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chosok-amo · 14 days

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MY BOY SUCH A PRETTY CRIER : GOJO SATORU

my boyfriend has the prettiest eyes,” . . . you love your boyfriend— gojo satoru's eyes, you always have, until you see him crying for the first time, and you can't help but need to see those eyes, glisten with tears, every chance you get.

warning. obsessive! gojo satoru, established relationship, mentioned of suicide, blood mention, obsessive reader, slight dark, toxic! reader.

wc. 6,6k ( art belong to the artist, devider belong to cafekitsune )

it's glisten...

gojo satoru's blue, azure irises glisten under the moonlight like little twinkling stars, silking with his tears. you were mesmerized and for a moment your erotic movement stammered, slower, slower, slower . . . and stopped. it hurt your chest, your lung, like the air just got reap by fingers with pointed nails, or razor-sharped teeth, you named it.

you gasp for air, holding them down inside your reaped lungs. it's suffocating, how his eyes make you feel. and suddenly, you can feel everything, your senses sharpen— the way his heart is beating like thunder underneath your palms, cocoon by his ribcage, the way his girth, his throbbing girth twitching inside you.

“baby...” he breathlessly calls you.

gojo's nail digging is dullest to your chubby rear, silently begging you to move and get back to work, but no.. you stay silent for a moment, drowning in his blue eyes you never realize as blue as the ocean, as deep as one before. you always knew it was pretty, but never as this pretty, it's breathtaking, it's soul-sucking, it's. . . gut wrenching, pain, because you will never have eyes like his, you will never, ever, find eyes like his with other men, other person.

“beautiful..” you whisper.

your trembling hand gently makes its way to kiss his cheek, thumb dancing across the skin to push away the tears selfishly. only you, it's only you who can get this close to his eyes, it is you.

“you are so beautiful,” soft, breathless whisper kissing your lips before you lean closer, skin to skin with his forehead. it was crystal clear, his eyes. . . so celar you can read his mind through it, see his soul laid bare, feel his blood and his heart beating faster each second- looking straight at you like its ready to burst his ribcage open nad run to you with all the blood, the flesh, even the bone.

one blink, two blink, and three blink it takes gojo to clear the glisten effect on his eyes, letting the last tears fall freely down to his cheeks. a small frown makes its way to your forehead, so you found your hips moving slowly, your glisten clit grinding against gojo's skin, his cock twitching and soft moan leaving his pink, swollen lips.

soft mean tear from your throat, past your lips the moment tears flooded in gojo's eyes. “don't close your eyes, baby,” you whisper, like a witch chanted a mantra. gojo nod eagerly, bewitched by you. it was sinister, your smile, drowning in love and something more. the look on your beautiful face, the one where gojo never saw. he was mesmerize with the way you look at him. how your eyes practically sparkling, your cheeks blushing madly, your eyes glue to him like he is the center of your world, and gojo was doomed.

after that unforgettable night, you find yourself completely immersed in the depth of gojo’s eyes, as if drawn into a boundless ocean of their beauty. every nuance of their color becomes an intricate tapestry that you cannot help but unravel. imagine, if you will, the way his eyes might transform under the tender embrace of a sunset, their natural brilliance kissed by hues of molten gold and soft amber, weaving a breathtaking symphony of warmth and light.

“hey, baby,” his voice drifts softly, like a breeze stirring you from the quiet of your thoughts, his words threading through the haze that clouds your mind.

you blink once, then twice, and a third time, as if awakening from a dream spun of shadows and whispers, until your gaze finds his—those eyes, blue as a restless sea, now roiling with a tempest of fury. it’s a sight that steals the breath from your lungs, a depthless anger that crashes like waves against the shores of his calm, threatening to sweep you away. his stare is fierce, wild. . . cannibalism lookalike even, and you feel something shift within you, a fullness that blooms in your chest, heavy and warm. his palm, cold against your flushed skin, cradles your cheek, and you lean into his touch, drawn like a moth to flame, craving the chill that soothes the heat of your racing heart.

his knuckles, adorned in the brutal artistry of bruises, are stained with the blood of those who dared to lay hands upon you, each mark a testament to the violence he’s wrought in your name. once again, his knuckles, oh, they are a map of violence—a testament to the ruin he hath wrought upon those foolish enough to lay a hand upon what he cherishes most: you, oh you. . . the love of his life.. bruises bloom like dark violets upon his skin, and the crimson of blood lingers, a stark reminder of his ferocity, his unrelenting need to protect, to possess, to guard you as fiercely as the lion doth its pride.

they bear the story of his wrath, of a love so vehement it spills over into rage, uncontained and ferocious. he stands as a fortress, unyielding and unbreakable, a sentinel who guards not with words but with fists and fury, and in his eyes, you see a promise—a vow that none shall harm you and live to see the sun again. his touch, a chilled caress upon your cheek, pulls you closer still, and you lean into it, seeking solace in the coolness of his palm, a balm against the heat of his wrath.

“baby, are you alright?” he asks, his voice a deep, soft rumble that vibrates through your very bones, soothing and stirring all at once. it washes over you, a tide that pulls you under, and suddenly your legs betray you, trembling beneath the weight of it all, the sheer intensity of his presence. you feel yourself melt, your knees weak, the world spinning as if gravity has turned traitor, and you begin to sink. but he is there, always there, swift and sure, catching you in the safety of his embrace, his strong arms wrapping around your trembling form, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest.

“please, hold me,” you whisper, voice barely a breath, still lost in the storm that rages within his gaze. there’s a desperation in your plea, a need to be held, to be anchored amidst the chaos that threatens to drown you both. his hold tightens, as if he could fuse you to him, make you one with his own flesh and bone, and you feel the world steady under the weight of his arms. his scent, warm and familiar, envelops you, a heady mix of comfort and danger that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

there is an obsession in the way he looks at you now, an all-consuming need that borders on madness, a love that knows no bounds, no reason, no restraint. for in that gaze, you are not merely seen—you are worshipped, adored, the very center of his universe, hell, you are a god to gojo satoru. his eyes, burning with the light of a thousand suns, speak not of mere affection but of a devotion so profound that it eclipses all else. every breath you take, every beat of your heart, is caught up in the maelstrom of his love, swirling endlessly in the vortex of his gaze.

he holds you so close, close enough that you can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, a fierce, steady drum that matches the frantic cadence of your own. your hands find their way around his neck, fingers threading through the silken strands of his hair, pulling him closer, closer, until there is no space left between you. your lips meet his in a fervent kiss, a clash of need and hunger, tongues dancing in a tangled, breathless frenzy. it is a kiss that speaks of survival, of gratitude, of a love that is both a sanctuary and a storm.

he tastes like fury and devotion, a bitter-sweetness that lingers on your tongue, and you drink him in, greedy for more. his grip on you is unrelenting, as if letting go would mean losing you to the abyss of his own making, and you cling to him with equal fervor, your bodies a tangled mess of limbs and longing. in that moment, there is no past, no future—only the now, the heady rush of his breath mingling with yours, the feel of his hands on your skin, the unspoken promises that pass between you with every stolen breath.

he holds you as if you are the very air he breathes- well, indeed you are, as if he could will you into his soul and keep you there, keeping warm and alive unthe the flesh of his ribcage, close to his heart, safe and cherished, forevermore. his eyes, still brimming with that furious fire, soften at the edges as he kisses you back with a reverence that makes your heart ache. it’s a kiss that binds, that claims, that seals you to him in a way that words never could, and as you pull away, breathless and dazed, you know that this is where you belong—wrapped in his arms, lost in the depths of his gaze, loved with a passion that burns brighter than the stars.

when he pulls away, a thin, glistening thread of desire still lingers, stretching between your parted lips over the tongue—a tether that binds you in this shared breath, this dangerous dance. his gaze meets yours, those blue eyes still ablaze with a furious tempest, but within their storm, there flickers a flame of love, fierce and unyielding. he looks down at you, a twisted smile curling at his lips, a grin that speaks of chaos and carnage, of a madness that holds the world at bay. “i'm sorry those fools dared to lay hands upon you, but they will trouble you no more, my love,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with menace, a vow spoken with a lover’s gentleness yet edged in steel. his hands, calloused and sure, cup your cheeks, cradling you as though you are the most precious, fragile thing in all the realms.

together, you both cast your gaze down upon the bodies sprawled upon the cold, unforgiving ground, their forms marred by bruises and the remnants of his wrath. they lie there, wet and lifeless as fallen leaves, scattered by the tempest of his fury, no longer a threat but mere echoes of their own folly. and yet, even amidst the wreckage of his rage, there is a strange beauty in the chaos he has wrought—a dark symphony of love and violence, a tribute to his devotion, twisted and true.

“come, let me take you home, my love,” he murmurs once more, the words a soft caress against your skin, as his lips find yours in a kiss that seals the promise of his protection. you are stunned, breathless, and your eyes glisten with a fervor that matches his own—a wild, consuming adoration for the man before you, this maniacal figure who stands between you and the world. to love him is to dance on the edge of a blade, a perilous waltz that thrills and terrifies in equal measure.

you look up at him, smiling so, so, so sweetly, mirror the same menace, at satoru gojo, your beautiful, dangerous obsession, and your heart swells with a love so potent it feels as if it might burst from your chest. it is sick, this mutual madness that binds you, a passion laced with peril and an affection born of fury. he is a storm wrapped in human form, a threat to all that dares to stand in his path, yet to you, he is a haven, a divine madness that sets your soul alight.

his eyes—ah, those orbs of azure fire! they are the boundless seas wherein your soul doth drown a thousand times. in calmer tides you have known them—playful, serene, a gentle mirth that sparkles like sunlight upon the morn’s dew. yet now, behold, they blaze with tempest’s fury, aflame with wrath as the heavens in their ire. 'tis as though the very stars have kindled rage within those depths, a storm that seethes and seizes all that dare to meet its gaze. and in that wild and furious tempest, you, undone, do find your heart ensnared anew, aflutter as a wanton moth to flame.

for every glance he grants, each furious flicker of those eyes, doth pull you deeper still, till all the world is but a distant whisper, and you are lost—utterly, wholly—in the unfathomable blue of his gaze. to see him thus, to feel his ire burn not at you but for you, sets your blood to riotous fervor, and lo, your cheeks do bloom with that sweet crimson of youth’s first fond blush. oh, what madness is this! to love so fiercely, to find in rage a tender, quiet adoration that makes you very breath catch, your heart sing out its foolish tune of love renewed.

his eyes are not mere mirrors of his soul; they are the very tempest that doth rage within his breast, a tumult of love and wrath entwined. 'tis a sight both fearsome and fair, for in his fury lies the pledge of his protection, a devotion that doth border upon the divine. how can i resist? his gaze is your sun, your moon, your guiding star, and you, poor wretch, are but a humble worshipper at the altar of his gaze. to see him thus, to know his anger burns for you, not against you, is to be wrapped in the warm embrace of his fiercest love.

aye, 'tis true—each time those eyes, so fierce, so wild, do meet your own, your heart doth flutter as a captive bird newly freed. in those depths, you see not just the fury of the storm, but the quiet promise of a love that will not fade, that will not falter. it is obsession, a fire that consumes and yet does not destroy, but rather, sanctifies. and so you fall, endlessly, hopelessly, into that blue abyss, where anger and love are but two sides of the same coin, where you are his, and he is yours, and the world may be damned, so long as his eyes remain your haven, your undoing, your everlasting delight.

in his arms, you are both prisoner and queen, worshipped in the sanctuary of his embrace, held aloft by the sheer force of his adoration. it is a love that defies reason, a devotion that flirts with destruction, and yet, it is the most beautiful thing you have ever known. for in his fury, you find a devotion unbroken, and in his danger, a divinity that shines brighter than the stars. it is wild, it is reckless, it is divine—and you would have it no other way.

you open the door, and there he stands, drenched from head to toe, rain pouring down like a curtain of sorrow, clinging to him as if the heavens themselves weep for his misfortune. gojo satoru, usually so untouchable, now a figure cut from despair, shivers in the chill of the storm, his white hair plastered to his forehead, rivulets of water tracing the sharp lines of his face. his eyes, usually alight with mischief and boundless confidence, are now dimmed, clouded with a sadness so deep it seems to swallow the very light that once defined him.

“go home, satoru,” you say, your voice firm, though your heart clenches at the sight of him.

he doesn’t move, just stands there on your doorstep, trembling from the cold, every shiver of his body a silent plea for your warmth, your forgiveness, oh, your love. his gaze locks onto yours, and in those azure depths, you see a man unraveled, a soul laid bare. he looks so lost, as if every ounce of the bravado that once shielded him has been stripped away, leaving only raw, aching need. he is like a stray pup, kicked and abandoned in the dead of night, caught in a relentless downpour with nowhere to turn but to you.

“please,” his eyes seem to say, though his lips do not move, as if the very act of speaking would shatter what little remains of his pride. the sadness in his gaze is a weight, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on your chest until it hurts to breathe. he stands there, drenched and desperate, the rain mingling with what you can’t tell are tears or the relentless downpour, and you can’t help but feel your resolve waver.

he’s begging you without words, a silent supplication for the love he once held so carelessly, now desperate to grasp it again as if it were the last tether to his fading light. and in that moment, you see him not as the invincible person, not as the man who commands respect and fear, but as someone who is utterly, devastatingly human—broken and yearning, with eyes that plead for a mercy only you can grant.

his body trembles, not just from the cold, but from the unbearable burden of your absence, his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he stands before you, stripped of all bravado. his eyes, usually so filled with boundless confidence, are now heavy with the weight of his own despair, looking up at you with a sadness so profound it seems to echo through the storm. he caught in the relentless fury of the night, shivering and soaked, eyes pleading for the warmth and solace of your embrace—a creature lost in the dark, cast adrift without the guiding light of your love.

“just go home, i don't want to be with you,” you say, voice cutting through the rain like a cruel, deliberate blade.

and just like that, the dam breaks. the tears well up in his eyes, those brilliant blue pools now shimmering with unshed sorrow, glistening in the dim light like shards of broken glass. it’s a sight you’ve longed to see, a vulnerability that he so rarely shows, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a sick satisfaction bloom within you. his pain, raw and unfiltered, stirs something deep, something dark, as you watch the strongest sorcerer reduced to nothing more than a man undone by the weight of his own emotions.

his eyes, usually so full of power and certainty, now shimmer with a desperate plea, tears spilling over as he chokes back a sob. you've never seen anything more beautiful, and in this twisted, fevered moment, you’ve never felt more alive, never fallen harder for him than right now, with his pride in ruins at your feet.

“please, baby,” he whispers, voice cracking under the strain, “i’ll be less annoying, i'll lest of anything that driving you away from me, i’ll do whatever you want—just, please.” the words tumble out, desperate and frantic, as he promises to change, to bend, to be whatever version of himself you demand. he stands before you, a king stripped of his crown, reduced to nothing but a man begging at your mercy, and the sight of it sends a shiver of dark delight down your spine.

it’s sick, the way you revel in this power over him, the way his tears make your heart race and your lips curl into the faintest of smiles. you are obsessed with this dance, this twisted game where his suffering is your satisfaction, where his pleading eyes are the sweetest of victories. he is yours, wholly and completely, and you know that he would break a thousand times over just to keep you from walking away. you will be the death of him, and once, you whisper and spitting on his grave, everyone will watch him crawling back from the death, and once again, he will be lying on your feet for your mercy, for you to love him, all bones and flesh.

and yet, you find yourself pushing further, testing the limits of his devotion, just to see how far he will go. it is a cruel, intoxicating power, to have someone like satoru gojo reduced to tears, and you drink it in like a forbidden elixir, sweet and heady. he is beautiful in his despair, and as he stands there, drenched and pleading, you can’t help but fall for him all over again, tangled in the twisted love that binds you both in this endless, obsessive dance.

gojo falls to his knees, the mighty sorcerer brought low, his arms winding around your legs with a grip that trembles like a leaf caught in a tempest. his body shakes with the cold and the weight of his despair, his once towering presence now reduced to a man clinging to the last threads of hope. he presses his forehead against your knees, rain-soaked and broken, as if your touch alone could redeem him, could stitch together the fragments of his shattered pride.

he looks up at you, eyes glistening with unshed tears, a kaleidoscope of heartbreak and desperation painted across his face—a portrait of a man undone. there is something so exquisitely pathetic in his gaze, a rawness that strips away the veneer of invincibility, leaving only the bare, trembling truth of his need for you. his eyes, those brilliant blue oceans, are now brimming with tears that spill over, tracing a path down his cheeks like the first rains of spring breaking the drought, each drop glistening like a jewel in the pale light.

and you, standing above him, feel a dark, intoxicating thrill twist within you. it is the beauty of his suffering that ensnares your heart, the way his tears catch the light like shattered stars, casting shadows of sorrow and longing. you are captivated by the sight of him, the strongest man you know brought to his knees, eyes pleading, voice breaking as he begs for the one thing he cannot command—your love.

“please,” he murmurs, the word a fragile whisper, his breath warm against your skin, “love me again.” his voice cracks, a jagged sound that splinters the air, and his tears fall faster, the dam of his restraint collapsing in the face of his need. he is beautiful in his anguish, a vision of tragic grace, and you cannot help but fall in love all over again, lost in the raw, unguarded emotion that spills from him like a river bursting its banks.

to see him like this, vulnerable and pleading, is to witness the unraveling of a myth—a god brought to earth, stripped of all but his humanity. and in this moment, he is more magnificent than ever, his sorrow a canvas on which your love paints itself anew. his tears are a symphony of the heart, each drop a note that sings to your darkest desires, pulling you deeper into the depths of this obsessive, all-consuming devotion.

his eyes, those eyes that have seen worlds beyond, now reflect only you, and in their tear-streaked depths, you find a love so fierce, so fervent, that it threatens to consume you whole. it is a love that does not ask, but demands; a love that kneels at your feet and begs for mercy, not for itself, but for the man who weeps before you. and as you look down at him, his tear-stained face so achingly beautiful, you know that you are lost to him—lost to this love that is as twisted and fragile as the threads of his tears, a love that binds you both in a dance of pain and passion that neither of you can bear to end.

as he stumbles forward, falling to his knees with a shudder that ripples through his entire body, the rain pouring down on him like the heavens themselves are weeping for his plight. his hands grasp at your legs, fingers clinging to you with a desperate strength, as though you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. his head bows low, forehead pressing against your knees, and his breath comes in ragged, frantic gasps, each one a struggle against the sobs that threaten to tear him apart.

“please,” he begs, voice fractured and raw, as if the words themselves are tearing through him, leaving him gasping for air. “please don’t turn me away. i can’t—i can’t do this without you. i’m dying, i swear, i’m dying without you,” his voice breaks on the last word, shattering into a desperate wail that pierces through the rain, his body convulsing with the force of his sobs.

“i’ll be anything, anyone you need me to be,” he continues, his eyes wild with a terror that’s almost primal, like a man staring into the abyss. “i’ll change, i’ll never be too much again, just… just don’t leave me here, not like this. i can’t breathe, i can’t even think without you. please, i’m begging you—don’t let go of me.” his words come out in a rush, frantic and broken, his voice thick with tears that he no longer bothers to hide.

the world seeming to tilt on its axis, his pride scattered like the raindrops that pool around him. his fingers find your hand, clutching with a desperation that makes your heart stutter, his grip fierce as though you are the last tether to a life he can no longer navigate without you. his head bows low, forehead pressing against your knees, and the sound of his breath is a ragged, broken thing, a symphony of despair that rises with the rhythm of the rain.

“i'm sorry,” he rasps, his voice a mere whisper against the howl of the storm, but there is a rawness in it that slices through the night, a vulnerability that lays him bare. “please, don’t do this. i am undone without you. every breath is agony, every beat of my heart a hollow echo. i am nothing—nothing without your love to guide me.” his words are a litany of longing, each syllable soaked in the salt of unshed tears, his gaze lifting to meet yours with the fragile hope of a man on the brink of ruin.

he looks up at you, eyes wide and shining with tears, the blue of them dull and hollow without the spark of your love. they are the eyes of a man on the brink, staring down the barrel of a life without the only thing that has ever truly mattered. his breath stutters, each exhale a choked, desperate plea, and his fingers dig into the fabric of your clothes, clinging to you as if the very act of holding on is the only thing keeping his heart beating.

his eyes, those brilliant blue depths that once held the light of a thousand stars, now brim with the bleakness of a sky stripped bare, his tears mingling with the rain that slides down his cheeks. he is a man unmade, all bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw ache of his need, the sheer, unrelenting force of his devotion that coils around your heart like ivy.

“please,” he whispers again, his voice so faint it’s almost lost to the sound of the rain. “i need you. more than air, more than anything. without you, there’s nothing. there’s no me, no us, no world i want to live in. i’m dying here, right in front of you, and the only thing that can save me is you. i fucking swear to god, baby, i will kill you and then kill myself if you don't love me again.”

his head drops, forehead pressing into the cold, wet ground as his body shakes with the force of his sobs, each one wrenching through him like a violent storm. he clutches at you with a desperation that borders on madness, his entire being consumed by the need to feel your arms around him, to hear you say that everything will be okay. he is a man unraveling, a soul laid bare in the rain, and all he has left is this—this pitiful, desperate plea for the one thing that could mend his shattered heart.

“i love you,” he chokes out, his voice breaking, his hands trembling against your legs. “i love you so much it hurts. please… i can’t—i can’t do this without you. i’d rather die right here, right now, than spend another second without you in my arms.” and as he kneels there, drenched and broken, begging for a mercy only you can grant, you see the truth etched in every tear-streaked line of his face: without you, he is nothing but a man lost to the storm, drowning in a sea of his own despair.

he bows his head lower, his sobs blending with the symphony of the rain, each drop a soft requiem for the love he fears he has lost. he clings to you as if you are his salvation, his lifeline, the only thing standing between him and the abyss. and in the depth of his gaze, you see it—the unspoken truth that without you, satoru gojo is not the invincible, untouchable force the world sees, but a man who is willing to lay down everything, even his pride, for just one more chance to be held in the light of your love.

your fingers weave through the silver strands of his hair, gripping tightly as if tethering yourself to the very essence of him. the tension draws a soft, desperate whine from his lips, a sound so sweet it echoes through your veins, setting your blood aflame. your bodies, bared to the night's whisper, tangle together in a dance of unspoken need, your breath hitching in rhythm with his as you find solace in the storm of each other's presence.

perched upon his lap, you feel the solid strength of him beneath you, his muscles taut and trembling, his arms wrapped around your waist with a fervor that speaks of a desperate, consuming devotion. you lean closer, your breaths mingling in the scant space between, and capture his lips in a fervent kiss, tongues entwining like vines that have waited lifetimes to grow together. it’s a collision of hunger and longing, a silent plea wrapped in the taste of him that floods your senses and drowns you in the depths of his presence.

“oh, baby— fuck, ’miss you,” he grunt, his cock twitching inside you— losing his mind how divine your gummy walls hugging him.

his grip tightens as though the very essence of his existence hinges on holding you close, as if the mere thought of losing you again would shatter him beyond repair. his eyes, half-lidded and hazy with longing, mirror the fervor that burns in your own, each glance a shared promise that defies the world's attempts to pull you apart. your breaths mingle in the space between, warm and uneven, and the quiet sounds of pleasure that escape your lips mingle with his, a symphony of yearning that drowns out the rain still drumming against the windowpanes.

his hair, still wet from the downpour, clings to his forehead in unruly strands, a testament to the chaos of moments past and your fingers trace the delicate line of his jaw, committing every inch of him to memory as if to carve him into the very fabric of your soul. yet even in the wild disarray, there is a beauty to him that makes your heart stutter—a raw, vulnerable magnificence that only you are privy to in these stolen moments.

his lips part, tremble against yours, a soft gasp escaping as your bodies move in tandem, meet, a slow and deliberate rhythm that leaves no room for anything but the two of you, a slow and deliberate mingling of desire and desperation, each motion a silent plea that neither of you will ever let go. you feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, wild and unsteady, beating in time with the pounding of your own heart—a symphony of obsession that neither of you could ever hope to silence.

“s— ‘toru,” you whimper in his lips, leaving his breath hitches, and you feel the tremor of it against your skin, a shiver that ripples through the both of you, binding you even tighter together. his eyes, glistening and fervent, drink you in as if you are the only thing that can quench his unending thirst. and your own gaze, locked onto his, speaks volumes of the quiet, relentless obsession that ties your souls in knots too intricate to ever untangle.

every sigh, every gasp is a testament to the fervent reunion of souls that cannot be torn asunder, no matter how the world may try. your cheeks are flushed, mirroring the heat in his own, and there’s a delirious pleasure in knowing that he is yours again, has always been yours, will always be yours. in this moment, tangled and breathless, you both become a living prayer, a hymn to the unbreakable, unyielding force of a love that borders on madness.

his hands, desperate and sure, press into the small of your back, fingers splayed as though marking you, branding you as his own. and in the low, heady hum of your shared breaths, the world outside ceases to exist. here, there is only the two of you—obsessed, entwined, and utterly consumed by the fire that refuses to burn out. you are his sanctuary, his obsession, and as he holds you close, he knows with a fierce, undeniable certainty that he is yours in every possible way, now and always.

your fingers thread through his silver locks, tugging them with a possessive fervor that draws a breathless whine from his lips, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. you lean closer, your breath mingling with his, and capture his mouth in a searing kiss once again, tongues tangling in a desperate dance of need and familiarity. the taste of him is intoxicating, like the first sip of a forbidden wine, and you drink him in as though he were the very air you need to survive.

your other hand traces down, fingers curling into the tender flesh of his thigh, nails digging crescents into his skin with a fervor that borders on reverence and possession. each mark you leave is a silent declaration—he is yours to hold, yours to break, yours to ruin, yours to love in this raw, unfettered way. his breath stutters— his body responding to the sting of your touch, every nerve alight with the electric thrill of your shared desire, a sharp intake that lingers in the air, mingling with the rhythm of your heartbeats that drum like a battle cry in the quiet room. his eyes, a storm of love and desperation, gaze up at you as if you are the moon and the sun, his salvation and his undoing. his arms tighten around your waist, holding you as if you are the center of his universe, the axis upon which his world spins.

you rock your hips slowly, a deliberate and torturous rhythm that pulls soft gasps from his parted lips, each sound a sweet symphony that fills the space between your bodies— a slow, deliberate rocking that pulls soft moans from the both of you, the sound mingling like a hymn of devotion sung only for the night to hear. his eyes, half-lidded and burning with a mix of love and lust, meet yours, and in that gaze, you see the depths of his devotion laid bare. he is yours—utterly, entirely, irrevocably—and there is a heady power in knowing that he would lay the world at your feet if you only asked.

his hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin with the intensity of a man holding on to his last breath, as if releasing you would be akin to the world losing its light. the way his body arches into yours, meeting each movement with a silent vow, speaks of a love that teeters on the edge of madness—a need so profound it eclipses reason.

“i love you,” you whisper against his lips, the words a soft, fervent prayer, slipping free like a sacred vow, a quiet affirmation of the bond that binds you both, unbreakable and infinite. his breath shudders as he pulls you even closer, his response a muffled moan as your movements grow more insistent, the heat between you building like a slow-burning flame that refuses to be quenched.

his eyes flutter shut at your confession, as if savoring the weight of it, letting it sink into his bones. he trembles beneath your touch, his body singing with the quiet, desperate need for more—more of your touch, your love, your presence that he clings to like a drowning man reaching for the surface. every breath you share feels like a stolen promise, each kiss a sacred bond that reaffirms the feverish connection that neither of you can ever escape.

your hands, one still tangled in his hair, the other gripping his thigh, hold him to you as if to anchor him in place, to remind him that this, here and now, is all that matters. his lips curve into a breathless smile against yours, his body arching into every touch, every caress, his own whispered confessions of love mingling with the soft, reverent sounds of your shared longing.

in this moment, every touch, every kiss, every whispered word is a testament to the fierce, unrelenting need that pulls you back to him time and time again. you are tangled in each other’s orbit, bound by an obsession that runs deeper than blood, stronger than any force that might try to tear you apart. and as you lose yourselves in the slow, deliberate rhythm of your of your bodies.

and as his hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, you realize that this—this wild, chaotic, all-consuming love—is the very marrow of your existence. in his embrace, you find the echoes of every past longing, every unspoken promise, and the undeniable truth that he is yours, irrevocably and eternally. and as you move together, lost in the poetry of each other’s touch, you know that no force in this world or the next could be sever the bond that holds you— two souls bound by the beautiful relentless obsession of love.

as you move slowly on his lap, the friction and intensity make gojo’s breath hitch. a guttural, involuntary grunt escapes him, the sound a raw, visceral expression of the pleasure and need surging through him. his grip tightens around your waist, each movement of yours driving him further into a state of blissful surrender.

his eyes, clouded with a potent mix of passion and adoration, lock onto yours. “fuck,” he groans, the word slipping from his lips in a low, reverent murmur. the sound is both a plea and a confession, his body trembling with the weight of his overwhelming emotions.

he stutters, his voice faltering as he tries to articulate the depth of his feelings amidst the relentless pleasure. “i… i love you too,” he finally breathes out, the words trembling on his lips, laden with both desperation and devotion. his gaze is unwavering, filled with an intense, unspoken promise. “you are everything to me… every touch, every whisper… it’s all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ll ever need.”

his breath comes in ragged bursts, each one a testament to the consuming nature of his love and desire. he pulls you closer, his entire being attuned to the rhythm of your movements, the declaration of his love etched into every shudder, every gasp, as he loses himself in the exquisite intensity of the moment.

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transform4u · 3 months

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Through the Looking Glass---bro

Atticus Conway, a 32-year-old art maven with a hipster edge, strolled into the contemporary art gallery, his attire a blend of vintage band t-shirt layered under a worn denim jacket, paired with well-worn Converse sneakers. His boss beckoned from the entrance, amidst the eclectic crowd that mingled beneath the soft glow emanating from the center of the room.

The gallery exuded a fusion of minimalism and sophistication, its white walls serving as a stark backdrop for abstract masterpieces. At its heart stood The Matrix—a sprawling lattice of translucent panels forming a walkable installation, pulsating softly with an ever-shifting spectrum of colors. Attendees, ranging from avant-garde eccentrics to sleek sophisticates, engaged in muted conversations and occasionally clinked glasses as they explored the transformative potential of the Matrix.

Atticus was drawn closer by the installation’s allure, its promise of blurring the boundaries between technology and personal expression. Some visitors had already ventured into The Matrix, their movements triggering dynamic responses from its structure. He observed cautiously, appreciating the installation’s energy and its impact on the gallery-goers.

Designed to accentuate the avant-garde spirit of the exhibition, the gallery itself was a work of art—clean lines and an expansive layout creating an experimental playground. As Atticus navigated through the crowd, the symphony of soft whispers, the hum of the Matrix, and occasional gasps of awe formed a backdrop to the artistic exploration unfolding around him.

The Matrix had been completed only moments before the opening—a testament to the eccentricity of its creator, an old man whose exacting instructions had been followed to the letter. Its otherworldly presence glittered and shimmered, a tunnel stretching infinitely through the gallery space, hinting at vague shapes and possibilities beyond its translucent panels.

Stepping forward with a glass of prosecco in hand, Atticus was the first to enter the walkway. The mirrors inside rippled and shimmered, reflecting his hipster persona back at him a thousand times over. Initially awestruck by the spectacle, he soon felt a peculiar sensation—a lingering feeling that the mirrors were watching him, even when he turned away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Atticus noticed something unsettling—his own reflection seemed to wear a twisted smirk, staring back at him with a gaze that felt intrusive. He dismissed it at first, attributing it to the immersive nature of the installation.

A few steps ahead, he encountered a large panel—a full-length mirror. As he approached, his reflection wiggled and vibrated unnervingly. Peering at himself, Atticus was taken aback by the expression on his own face—it seemed contorted into one of disgust, a stark contrast to his genuine admiration for the art surrounding him.

Attempting to look away, he was startled to hear a voice emanating from the mirror, mocking him with crossed arms and a sarcastic tone. "Don't look away… Look at yourself… God, you're boring…"

Turning around abruptly, Atticus faced his reflection, bewildered by the unexpected interaction. His mirrored counterpart rolled its eyes mockingly, a gesture that cut through the enchantment of the moment. "God, we've got our work cut out for us…"

Atticus Conway, caught in the bewildering depths of The Matrix installation, stared in horror as his reflection twisted into a sinister smile, its eyes seemingly glowing with an unnatural intensity. The once-familiar face now bore an unsettling expression that mocked him with a knowing smirk.

"So, pathetic Atticus," the reflection taunted in a voice that echoed eerily within the mirrored chamber. "But that's why I'm here—here to help. I can see into your very soul. Your desires. Your wants. Your fears. And most importantly, your rage. That fire burning in you."

"What the hell kind of trick is this?" Atticus shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. He attempted to turn away, to escape the unnerving spectacle unfolding before him, but everywhere he looked, he was met with more mirrors, each reflecting his own image back at him, each bearing a different facet of his personality.

"Oh, there's no escaping now, baby boy," the reflection sneered, its tone dripping with malice. "I'm here to bring out the worst of you, but by the time I'm done with you, you—hah—you certainly won't think so."

Atticus' heart raced as he witnessed the reflections morphing before his eyes. They twisted and contorted, each portraying a different version of himself—a twink with styled hair and fashionable attire; a jock with a confident grin; a nerdy version with glasses and a book in hand; an overweight ex-jock struggling with his identity; a tougher looking black Atticus, a middle eastern Atticus with thick muscles; a desperate straight man clutching at his phone; a closeted young man hiding behind a facade; a frat bro with a swaggering attitude; an arrogant jerk with a sneer.

Each reflection seemed to delve into a fragment of his psyche, exposing vulnerabilities and hidden aspects of his persona that he had never acknowledged.

As Atticus Conway stood amidst the labyrinth of mirrors, the reflections before him began to laugh—a haunting, ominous sound that reverberated through the chamber. The mirrors around them pulsated in response, the soft glow intensifying into a crescendo of brilliant light.

Atticus instinctively raised his arms to shield himself as the mirrors burst with a deafening crash, shards of glass spraying in all directions. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, feeling the sting of glass against his skin despite his efforts to protect himself.

When he cautiously opened his eyes again, he found himself standing outside the art installation, amidst a stunned crowd of onlookers. They stared at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, murmuring amongst themselves about what had just transpired.

Blinking to clear his disorientation, Atticus noticed a small cut on his cheek from a stray piece of glass. He reached up to touch the blood, intending to brush it away, when a strange sensation coursed through his body—a surge of energy that seemed to pulse through every fiber of his being.

He let out a frustrated groan, feeling his blood pumping vigorously through his veins. His muscles began to tingle and swell, starting from his core. A heat spread through his stomach as his abdomen tightened and sculpted into a tight, defined six-pack, the muscles rippling beneath his skin.

Atticus gasped as he felt his pecs pulsate with newfound energy, growing and expanding, stretching his shirt taut over his broadening chest. His shoulders widened, his biceps and triceps bulging with strength. His lats flared out, emphasizing his athletic build.

His legs followed suit, his thighs thickening with muscle, his calves firming beneath his jeans. Even his feet seemed to grow slightly, yet miraculously, his clothes adapted seamlessly to accommodate the transformation.

Atticus couldn't help but flex involuntarily, testing the newfound power surging through his body. The sensation was both exhilarating and unnerving, a physical transformation that defied explanation.

As he stood amidst the bewildered crowd, Atticus felt a surge of confidence and vitality unlike anything he had experienced before. With a deep breath, he straightened his posture, his expression a mix of wonder and determination.

A sudden craving gripped him—a primal urge for booze. With a swagger that was uncharacteristic of the laid-back art maven, he pushed his way through to the bar, demanding rudely for a shot of tequila from the startled bartender.

"Give me a shot. Now!" Atticus barked, his voice laced with an entitled tone that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

The bartender hesitated for a moment, taken aback by Atticus' abrupt demeanor, but reluctantly poured him a shot. Atticus downed it swiftly, the fiery liquid burning down his throat and igniting a rush of adrenaline. He slammed the glass back on the counter and demanded another, then another, each shot fueling his sense of entitlement and privilege.

As the liquor coursed through his veins, his features seemed to shift—his jaw becoming more pronounced, his face taking on a chiseled and manly appearance. A widening nose and a scruffy beard began to form on his once-boyish face, while a deep tan spread across his exposed skin.

His demeanor turned cocky, exuding an aura of arrogance that was worlds away from his usual approachable nature. With a burp that echoed through the bar after his final shot, Atticus leaned back, his eyes gleaming with a newfound sense of bravado.

The once-artistic Atticus now seemed like a caricature of bro culture, his clothes appearing garish and mismatched as if chosen to attract attention. His actions drew stares from other patrons, some amused and others bewildered by the sudden change in him.

Atticus leaned heavily on the bar, scanning the room with a self-assured grin. "Hey, bartender," he slurred, his voice tinged with bravado. "You ever seen gains like these?" He flexed his newly muscular arms, oblivious to the bemused looks around him.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond to this altered version of Atticus. "Uh, sure, man," he replied cautiously. "You hit the gym hard?"

Atticus launched into an intense monologue about his workout routine, detailing his protein intake and the hours spent sculpting his physique. His gestures became exaggerated, his voice booming with enthusiasm as he regaled the bartender with tales of his gym achievements.

But suddenly, a sharp pain pierced his temples. Atticus winced, clutching his head as if trying to ward off the throbbing ache. In that moment, he felt something slipping away—a passion for art, a knowledge of Picasso and Van Gogh fading like a distant tide.

"So, like, uh, this art is like pretty cool right? Like uh, I like uh---" Atticus muttered, his voice slurring. He tried to explain a painting from the gallery, but his words came out muddled and confused. "It's like, colors and stuff, man. You know?"

The bartender couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Yeah, I think I get what you mean."

Slowly, Atticus straightened up, he rubbed his temples, the remnants of his headache lingering. The bartender looked up from wiping the counter and smiled, his gaze lingering on Atticus for a moment before he spoke. "So, you enjoying your night?" His voice was warm and friendly, almost like he was genuinely interested in Atticus' response.

Atticus couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the question. It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying himself - far from it actually. But something about the way the bartender asked made him uncomfortable. Like there was an underlying tone to his words that made Atticus feel like they were flirting or something worse…

Without thinking, anger filled Atticus as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. He straightened up again and narrowed his eyes at the bartender in response to what felt like unwanted attention. "You fucking hitting on me bro? That's fucking gross dude! I'm not a fucking homo!" He slammed down his drink glass hard enough to make ice cubes rattle against each other loudly while glaring daggers at the man behind the bar who looked taken aback by this sudden outburst of rage from someone who moments ago seemed perfectly content with their company."Faggot!" He spat out before storming off into oblivion where even memories no longer exist.

With the booze and anger flowing through him, Atticus' smile turned into a cocky sneer. He strutted through the art gallery like he owned the place, his eyes scanning for any woman who caught his attention. And when he found one, there was no holding back - he grabbed her ass without hesitation or remorse.

As he passed through the gallery, Atticus continued to shamelessly flirt with every woman in sight. It didn't matter if they were interested or not; all that mattered was satisfying his own twisted desires at this point. But then something happened that threw him off balance: a random chick stopped him to ask about an art piece she didn't understand.

Atticus found the nerdy art chick, Emily, extremely attractive. Her glasses only added to her charm and he couldn't help but feel drawn to her intelligence as well. "Hey there, cutie. What's your name?"

"I'm Emily. And you are?" she says blushing.

Atticus just starts flexing and mumbles, "Oh, just a guy trying to get his dick wet. So, what do you think of this painting here? It looks like some abstract shit to me"

"That's not abstract art; it's actually an interpretation of the artist's feelings about the current state of politics in their country. The colors represent different emotions they experienced while creating it, and the shapes symbolize various issues they faced during that time period… haha...Sorry, but I can tell you don't know much about modern art techniques or concepts used by contemporary artists these days…"

"Fuck off you woke bitch! You think you know everything just because you wear glasses and read books all day long?! Go back to your little nerd cave before I punch those fucking glasses off your face!" Atticus shouts as he storms off to another bar, with a hot busty blonde waitress, leaving behind a trail of confusion mixed with humiliation within himself as well as those around them who witnessed this exchange between two people who couldn't be more different from each other socially speaking.

Atticus made his way to the next bar, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. As he approached, he noticed a ditzy blonde bartender with tight shirt barely containing her busty chest. She was giggling vapidly to herself as she wiped down the counter, completely oblivious to Atticus' presence.

Without hesitation, Atticus began flirting with her shamelessly. He leaned in close enough for their bodies to touch and started leering at her boobs which were on full display through her tight top. His voice grew deeper and developed an accent - it was clear that this man had lived a life far from luxury or education; one filled with hardship and struggle where language wasn't always properly taught or understood but rather learned through experience alone… And it showed in how he spoke now - thick brogue rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a spoon onto freshly-baked cookies hot out of the oven… Delicious yet dangerous all at once…

"Hey there," Atticus drawled as he placed his order for another drink, "I ain't got no clue 'bout them art pieces ya got hangin' around here but I do know what makes me feel good…" He flexed slightly before continuing on about how dumb those 'art crap' are compared to what really matters in life: getting laid and having fun while doing so without any cares or worries holding you back because let's face it – we only live once so why waste time thinking too much when we could be enjoying ourselves instead?

The bartender, Amber, smiled brightly at him before introducing herself. "I'm Amber," she said sweetly as she leaned closer to him, her cleavage on full display through the tight fabric of her shirt. "And what's your name big guy?"

Atticus paused for a moment, his mind blank as he tried to remember his own damn name. Finally, after a few seconds had passed by without any answer forthcoming from him, he managed to muster up something that sounded vaguely familiar: "Uhhh… Jackson… yeah. Jackson Armstrong."

As they talked more about trivial matters, Atticus couldn't help but think back on his past - growing up in the south where church was mandatory every Sunday; attending college parties every weekend until dawn broke; being a 21-year old frat bro who would probably drop out soon as he now thought college was for losers. It all seemed so distant now compared to this new persona emerging within him – one filled with conservative ideals and passion for tradition above all else… His liberal ideals slipped into oblivion as easily as water down a drainpipe while Jackson took over completely.

"So Amber," Jackson drawled as he leaned in closer to her, his voice dripping with vapid entitlement, "you know what I think would make this night even better?" She shook her head no before he continued on with his plan: "I think we should go back to my place and continue our conversation there… Without all these distractions." He winked at her playfully while giving her ass a subtle squeeze.

As memories of pranking his bros in the frathouse flooded back into Jackson's mind alongside images of blackout drunkenness each night after partying hardcore, one thing became clear - southern pride was something that ran deep within him; it defined who he was at his core regardless if others liked it or not… And right now? Well let's just say Amber looked pretty damn happy about it all too.

As Jackson continued to flirt with Amber, his muscles flexed beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally finding someone who shared similar beliefs as him – someone who understood the importance of faith and tradition above all else… Someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind even if it meant offending others in the process.

"I can't stand this woke bullshit," Jackson said passionately as he leaned closer to her, "It's like everyone wants to be a victim these days instead of standing up for what they believe in." Amber nodded her head in agreement before adding her own thoughts on the matter: "Exactly! It's about time people started speaking out against all this political correctness nonsense."

"You know what else pisses me off?" Jackson asked rhetorically while flexing again just for good measure, "All these damn snowflakes crying about how hard life is because they weren't born white or straight or rich or whatever else it is that bothers them nowadays…" He shook his head disapprovingly at society as a whole before continuing on with his rant: "But you know what? I wouldn't change a thing about being a white, straight republican man!"

The rest of the night was a blur for Jackson. One moment they were in the bar flirting and flexing, and then suddenly they found themselves back at his smelly frathouse… It didn't matter though because all that mattered now was fucking Amber senseless while belittling her every step of the way – being as crude and rude as possible just to get off on it all…

"You like that you stupid bitch?" He asked her between gritted teeth before slapping her ass hard enough to leave a red mark. She moaned out loud in response, begging him for more which only served to fuel his desire even further…

As he took in the football and wrestling trophies lining the walls alongside other mementos from his past glory days, Jackson grabbed a half-drunk beer from the side table before turning back towards Amber who lay naked on his bed with cum dripping down her leg. "You know what else would be fun?" He asked rhetorically while chugging down another swig of beer, "Telling everyone at school how much of a slut you are…" His voice trailed off into laughter which only served to further embarrass Amber even more than she already had been during their encounter together.

Jackson was the biggest asshole on campus – feared by nerds, lusted after by every chick, and loved by his frat bros. He was an awful conservative douchebag who always grunted in the gym while flexing his muscles; he truly believed himself to be God's gift to women… And it showed in how he treated them – with disdain and entitlement instead of respect or compassion.

As word spread about his encounter with Amber (which he made sure happened as soon as possible), Jackson couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally being able to humiliate someone else publicly just like they had done to him countless times throughout high school… It wasn't long before every girl on campus wanted a piece of him – whether it be for sex or simply attention from such an infamous figure at their university… And every guy? Well let's just say they all wanted to be friends with Jackson so that they could ride his coattails into popularity themselves without having any real skill or talent beyond being part of "the group".

#gay to straight #male tf #transformation #douchebag tf #jock tf #nerd to jock tf #homophobia #twink to jock tf #gay to straight tf #dumber #male transformation #reality change

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alwaysmoncheri · 7 months

Text

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and jason have a complicated relationship, but when you find yourself in a troubling situation, jason just happens to be your emergency contact

𝐜𝐰: female!reader, minimal swearing, sexual assault, cat calling, assault, violence, 1.5k, jason todd x reader

midnights in gotham city smell distinctly of blood. the dark streets are littered with corpses of victims who stain the rubble red. crime is high and murder remains rampant among the homeless people living on the streets. you know walking home alone at this hour alongside the hundreds of criminals that hide in the shadows is a terrible idea. but your shift at the library ran late tonight and you had no other means of transportation, hence the reason why you find yourself alone in a dark alley far from the comfort and safety of your apartment.

the faint footsteps of desperate strangers lurk behind you, the sound echoes through the night, and your skin crawls with anticipation of what’s to follow. nothing good comes from the situation that you’ve found yourself in and that’s what brings you to pull out your phone and tap on the first contact that pops up on your screen.

jason.

your relationship with jason is complicated. like most things in your life you suppose. but jason is the only one who’s almost always by your side. maybe that’s part of what possessed you to click on his name on your phone and bring it up to your ear with trembling fingers.

“hey, sweet—”

“jason, I think i’m being followed.” you breathe out quickly and you don't dare to peek so much as a glance behind you.

“shit. hang on, babe. just—”

jason's voice, laced with urgency, cuts through the tense night as the echo of your footsteps intensifies. the sounds of the desolate alley amplify, creating an eerie symphony of fear and impending danger.

“i’m so scared, jay,” your shaky voice reaches jason, carrying the weight of dread as if it were a tangible thing. in response, jason's voice becomes a soothing anchor, his words a balm to your frayed nerves.

“hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. tell me where you are,” jason's voice, steady and reassuring, breaks through the chaos. your breath catches as you fumble to provide your location, the darkness of the alley making every detail obscure.

“I don’t know, I think in an alley near the corner of 5th and main. I thought it would be quicker. jason, please hurry,” desperation seeps into your words, painting a vivid picture of the peril you find yourself in.

“just hang on, i’m on my way,” jason's promise becomes a lifeline, a lifeline you desperately clutch onto. the plea, "don’t hang up, please don’t hang up," echoes through the phone, the fear of losing that connection palpable.

“I won’t, honey. just keep telling me what’s going on, okay?” jason's voice is a steady stream of reassurance, a counterpoint to the mounting chaos.

your breath quickens as you confess, "there’s multiple, jay."

“multiple what? sweetheart, talk to me,” jason's concern deepens, the gravity of the situation reflected in the intensity of his inquiry.

“people, there’s multiple people. they’re still following me, and I can’t lose them,” your voice quivers, painting a chilling image of the shadows closing in.

“i’m almost there, okay? just hang on a little longer, can you do that for me?” jason’s words are a beacon of hope, urging you to endure the storm just a little while longer.

“they’re getting closer. shit,” panic infuses your voice as the chase intensifies. jason senses the urgency, a quiet determination in his response.

the abrupt cut-off and your distressed cry for help and jason’s call to you, "y/n!?" mark the harrowing turn. the phone, a lifeline moments ago, is silenced by a crushing foot, an audible confirmation of the looming threat.

“looks like your boyfriend isn’t going to make it, gorgeous,” a sinister voice taunts, the malevolence palpable in the dimly lit alley. the struggle intensifies, and your defiant words ring through the night.

“get off of me, you creep!” your voice is a mix of fear and defiance, a visceral response to the encroaching menace.

“watch your tone, sweetie,” a chilling warning hangs in the air as they pin you down. the confrontation takes a dark turn as you spit in their faces, a desperate act of resistance.

“such a shame that’s what you’re using such a pretty mouth for,” a sinister chuckle underscores the dehumanizing intent, leaving a bitter taste in the tense air.

“that’s alright, we don’t want you for your mouth anyway,” a chilling statement, a precursor to unspeakable horrors, hangs over the alley.

in the clash of desperation and violence, the air changes as jason, your vigilante savior, descends upon the scene like a guardian angel emerging from the shadows. the sounds of a fierce struggle ensue, muffled grunts and the scuff of boots on concrete. with a swift, powerful intervention, the men are knocked out and when they loosen their grip you sink to the ground with defeat and despair. you don’t even notice you’re crying until jason gently prys your hands from your face and rubs your tears away with the rough thumb of his leather glove

then, in one swift motion, jason's strong, reassuring arms envelop you, pulling you into an embrace that feels like sanctuary. relief washes over you, grounding you in the reality of his protective presence.

“it's okay, sweetheart. you're safe now,” jason's voice, previously a lifeline over the phone, now echoes directly into your ear, a soothing melody that erases the lingering echoes of fear. his words are a healing balm, mending the wounds of terror inflicted upon your psyche.

the dimly lit alley transforms from a nightmare into a haven under the watchful gaze of your friend. the tension in your shoulders eases, and the erratic beat of your heart gradually steadies as you bask in the warmth of his reassuring touch.

“i've got you, y/n. you're safe,” jason whispers, the warmth of his breath against your ear a soothing balm to the wounds inflicted by fear. the resonance of those words sinking deep into the recesses of your shaken soul. his presence is a shield against the haunting memories of the alley, a reassurance that the nightmare is over.

the shattered phone lies forgotten, a casualty of the struggle, as jason continues to shield you from the residual fear. he tilts your chin up gently, meeting your eyes with an unwavering gaze that speaks volumes of his commitment and protective instinct.

“let's get you home,” jason murmurs, his fingers tenderly brushing away a stray strand of hair from your face. together, you navigate the now-quiet alley, the looming threat replaced by the solid ground beneath your feet and the reassuring touch of the person who faced the darkness on your behalf.

as you approach the familiar comfort of your apartment, jason's protective hold lingers. “are you okay?” he asks, his voice a gentle murmur that eases the residual tension in your body. you nod against his chest, words escaping you as relief and gratitude flood your senses.

the apartment door closes with a muffled thud, shutting out the ominous whispers of the night. jason, ever watchful, guides you towards the bathroom. the soft hum of the overhead light bathes the space in a gentle glow, revealing the porcelain sink and mirror.

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror – disheveled, eyes wide with residual fear. without a word, jason turns on the faucet, letting the water flow until it reaches a soothing warmth. his fingers graze yours, urging you to lean over the sink.

the splashing water echoes in the small room as jason's hands cup and scoop, the liquid cascading over your face. the feel of his fingers against your skin is both tender and firm, each touch a cleansing ritual that washes away the remnants of the night.

you glance up into the mirror, meeting jason's eyes. there's an unspoken understanding as his hands move methodically, the cool water providing a refreshing contrast to the heated intensity of the ordeal. the sensation is grounding, a simple act of care that transcends words.

as you straighten up, a vulnerability lingers in your gaze. you turn off the faucet, and the silence hangs in the air. the wet droplets cling to your skin, a tangible reminder of the shared intimacy in this simple act of cleansing. jason's hands linger on your face, his fingers tracing a silent promise. the air in the bathroom holds a charged stillness, the transition from fear to intimacy palpable.

the urgency of the night lingers in your eyes. “stay, jason, please,” the plea escapes your lips, a raw, desperate plea that echoes in the confined space of the bathroom. his gaze meets yours, and for a moment, the weight of the world seems to shift.

there's a pause, a heartbeat suspended in time, before jason's expression softens. his agreement is wordless, a nod that carries the promise of a shared refuge in the night.

the journey from the bathroom to the bedroom is taken in tandem, the touch of his hand on the small of your back a grounding force. the mattress welcomes you both, and the room is immersed in the soft glow of bedside lamps. the night unfolds with shared breaths and jason's hand finding yours.

“thank you.” you whisper to him under the sheets, the warmth of his body next to you radiating into your own, “thank you for protecting me.”

“i’ll always protect you, sweetheart.”

masterlist . jason todd masterlist . taglist

thank you for reading, my darling! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a smooch if you do, ily! send requests to my inbox!

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yuzuocha · 8 months

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HEARTSTRING FORTISSIMO. — セイヤ [XAVIER]

a spicier ending to xavier's 'heartstring symphony' memory. gn!mc

age rating ‣ 16+ [suggestive but not explicit]

warnings ‣ softcore, power play, minor asphyxiation. besides that, there's nothing much to warn about. still, beware lol

"Are 'small animals' like me pushovers? Do enlighten me, since you seem to know everything."

Perhaps it was because you haven't seen him in weeks, but it seemed you forgot what Xavier was really like. Yes, he is gentle. Yes, he is considerate. Yes, he is sweet. But his kind demeanor also held something sinister.

You haven't quite pondered about it much, but Xavier had a quiet yet possessive streak. He'd always at the very least have pinkies interlocked with yours when together. He'd always somehow teleport to you just when the enemy Wanderer was about to land a fatal blow. He always knew where you were.

He was a wolf in sheep's (or in his case, bunny's) clothing. He always has been.

“When faced with a hunter who knows my weaknesses and how to take advantage of them…” Xavier’s breath fanned your face, his right hand brushing against your temple. Although gentle, his touch felt electrifying. It felt dangerous. It was dangerous.

The breaths that were blanketed on your lips were soon replaced with lips of his own. You let out a short gasp at the stark contrast between his usual and current kisses — they were usually soft and mellow yet endearing, but now they were intense, brisk and hungry.

“Haa—”

A sigh of surprise left your lungs when you felt Xavier’s tongue glide slightly across your teeth. Rookie error — he wasn’t going to let you breathe for a while.

“...just what, exactly, do I do?” Xavier rasped in between kisses, one hand snaking up to support your body and the other coercing your head to a better angle.

With you growing increasingly lightheaded the more fervent and desperate his kisses became, a thrilling shiver crawled down your spine hearing his growl. You knew the answer to his question down to your bones.

You can only get devoured.

Xavier suddenly pulled away, finally giving you a chance to breathe. He gently tipped your chin upwards for your eyes to meet his blazing gaze while you caught your breath. You felt your body burn in places he locked his eyes with.

“...surrender,” You were able to mumble out. “You can only… surrender, or else...”

He whispered while wiping a lone tear that escaped your eye, “Or else what, I’ll get eaten or something?”

“Is that it, love?"

There was a pause of silence between your noses that were inches apart before Xavier dove down and pressed his lips against your neck, humming in satisfaction hearing you gasp every time he nipped your skin. His callused fingers started to tease your shirt off whilst kisses butterflied over his slow but precise work.

“...I’m sorry, I should’ve responded to your messages,” Xavier paused for a moment, murmuring the apology at your sternum. His hot breath on your bruised skin made you slightly arch your back. “And about my injuries and lack of reply… I promise it won’t ever happen again.”

“...will there be a day where you’ll fall asleep and never wake up?” His eyes softened at your reply as he leaned upwards. You felt his lips pecking your forehead, each of your eyelids, your cheeks and your nose before pausing right in front of your face.

“If such a thing ever happens, you—and only you—must remember to wake me up,” Xavier whispered, his hand sliding to your hips and his hair tickling your nose. You felt something graze up against your abdomen which lit up the fire burning at the core of your stomach. Your suspicions were confirmed seeing Xavier’s reddened ears gently glow through the light of the full moon.

Ah. You indeed missed him, and he missed you too. Greatly.

After a silent pause, you circled your legs around Xavier’s back and kissed his facial features just as he did to yours. His eyes slightly widened at your forwardness, however the surprise faded as quickly as it came as he cradled your body in his arms while pulling you up, the moon shining upon you and Xavier at each others’ full glory.

“I will.”

That was all he needed.

HEARTSTRING FORTISSIMO — END.

tysm for reading! comment down below if you'd like to be a part of the tag list, and if you can, please do consider reblogging! it helps out a lot ;; w ;;

#xavier love and deepspace #xavier #love and deepspace #lad xavier #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #xavier x reader #xavier x you #xavier x mc #yuzuocha ‣ works #i'm always beta reading and editing smh

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luvsymai · 2 months

Note

wondering if request based of managa /anime on chapters 365 like you know how bakugou is currently severely injured in manga /anime instead of bakugou almost dying it’s the reader who takes all the hits blows for him when fighting shigaraki which led reader to endure attack to chest and arms to protect bakugku maybe she using her full potential of her quirk which is slowy corrupting her due to overuse and possibly shigiraki took advantage and attack her just wanna add that to mix aslo can reader powers be similar to scarlet witch if don’t know mcu or her you can do like raven type dark magic from teen titans if this makes sense aslo can ending be somewhat angst and fluff ending if that’s ok i hope this makes sense

Shadows of Sacrifice ; Katsuki Bakugo

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x GN!Reader

Genre: Angst to Fluff

Warnings: mentions of death, angst, near death situation.

<- Masterlist

___________________________________

The battlefield was a chaotic symphony of destruction. The once vibrant U.A. High grounds now lay in ruins, smoke and debris covering the sky. Amidst the rubble, the fierce battle between the heroes and Shigaraki raged on. At the center of this chaos stood Katsuki, every fiber of his being screaming in defiance against the monstrous villain.

But it wasn't Katsuki who bore the brunt of Shigaraki's wrath this time. It was you.

Your quirk, "Shadow Weave," pulsed through your veins, a dark and potent magic akin to the powers of Raven from Teen Titans. Each shadow you manipulated acted as both a shield and a weapon, protecting Katsuki from Shigaraki's relentless onslaught. However, the overuse of your powers came at a cost. Your body was beginning to feel the corrupting effects, shadows flickering around your form erratically.

"Get out of here!" Katsuki yelled, his voice strained with desperation. "You're gonna get yourself killed!"

Ignoring his plea, you summoned every ounce of your strength, weaving shadows into a protective barrier as Shigaraki lunged forward. His decay-infused touch met your barrier, and for a moment, it held. But the strain was immense. The shadows began to waver, cracks forming in the dark shield.

"Just hang on, Katsuki," you panted, blood trickling down your arms. "I can handle this."

Shigaraki's sinister grin widened. "So willing to die for him? How touching." With a sudden, violent motion, he broke through your barrier, his hand connecting with your chest.

Agony exploded through you. You screamed, the force of the impact sending you crashing to the ground. Your vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. You could hear Katsuki shouting, but his words were muffled, as if underwater.

Shigaraki loomed over you, ready to deliver the final blow. But even in your weakened state, you wouldn't let him win. Gathering the last of your strength, you unleashed a surge of dark magic, the shadows swirling around you in a chaotic storm. The energy crackled with intensity, momentarily halting Shigaraki's advance.

"Not… yet," you whispered, forcing yourself to stand. "I'm not done… protecting him."

Katsuki, witnessing your determination, felt a surge of emotions. Rage, guilt, admiration—he couldn't let your sacrifice be in vain. With a primal roar, he charged at Shigaraki, his explosions more ferocious than ever.

The battlefield erupted in a blinding light as Bakugou unleashed his full power. Shigaraki was forced to retreat, the combined might of your shadows and Katsuki’s explosions proving too much for him. As the dust settled, Bakugou rushed to your side, kneeling beside your broken form.

"Stay with me," he begged, his voice shaking. "You can't die on me now, damn it!"

Your eyes fluttered open, a weak smile forming on your lips. "Looks like… I did it. You're safe."

Katsuki gently lifted you into his arms, his usually fierce expression softened with worry and guilt. "You idiot. Why'd you go and do something so reckless?"

You coughed weakly, feeling the darkness receding slightly. "Couldn't let you die. Someone has to keep you in check."

He held you close, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't you dare die. You hear me? We still have a lot to do together."

As you slipped into unconsciousness, you felt a strange sense of peace. Despite the pain, despite the corruption slowly eating away at you, you had protected the one you cared for most. And in his arms, you knew you were safe.

___________________________________

You awoke in a hospital room, the sterile scent filling your nostrils. Machines beeped steadily around you, a testament to the extensive care you required. You turned your head slightly, wincing at the pain, to see Katsuki slumped in a chair beside your bed, fast asleep. His hand held yours tightly, as if afraid to let go.

"Katsuki…" you whispered, your voice hoarse.

His eyes snapped open, and he immediately leaned forward, relief flooding his features. "You're awake," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Yeah," you replied, managing a small smile. "Guess I'm tougher than I look."

He scoffed, though his eyes were glistening. "Damn right you are. Don't ever scare me like that again."

"I'll try not to," you teased lightly, squeezing his hand. "Thanks for saving me."

He shook his head. "No, you saved me. I couldn't have done it without you."

“…”

There was a moment of silence as you both absorbed the gravity of what had happened. Despite the pain and the lingering effects of your quirk, you were alive. And so was Katsuki.

Suddenly, he gritted his teeth in anger. Vivid images appearing as he remembers your bloody figure, your determination to protect him.

“Tsk,” With swift speed, his hand collided onto the crown of your head in a comical sense, an irk mark appearing onto your forehead as you winced.

“You dumbass, i’m literally severely injured! When i get out of this stupid bed, i’m going to—“

You felt him hug you, your sentence dying as he murmured something into your chest. “How could you be so reckless, what if you had really died? What would i do then? God, you’re so dumb, you nerd..”

"We'll get through this," he said firmly, his determination clear. "Together."

You nodded, feeling a warmth spread through you despite the ache in your body. "Together."

In that moment, you knew that no matter the challenges ahead, you would face them side by side. And with Katsuki by your side, you were ready for anything.

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bzurk · 2 months

Text

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.

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freemilkshakesposts · 3 months

Text

You Remind Me Of A Campfire

⚠️Warning ⚠️: Sexual content (18+) MDNI

Levi x Reader (Smut + Fluff)

Summary: After a grueling expedition, you find yourself alone with Captain Levi in an abandoned cabin. With a heart full of unspoken feelings, you wonder if this moment could be your chance to reach him. Will you finally break through to the captain's heart?

The ancient walls of the decrepit cabin groaned under the relentless assault of the storm outside. Inside, the warm, almost sinister glow of the fireplace cast erratic, dancing shadows across the room, weaving an eerie, intimate tapestry. Levi reclined in a battered leather chair, his eyes transfixed by the flickering flames, his mind lost in labyrinthine thoughts. The expedition had been a merciless ordeal, driving the team to seek sanctuary in this isolated refuge for the night.

The room was deathly silent, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the expedition, save for the soft, sounds of breathing echoing against the sheltered walls. For Levi, it was a symphony. That silence, a rare treasure, a fleeting moment of peace amidst the chaos.

But the hush that enveloped the room was abruptly ruptured by the ominous creak of the door, revealing a looming silhouette cloaked in darkness. He recognised that figure all too well, a constant presence in his world.

"Come over here," he commanded, his voice slicing through the air like a sharpened blade, his gaze remaining fixated on the fire, unperturbed by the intrusion upon his solitude.

Silent steps guided themselves to the captain's location, the seductive dance of flames consuming the cold, empty cabin. They settled across from the fire, enveloped in its sensual flicker. The warm breath of the blaze teased their senses, its allure, an intoxicating embrace they could not deny. The fire's pull was irresistible, an invitation to lose themselves in its mesmerising glow.

"Here," Levi whispered, as he enveloped you in a thin blanket, a cocoon of warmth that swallowed the icy tendrils of the night, leaving only the echo of their absence behind.

Silence hung heavy, a taut wire between you, charged with the unspoken and the unspeakable, as you both stared into the flames, mesmerised by their dance.

Outside, the storm raged, a symphony of chaos, but within these walls, it was just the two of you, enmeshed in a world of your own making. The tranquility was deceptive, the silence suffocating, each second a mounting pressure.

I need air.

Gathering your courage, you shattered the oppressive stillness. "Levi, thank you for everything today. I don't know how we would have made it without you."

He shrugged, casually brushing off the praise, but beneath the veneer, a glint of vulnerability danced in his eyes—a fleeting glimpse of humanity in his unyielding façade. "Just doing what's expected," he murmured, the tension thickening the air between us.

Fuck, the urge to penetrate his icy demeanour was overwhelming, like an invisible force in the room urging you to shatter his façade, to delve deep into the enigma of Captain Levi, to strip away the layers and uncover just Levi. What's there to lose anyway?

Taking a deep breath, you reached out and touched his hand, feeling the rough callouses, the faint chill of the weather still clinging to them. "You always take care of us," you murmured, your voice slicing through the quiet. "But who takes care of you?"

Levi's eyes widened imperceptibly, a crack in his stoic mask—uncharacteristic vulnerability flickering briefly. For a moment, you wondered if you'd pushed too far, but then he turned his hand over, clasping yours. "No one," he confessed softly. "Not for a long time."

You stepped closer, and the dense air that had kept you apart finally dissolved. The roar of the storm outside faded into oblivion, leaving only the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic sound of your breathing. "Let me," you whispered, your voice trembling with a palpable, almost desperate need. "Let me take care of you tonight."

His gaze softened at your abrupt request. With deliberate poise, he adjusted his stance and lightly tapped his thigh. You smirked, heart racing as you positioned yourself upon him.

At last, you were near enough to fully appreciate Levi's grandeur, especially those rare, exquisite blue eyes—so flawless, akin to a pristine sky, devoid of distraction, a blank canvas for meticulously crafting aspirations.

A shiver ran down your spine as his finger traced your jawline, his gaze scrutinising your presence, a fucking beauty, he mused, relishing a long-awaited moment, just as you have yearned for this for so long.

In an instant, you seized his shirt, and swiftly, his lips collided with yours in a urgent union. The world dissolved into nothingness as you melded together, mouths opening and closing with voracious hunger, hands moving feverishly, exploring, clutching, dragging each other closer. Before long, you found yourselves entangled in each other's arms, dismantling the barriers around your hearts under the moonlit canopy of the old cabin. His lips claimed every part of you: mouth, neck, every inch. He consumed you, and you consumed him, your arms tightly wrapped around his body, finding solace in him through that endless night.

"You just can't get enough of me, can you? Addicted to the way I make you feel," he growled into your ear, punctuating his words with a hard thrust that tore a cry from your lips, painting the air with beautiful, raw sounds.

Yes. You loved it. He was your campfire- warm, comforting, familiar. An oasis of relief in a world that often felt cold and indifferent.

"L-Levi," you gasped between his relentless thrusts, "I love you-God, I love you so fucking much," you spat, each word fracturing as pleasure surged, the tightly coiled rope in your abdomen unraveling, propelling you over the edge. Your thighs quaked; you were so fucking close. Levi smirked at the sight of your glazed eyes, then drew your face to his, seizing your lips once more, swallowing your moans as you both shattered into each other, your ecstasies merging into one overwhelming climax.

He was your blazing beacon, an inferno you dared not extinguish. Levi, however, would never admit the same—he's already lost so much, his heart remains partially caged. Only when you utterly destroy those barriers will he be free to confess his love, perhaps when the world is liberated from fear. Tonight, he just wanted to be taken care of, to surrender to the comfort you offered, if only for a moment.

#attack on titan #levi ackerman #levi aot #captain levi #fanfic #levi attack on titan #levi shingeki no kyojin #levi smut #levi x reader #smut #snk anime #snk smut #snk levi #snk fanfiction #levi fluff #snk fluff

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roxxie-wolf · 5 months

Text

𝒜 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇

Pairing: Lucifer x Fem!Reader

Summary: Helping Angel from getting a beating to entering a hotel and meeting someone who you will become close with.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: bad choking, bad word, idk what else. If there’s something else please let me know.

Note: I will post for this one every Saturday. I’m not so sure how I did. I tried though.😭

MDNI

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝟣

You were getting ready for the next shoot today after days of shooting, wondering when Valentino would let you rest. “Hey are you ready yet,” Valentino's angry voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Yes, I’m going” Frustrated, you confirmed that you were, putting on the last piece, a garter belt. Standing up and fixing yourself, you headed out.

As you stepped out, the bright lights of the set blinded you for a moment. Valentino was pacing back and forth.

“Finally,” he muttered as he saw you, but the edge in his voice softened when he took in your appearance. “You look… perfect.” Valentino shoots you a grin crossing his arms. “Alright then amorcito take a sit on the bed and get ready,”

You didn’t have the energy to respond with anything more than a nod. You made your way towards the heart shaped bed. The set was bustling with activity, everyone moving to the rhythm of a silent, urgent symphony. You took your place, the camera lens focusing on you.

On your left, a door swung open and out stepped Angel, donning a garter belt as well. As you positioned yourself, a demon stood beside you, patiently waiting. Meanwhile, another demon eagerly awaited Angel's next move.

As Angel neared, Valentino rose from his seat, reaching out to grasp Angel's neck and lift him high. With a surge of urgency, you leaped from the bed, shouting, "Let him go, pay attention to me!" Seizing Valentino's arm, you tried to pry him away from Angel's neck.

Valentino's grip on Angel tightened, his eyes blazing with an anger that seemed to consume him. You could see the confusion and fear in Angel's eyes, a plea for help that was silent but loud in its desperation.

Baffled by Valentino's actions, you sensed his longstanding anger towards Angel. "Where have you been, you insolent brat," Val's words lashed out as his other hand shoved you to the ground. Undeterred, you rose to your feet once more, pleading, "Val, I need your assistance, please."

For a moment, Valentino's eyes flickered towards you a look of surprise and confusion. “What do you need now you bitch,” his words came out with a hint of venom. “I - I need you to come here with me, I have to show you something,” you stammered, approaching him cautiously swaying your hips. Slowly, the pressure around Angel's neck lessened. Angel gasped for air, collapsing to the ground as Valentino released him completely.

A sinister grin played on Valentino's lips, intrigued by your cryptic request. With his focus now on you, Val advanced and seized your face with two hands while securing your hips with the other two. As you gazed past him, you witnessed Angel on the floor, struggling for breath, sitting up coughing and rubbing his neck. His eyes wide with a mix of gratitude and confusion.

Valentino's voice jolted you back to attention as he demanded, “What are you looking at?”Startled, you turned your focus back to him, "Nothing," gently placing your hand on Valentino's that rested on your cheek, offering a forced smile. Though fear gripped you, you refused to let it show. Angel watched as you reached out to Val.

“Let’s continue the shoot shall we?,”you whispered softly. "Very well, let’s continue," Valentino responded, clapping his hands to signal the team to resume their tasks. You were relieved that he had listened to you. You guess it was because he was desperate to finish this shoot.

Valentino had a vision, and he expected nothing but perfection from you. The pressure was on as you settled into your first pose, feeling the heat of the lights beating down on your skin. The demon beside you adjusted your position, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The shoot seemed to drag on for hours, each moment filled with tension and anticipation. Valentino was a perfectionist, and he didn't settle for anything less than flawless. Sweat trickled down your back as you pushed your body to its limits, contorting and twisting in ways you never thought possible.

As the shoot finally came to an end, you collapsed onto the bed, your body aching and exhausted. Valentino's voice cut through the silence, his tone approving but demanding more. You knew there would be no rest for the wicked, especially not when Valentino was involved.

The studio lights dimmed, signaling the end of a grueling day. The air was thick with the scent of hard work and the faintest hint of satisfaction from Valentino's rare nod of approval. You lay there on the bed, every muscle crying out for reprieve.

Valentino's shadow loomed over you, his figure outlined by the backlight. "You did well today amorcito," the term of endearment rolling off his tongue with a familiarity that belied the tension between you. "But we both know you can do even better,” His grin didn't reach his eyes, and it was clear that his praise was a double-edged sword.

You met his gaze, your own eyes heavy with exhaustion. Words were unnecessary; your silence spoke volumes. The last thing you wanted was his proximity, his presence a reminder of the power he wielded.

Val turned around and left. You were left alone on the bed, the imprint of the day's events heavy in the air. But you wouldn't allow the weight to pin you down. With a strength born of necessity, you pushed yourself off the bed and moved towards the sanctuary of your room. Each step was a small victory, a defiance of the control he sought to maintain.

Valentino's softness was a facade, a manipulation you had come to recognize all too well. You knew better than to let your guard down, to mistake his gentleness for kindness. In this dance of shadows and light, you had learned to navigate the treacherous waters of Valentino's moods.

As you closed the door behind you, the click of the latch was a temporary barrier, a momentary breath of safety in a world where you had to be ever vigilant.

The room was your sanctuary, a place where the chaos of the outside world couldn't reach you. As you sat at the vanity, the layers of the day's persona fell away with each piece of makeup you removed. The knock on the door was soft, almost hesitant, but it shattered the solitude you were clinging to.

Angel's figure filled the doorway, his posture uncharacteristically subdued. "Hey toots," he murmured, a term of endearment that felt out of place in the silence of the room.

You glanced past him, ensuring the coast was clear, before stepping aside to let him in. The click of the door shutting behind him was a definitive sound, a full stop to the day's sentence.

"I just came to say thank you for earlier," his voice tinged with a nervousness that didn't quite match the cocky persona he projected on set. His hand went to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture that spoke volumes.

"Sure no problem, anytime," you responded with a wink, injecting a bit of levity into the moment.

“Hey, do ya want to come with me somewhere?”the prospect of an escape from the day's drama was like a breath of fresh air. Angel's invitation was a welcome distraction, a chance to step out of the role you had been playing and just be yourself for a while.

"Where?" your curiosity piqued.

"To the hotel. I want to introduce ya to some of my friends," his cheerfulness infectious. It was clear he was looking forward to the evening as much as you were. The idea of meeting new people, experiencing something different, was enticing.

"Sure why not! But first, let me change and put something more decent," the excitement bubbling up inside you. The thought of getting out, even if just for a few hours, was exhilarating.

As Angel waited patiently, you rifled through your wardrobe, selecting something that was comfortable yet chic. Tonight was about unwinding, about finding a moment of normalcy in the whirlwind of your profession.

Dressed and ready, you glanced at Angel, who gave you an approving nod. "Let's go," he smiled, and you couldn't help but return it.

⭐️𝒩𝑒𝓍𝓉⭐️

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list so you be updated every time.^^ I do try to proofread but if I missed something please let me know.

Also I sometimes tend to make minor changes to the chapters.

Thank you! For reading I hope you enjoyed it.⭐️

TAGLIST: @hazelfoureyes

#lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lucifer #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #lucifer smut

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cherryrainn · 8 months

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DINNER .

; pairing ; alastor & human! reader

; note ; hihi! this is a request i got on wattpad! (yes i changed my format again)

; warnings ; chasing, captivity, predatory behavior, he ate you

the moon hung low in the night sky, casting an eerie glow through the twisted branches of the abandoned forest. the air was thick with a palpable sense of foreboding as you venture deeper into the darkness, your footsteps echoing in the silence that surrounded you. the only sound that cut through the stillness was the rustle of leaves under your feet as if the very earth beneath you shivered with a sense of unease.

your senses heightened with each step, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes making you acutely aware of the isolation that enveloped you. it was said that this forest was cursed, abandoned by both the living and the dead. yet, curiosity drove you forward, a reckless desire to explore the unknown.

as you pushed deeper into the heart of the forsaken woods, an unsettling sensation crept up your spine. you felt eyes upon you, unseen and malevolent. a chill ran down your spine, and the shadows seemed to dance with a life of their own. you quickened your pace, aware that you were no longer alone.

a low growl reverberated through the air, causing you to freeze in your tracks. the atmosphere thickened, suffused with a sinister energy that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the forest. before you could react, a figure emerged from the darkness, its form illuminated by the pale moonlight.

a demon, grotesque and menacing, stood before you, his sharp, yellow teeth glinting in a predatory smile. his red eyes bore into yours, the sinister glint betraying the facade of charm he so masterfully wore. the tufts of hair on his head resembled the ears of a deer, and his entire presence exuded an otherworldly aura.

"well, well, well," he purred, his voice dripping with amusement. "what do we have here? a lost lamb wandering into my domain."

you felt a shiver run down your spine as alastor circled you like a predator sizing up its prey. the air crackled with tension as he continued to appraise you, his eyes flickering with a hunger that went beyond the mundane.

"you've stumbled into something you shouldn't have," alastor mused, his tone taking on a dangerous edge. "this forest is my territory, and those who enter uninvited are subject to my whims."

as he spoke, a disturbing realization struck you -a bestial urge, a wendigo-like hunger, flickered in his eyes. his internal struggle played out before you, torn between devouring you and keeping you as his plaything.

a sinister smile played on his lips as he spoke, "now, my dear, the question is, shall i indulge my appetite and feast upon you, or perhaps, keep you for my amusement?"

fear gripped your heart as the words of the demon hung in the air. without waiting for a response, he continued to circle you, reveling in the uncertainty of your fate. in that moment, a surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins, drowning out the fear, and a single thought echoed in your mind – get out of here.

without a second thought, you turned on your heels and sprinted through the twisted trees, the forest becoming a blur around you. the crunch of leaves beneath your frantic footsteps reverberated through the night, and the distant laughter of alastor followed, a haunting symphony to your desperate escape.

"oh, run, my sweet little morsel! run as fast as your fragile legs can carry you!" his voice called out, a mocking lilt underscoring his words.

panic set in as you desperately searched for an escape, but the once-visible path had vanished into a disorienting labyrinth of darkness.

your breaths came in ragged gasps as you stumbled over roots and rocks, the relentless pursuit of alastor's laughter pushing you to the brink. the forest seemed to warp and twist, playing tricks on your senses, and every desperate turn only deepened the sense of entrapment.

just as hope threatened to abandon you entirely, a gnarled branch shot out from the shadows, its twisted form snaking around your ankle. you yelped in pain as you fell to the ground, the cold earth meeting your face. the branch tightened its grip, preventing any further escape.

alastor emerged from the darkness, his eyes alight with sadistic glee. "my, my, it seems our little game has reached its climax," he mused, sauntering toward you with an unhurried pace.

you struggled against the binding branch, panic coursing through your veins. alastor leaned down, his face inches from yours, the twisted smile never leaving his lips.

"oh, my dear, did you really think you could outrun me? how adorable," he sneered, relishing in your desperation.

your chest heaved with each breath as you glared defiantly at the grinning demon. gritting your teeth, you looked up at him, defiance burning in your eyes. "yeah? well... you might be surprised," you retorted, your voice steady despite the fear that coursed through your veins.

alastor chuckled, his amusement growing. "bold words. perhaps there's more fight in you than i anticipated." he circled you, his presence looming like a dark specter.

in that moment, a flicker of hope danced in your chest. maybe, just maybe, you could defy the odds and escape the clutches of this sadistic demon. if you showed him you weren't afraid, perhaps he would release you.

"you see," you continued, keeping eye contact with alastor, "i don't scare easily. you might think you have control, but i won't be just a victim in your stupid game."

alastor's grin widened, the challenge seemingly invigorating him. "oh, how fascinating! a morsel with a spine. i do love a good challenge."

for a brief moment, it seemed as if the tables might turn. alastor hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he considered your words. the hope that had sparked within you was like a fragile flame, flickering in the darkness.

he considered you for a moment, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the handle of his cane. the silence hung in the air, pregnant with uncertainty.

then, with a sudden, guttural laughter, alastor shook his head. "you entertain me, but amusement can only go so far," he declared, his demeanor shifting.

alastor's form began to change. the air crackled with dark energy as he transitioned from his charming, dapper persona to his full demonic form. the tufts of hair on his head extended into formidable antlers, and his eyes transformed into swirling, demonic orbs.

a sinister smile stretched across his face as he loomed over you, the shadows of the forest seeming to bow to his malevolence. the once-playful atmosphere twisted into a palpable sense of dread.

"in the end, my appetite reigns supreme," he declared, his voice now a guttural growl that sent shivers down your spine.

before you could react, alastor's demonic form lunged forward, engulfing you in darkness. the forest bore witness to the macabre spectacle, the moonlight flickering in the twisted branches as your defiant words were silenced by the abyss.

moments later, the moonlit forest stood eerily silent, the shadows slowly retreating as alastor returned to his more refined, dapper self. the antlers retracted, and the demonic aura dissipated, leaving behind the sly, self-assured grin on his face.

with a flick of his wrist, alastor produced a small, pristine napkin from seemingly thin air. his eyes glinted with a semblance of amusement as he delicately dabbed at the corners of his mouth, cleaning away the residue of his meal.

"ah, what a delightful diversion that was!" he mused, his voice back to its smooth, radio-like cadence. the forest, having borne witness to the dark spectacle, seemed to exhale a collective sigh.

with a snap of his fingers, he vanished into the shadows, leaving the moon to cast its cold light upon the desolate landscape.

#ALASTOR #hazbin hotel #hazbin #y/n #reader insert #ask #kinda dark i love it #ask from wattpad #alastor x reader #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel x reader

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elennemigo · 11 months

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Lethal Symphonies by Danny Elfman. DOCTOR STRANGE IN THE MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS soundtrack.

With Feige and Waldron support, Benedict Cumberbatch rewrote the scene bewteen Strange and Sinister: It was supposed to be a very small battle but he turned it into something more creative and bizarre, like the one he was pitched by Scott Derrickson.

It was Kevin Feige idea that the music was a clash between Bach and Beethoven.

✦ GIFTOBER 2023 (+@mcuchallenge) | Day 25/31: Music.

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aphrogeneias · 11 months

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sympathy for the devil — one-shot

pairing: vampire!eddie munson x slayer!reader x werewolf!steve harrington

summary: during a normal night of your slayer duties, a familiar pair pays you a visit.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: smut (+18), graveyard sex, semi-public sex, threesome, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, praise and degradation, slight choking, eddie is a little mean.

author's note: this was written for the prompt "vampires and werewolves" of my 2023 kinktober entries list. i hope you enjoy it! this au will be expanded in the future.

The fascinating thing about cemeteries at night is not the haunting atmosphere, or the shadows made by the architecture, nor is it the art gracing the stone walls of the tombs and crypts. It’s the sound of the wind coursing through empty corridors between the gravestones, like a low and ever present symphony, a calming presence throughout the night.

On a slow, autumn night, you find it almost comforting. While you sit on top of one of the many tall tombs, clutching on your fluffy coat sleeves to keep you warm, the air current resonates around you and keeps your senses focused. The heavy crossbow strapped to your back does the rest.

A Slayer’s night life is much more interesting in theory. In reality, it requires a lot of planning, sitting and waiting, and it has been your routine since the tender age of fifteen - it got awfully boring sometimes. The dark of the night and the creatures that dwelled in it did not scare you anymore. You’re the one they should be scared of.

Not that there’s anything to scare tonight, except for the occasional roach roaming the ground and startling you whenever you catch a glimpse of them. Are Vampire Slayers allowed to fear insects?

Please, don’t tell anyone.

A rustling in the grass catches your attention. It’s approaching fast and steady, therefore it means one of two things: either a normal human who has nothing better to do on a tuesday night, or something else looking for trouble. You know it’s not a new vampire — the ones you were waiting for this evening — because the newly undead are slow and confused when fresh out of the grave. These heavy steps were already right behind you.

You jump out of the tomb, fast reflexes whipping out your crossbow and promptly aiming at your unknown target. As a warning, for now. You aren’t the shoot first, ask questions later kind of girl.

At the sight of you — chin raised, eyes fierce, crossbow at the ready — the target in question smiles. Full on, white teeth and sharp fangs.

“Missed me?”

The sight makes your knees weak, and not in a good way.

“What are you doing here?”

Eddie Munson looks exactly like he did when he crawled out of whatever hell hole he fell in 1986. Not that you know from experience, you weren't there, but it was obvious. The messy, shaggy hair cut, unruly curls you regrettably dreamed of pulling on again. All the leather, latex and spikes, the a-little-too-tight denim. The devil may care attitude that may have outcasted him one day, now just more of a nuisance than anything.

Despite his carefreeness, you'd seen his scars. He didn't go down without a fight, and whoever sired him wasn't just a regular vampire. It reeked of something far more sinister than what you were used to.

Maybe that's why you'd grown soft on him.

He shrugs. "We were in town. Thought we'd pay a visit to our favorite girl."

You're yet to see the other person Eddie was referring to, but make no mention of it. It's less complicated this way — after numerous encounters with Eddie, you learned that it's better to speak less, lest he uses what you said against you.

When you don't respond, he merely steps closer. His head tilts to the side, curls falling down his shoulder. There's a small lift to the corner of his lips. Asshole. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Happy is an overstatement. Just glad you're here and not wreaking havoc somewhere else."

Eddie chuckled, deep in his throat. You can't deny the effect it has on you. "Are you gonna watch over me? Keep vigil? I could think of better ways to spend our time."

"I could kill you." There is no conviction in your voice, but your eyes remain harsh and your face guarded. “Stake to the heart, problem solved.”

There is, however, a lot of conviction in Eddie's. “You wouldn’t.” In defiance, he draws closer and closer to you, the wooden tip of the arrow triggered in your crossbow digging into his chest, but not hard enough to break through. Despite yourself, you lower your weapon little by little, until it lays useless between the two of you.

“You would miss me too much.” The vampire’s low voice right below your ear, his chest now brushing yours. You hope he can’t hear your growing faster by the second, like a hummingbird stuck inside your ribcage, but you know it’s too late for that. His lips touch your earlobe with every word uttered. “Besides, if you kill me, then who’s gonna make you cum like I do?”

Another voice comes from behind you, startling your already withered nerves. "I don't know. I think I could handle that on my own just fine."

There he is.

Steve Harrington isn't usually as much of a thorn on your side as his partner is. You'd met him in high school, almost a decade ago. Rich parents, cute girlfriend, royalty status — he disappeared one cold October night after your graduation and returned with an excessively hairy problem every full moon.

He doesn't look like the stereotypical werewolf. Clean cut, polo shirts and pressed jeans. His luscious hair always coiffed to perfection. Some things never change.

You're not sure how or when they've met, but Eddie had been a problem since before you took the mantle of the Slayer, a local legend and an overall menace. He'd show up, make a mess and you were there to pick up the pieces, every time.

Eddie took advantage of your soft heart, and used it to toy with you. Play with his food, in his own words. You hate it when he says that, but you can't help but agree deep down. You've been his — their — plaything one too many times, and this time looked no different.

You turn around slowly, crossbow forgotten at your feet. "I was wondering when you were gonna show up."

Eddie leans closer to you, chest to your back. He's cold, but you feel the sleek fabric of his leather jacket through your coat. "So, you missed him, but not me?"

"Didn't say that." You roll your eyes, always impatient around him, even as he runs his nose over your pulse point, going against your every rule, every survival instinct. "It's just that, these days, where there's one, there's the other."

Steve is in front of you in a moment, caging you between them. "And we're here just for you." Caramel eyes with a tinge of yellow smile at you, his nose brushing yours.

It hasn't been that long since the last time you've seen them. Now, between them again, flashbacks of a late night in your room, the open window welcoming the night air in as they took you, shadows dancing on the walls of your bedroom.

"Aren't you two sweet?" You mock them. Though your breathing has picked up and you know they could hear just how fast your heart is beating, the faux sweet tone of your voice drips with venom. "What are you really doing here? I don't have all night."

"She doesn't believe us, Steve. What will it take to convince her?" Eddie's deep voice strokes something inside of you. At the same time, his hands travel under your coat, to the slope of your waist, keeping you rooted in place.

"You know what it takes." Steve's hands, warm in contrast with Eddie's cold ones, wander under your breasts, then down to your jeans, settling on pulling you by the belt loops. "Touch her the right way and she'll stop fooling herself."

"Fooling myself?" Your arms are still limp by your sides, but their hands keep moving, igniting your body.

"I know you want this, sweetheart. You know it too, but you keep fighting it like this is the first time all over again." Eddie is practically purring behind you, "Let go. Let us take care of you."

You don't get to answer. Steve's lips are on yours, and your bodies are moving in sync, like a choreographed dance. You know each other's moves, each other's cues, what makes the other tick. Eddie is running his mouth across the expanse of your neck, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin under your ear, and down between your neck and shoulder.

It makes you pull on Steve's hair harder and in turn, he moans into your mouth, but doesn't stop kissing you. That's until you feel Eddie's sharp teeth dragging on the skin of your neck, not hard enough to break it, but enough to make every nerve stand in attention.

"Eddie," you whisper, strength slipping through your fingers at every touch of the vampire behind you, "no biting, please."

He chuckles, "Someday you're gonna admit you want this."

Steve nuzzles your cheek with his nose, "Eds, let her be."

"She knows it's gonna feel as good for her as it would for me." He turns you around, away from Steve's arms into his, "But that's okay, I can wait."

The kiss he leaves on your lips is an uncharacteristically sweet one. "I still need a taste of you, though."

Lost in his voice, in the smell of cologne and the cigarettes you don't know why he insists in smoking, in the flash of red in his deep brown eyes — predator luring in their prey — you feel yourself being manhandled by four hands, laying you down the elevated tomb you were previously sitting on.

You let go.

You let go like the last time, and the time before that. You've denied yourself too many things before, but this is yours, and as conflicted as you feel, it still feels good.

It feels good when Eddie lays you down, the cold of the stone beneath you giving way to the scorching hot feeling taking over your insides, the tingle on your lower tummy when he removes your jeans along with your underwear.

"You're cute when you're all docile like this, y'know?" He's kissing up your thighs, leaving a trail of spit to the crease of your hip, almost where you need him the most. "Cute, little Slayer, on her back for me."

"Fuck you, Munson." You bite back.

"I'm trying to, baby. Will you let me?" Another kiss is laid to your mound, just above your clit. You let out a shaky breath, vaguely aware of Steve standing just beside you.

"Just get over with it." You mumble through your teeth.

Eddie doesn't waste time. His rough hands are cold on your thighs, keeping then spread open, but his tongue is wet and soft, delivering long licks from your entrance to your clit, flattening his tongue on it. He alternates between licking and sucking, slurping on it, like the slick that it's pouring from your pussy feeds him just as well as your blood would.

Bucking your hips into his face, you whine to the skies above you. Looking to your side, you reach out for Steve, who watches you with haze filled eyes. It's a wordless conversation — you reach for his belt, pulling him by it, and he helps you unfasten it.

He's hard when you pull him out of his boxers, and the size of it never ceases to impress you. Steve pumps his length in his hand as he watches Eddie eat you out, his partner moaning into your pussy and making you moan in turn. "Take your time, honey."

You do. When his hips are right in front of your face, you start by giving kitten licks to his head, and taking it in your mouth to suck on it. Steve blushes a pretty pink, and there's the yellow flash in his eyes again, glimmering in the night.

It's a push and pull between the three of you. You take Steve in your mouth, inch by inch as Eddie feasts on your pussy, taking a minute to lift your shirt up, but still leaving your coat on. You're practically bare, Eddie's hands wandering over your body, tugging and pulling on your tender flesh, as you gag on Steve's cock.

Deep down, you wonder what someone would think if they wandered in on you like this. Deep down, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Look at what a good girl you can be. You just choose not to." Eddie coos from between your legs, just before sucking your clit between his plush lips, making you cry out. "You want to be a good girl for us. You fucking love it."

"Don't fight it, baby." Steve's voice is wrecked, but the movements of his hips don't falter. You feel him twitch deep within your throat. "Fuck, you're making me feel so good. Your mouth is heaven."

"This pussy is heaven too. Can't believe you want to deny me this." Eddie complains, but still pleases you, two of his fingers curling inside of you as his mouth leaves you for a moment. "I'm going to hell anyway, the least you can do is give me what I want."

If you had your mouth free, you would think of something clever to say — but you couldn't, because his long fingers felt too good against the spot that your toes curl and your eyes blur, and his mouth is back to assaulting your clit with quick flicks of his tongue.

You want to warn that you're close, but you can't, because Steve is pulling your hair and coming in your mouth as you suck him dry, the slurping noises spurring all three of you on. His moans cease as you swallow his spend, and his thumb comes to, almost too tenderly, wipe the rest that spills down your chin.

Your eyes plead to him, and Steve says, "Eds, I think she's close."

"Then cum, sweetheart. You can cum, it's okay. Let me have it."

It feels like you're exploding when he delivers on final, long suck to your sensitive, puffy clit. A silent scream comes from your opened mouth, lips forming a perfect 'o'. Your thighs lay limp on each side of Eddie, and he makes his way up your torso. Steve pulls himself into his pants again, and leans down too. They're each watching you with something strange in their gaze, too soft for the lust that permeates you, the smell of sex strong and vibrant still.

"Can we… can we go back to my place, please?" You plead when you regain your voice. "Anyone can see us here."

"Now, what's the fun in that, little Slayer? Scared that they'll see how much of an obedient slut you are for us?"

"You're the obedient slut, Munson."

His hand goes to your neck and squeezes. "We'll see about that."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steddie x reader #steddie x you #eddie munson smut #steve harrington smut #kinktober 2023

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bitchiswild · 8 months

Text

Sweet Whimpers

Dom! Minjeong x F! Reader Ver.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: uhh smut🤓☝️

A/n: smuttt😩🤚

Requested: for Lisa but that's on Wattpad

Minjeong’s POV

The room was enveloped in a charged atmosphere, the air thick with desire and the sound of Y/n's soft whimpers. Her pleas echoed through the space like a haunting melody, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside ceased to exist.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea that seemed to linger in the air. Her vulnerability was like an intoxicating note in the symphony of the moment.

I gazed at her, captivated by the longing in her eyes, a silent invitation that didn't need words. "Please what?" I asked, my head cocked to the side, a subtle smirk playing on my lips as I sensually moved against her, the heat between us intensifying.

Y/n's arm remained restrained, tied to the chair, adding a layer of vulnerability to the scene. Her desperation grew more palpable. "Please touch me," she begged, her words a whispered confession that hung in the air.

The room seemed to pulse with anticipation, the tension building as desire and restraint collided. In that charged moment, the power dynamics shifted, and the symphony of their shared desire played on, each note building towards an inevitable crescendo.

I tsked, rising gracefully from her lap, a sinister amusement dancing in my eyes. "Look at you," I remarked disdainfully, my tone dripping with derision. "So pathetic. Where's the fierce CEO everyone knows? Because all I see in front of me is a pathetic, whimpering mess."

The room seemed to shrink under the weight of my words, and a tense silence settled as I circled her like a predator, my steps deliberate and purposeful. My fingers traced a sensuous path along her shoulder, the touch both intimate and menacing.

The dim light accentuated the shadows on her face as she struggled to maintain composure, a futile attempt to conceal the vulnerability I had exposed. The power dynamic had shifted, and the once formidable CEO now found herself ensnared in a web of vulnerability and desire.

I leaned in, my lips grazing the curve of her ear, my voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Tell me, where did that confident persona vanish to? Or was it just a façade all along?" My words hung in the air, a calculated challenge that punctuated the charged atmosphere.

Her response was swallowed by the silence, the room pregnant with unspoken tension. As I continued to circle her, the darkness in my gaze mirrored the shadows that danced on the walls—a stark reflection of the power play unfolding in the intimate space between us.

Y/n's shaky breath hung in the air, a visible manifestation of the desire that pulsed between us. The room seemed to vibrate with tension as her plea reached my ears, an urgent invitation that stirred the already charged atmosphere.

"Touch me, Minjeong," she whimpered once more, her voice a desperate plea that echoed in the shadows of the room. Her attempts to move her restrained arm were met with frustration, a visible struggle that added another layer to the magnetic pull between us.

I observed her, the subtle rise and fall of her chest betraying the anticipation that gripped her. The air seemed electrified with longing, and in that moment, the boundaries blurred between dominance and submission.

A predatory grin played on my lips as I yielded to her request, my fingers tracing a teasing path along the contours of her skin. The touch was deliberate, a dance of desire that left no room for escape. The room held its breath, and the sensation of our bodies colliding with unspoken passion set the stage for the unraveling of a desire that had been simmering beneath the surface.

My hands moved with deliberate intent, navigating down to Y/n's pants, unbuttoning them and pulling them down with a controlled, measured motion. The room seemed to pulse with the heightened tension, the anticipation palpable as a growing wet patch on her panties betrayed the desire that simmered within her.

"Turned on, baby?" I questioned her with a smirk, reveling in the control that hung in the air. Y/n let out a shaky sigh as my fingers caressed the warmth between her thighs, the physical response to my touch evident.

Getting no verbal response, I decided to tighten the hold on the reins of our encounter. Gripping her hair, I pulled it back, forcing her to face me. Y/n's pupils dilated, a testament to the desire that coursed through her veins.

"I asked you a question, baby, and I want an answer," I whispered, my voice low and commanding. The hardening of my gaze mirrored the intensity of the moment, as if the question held a significance beyond the physical act unfolding between us. The silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by the unspoken exchange of desire and the unrelenting tension that bound us together in that intimate dance.

As Y/n struggled to find her voice, the air crackled with a potent mixture of desire and anticipation. Her breath hitched, caught between the pleasure building within her and the demand for a response. My grip on her hair tightened, a silent insistence that she answer the question.

"Y-yes," she finally managed to gasp out, her voice a soft admission that hung in the charged atmosphere. Her confession seemed to ignite a spark, the flames of desire flickering higher.

Satisfied with her response, I released her hair, my fingers tracing a sensual path down her neck. I could see the hunger in her eyes, the need for more, and I reveled in the control I had over her desires.

My hand returned to its previous exploration, fingers dancing along the edge of her panties. With a teasing motion, I dipped beneath the fabric, feeling the warmth and wetness that awaited. Y/n's breath hitched again, a mixture of pleasure and longing escaping her lips.

"Such a good girl," I purred, my voice a sultry whisper that added to the intensity of the moment. I held Y/n's face, drawing her into a sensual kiss. Our lips met in a heated dance, a meeting of passion that seemed to ignite the very air around us. The warmth of the embrace intensified, and the world outside faded away.

Breaking the kiss, I traced a path of soft kisses down her neck, savoring the shiver that ran through her body. A low, guttural groan escaped her lips, a symphony of pleasure that echoed in the charged atmosphere. The room seemed to pulse with the rhythm of our shared desire, a private dance that unfolded in the intimate spaces between kisses.

As I reached down to untie Y/n. The moment her restraints were released, she stood up, a hunger in her eyes, and without hesitation, she carried me towards the bed. With an unexpected force, she threw me onto the mattress, a mix of excitement and passion fueling the movement.

As I lay on the bed, Y/n wasted no time getting on top of me, her lips planting a trail of kisses down my neck. The sensation sent shivers through my body, and unable to contain the building desire, I instinctively bucked my hips into hers, a silent plea for more.

Her attention focused on the rhythm of our shared passion, I seized the opportunity to shift the dynamics. With a swift move, I managed to flip us around, now taking the dominant position. The power balance tilted, and I hovered over Y/n, our eyes locked in a fierce exchange of desire.

"Let me please you, baby," I murmured, my voice a sultry whisper that hung in the air like a promise. Leaning down, my lips brushed against her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. As I spoke, my hand trailed sensually down her body, my touch igniting a fervent response.

Her hips bucked against me in response to my caress, a silent plea for more. The room seemed to pulse with the shared anticipation of what was to come. I could feel the intensity building between us, a magnetic force pulling us into a realm where desire reigned supreme.

My hips moved in a rhythmic grind against her clothed pussy, the friction eliciting a deep, guttural groan of desire from her.

My movements continued with a deliberate sensuality as I descended, positioning my face near her cunt. A charged anticipation hung in the air as I inhaled her sweet scent, savoring the intimate fragrance that enveloped her. The tip of my nose brushed against the fabric covering her pussy, a teasing caress that hinted at the pleasure to come.

"You smell amazing, baby," I whispered, my words a heated murmur against the fabric. The acknowledgment of her enticing scent added an extra layer of desire to the already charged atmosphere. "I can't wait to touch you."

With that declaration, my tongue traced the damp patch on her covered crotch, the fabric now a testament to the building intensity between us. The taste of her desire lingered on my tongue, and a low, throaty moan escaped her lips—a symphony of pleasure echoing in the intimate space we shared.

I began to pull down her panties, savoring the gradual reveal. As the fabric slid down, exposing her wet cunt, a low, needy sigh escaped her lips.

My fingers, now freed from the constraints of fabric, caressed her soaking cunt. "Fuck, baby, you're soaking," I remarked with a smirk, my voice low and edged with desire. The room hummed with the electric tension between us as I began to insert my fingers in her wet, responsive pussy. My fingers moved with purpose, thrusting in and out, while my thumb played a teasing dance on her clit. “Who makes you this wet, hmm?”

As pleasure surged through her, Y/n moaned loudly, her voice echoing in the room, a symphony of arousal and surrender. "Y-You!" she confessed, the admission a mixture of need and pleasure that fueled the fire between us.

Her breaths quickened, a silent plea for more, as my fingers continued their relentless assault on her wet cunt. The rhythm of our shared desire intensified, each movement building towards a climax that hung in the air, a promise of ecstasy that lingered on the precipice of release.

I pulled my finger out of her pussy, a calculated pause that heightened the anticipation in the room. Lying down on my stomach, I grabbed Y/n by the thighs, pulling her closer to my face. A moment of tension hung in the air before I spat on her cunt, a bold move that evoked a gasp from Y/n as my saliva trickled down her ass.

Her hands went down to grip my hair, fingers tangling in the strands as I delved into her cunt with my tongue. The room filled with the symphony of her loud moans, the echoes of pleasure resonating in the intimate space we shared.

With each skillful movement of my tongue, I assaulted her cunt, navigating the delicate balance between pleasure and intensity. The air seemed charged with the electrifying energy of our connection, every moan and every touch pushing her closer to the edge of ecstasy.

"F-Fuck, yes, just like that," Y/n moaned out loud, the room echoing with the raw intensity of her pleasure. My fingers found their way back into her cunt, thrusting in and out with a deliberate rhythm while my tongue continued its assault, drawing out the sweet taste of desire.

As I continued the dual stimulation, Y/n's moans escalated, a symphony of ecstasy that resonated through the room. "F-Fuck Minjeong, I'm gonna c-cum," she squealed, her legs trembling as she teetered on the edge of release. Undeterred, I intensified my assault, bringing her to her edge.

"S-Shit Minjeong!" Y/n screamed, her body convulsing in pleasure as she succumbed to the waves of ecstasy. I helped her ride out the high by gradually thrusting my fingers, maintaining the rhythm that had brought her to such heights.

Once the intensity of her climax subsided, I looked up at Y/n. Her eyes were dilated, staring down at me with a mixture of satisfaction and lingering desire. Pulling my fingers out, I moved up to her, kissing her passionately. Our tongues danced, and I let her taste herself, a moan escaping her lips at the intimate exchange.

In that post-ecstasy embrace, the room held the scent of passion, and the taste of desire lingered on our lips. The connection between us deepened, and as we savored the aftermath of our shared intimacy, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the echoes of pleasure in the quiet space we occupied.

I got up to grab a wet towel for her, a gesture of care in the aftermath of our shared passion. Returning to Y/n, I found her going through her purse, and she handed me a stack of cash. Accepting it, I left it on the nightstand, the transactional aspect of our encounter handled with a silent understanding.

I got closer to her, wet towel in hand, and began to delicately wipe down her body. Y/n sighed contently, a moment of intimacy that transcended the physical act we had just shared. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes fixed on me. I looked at her with a grin, pulling her chin up for a tender kiss.

"Of course, baby," I whispered back as I went to put the towel away. When I returned to Y/n, I was already changed, settling down next to her to enjoy the quiet companionship that followed the storm of passion.

In the post-ecstasy calm, the room held an air of intimacy, and as we sat together, the world outside seemed distant.

As the lingering quiet settled between us, I began counting the cash Y/n handed me, the sound of each bill rustling through the room, a stark contrast to the intimate symphony that had unfolded just moments before.

"Same time next week?" I asked casually, glancing up from the counting, my tone betraying none of the complexities that danced beneath the surface. The question lingered in the air, carrying with it the unspoken acknowledgment that what had transpired was more than a mere physical exchange.

"Y-Yeah," Y/n sighed out, her response carrying a mix of uncertainty and anticipation. The vulnerability in her voice hinted at the emotional aftermath of our encounter. As she met my gaze, there was a shared understanding, a tacit agreement that went beyond the transactional nature of our arrangement.

The exchange of money, an unspoken acknowledgment of the transaction, emphasized the delicate balance between desire and detachment that defined our connection. The room held the weight of unspoken complexities, a space where the lines between pleasure and business blurred.

With the cash neatly counted and our agreement sealed, I leaned back, a smug satisfaction playing on my lips. "I'll see you then," I purred, the words laced with a sensual undertone. My eyes met Y/n's, a brief but charged exchange that hinted at the complexities beneath the surface.

A slow, deliberate wink accompanied my words, a playful gesture that added an extra layer of intimacy to our parting. In that moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the lingering energy of our encounter hanging in the air.

As I rose from my seat, the air crackled with a shared understanding—an unspoken acknowledgment of desires met and an agreement to reconvene. The atmosphere, thick with a heady mixture of satisfaction and anticipation, seemed to pulsate as I made my way to the door.

With one last glance over my shoulder, I left, the click of the closing door marking the end of our encounter. The outside world awaited, but the echoes of our shared intimacy lingered, a subtle promise that transcended the confines of the room.

#bitchiswild #BIW.WRITES #aespa x reader #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa smut #aespa imagines #aespa minjeong #aespa winter #aespa winter x reader #winter x fem reader #kim winter #winter x reader #minjeong smut #minjeong x reader #kim minjeong x reader #kim minjeong #minjeong #winter

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