your eyes widened.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” you ramble, and Evan’s still flicking his tongue against your sobbing slit.

You’re making a mess out of him, and he’s still eating it up—the dedication. His chin got such a pretty glimmer of shine all thanks to your slick running down. With an echoing pop, he slides his fingers off your pussy, stretching his digits further apart just to see how your sap glues against them. The shaking from your multiple orgasmic release keeps on, the ringing in your ears never subsiding. 

“Mmph, Y/N. So beautiful,” he cries out, his voice cracking with emotion as he presses a kiss to your swollen, sensitive lips. Your sweet slickness smears against his stubble even more, but he couldn’t care less. All that matters is you, lying there beneath him, glowing with the outcome of your pleasure. 

Evan’s gaze lingers on you for a long moment, his chest still heaving as he melts in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, thoroughly wrecked from the intensity of what just happened. His hand gently strokes your thigh, trailing up and down in soothing circles as the both of you come down from the high together.

Propping your weight on your elbows, you stare down on him, a lazy grin playing at the corners of your lips. You pull him up for a sloppy, rough kiss. Your fingers pinch on his well-defined jaw as he rests on top of her. You can feel his stiff length press against her stomach, and it feels great. 

You reach up to brush his damp hair from his forehead. “You really know how to leave a girl breathless,” you mumble teasingly, though your voice is barely above a whisper, still catching.

A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, and he leans into your touch, nuzzling his cheek against your palm. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, and you giggle softly, the sound light and airy.

You lay there for a while, the after-sex haze still buzzing through your veins. Evan’s sprawled out on the sofa, shirtless. His hair is all tousled, looking like some kind of model from a cologne ad—except sexier, and definitely more accessible. You watch him, feeling a dopey grin spread across your face. This man… God, this man.

You pull yourself up, snuggling into that familiar blue blanket from the edge of the couch—the one you always steal when it’s movie night, or when you’re feeling cosy after a particularly intense workout (aka “fuck time”).

“You look like a smurf burrito,” Evan quips, his hand lazily draped across his abs as he watches you pace around the room.

You snort, cuddling deeper into the blanket. “Better than looking like a sweaty, shirtless disaster.” You throw him a wink and a brow waggle, but honestly, the view is prime real estate right now. That man should charge admission.

He smirks smugly, running a hand through his messy curls. “Sweaty, shirtless disaster, huh? I was under the impression you were enjoying said disaster inside you just a few minutes ago.”

“Touché,” you giggle as you flop down the sofa, letting your head fall back against the armrest. “But the jury’s still out on whether I enjoyed it or tolerated it.”

“Oh, is that so?” His eyebrow quirks, and that playful gleam you love so much flickers back in his eyes. He leans forward, crawling towards you on the sofa with that predator-like grace, his hands landing on either side of your bundled-up self.

“Maybe.” You bite your lip, trying to keep a straight face, but your heart's already doing flips at the way he’s looking at you. Damn, those eyes.

“Hmm. Well, maybe I should just—” Evan dips down, his lips grazing your ribcage, making you gasp. You wriggle away playfully, pulling the blanket up higher as if it’s some kind of armour.

“Okay, okay! I loved it. Five stars on Yelp, glowing review and a side of fries.” You’re laughing now, barely able to keep up the act.

Evan chuckles triumphantly, that warm, rumbling sound that makes your pulse leap in your throat. “Five stars? Well, that must make me the Michelin Man of love.”

“Please,” you laugh, “the only thing you’re qualifying for is most likely to be found with a pizza slice in hand.”

His grin widens, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Well, speaking of pizza, how about we start planning our wedding menu? I’m thinking pepperoni and extra cheese for the wedding cake. You know, something to make the guests feel like they’re in a pizzeria.”

You roll your eyes, giggling at his ridiculousness. “So, pizza-themed wedding, huh? What are we going to serve? Breadsticks as the bouquet?”

“Absolutely! And the best part? I’ll have a pepperoni ring!” He starts mimicking a ring toss, and you can’t help but crack up.

“Oh wow, my future husband is a real romantic,” you say, shaking your head in mock disbelief.

But then Evan leans in closer, his expression turning serious, and you feel the air shift. “But really, I want to make sure I don’t just slice into this whole ‘life together’ thing. I want to do it right. So, how about we order that wedding cake now because…” He reaches into his pocket, and your heart skips a beat as he pulls out a small velvet box.

You narrow your eyes in suspicion as you sit up. “What are you doing? Is this some kind of prank”

“Well, not exactly a prank. Unless you think proposing is some kind of joke.”

Your heart stops.

“What?” The word barely squeaks out, and you’re pretty sure your brain just exploded. Did he—did he just say proposing?

Evan’s mouth pulls into this soft smile, and before you know it, he’s dropping to one knee on the sofa. “I mean, I’ve got the ring and all that the protocol requires,” he mutters and your eyes bulge, mouth agape. “...and I don’t want to waste another minute from making you my wife!”

Your heart stops.

You leap up from the sofa, shaky hands flying to your mouth, shock flooding your system. The blanket almost slips off, eyes wide and heart pounding like you’re on the world’s most chaotic and steepest rollercoaster. Did he—did he also just say wife? “Are you serious?”

“Y/N,” he starts, his voice a little shaky but full of that Evan confidence that always makes you feel like the only person in the room, “I’ve been through a lot lately. We both have. But the one constant through it all—through the tough days and the good ones, the sleepless nights and the mornings I wake up next to you—is that I want every single day to be with you.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this.

“From the moment I saw you in that club, I never looked away. We started off with a bang, quite literally, but I’ve felt like I’ve known you my whole life and won the love lottery. You’re my jackpot. The reason I smile—even when I feel like I’ve hit every bump on the road. You make even the ordinary feel extraordinary, and I want to make this last forever.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this. Your pulse hammers so loud you swear he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“So here I am, making it official, ready to take a gamble on the biggest bet of my life. Will you marry me and make me the luckiest man on the planet?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a subtle and stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart throbs so hard, you’re sure it’ll burst out of your chest.

“You drive me crazy in the best way possible. You’re my best friend, my partner in crime, my favourite person to order burgers with. I want to spend the rest of my life making you laugh, making you mad, and maybe every now and then... sweeping plates off the table to get to you faster.” He smirks, his eyes twinkling.

“Evan!” you gasp, half-laughing through your tears, remembering the chaos from a few minutes ago.

He chuckles heartily, but there’s something so tender in his expression now. “So, will you do me the honour of marrying me?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a simple yet stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“Yes!” you shout, your voice breaking with joy as you toss the blanket aside and fling yourself into his arms, knocking him backward onto the sofa. He laughs as you straddle his waist, hugging him tight, tears of joy streaming down your face.

“I love you,” you whisper breathlessly, kissing him hard, your heart swelling with so much love it feels like it might burst.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, smiling up at you as you kiss him again, both of you tangled in this beautiful, overwhelming moment.

He slips the ring onto your finger, and you hold your hand up, marvelling at how perfectly it fits—how perfectly it all fits.

And as you both lie there, wrapped up in each other and the ridiculousness of the moment, Evan chuckles. “So, Smurf burrito, looks like you’re stuck with me for life.”

You laugh, smothering his face with smoochies of aggressive cuteness magnitude. “Lucky me. Now... about those burgers? I’m still hungry.”

Evan grins, pulling you closer. “First, how about I show you just how well I can speak your love language?”

“Burgers first, then more disaster sex,” you tease, giggling as he tries to tickle you.

“Deal,” he whispers, stealing another kiss, because honestly, in this moment, you’re the best thing on the menu.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: sillysillygyal, junkie4weezer, frankiesweird, divinerulerz, nickrhodeslittledarling, @babymazz

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Announcement

This might not be a forever goodbye, and who knows, a spinoff of this series might pop up someday, but this is going to be the final part, y’all. I’ll admit, I sometimes feel like I’m navigating through a tiny room with towering walls in this digital space; like my creative expression is being restricted and policed, and I cannot fully communicate or channel my “writing persona,” if you will, in here. Still, every bit of your love and support has made it worth it. I’ve poured so much into this world, and Evan, well… he’s been an incredible muse through it all. So, thanks a bunch, truly. xx

[bzurk]

what gets dirtier the more it cleans?

series masterlist:

tuesday, week two:

cw: dubcon turned noncon, frottage, noncon photography, overall terrible assholery

The weekend is a blessed reprieve. The morning sun streams through the window, casting a harsh light on the disarray of your thoughts. The world outside continues its indifferent rhythm, while your own has been irreversibly altered. The air is thick with a tension that has taken root in your mind, refusing to let go.

The memory of Simon's and Price’s touches linger, a ghostly presence that sends shivers down your spine. It all plays like a sinister symphony, the notes sharp and discordant, leaving you with a sense of unease that clings to your every move. You try to find solace in your morning routine, but every action feels mechanical, detached from any sense of normalcy.

With trembling hands, you clutch your mug of coffee, the warmth seeping into your palms offering little comfort. The room is filled with tense silence, the kind that settles after a storm, leaving a void where chaos once raged. You take a sip, the bitter liquid grounding you, anchoring you to the present even as your mind drifts back to that office, to the way Price’s eyes bore into you with a predatory intensity.

A cold dread coils in your stomach as you consider the days ahead. You need this job, the money it provides, the stability it promises in a world that seems to thrive on uncertainty. Yet, the thought of returning to that house, of facing Price - or worse, Simon - fills you with a visceral fear that paralyses you.

The world outside your window carries on with its mundane symphony: the distant hum of traffic, the occasional chirp of a bird, the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze. Each sound is a reminder of life beyond your current turmoil, a life that feels increasingly out of reach.

You glance at your calendar, the dates marked with reminders of bills to pay, obligations to meet. It all seems so trivial now, overshadowed by the looming spectre of what awaits you at the mansion. You know you have to go back, the precarious balance of your finances dictating your choices with a merciless grip.

But the question remains - how can you face Price after what happened? How can you navigate this new, treacherous terrain where the lines between employer and predator blur into a disturbing shade of grey? How can you survive walking right into a wolf’s den?

The truth is, you don’t know. But you do know that you can’t let fear dictate your actions, can’t allow it to suffocate you.

With a deep breath, you set your mug aside and rise from the bed. The room feels suffocating, the walls pressing in with each passing moment. You need air, need to escape the claustrophobic confines of your thoughts. Grabbing your jacket, you step outside into the cool embrace of the morning.

The street is quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of city life muted in the early hour. You walk, the rhythmic cadence of your footsteps a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. As you make your way through the familiar streets, you allow yourself to imagine a life unburdened by the shadows of the past few days, a life beyond instant ramen and scraping by, exchanging favours to pay the bills.

But for now, all you can do is put one foot in front of the other, to navigate this uncertain path with as much grace and strength as you can muster. You can’t change what happened, but you can decide how you’ll face the days ahead, how you’ll protect yourself from the predators that lurk, preying on vulnerability.

—

You decide to take your mind off things, to indulge in a small act of defiance against the creeping dread that threatens to consume you. The idea flutters through your mind like a tantalizing whisper, a promise of something different, a break from the monotony of fear and uncertainty.

The idea is both daunting and liberating. You remind yourself of the money Price gave you, his silent expectation that you'd fulfil his request. In any other circumstance, you might have found the notion distasteful, but now it feels like a small rebellion.

Retail therapy.

As you wander through the bustling city streets, the noise and vibrancy of life around you serve as a temporary distraction, pulling you away from the darker recesses of your thoughts. But maybe, just maybe, a little indulgence could offer a brief escape. You find yourself drawn to the glass-fronted boutiques, their displays promising luxury and allure. The shop windows are filled with mannequins draped in delicate fabrics, the sheer elegance of lace and silk beckoning you with a promise of transformation, igniting a spark of defiance within you. You’ve spent so long prioritizing everyone else, putting your needs on hold, that the idea of buying something just for yourself feels like an act of rebellion.

The boutique door chimes softly as you enter, the sound mingling with the gentle music playing overhead. The store is a haven of soft lighting and rich colours, a world removed from your reality—a place where you can be someone else, even if only for a fleeting moment.

You weave through the racks, fingers grazing the smooth fabrics, eyes tracing the intricate patterns. There’s a sense of freedom in this act, a choice that is entirely yours to make. The world outside fades away, leaving you enveloped in the quiet intimacy of the store.

A part of you wonders if this was their intention all along - to mould you into a certain image, to see you comply with their whims, bribed and paid off until your dignity and sense of sense is gone. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but you push it aside, focusing instead on the array of colours and fabrics before you. You run your fingers over the lace, feeling its intricate patterns under your fingertips.

Your hand pauses over a deep burgundy set.

The questions float through your mind, kicked up by an errant thought like dust under a boot - did they really need a maid, or was there another reason they hired you?

Was this all part of some twisted game to see how far you'd go, how much you could take?

Why you, specifically? You know that you're attractive, but there were so many other people they could have hired - people who were more qualified, more experienced.

In the back of your mind, you know they don’t need a maid. They’re men of discipline, of order and routine. All of their beds, minus one, are made in the morning with perfect corner tucks and nary a crease in sight.

You turn to the mirror, holding the set against your body. The rich hue of the fabric catches the light, casting flecks of red across your skin like an expensive wine spilled onto a pristine tablecloth. You meet your gaze in the mirror, and for a moment, you glimpse the girl you once were - the girl who dared to dream beyond her means, who believed that she could carve out her own path in this world.

The realization is both freeing and terrifying - you have a choice. You can let them break and shape you, mould you into a picture of compliance, but outside of that mansion, you’ll bounce back. As you look at the price tag of the lingerie set, you can't deny the dangerous allure of it.

They’re using you - but aren’t you doing the same?

You square your shoulders, determination setting into your jaw. You may not be able to control much right now, but you can control this.

Lost in thought, you barely notice the chime of the boutique door, but a familiar voice breaks through your reverie.

“Fancy seeing you here, little miss maid.”

You turn, startled, to find Kyle standing at the entrance of the store. His casual attire - jeans and a simple t-shirt - contrasts sharply with the opulent surroundings. He looks at you with a friendly smile, but there’s something in his eyes that makes you pause.

“Kyle!” you splutter, your heart pounding in your chest as you hastily tuck the lingerie set back into its hanger. “What are you doing here?”

“Just running some errands, thought it was you I saw around,” He takes a step closer, eyes raking over your form, then plucking the maroon set from the rack. “I never pegged you for the silk type.”

The air between you feels charged, crackling with unspoken words and hidden intentions. You know you should walk away, that this is some sort of trap or test, but you find yourself rooted to the spot, unable to tear your gaze away from his. He’s been nothing but sweet to you so far, it’s unfair to assume the worst of him.

You try your best to hold onto your earlier resolve and courage, but fuck, that cheeky smile is making it hard.

“I-I just...” you stammer, at a loss for words, mentally cursing yourself for sounding like a babbling idiot.

Kyle raises an eyebrow and his mouth quirks upwards in a knowing smirk, as if he can read your thoughts. “You know, you'd look gorgeous in this. A shame to let it go.” He doesn’t ask if you want it, instead slinging it over his arm and gesturing towards the racks and mannequins.

“Kyle, I can’t -”

He silences you with a wave of his hand and a wink, “Keep going. Surely didn’t come out just to buy one set?”

Your clothes wrinkle under your clammy palms as you fidget, fists rhythmically clenching and unclenching, and you can feel the blush coating your cheeks, eyes darting from Kyle’s open, smiling face and the lingerie. You’ve never shopped for anything like this before, let alone with a near-stranger for company. Your stomach feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, a stress ball under the hand of a vengeful god.

The tension in the air is palpable as you and Kyle stand in the boutique, his presence a mix of unexpected comfort and unease. You try to regain your composure, to wrestle control of the situation from the disorienting mix of his casual demeanour and the intimate setting.

“Kyle, I really shouldn’t-” You start, but his easy grin and confident stance make it clear he’s not going to let you off the hook so easily.

“Hey, no worries,” Kyle says, his tone light and reassuring. “If it makes you uncomfortable, just let me know. But if you’re here to treat yourself, why not go all out? It’s not every day you get to pamper yourself, right?”

His words, though well-intentioned, feel like a double-edged sword. The idea of indulging in something luxurious seems almost therapeutic, yet it’s hard to ignore the unsettling implications of his presence.

Kyle’s gaze is steady, and his smile, while friendly, seems to hold a hint of something more - an unspoken understanding or perhaps a curiosity about your choice.

You take a deep breath, attempting to steady your racing thoughts. “I guess... maybe you’re right. It’s just-” You pause, searching for the right words. “I don’t think I can afford it right now.”

Kyle’s smile doesn’t falter as you voice your concern. He looks at you with a mix of sympathy and understanding, his expression softening.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his tone reassuring. Before you can protest further, Kyle gently places the burgundy lingerie set back on the rack, his fingers brushing over the delicate fabric with casual ease. “Besides, a little looking never hurt anyone. There’s no harm in browsing a bit more, if you’re up for it. I really did just want to pop in to hello, though - I do have to run now, unfortunately.”

You nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and awkwardness. Kyle’s gesture is generous, but you’re also acutely aware of the boundaries you’re trying to maintain. The lingering unease you felt earlier doesn’t dissipate completely, but there’s something comforting about Kyle’s presence and his offer to help.

With a final wave and a warm smile, Kyle heads towards the store’s exit. “Well, I’ve got my errands to finish up. It was nice running into you. Hope the rest of your shopping goes well.”

You return his smile with a weak but sincere one, watching as he disappears through the boutique’s doors. As he leaves, the store’s soft lighting and luxurious fabrics seem to close in on you again, but now there’s a small, lingering sense of warmth from Kyle’s unexpected kindness.

You spend a few more moments in the store, skimming through the racks but finding yourself unable to fully engage with the experience.

As you leave the boutique, the cool air of the street feels like a welcome relief, a chance to clear your head. The city’s usual buzz seems distant now, replaced by a contemplative quiet.

You feel realigned, grounded, a train put back on its tracks.

You’ll go to work on Tuesday, get your paycheck, and buy yourself something nice - that pretty dark red set.

You find that you’re dreading the mansion less, with a clear and attainable goal in mind.

—

“See you next week.”

Tuesday arrives, dragging with it the weight of anticipation and dread. You’ve spent the day counting down the hours, each minute an excruciating reminder of the looming return to the mansion. As the day fades into evening, you find yourself standing before the imposing entrance once more, the same sense of foreboding settling over you like a shroud.

See you next week. See you next week. See you next week.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself before pushing open the door. You’ve prepared for this. You know what you’re going into, at least. You’re going to stand your ground, get shit done, and leave. You’re going to make your money, pay your bills, and buy yourself a little treat, and after that, set bigger and better ambitions. They pay you well, even without the… bonuses. You’ll buy a new bedframe, hire a plumber for your leaky sink, maybe move into a nicer part of town with a few months of pay. You ignore the little voice in the back of your head that whispers only if you last that long.

The chime of the keypad cements the shift in you, from a scared, wary girl to a determined professional. But when the door finally slides open, revealing the empty garage, an overwhelming sense of relief washes over you. The space is devoid of any vehicles, a blank canvas untouched by the veterans who have come to define your recent existence.

The empty garage greets you like a sanctuary, a haven where the shadows of last Tuesday can't reach. The absence of Simon’s and Price’s cars feels like the lifting of a heavy weight from your shoulders.

You take a tentative step inside, and then another. Your heart rate slows, the pounding in your chest easing into a steady rhythm. The silence isn’t suffocating; instead, it’s liberating. The quiet is a balm, soothing the frayed edges of your nerves.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the exhalation carrying away some of the tension that had knotted your insides. The sight of the empty garage is a visual confirmation that you are blissfully alone, that there is no one lurking in the shadows, no predator waiting to pounce.

There’s a sense of elation bubbling up within you, a giddy feeling of triumph. You allow yourself a small, victorious smile, a rare moment of joy that breaks through the constant worry and fear that permeates the house.

For a moment, you linger there, savouring the victory of the empty garage. You take one final look around the empty space, etching the feeling of relief into your memory before steeling yourself for what lies ahead. You've come this far; you can make it through another shift.

With renewed determination, you step fully into the house, the click of your shoes echoing in the emptiness, a light skip in your step. The doors are still closed, their ominous silence hanging in the air like a tangible threat, and make your way down the dimly lit corridor, flipping light switches and opening windows as you go, each step fueling your determination to prove to yourself that this place won’t intimidate you anymore.

Inside the house, you efficiently tackle the chores that await you. Dust bunnies don't stand a chance against your furious feather duster, and cobwebs tremble in the face of your wrath. You clean like you've never cleaned before, and for a brief moment, you feel invincible, as if this grand mansion, this symbol of your servitude, is bowing to your will.

As you scrub away the stains and grime that have accumulated, you allow yourself to daydream about the future. The pretty red lingerie set is within reach, a reward for surviving another week at this twisted job. But your ambitions don't stop there. In your mind's eye, you see yourself buying a small but cozy apartment in a safer neighbourhood, with a view of the city skyline and freshly painted walls that smell of promise and new beginnings. The quiet hum of the vacuum becomes a soothing symphony as you move methodically through the rooms. You relish the freedom to hum to yourself, to let your thoughts wander without the need to look over your shoulder. The echo of your footsteps on the hardwood floors is no longer a reminder of your isolation but a testament to your presence, your moment of control in a house that felt so suffocating.

With renewed vigour, you finish mopping the floors and windexing every inch of the mansion's endless windows. The day is bright and sunny outside, and the warm light streaming through the windows fills you with a buoyant energy. A smile touches your lips as you glance outside, the backyard beckoning with its lush greenery and inviting pool. Today, the weather is on your side, a perfect excuse to tackle the outdoor areas with the same enthusiasm you've brought to the mansion's interior.

With your spirits lifted, you head to the back patio, the sliding glass doors gliding open with a soft whoosh. The fresh air is invigorating, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the manicured hedges that line the property. You take a moment to bask in the sun's embrace, letting it warm your skin and lift your mood further.

The back patio is a hidden gem of the mansion, a tranquil oasis with elegant wicker furniture and potted plants that sway gently in the breeze. The stone tiles beneath your feet are cool to the touch, the slate-grey colour complementing the natural beauty of the surroundings.

Armed with a broom and a bucket of soapy water, you set to work, sweeping away the fallen leaves and debris that have gathered on the tiles. The rhythmic motion is soothing, and you hum a cheerful tune as you move. The sun shines down, casting playful patterns of light and shadow across the patio, making the space feel alive and welcoming.

With the floor cleared, you turn your attention to the furniture, wiping down each piece with care. The wicker glistens under your touch, restored to its former glory. You fluff the cushions, adjusting them just so, and step back to admire your handiwork.

Next, you make your way to the pool area, its sparkling waters a vibrant blue under the clear sky. The sight of the pool, with its gentle ripples and inviting depths, fills you with a sense of ease. It's a far cry from the tense atmosphere inside the mansion - a place where you can breathe and appreciate the beauty around you.

You retrieve the pool skimmer and begin cleaning the water's surface, capturing stray leaves and insects. As you work, the sun glints off the water, creating a dazzling display of light that dances across the tiles. You take a moment to dip your fingers into the water, the coolness refreshing against your skin. It's a simple pleasure, but one that grounds you in the moment, reminding you that even in a place like this, there are moments of peace to be found-

“You must be lil’ miss maid!”

You gasp and shoot up straight, flicking up droplets of water, and the world moves in slow motion. You spin to face the intruder, shoe sliding with the help of a convenient puddle, before your vision tilts and a shill scream scratches your throat.

You don’t even feel the fall, not really; your brain is too busy sending alarm signals to your heart, which is hammering away like a mad thing. The sky blurs with the rushing of leaves and water, and then-

Cool water engulfs you, silencing your scream. It wraps around you like a cold blanket, pulling you into its depth. For a moment, all you see is blue, the sun's glimmer distorted through the water, like a dream turned nightmare.

You kick your legs and break the surface, gasping for air. Your hands reach for the pool's edge, gripping tightly as you blink away the water streaming down your face.

He stands there, a blur of a figure as you wipe your eyes, then clears into the sharp lines of a man you’ve never seen before. Tall and broad, with brown hair that catches the light, distinctly longer on top, and he wears a smirk that drips with casual arrogance. He’s dressed casually, in gym shorts and a tank with a white towel slung over his shoulder, but there's something about his stance, a confidence that suggests he’s no stranger here.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya.” His voice is teasing, an apology that doesn’t seem quite genuine.

You swallow the panic clawing at your throat and force yourself to focus, pulling yourself up and out of the pool. You feel the chill of the air bite into your wet clothes as you find your footing, the patio tiles suddenly feeling too solid beneath you.

“Who-” You clear your throat, the words stumbling out around a mouthful of water as you try to reclaim your composure. “Who are you?”

He laughs, an annoyingly pleasant sound, the kind that makes you feel like you’re the punchline to some private joke. “Name’s Soap,” he says, offering a hand as if you’re supposed to shake it like this is a normal meet-and-greet. “But you can call me whatever you like, bonnie maid.”

You glance at his hand, then back at him, your mind racing. The name rings a bell, a faint echo of the conversations you’ve overheard among the veterans. He must be one of them, the final occupant. You give your hand and your name shakily, the cold seeping into your bones. Your eyes trail a drop of sweat as it runs down his pointed nose.

“I-I didn’t know anyone else was here,” you manage, trying to keep the edge out of your voice as you stand there, dripping and bedraggled.

He shrugs, his hand not retreating despite the way you tug at it. His eyes scan the patio, taking in the sparkling clean furniture and the skimmer you’d dropped by the pool. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah,” you reply, a note of defensiveness creeping in. You wrap your free arm around yourself, both for warmth and comfort. “I just finished-”

“Won’t mind another dip, then?” He grins, all sharp teeth and gleaming blue eyes, releasing your hand on the next tug, and you stagger backwards again.

“Wait-!”

But before you can fully process what's happening, he lunges forward with a playful laugh, arms wide as if embracing the chaos he's about to create. In a flash, you’re airborne again, Soap’s strong arms wrapping around your middle as he tackles you back into the pool.

Water crashes over you, the shock of cold stealing your breath for the second time. For a split second, everything is surreal, suspended in the underwater silence. You kick up, breaking the surface with a gasp, spluttering and disoriented. Your hands find the pool's edge, gripping tightly as you blink away the water streaming down your face.

Soap is laughing, a boisterous, unrestrained sound that grates on your nerves. He surfaces beside you, shaking water from his short hair like a mischievous dog, eyes twinkling with unrepentant mirth.

“What the hell was that for?” you demand, voice rising with a mixture of anger and incredulity. Your heart is pounding, a furious drumbeat against your ribs.

“Oh, come on, bonnie,” he chuckles, paddling easily in the water. “Lighten up a bit. Figured you could use a refresher.” He winks, as if this entire situation is a grand joke, his amusement evident in every word.

You stare at him, your anger warring with the icy chill of the water. “You can’t just—just do that!”

He raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “Can’t I?”

The nerve of this man, this stranger who’s turned your moment of peace into a humiliating spectacle. You bite back a retort, knowing that getting into an argument with him would only escalate things further. Instead, you focus on pulling yourself out of the pool once more, muscles straining with the effort, heavy clothes weighing you down.

Once you’re out of the pool, you wring out your hair and clothes as best you can, the chill seeping into your bones, water pooling at your feet. Your clothes cling to your skin and you shiver, crossing your arms over your chest to preserve some semblance of warmth and dignity. The chill is biting, and you feel the goosebumps prickle across your skin as a breeze sweeps through the patio. Each drop that slides down your back feels like an insult, ruining the pristine environment you’d cleaned.

Soap emerges behind you, water streaming down his bare shoulders, and he runs a hand through his wet hair, flicking droplets everywhere.

"You're soaked," he observes with a cheeky grin, as if this wasn’t already painfully obvious.

You glare at him, your irritation bubbling over. “Really? Thanks for pointing that out,” you retort, teeth chattering as you speak.

“I’ll go fetch some towels, yeah?”

You glance over your shoulder at him, feeling a flash of irritation mixed with gratitude. “You can’t,” you protest, gesturing toward the open patio doors leading into the house. “I just cleaned the floors. You’ll track water everywhere.”

He shrugs, unconcerned, and gives you an easygoing smile that borders on infuriatingly charming. “No worries. I’ll clean it up later.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, clutching your damp clothes tighter around yourself. “That’s not the point,” you grumble. “I-I don’t have a change of clothes, and I can’t leave like this!”

But Soap seems unbothered by your predicament. He steps around you, water streaming down his toned frame, and grabs the white gym towel he’d tossed aside before diving in. With a nonchalance that makes you bristle, he uses it to wipe the water from his hair, then casually tosses it onto a nearby chair.

“Eh, you’ll figure something out,” he says, seemingly unconcerned with your plight. He starts peeling off his wet clothes, leaving them in a soggy heap on the patio.

You avert your eyes quickly, cheeks flaming despite the cool air. “H-Hey! What are you doing?”

“Relax,” he chuckles, hanging the towel around his shoulders. “Can’t walk through the house drippin’ wet, can I?” He grins at you, a playful glint in his eye. “Problem solved.”

With that, he turns and saunters back inside, leaving you standing there in disbelief with a generous view of his backside, and oh my god he was commando-

Your cheeks burn hotter than the sun as you let out a mortified groan, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. You shake your head, a mixture of frustration and disbelief and heat boiling inside you. “Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, watching as he disappears into the mansion. Left to your own devices, you start to wring out your hair again, muttering curses at the audacity of the man who so easily disrupted your day. At least the sun is still shining, offering a bit of warmth as you stand there, dripping and annoyed and cold.

Soap strides back onto the patio, his demeanour relaxed and casual. He’s dressed in fresh clothes, looking every bit the picture of nonchalance despite the chaotic meeting.

He carries a couple of towels in his hands, their fluffy warmth a stark contrast to the damp chill clinging to your skin. “Here,” he holds out a towel toward you, his expression a mix of amusement and concern.

You take the towel gratefully, rubbing it over your hair and shoulders, trying to soak up as much of the moisture as you can. The warmth of the towel feels like a small comfort against the cold that’s settled into your bones.

“Thanks,” you mutter, focusing on the task of drying yourself off. But as you begin to dry off, Soap’s next words catch you off guard.

“How about you get out of those wet clothes? You’ll get sick if you stay in those.” His tone is casual, almost playful, but there's an underlying edge to his words that makes your stomach churn.

You look up from your towel, eyes widening slightly. “What? No, I-” You stammer, feeling a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. “I-I can’t just-”

He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “You can’t walk back through the house, you said so yourself. It’s not like I’m asking for anything weird.”

Despite his seemingly casual approach, there’s something unsettling in the way he’s looking at you. It’s not exactly threatening, but it’s an intrusion of your personal space and boundaries that makes you feel uncomfortable.

“Surely you have a- a side gate or something?” You squeak out as he continues to stare, his eyes trailing down your shivering shoulders and dripping hair.

“And then what?” Soap hums. “Make it to your car, get it all wet, chlorine in the seats and all. ‘Sides, you even have your keys on ya? You’re making it so complicated, lass. We have a clothes dryer, y’know.”

He nonchalantly gestures towards the house, as if he just solved all your problems. But you know this isn’t about dry clothes or wet seats. He’s pushing your boundaries, testing your limits, and you can’t stand it.

“I’ll just...” You trail off, not quite sure of your exit strategy. “You wouldn’t happen to have an- an old shirt or something I could at least borrow?”

Soap’s grin widens even more as he considers your request. For a moment, you think he might relent, but instead, he just shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Nah, not really. But look, you’re already wrapped in a towel,” he says, motioning toward your damp clothes. “Why don’t you just take those off and get comfy? Promise I’ll find you something to wear.”

His voice is still playful, yet there’s a firm undertone to it, leaving no room for debate. You feel your resolve waver, knowing that standing your ground might only prolong this awkward encounter.

“I really don’t think-” you begin, but he interrupts.

“C’mon, it’ll just take a sec. You don’t want to get sick, do you?” he insists, nodding toward the house.

There’s a moment of tense silence as you weigh your options. Finally, you exhale sharply, realizing you’re caught between a rock and a hard place. It’s either follow his lead or shiver outside until hypothermia kicks in.

Reluctantly, you nod. “Fine. But- Go inside. I’ll be there in a moment,” you agree, your voice a mix of defiance and resignation.

Soap nods approvingly and steps past the threshold back into the house, sliding the glass door closed behind him, and you watch warily as he steps behind the wall. And then wait until you’re sure he won’t turn around. As you hastily peel off your soaked clothes, you can’t help but feel exposed, your vulnerability hanging in the air.

You hurriedly wrap and clutch the towel tightly around your body, feeling its coarse fibres rub against your skin as you gather your courage to follow Soap back into the house. Your wet clothes are heavy and cumbersome as you try to hold up the towel and the bundle of wet fabric at the same time, and you make your way across the patio and into the mansion’s interior.

With a deep sigh, you push open the glass door and step inside, immediately feeling the warmth of the house envelop you like a comforting hug. But it does little to ease the tension in your chest as you follow Soap's lead towards the laundry room where he casually loads his clothes into the dryer, his movements quick and practised. You pass your clothes over for him to load in.

“There we go,” he says with a satisfied nod, his hands deftly turning the dial to start the cycle despite the way he left the door wide open. You watch him closely, your grip on the towel unyielding as he eyes the pile of clothes you’ve handed over. Your cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and irritation as he makes a show of placing each piece in one by one.

“Still got some stuff on, huh?” he teases, pointing out the obviously missing garments. “You’ll have to take those off too.”

Your eyes dart to the floor, heat flooding your cheeks. “I’m not-” you stammer, but Soap waves a hand dismissively.

“Gotta dry those too, you know. Don’t you worry,” he says with a playful smirk. “I’ll just step out and find you some dry clothes. You can handle starting the machine, right?”

You nod silently, clenching your teeth to hold back any further protest. With a final glance, Soap disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the laundry room. The moment he’s out of sight, you let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the situation settle over you like a cold fog. With a resigned sigh, you quickly rid yourself of your soaked underwear, tucking them into the dryer with the rest before rewrapping yourself. The towel becomes your sole armour against the world, its embrace both comforting and precarious.

As you start the cycle, the noise of the machine fills the room, a steady rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart. You stand there, alone and uncertain, wondering how you ended up in such an absurd situation.

You clutch the towel tighter around your body, the edges rough against your skin, as you stand in the dimly lit laundry room, the dryer humming softly beside you. It’s the only sound in the house, filling the silence with a steady, rhythmic pulse that matches the chaotic beat of your heart.

With Soap gone, the room feels cavernous, echoing with the lingering tension of his presence. You swallow hard, trying to push aside the knot of anxiety that has taken up residence in your chest.

“Hey, lass! Over here!” Soap’s voice calls out from one of the nearby bedrooms.

The warmth of the house seeps into your bones as you follow Soap’s call, tiptoeing down the hallway towards the bedroom where his voice beckoned. Your bare feet make no sound on the polished wooden floors, the air thick with the scent of lemon polish and fresh laundry.

When you reach the doorway, you pause, hesitating just outside the threshold. The room is spacious and well-appointed, with a king-sized bed draped in a quilted comforter and soft, ambient lighting that bathes everything in a golden afternoon glow. Kyle’s room. It feels intimate, and personal, standing there almost nude, and you can’t help but feel like an intruder in someone else’s space.

Soap gestures to a neatly arranged pile of clothes on the bed. “These should fit you. I’ll step outside while you change,” he says, and with that, he exits and closes the door behind him.

There’s an oversized, well-worn t-shirt sitting at the top of the pile, its fabric soft and familiar in a way that brings a sense of relief. But beneath it, your eyes catch on something that makes your breath hitch in your throat: a set of complex and expensive lingerie, delicate lace in rich, inviting hues that stand out starkly against the plainness of the shirt.

A slow, creeping sense of discomfort trickles down your spine as you take in the sight, your mind racing with questions. How did he get your size? Why is it your style, something you’d choose for yourself? And most importantly, why the fuck do Soap or Kyle have women’s lingerie?

The questions hang heavy in the air, demanding answers that you don’t have, leaving you standing there, feeling exposed and vulnerable. The room seems to close in around you, the walls drawing nearer, the atmosphere thickening with unspoken implications.

Your pulse quickens, and you take a step back, your grip on the towel tightening as though it might shield you from whatever game Soap is playing. It’s a cruel joke, you tell yourself, some twisted attempt to unsettle you, to test your boundaries.

You pick up the shirt and hold it to your chest, feeling a chill run down your spine. Before you can spiral any further into your thoughts, there’s a soft knock on the door, and you jump, your heart lurching in your chest.

Soap’s voice comes from the other side of the door, “You okay in there?”

You hesitate, your thoughts a chaotic whirl. Finally, you call back, your voice trembling slightly. “I’m fine. Just- just give me a minute.”

There’s no sound from the other side of the door. You exhale slowly, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and focus on the task at hand.

You push aside the lingerie, opting for the t-shirt instead. The fabric is soft against your skin, hanging loosely over your frame, its weight offering a semblance of normalcy in an otherwise surreal situation.

With the towel abandoned on the floor, you take a moment to collect yourself, smoothing down the shirt and tugging it into place before glancing at the door. The lingerie remains untouched.

You leave it there, on the bed, refusing to give it any more of your attention as you turn your back on it and make your way to the door.

You’re ready to face whatever comes next, your resolve firm, your mind made up. You may not know what Soap’s game is, but you’re not about to let him get the upper hand. Let them get the upper hand again.

As you step out into the hallway, you find Soap waiting, leaning against the wall with an easy smile, as if he hadn’t just tried to unsettle you, as if he hadn’t crossed a line you didn’t even know existed.

“There you are,” he says, straightening up as you approach. “Feeling better?”

You nod, keeping your expression neutral, not giving anything away. “Much. Thanks.”

You can’t stop the shiver that runs through you when his eyes immediately dart down to your chest, and a furious blush crosses your face.

“They not fit?” Soap hums curiously, crowding you closer to the doorframe. Your nipples are as obvious as day through the shirt, still pebbled from the chill. You hurry to cross your arms and cover yourself. “Kyle was so sure they were the size you picked up.”

“Kyle?” You squeak, stepping back into said man’s bedroom. You try not to panic when Soap closes the door behind him.

“Aye. He bought them just for you. Would be rude of you to turn down his gift,” Soap says, his tone dangerously smooth, a predator closing in on its prey.

Your mind races. Kyle Garrick, the man who had been so kind to you, so friendly, bought you lingerie? The thought twists your stomach. This place, these men - they were playing games with you.

A cold knot of dread tightens in your stomach as Soap leans back against the doorframe, his easy grin now holding an edge of challenge.

"Go on, then," he urges, nodding towards the bed where the lingerie lies like a trap, waiting to spring. "Try 'em on."

You hesitate, the air in the room feeling thin and oppressive. "I really don’t think-"

His expression darkens, and the playful tone is gone from his voice. "No’ asking, lass. It’s what you do when someone gives you a gift. Try it on, show some gratitude."

Your heart pounds in your chest, and your mind races, searching for a way out, a way to maintain some semblance of control. But the weight of his presence, the unyielding expectation in his gaze, leaves you feeling cornered.

With trembling hands, you pick up the lingerie, your fingers brushing against the delicate fabric. It’s a stark contrast to the rawness of the moment, and you swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your breathing steady.

“Alright, alright,” you mutter, trying to project a calm you don’t feel. “Just… give me a minute.”

Soap smirks again, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting.”

You turn your back to him, your heart hammering in your chest as you begin to peel off the soft shirt. Each motion feels like a betrayal, your skin prickling with unease under his gaze. Bills, bills, bills. Loans. The cute red set. You can hear him suck air through his teeth when the fabric rises past your hips.

As you slip into the lingerie, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The sight is both surreal and unsettling, a stranger staring back at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“I’m done,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you pull the oversized shirt over the lingerie. You hope it’s enough, that the shirt can shield you from the scrutiny, from the violation of this moment.

But Soap isn’t satisfied. His eyes glint with something dark and inscrutable as he steps forward, phone in hand, “Off with the shirt, then,” he says, a note of impatience threading through his words. “Got to show Kyle, lovie. He’d love to see you wearing what he got.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, but you don’t protest. Instead, with shaking hands and a pounding heart, you lift the shirt over your head, the cold air biting at your exposed skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms, and you cross them over your chest again, acutely aware of Soap’s eyes raking over you.

The lingerie feels alien against your skin, the fabric both soft and suffocating, as if it’s conspiring with the moment to strip you of your defences. The whole room feels smaller, closing in around you like a living, breathing entity watching the scene unfold with bated breath.

You’ve faced many things before, but none have felt as raw and unsettling as this moment, standing here, caught in Soap’s gaze. You feel like an actor in a scene you never agreed to, playing a role that twists your insides with shame and anger. With Simon, with Price, you were tugged along like a boat at sea, forced to float along the brutal currents they created. You were still an active participant, but you could place the blame elsewhere, direct your shame and hatred outwards because it wasn’t you, wasn’t your choice, you were just doing as you were told. But here, under Soap’s blue-grey stare, you felt alone, judged, isolated and cast under a spotlight. You could tug on the shirt, step past him, grab your keys and leave. But you don’t.

Soap steps closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising a work of art. But there’s nothing artistic about this - only a calculated manipulation, a display of power that turns your stomach.

He reaches out, and you flinch instinctively, your body recoiling from the touch that never comes. Instead, his hand lingers in the air, a silent threat that hangs between you, and then he nudges you gently but firmly backward.

He isn’t rough and uncaring like Simon, the big brute. He isn’t condescending and patronizing like Price, babying you into submission. He is not kind and friendly like Kyle, with his supportive touches and smiles. You know nothing about this man, and that scares you more than anything.

You stumble slightly as the backs of your knees hit the bed, and you sink onto it, the mattress yielding under your weight. Your heart races, your mind a whirlwind of fear and defiance, but you don’t look away, waiting for some sort of strike.

“Go on then,” Soap murmurs, his voice a low, taunting drawl. “Pose a bit, give Kyle something nice to look at.”

The suggestion hangs in the air like a noxious cloud, and you fight the bile rising in your throat. It’s an invasion, a violation that strips away your dignity, your autonomy, and all you want is to claw back some semblance of control.

But you can’t. Not here, not now, when everything is stacked against you. So instead, you hold your head high, meeting his gaze with a steely defiance that refuses to be dimmed.

“What if I don’t want to?” You say, your voice stronger than you feel, a spark of resistance that flares brightly against the encroaching darkness.

Soap’s smile widens, a predatory gleam in his eyes as if he relishes the challenge, the dance of power and defiance. “Then I’ll just have to convince you, won’t I?” He replies, his voice a low purr that makes your blood run cold.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing up your calves, sending a shiver down your spine. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, and bite back the retorts that threaten to escape.

“So pretty, bonnie,” he coos, dancing his fingers up your thighs until you let out a wavering sigh. He drops the phone against the duvet and reaches up to grasp your chin between warm, calloused fingers, forcing you to face him. You hate him. Hate him for reducing you to this quivering mess so easily when just ten minutes ago you thought you had some semblance of control.

Soap leans in, his breath warm against your skin, his lips a whisper away from yours. The room seems to hold its breath, the air thick with tension, as if the very walls are watching, waiting for your next move.

Your mind races, caught between the undeniable attraction and the anger that simmers just beneath the surface. Everything about him is wrong, every touch a violation of your autonomy, yet you can't deny the magnetic pull, the way his presence overwhelms your senses.

The kiss is electric, a storm of conflicting emotions that crash over you like a wave. It's demanding and rough, a collision of desire and defiance that leaves you breathless, your body betraying your mind as it responds to the heat of his touch.

His lips are firm against yours, moving with a confidence that borders on arrogance, a certainty that you'll bend to his will. And for a moment, just a fleeting heartbeat, you do, your resolve wavering under the intensity of the kiss.

But then the reality of the situation crashes down on you, a cold slap of clarity that pulls you back from the edge. You pull away, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath.

Soap watches you, a knowing smile playing on his lips, his eyes glinting with a mix of triumph and something darker, a shadow that lurks beneath the surface. He leans back slightly, giving you space but still crowding your senses, his presence as inescapable as the air around you.

"Smile for the camera, sweetheart," he says again, his voice soft but insistent, a command wrapped in a velvet glove.

You don’t have the time, nor the mental capacity, to react. You feel hot all over, confused, stunned. His lips had brought every simmering emotion to your mouth until it overflowed, out of control.

Your cheeks burned with humiliation and desire as you forced your stare to meet Soap’s again. There was a sick satisfaction in his eyes as he took in the tableau before him. It wasn’t hard to visualise how you must look - flushed from cheeks to chest, hands gripping at the sheets, covered in a sheen of sweat and goosebumps, topped off with spit-slick, kiss-swollen lips.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, dropping the phone again in favour of running his hands over your ribs and waist before following the path with his lips. “Fucking perfect,” he trailed off, cutting himself off with a nip to the sensitive skin of your stomach. Despite your better judgment, his words made something in your stomach clench with both fear and anticipation. It was a feeling you weren't used to, this loss of control.

Soap’s hands and lips continued their exploration, mapping out every inch of skin they came across with an almost feverish intensity. Teeth grazed over your collarbone, causing goosebumps to erupt and spread like wildfire across your prickling skin. His hands cupped your breasts through the fabric of the bra, kneading them gently but with enough force to elicit a moan from your parched lips. You hated him for it - for making you feel like this, for making you want this, for stealing the illusion of control you worked so hard to maintain.

But as much as you hated it, as much as you tried to convince yourself it was just another means to an end, deep down there was a part of you that revelled in the attention. In the heat between your thighs that pooled and throbbed with each passing second; in the way his darkened gaze tracked your every move like prey.

He was quick and uncaring as he tugged down the bra, scooping your boobs from the cups and baring them to the warm air. In his other hand, he held his phone up high, capturing every moment of this humiliating performance.

“Stop- hah, enough, that’s enough,” you babbled nonsensically, writhing against the sheets as his left hand poked and prodded and twisted and toyed with your nipples.

His chuckle was low, dark, and it sent shivers down your spine. “Not even close, sweetheart,” he purred against your skin, his breath hot before he took a peak into his mouth. His right hand trailed down your stomach to the line of the panties. Your body protested every movement but betrayed you at every turn. The heat between your thighs seemed to have been lit on fire now, causing you to moan out in needy agony when his fingers brushed lightly over the damp fabric of your panties.

A low chuckle escaped his lips as he flicked a dextrous finger across your clit, control and lust entwined in the action.

Both hands had ventured southwards, now slipping between your thighs and dipping two fingers inside your slick core without any build-up or warning. Your entire body tensed at the intrusion, muscles clenching around him in surprise and desire. Heat pooled between your thighs and coiled in your stomach, a building inferno that threatened to consume you whole if he didn't stop.

“Fuck me, you’re soaked, bonnie,” he panted out from above, and you couldn’t bare to look at him, couldn’t bare to watch as you heard the rustle of fabric and his fingers returning to your cunt.

The feeling was almost too much to bear, and you bit down on your lower lip to stifle a moan as he thrust his fingers roughly inside you. Any other time, any other place, you would have told him off for being so rough, but now? Now was not the time for protests or modesty or anything else but the burning need that consumed you whole.

"So wet for me," he purred into your ear, his voice barely above a whisper but it still sent shivers down your spine. "Tell me you want it," he demanded, his fingers picking up in speed and intensity, absolutely relentless in their ministrations.

You shook your head, biting back a moan that threatened to escape your lips at any moment. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing those words come out of your mouth. You wouldn't do it. But Soap had other plans. With a swift movement, he crooked his fingers inside you, hitting that bundle of nerves that had been swelling with need since he first took his shirt off.

"Tell me you want it," he said again, this time with more emphasis, his voice gruff with desire.

"I-I," you panted, hips bucking upwards uncontrollably into his touch. "I want it," you managed to gasp out between shaky breaths.

That was all the invitation he needed, roughly pulling his fingers out of you. "That's what I thought," he growled low in your ear before pressing his bare hips against the gusset of your panties, and you whined. He was hard, so fucking hard, and your traitorous body throbbed in anticipation.

You perched on your elbows and craned your neck to look down, watching as he slid his wet hand against his cock. With every stroke of his hand, his cock would bump against your panties, further staining the damn fabric and torturously pressing against where you ached.

One hand on his cock, his other lifted the fabric of your panties, tugging it taut and slipping himself in against your skin, held snugly against your cunt by the damp fabric that was soaked through with arousal.

A moan escaped your lips as he began to move, rocking his hips against yours in a slow, sensual motion that had you clenching around nothing. His cock was blistering hot against your pussy, the shape of it visible beneath the wet fabric, velvety skin rubbing up against you. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat and arousal as he continued to grind against you, teasingly brushing his hardened cock against your swollen clit with every thrust.

It wasn't long before you were meeting him thrust for thrust, every movement of his hips answered with one of your own, eager for more. Greedy, needy moans spilled from your lips, uncaring of who could hear, uncaring about anything but the man above you and the way he was making your body sing.

"You like that, huh?" he taunted, leaning in to bite the shell of your earlobe gently. "You're dripping for me, baby," he growled against your skin before sucking harshly on your neck.

"Yes," you panted out, neck arched in pleasure as he teased your most sensitive spot. “Yes, yes, yes!”

You couldn't believe this was happening. You were at war with yourself, half of you screaming at you to stop, to push him away, while the other half wished he would just rip the damn fabric and plunge himself inside you, consequences be damned.

"Say it again," Soap panted against your ear, his pace picking up in speed as his grip on your hips tightened, rutting against you wildly. "Say you want me inside of you."

Waves of ice crashed over you, and you scrabbled to push against his chest futilely.

"No," you panted through clenched teeth, your orgasm barreling down on you like a freight train. "No, no, no."

The pleasure was blinding. Dizzying. All consuming. You couldn't make sense of anything else besides the want, the need, the cosmos colliding behind your clenched eyes.

And then pain, an ache deep in your gut, the sting of stretching skin, and oh fuck, it was like you were cumming again before the first wave had finished, the feelings compounding together in mindless pleasure-pain, colour colliding until they became white.

Your eyes burst open, the world spinning as Soap let out a guttural moan, your hands flying against his chest and pushing with all of your remaining strength. The pain remained even as the pleasure dulled, but it didn’t grow - Soap was holding himself over you, his hand a blur as it furiously strokes his cock, the tip lodged into your cunt, he was inside of you-

“Fuck!” You screeched, shrill, your fists bashing against his pecs, his shoulders, his arms, but it was already too late - his head rolled back with a loud, guttural groan, eyes rolling in their sockets. His hand slowed its frantic pace. Something deep in your gut burned, a searing heat.

As he pulls out, his cock brushes against your clit and you sob, involuntarily clenching up and digging your shaky knees into his sides.

“Look’it you,” he purred out, voice like gravel, completely unphased by the way you wailed your clenched fists against him.

Your panties were tugged to the side, baring your cunt to his glossy, wide stare. Mesmerised. A warm trickle of wetness slipped down your thigh, and you wanted to die on the spot.

“Fuckin’ so pretty, bonnie,” he breathes out in admiration, causing another wave of sobs to bubble up in your chest. “Guess we owe Kyle a new pair, don’t we, little maid?” You choke back another sob when you see the black case of his phone pointed towards you, capturing your visage. The glass covering the camera reflects your tear-stained face and dishevelled appearance.

He leans back, taking his arm with him, pointing his camera down, down, to where he leaks out of you.

The beep of the clothes dryer from the other room jolts you back to reality. Your body feels heavy, weighed down by the burden of what has happened, the sense of betrayal and humiliation gnawing at your insides. You watch Soap move away, casually strolling over to the laundry room as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn’t just shattered your world.

The room felt like it was closing in on you, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You curled in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees, trying to find some semblance of protection, of comfort in the aftermath of the violation.

His phone is thrown face-up against the sheets.

You catch a glimpse of the screen; a messaging app open, photos of you filling the display. Your breath hitches in your throat, a cold shiver running down your spine.

He sent the photos.

You almost sigh in relief when Kyle’s name pops up, followed by a message.

- wouldve been perfect if you werent in it johnny

A cold shiver runs down your spine. If it was a private chat between Soap and Kyle, why was his name above the message? Your eyes drift up, up, to the title of the chat.

‘the roomies’

The reality of the situation slams into you like a freight train, the full weight of it crashing down and stealing the air from your lungs.

You back away from the phone as if it were a venomous snake, your heart pounding in your chest like a caged animal. You can’t breathe, can’t think, your mind a maelstrom of fear and shame. The thought of their eyes on you, their laughter echoing in your ears, is too much to bear.

Soap saunters back into the room, holding your clothes with a broad grin. “‘ere you go, bonnie maid. All nice and toasty for ya.” He tosses them onto the bed beside you, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction.

You force yourself to move, to reach for the clothes with trembling hands. The fabric feels alien against your skin, a reminder of the violation you can’t escape.

You don’t even notice, don’t care, that you haven’t changed out of the fancy underwear, that Johnny still leaks out of you when you make it home.

[fattorimunin]

＼⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠)⁠／

Twilight opened his eyes and realized he was hanging from the top of an absurdly tall tree.

A chilly breeze swept past, and he felt the cold bite against his bare skin.

Very quickly, he realized the only fabric on his body was a pair of boxer briefs—with a rip down the seat.

They clung nervously to his thighs, barely holding on, as if one wrong move would send them sliding down his legs and take the last remnants of his dignity with them.

He hadn’t even fully processed the shock of waking up in a tree before another wave of panic hit him—he was seconds away from flashing the entire forest.

“WILD!”

He screamed from the depths of his soul, trying desperately to grab at the treacherous underwear—but his limbs were tightly wrapped around the branches and he couldn’t move an inch.

“WILD! What did you DO?!”

His furious cries echoed with a few desperate wolf-like howls, shaking the treetops and sending birds flapping into the sky.

“Pup? Is that you?”

Time’s voice came from below.

Twilight nervously looked down and saw his mentor standing there with an awkward expression, holding his pants and boots.

From farther away, laughter exploded—Legend and Wind had come running toward the commotion.

The moment they saw the half-naked man dangling in the tree, they instantly doubled over with laughter. Legend collapsed to the ground, slapping his thigh, and Twilight swore he saw a snot bubble come out of Wind’s nose.

“Sorry! I didn’t think we’d switch back so soon.”

Wild scratched his nose, sounding apologetic, but grinning way too hard to mean it.

“Your clothes were full of dog hair! I kept itching all over—I couldn’t take it anymore, so I took everything off.”

Twilight’s eye twitched.

“And why the hell did you climb that high?!”

His voice shot up an octave as he began carefully descending. Every movement made the unstable underwear slip just a bit more—completely untrustworthy.

“I got separated, okay? I had to climb up to get a better view to find you guys!”

Wild laughed awkwardly and rubbed his nose again, clearly knowing he was in deep trouble.

All the chaos could be traced back to the night before.

The forest was shrouded in thick mist.

Cool dampness drifted through the trees, laced with faint glimmers of fireflies.

Nine exhausted figures moved like ghosts, trudging along with barely enough energy to speak.

When they could no longer bear the weight of fatigue, they finally stumbled upon a lake deep in the woods.

By the lakeside was a broad patch of flat grass—perfect for setting up camp.

They lit a fire, set up a pot, and in no time, the smell of hot food lifted everyone’s spirits.

But something lurking in the dark clearly didn’t want them to enjoy their evening.

From across the lake, a black mist slowly rose.

A chill crept over the camp.

And then—a shadow emerged from the fog, gliding like a ghost, and charged straight toward their fire.

The first to react was Sky, who had been dozing off near the edge of camp.

Though he looked seconds away from collapsing, the moment the shadow neared, he sprang to his feet and drew the Master Sword in one clean motion.

The blade flashed—and the shadow was split in two.

No one saw clearly what it was.

It vanished as soon as it was struck, dissolving into the night like it had never existed.

None of them thought too much of it.

They had all seen ghosts before—this wasn’t anything new.

So they returned to their usual routine: guard shifts, meals, and sleep.

The night deepened. All seemed normal.

Until sometime during the second half of the night—

No one could say exactly when—everyone, without exception, fell into a deep, unnatural sleep.

Even Time, who had been standing watch, lost consciousness in an instant.

The next morning, Warriors was the first to wake.

And barely two minutes later, his scream split the peaceful dawn.

“AAAHHHH! MY HAIR! MY HAIR IS PINK!!”

He clutched his head, frantically tugging at the shockingly pink strands.

“Too loud… it’s still early…”

A groggy voice came from the next sleeping bag.

A figure identical to him sat up, rubbing his eyes—wearing Warriors’ beloved blue scarf.

Warriors froze.

“Who are you?! What’s your deal dressing up as me?!”

He lunged and pointed accusingly at the look-alike, who sat in the exact same type of bedroll, still blinking in confusion.

Before either could react further—

“SHUT UP! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU FIRST THING IN THE MORNING?!”

Hyrule stormed over, enraged—but his usually shy, gentle face now twisted with fury.

“Who the hell are YOU?! You think it’s funny pretending to be me?!”

None of this made sense. None of it felt real.

Warriors looked down.

Rough palms, thick knuckles, calloused fingers. Rings on several of them.

These weren’t his hands.

He bolted for his gear, rummaged through a bag, and yanked out a mirror.

Legend’s terrified face stared back at him.

He screamed so loudly that every bird within a mile probably took flight.

And all around the camp, the others began to wake.

Yelling. Accusations. Stumbling. Complete chaos.

“Wait, please, don’t take your pants off! Put them back on!”

“Sky” shouted, trying to stop “Twilight,” who was in the process of opening his waistband and peeking inside.

Meanwhile, “Wild” sat on the ground, head in hands, muttering,

“Gone… it’s all gone… it’s missing… everything’s missing…”

“EVERYONE CALM DOWN!”

Wind’s high, clear voice cut through the shouting.

He raised both arms to get their attention—but no one paid him any mind.

“I said: CALM. DOWN!”

He took a deep breath and roared across the lake.

Everyone froze.

There stood the youngest among them, frowning deeply, arms crossed like a furious little parent.

“Look. I get that everything’s a mess. But right now, we need to figure out who’s who—

—and then figure out how this happened. Screaming’s not going to fix anything.”

His voice, despite its youthful pitch, held an oddly firm calmness.

The group glanced at one another—and, reluctantly, began to settle down.

“Left to right. State your name. I’ll go first.”

He pointed at himself, cheeks puffed in frustration.

“I’m Time.”

—Of course. The oldest soul had landed in the youngest body.

“I’m Wild.”

“Twilight” raised his right hand, scratching wildly at his shoulder.

“Hyrule.”

The person curled by the extinguished fire mumbled in a haunted tone.

“Legend.”

“Hyrule” pursed his lips and continued staring at his hands like they were cursed artifacts.

Everyone turned to stare at the peacefully sleeping “Four.”

Then just as quickly, looked away in unspoken agreement.

“I’m Warriors.”

“Legend” dropped his mirror and grabbed another handful of shocking pink hair.

“Wind!”

“Warriors” twirled in place with delight, inspecting himself and giggling like a child.

“I’m Four.”

“Wild” frowned deeply, raising one hand while tugging on his own hair with the other.

Finally, they all looked toward “Sky,” standing in the center.

“I’m Twilight—Wild, stop putting your hand in my pants—no, I mean MY hand—why are you putting MY hand in MY pants?!”

Another round of shouting.

Apparently, Wind’s young face didn’t carry the same authority as Time’s usual deadpan glare.

It took a long while before the group finally sat down to think.

While the others tried to figure things out, two figures slipped away.

“I can’t take it anymore! This thing’s full of fur—it’s driving me insane!”

Wild scratched wildly at his neck.

“I swear, if I don’t take this off, I’m gonna jump in the lake.”

“Rancher wears that all the time… he’s probably used to it. Poor guy.”

Hyrule, wearing Time’s body, followed closely, scanning the woods for any signs of magic.

He was lucky—Time’s body was infused with familiar fairy magic. At least it didn’t feel foreign.

“Nope. I’m done.”

Wild stripped off the coat and shoes, tossing them aside and continuing in just his underwear.

Hyrule sighed and bent down to pick up the clothes Wild had thrown off, brushing off dirt as he spoke.

“You do realize that’s Twilight’s body, right? If he finds out you stripped it in the middle of the forest, I’m not taking your side.”

“He won’t mind! I’ve seen his body before—wait, no! That’s not what I meant—!”

“I don’t want to know.”

Hyrule said quickly, face red.

They wandered through the mist for less than ten minutes before realizing they were lost.

“You sure it’s this way?” Hyrule asked, brows furrowed.

“I think that weird fog came from this direction last night… anyway, I’ll climb and check.”

Wild didn’t wait—he scaled a tree like it was second nature, disappearing into the canopy.

Back at camp, Four—currently holding Sky’s soul—finally stirred.

“Mmm… huh?”

He sat up slowly, rubbing his head, blinking blearily.

He yawned, stretched, then paused. Something felt... off.

Everyone looked serious. He felt shorter.

On instinct, he reached for the Master Sword.

“Wait… this feels weird.”

He drew the blade.

A dark, burned-looking talisman was stuck to the flat of the blade.

“When did this get here…?” he whispered.

Without hesitation, he peeled it off.

A curl of black smoke drifted upward and vanished into the wind.

At that instant, the Master Sword pulsed with blue light—

Fi’s will flared outward like a ripple, and the wrong souls began to return to their rightful places.

High in the tree, Wild suddenly felt dizzy.

“Wait—waitwaitwait—AAAHHH!!”

In the blink of an eye, his consciousness was pulled out and slammed back into his own body.

Twilight’s soul snapped back into his own—leaving him very suddenly…

...shirtless.

Wearing only a pair of barely-clinging boxer briefs.

At the top of a very, very tall tree.

Hyrule, now back in his own body, stumbled and fell to the ground.

Time blinked—he had somehow “teleported” into the woods—looked up, and saw Twilight half-naked in the branches above.

Back at camp, everyone else had returned to normal.

Warriors was frantically checking his hair.

Legend clutched his chest, breathing deeply.

Four slowly stood and looked at Sky.

Sky rubbed his eyes.

“…What just happened?”

One moment he was holding the Master Sword, the next it was in Four’s hands—and he had no idea how.

Then, from far in the woods, a furious roar:

“WILD—!!”

Twilight’s voice thundered through the trees, shaking the forest and sending birds scattering.

[brattyfics]

Swampbound II

Adla shot up from sleep, jolted by the sound of something heavy dragging outside. The old porch creaked under the weight, those worn boards groaning like they were telling her to stay inside. For a heartbeat, she thought it was just a remnant of a bad dream. But then it came again—slow, deliberate shuffling, as if someone was moving through the dark with purpose.

She kicked off the sheet, her bare feet gliding over the cool floorboards. Reaching for the shotgun, she crept to the window, quiet as a whisper in the night. Pulling the curtain back just a crack, she squinted into the gloom.

A figure loomed large, hunched over, moving as though it was in pain.

The wolf?

No, that shape was all wrong. Its movements were jerky, struggling to stay upright. Then she spotted it—clawed hands gripping the railing, barely managing to hold on. Her breath caught as the figure slumped, twisting and warping in a way that made her skin crawl.

The truth slammed into her, sharp and unforgiving.

This wasn’t just any wolf.

Adla tightened her grip on the shotgun, heart pounding in her chest. Every instinct told her to retreat, but something gnawed at her—a pull she couldn’t explain. The stories whispered through the town—tales of beastly protectors and vengeful spirits—had always danced at the edges of her mind, but tonight, with this strange presence lurking outside, those old myths felt like a warning.

Whatever was out there, it wasn’t just a man, and it sure as hell wasn’t just a wolf.

Fear gripped her as the shadow twisted, revealing the shape of a man. She blinked, praying to wake from a nightmare, but when her eyes opened, it was still there. The dried pool of blood pooling beneath him turned her stomach.

What kind of trouble had she stumbled into?

Piercing blue-green eyes, both wild and human, locked onto hers through the dim light. She gasped, every muscle screaming at her to run, but there was nowhere to go. The massive man raised one hand, then the other, pounding against the walls of her little house so insistently that the whole place rattled.

She flinched at the frantic banging, the noise shaking the thin window panes. It sounded desperate, but not dangerous. And then, through the chaos, she heard it—a rough voice, weak but clear enough to make her freeze in place. “Help me... please.”

Her instincts urged her to stay put, but that voice—it was broken, pleading. She bit her lip, torn between caution and compassion. She couldn’t rush headlong into a mess, but could she really turn away someone who was hurt?

Shifting her grip on the shotgun, she edged toward the door. "Who’s out there?" she called, her voice steady but low, trying to mask the tremor in her heart.

"Just need a place to catch my breath. I promise I won’t cause no trouble. I’m just trying to escape something that ain’t right. I ain’t gonna hurt you, I swear. Please, just let me in for a minute—I’m beggin’ you."

“Lord, have mercy...” Adla muttered under her breath, caught in a bind. She’d always prided herself on being sharp and cautious, but her heart? Too soft, too generous—sometimes for her own good. “What brought you all the way out here?” she asked, frustration creeping into her voice.

“A whole string of bad luck. If I had anywhere else to go, I wouldn’t be standin’ here, believe me.” She shook her head, eyes on the lock, knowing this was the dumbest thing she’d ever done. Slowly, she twisted it open, pulling the door just wide enough to peek through the screen. 

There he was—wolf turned man, bigger than any person she’d ever seen. His body, thick with muscle, seemed almost sculpted from stone, hard to ignore, even with the bruises and cuts marring his skin. He was bare as the day he was born, flaccid yet exuding a raw strength. She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze upward. He had a face that was almost too beautiful, framed by full lips and those captivating eyes. A fierce, primal energy radiated from him, pulling her in and sending a shiver down her spine.

Letting in a naked stranger was easily the most reckless thing she’d ever done.

He was hunched over, leaning against the front of her house like he was too weary to stand on his own. Each second felt like a battle for him, swaying as if the ground beneath him were unsteady. His eyes, weighed down with exhaustion and pain, locked onto hers, drawing her into a tug-of-war between caution and compassion. “You best not be thinkin’ I’m a fool,” Adla warned, flipping the lock on the screen door. He reached for the door, but then jerked his hand back, hissing as if he’d been bitten by a snake.

“What now?” she asked, her brow knitting in confusion as she took a cautious step back, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.

“You gotta invite me in.” His voice was ragged, as if every word cost him. She frowned, not quite understanding—didn’t she already by opening the door?

“Come on in,” she finally said, stepping back with her shotgun still in hand, not fully trusting him yet. “Just don’t ruin my floor with all that blood.” He limped inside, his gaze never leaving hers, before collapsing clumsily into a chair in her kitchen.

“What the hell happened to you?” Adla asked, watching as his big hands explored his injuries, assessing the damage. He didn’t answer, too focused on his wounds.

“Hey!” she snapped, needing answers. If she was about to shelter some strange, naked wolf-man, she deserved to know what mess he was dragging to her door. “I asked you a question. Why are you here?” His gaze slid over her, assessing, and suddenly she felt exposed—the cool night air making her nipples pebble beneath her thin nightgown. Shifting uncomfortably, she caught his eyes snapping back to her face.

“Just passin' through. My cousin, Mike, and I ran into some trouble with the wrong crowd back in town. I got hurt, lost track of him, wandered off, and ended up here." He hissed, the twisting and turning only aggravating his injuries even more. "I'm just tryin’ to keep it together long enough to find him.”

“And what’s that gonna take? You getting yourself together?” Adla's skin prickled with unease, a warning that she had stumbled into something far beyond her understanding. She needed him out of her space and her life—pronto.

“You got any vinegar?” His voice rasped, dry as a corn husk.

“‘Course I do.” Adla replied, moving around the kitchen with purpose. Her hands worked quickly yet deliberately, keeping him in her line of sight. She set the bottle down on the table, her eyes sharp and filled with suspicion. “What’s that gonna do?”

“It’ll help me heal.” The words came out strained, frustration simmering beneath the surface, though it was clear he was in no shape to argue. She could feel his urgency, a mirror to her own—both of them itching to be rid of each other.

“What else you need?”

“Baking soda and cayenne powder.”

“That’s it?”

Adla raised an eyebrow but gathered the supplies anyway, her movements smooth but laced with tension. She reached for each item from the cupboard, swaying with practiced ease.

“Fresh garlic wouldn’t hurt, if you have it. Maybe some moonshine.”

She paused, lips pursed. Was he fixin’ to heal or cook?

In no time, her table was cluttered with mismatched items��baking soda, vinegar, garlic, cayenne. It looked more like the makings of some old root-worker’s brew than anything meant to patch up a man.

“Pour the vinegar first to clean it out,” Terry instructed, his voice steadier now despite the pain. “Then mix the soda and spices.” He reached for the garlic bulb, popping it open with one strong press, the sound cutting through the silence. She jumped at the display of casual strength. Just how strong was he?

“Please.” His tone softened, pulling her from her startled state.

Adla shot him a wary look, but something in his voice—a strange vulnerability beneath that tough exterior—made her hesitate. He wasn’t lying; she could feel it deep in her bones. Without a word, he grabbed one of the cloves and swallowed it whole. 

With a slow breath, she set her shotgun by the counter, still close enough to grab if things took a turn. Her daddy would be turning in his grave if he knew she was doing this, but something about Terry had her ignoring every warning bell that usually rang loud and clear.

Standing behind him, she stared at the raw, twisted wounds crawling across his back, almost like vines. “Go on,” Terry grunted through clenched teeth.

Steadying herself, she poured the vinegar down his back, watching it stream over the jagged flesh and trickle down his long legs. Terry tensed, letting out a sharp hiss as the vinegar hit the open wounds. His skin bubbled, frothing where it met, as if fighting something deep within. Adla mixed the baking soda and cayenne in a bowl with water, then followed his instructions to spread the strange paste over his back.

She froze as she saw it—right before her eyes, the skin began pulling together, like unseen threads stitching him back together. It wasn’t fast, but it was happening, slowly mending him back to who he was.

Adla’s breath caught in her throat.

Magic wasn’t something she doubted—any Black woman raised out in the marsh knew better than to dismiss it—but seeing it unfold in her own kitchen? That was something else entirely. Her fingers twitched as she stepped back, eyes wide with awe and caution.

“Keep goin’.” Terry grit out, his voice rough but laced with urgency.

She rolled her eyes, cutting him a sharp look. “Mind how you talk to me, mister. You're in my house.”

Terry mirrored her, letting out an exasperated sigh and tapping his foot impatiently as she took another look at his injuries, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. His muscles tensed and flexed, discomfort rippling through him as the mixture worked its way into his wounds. Whatever it was doing, it sure wasn’t gentle. She caught him tilting the moonshine bottle to his lips, her eyes narrowing. So that’s what that was for. She bit her tongue, figuring now wasn’t the time to fuss about him treating her liquor like his own. He probably needed it more than she did right now.

She knelt to check his leg wounds, only to find herself face-to-face with his... package. Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed it seemed to be swelling—whether from the pain, nervousness, or something else entirely, she didn’t know. Her gaze darted away just as quickly.

"Would some aloe help?" she asked, curiosity edging out any pretense of concern. The fabric of her gown grazed his bare skin as she stood, the warmth of her scent wrapping around him like a blanket. He drew in a deep breath and then his eyes fluttered shut.

“Nah, this’ll do,” Terry muttered, his jaw tightening as he shifted again, turning away from her. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft curve of her body just inches away igniting something primal within him. Every movement coiled his muscles tighter, and he fought to keep his breathing steady, hyper-aware of her scent wafting through the air.

Finally, she stepped back, breaking the spell.

“Rest’ll heal on its own. Thank you.” There was sincerity in his tone now, softer than before, though the longing still lingered in the air between them.

“What are you?” She asked softly, testing the waters. She didn’t mean any offense; under the circumstances, it seemed like a fair question.

Terry stiffened for a moment, then met her gaze. “Terry Richmond,” he said, a faint, strained smile flickering across his lips. “But what I am... well, that’s a bit more complicated. Some call me a shifter. I just call myself a survivor.”

“Survivor, huh?” she replied, running the dishrag over her bloody palms. The image of that massive wolf flashed in her mind, and she couldn’t shake the thought that he could swallow her whole without a second thought. “Well, as long as you ain't tryin’ to survive off me, we’ll be alright.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Terry, deep and rough—an echo of a man who’d weathered too much. “Don’t worry, I’ve got enough on my plate without addin’ you to it.” He paused for a beat. “What they call you, miss?”

“Adla.”

That thing between them—the charge—was heavy and palpable, and Adla felt it coursing through the air like a summer storm, but she wasn’t about to act on it—at least, not yet. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Terry froze, his body going rigid, as if he sensed something dangerous lurking.

“Somebody’s comin’,” he muttered, forcing himself to his feet despite the visible pain.

“What are you talkin’ about? I don’t hear anything—” Adla’s voice trailed off as she moved to the window, squinting into the early dawn. Her breath caught when she saw a police cruiser creeping down the slick, muddy road. The lights were off, but the car moved deliberately, as if searching. Morning had crept up on her, the sky shifting from inky black to pale gray-blue, the sun just starting to break the horizon.

“It’s him,” Terry growled, his expression hardening with anger. He stood, wincing, but what stopped her cold was the intensity in his eyes—hungry, vengeful. “I’m gonna kill him,” he growled, his words cold and laced with hatred.

Her pulse quickened, a dozen questions racing through her mind. Who? There were plenty of officers driving cruisers like that, but the way Terry spoke made it seem like he knew, like he could smell them.

“Hold on a minute,” she snapped, stepping closer to him and placing a hand firmly against his chest. “You just got back on your feet, and you sure as hell ain’t in any shape to fightin’.” She pushed against him gently, but with enough force to drive her point home. He winced, the pain breaking through his tough exterior.

“This is my house, my land, my rules. Sit down and keep quiet. I don’t need them knowing you’re here. You can get your revenge later—on your own time.”

Terry stared her down, jaw clenched, clearly battling with his pride. He was a man used to taking charge, not letting someone else handle his problems—especially not a woman. But Adla met his glare head-on, refusing to back down. They stood at an impasse, tension thick between them like the heavy air before a storm. She didn’t flinch; his size and predatory presence didn’t shake her, not after she’d pulled him back from death’s edge.

With a quick flick of her wrist, Adla grabbed her old housecoat from the hook by the door and pulled it on, tying it tightly around her waist. She shot one last glance at Terry—his wild, dangerous eyes still trained on her—before stepping out onto the porch, her bare feet meeting the wooden planks. The door clicked shut behind her, a barrier between him and whatever came next.

She marched toward the fast approaching car, steeling herself for what was coming.

Police Chief Sandy Burne rolled down his window, a scowl carved deep into his features.

“Good mornin’, Chief,” Adla greeted with a nod. He didn’t bother to return the courtesy, his eyes narrowing as he cut straight to business. “You seen anything strange out here lately?”

Well, yes. There’s a damn wolf man in my kitchen!

“No, sir.”

“You sure, gal?” His tone dripped with skepticism. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, holding steady before speaking again, her voice calm but firm. “Yes, I’m sure.”

This was the same tired routine they played whenever their paths crossed. Her daddy had taught her to show respect for the law—not because they earned it, but because they wielded the power to make her life hell, and that was especially true now that he was gone. She was a lone woman in this world, with no safety net outside her own grit.

“Ain't nobody been by? No strangers nosin' around or passin' through?” he pressed, his voice sharper than the edge of a rusty knife.

“No, sir,” she replied, holding his gaze steady, her heart pounding like a war drum. Terry, Jesse—neither were his concern. This part of the marsh was her domain.

Burne’s eyes locked onto hers—beady and treacherous. “Take a look at these pictures. You best be sure,” he warned, passing her sheets of sketches from his window. One was definitely Terry; she recognized him instantly. The other bore a resemblance too—slimmer but sharing the same wide nose and full lips. That must be the cousin he mentioned.

“I ain't seen either of those men,” She lied with a smile, handing the papers back to him. Turning on Terry would be easy, the safest thing to do, but she wouldn’t be complicit in whatever Burne was cooking up. He’d already gotten away with too much. Doubt flickered in the grey-haired man’s eyes. He knew she was lying; she could feel it.

“Alright then. I trust you’ll give me a holler if that changes.” Irritation crossed her face before she could mask it, like a storm cloud rolling in on a clear day. “You got somethin' better to be doing, girl?” There it was again, that single word dripping with the venom of prejudice. Her fist clenched at her sides.

Low growls rumbled from her kitchen, echoing past the porch and into the yard. Adla's heart raced. There was no way that brother was turning into a beast in her kitchen.

“What’s that noise?” Burne demanded.

“A dog,” she replied, keeping her voice casual. “Found him after the storm. Crawled up on my porch and wouldn’t leave. Felt sorry for him, so I let him in. Ain’t like he’s been alone in the house yet.” She prattled on as he swung open the door of his cruiser, stepping out with the confidence of a man with something to prove.

“I thought you said you didn’t see anything.”

“Just a dog,” she insisted, her heart racing as he prowled around her. If he made it to the porch and caught sight of the blood—

“Chief, we need you.” His radio crackled to life. “Got a report of a violent altercation happening over on Flower Street. It’s Mr. Simmons; the family is requesting you personally.”

Burne narrowed his eyes, his tone sharp as he stepped closer, his breath hot against her cheek. “Watch yourself with them dogs, especially the ones you don’t know. Get too close, and you might end up with fleas. You don’t want that, Ms. Bennett.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If I find out you’re keeping secrets from me, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

She felt her teeth clench at the threat. 

The growling continued, rising in a way that sent chills down her spine. 

“I’ll call if I see anything worth mentioning.”

Burne gave her one last intense look before climbing back into his cruiser, kicking up mud as he drove off down the winding road. The nerve of that man! Anger simmered in her veins as she imagined him ripped apart, piece by piece. The sensation coursing through her felt electric, tingling deep in her bones like a storm brewing on the horizon.

She marched back into the house, her voice steady but firm. “You can rest and pull yourself together, but after that, you gotta leave, and don’t even think about coming back.”

Terry nodded, understanding the finality in her tone. As much as he wanted to jump into action against Burne, he wasn’t ready. He and Mike had stumbled into this trouble by underestimating Burne. If Terry was gonna get Mike back, he had to regain his strength, and that meant he needed to rest.

“Don’t move. I’ll find you something to wear,” Adla muttered, tugging a storage bag down from the top of the closet. Her fingers sifted through the men’s clothes she hadn’t had the heart to toss—each piece a remnant of her Daddy’s spirit, lingering like a ghost in her memories. The thought alone weighed heavy on her heart.

“Here,” she said, passing him some of her Daddy’s old things, the ghost of his scent still clinging to the fabric. Terry’s fingers grazed against hers, lingering just a moment too long before she turned away from him.

With a sigh, she led Terry to her childhood bedroom, gesturing to the too-small twin bed where she once dreamed of escaping this very life. No way was she inviting him into her own bed. That was a can of worms she feared would never close if she pried it open.

“Thanks,” Terry said softly, standing too close. The way he looked at her sent a shiver down her spine, like he was weaving an unintentional spell. She shook off the feeling. “Ain’t no thing,” she replied, her tone casual but guarded. “Just get some rest. I’ll be right out here if you need anything.”

Sinking onto the plastic-covered sectional, she felt the crinkling beneath her as her mind raced. Thoughts tumbled over one another, tangled like the Spanish moss outside. Something about Terry being a shifter tugged at her like an old tune she couldn’t quite place—more than just town legends.

One thing was for sure: she’d never seen skin behave the way his had. That was a memory she’d never shake.

Jesse’s grandmother had been a healer, claiming she could cure anything as long as the healed soul accepted the consequences. That same woman brewed her soothing teas on nights when her father was away on the fishing boat, filling the gaps her mother left behind. As a child, Adla had believed in her magic without question. But the older she got, the more it felt like a fairytale—yet perhaps it had been right there all along, hidden in plain sight.

Minutes passed before loud, unmistakable snores broke through the fog of thoughts. Terry sounded every bit like the beast she knew he could become. Rising, she moved to close the cracked bedroom door. She didn’t trust him alone in her space, but the openness felt like it was clouding her ability to think clearly.

Glancing inside, her gaze roamed over his sleeping form. He lay stretched out, exuding a readiness even in slumber. Her eyes lingered on the defined veins in his arms, the ink marking his bicep.

He was undeniably attractive.

Terry hadn’t bothered to wear any of the shirts she’d given him; the faded sheets barely covered his waist. With each breath, his abs flexed, drawing her in closer. A rush of heat flooded her skin as her mind wandered to what lay just beneath those sheets. She felt like a trespasser in her own childhood bedroom—caught between the past and a present that dared her to let go.

Terry stirred as the door creaked open, a tired smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “I don’t mind a little company while I dream.” He drawled, voice low and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he was her man, waiting for her to slip into bed beside him, not some stranger she'd only met a few hours ago.

She gasped, her face growing hot. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t tryin' to disturb you or nothin’.”

Terry sank deeper into the pillowcase that held her scent—a calming blend of saltwater and magnolias, with a hint of citrus underneath. She couldn’t deny how it felt seeing him there, laid out in her bed with his hands tucked behind his head like he belonged. And it was clear he liked it too. The thought stirred something deep inside her, intoxicating and undeniable.

“I just wanted to close the door, that’s all. You were snorin’ like a bear, and I—”

Her mouth hung open as he shifted on the bed, the sheets slipping down just enough to reveal more of his toned torso, the warm light from the window casting soft shadows across his skin.

“This here’s your house, your rules, don’t forget,” he teased, a playful edge to his tone but laced with something sharper.

The idea of climbing in beside him was oh-so-tempting. She’d never felt a heat like this pooling between her thighs, searing and intense. Adla had always feared falling in love, haunted by how losing her mother had shattered her father, but she had nothing against the thrill of hot flings. She loved the playful banter and the slow build to something deeper with a man. With Jesse, it took years to reach that point, but with Terry, the heat flared too quickly. He made her want to toss caution aside, and that sense of risk sent shivers down her spine.

“What do you take me for?” She shot back, one hand perched confidently on her hip.

He remembered how she’d pushed him earlier, bossing him around with that fierce spirit. He craved her fire, even if it meant getting burned. “A woman who knows how to take charge and go after what she wants. Ain’t nothing wrong with that, is there?”

He had that look about him—sure of himself, like a cat toying with a canary, or maybe a werewolf eyeing a Southern belle, ripe for the taking. "Quit playin' around with me." She turned to leave, but he caught her arm, pulling her down to the edge of the bed. She didn't fight him. "You ain’t scared, are you? Thinkin' I might just gobble you up?"

"Just caught off guard, that’s all." Her gaze lingered on his lips, like a wild cat reduced to a purring house cat. Heat pooled beneath her skin, making her feel as if she needed to shed layers. “I ain’t scared of you,” she insisted.

Terry’s soft, seductive smile shifted into a confident smirk. "You got no reason to be," he replied, leaning closer, his warmth wrapping around her. “I ain’t gon’ bite… ‘less you ask real polite.”

A deep pulse thrummed through her core, something fierce. She felt like prey, yet made no move to escape the gaze of her predator. His focus sharpened on the pulse in her neck, and he leaned in, his soft lips grazing her skin as her blood rushed to the surface. She trembled in his embrace. "Don’t you worry, Ms. Adla. You ain't asking for it... not yet."

She gasped as his warm tongue flicked out, pressing against her skin, meant to soothe, yet it sent her heart racing. “Please,” she breathed, torn between desire and confusion.

“Please what?” he asked, pulling back to meet her big brown eyes. She looked like a doll, wild curls escaping from beneath her scarf, the bright blooms of her nightgown drawing his gaze. Her soft curves were undeniable, making it nearly impossible for him to tear his eyes away.

“Don’t devour me,” she whispered, the weight of her words thick with the understanding that she wouldn’t survive if he did. Already drowning in sorrow, she struggled with the truth that the supernatural was real and had come knocking at her door. Her mind raced back to Jesse's grandmother—wait, Jesse.

In an instant, she jolted out of his arms, springing up from the bed as if it had caught fire beneath her.

Terry watched her, a mix of frustration and amusement dancing in his eyes. Her chest rose and fell in quickened breaths, and he couldn’t resist the urge to laugh, a low, rumbling sound that echoed in the quiet room. "You okay, there, sugar?"

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she replied quickly, her voice shaky. “I just... I gotta think.”

“You sure ‘bout that? You look a tad flustered to me.” Terry’s eyes danced with mischief as he grinned, leaning back against the tiny headboard like he owned the place.

Adla felt the tension crackle between them, electricity simmering in the air. “I’m not about to get caught up in whatever foolishness you’ve got goin’ on,” she declared, though her voice wavered, betraying the strength she wished she had.

“You’re already knee-deep in this swamp with me. Ain’t no runnin’ from that now.”

Chapter Three.

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[theshortkings]

ᥫ᭡ SWEET AND SALTY — "after returning home from a long day at work, all guest wants to do is sleep. however, his clingy and insatiably horny boyfriend, chance, has other plans in mind. after being denied sex for the night and being told to "figure it out himself," chance takes on the challenge and uses whatever means necessary to please himself."

⺡ word count: 2.6k ~ MDNI | AO3 | chance x guest

content warning armpit kink, mutual masturbation, sweat, perv chance, pit fetish, somnophilia, mildly dubious consent, scent kink, scents & smells, nsfw content, roommates, boyfriends, fetish

an: side note this isn't my thing, i am not into armpit fucking but some of you freaks requested this on twitter so here you go. tbh, i'm kinda getting tired from writing the same vanilla shit 24/7, so expect more content (weird kinks) like this from me in the future!

With a dry swallow, Chance stirs in his sleep. Groggily awakening in the brisk middle of the night, he instinctively reaches out, expecting to find the man of his dreams resting soundlessly beside him; instead, he’s met with the unsettling feel of neatly arranged covers, still untouched and cool. A wave of disorientation washes over him, but as doubt begins to creep in, he hears a soft sound from across the room. The darkness fogs the moonlit surroundings, making it nearly impossible to discern the faint silhouette lurking among the shadows. The air is thick with a heavy musk, a blend of damp earth and something more primal, as the figure shifts, letting out a deep groan as a layer of clothing is shed into the wooden floorboards. As he settles beside the other, the weight of their shared solitude hangs in the unmoving air.

After a long, exhausting day at work, all Guest craves is the comfort of sleep. But, lo and behold, before he could begin to drift into the realm of sweet seclusion, his boyfriend had already been alerted to his presence, wrapping his arms snuggly around his chest and squeezing his pecs together in a lewd, unsightly manner. The warmth of the embrace was inviting, yet it also felt like an obligation; his boyfriend's need for closeness clashed with his own yearning for peace. 

The weary Guest felt the warm, damp breath on the back of his neck, a sensation both unnerving and intimate, reminiscent of a wolf that has just cornered its unsuspecting prey. There isn't a moment's peace before he’s caught helplessly in a snare.

In this position, with Chance wrapping his arms around him from behind, a rush of warmth surges through him. It’s impossible to ignore the prick jabbing at his lower half, a subtle gesture that tenses his fatigued muscles.

“Aye, quit rubbing that thing on me like a damn dog in heat,” Guest snaps, his voice edged with barely contained anger, the tension rippling through his words. Chance, undeterred, leans in closer, his breath tickling Guest’s ear as he whispers with a teasing lilt, “Well, that’s no way to greet your hubby, now is it?” With a playful smirk, Chance presses his body flush against Guest’s, their forms melding together as he pulls him back, their closeness amplifying the friction between them.

A chill rushes down the nodding man’s spine as a tentative kiss is placed on the back of his neck, which makes a field of goosebumps arise from the sudden placement of skin on lips. 

Guest isn't in the mood to fuck, exhausted to the point of nearly passing out, he might as well surrender to sleep in the heat of lovemaking. 

However, Chance is actively fighting against this wave of his fatigue, doing what he does best, being a stubborn thorn in Guest’s side; literally. Every fiber of his partner's being is alive with desire, his cock as hard as stone and yearning for the warmth and intimacy of skin against skin. His thoughts swirl in a delicious haze of lust, and he only has one motive on his mind. 

Guest lets out an annoyed groan; being used as a hump pillow isn’t exactly the most desired position in the world, especially while being held captive by his boyfriend’s firm grip and persistent dick.

“Just once, I promise I’ll make it quick,” Chance murmurs, his voice dripping with a sultry charm as he slants closer, his hips gently pushing forward in a tantalizing rhythm. The enticing offer hangs in the air, thick with unspoken promises. However, after a long, stressful day filled with deadlines and responsibilities, Guest lets out a weary sigh, shaking his head. “Take care of it yourself,” he replies curtly with a mix of exhaustion and irritation, his gaze already hazing towards the sanctuary of sleeping off this throbbing migraine. “I’m going to bed.”

And yet, Chance isn't taking that for a sure answer—he needs this. He buries his nose into the nape of his partner, inhaling deeply to capture the captivating, natural musk that never fails to awaken his sense of arousal. As Chance continues to hump into him, his breaths pick up, chest stuttering with small gasps as he uses the perfect curves of Guest’s spine to scratch his dick on. 

Guest just looks so perfect like this—his back gently arches, a subtle curve showcasing the well-defined muscles that ripple beneath his skin. Each soft exhale is deliberate, as if Guest is savoring the sensation of relaxation washing over him, in contrast to Chance, who is a bundle of fluid hormones. Every heartbeat resounds through him, his arteries pounding like a relentless drum, leaving him on the brink of bliss. The tension builds, and he feels as though he might burst from the pressure, a blood vessel threatening to give way under the strain. He presses a reassuring kiss onto the broadened shoulder blade to soothe the underlying tension. 

“Ah fuck—you have no idea how badly I need you right now,” 

Chance can't help but muse to himself, his hands softly tracing the defined angles that captivate him. The dampness of sweat clung to the palm of his hand, a connection that felt like an echo of their previous shared late-night intimacies. 

He’s thinking about touching him, imagining how it would feel to explore Guest in the way he desires—the way he wants. 

His touch is featherlight against the smooth skin of his boyfriend’s pelvis, a delicate caress that speaks volumes in the silence between them. Once, their bodies intertwined seamlessly, but now, that closeness has dissipated, leaving a disquieting chill hanging in the air like an unsettling melody. The warmth that once bound them fades away. 

“You're not sleepin’ already, right?” Chance asks, straddling the bedsheets—keeping his legs hooked behind him. His heavy cock straining and leaking pre cum, smearing it with his thumb as hands rub up and down that foreskin. Chance could get lost in that musky scent of Guest; the rough feel of his skin.

He strokes his painfully erect cock, circling his thumb over the head and letting out soft moans as the other hand traces the warm contours of his boyfriend's moisten skin. Guest had instructed him to take care of his problem by himself, and that is exactly what Chance intends to do.

“God—you're so fuckin’ hot,” Chance murmurs under a heavy, shaken breath, “and you’re all mine,”

Sure, his hands felt nice and all, but he held a sneaking suspicion that Guest’s body would feel so much better. Chance releases a sound that can only be classified as a whine—he can't suppress it anymore.  

He craves the warmth of human skin-on-skin connection, a comforting embrace that would envelop him entirely. But how could he go about doing so? It wasn’t as simple as waking Guest from his slumber for the sole purpose of satisfying his physical needs. Yet, the thought of disturbing Guest’s peaceful rest made him hesitate. Removing the pants of a sleeping man without being caught would unfortunately be a bitch and a half. So, Chance opts for the next best thing. 

He spreads the leftover pre cum across his now fully attentive stood cock. As the head of his dick glides across Guest’s warm skin, a trail of tingling sensation followed in their wake, sending shivers of pleasure cascading down Chance’s spine. Each deliberate swipe of his hand ignited a spark of warmth, awakening every nerve ending and enveloping them in a cocoon of intimate bliss.

Chance barely even realizes, amidst his delirious state of mind, that he’s begun to chant Guest’s name between harsh grunts. 

He inhales deeply, intoxicated as he keeps bucking against the spinal cord of Guest’s enticing back muscles, his mind too far gone to notice the small huffs that left Guest’s lips, sleep clearly long forgotten by those lewd movements. 

It has all become too much to ignore. Uncoordinated jabs rubbed him raw, and they grew even sloppier as Chance found himself unable to stop. A deep and urgent craving for warmth compelled his every thrust, each movement driven by an instinctual longing that felt almost primal. As he pressed forward, a tightening sensation coiled in the pit of his stomach, growing like an unmanageable knot—a swirling mixture of anticipation and desire that threatened to consume him. 

Just then, Guest shifts, his shoulder blades rolling in an almost suggestive manner, almost as if he’s inviting Chance in, and whatever rational morality he’s been pearl-clutching for the past several minutes now vanishes into dust. And suddenly, giving in to his worst impulses, he snaps. Chance frantically waddles awkwardly on his knees, cock in hand as he gently nudges the tip along the smooth curve of Guest’s underarm, tracing the delicate line where skin meets skin. The warm, intimate space feels inviting, almost electric, igniting a sense of desire within him. The soft texture of armpit fat and sweaty skin contrasts with the subtle contours, creating an alluring channel that beckons him closer.

Chance stares through dewy eyelashes, trying not to make a sound as his dick slides between the constricting folds. 

“M’ gonna give it to you jus’ how you like it babe,” He groans, as the bicep muscles tense around his throbbing hard-on. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Chance bucks himself forward into the warm, wet space between the underarms.

Grunts and groans escape his lips, filling the quietness of the bedroom with the raw sounds of his exertion. He mashes himself deeper, feeling the coarse texture of soft pubic hair brush against his tip, igniting a heightened awareness within him. 

"You're gonna squeeze my dick off at this rate.” It’s tight, unbelievably tight. Beads of sweat lubricate him as a forest of prickly hairs feels like mini toothpicks grazing along his sensitive shaft. The heat stuck to his cock, making him feel humid and damp as he huffs sweet words of encouragement into the still, unresponsive air. 

He moans his boyfriend's name as he slowly and deliberately pumps himself in and out of the slick and sweaty cavity. This is nothing like being inside Guest; it doesn't even come close. But it wasn't necessarily worse either. Chance’s hips smashed against the fatty underarm over and over again, projecting that lewd slapping sound that bounced off the ceiling and walls. 

“ Ah fuck—you're so fuckin’ sexy,” Chance can't deprive that voice of his, so fluid and unrestrained, as if he no longer cares if Guest wakes up. 

The free flow from his lips, so drunk on lust, he doesn't notice the slow hand of his boyfriend deliberately trailing down his body and fiddling with the fly of his pants. 

Guest tightly clamps his eyelids shut, listening to those sweet sounds pouring from his boyfriend's mouth like rich honey. Even though the thought of Chance getting off using his armpit doesn't exactly give him any pleasure whatsoever, the sheer lewdness of the moment and the fact Chance is using him in such a depraved way made his dick stand on edge; he couldn't resist it for long. 

Perhaps deep down, they both allowed their inappropriate thoughts and perverted intentions to take over in the heat of the moment.

“I’ve thought ‘bout fuckin’ you all day… ’m so crazy ‘bout you it hurts,” Chance mutters under his breath. Guest latches his canines into his bottom lip, trying to prevent any unwarranted sounds from slipping out and alerting Chance.

A firm hand wraps around the base of his cock, listening to that sweet symphony that's being performed for him—and him alone. With each slide, each time his cock pokes out the opposing side of his arm there's a high-pitched groan that tumbles from those perfect lips. 

“ Mmn , you feel so incredible against me,” Chance whispers softly, his fingers tracing the sculpted lines and contours of his lover’s perfectly defined physique. The tension in the air is thick with desire, and the faint scent of sweat lingers. As he lies there, the warmth of his body radiates, a mix of masculinity and primal musk that envelops the space between them—it's making Chance feral.

Each curve and dip beneath Chance’s touch ignites a pooling sensation between Guest’s plush thighs, his dick throbbing endlessly with an aching need.

Guest’s fist balls around his eager erection, thumbing at the slit as he makes his way down the shaft; picking up momentum. His hand tightens with each thrust from his perverted partner, squeezing him just how he needs, and fuck it feels good.

Chance is hungry— starving , even. The image of Guest’s perfect hole squeezing him this lewdly has him spiraling. Not caring what part of his boyfriend he fucked as long as it’s him . 

Chance is whining desperately, his white fluids oozing all over the pit as sweat intermingles with pre cum. His voice is becoming increasingly hoarse, strained from the continuous stream of words spilling out as he raves about his partner. He describes, in vivid detail, the sensations that ignite within him, especially as his raw cock brushes against the fine hairs of his partner's armpit—driving him insane . 

“You have no— no fuckin’ idea how much you turn me on.” Chance swipes himself against the swollen lymph nodes, his hips messily slapping with depleting stamina. He’s reaching his limit, and so is Guest.

Stroking his dick at inhuman speeds, trying to match the rhythm of Chance’s thrusts with his own pace. 

“ Huu , ’m gonna cum inside…” Chance assures, and it doesn't take long before his back is arching and grunts betray his vocal cords. A few more pumps and he’s coating his cock with nice, shiny white that oozes like paint streaks down the chest of his “sleeping” lover. 

Chance is immersed in the blissful haze of his high when he suddenly hears it—a low, repressed “mmnh!” rumbling deep within his partner's throat. It’s a sound that ignites a thrill within him, an opening to the raw pleasure they're both striving to reach. As he glances over, he sees the intensity etched on his partner's face, eyes half-closed and brows furrowed in bliss. Both reached their peak together in an intoxicating dance of sensation.

There's a collective silent moment where they’re both trying to catch their breaths, struggling to find composure. 

Chance is still grappling with the uncertainty of what exactly just happened. Fortunately for him, it isn't rocket science to piece together the clues—Guest’s cheeks glow with a faint blush, dusted with a layer of crimson powder that contrasts sharply against his pale skin. Sweat beads heavily on his forehead, trickling down his temples, while he takes deep, labored breaths, each inhale nearly suffocating.

A sly grin curved Chance’s lips, as the realization struck him with the force of a bullet. “Did you just—” he began, excitement creeping into his voice, but he was abruptly cut off by a harsh command. 

“Not a damn word ‘bout this, ya hear?” The intensity in Guest's eyes was unmistakable, a warning layered beneath their gruff tone, leaving no room for argument. And sure enough, Chance isn't complaining.

“You’re so unbelievably hot right now,” Chance murmurs, positioning himself behind Guest. As he wraps his arms around him, their bodies huddled together, warmed by the heat of their fondness and a mix of sweat lingering on their skin. The atmosphere is thick with desire, but neither of them seems to mind. After a few moments of shared closeness and unspoken tension finally melting away, they drift into a deep, comfortable sleep, wrapped in each other’s embrace.

[direwombat]

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton and @titiagls to share some more wippy goodness this wednesday (thank you both 🧡🧡🧡)

i promised last week that i'd share the jakesyb werewolf au belligerent sexual tension, so here's a draft of that :)c this snippet occurs later in the scene of my previous wip wednesday, picking up while the newest pack initiates are having their little baptismal dunk in the henbane. predictably, jacob is still being a possessive freak about things <3

[Jacob] presses the knife’s tip against his finger. Not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to feel the cool bite of metal against the calloused flesh. But it doesn’t stop his imagination from running wilder than the Wolf inside. She’d look so good like this: drenched from head to toe with her clothes clinging to her lithe form and staring up at him with awe, wonder, and hunger in those wild green eyes. He wonders if she would lean into his touch when he went to mark her as one of the Pack. 

He wonders if she would grab his wrist when he’s done and nurse at his wound — just as eager to get a taste of him as he is to taste her. 

The wind changes direction, trees rustling in the breeze. 

Then he smells her. Cinnamon whiskey and cigarette smoke drifts lazily through the air. 

Along with the sweet and sour notes of sweat and sex. That of hers and the Huntsman. 

His wolf stirs, possessive and angry. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end and the grip around his knife tightens. His gaze darts out to the congregation and sees that his Chosen, the ones familiar with Eli's scent pick up on it as well. As does Joseph, whose back and shoulders suddenly go tight. 

One of the Chosen pushes his way through the crowd to approach Jacob. “Sir,” he whispers, “I think we may have a problem.” 

A stolen glance and subtle nod of dismissal from Joseph is all Jacob needs. “I’ll handle it,” he grunts, shoving his way through the crowd with predatory intent. The mass of people instinctively part for him, making way for one of their four Alphas. 

He storms his way back up the riverbank and towards the church. Now that he’s away from the rest of the pack, the stoic facade he was barely clinging to crumbles to dust. Lips curling back to reveal his teeth, he growls and snarls his way as he follows the Deputy’s scent. Blood courses white hot through his veins, pulse and thundering in his ears. He knows it's just her somewhere in the shadows; that she wouldn’t have knowingly brought her precious little Huntsman into a literal den of wolves. His scent isn't fresh enough for that to be the case.

Besides, she values his life too much to do such a thing.

Yet here she is using him to make us jealous, his wolf pants, wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth. Can’t value his life too much if knows just how easily we could rip him apart. 

She’d kill us before we could get to him, he reasons. She thinks of Eli as her pack.

The next thought is one of both man and wolf: We’ll have to fix that.

Sybille doesn’t make herself difficult to find. All Jacob has to do is follow the trail of smoke drifting from behind the church. He rounds the corner to find her lurking in the shadows. She’s leaning against a stack of wooden shipping crates. A cigarette dangles loosely between two fingers. She watches him approach, regarding him with  half-lidded eyes — bored, disinterested, mocking.

“You gotta lotta crates, here,” she muses, kicking at the one she’s leaning against with a sturdy boot. A ring of embers glows, casting soft orange light over the sharp, angular planes of her face. She quirks a skeptical brow. “All of this is for construction, I take it?” 

Rather than indulging in her condescending tendency for accusatory banter as he normally has — wolf in sheep’s clothes; play nice, play nice, play nice — he instead grabs her by the lapels of her denim jacket, hoists her off the crates, and slams her back against the church’s vinyl siding. Pink lips part as the wind is knocked from her lungs with a low oof. She stares up at him dazed and doe-eyed. It only lasts for a moment, but it’s a taste of the submission he so badly craves from her. 

And then her teeth are baring in a ferocious snarl. Her hands fly up to grasp his wrists and with a hissed, “Get your hands off me,” she kicks her leg out, trying to sweep his knees. The motion gives him just enough space to push between her thighs and press his hips flush with hers, pinning her in place. She wriggles and thrashes against him. Spittle flies from her lips as her teeth gnash angrily together. 

Yet despite her struggling, her head angles to the side. The pale column of her neck stretches out before him and the Wolf takes over. He leans down until the slope of his nose is nuzzling against soft skin and he inhales deeply, drinking in her musk. His tongue darts out to lap at the light sheen coating her skin. The salty-sweet taste blooms across his tongue. A pleased rumble vibrates low and deep in his chest.

She responds with a growl of her own, but the arch of her back betrays her. Thin, but obviously muscular arms wrap around his neck as she steadies herself against the solid mass of his body. One hand claws at the space between his shoulder blades while the other tangles itself in the crop of hair atop his head. 

“You’re late,” he growls. Sharp teeth graze over her thundering pulse. He seals his mouth against her throat, savoring the way it flutters against his lips. His head spins at the sensation. He’s so close to her mating bond — can fucking smell the pheromones releasing as he rocks his hips up and ruts against the heat between her thighs. 

In a half-hearted attempt to pull him away, she gives his hair a harsh tug. “You’re damn lucky I showed up at all,” she grits through clenched teeth. “Now, lemme go.”

He snaps his teeth to nip at her earlobe and a sardonic laugh rumbles deep in his chest at her barely suppressed shudder. “Oh, no, honey. You’re lucky you came to your senses.” His voice drops, deep and threatening. “I’d’ve hunt you down, otherwise.”

“I’d’a like to see you try.”

“Careful what you offer, sweetheart,” he hums. “I might just take you up on it.”

Her breath hitches, and from where he is, so close to her pulse, he hears her heart racing in excitement. And maybe it’s the remnants of her time with Eli, but as he goes to lick his lips, he swears he tastes something sweet and citrusy blooming in the air. 

Arousal. 

Hers, specifically. 

His Wolf is begging him to fuck her. Put her in her place and establish hierarchy. Throw her to the ground. Claim her. Own her. All he wants is to rip her apart and for her to return the favor. He has half a mind to throw her over his shoulder and slam her against the flatbed of his truck and show her just how much she belongs to him. 

Only him.

and posting a silly little dnd related doodle i did earlier today that's really for myself and three other people, but it's been a while since i've drawn something and i can't wait to get home so i can slap some colors on this. the party's tiefling artificer pulls the puppy-dog eyes and every time that happens this is what i picture my npcs seeing

taglist:

@josephseedismyfather, @la-grosse-patate, @tommyarashikage, @florbelles, @statichvm

@fourlittleseedlings, @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl, @ivymarquis, @carlosoliveiraa

@cassietrn, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot, @miyabilicious,

@simplegenius042, @g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @aceghosts,

@adelaidedrubman, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @voidika, @strangefable,

and anyone else wanting to share their wips today! (taglist opt in/out)

[icrypop]

Um this is super embarrassing but I used to crush on Raph from the cgi movie the 2007 one

Could you write Raph x a reader that's a domanatrix? Um thanx

One for the banter

2007! Raphael x Fem! Domanatrix! Reader

Warnings: Flirty....Smart mouth Raphael

HSSGHSIGH I love 2007 Raph...I have a soft spot for his stupid attitude :3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cool breeze of the New York night swirled around you as you stepped into the alleyway. Leather hugged your figure, each buckle and strap glinting under the dim streetlights. You weren’t working tonight—this was your time to relax—but the confidence you carried wasn’t something you turned off. It was part of you, something Raphael noticed immediately.

He leaned casually against the brick wall, his massive arms crossed and the curve of his lips teasing the beginnings of a smirk. "You always dress like you're ready to knock someone on their ass?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" you quipped, meeting his gaze with the kind of sharpness he thrived on.

Raph chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. "Yeah, maybe I would." He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. Despite his size, there was a carefulness to the way he moved around you, as if he knew you were just as much a force to be reckoned with as he was.

"Careful, turtle," you teased, your voice silk over steel. "You might bite off more than you can chew."

His amber eyes gleamed, a challenge dancing within them. "Oh, I ain't afraid of a little fight. But somethin' tells me you don’t like it when things are easy."

You smirked, taking a deliberate step closer, letting your confidence wash over him like a tidal wave. "Good guess. I don’t. So, what brings you here, lurking in the shadows like a lost puppy?"

He snorted. "Lost puppy? Lady, I ain’t no puppy. I’m the big bad wolf."

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head slightly. "Then I guess it’s your lucky night, wolf. I happen to know how to handle wild animals."

For a moment, the tension between you crackled like static electricity. Raphael wasn’t one to back down, but neither were you. He admired that. Hell, he respected it.

“You think you’re somethin’, don’t ya?” he said, his smirk growing.

“I don’t think,” you replied, your eyes locking with his. “I know.”

Raph let out a deep, throaty laugh, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Alright, alright. You win this round."

"Every round," you corrected, stepping past him and brushing your hand lightly against his arm. "But you already knew that."

As you walked away, the clack of your heels echoing in the alley, Raphael watched you go, shaking his head with a grin tugging at his lips.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “I think I like her.”

———————————————————————————————————————

The alleyway became your unofficial meeting spot, a neutral ground where the city’s hum softened just enough for you and Raphael to spar in more ways than one. Tonight was no different. The moon hung high, casting a silvery glow over the streets as you leaned against the brick wall, waiting.

"You’re late," you called as Raphael emerged from the shadows, his hulking form easily recognizable even in the dim light.

"Fashionably," he quipped, tossing a sai in his hand as if it were weightless. "What? Miss me?"

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the wall. "I missed the chance to remind you who’s in charge. Thought I’d get another shot tonight."

Raph smirked, the confidence radiating off him in waves. "That so? Guess there’s only one way to settle that."

A playful grin spread across your face. "1-on-1?"

"You read my mind."

You didn’t waste time with formalities. The second he nodded, you lunged, your movements sharp and precise. Raphael deflected, his speed surprising for someone his size. The clash of your intensity against his raw strength made for an electric exchange, each blow dodged or countered escalating the tension between you.

Finally, you spotted your opening. You ducked under his swing, pivoting behind him, and with a burst of calculated force, you slammed him against the brick wall. The impact echoed in the alley, and you had him pinned, one arm locked across his chest while your knee pressed into his side.

"Not bad for a turtle," you teased, your voice a mixture of triumph and amusement. "But you’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to—"

Before you could finish, Raph twisted his body, using your own momentum against you. In a fluid motion, he flipped you, your back hitting the wall this time. His arms caged you in, one hand pressed near your shoulder while the other rested at his side, effectively blocking any escape.

"Was that hard enough for ya?" he asked, his face inches from yours, a cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Not bad," you admitted, your breath steady despite the situation. "But pinning someone isn’t the same as winning."

"Funny," he drawled, leaning in just enough to test the boundaries. "I thought the same thing when you had me against the wall."

The corner of your mouth curved upward, amusement flickering in your eyes. "You like being manhandled, don’t you?"

Raph’s chuckle was low, rough, and undeniably teasing. "Only if it’s by you."

You pushed against his chest, forcing him back just enough to step away from the wall. "Careful, turtle. You keep sweet-talking me like that, and I might think you’re starting to enjoy losing."

"Who says I’m losin’?" he shot back, his smirk growing. "This is just round two."

You adjusted your stance, brushing off your jacket. "Then I guess we better settle this properly."

Raph cracked his knuckles, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Lady, you’re speakin’ my language."

The alley buzzed with the same electric energy as before, but this time, it was laced with something even sharper: mutual respect, attraction, and the undeniable thrill of a challenge that neither of you wanted to end.

[skyward-floored]

how'd you first get into LU? 👀

- hero-of-the-wolf

I’ll be completely honest with you, it’s been long enough that I don’t totally remember everything XD

But... there was a period of time when I was a teenager, where I would get on the Internet on my 3ds Internet browser because it was more private and poke around, looking for interesting Zelda things. I’d fully played oot and botw at that point and was ravenous for more, and so I would hop on whatevrr search engine was on there and look at images and be pretty content with what I found.

At some point I realized that putting “tumblr” into my searches tended to yield much more interesting results, so I started doing that, and saw all kinds of neat fanart and stuff. Some... not so much, but the majority of it was pretty cool. This was before lu or really any links meet AUs had gained quite as much traction and lu wasn’t everywhere like it is now, so I didn’t see any sign of it. I did find a different comic with two Links interacting though, and that was insanely cool to me.

Links meeting each other??? COOL.

I found the blog where this comic was, and read pretty much everything there was about it, got really attached to botw Link and tp goofing off with each other and having a grand old time. The comic has since been discontinued, and I sadly don’t remember the blog, but it was a really fun little comic, and I really liked it. I started looking for other things where Links met, but there wasn’t all that much out there at that point at all. I found Dimensional Links (which I very much recommend, it’s hilarious and awesome), and some one-off pictures of Links interacting, but no other comics, which was what I was really looking for.

I began to drift around on tumblr itself occasionally, since that got more results than just the internet browser, and scrolled through some zelda blogs, enjoying their content and stuff. I didn’t get a blog at that point (that would have been committing, and there’s always been a sense of social media is not good in my house), I just lurked around and looked at cool stuff.

I think what happened then was I found some of Jojo’s regular loz art. Pretty sure that it was the tp comic she did for that one fic, and I loved that. I hopped over to her blog, and that’s when I found the original lu designs post.

It looked vaguely familiar (I think I’d maybe seen it on some of my search engine searches), but it turned out that there was a comic attached to it?? “This has turned into a full story now”??? There were nine Links interacting and the very first comic had angst???

I jumped at that, and devoured everything that there was to read at the time. I came in somewhere around the Threatening Shadows/Mask arcs, and got violently sucked into the designs and characters and story and I’ve been here ever since lol.

It took me over a year after that to finally get a blog, and that was actually kind of because of ninjago, but I’ve been lurking around the lu fandom since sometime in 2019 :)

[juniperthesilliest]

ʚ𝙸𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜ɞ

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛: 𝟷/?

! Tw: mention of gun use !

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘉𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘴

The soft, humid winds of summer whispered promises of surplus and prosperity.

The harsh, cold winds of winter whispered promises of death and starvation.

The tender, cool winds of fall whispered promises of bountiful trade and beauty.

The gentle, warm winds of spring whispered promises of youth and growth.

These four seasons came and left as time flowed evenly. The river of Joist tracing these lands, freezing with the winter and roaring with the summer. It's water kept the lands lush and healthy, bringing life to the empty plains of Faravore. The unknowing woodland surrounding the other side of the river. A forest blooming amongst the land, bringing food and shelter. Bringing life and along with it, death.

The people of Faravore live in a small village, travelers found refuge in their hospitality and neighboring villages found trade from their surplus of food and materials.

Amongst these people was danger, constantly lurking in the shadows, like a wolf preying on an unaware hare. Or an eagle feasting on a unlucky snake.

Levit was a little boy, not much older then 10, learning to hunt with his father and learning to scavenge with the older women. Learning to weave clothing and baskets together with his elder sister and learning to care for the farm animals with his elder brother. He also taught his sister how to read and write, and taught the younglings how to collect weeds I'm order to keep the villages beauty and honor.

It was the end of fall, the harsh and cold winds of winter brought dread amongst the village. Levit was sent with his father to find food, as they desperately needed to stock up and prepare for the beginnings of winter.

"Hurry young'n! We should find a dear or two if we hurry!" Levit's father, the villages general, called after him.

Levit struggled through the mud that held him back, making him tread even slower.

"I'm trying!" Levit grunted, most of his energy being focused on trying to walk through the mud and branches that seemed to reach out for him.

Eventually Levit had caught up to his father. They were standing on the edge of the woods, facing the fields of Vanonderf. The grass here was no longer the rich green color of the grass back home, but rather a yellowy brown color. It looked almost like dead grass, but when he focused his vision he could see the little details show themselves to him. This was a field of wheat, and the perfect place to spot any remaining dear.

"Get you're gun out, kiddo, and make sure to be real silent." His father ordered.

"Mhmm." Levit replied, barely taking any notice.

And so they wandered into the fields of Vanonderf, as the hunt began.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

| Next (unavailable 4 now) -> 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘺?

[forebodingmusicstartsplaying]

Things I would sell my soul for

A PC that could handle playing Black Myth Wukong on Max graphics and not due horribly any time I get into a fight or am in a relatively scenic place.

A fic with Ineffable Husbands (ie Aziraphale / Crowley from Good Omens) that are raising their magical surprise bio daughter who is the most hellish mix in the best way of their traits, who grew up with Adam and they didn't fucking find out about her till she is talking shit to Gabriel and Beelzebub on supposed to be doomsday. Like I want this little child to be the one that the average demon/angel thinks is the actual antichrist, that she starts up legends about Crowley being the king of hell, and her having taken down (insert appropriate very powerful very scary demon) by just existing and feeding bread to the ducks. And meanwhile she's just like "Hi dad. Hi mam. When you gonna get together again? Been wanting a baby sibling." (I'll leave you to decide which is the dad and which is the mom.) BUT THIS WOULD SPECIFICALLY BE A LONG FIC NOT A ONE SHOT!!

A fic where Izuku commits die, and some Eldritch abomination goes "I like you, your fun" and chucks him back into the living with spooky powers, and Izuku just goes, "alright fine if I'ma be a cryptid then I'ma do my shadow lurking right." And basically just creates an entire new "side" of the heros vs villains bit and pulls in people from both sides, not including all might, but including tomura and toga because league of villains redemption arcs are fun just All for One is a major creep, but also make him Izuku's dad. No mercy Izuku, if anyone fucks with his little gang he will murder. And if murder is too obvious he will raze them to the dirt and make them wish for death (exhibit a, Shoto and Dabi and their fucking FATHER KILL THIS MAN PLEASE LIKE THIS MAN SHOULD NOT BE REDEEMED!!)

Again long form fic (look I really want my damn cake to be more than a mouthful please)

An ac odyssey/ Percy Jackson crossover. Id take any applications of this but the one that stands out is a female Percy story with Percy being Kassandra reborn, and instead of the Isu bullshit it's "Kassandra is a legacy child, Leonidas is son of Zeus and Pythagoras is son of Neptune, so she is granddaughter of Poseidon and great grand daughter of Zeus" and Percy gets the fucking bird and Zeus and Poseidon and throwing shade and Poseidon is all, with a completely straight face "Why brother! I had no idea you cared so much for my daughter so as to bless her!" And Zeus is just like "yes of course I care for my.... /Is audibly pained at this point/ my darling niece." And Nico and Hades are in the background shuffling mythomagic cards and watching the show, knowing fully well (at least on Hades part) exactly what happened and having no intent to tell.

A stray gods the roleplaying musical fic in which Grace is magical/a witch from the get go, and is trying to not show that off until the trial is finished, but also is just... Blatantly weird, and is just acting So Definitely Normal™

Lego monkey kid fic with a waaaaaay smarter than he lets on MK that completely knows he is a celestial monkey or whatever the fuck and Mei is way more draconic and then and Red Son go on journey to the West v2.0 this time with heaven mad at them (so low-key season 5 with parts of season 3) and parents (tang, pigsey, Wukong, Macaque [this would be a shadowpeach fic], PIF, DBK, and Mei's parents who deserve to be borderline assassin/ninja levels of competency and coolness) don't find out until after they kids dip and they start chasing after them but "oh no somehow we can barely even find the trail this is taking so long" heavy sarcasm, it's being influenced by someone or other and also someone put Guanyin in a goddam fic.

Brand new animal fic in which instead of just a tanuki, a kitsune, and a magic giant wolf we have a tanuki, a kitsune, a magic giant wolf AND A BAKENEKO WHO IS PRETENDING TO BE GUMAN AND DOING VERY WELL WITH IT ACTUALLY, THANKS ITS THE TRAUMA!

Black Myth Wukong fic where Sun Wukong's Wife (OC obviously), dies a bit after the whole takedown of Sun Wukong and like... Halfway dies but also stays and is a yaoguai, but oh look she had a baby before she went batshit insane because her husband died and the remaining monkey people fuck waaaaaay away from flower fruit mountain and the baby (who is the destined one) kinda... Hybernates for a bit? He cocoons in stone and is kinda waiting around, frozen as a baby and not aging and eventually this other OC, totally and completely unrelated to the first /sarcasm/ is born and yes it is just a coincidence the stone monkey cocoon pops and the kid is growing again, and yes this is just a "their souls find each other again" fic. Or it's symmetry and baby destined one was waiting for his queen to be born idk. Just the parallels. Eventually DO goes and beats up the Broken Shell and while he's at that time is passing weird back on the mortal... Ish plane and the DO's queen is kinda left alone for a year ish and "oh what is this spooky cave with totally not strange noises, better go look, it'll be fine." And the DO get Wukong's memories and DO's queen fights the remnants/ broken shell of Wukong's queen and gets her memories and then...idk have fun person I'm selling my soul to, make the lovebirds go wage a heavenly war and win this time or some shit idk.

This is the SFW list. The NSFW list is basically just "alright here is my list of characters I would like to bang, please write an x reader fic" with the occasional actually detailed prompt.

I do not intend to put that particular list up.... Currently.... Probably not..... (Ye I know I'll do it eventually but probably not for several years)

[shiorishiorishiori]

6:01 PM

Pairing ⇿ Nanami Kento x OC

Summary ⇿ Nakahari Shiori's life is a balancing act between keeping the Kamo clan off her back and living a semi-normal life as a nurse at Tokyo Jujutsu High. When her stoic co-worker and friend, Nanami Kento, calls for help after a dangerous encounter with a special grade curse spirit, their friendship grows into something outside of their control. As they navigate a life dedicated to protecting humanity, their connection deepens, and the lines of their easy-going friendship blur. Will their newfound feelings survive the dangers that lurk in the shadows?

Tags/Warnings ⇿ Romance, Smut, Canon Divergence AU, Eventual Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Soft Nanami Kento, Fluff, Angst, Cursing

Genre ⇿ Friends to Lovers, Nanami x OC

Word Count ⇿ 3.5K words/42.2K words

Chapter One: Little Bit

The setting sun cast a cool glow on Ginza, dappling the sidewalk with the shadows of strolling shoppers and rustling fall leaves. Nakahari Shiori wandered among the vibrant display windows, humming along to the conflicting soundtrack of her bank account screaming for mercy and her wardrobe begging for new additions. 

Sunglasses, shoes, and skirts whispered her name through the glass, and maybe, just maybe she’d finally ball out on the designer bag that finally graced the Japanese market. Sure, jet-setting to New York City or Milan for fashion conquests was all well and good, but her current gig as the resident nurse of Tokyo Jujutsu High had a nasty habit of keeping her firmly planted on Japanese soil. Principal Yaga and the higher-ups preferred Shiori to tend to scraped knees and teenage angst, rather than indulge in her dreams of rubbing elbows with designers at runway shows, and her lack of vacation days proved it. 

So maybe this once, she could indulge. After all, exorcising curses wasn't exactly a low-stress job, and retail therapy was practically a medical necessity in her line of work.

Just as Shiori's self-justification for another shopping spree reached its peak, her phone buzzed, cutting through her thoughts. Groaning, she juggled the overflowing shopping bags draped in her arms. Was it Shoko again, calling with another favor from the morgue? Her workday was long done, and the last thing she needed was more unexpected duties. 

But it wasn’t Shoko’s name that flashed on the screen. Instead, it was the face of the blonde sorcerer whose definition of “fun” was deciphering financial trends in the newspaper’s stock market pages.

A smile, genuine and unguarded, bloomed on Shiori's lips as she answered the call. “Nanami! What’s up? You don’t usually call—” 

The voice on the other line wasn't the usual melodic lilt of Nanami Kento, but a grating rasp like sandpaper against bone.

"Shiori," Nanami choked out, each syllable scraping against her eardrums. “Where… are you right now?” 

Shiori whipped her head around, scanning the bustling street for some landmark, any clue. Panic tightened her throat, squeezing out the playful greeting that had died on her lips. "I'm… in Ginza," she sputtered out, "but forget that—are you okay?"

“I fought a curse spirit and I’m injured. I need your assistance… Please.” 

Something sharp and cold twisted in Shiori's stomach. Nanami, the lone wolf who'd sooner eat his own cursed tool than ask for help, was begging? What alternative reality had she found herself in?

“I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

Yeah, right. 

Shiori's casual stroll came to a screeching halt, replaced by a mad dash towards her car. She didn’t care about the dropped bags and judging stares she received from bewildered pedestrians on the packed sidewalks. Politeness was the last thing on her mind when lives were on the line, especially lives as stubborn as Nanami’s. He wouldn’t call for help unless he was hanging by a thread thinner than his chances of finding a decent date. 

“That’s definitely what someone who’s going to die would say, Nanami! Fuck—I’m on my way!” 

Meanwhile, Nanami steadied himself against the cold porcelain sink in the bathroom where he sought refuge. His encounter with an unregistered special grade curse spirit hadn’t gone favorably... He winced as he pressed another balled up towel against his leaking wound. 

Sweat beaded his forehead, face pale with exhaustion, but he caught the corners of his mouth tugging in the mirror’s reflection. “I haven’t even sent you the location yet…” He half expected her to explode in a flurry of curse words and panic, but Shiori rarely operated in the way he expected. “I’m sending it over now.”

She launched her bags into the backseat and cranked the engine. The text landed on her phone as she peeled into traffic, tires screeching their protest. “Just hold on for me, please!”

*---* 

  The address blurred past Shiori in a frenzy of flashing signs and honking horns. She couldn't help but imagine Gojo's admiration of her driving finesse, while Nanami’s scowl would have melted the asphalt, but right now, her heart echoed the pounding of the engine. Every traffic light felt like an eternity, every stop sign an insult. 

Reaching the destination, she abandoned the car without a care for parking etiquette. She sprinted into the quiet street that offered no signs of the epic clash her imagination conjured up: no cratered pavement, no fallen debris. But, wisps of Nanami’s curse energy brushed against her senses. Unease gnawed at her, but she followed the trace, her instincts drawing her towards a secluded side entrance. 

The unmistakable tang of iron hit her nostrils when she pushed into the office building. The trail, faint but unmistakable, led like a crimson arrow to the men's restroom door. Without hesitation, she flung it open, bracing for the aftermath.

“Nanami!” 

The cry tore from Shiori's throat, an unchecked mix of fear and relief that echoed in the small bathroom. Nanami’s body sagged against the sink, his blue shirt dyed in crimson blotches. The unbuttoned shirt was a direct view into the wound that marred his torso. Bloodstained and ragged, it stood out against his pale skin, a jarring contrast to his normally meticulous appearance. His once pristine suit jacket laid crumpled on the counter, a casualty of the fight, and his silk tie hung loosely around his neck. 

Shiori rushed to his side. “Please, let me help,” she said, her voice tight with concern, her hands already moving to apply pressure to the wound. “God, there’s so much blood—what happened?” 

He winced at her touch, but explained in a raspy voice: “Just a nasty encounter with a special grade. It tried to… reshape my soul.” 

Her brows slanted in justifiable confusion. “Reshape your soul? What does that mean?” 

"I'm not entirely sure myself. I need to gather more intel… Just know that I won’t be caught off guard again.” 

Shiori pursed her lips, sighing before forcing a smile. "Well, shout-outs to you for surviving the fight with your soul intact," she quipped, gingerly peeling back the makeshift bandage. The wound beneath was a gash, wide as her hand and deep enough to cause serious harm. "Good thing too, because if you die, who would suffer the brunt of Gojo’s bullying? I can’t handle that kind of torture on my own.” She smiled up at the blonde, already anticipating the trademark Nanami eye-roll.

As expected, his eyes darted upwards in a flick of annoyance before giving in to a begrudging roll. "Whatever,” he grumbled. She grinned, victorious. “Do you think you can stop the bleeding?” 

"Always," she replied, her smile softened. “Brace yourself though, it’ll hurt… Let me know if it’s too much.” 

The heat of Shiori's curse energy surged around the wound. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, mesmerized by the way her fingers danced across the raw flesh with delicate precision. The pain receded, replaced by a strange warmth that spread beyond the wound's edges. He couldn't help but wonder if it was just the healing, or if something more seeped through her touch. It felt...comforting, almost intimate. 

The wayward thought vanished from his mind as quickly as it rudely entered, chased away by the sting of reality. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, craving solace from an attractive woman's touch? Years had passed since he'd known the simple comfort of companionship, unburdened by the weight of the sorcerer world. 

He chalked it up to blood loss, a trick of the mind. He couldn't afford to jeopardize their decade-long friendship with fleeting thoughts and messy emotions. It was against his principles to mix personal emotions with the workplace… But, a small, persistent voice echoed in the quiet corners of his mind, whispering about Shiori.

The memory of their first meeting still burned sharp in his mind. He could picture her arrival at the shared classroom with Haibara, wearing her confidence like a second skin. Her bronze skin seemed to glow in the light, her black curly hair bounced with every step, and her smile had the power to melt the coldest winters. He couldn't deny that he had an affinity for girls with easy smiles like hers. And as he got to know her, he found comfort in that smile during dark times. 

Their lives were tough, but there were many happy moments in spite of all the bad. Many of those moments would be incomplete without Shiori. From celebrating their small victories over convenience store bread as teenagers to enjoying a night out with a pint (or seven) at a bar as adults, she possessed the ability to make him feel understood in a world that couldn’t care less. Her passion for nurturing young sorcerers shone brightly, and despite himself, he occasionally (only occasionally) found her corny jokes amusing.

Nanami had always been a man of rigid self-control, but being around Shiori like this was… uncomfortable. There were too many moments he caught himself stealing glances at her. He couldn’t help but admire the graceful dip of her neck, sparking the desire to trace the space between her shoulders with his fingers. Her lips, with their natural pout, and the way they moved could spin him into a trance. Even her work attire, somehow emphasizing her figure, became a distraction. Silencing the insistent voice begging for more than friendship was an exhausting battle.

“There!” Shiori beamed, her smile blooming like a sunflower as she surveyed her handiwork. The wound on Nanami's torso, once a jagged tear that ripped his skin, was now a crimson line, edges sealed with intricate patterns only she could weave. The Kamo clan’s blood manipulation technique, a rarity that appeared once every few generations, allowed her to coax the life force back into its rightful place. Years of training and countless battles honed her skill of easing pain and stitching torn flesh together with the invisible thread of her technique. 

"Thank you, Shiori," he praised, his gaze lingering on her face longer than necessary.

Shiori fumbled over her words. “A-ah, it’s nothing, Nanami. You would do the same for me,” she managed, eyes locking with his brown ones. He nodded in agreement. An unspoken understanding and a strong bond had developed between them over the years, having been former classmates and now co-workers. “Also, don’t thank me, yet. The bleeding is stopped, but I’m not done. We should still dress the wound to prevent infection.”

She reached into her bag, pulling out gauze and bandages. Nanami reached out to take them from her, insisting, "I’ll finish it from here,” with his usual deep voice, nowhere near as strained as it was moments prior. 

“No. I’ll do it.”

“I’m capable of dressing my own wounds—”

“You didn’t call me here to do a half-ass job." Taking a deep breath, she forced her voice into the firm, no-nonsense tone that often met with grudging obedience from her students. "You’re getting the entire experience.” 

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a rare indulgence. “You're a stubborn one, aren't you?”

The playful jab made her cheeks warm. "Learned from the best," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Her fingers, usually steady with years of practice, trembled as she worked, acutely aware of his eyes fixed on her. As she moved across his skin, she could feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of his blood beneath the surface, a reminder of her curse technique. The realization that she could control the very essence of life within his veins, something so inherently intimate, sent a thrill of anxiety coursing through her. 

Touching Nanami was already nerve-wracking under normal circumstances. And, now the added pressure only made her more aware of the feelings he brought out of her. His skin felt warm to the touch, radiating a comforting heat that made her stomach flutter. His skin was soft, contrasting with the firm, athletic build that lay beneath. As she skillfully wound the bandage, the realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. She had noticed the results of his recent dedication at the gym, but the idea that she could now feel those results under her fingertips stirred something in her core. 

Nanami's heavy gaze branded her skin. Every brush of her fingers against his skin sent a tremor through her, her touch lingering a fraction longer than professionalism demanded. “All done…” She announced, her voice betraying her confidence as she put some much needed space between herself and the blonde sorcerer. 

She needed a moment to regain clarity in the midst of her conflicting emotions. After all, Nanami was just a friend, and she couldn't afford to indulge in fantasies about the same guy who once pretended he hadn’t been crying to MCR songs in high school. 

Nanami pushed himself off the sink, eyes scanning the bandaged wound in the mirror. "You did a good job."

Nanami wasn’t a man of many compliments, so she relished in the rarity. Still bashful, still trying to regain her composure, she defaulted to humor to save her skin. "I'm a saint, I know. There’s no need to thank me." 

"Saints still deserve recognition," he countered, his tone carrying the warmth that filled her mind with confusing thoughts. "Is there anything I can do for you in return?"

"Not a thing! I did this out of the kindness of my heart, Nanami. Unless…" she drawled, a teasing glint in her eyes. "... that dinner you mentioned a few weeks back is still on the table?"

"Ah, I see. You're looking for a free meal."

She batted her eyelashes, mock innocence radiating from her. "Me? Never! But since I rushed over here, in record time I might add, to offer you my services, and considering the nearby shops are likely closed by now..." she trailed off, catching his gaze. “I’m free to have a nice dinner with my favorite colleague.” 

Nanami rolled his eyes, a ghost of a smile betraying his amusement. The awkward tension seemed to melt away, replaced by their familiar banter. "How convenient."

"Conveniently delicious, you mean," Shiori countered, eyes still twinkling. "There's this new sushi place nearby I've been dying to try! I’ve heard great things about their food and their sake selection. Unless, of course, you’re craving something else?” 

Nanami contemplated her question while wiping his blood from the counter. “No, sushi sounds nice. I trust your opinion—” Shiori’s exaggerated grasp cut him off, her hand flying to her chest to clutch an imaginary set of pearls. 

“Is that three compliments in one night, Nanami? I may need to start saving you more often if this is the reward!”

He stared at her through slanted eyes before exiting the bathroom, seeing no issue with leaving her behind for her 'jokes'. “You better watch out, you’re turning into Gojo.”

She giggled into her palm, falling in step. “Oh God, ok, I’ll be more careful. I don’t think the world can handle two of those.” 

*---*

Shiori waited patiently as Nanami emerged from his office, a fresh shirt replacing the bloodstained one. He walked towards her, a determined set to his jaw that softened slightly as his eyes met hers. Without a word, he held up his car keys.

“You’re the chauffeur tonight?”

“I have to make sure that my colleague gets home safely.”

Nanami's insistence on driving snagged Shiori's attention as they made their way to the restaurant. Was it a typical-Nanami chivalrous act, or was there something more brewing beneath the surface? Curiosity tickled the edges of her mind. 

“Do you do this for all of your dates, Nanamin?” Shiori teased. He held out her chair when they arrived at the restaurant, waiting for her to settle in. Not only that, he made it his job to open every door they greeted on their way inside.

Nanami smoothly tucked her chair in before taking his own seat, his usual stoic demeanor undisturbed. “Only for the exceptional ones.” 

“I should feel honored, then.” 

“You should.”

Shiori’s cheeks flushed. Her mind lit up with too many unanswered questions: Was the sake she hadn’t even ordered yet, already messing with her mind? Did he have any idea how easily he flustered her? And why did he choose such a distant seat away from her? 

She blinked. 

What the hell was she going on about? 

She lassoed her wild thoughts back to calmer territory, burying her nose in the menu as a distraction. “What do you think about starting this ‘not-a-date’ with a bottle of sake?” 

Nanami lowered his menu and glanced at her from across the table. “Heading right into it?” 

“Absolutely! Besides, you look like you could use a drink.” Nanami sighed in agreement. Their ‘not-a-date’ outings always turned boozy, and there was no reason to break their streak tonight. 

Yet, despite being off the clock, his thoughts clung to his work responsibilities. There was a high likelihood that the special grade curse spirit he encountered survived the cave-in. Tracking it down again would be an absolute pain in the ass, especially with its ability to completely disfigure its victims. He made a mental note to set up a meeting with Yaga to debrief on his findings… and failures.

“Let’s do it.” He conceded, pushing the work thoughts out of the window of his mind. 

Anticipation bloomed on Shiori’s face when the waiter scribbled down their lengthy order and returned with a flourish of colorful dishes. Just as Nanami’s hands graced his chopsticks, a playful tap bounced his hand away. 

“Traditions still matter, Nanami!” She teased, a grin dancing on her lips. 

“Of course, of course,” he echoed with a head shake. “How could I forget?” 

She whipped her phone out, the camera hungry to capture their feast from every angle. Click, click, click. Every picture perfect plate was added to their ever-growing album of ‘not-a-date’ food adventures. Their collection had grown with snapshots from bakery runs, Nanami's culinary creations, and visits to new restaurants over the years.

“Now you can eat,” she commanded, a playful glint in her eyes. She couldn’t miss Nanami’s signature eye roll before indulging in the nigiri. 

“The camera shouldn’t eat first, Shiori. It’s a bad habit.” 

“How else are we going to remember what we like about this place if we don’t have photographic proof?” 

“By simply enjoying the food."

Her giggles filled the table, the sound warm and bubbly. “Says the guy who took over a thousand pictures of his grilled fish the other day.” 

“That was different,” he cleared his throat, trying to swallow down a contagious chuckle. “I made that myself—It was special.” 

“Well…” She trailed off, hoping to steady the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. “This is special to me, too.” Her whisper was drowned out by the restaurant’s lively hum, but Nanami caught the tail end of her shy smile. 

No, it must have been a trick of the light.

The remainder of the evening melted with good food and even greater sake as they exchanged stories about their day. Amidst clinking glasses and laughter, their conversation danced through the day's events. Nanami delved into mentoring Itadori Yuji, Sukuna's vessel. The King of Curses' appearance caused a great shift in the sorcerer world and its full effects were still to be seen, but despite the challenges, Nanami spoke warmly of the young man.

Shiori, in turn, painted a vibrant picture of her day: researching the disfigured corpses that flooded the morgue, prepping for the Sister School Goodwill event, and indulging in some retail therapy in Ginza. 

As the night wound down, Nanami escorted Shiori to her doorstep. “Thank you again for helping me, Shiori.” 

“Hey,” she playfully nudged him in the arm. “You’ve got to stop thanking me! This praise is going straight to my head.”

“You’re right. We wouldn’t want your head to get any bigger.” 

Shiori’s laughter filled the air as they stood on her porch. “God, you can be so rude, Na-na-min.” She slurred, drawing out each syllable on her lips as she locked onto his dark eyes under the dim lights. 

He could feel his eyes retreating to the back of his skull. “You and Gojo with that stupid name. I already let you off the hook once tonight.” 

Blaming the liquid courage coursing through her blood stream, Shiori leaned in closer and with a low, teasing tone, and asked: “What would you like me to call you?” 

Nanami’s resolve was called into question for the umpteenth time for the night. 

She was so close that Nanami could feel the heat radiating from her small frame, mingling with the lavender scent of her perfume. He immediately focused on her lips, fighting the sweet temptation of what could be on the other side of all this flirtation and into something more intimate. Something worthwhile.

When he finally found his voice, it was barely a whisper. “Kento.” 

He had every intention to sound more confident, but his heart was racing in his chest. The small voice that pined for Shiori was dominating his mind with visions of her sprawled on his bed, calling out his name while he tasted every square inch of her. 

“Thank you for dinner...” She pulled away, inserting her keys into the front door as their night came to an end. “Kento."

Nanami could only nod, his mind still clouded with the enticing visions of what could be. As Shiori disappeared into her home, he whispered, "Good night, Shiori," knowing that they were inching deeper into dangerous territory. 

With every passing touch, with every stolen look, they were venturing further into the abyss that threatened to upend the delicate balance of their friendship. 

[therealjammy]

Trying this posting-writing-thing-on-Tumblr again, this time with a little preview of a fic featuring vampire!Caitlyn and werewolf!Vi... Hopefully coming to a screen near you sometime soon xx

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A bitter night awaited her. There were no clouds to hold the day’s warmth over the world, and so the woods were watched by a bright, smiling moon, and entertained with a breeze whispering its way through the elder pines. Cold stars blinked from their positions in the velvet sky, burning blues and reds that were, to her eye, brilliant as jewels. She would have taken pleasure in watching their paths as the hours pulled them along, had the weather been kinder, if a needful hunger hadn’t turned her belly into a roaring beast eager to be sated.

            There were certain gifts that Caitlyn’s nature afforded her. Journeying deeper into the woods, into thicker, older pines, she heard the smaller creatures huddling in their warm dens, the quick thump-thump-thump of their heartbeats pulsing redly in her vision. Tempting prey, but dozens would need to be killed. (A good hunter knew the difference between killing for themselves and killing needlessly.) No, tonight required larger prey—and she was on its trail.

            She’d scented him earlier that evening, the stag, while bringing in the laundry that’d been hanging from the line in the weak sun. It wasn’t uncommon for fauna to wander the woods close to Kiramman Manor; the grounds surrounding the place were quiet, and far from any sort of society; the animals were braver, quite unaware that danger lurked behind grey stone walls and wrought iron gates. By scent alone, Caitlyn knew he was large. Her teeth and tongue had ached to taste the mighty heart hidden and beating behind an immense ribcage, the iron-rich blood it pumped. Her head had begun to feel like a ship’s sail torn off by a storm wind; her last proper feeding had been weeks ago, before winter truly settled in. Now, this clear, knife-sharp night was leading her straight to a meal that would sustain her for yet more weeks. She recognised the sloping land that would, eventually, end at a wide bend in the River Pilt, where good prey stopped often to drink the cool water.

            The stag’s scent, thin as a tendril when she’d first begun this trek, strengthened into something resembling a ribbon. Musk of animal, tang of blood beneath hide, tugging Caitlyn into a cluster of trees at the river’s bend, and into view of him.

            Had she been looking at him with a human eye, the stag would’ve appeared a silhouette limned in milky moonlight. She saw him in his magnificent glory, from his crown of antlers to the legs that were capable of delivering deathly damage to anyone—or anything—unlucky enough to get in their path. He drank deeply from the river, rippling with shadow and silver-white, crusted with ice at the edges. The current, however, was not its usual rush, was more of a sighing trickle, allowing the stag to take gulping swallows without worrying he’d get icy water up his nasal cavity. Every minute or so, he’d pick his head up to breathe, each snort and breath curling from his nostrils resembling pale chimney smoke.

            Caitlyn waited, muscles tensing, readying to strike. She was smaller, yet could outmatch the stag in terms of strength. Another gift, being able to crush his thick neck and windpipe as easily as if she were crumpling paper. The death would be quick, after the initial struggle. And her teeth would finally get their wish of ripping into hide and flesh, seeking heart and blood—

            If another, darker, richer scent hadn’t intermixed with the stag’s, and a hulking wolf didn’t shatter the waiting silence.