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desirabletravel · 3 hours ago

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❛ I KNOW YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ❜ ➖ ch1-ch2.

series masterlist | ghostface x reader | nsfw

IN WHICH THERE is only one way to live: take his virginity.

content: 18+ DDDNE: DUBCON, male!ghostface, top male reader, canon timeline, mentions of heterosexuality (?), death threats, physical violence: ghostface injures reader, freeze response, coercion, virginity loss (ghostface’s first time), unprotected sex, creampie

›› previous | v.ao3 | red headers

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

You pause momentarily. Titles which have no peculiar prestige in elements echo through your mind, and the back of your throat vibrates loudly with your humming. “I don’t know.”

“You have to have a favorite,” Ghostface answers in time, his palm soothing over his hardening cock hidden beneath thin layers. It was naught but of deviance, sick, and worthy to be indicted of indirect defilement, “What comes to mind?”

Clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you settle on one and mutter it out. You return the question, “What’s yours?”

“Guess.”

“Hm,” in the forsaken trenches residing within your brain, you are able to vacuously sense an anomalous presence stalking you in every corner. Though, you decide on not to dignify it, considering your brain may be simply playing tricks on you. “A Nightmare on Elm Street.”

“Is that the one with the guy who had knives for fingers?”

“Yeah, Freddy Krueger.”

In spite of the known fact that it was inherently basic knowledge that anyone could possess with disregard to tolerance of such movies, Ghostface almost groans out in pleasure, digging his palm against himself firmer. You had no idea how proud he was.

“Freddy!” He cheered breathlessly, his gaze seemingly fixated on the bulge that resided on the front of your pants, inevitably causing his own cock to throb and his hole to clamp around nothing with want, “That’s right. I like that movie. It was scary.”

Buzzing resonates slowly from your throat, born out of you humphing thoughtfully in agreement. “Only the first one.”

There was thrill in this conversation, in spite of the certitude that this person was no woman.

“So... you got a girlfriend?” Ghostface interrogated through a ragged breath, the puff hitching at the end as he patted his growing bulge lightly as though to reign in his aggravated nerves. Haunting murmurs of jealousy brewed inside of the storm that was currently ravaging his brain at his own question.

It shouldn’t bear any significance. He’ll kill your lover if you have one.

With great and exceeding self-restraint, you hinder yourself from laughing out loud in surprise. The corners of your lips threaten to curve upwards, “Why? You into me?”

Perverted, outrageous excitement courses through the killer’s body as he steels his knees against the dirt to halt himself from humping his palm. He needed you to be with him—even better, have you inside of him for as long as he needs. “Maybe. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“You never told me your name.” He stated, despite already owning the knowledge of your identity.

It’s only a few more minutes until he’ll get to the love of his life; until he’s granted the luxury of being freely able to caress you, to trap you to his body with his arms, to make you carve your initials into his flesh with that soon-to-be familiar weapon of his, and so many other endless possibilities.

“Why do you wanna know my name?”

“Because I wanna know who I’m looking at.”

Oh, fuck.

Warranted fear seizes your heart, your body abnormally stilling for a moment as your breathing halts. Driven by shock, you steer your gaze towards any and every window that may allow anyone to peer into your home. To your dreadfully cursed luck, darkness completely embraced the outside.

“What?”

“I wanna know who I’m talking to.” The anonymous voice residing on the other line confirmed.

“That’s not what you said.” You mutter, departing from the counter behind you to seek for a weapon.

“What’d you think I said?” He rises from his knelt spot, pacing towards an unfortunate entrance of your home. With the aid of his current location, he still has the ability to watch as you fumble with a knife in your trembling possession, your shoulders stiff with alertness. God, you’re beautiful.

“What? Hello?” He prompted, a hint of impatience seeping into his tone.

“I gotta go.”

“Wait, I want to go out with you.”

“No, I don’t—”

“Don’t hang up on me.” Ghostface demanded, a precipitous dawn of anger crossing his heart when you still doggedly ended the line.

You needed to set the phone down somewhere or at least dial the police. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You’re not alone.

The unceremonious deathly rattling of the communicator startled you, your knife almost brutally descending from your grasp. You draw a tattered inhale, sweat naturally developing on your forehead as you reluctantly answer.

“Yes?”

“I told you not to hang up on me.” You didn’t know it consciously, but Ghostface was getting closer and closer.

“What do you want?” You force out, your fingers tightening around the handle.

“To talk.”

“Go dial someone else. Listen—”

“No, you listen you little bitch. You hang up on me again, and I’ll gut you like a fish. Understand?” Ghostface’s voice rose in temper, aggressiveness clutching the edges of the menacing syllables that probed their way out of his mouth. He chuckled upon noticing your shaken silence, “Yeah...”

“Is this a joke?” You ask, frantic. Like a man in dire need—perhaps, you were—you comically rush around your house to guarantee that every lock was activated.

“More of a game, really. Can you handle that, baby?”

If the situation did not concern your life status, your heart would’ve pleasantly fluttered.

Eventually, you arrive to a halt at a corner in the hallway. You glance towards the windows in your kitchen, attempting to gauge any sign that could denounce where he was lurking.

“Can you see me?”

“You know I’m going to call the police.” You warningly interrupted, the life-stealing metal that you delicately cradled was taunting you that you wouldn’t be able to strike the criminal. You were certain of it.

“They’ll never make it in time. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.” He painstakingly emphasized the last word, to which your abdomen churns with regret.

“What do you want?”

“To see what your pretty insides look like. But if you agree to play a game, I’ll let you live.”

A game? Is that what all this was?

Your capacity to laugh was dutifully robbed from you.

“Here’s how we play. I ask a question, and if you get it right, you live.” Ghostface beamed, soundlessly climbing through the window you well-conveniently failed to inspect.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. It’s an easy category: movie trivia.”

An instinct you did not know existed was nagging you.

He’s here.

“Let me give you a warm-up question. Name the killer in Halloween. You can do this.”

“Michael Myers.” You blurt out without thinking, a sharp exhale passing through your nose as you steeled yourself to not allow a hint of vulnerability to be brought into your voice.

“Yes! Very good. Now for the real question.”

“No—”

“But you’re doing so well. We can’t stop now.” Ghostface encouraged, his footsteps deliberately light against the floor.

“Same category. Name the killer in Friday the Thirteenth.”

“Jason!” You almost yell, both of your hands tirelessly seizing the communicator as if it was your dim lifeline, accompanied by the knife you can’t let go of in fear that he will come to terrorize you any moment.

“I’m sorry, but that’s the wrong answer!”

What?

No.

Please no.

“No, it’s not. It was Jason.” You outwardly panic, the beat of your steady heart amplifying. Adrenaline crashes into you like a bullet, practically rendering you free from all movements.

“Afraid not. No way. You should’ve known that Jason’s mother was the original killer.” Ghostface lightly scolded, the head of his cock babbling out small bursts of pre-cum in response to your perceptible horror.

“Lucky for you, there’s a bonus question. What door am I at? Go on, it’s your call.”

He’s here.

Before you’re able to respond in any form, a hasty crash of intricate glass scattering across the ground resounded through the halls. You tense automatically, your shoulders wincing when you see a glimpse of black cloth in one of your doorways. Involuntarily, you lose your grip on the phone and abandon it once it hits the floor with a dull echo. You don’t have the time to spare, so you dash up the stairs.

There’s only about four or five steps left until you reach the top of the staircase when ominous and foreign fingers curl around your ankle, yanking you back down.

“Fuck—” you grunt, twisting around and kicking against the grasp with the lack of precaution.

To great luck, your foot collides with the chest of a figure decked out in long, black, lurex robe with tattered edges at the bottom. It was graced with a metallic-like sheen, the fabric catching in the low lighting. Then, you glance to see the intruder’s face, only to be confronted by an eerie white mask that sustains a permanent and exaggerated horrendous expression that’s guaranteed to be engraved into your memory.

You hear him yelp from the force, followed by the sight of him stumbling. One of his dark boots skidded against the edge of the tread of the step, and it eventually resulted in his fall.

Seizing this opportunity, you steadily—if you can even call it that with how you almost trip over yourself several times—run up to the second floor.

The stranger rapidly shook his head, regaining his consciousness in spite of the near-television static consuming the foremost area of his racked brain. He shoves himself upward a tad too quickly for it to be good for him, and he trails after you like a man on a vengeance-fed rampage.

You’re able to take only a couple of steps inside of your bedroom before Ghostface tackles you on the ground, one hand of his weighing down on your chest while the other holds his knife—your own clattering someplace else—to your vulnerable throat. He straddled your lap, the sides of his knees digging against the outer areas of your thighs. The scent of death awakened; the infamous weapon was now a hair’s breadth away from prickling your skin.

You don’t think you can breathe.

Your knee nudges up, attempting to buck him off of you, to no avail. He assertively settles his weight down on top of you, angling the flat of the metal to your jaw with the sharpened part just barely managing to graze your chin. Your breathing locks in your throat, and you stiffen up to prevent erroneously giving yourself a fresh cut.

“You lose.”

It was nothing short of an exuberant declaration of your defeat. You didn’t need a view of his face to be aware that he was grinning unabashedly.

“There we go, stop struggling. If you wanna live, you have to listen to me.”

At that, you are overcome with the need to retain your life, and you reluctantly exorcise all means of vigor your body previously contained. You lay there, demeaningly underneath him, with the active withholding of delivering a brute hit to his obscured face. Your hands ball into tight fists and the intruder immediately takes notice. But it didn’t matter much to him. He knows you’ve given in.

A giggle, a demoralizing sound that is seemingly altered by what you guess is a voice modulator of some sorts, reverberates from his chest and up through the elongated, wide-open mouth that abominably expands the jaw. The eyes of the mask were hollow and dark; yet, nevertheless, they were piercing your form enough to make you slightly squirm.

Ghostface’s reaction is immaculately swift. He clenches his thighs around yours to force you to still, and that’s when you feel it.

Oh.

He was hard.

His cock pressed against your thigh, the sensation remarkably solid and warm through the decently wispy material of his costume. He sees your gaze darting towards his groin, and he doesn’t know how to outwardly react, but he knows you’re staring. The hand that’s on your chest reaches up to take hold of your chin, tilting your head towards his own and away from the neglected ache in between his legs. Gloves—black gloves that are terrifyingly smooth against your skin conceal his hands, you silently note. He lifts the knife away from your body, but he did not discard it next to your forgotten knife. He was granting you some respite.

“I think you know what I want now.” Ghostface pinpointed, experimentally jutting his hips forwards and backwards once. It was uncoordinated, providing minimum pleasure for him but none at all for you. The realization that your hands were still unbounded has you hooking your hands on his waist, to which he let out a hoarse moan in delight.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Hearing your question gifts him the audacity to groan in exasperation. He twirls the weapon around in his hand, idly swinging it with no true objective. “Don’t be stupid. What do you think I’m talking about?”

Before the urge completely registers in your brain, your right hand deviates from his side and flings upwards to connect with his jaw. He jolts, faltering on top of you as his palm gripping the weapon falls onto the floor to maintain his balance. It was an opening, and once more, you attempt to turn your positions around but he’s suddenly locking his legs around you. He slaps you hard across the face, averting you from retaliating in time, and uses his index finger, middle finger, and thumb to slightly compress your cheeks together.

Without a warning, he slashes a line with the steel blade over your cheek. You gasp, the dart of pain firing through the entirety of your face along with the stinging hit given to you just moments prior. The cut was relevantly shallow, light, and not at all intended to scar, but it still mildly hurts you. Beads of blood begin to dot along the cut and slide down your cheek. The scent was distinctly metallic, hitting you in the nose in a way that makes you want to hurl.

“Do that again, and I’ll fucking kill you! Now, stay still and keep that pretty mouth shut.” Ghostface reprimands as he repositions himself, the volatile duality of his behavior startling you into obeying his whims. You deliberately allow your hand to slip off of him, and he doesn’t seem to take any offense. Again, he rolls his clothed hard cock against your still-soft groin, albeit a tad too gentle for either of your liking.

“Fuck… you feel good. Real good,” He praises under his breath, slowly grinding against you. Using his thumb, he swipes the trickle of blood up, cautious as to not inadvertently brush the wound. He raises that hand and tucks it underneath his mask, grunting in appreciation as his tongue—not that you can see it, but it’s a prediction—flicks out to lick the vital fluid that belongs to you, and he mumbles, “Taste good too.”

In that moment, you were suspended in an unyielding trance, unable to respond or move from mere shock. What the hell was going on?

Ghostface sighs, long and drawn-out and agitated. For apparently good measure and to liberate you from your ephemeral hypnosis, he strikes your cheek a second time. It was delivered with a lower level of physical power but a higher level of intention to snap you out of whatever train of thoughts are booming through your head. It works as expected, your head briefly jerking to the side then back to him.

“I want you to fuck me,” he abruptly blurts out.

You sputter, heat skulking to your bloodied face and you half-expect to be hit again for the never-ending length of your stupidity, “What?”

“If you wanna live tonight, baby, you’re gonna fuck me. Sounds good?” Ghostface rephrases for your sake, tilting his head off to the side as if he was scrutinizing you.

“Why do I—”

KRNKKKK!

He stabs the knife into the floor right beside your head, the weapon scraping as it splinters the floor slightly. You flinch, instinctively trying to firmly separate yourself and the killing tool, and he considers that as a cue to intensely ground his groin against yours to hoist your attention to him and him only.

“Do you wanna live or not?”

“I—”

Your nth mistake.

You’re too slow in telling him what he desperately needs to hear. Driven by furiosity, he smacks your injured cheek, hard, your blood splattering all over his now crimson-stained glove—one that he’s neither throwing away nor throwing into the washer—and you loudly grunt out a pained curse.

He coils that same hand around your exposed neck. Not to strangle you. At the very least, not yet.

With his unoccupied hand, he reaches down to loosen the strings sticking out of your waistband. You want to argue, you should argue, but you realize that you’ll only grant an audience with your end if you dare voice out your disapproval.

“Take me to your bed.” Ghostface demanded, his fingers ghosting over your cock prior to grasping his knife once more. You were growing hard under his attention, inevitably. Your hands curl around his powerful thighs, the flesh flexing with anticipation as you sit up. Whether or not you were able to withstand such weight underneath your palms, it didn’t matter. You are obligated to hoist him.

He dutifully slings his arms around your neck, his legs wrapping around your waist to support himself upright. You carry him to your bed (just as he had ordered like you were some sort of rabid animal to be tamed) and drop him onto the mattress. The furniture creaks as Ghostface’s back connects with it, bowing a little in protest to an unwanted stranger. He kicks his knees up, pushing himself backwards for his boots to dig onto the sheets.

His hands reach down to take the bottom of his costume and yank it upwards, the material pooling around his middle as his lower half is exposed to your supposed-to-be uninterested gaze. His arousal prominently strained against his boxers, a damp spot residing where the head of his cock was. You had expected an unsightly creature to unveil themselves to you. Alas, his skin, of what you were permitted to view, was normal. Human. Soft, even.

He allows his weapon to fall next to him, deliberately within his reach in case he finds use for it.

“Well?” He prompts, hooking his thumbs beneath the band of his boxers and pulling them down until they are all the way around his ankles. He languidly hangs it around one of them, before booting it off of him. His palms smooth under his knees, lifting his legs up to exhibit his rim for you.

Shit.

There was slickness glossed over and inside Ghostface’s hole, which was seemingly stretched out. Putting it to a test, and you weren’t even aware that you found yourself allured by the sight that you should’ve felt repulsed towards, you rub the pad of your index finger around his entrance to gather bits of the lube and push it into him. No resistance, if you ignore how he squeezes down onto your digit with a strangled moan.

“Yes, fuck,” he gasped out through a distorted rasp of his voice changer, his walls tense and amazingly more welcoming than any other used cunt. “W-Worked myself open just for you and your cock. Mmn, you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

Waiting? He’s been waiting?

You feel absolutely sick. For weeks, possibly for months, he has been stalking you without end.

And you’re the one who has to pay the price for his attention.

October 31st, 2:01 A.M.

Soon enough, your hips are snug against the backs of his thighs while your wet cock traitorously throbs inside of him.

Ghostface forced you into his untouched body without any remorse; his being born from sin ushering you to where you are now. You hold the advantage over him, with him being in a more vulnerable position, but you are physically and mentally departed from every means of control. He threw his legs over your shoulders, straining himself for the reward of pleasure that he’s selfishly making you give him. He beckons you to lean over him, and you follow.

“That’s a good boy.” He praises, his head tipping back against the sheets.

The sensation by itself is strange. You pilot your hips backwards until half of your girth is being clung onto by his too-tight rim, before you snap into him once more. That wrecks out an appreciative moan from him, his thighs twitching against your upper half. Your length glistens with the lube he had graciously fingered into himself earlier, causing the strokes to be much smoother.

The head of your cock manages to rub against his prostate, his reaction immediate. “Fuuuc—ah!” Ghostface babbles, the small of his back arching off of the bed as his hole can’t help but clench down tight around you. Granted, it has you buck into him, the veins that run across your length brushing against sweet spots that have his boots digging against your back.

You’re compelled to leisurely roll your hips, your dick slipping further inside of his spasming hole. You grind into him, ensuring that just the right amount of attention is driven into the certain bundle of nerves that has his pretty hole trembling around you. He whimpers, tears welling up in his eyes because, fuck, you’re too handsome and your cock is too thick for his brain to comprehend. The crease that’s formed in between your eyebrows due to them knitting together makes him want to rip off his mask and kiss you.

But that’ll wait for another time.

Once he loosens around you, becoming docile underneath the presence of your body, you resume to your previous pace. The unattended cut across your cheek stings as your teeth grit together, a drying stream of crimson trudging down to your jaw. He whines, his hand lifting to wipe that trail off of you and rocks forward to meet your thrust. “Best f—hngh— f-fucking cock I’m ever going to have,” Ghostface mumbles under a tight breath, his own length pulsing with the need of release against his flexing abdomen.

“You’re sick,” you grunt, pausing your movements to grab the base of your length and pull out. His lips part to retort, but you slide back into him with an abrupt slam.

“I—fuck!” He curses, a noise torn in between a pathetic moan and a scream. Ghostface laughs, his chest rumbling upwards as he uncontrollably contracts around you, “We are both sick. You’re gonna cum inside of me sooner or later, and you won’t be telling a goddamn soul about what happened between us, ‘less you wanna—”

You repeat the previous motion; your leaky tip slamming against his sensitive spot harder than before.

“—hnnngh—! Shit—” Ghostface gasps, interrupting himself as his legs slide off of your shoulders as they helplessly spread apart. He looked almost pretty like that, his cute rim squeezing onto every inch of your throbbing cock to coax out your own release. Your skin and hand was wet with him, the lubricant combined with your pre-cum was gushing out of his entrance and conveniently slicking you up.

He felt so utterly full.

Killing you will be a damn waste, and he couldn’t possibly get rid of his Sweetheart now.

His hands rush downwards, his fingers gathering the gentle sheets for leverage. He struggles, squirms, when he senses a rapid euphorical coil bundling within his lower abdomen. He whimpers, the vocal modulator barely managing to modify the noise.

“S’this okay?” You pant out the words sarcastically next to his ear, slowing your thrusts into harsher yet deeper ones. Ones that shove his body further up your bed and nearly bang the top of his head against the wall.

“Y—Yes!” He cried out, his voice gravelly and hoarse and raw. Squelching sounds came from the apex between his legs, from where your body was intertwining with his, and he zones into that sensation of you filling him up over and over and over again until his thighs flail and lock around your waist.

Suddenly, his body jerks once, before cum dribbles from his slit. He shudders all over, trembling breathlessly as he rides out his first high by rolling his hips just in time for the head of your cock to breach him. He clamps down there, purposely, to trigger your climax — just as he wanted.

It’s wet and warm. Ghostface can feel your cock twitching against his walls, and he has to physically prevent himself from forcing you to fuck into him again. He unwraps his legs, exhaustedly slumping against the bed. You pull out of him, rather too quickly to go on unnoticed, and practically collapse next to him.

He feels boneless, with your cum trickling out of his stretched hole.

You might’ve just successfully saved your life and a few others.

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desirabletravel · 5 days ago

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Some fluff for characters that needed it most 🥲

Check out their blog! They arent *EVER* online but they're cool beans 😎

If i was at the wheel there would have been murde- 😈😈😈

──── In which Adrian was remodelled to endure, but Ryan just wants him to breathe...

This is for you, @desirabletravel. As an apology for not being online much... (((・・;).

Note that this is about @desirabletravel 's two OCs: Ryan and Adrian. You can find them on his blog !! Check out bro's amazing comics and characters !!

TW: Mentions of blood, mentions of neglect, almost breakdown... not much to warn you about. Check the tags!

—————————————————————————————————

Adrian doesn't get sick. It’s not in his vocabulary, and certainly not in the standards his parents set for him. Adrian is not sick—or, at the very least, doesn't want to admit it.

Even when he's as pale as a sheet, sniffling and shivering in a hoodie three sizes too big.

“You're trembling,” Ryan points out from across the room.

“From excitement,” Adrian replies dismissively, till trying to fix a malfunctioning prototype stood on one of his laboratory counters. Ryan simply raises an eyebrow, toned arms crossing over his chest.

“You sneezed seven times in a row. You think that’s normal?”

“It's a normal bodily function; a respiratory system cleanse.”

“You're sick.”

“I'm bio-engineering.”

Ryan sighs at the stubborn blonde, shaking his head. He knows Adrian well enough by now. They've known each other for years now. The man is used to powering through things—illnesses, stress, and emotional neglect—Ryan knows he won't listen, and so he simply leaves the room.

The lab is quiet for a long while, filled with nothing but the sound of Adrian’s tinkering and his occasional sniffles. The blonde pauses, looking back to see the empty space where Ryan used to be.

His brows furrow, bringing up a trembling hand to adjust his glasses. ‘Did I make him angry?’ Adrian wonders, frowning at the thought. He was never one to openly express himself, not with his family constantly breathing down his neck.

But as much as he dislikes being vulnerable, he hates upsetting Ryan even more. His best friend—now boyfriend after years of pining—and the only person who doesn't see him just as a genius, but for who he truly is.

Ryan accepted him when nobody else did, flaws and all. So the thought of making the man upset made bile rise up to his throat.

But before his thoughts can spiral, a box of tissues covers his vision. Adrian looks up, wide-eyed and confused. ‘Tissues?’ His eyes seem to ask, and Ryan replies by pointing to his nose. The blonde's hand lifts up and-

Oh. Blood.

‘A nosebleed..?’ Adrian scratches his cheek, giving the raven-haired man a look.

“I can-”

“No.” Ryan calmly moves the tissue box closer to the blonde, eyeing him with a look that screams ‘just take the damn tissues.’ And so he closes his mouth, taking the tissues to wipe the blood.

They spend a moment in silence, with Adrian pinching his nose to stop the bleeding. Ryan speaks first, voice steady.

“You need rest.” He says plainly.

And before Adrian can protest, he's already moving, lifting the blonde off the ground like a glorified cat.

“I made soup.”

°°°

That is how Adrian found himself back in his room, surrounded by pillows and tucked into bed, while Ryan sets up one of the blonde's weird sci-fi movies.

“This is undignified,” Adrian mutters, holding a bowl of soup. “I feel like a burrito.”

Ryan's voice draws closer as the movie starts, the bed dipping beside him. “You are. Shut up and rest.”

By the end of the movie, an empty bowl sits on the nightstand, and Adrian's dozing off on Ryan's chest.

“...Sorry,” Adrian's voice breaks the silence. In his half-conscious state, the blonde lets himself be a bit more honest. “For being stubborn,” he clarifies, his eyes drooping but never once leaving Ryan's face.

“I don't like being a burden; not to you. I don't want to be weak,” he mutters, burying his face in Ryan's chest. “But sometimes, I feel like too much, even when I try to be less…”

The other male is silent, only pulling Adrian tighter. Finally, he says, “You don't have to shrink for me.”

“I like taking care of you,” He admits, quietly but sincerely. “Not because you're weak.” His voice is steady, calloused hands reaching up to pull the blonde's glasses off his face.

“I like it because it's something you trust me with.”

Adrian doesn't respond, but he relaxes into Ryan's arms. And maybe that was enough.

What starts as a sick day becomes something more meaningful. And when Adrian wakes up the next morning, his fever is broken, but Ryan isn’t there. He searches the room, eyes landing on a post-it note stuck to his nighstand.

It read: “Stay put, you're not recovered yet. I'll be back with tea.” Signed with a badly drawn dumbell.

Adrian smiles. Maybe being sick isn't so bad, after all.

—————————————————————————————————

#@desirabletravel #@ivoryghostyy #✦. adrian × ryan #✦. ryan (desi. oc)#✦. adrian (desi. oc)#scenarios #fluff #ocs #short story #sick character #lgbtq #yaoi

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