#What is a snake eye-piercing

[cwordsworthus]

Snake Eye Piercing: An Intriguing Trend in Body Modification

In the world of body modification, there are countless ways individuals express their uniqueness and creativity. From tattoos to piercings, people embrace various forms of self-expression to make a statement about their identity and style. One intriguing piercing that has gained popularity in recent years is the snake eye piercing. This unique and edgy piercing has captivated the attention of many, becoming a trendy choice for those seeking an eye-catching and unconventional look.

What is a snake eye piercing

The snake eye piercing, also known as the horizontal tongue piercing or the venom piercing, is a type of oral piercing that involves the placement of two small barbells horizontally through the tip of the tongue. The resulting effect resembles the eyes of a snake, hence the name. Unlike the traditional vertical tongue piercing, which pierces straight through the tongue, the snake eye piercing is placed horizontally, giving it a distinctive and eye-catching appearance.

The process of getting a snake eye piercing requires careful consideration and should only be performed by a professional piercer experienced in oral piercings. It is essential to ensure that the piercer follows strict hygiene and safety protocols to minimize the risk of infection and complications. The initial jewelry used for snake eye piercings is usually small barbells that sit snugly against the tongue.

As with any piercing, proper aftercare is crucial for healing and minimizing the risk of infection. The piercer will provide detailed instructions on how to clean the piercing and what to avoid during the healing process. It is common to experience some swelling and discomfort after getting a snake eye piercing, but these symptoms usually subside within a few days. It is important to follow the aftercare instructions diligently and avoid activities that could irritate or damage the piercing, such as smoking, consuming alcohol, or engaging in oral sexual activities.

What does igy6 mean

While the snake eye piercing has gained popularity, it is essential to note that this particular piercing comes with potential risks and drawbacks. One significant concern is the potential for damage to teeth and gum tissue. The placement of the jewelry at the tip of the tongue can increase the risk of tooth chipping, gum recession, and interference with normal speech and eating patterns. It is crucial to consult with a professional piercer to assess the suitability of this piercing based on individual anatomy and lifestyle.

It is also worth mentioning that the snake eye piercing is not universally accepted. Some workplaces and educational institutions may have strict dress code policies that prohibit visible piercings, including tongue piercings. Therefore, individuals considering this piercing should consider the potential impact it may have on their personal and professional lives.

Despite the risks and considerations, the snake eye piercing continues to fascinate those who seek to make a bold statement with their appearance. For those who embrace body modification as a form of self-expression, this piercing offers a unique and striking way to showcase their individuality and style. However, it is important to approach any piercing decision with careful thought and research, ensuring that the chosen piercing is compatible with one's lifestyle and personal preferences.

Visit Here For More Information About This :- Does Claire's Do Nose Piercings.

In conclusion, the snake eye piercing is an intriguing trend in body modification that has gained popularity in recent years. With its distinctive horizontal placement and resemblance to a snake's eyes, this piercing offers a captivating and edgy look. However, it is essential to consider the potential risks, such as tooth and gum damage, and to ensure proper aftercare to minimize complications. As with any piercing, consulting with a professional piercer and making an informed decision is crucial.

[cyberpunkboytoy]

Hey. So I started playing the phone game "Reverse: 1999." Doing my 10-pulls, as you do. And uh.

They put me?? In the game???

[fairy-angel222]

Gojo getting jealous of your attraction towards actor! Choso

The two of you laid together on the couch. His chest pressed into your back as you snuggled under a thick white blanket. A pack of gummy bears in your hand as a smile graced your face when Rin, played by your favorite actor Choso appeared on the screen.

Gojo raised a brow, his brow raising while his chin still rested on your head, looking down at your curled lips in question. “What are you smiling so hard about?” he chuckled.

“Oh nothing, Choso Kamo is just one of the hottest men ever created.” You sighed, biting down on the chewy snack while Gojo sat up behind you.

“What did you just say?” he scoffed. Offense clear on his features as he eyed the man on your screen.

“Choso Kamo is one of the most attractive men ever? I mean.. have you seen the guy.” You replied with a giggle like it was the most obvious thing in the world, Gojo’s eye twitching lightly as his jaw clenched. “Is that so?”

“Mhm, he’s just so.. perfect. It’s a shame he’s married.” You rambled enthusiastically, eyes fixated on a man who wasn’t your boyfriend. “Not as perfect as you baby but you get what i mean.” Pressing a short kiss to his cheek before focusing your attention back onto the show.

Your attention was pulled away when Gojo roughly turned you onto your back, his knees on either side of your hips as he straddled you. His hand coming up around your neck with the tilt of his head followed by a dark grin. “So you’re attracted to other men now?”

You whimpered when his grip tightened, “Have all this to yourself yet you’re smiling over some guy on your screen.” He laughed to himself, leaning down so that his lips ghosted over your ear. His breath hot on your skin as he whispered. “Let me show you what these dumb actors you like could never do, i mean.. not like you’d ever meet him anyway.”

Hurriedly stripping you out of your clothes, “How they could never make you feel.”

You shuddered when Gojo ran his fingers between your already wet folds, running them along your slit before circling them around your clit. Your back arched as you moaned softly. “See that? Barely even touched you and you’re already soaked f’me. Pussy knows who she belongs too.”

Dipping his finger into you with a smirk. “Can this Kamo guy physically touch you like this?” You moaned once more, Gojo’s tongue running up your neck and over your ear. “Even if you got to meet him baby, no one could take you away from me.” He breathed.

Large hands on your waist flipping you onto him. Sitting up with you on his lap facing the still playing show. Sinking you down on his cock with one arm around your hips while the other snaked around your neck.

You mewled as you felt his cock pierce deeper and deeper, your ass flush onto his thighs with your head falling back onto his shoulders. “Satoruu.”

Gojo groaned, fucking up roughly into you as you moaned adorably. Thick cock hammering up into your g spot as you cried out loudly. Your stomach tightening with heat as your pussy spasmed, breathing speeding up with a string of loud mewls when Gojo quickened his pace.

“Satoruu— fuck,” you clenched down on him, lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin filling your ears along with the sticky squelch of your sopping pussy on his thighs. Gojo grinned as he forced you to look up at the screen. “Fucking look at him. This is who ya want over me? Someone who doesn’t even want ya?” he gritted, not giving you a chance to answer before he continued, “Well guess what baby, i’m the only one who could fuck you this good regardless. So even if you did meet him, you bet your ass you’d come running back to me.”

You moaned shakily, wanting to tell him that he was right. Choso was just a stupid actor crush, which meant he had nothing to be worried about. But he was fucking into you so good, so deep, thrusts mean and quick to bully your tight pussy open. Stretching you out to take all of him.

Gojo grunted deeply, letting out a low curse as your pussy messily drenching his thighs. “I’m the only one who’ll ever get to see this messy pussy.” His slender fingers rubbing harsh circles onto your sensitive clit, pulling a loud cry past your lips at the increased stimulation.

“Satoruu— nngh, ‘m cumming,” you cried with a whimper, your toes curling with the violent shake of your body as your head grew foggy. Gojo never slowing the movement of his hips as he fucked through the clear streams leaking out of your pretty pussy.

“Yeah baby? Gon’ cum for me? Or to the sight of that fucker in front of you?” he growled out, choking you even harder as he neared his release.

You let out a choked mewl, “You. Gonna cum f’ you.” Your chest rising and falling as your eyes got watery, your nails digging into his arms as you were brought closer to your orgasm.

“Sure about that?”

“Mhm- you, just you. Choso… nngh— Choso doesn’t come close,” your eyes closing as your back arched, feeling yourself at the edge of letting go. “Oh f-fuckk— you’re the one f-fucking me so good. The only one i need.” you added on with another tearful cry.

“There ya go, that’s a good fucking girl- speaking my language now. Go on baby, cum f’ me.” Watching as you fell apart on his cock with his name heavy on the tip of your tongue. Your legs trembling as your orgasm raked through your body, vision blurred as you squirted with a short scream.

Gojo whistled, “Know for sure that no one else can make ya do that.” His thrusts getting sloppy before he was burying himself inside you with a moan of his own, cock twitching as he began to pump you full of his cum. “Fuck baby, pussy’s so damn tight. The only one who can breed ya full is me.” Stilling his movements completely as spurts of the sticky substance spilled into you. “Now would you look at that.”

Your eyes peeled open to a close up shot of Rin staring sadly into the distance. The image slowly zooming in closer and closer to his face. Gojo laughed loudly, “Seems like someone’s not too happy with what he sees.” He joked, his palm randomly landing onto your puffy cunt to see you jerk with a whine. “‘S too bad for you that he’s not here to do something about it.”

You rolled your eyes tiredly with a small smile. Gojo Satoru was truly a strange man.

[venomtorn]

Tags

[m-ayo-o]

　✦　˚ pink skirt . no underwear ★⋆. ࿐࿔

𐙚 afab reader x shy alt bf Choso Kamo

*　✦　.　　nsfw cw: fingering  ˚　.   * ✦　˚　. 　　

Choso is starting to think you're doing it on purpose.

He's losing his mind.

If he sees you bend over like that one more time, he swears he's gonna have to--

"Fuck-"

He mutters and looks away.

His fantasies of pushing the skimpy material up to feel your creamy pussy in his hand riddles his mind until he goes pink in the cheeks. He has to play with the ring hooked through his bottom lip to distract himself. But he knows that you'll find out what he's thinking eventually. You always do.

He sighs and feels his boner strapped tight in his jeans that's rubbing with every movement of his body. If he so much as breathes he can feel the heavy pulse of his cock. It's beating hard for you and he can't stop it.

"Baby, you okay?"

He tries to adjust himself under your gaze and he props himself up, attempting to hide the massive bulge.

"Mm," he nods stiffly, but you can see he's suffering.

Your eyes drift over his body in those black jeans, his black tank, admiring the tattoos adorned on his rippling muscles. His silvery studded necklace gets your attention, then his lip and ear piercings and the faded, violet shadows around his deep eyes.

He stares back at you; your tits nearly spilling from your tiny white vest, the pleated pastel mini skirt that just hides your ass, and the way you look at him with such wide eyed adoration.

Fuck, how did a guy like him end up with someone like you.

"Come here, please."

Choso has got a bit better about telling you when he needs you.

"Here, yeah," he nods and watches you mount his lap. Your skirt fans over his thighs and he can't stop imagining your pussy underneath.

"What is it, baby?" You coo and twist his spiky locks in your fingers, that are flicking down over his neck.

You never thought someone who looked like him could be so... clueless.

He seemed quite inexperienced when you met him, yet he insisted he'd had a few sexual partners before. It's not as if he's innocent. Oh no, far from it. You know, with the way he stares at you, there are all sorts of perverted thoughts in his head. He's just a little shy.

"I, uh..." the way he stumbles over his words makes your heart race. He's so endearing.

You lower yourself onto him, sitting on his lap and feeling the bulge of his cock through his hard jeans.

"Baby, tell me," your delicate fingers trace the ink up his neck to where it stops at his jaw, "tell me what you need."

"W-want-" he stutters and sighs.

You smile sweetly, encouraging him.

"I- I want to touch you."

"Oh, baby, good boy," you place a chaste kiss on his cheekbone.

"Where, hm?" You press, stroking his swollen chest.

"I..." he finds the courage to snake a hand up the curve of your back. The rings on his fingers feel cool where he settles around your neck, stroking you softly.

He pulls you close and gives you a nervous look before quietly admitting-

"I want to finger you."

You smile and giggle, knowing that this big, scary looking man could barely tell you that.

You give his lips a peck, then take his breath away when your tongue slides over his. He's so stunned he almost forgets to kiss you back, until he regains an inch of composure and starts licking and sucking at you.

"You're so sweet, Choso~" you smile over his lips before pulling away and dragging his hand down south. Your tiny hand encircles his inked wrist, barely fitting around the muscle of his forearm, and his fingers start twitching when you guide him under your skirt.

"Mm- warm-" he groans and slides his fingers over your bare pussy, parting you slowly, rubbing up and down. Despite his shy nature, he has got very good at touching you.

His hand parts your legs wider and his eyes dip up and down your clothed body. You look so pretty like this. His dark eyes focus on your face and you feel his fingertips edge into your entrance. Your expression starts to contort and your mouth hangs open. His breathing gets a bit shaky now, his eyes trained on your parted lips.

He sinks inside. Two fingers; ringed, thick and deep.

You shudder and his free hand caresses your back, steadying you on his lap as he presses his palm all the way to your pelvis.

"B-big-"

There's a pleased spark in his dull eyes and he bites his lip, feeling your silky, wet walls around him. He spreads his digits, opening you gently with your mouth gaping wider in tandem.

"Oh-"

You let out a little noise that encourages him to dip and curl his fingers. He finds his favourite spot inside you that makes his angelic girlfriend look like some kind of pornstar.

He massages you there with his fingertips, barely moving, feeling you grinding down on his knuckles.

"M-more-"

"Baby- I, I-"

"More, please-"

You should know better.

"I can't take it when you beg for me like that."

He holds your thigh gently and drags his fingers out, pulling them from under your skirt and oggling the slick juice all over his hand. Just from a few gentle movements you get like this. For him.

You watch lust completely take over and he sinks his fingers into his mouth, sucking every last drop of you off and leaving his digits coated in saliva.

He brings them back under your skirt and plunges inside you, hard rings nudging your entrance with every rough pump.

And he watches you scream.

Every time he slams his fingers into you his palm slaps your clit and you get sweet, jolting pleasure through your abdomen. You feel tense and hot and his thumb suddenly slips over your bundle of nerves, circling you quickly and making you cum hard and fast.

"Ch-cho - Choso-"

You pant for breath but his fingers are unrelenting.

"Again."

His voice sounds rough, deep and full of confidence.

It makes you quiver and shake and he grabs you more firmly, seeing your eyes go wide with shock when he picks you up.

He plants you on the fluffy carpet and kneels between your legs, pushing up your skirt to reveal his wet dream.

His fantasy.

"I love you"

You don't know if he's talking to you or your pussy but you really don't care.

He stares at all the gushing, clear liquid that's leaked all over your folds, over your thighs, dripping from one hole down to the other.

He sinks down and has a smile on his face, shoving his fingers back inside and toying with your clit with his spare hand.

He loves playing with you like this, adoring the look on your face every time you cum. He wants you to do it again and again, making you call his name, spilling more of your essence, all for him. He licks it off his fingers and hand like some thirsty beast and doesn't show any signs of slowing down.

But you knew what you agreed to. When Choso asks to touch you it usually is for a very long time.

He has to take you over the edge numerous times, obsessing over the feeling of you cumming and the way your face looks. And when your orgasms start to fade and you're just a wet, leaking mess with a hole spread wide from his greedy fingers, you have to take a few deep breaths and tell him to calm down.

He gets the message and slowly draws his fingers out one final time, tugging your hole with his thumbs and seeing you gape open. He bows his head down, sinking into your stomach where he presses soft kisses.

You play with his hair gently and he coos into your soft skin, telling you how much he loves you and needs you till you feel his hot tears running over your tummy.

You comfort him and tell him he did so well, until he dries his eyes and gives you a smile, bringing you up for a hug.

"W-won't get so carried away- next time- promise."

You hope he does. In fact, you're counting on it.

choso | m.list

[vanderilnde]

bury me beneath the basswood tree

pairing: ghost/soap/reader [12k]

rating: 18+ only. minors don’t interact.

tags: non-con sex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, size kink, forced fellatio, forced cunnilingus, impact play, brief watersports, double penetration in two holes, forced breeding, implied hybrid/shifter au

Needing time away from her humdrum life at home, she ventures into the woodland for respite. Little does she know, straying into that cabin in the woods will be the worst—or best—decision she’ll ever make. Depending on who you ask.

all my thanks to @/ohbo-ohno! thank you for being the best beta reader and sitting through my abhorrent typos <3

AO3 MIRROR

The mountain’s breadth of trees and foliage are written with prose. 

It’s repetitive. Mind-numbing. She’s already passed this necrosed tree stump five times before. On the sixth circle, she treks through the undergrowth like it’s curdled milk, the tiny scythes of branches whispering against her arms and slicing her open the same way thumbs tear into oranges. 

Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if they’re groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry. 

The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. She’s sick of it—she’s been here for three days—and already, she’s sick of it. 

She tries her phone again. It’s unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but it’s mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes. 

Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. It’s as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it. 

A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She won’t give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving.  

Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards. 

It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would. 

And listen, they did.

When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees things—a shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matter—peeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyone’s there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body. 

The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.

It pulls her down like molasses. Like she’s an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows there’s no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of trees—supple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first. 

A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if she’s lucky. It would be a quick death—sinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack. 

She’s apt to let go. She’s keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. She’s about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention. 

A plume of smoke curling in the air. 

Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. It’s made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it can’t be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.

She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobody’s home? But she’s twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.

The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. There’s a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn around—a bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray. 

There’s everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.

She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. There’s a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food. 

There’s three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. It’s fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel. 

It’s all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner. 

There’s a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. It’s tart and tangy but it’s food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she can’t stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.

The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. She’s so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesn’t even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings. 

She’s too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. It’s tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesn’t notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes it’s coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.

It’s only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like it’s an awning, dropping to the floor—drip, drip, drip—the rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs. 

The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clemently—treating the shadow like a wild animal—no sudden movements. She goes rigid. 

It can’t be human. 

It’s huge. Bigger than anything she’s ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because it’s too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.

She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.

It just makes her feel… uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows. 

It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck. 

“I’m sorry…”

The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.

She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by. 

He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows back—his shoulder blades unfurling like folded wings—and twists his thick neck.

“What’re you doin’ in my home?”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. “I– I’ve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and I’m sorry, but I’m just so hungry and–”

A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room. 

“Simon!” It says. “Where should I chuck the deer? It’s too big for the livin’ room.”

The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesn’t answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.

A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simon’s shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence. 

Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadn’t smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent. 

He’s purposely coy. It’s written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothing—a sack of sprouting potatoes.

He coos. “Who’s this?”

“Lost bird,” Simon grunts. “Found her diggin’ through our food.”

“Oh, poor lassie,” Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. “She didnae mean any harm, Simon. She’s just hungry… tha’ right, lass? Are ye hurt?”

She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.

Johnny bristles. 

“The lass needs a place to stay, Simon,” he whispers. “And she’s hurt. Bleeding.”

They talk of her as if she’s advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.

Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes. 

He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “I’ll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it ‘fore it hardens.”

“Aye,” Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside. 

She redirects her attention to Simon, who’s already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises. 

Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches. 

Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another room—a bathroom—and tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt. 

(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesn’t reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isn’t able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)

Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tub—which he dwarfs—and twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain. 

He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that it’s a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap. 

“Take a bath,” he commands. “Get y’rself cleaned up.”

Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. There’s no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she strips—peeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes. 

She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring. 

She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. It’s like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. There’s coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds. 

The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. It’s a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean. 

Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.

It’s Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like this—silent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that he’s been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organs—she sinks her breasts below the water’s surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.

He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.

He grins. “Brought ye some clean clothes.” 

“Oh. I… thank you,” she mumbles. “You can leave it on the toilet if you don’t mind?”

Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. It’s like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.

Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.

Johnny bursts in as if on cue. He’s still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.

“Too big for ye, is it?” He pants. “Might as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldn’t want that happenin’, right honey?”

Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles. 

The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnny’s smouldering gaze. It’s almost paradoxical how it works—his eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. He’s fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Simon’s got the fire goin’,” he says. “Let’s go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?”

Johnny’s walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simon’s kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on her—the sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neck—and pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit. 

Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simon’s prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simon’s stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.

“You’ll feel a wee sting,” Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. “Should probably give my hand a squeeze or somethin’, ye ken? To lessen the burn, o’ course.”

She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnny’s all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself. 

But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle. 

It’s Simon’s massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.

“Stay still when he tells you to,” he grumbles. “Otherwise it’ll hurt.”

She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave her thigh until he’s throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.

Johnny hums. “So, what’re you doin’ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?”

She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, he’d tell.

“Um. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,” she mumbles. “Friends. Family.”

“Oh. They dinnae care about you?”

She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnny’s implications. 

“No,” she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. “They do care about me. I just needed space.”

He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. “I don’t remember much of my family. It’s a wee bit odd. Can’t say if they liked me or not…”

Simon squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough of tha’. Pay attention.”

Johnny makes a sound like he’s humiliated. It’s only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.

“Where’s the bird gonna sleep?”

“We’ve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?” Johnny replies. “For hurricanes and tha’. Figured she wouldn’t mind it there. Wouldn’t ye, lass?”

Clemently, she shakes her head.

Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. “The deer’s there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would tha’ make us? Puttin’ her up with a corpse?”

Johnny blushes as if he’s been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks. 

“Aye…” he grumbles. “Tha’s right. The livin’ room, then?”

The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk. 

“No,” Simon says. “We’ll move the cot to our room.”

Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. “It’s important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.”

“Exactly,” Simon says, petting Johnny’s head. “Smart boy.”

He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.

“Best get to sleep before it’s too late,” Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. “Y’must be tired.”

She submits to Simon’s touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp. 

Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesn’t point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.

“Fair warnin’ lass,” Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. “Simon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?”

She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs. 

Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simon’s eyes. 

He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.

———

She’s between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.

She can’t tell if it’s a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if she’s underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.

There’s a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts. 

Her head is so muddled she can’t register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail. 

“Right there, Johnny?” A voice asks. “Takin’ my big cock so fuckin’ well. Greedy lil’ bitch, you are.”

A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch. 

“Look at ‘er,” that voice jeers. “Think she’d take it? Better than you? Think she’d bleed all over it like– fuck… how I smelt it on her?”

The other voice—broken in, wispy—chokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.

“No… nae better than me,” it mumbles. “Nae better than me…”

It’s like she’s drowning in purgatory. She can’t move, can’t speak. She’s caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy. 

A dewy sound peals out. It’s a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.

“Ah!” A squeal. “Simon, tha’– it hurts.”

She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.

It’s like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. It’s a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears it’s mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.

“Good.”

———

She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.

Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching. 

She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. There’s a downward force in her bladder that tells her she’s been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.

It’s the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to the–

“How’d ye sleep, pretty girl?”

She flinches at the gruff voice. It’s written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet. 

She’s stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs. 

“Oh…” her words are stifled by shock. “F-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.” She thinks back to last night—the whimpering, the croaking—and rashly decides to tack on, “But I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.”

Johnny chuckles. “...Aye, it’s almost matin’ season ‘round these parts. I think you’ll be hearin’ more of that. It’s best to ignore it.”

Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning. 

“Bet you’re still hungry. Simon’s wrappin’ up breakfast. Let’s go.”

He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining area—which is more of a nook nestled into the living room—and pulls out a seat.

“Hope ye fancy porridge,” Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair. 

She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.

Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of how—despite his stature—Simon doesn’t have anything to eat.

However it’s a cursory thought, because she’s quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. It’s curled because it’s overcooked, crusted with charcoal.

She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her. 

“Looks delicious,” she hums. She turns to Simon, “Are you… not eating?”

He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away. 

He answers in a rigid tenor. “Don’t hurt your head over me. You eat your food.” 

She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps that’s the sentiment. 

When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up. 

She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. “Uh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?” She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. “It’s just, uh, they fit me better.”

“Oh,” Johnny blinks, “o’ course.” 

She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.

“Here ye go sweetheart,” he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.

She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more… intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge. 

“Where are my… um…” she lowers her voice even though it’s redundant—Johnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. “... Undergarments?”

Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. He’s written with the innocence of a puppy—whether it’s real or fabricated, she can’t tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible. 

“Panties, ye mean?” He laughs. “Ye never had any of those.”

She swallows thickly. 

“No, I… I did. I wouldn’t go hiking without–”

“Ye must be goin’ crazy, lass,” Johnny says. “This was all you gave me. Nae panties.”

He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. It’s so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.

Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.

“... When can you drive me into town?”

Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. There’s nae rush.”

She feels bile crawl up her throat.

“Oh, well, I just don’t want to overstay my welc–”

“He’s excited to play host,” Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. “We rarely get visitors ‘round here and he’ll be upset if you leave. Y’wanna make him upset?” 

Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it. 

“O-of course not. Not after everything you’ve done for me,” she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”

Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge. 

“Good,” Simon grunts meanly. “Now shut your gob an’ eat.”

She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, she’s reminded Simon doesn’t have one. It’s unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simon’s lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight. 

“How’d you like tha’, pretty?” Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughts—whatever inklings—begin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.

Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer. 

He’s centimetres away from her face when he says, “How ‘bout you start pullin’ your weight?”

Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. He’s dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyone’s childhood.

“You’ve caused enough trouble in my home,” he continues. “Ate a lot of our produce. It’s time you make up for tha’.”

She resists the urge to snarl. She doesn’t even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her role—whatever that role may be. 

But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isn’t smart to upset Simon again. He’s a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than what’s considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Who—despite his size—can’t ever be heard approaching.

So she smiles instead, asking, “What is it you need help with?”

“Floors need scrubbin’.”

He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadn’t noticed before.

“Kitchen, livin’ room… just get to work.”

The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts. 

Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strength—or lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesn’t help that her vision is still spotty. 

She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards. 

She tenses when Johnny walks back in. He’s behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while she’s bent over, scrubbing the floors. 

Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt. 

Johnny chuckles. “This is wha’ Simon has you doin’ out here?” 

She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand. 

“We’re goin’ to the yard to chop some wood,” he says, “but I see you’re already busy bein’ our bonnie housewife.” 

She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. “No, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.”

“I know, sweetie,” Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. “Simon’s just takin’ the piss. He’s a meanie like tha’.”

She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed. 

Johnny clears his throat. “Thought we’d spend time in the yard today. Doesn’t tha’ sound sweet?”

She looks at Simon who’s already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divested—that she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here. 

Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning. 

She hangs her head. “Mhm… sounds great.”

She has no time to process what’s happening before he’s folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard. 

It’s more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because it’s been seared down. There’s a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.

“Y’can watch here,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. “We’ve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.”

He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesn’t even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and she’s jumping in her skin.

“No need to be feart,” Johnny laughs. “Just his usual routine.”

She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like this—impossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.

Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.

All those horror films she watches alone—when her friends say they’re too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesn’t come to fruition—finally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, she’ll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simon’s hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body. 

Her missing panties. Johnny’s sticky hands. Simon’s less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash. 

Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.

“I have to pee.”

She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning. 

“I can come with–”

“I’ll go in the woods,” she says. “Behind a bush or something, okay?”

Simon grunts. It’s a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage. 

It’s now or never, she decides. 

She makes sure she’s concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.

She doesn’t know where she’s running. She doesn’t know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here. 

The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isn’t sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesn’t stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus. 

It’s as if she’s working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. It’s like she’s treading water instead of sprinting. And it’s like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt. 

She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch. 

But something else catches her attention. 

A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. It’s been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.

MISSING PERSON

Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize she’s missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over what’s still intact.

LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL

$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION

Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.

FIRST NAME: J-

The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. It’s unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victim’s last name instead.

MACTAVISH.

“Sweetie!” Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. “What’re you doin’ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkin’ ye ran away or something. Hah.”

Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer. 

“Why’re you readin’ this silly stuff?” He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. “That shite gives y’nightmares.”

“Johnny, I–”

“You went pee?” Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.

“No…” he clicks his tongue. “No. You didn’t. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. I’ll wait.”

She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.

However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.

“Simon’s already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,” he says. “I’m helpin’ you out.”

A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. She’s quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs. 

“Good girl,” Johnny hums. “You’re so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?” 

She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.

“See what happens when you’re naughty?” He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. “Let’s get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.”

She hates how she curls into him. It’s her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnny’s affections. He’s a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. It’s scraps, but it’s more than she’s ever gotten.

They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simon’s waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. He’s the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside. 

“How about you rest?” Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. “Want some tea? What kind do you fancy?”

She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if he’s sorry. As if he isn’t a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.

“Garden mint…” he says to himself. “I’ll be right back, bonnie.”

He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her. 

With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.

She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. It’s so weak. Barely audible. 

“I wanna go… home…”

Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. “Honey, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.”

He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.

She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.

That’s how she falls asleep. 

With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.

———

She wakes with a start. 

It’s a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.

The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, she’s able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily. 

She’s caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself. 

She’s in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. That’s how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her. 

It’s almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons. 

At this point, she supposes that’s a kinder fate. 

She slips into a pair of large boots because she can’t find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.

Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She can’t hear her own thoughts like this, can’t formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.

So of course she doesn’t hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesn’t hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.

She doesn’t heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip. 

“You just dinnae listen, do you?”

He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.

She wrestles against his grip. “Fuck you both—you sick fucks!”

She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. It’s fruitless for her to fight it—the whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnny’s grip. 

He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.

A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.

It’s Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. He’s squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.

Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he can’t clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.

Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if he’s a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, it’s more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession. 

She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. It’s the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells it—her blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration. 

“Anyone ever told you you’re an ungrateful mutt?” He growls. “I give you food to eat an’ clothes on your back but here you are, tryin’ to sod off.”

Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simon’s claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.

“Dogs don’t talk,” he tuts. 

He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simon’s hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.

She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simon’s furry chest and Johnny’s warm arms. 

“‘Bout time someone taught you some manners,” Simon mumbles. “I was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckin’ rude to interrupt.”

She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simon’s teeth.

She screams as he wrestles her from Johnny’s grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that. 

He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape. 

Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides she’s left with no chances of survival, either.

She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open. 

Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. It’s not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.

Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because he’s leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.

“Remember wha’ I said about matin’ season, kitty?”

Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isn’t allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simon’s tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.

It’s like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She can’t help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk. 

She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck. 

She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.

Johnny’s face doesn’t show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.

She splits her hand over Simon’s shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh. 

She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simon’s tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess. 

Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now she’s unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal. 

“Hold her down, Johnny.”

Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.

“Will ye let me put my cock in ‘er mouth?” Johnny asks. “Simon, will you–”

“Shut it,” Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. It’s stiff but hangs because he’s so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.

He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.

He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. It’s reminiscent of a smile, but it isn’t one. 

She wails.

They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs. 

Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. She’s dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.

He deeply inhales.

His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.

Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. It’s oxymoronic and it’s betrayal—a Judas kiss—while he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.

“Got so much fight in ye, sweetie,” he whispers. “Just stop strugglin’ and it’ll feel good.”

Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh there’s still steam, hitting her like scythes.

Johnny’s getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.

“Simon, please,” a voice crack, “can I put my cock in ‘er mouth?”

“Fine,” Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girl’s skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. “Just stop interruptin’ us.”

Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. They’re caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube. 

The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her. 

“So pretty like this sweetheart,” he hums. “Simon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet y’are.” 

She doesn’t have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but it’s fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simon’s plump cock. 

Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.

She lies there limply, but as Johnny’s wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes there’s one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.

He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring. 

“She bit me.” 

Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before he’s dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside. 

His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers. 

“Now you’ve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.”

He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks. 

“C’mere, boy. If she won’t suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?”

She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She can’t even see Johnny’s blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat. 

She whimpers. “No–“

A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek. 

She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling. 

“Yes,” he says. 

He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simon’s on his back and she’s on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her belly—she can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better.  

She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him. 

“Cute little thing,” he says. “She ever been fucked?”

The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy. 

“Stop…” 

“Stop?” Johnny repeats, “Sweetie, if I stop it’ll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.”

That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like she’s nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.

Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.

“Y’think she’s ready, sweetie?” Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. “I think she’s fuckin’ hungry. Look at ‘er winkin’ back at me.”

Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.

She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simon’s chest, chafing against his coarse hair. She’s never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isn’t given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.

Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simon’s chest. She’s limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.

“Do ye feel it, Simon?” Johnny pants. “Is it comin’ on?”

His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They don’t click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnny’s assaulting fingers.

Simon’s ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isn’t due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isn’t fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.

The knot snarled into Simon’s cock plugs her up. She can’t pull herself off him because it’s puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simon’s cock.

Johnny gasps. “I’m close– shite, I’m close.”

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.

He only gets three more pumps in until he’s emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.

“Say thank you, kitty.”

It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She can’t speak properly with Simon’s cock still in her.

Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.

Simon’s so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.

“He’s close, bonnie,” Johnny says. “Kiss ‘im when he comes. It’s what he likes.”

Finally, Simon’s knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, it’ll have no choice but to take. 

Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. She’s flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simon’s thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.

Belatedly, she remembers Johnny’s order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peck—something to sate Johnny—but she can’t pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simon’s teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.

He laps it up before letting her go. 

He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.

He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.

Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains aren’t sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it can’t be put into words or into anything material, so he’s condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.

She doesn’t even realize she’s softly sobbing. It feels like that’s all she does these days.

Johnny hugs her as if he hadn’t taken a part of her dignity. 

He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them. 

The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after they’ve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips. 

“Will you ever let me go?” She mumbles against Simon’s chest. 

He exhales the smoke. “Go where, love? You came into my house, remember?”

Johnny won’t stop kissing her. He’s a pest that’s attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure that’s where his come stays.

Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.”

———

She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.

She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.

The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.

“Lookin’ so pretty today, mama,” Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubs’ bellies. 

“Ain’t she bonnie?” Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, “Our wee looker.”

Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumberman’s jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two. 

She grins. 

She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubs’ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when they’re hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simon’s.

Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she can’t delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.

She doesn’t remember much of her family. It’s kind of weird. She can’t remember if they liked her or not.

But she knows that doesn’t matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.

She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9’s that try tracking scents but fail because she’s written with Simon and Johnny’s musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.

None of it matters because she knows she’s where she needs to be.

[highdefhoetry]

tags: NSFW!!! female reader, MMF threesome, penetration (penis in vagina), unprotected sex, possessiveness, jealousy, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, cream pies, dirty talk, big dick, size kink, size difference, hair pulling, biting, marking

summary: sequel to this fic. gojo and toji fight over who fucks you better.

word count: 1,441

The knock had been a warning. Satoru Gojo had no intention of waiting for you to answer, nor did he have any intention of letting Toji Fushiguro take what was rightfully his. Not after what he’d just heard. He kicks open the door and waltzes inside without so much as a greeting. Hands in his pockets, lips curled into a smirk.

Your heart pulses steadily as the two giants stare you down, devouring your nude body with their piercing eyes as you stand before them completely bare. Gojo on your left. Toji at your right. You back presses against the cold wall as you suddenly find yourself cornered by two powerful men that didn’t know how to share. Both tower over you at their massive heights, like two rabid wolves leering at their prey.

Satoru rips the dark blindfold off his face, shoves it in his pocket, gazes deeply into your eyes as his sparkling cerulean blues drink up the sight of your nakedness. Something within them, wild and untamed, threatening to break loose. 

“What a naughty girl you are, (Y/N). Shacking up with a loser like him, when I’m the only one you need.” Gojo says as he takes your hand in his, planting soft kisses on the inside of your wrist as he looks down at you with big, doe eyes. “You’re breaking my heart.”

You feel his right hand on the side of your neck, caressing the sensitive skin before sliding upwards, his fingers intertwining themselves in your hair. A flurry of breathy gasps fall from your lips.

Toji is a bit more aggressive. Displeased, he seizes your other arm, snakes his free hand around your back to rest on your waist, pulls you towards him with viscous strength. 

“Don’t be stupid, (Y/N),” he growls into your ear after dragging his teeth up your neck. “Remember who you belong to.”

Your heart races as their battle continues.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Gojo wraps his big hand around the back of your neck, yanks you back to him so he can kiss and nibble your ear in between whispered threats. “You’re mine, (Y/N).”

Toji snarls at his nemesis, bares his teeth like a savage beast as if preparing to tear apart this trespasser who has stepped into his territory.

“Back off, brat.”

“Get bent, old man.”

You feel yourself being pulled backwards onto the bed. They toss you down on your back like a ragdoll, pin your arms and legs down with their long limbs. Both men on either side. Your heart pummels your chest, thumping so loud you can barely hear your own breath while your eyes dart back and forth from Gojo’s wide smile to Toji’s deep frown.

“Well, (Y/N)?” Gojo smiles as he strokes your hair. “Let’s show him all the cute little noises you make whenever you fuck me."

You feel his large, weathered hand drift down your side, stopping to caress your hip before resting on the top of your thigh. His soft movements make you writhe in pleasure, fueling Toji’s anger. 

“Not before we show this stupid brat how hard I can make you cum,” he grumbles in a deep, gravelly baritone. Somehow he regains his dominance, forces himself into a position on top while Gojo is pushed to the side. He balls his fists in your hair, yanking your head to the side, allowing him full access to your vulnerable neck. You feel his rough, calloused hand squeezing your breasts while his mouth sucks on your skin so hard it leaves red marks. And once you’ve been warmed up, he pushes his fingers inside you. One at first, then two, both curling upwards in search of that spongy spot that makes you scream. He finds it in seconds, grinning wickedly as he watches your entire body tremble with pleasure. You feel yourself cum all over his fingers, letting out high-pitched shrieks as your orgasm sends shockwaves through your body. 

He pulls out his finger and licks them clean, savoring the taste of your juices. 

“That’s my girl…” he croons.

As you lay there panting heavily, skin dampened with sweat, your eyes turn to Gojo. He patiently waits for Toji to finish, donning a terrifyingly serene smile. Then, in one swift and graceful motion, he takes control, shoving his way to the top so his hands can work their magic. Toji disappears into your peripheral as Gojo strokes the undersides of your breasts, the sensitive areas he discovered during one of the nights you’d spent together. His touch is electric, like lightning. You whimper as his fingers trail down your sides, ghosting the tender skin on your hips and inner thighs.

“He's so aggressive with you,” Gojo complains in a lighthearted tone, teases your clit with one finger, circles around the hood while he relishes the way you arch your back and whimper. “You prefer a much gentler touch. Right, baby?”

He cups your cheeks in his hands, runs a thumb across your bottom lip. You feel his desperate lips press against yours, and invite his tongue inside to dance. He kisses your jaw, drags his lips down your neck. His tongue flicks your skin, making you cry out with every little taste of you he steals. 

"There we go," he smiles into his kiss, making you shudder with his words. "Cum for me, baby."

Your second orgasm comes just as easily as the first. Gojo’s fluttered words, the gentle teasing on your clit, and the delicate touch of his hands on your chest bring you over the edge. He coaxes out your orgasm, grinning madly as he watches you unravel. Your throat feels raw from the constant cries of pleasure both men have been forcing out of you, yet your moans do not cease. 

Neither men allow you any respite. A pair of forceful hands take hold of you, pulling you on top of a pissed off Toji who is now laying on his back in the bed. He yanks down his boxers, reveals his throbbing, pulsing cock. Before you can utter a sound, he lifts you up, then sets you down with your hole slowly taking him in. You throw back your head and moan, hearing your voice crack as your wall clench tightly around his dick. He lets out a deep, rugged moan that sounds like the bellow of an animal. His hands remain on your waist, controlling every one your movements. You hold onto his hands for dear life, digging your nails into his skin as you squeeze your eyes shut and feel yourself overcome with pleasure.

Meanwhile, Gojo climbs behind you, his own boxers long discarded somewhere on the floor. He grabs your hips while you’re in the air, stealing you from Toji once more, then shoves his own cock inside of you without warning. The sudden feeling of his massive dick inside you almost makes you cry. Now in doggy position, you surrender to him and sink your nails into Toji’s shoulders, bracing yourself while Satoru Gojo slams into you again and again and again.

They take turns stealing you, pumping their dicks in your tight hole as you whimper and cry for more. Toji ends up finishing first; you sit on his cock one last time and throw back your head as you feel his warm cum fill you up. You clench your walls around his pulsing dick one last time, and don’t release him until he’s completely empty. And while he lays limp on the bed, Gojo grabs your hips once more, caring not for the thick white cum leaking out of your pussy. He shoves himself inside, reclaims your hole as his. His strokes are quick, yet deep. He’s thrusting so fast you see stars, the corners of your vision going fuzzy. When he finally cums, you feel that same warmth spreading through your body and let out a sigh of relief. You’re panting like hell, sweating bullets as you gasp for air. 

You collapse onto the bed, and Gojo follows suit. Sandwiched between the two, you take a moment to catch your breath and still the rapid beating of your heart. You feel two sets of hands exploring your body, caressing your tender breasts and stomach, stroking your hips and thighs. Gojo buries his face in your neck, kissing it softly. Toji grabs your chin and pulls your face towards his for a kiss. 

“(Y/N)...” Gojo murmurs in one ear. “Say it. Say that you’re mine.”

“(Y/N),” Toji growls into the other. “Be a good girl and tell me who you belong to.”

You start to speak, but all that comes out is a fluttered sigh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@oatmealdrool @magalimachete @heartbroken-whoore @freebananabeard @niname-sensei hope u enjoyed <3

[cherubfae]

jealous slashers~!✧

With Michael, Brahms, Jason, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Thomas Sawyer, Sal Fisher, & Patrick Bateman

tags: gn!reader, jealousy, creepy men, unwanted attention/touching, uggestive and mature themes, gore/blood, violence, canon typical behavior, billy x reader x stu poly, rob zombie!mikey, I know Sal isn't exactly a slasher but he's my baby and needs to be included

Alexa, play Love to Die by the Slashstreet Boys

Michael

Rest in Peace to the poor, stupid man who thought it'd be a good idea to mess with the Shape's partner, and Michael had witnessed it all. How this man shoves you into an empty alleyway, the clatter of your groceries falling. The guy doesn't get much more than a few bruises and claw marks when Michael's knife slices through the back of the man's throat, protruding from the other end in a splash of blood. The Shape watches you wipe your bloody face off, not doing much but picking up three of your four fallen bags and tugging you into his side.

Brahms

Absolutely not. Brahms is fuckin' seething from his safe space sheltered behind the walls. Heavy breathing muffled by the porcelain mask, he watches with wild eyes as some idiot decides to break into the mansion whilst you were sleeping, and proceeds to hold you at knifepoint, effectively pinning you to the bed in what little nightclothes you wore. The unwanted guest and you are certainly going to know when Brahms is upset. There's banging on the walls coming from every direction that leaves the would-be burglar panicked and you slightly more comfortable.

"You're not allowed to be here," comes the eerily childlike voice Brahms has perfected. He crawls his way out from behind the large antique mirror. "I'll make sure you never come near them again." With a sudden slam, Brahms downs the intruder with a lead pipe repeatedly bashing the object until all that remains was brain matter and gooey blood. He drops the pipe with a huff and collects you into his arms, the cool porcelain biting onto the heat of your chest.

Jason

As the protector of the surrounding forest, Jason is always watching. He's omnipotent, he sees all. He seems to know where people are at all times and he can sense when you're in distress. Your shared cabin door left ajar sends his blood boiling and his heavy footfall increasing as he approaches your home. Barging in, Jason's pale eyes lock onto you and your assailant holding you by the throat. His thunderous steps are quick, slicing through the man with his machete and proceeds to lift him up while still pierced with the blade. The man gurgles, arms weakly reaching behind him in attempts to claw at Jason. All attempts were futile. He tossed the body to the side before he gently frets over you, his large hands soothing the fingerprints tarnishing your throat.

Billy & Stu

Rather snake-like the two will wrap themselves around you (they adore your personal space) and stare down whoever else demands your attention. Billy's arm hooks around your waist and Stu wraps himself around your shoulder, tilting your chin up with a single finger. "Is this guy bothering you, baby?" Looking like a shark that's tasted blood in the water, Billy's eyes grow more wild. He's already making a mental note of who and where this guy lives. The guy raised his hands in defense backing down the more the two stared at him, walking off completely.

"We're gonna take care of him, doll," Billy promises, kissing your cheek. Stu cackles lightly, tongue sticking out. They would strike tonight.

Vincent

There's no one Vincent trusts more to watch over you when he can't than his own two brothers. He had his hands full, turning Dalton and Wade into wax people. Nick and Carly were proving to be hard to get a hold of and there was still another tourist that needed to be taken care of.

But then Bo is telling him that the person escaped and he doesn't know where you were. His two worst fears confirmed. Vincent is soon on a wild hunt, trying to find you anywhere with Bo hot on his heels. He soon locates you, passed out with a bit of blood on your head. Your eyes slowly open as he touches your cheek, catching you as you wobble into his warm embrace. He shares a look with Bo who nods.

"I've got you, brother. Keep them here with ya. Wait til I'm back, ya hear?"

Bo

Out in public, he's all cordial and kind smiles. Especially if this is an intended victim. Some random person putting the moves on his partner is a huge no-no and one Bo doesn't take lightly. That person just warranted themselves a for sure death sentence and Bo isn't feeling too kind, so perhaps he'll drag things out, yeah? Touch what's his and you got what's comin' to ya.

"Can I see, baby? That bastard leave any marks on ya?" Bo strokes your shoulders, blue eyes drifting over your frame like water. He has every intention of marking every place that person touched, no matter if you tell Bo the guy only grabbed your arm. Once he has his mind set on something, he's gonna do it.

Lester

Unlike his older twin brothers, Lester is actually pretty chill. Especially in comparison to Bo. He doesn't think much of the people he's helping get into Ambrose knowing full well it's their final destination and Vincent and Bo will take care of things as they always have. What he doesn't like is some dude making a pass at you right in front of him. Can't he see the engagement ring on your finger? It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, watching with narrowed eyes as the small group heads towards the mechanic shop in search of a fan belt.

A familiar hand on his arm calms him down instantly. He turns to you and musters a weak smile as your hands slide around his torso from behind, leaning your cheek on his shoulder. "Y'alright?" Lester nods too quickly and unconvincingly, giving you a quick kiss. "Yeah, darl', always."

Thomas

Your partner is not unlike a bear, watching with wild eyes as one of Hoyt's new catches clasps onto you, their nails digging into your arms, and pinning you to the barbed fence. The cry of pain you let out has Tommy barreling towards you, chainsaw revving to life. A deep snarl echoes behind his mask and he wastes no time cutting down the poor soul with a single swipe of his motorized saw. Tommy turns it off and picks you up in his large arms as gently as he can. With his masked cheek leaning against yours, he carries you back towards the house. Mama Luda Mae will take a good look at you.

Sal Fisher

Honestly Sal isn't one to get jealous. He's pretty level-headed and understanding in most situations. He respects your choices and he's not gonna step on any toes or do anything drastic; Sal isn't a monster. However, if he sees some guy make a creepy pass at you and clearly overstep your boundaries, he won't hesitate to swoop in, looping his arm around your shoulders. His sharp blue eyes staring at the man from behind his prosthetic mask.

"Do we have a problem here?" His voice is cold, lacking any interest in what excuse the man finds. Sal's main focus will be on you, rubbing gentle, soothing circles into your skin. His main priority is to get you away from this sicko and would totally call in reinforcements from his brother Larry if need be.

Patrick

A jealous Patrick Bateman isn't a good scenario for anyone. Especially not with his deteriorating mental state. He trusts you explicitly, with his thoughts, ideas, and recreational hobbies that most would find distasteful. So when a colleague of his gets too big for his britches and unabashedly begins to flirt with you in his presence, Patrick finds it difficult to keep his boiling bloodlust at bay. The heat of his anger is getting to his head, the fierce emotions only swelling well it's clear how uncomfortable you look in that man's company. He must see to put an end to him quickly.

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

"Are you alright, my darling? That man surely didn't know his place, did he?" Patrick places a hand at your back, guiding you out of the office party. "Let's get you home and into a nice hot bath, hmm? I'd rather not taste that swine on your lovely skin."

[chrollohearttags]

hershey kisses • armin artlert

armin gives his special girl an orgasm like she’s never had..

content warning + themes: nipple play, p!rn without plot, nipple orgasm, queer bestie armin bc I love him sm, black fem reader, creaming, reader is ovulating, clit rubbing, squirting, ear nibbling, armin being a soft dom (and so hot), back kissing/licking, use of pretty girl, sweetheart and mama

📝: I couldn’t stop thinking about armin + him being a pleasure dom and just caring for his bestie. Like I’m sitting here melting 🥹🥹

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Here, open your legs, baby..I promise, you’ll like it.”

“Are you sure, Armie? I don’t know about thisss..”

words emitted with a whiny laugh as you sat between the legs of your best friend. Back pressed to his chest and his leaning against your Victorian style headboard..painted in off white, cream coloring and lined with pastel pink pillows and stuffed animals. His tattoos and metal nipple piercings grazing your gorgeous skin. Honestly, he couldn’t believe that the two of you were actually here again…touching all over one another when all it did was lead to more trouble. Even so, you guys always ended up like this: hot, bothered and naked, making out and fucking after coming from a night out at the club or a long week of work. Over the past few months, since the inception of this little entanglement, you and Armin had learned a lot about each other. He had discovered that he leaned more towards being pansexual, rather than outright gay. He felt far more comfortable embracing fluidity in his sexuality and you?

“Relax, sweetheart. Have I ever led you wrong? I mean, you said it yourself that nobody makes you feel the way I can.” cooing to you with gentle kisses trailing along your neck..gentle hands grazing your bare shoulder blades as you had just left the shower..feeling refreshed and warm. Wrapped up in nothing more than a towel that he so delicately removed from your frame..he could sit there and admire you for hours without growing tired.

“You smell so good..and your skin, it’s so soft. You been using my stuff again?” Referring to the peach scented body cream he kept alongside his countless other skin care products he kept in his bathroom. But he didn’t mind. You wore it so much better than him anyways..including the shimmery butter that made your cocoa complexion glistening underneath the pale LED lighting. Besides, you could get away with anything when you smiled at him like that. “And if I was?..” retorting with a soft giggle before turning to kiss him. Your lips met a gentle peck, letting your tongues collide in a passionate barrage of kisses. As you made out, Armin slowly began to snake his arms around to your front. Those big, supple breasts cradled in his veiny hands; perfectly manicured and neat, decorated with silver rings. Suddenly, your breath would hitch in the back of your throat. Those sensitive nipples getting pinched by his fingertips and massages delicately.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to do this..”

what exactly that was? You weren’t sure yet but you’d know soon enough. The friction between your buds and his pads pressing together..rubbing slowly to create and drum up tingling sensations. In your toes, your entire body and especially that core. Dripping with only a few subtle touches so far and this was only the beginning. As your eyes began to flutter, Armin would instruct you to keep them open and strictly on them; twisting your head around whilst he played with your nipples. Tracing slow circles around the areolae before bringing those fingers back up to your quivering mouth to slick with saliva.

“There we go, pretty girl. Open up f’r me..” his higher pitched tone, one some would consider feminine rang out in your ear. He didn’t even have to look and yet he knew your body better than any man you’d ever let touch you prior. He could always sense when you were ovulating and in need of a good session. One that satisfied you mind, body and spirit. Anything to avoid some loser who didn’t deserve to be in your presence, less known getting some pussy get the best of you. Sure, he could fuck you senseless. Bend you over and make you chomp down on your plushies or a nearby pillow. Or even fold your legs up to the headboard and give you deep strokes while your vibrator went crazy but that wouldn’t do. He wanted you to experience a different type of pleasure. One that would have you addicted once you became used to the feeling. Between your trembling thighs lied that little sweet spot..quivering and spasming on nothing more than air. Cream leaking from that freshly shaved cunt as he continued to tease your most sensitive of pressure points. Nibbling on your ear, kissing on your neck and leaving soothing pecks all along your shoulder blade and back.

“Arminnnn…oh my..fuck—“

“Look at you…so cute like this. I swear, it makes me wanna keep playing with you all night.”

when he first told you that an orgasm by merely having your nipples played with was possible, you stared at him as if he were absolutely crazy. You didn’t think such a thing could ever happen and yet, here you were…about to climax and he hadn’t even so much as touched your clit yet! Gasping for air, (y/n) became undone right there in his firm grasp. Armin’s legs coiling you to keep you in place. “Shh..it’s okay, sweetheart. Just breathe with me, okay? I know it feels good and you wanna come so bad…but just hold on.” Those subtle kisses doing little to quell you but when he spoke to you so carefully and delicately, you had no choice but to listen. Faint traces of drool seeped from between your lips as he kept rubbing. Going counterclockwise, twisting in all sorts of directions before clamping down yet again. You’d try to wiggle around, even rut yourself against a nearby pillow to get off but alas, that was useless. He’d pop your leg and command you to stay still..

“No cheating…just let me get you there..” “okay, okay!..please, I just wanna come..”

and soon, your tireless groveling and pleas would pay off. Because alas, he’d let those lengthy fingers glide down your belly and to that fat little pussy, where he spread those lips apart and rubbed that little clit for just a moment. But it was abundantly clear you were far more stimulated than expected. With only a few seconds of gentle massaging, you were flooding the sheets, squirting all over his hands and the bed. So bashful of such a reaction but it was exactly what he wanted to see!

“Aww, good job, baby..you came so hard..” watching you writhe and cry out in pure bliss and ecstasy. There was no way that a little nipple rubbing garnered such a reaction but you’d never question his again! Allowing you to ride out your climatic high, Armin spun you around once more before kissing you. “That feel good, mama? Did you like that?” Questioning with that sweet yet nasally tone, cooing to you like a baby. And you nodded, still dazed with a fucked out expression. Bopping your nose, Armin placed a kiss to your forehead as you lie in his arms.

“I told you, you gotta trust me more often. I’ll do whatever it takes to please you.”

[vipetas]

i. the radio's revival

The worst possible scenario just unfolded before Alastor's eyes—his beloved antique radio broke.

He stood in stunned silence, his usual jovial expression replaced by one of utter disbelief as the once-majestic device now lay in pieces, its intricate components scattered across the floor. With a heavy heart, he knelt beside the shattered remnants, his gloved fingers tracing the familiar contours with a sense of mourning.

It was a futile gesture, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss for the part of himself that had been taken away with it. For Alastor, the radio was more than just a mere object; it was a piece of his identity. Each scratch, each dent held a story, a memory of a bygone era that now lay at ruins at his feet.

In that moment, he felt more vulnerable than ever before, stripped of the facade of invincibility he had carefully cultivated over decades. However, as he surveyed the damage, the vulnerability was quickly replaced by a flood of other emotions–anger, frustration, disappointment. How could something so precious, so irreplaceable, be lost in an instant?

The faint sound of shuffling feet then drew his attention. As he gazed up, one of the egg boys—those bumbling, loyal lackeys of Sir Pentious—timidly stepped forward with a sheepish expression.

“Uh, sorry about that, mister Radio Demon, sir. It was an accident,” the egg boy mumbled, his voice tinged with guilt.

Alastor's eye twitched in annoyance at the feeble excuse. Accidents were one thing, but this? This was inexcusable. His patience, already stretched thin, threatened to snap as he struggled to contain his frustration.

“Sorry?” Alastor repeated through gritted teeth. “Sorry won’t fix what’s been broken, now will it?”

The egg boys exchanged nervous glances, their carefree demeanor faltering under Alastor's withering gaze. “We didn't mean to, Mr. Alastor,” another one of them stammered. 

Yet it was far too late for apologies. Alastor's frustration bubbled over like a pot ready to boil, and with a growl of irritation, his form began to shift. With each passing second, his horns extended, his body swelled in size, and his once elegant silhouette towered over the trembling egg boys like a vengeful deity.

The egg boys recoiled in terror, their eyes wide with horror as they watched Alastor's transformation unfold before them. In their panicked mind, they could only imagine the worst—that Alastor, in his fury, would devour them whole.

Just as their fear reached its peak, Sir Pentious burst onto the scene. Positioning himself between the egg boys and the Radio Demon, his voice rang out in a chorus of apologies.

“Mr. Alastor, sir, I must beg for your forgiveness on behalf of my hapless egg boys,” he pleaded desperately. “They meant no harm, I assure you. It was a mere accident, a foolish mistake!”

Alastor's gaze narrowed as he observed Sir Pentious. As the snake demon continued to shower him with apologies, Alastor suddenly remembered the reason they were all gathered here in the first place—a party, of all things. With a wry smile, he glanced around at the other residents of the hotel, noting the fear etched onto their faces. The sight of their unease might've amused him under different circumstances, but the loss of something so precious to him soured his mood.

With a shake of his head, he allowed his form to shrink back to its normal size. As his horns receded and his imposing presence diminished, he felt the tension ebb from his body, the anger gradually fading away.

But that didn’t mean that all was forgiven.

“What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with my broken radio now?” Alastor's voice dripped with barely contained frustration as he shot a piercing gaze at Sir Pentious. 

Sir Pentious, visibly sweating under the weight of Alastor's glare, scrambled to offer a solution. “Ah, well, fear not,” he stuttered, his words coming out in a nervous rush. “I happen to know a mechanic—a fixer, if you will. Someone who can repair anything, no matter how... delicate.”

Alastor's eyebrow arched in skepticism, though a faint flicker of interest danced in his eyes. "Is that so?" he mused, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He had his doubts about Sir Pentious' ability to deliver on such a promise, but at this point, he was willing to entertain any possibility.

“And where can I find this mechanic of yours?”

Following the instructions scribbled hastily on the back of a crumpled receipt, Alastor eventually found himself in the slums of Pentagram City. The narrow alleyways led him to what appeared to be a workshop, its exterior bearing the signs of neglect and decay. The windows were grimy, patches of paint flaked off the weathered walls, and the sign above the entrance barely hung on by a single rusty nail.

It was a far cry from the elegance he was accustomed to, and he couldn't help but feel a familiar surge of anger rising within him. This was the place that was supposed to hold the solution to his problem? The Radio Demon scoffed inwardly, doubting that anyone within these walls possessed the skill or expertise to repair something as delicate as his beloved radio.

Still, he pressed on. Pushing open the creaking door, he was met with a gust of stale air, tinged with the scent of oil and metal. Inside, the workshop was a scene of disarray. Tools lay scattered across workbenches, and half-finished projects cluttered every available surface. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with spare parts, some of which appeared to be salvaged from long-forgotten machinery.

Alastor's lips curled into a disdainful sneer as he absorbed the surroundings. Then, his gaze fell upon the lone figure, hunched over a nearby table—you.

As he drew closer, you finally looked up, and to Alastor's surprise, you greeted him with a wide smile.

“Hi there! What can I do for you?”

Alastor's sneer deepened at the sight of the chipper mechanic, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere of the workshop. He had half-expected to find someone as worn down and weathered as the building itself, yet here stood this bright-eyed individual, seemingly unfazed by the chaos around them.

Suppressing a sigh, Alastor straightened up, the edges of his grin faltering ever so slightly. “Good evening,” he began. “My name is Alastor, and I'm here because I was told you might be able to fix something for me.”

Your smile widened at his words, and you nodded eagerly. “Of course! What seems to be the problem?”

Alastor hesitated for a moment, eyeing you warily. He couldn't shake the feeling that entrusting his precious radio to you was a mistake. Yet, he had little choice in the matter.

“My antique radio is in need of repair,” Alastor explained, his tone guarded. “It's a delicate piece of machinery, and I require someone with the utmost skill to handle it.”

You listened intently as Alastor detailed the intricacies of his radio, nodding along with each word. Despite his cautious demeanor, you could sense the underlying concern in his voice. It was clear that this radio held great significance to him.

As he finished speaking, you gave him another nod. “I understand, Mr. Alastor,” you reassured him. “You won't be disappointed, I promise. Now, let's take a look at what you've got there.”

With that, you gestured for Alastor to follow you to your workbench, where he finally presented the fragmented piece of machinery. As you laid eyes on the broken radio, it became immediately apparent to you just how extensively damaged it was. Fractured casings, tangled wires, missing components–it was a daunting sight, yet you refrained from revealing the true severity of the damage to Alastor, not wanting to add to his distress. Instead, you maintained a composed demeanor as you turned to look at him with a confident grin.

“We'll get this sorted out, Mr. Alastor,” you assured him once more. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor felt a flicker of hope stir in his blackened heart at the prospect of having his radio fixed. Though a hint of doubt still lingered at the back of his mind, he nodded begrudgingly.

“Very well," he muttered. "Just... be careful with it.”

As Alastor stepped back, allowing you the space to work your magic, his eyes remained fixed on you with keen interest. He observed the fluidity of your movements, the subtle shifts in your expression. Whenever you encountered a challenge, your brows furrowed in concentration, and with each successful repair, a hint of satisfaction graced your lips. Alastor found himself unconsciously mirroring your expressions as he watched your steady hands diligently work to bring his beloved radio back to life.

And as time passed, so too did his initial skepticism begin to wane, replaced by a growing sense of admiration for your skill and expertise. There was something captivating about the way you worked, a sense of determination and passion that shone through with every meticulous movement.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, you made the final adjustment. With bated breath, you flicked the switch and awaited the outcome. The room fell into a tense silence, thick with anticipation. Then, suddenly, a burst of static erupted, followed by the unmistakable sound of music emanating from the speakers.

Alastor's eyes widened in disbelief as the once-silent device surged back to life. Your face lit up with a triumphant smile as you savored his reaction, a sense of pride swelling within you.

“There you go, Mr. Alastor,” you declared, extending the repaired radio toward him. “Good as new!”

As Alastor reached out to accept the radio from you, his fingers inadvertently brushed against yours in a fleeting moment of contact. In that instant, a jolt of electricity seemed to course through him, sending a distinct shiver down his spine.

It was a curious sensation, one that he couldn't quite place, yet it stirred something deep within him.

Even after withdrawing his hand, the feeling lingered, leaving Alastor perplexed. His gaze shifted from the repaired radio to your face, searching for any indication that you too had felt the same inexplicable energy pulse between you. However, your smile remained unchanged, oblivious to the tumult of emotions swirling within him.

“Thank you,” he finally murmured, his voice softer than usual, betraying a hint of sincerity that caught even him off guard. “You did a remarkable job.”

You beamed in response, your eyes alight with satisfaction at Alastor's words. “You're welcome,” you replied gently. “I'm glad I could be of help. And remember, if you ever need anything else, you know where to find me.”

Alastor offered a subtle nod of gratitude, though inwardly, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave. Nevertheless, he tucked the repaired radio under his arm and turned on his heel, heading towards the door. Stepping out into the dimly-lit street, he walked with deliberate steps. His thoughts drifted back to the moment his fingers brushed against yours, and despite his attempts to push the memory aside, his free hand instinctively flexed, fingers curling into a tight fist before relaxing once more.

This was going to be a problem.

part i / part ii

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed<3

[gdjyho]

PILLOWTALK

synopsis ; a late night , much needed, hot fück session. pure smut.

pairing ; jungkook x f!reader

warnings ; s€xual content, slapping [face and ass], crying, big d!ck jk, choking, unprotected, mentions of smoking, not really proofread, lemme know if there’s any more.

i love to hold close, tonight and always…

his doe eyes pierce right through yours, stare feeling as if it’s entering your soul. your mouth lays slightly ajar. your lips and tongue get drier by what feel is like the second. jungkook’s slender fingers snake around your battered neck and your head rests against the head board slightly leant back.

he grins ever so slightly before soaking your lips with his own spit. before you get a chance to react, his lips are smashed on yours and moving in all sorts of directions. your chests stick together and your rise up to claw at each others’ sweat clad necks. “ you’re always so good f’me” he whispers out.

jungkook roughly grips your shoulders, easily flipping your on top without breaking the intimate eye contact shared between the two of you. you feel the oxygen seep back into your lungs like a sponge from the release of your neck. in the silence of the room, he enters you with no words. his cock mauls your gummy walls as he navigates your sweet spot.

So we'll piss off the neighbors…

you fail to let out any words at the pleasure your receiving. in doing so, your whimper and moan along with a whole other string of sounds. you begin to move up and down on jungkook’s abdomen as the biting pain of his length subsides. you let out even more pornographic moans which make a melody with the sound of your crotches meeting and tearing away.

you lean down to kiss his mole under his soaked bottom lip. he kisses your forehead and praises you simultaneously. your eyes clasp shut as your brain digs up from the ecstasy jungkook gives you. it’s indescribable how deeply far in you are for the man under your body.

“you’re fucking me so good!” you tell him. the smell of the room, all stuffy drives jungkook insane. he begins to attack your neck and your back forms a snake shape and your hips move round. his dick stuffs your to the brim, forming a visible lump in your tummy. he chuckles, prodding the hill he’s made. your toes curl as you feel your climax.

you fight it, wanting him to fill you up first. his face scrunches up into and unreadable expression. he’s gonna fill me up you think. you chuckle slightly, finally getting the sweet release you’ve needed from him. you grip his sleeve of tattoos tightly, as your tight hole reaches max capacity.

in the place that feels the tears..

your eyes well up like swimming pools as his cum slides around inside of you. you grind your hips harder on him insatiably. you throw your head back and groan as he does. you emotionally give yourself up to him, submitting yourself to jungkook and become completely vunerable.

“ahhhhh princess look at you milking me” he sort of slurs out, being drunk on pleasure and your mixed juices. he slowly and dreadfully pulls out and places you on your side of the bed. he gets up and strides along to your en suite. your smile as you get the perfect view of his god-sent ass.

after some cluttering is heard and cupboards close, he walks out and reaches for his black calvin klein briefs. he slips back next to you, creating a dip in the bed. he toys at your bangs, swirling and twisting what’s not dampened by sweat. “oh baby. if only you knew how cute you were”

he grabs his phone from the low nightstand and steals a picture of you and fucked out and cheesing at the camera while trying to grab his phone from him. “jungkook !” you laugh out, while he pins your hands back down. he laughs at his ability to easily control and power over you.

yeah, reckless behavior

he pecks you before getting up and lighting stray cigarette from the nightstand and placing it in between his lips. jungkook has to flick the lighter a few times before managing to make a spark. he inhales before blowing out a pillar of fog into the room. you pinch it out from between his lips and place the dampened stick between your lips.

it swirls around in your lungs for a short amount of time before you let the air loose. he opens the window, letting the various smells exit the room. you get up and move closer to him. you step infront of jungkook and he sneaks his hands around your waist. his lips meet your neck softly and withdraw along with a sloppy trail. you sigh in satisfaction.

it’s our paradise and it's our war zone.

- quickly crafted this one. 😶

[tiyoin]

what if alastor’s darling went to heaven 😧

cw: heavy manipulation, heavy gaslight, alastor being alastor (whom is a shit stirrer,) poor charlie is getting caught up in alastor's schemes again

he’s yandere (platonic or romantic, up to you idc, but I hc him as ace) ofc he’s gonna want you by his side for all of eternity!

maybe that’s why he wants to involve himself with the hotel. so he can get close enough to heaven, just so he can tear your wings off and drag you down to hell with him.

of course he tells charlie about you once she gets the go ahead for the meeting. he asks her to give you this letter if she has the chance.

vaggie strongly opposes this once she see’s husk’s reactions to the mentioning of you. husk, the brute stand-offish bar tender stilled. the bar counter he was busy wiping down left forgotten as his head snapped to alastor’s.

yet his eyes met vaggie’s

“don’t let her get that letter. don’t let alastor near her”

she got the message loud and clear.

about to take the letter from alastor, he flicked his fingers away as his head snapped to hers. her eyes widened.

charlie was too busy gushing about ‘alastor long lost ‘lover’’ that she didn’t notice the hotel’s atmosphere change. the sudden dip in temperature, and the distant sounds of horses.

his eyes stopped boring into hers and snapped to husk, who started cleaning with stupor.

“miss vaggie..” charlie had stopped her bit and joined back to the conversation. off handedly noting how cold it was as alastor handed her the letter.

“i do appreciate your eagerness” his eyes squinted “in delivering this letter, but charlie here” he pats charlie’s head “is the only one i trust to do the job.” he smirked. fully aware of the silent conversation the two employees had.

vaggie gulped, backing away with her hands in faux surrender as charlie once again told him that she wouldn’t let him down!

vaggie didn’t have a good feeling about this. you two were separated for a reason.

he was in hell for a reason

plus it was illegal for believers and sinners to have any kind of contact, as that would violate heaven..

vaggie knew she shouldn’t talk. let alone question alastor. but he was planning on committing a carinal sin.

clipping an angels wings and watching them fall was the worst sin of all.

vaggie couldn’t wrap her head around it. did he really love you? or was he bored and wanted to take being an ‘overlord’ to the next level. to do one thing a sinner, let alone a citizen of hell could ever do.

cause a fallen angel.

“shouldn’t you let her be? you could get her- us into serious trouble by giving her that letter. who knows what might happen. we could get punished and she could”

“fall?“ he finished for her, eyebrow quirked with that same cocky grin on his face.

“what better way to help our group of sinners than to have an angel to lead us to salvation!” his grin widened, yet she never once met his piercing eyes. he squeezed his fist to show emphasis; determination, if you would.

“my y/n is nothing but a saint who devoted themselves to helping people in their life. she was even kind to give dear ol’ me special attention-“

“gross” vaggie cut in, alastor eyes snapped to her for the briefest moment, his facade cracking the tiniest bit before he continued; “this establishment is certainly in need of their expertise if we want the hotel to successfully reform sinners!”

charlie’s smile faltered, “but… she’d be kicked out of heaven…”

forever

that word rang through everyone’s minds. like how lucifer gave the apple to eve, alastor snaked around charlie.

“it’s a necessary evil, is it not?” he questioned, one by one his claws fanned onto her shoulders, his head next to hers as he whispered: “think about all the people we could help, they could help. they should know better than anyone how people in heaven are, what they act like, how they get there-“ he leered at vaggie

“from their own personal experience of course! and it’s so cold and lonely at night without my precious” he sniffles, grabbing a handkerchief from one of sir penticols egg boi’s.

“but we want people to get into heaven… not kicked out” she trails off, suddenly thinking about her father.

alastor rubbed her shoulders before sighing. he detached himself from charlie as stopped in front of her, next to vaggie.

“very well then” he extends his hand mournfully to charlie, eyes locked into hers.

“then there’s no point in having you deliver my love letter anyway” charlie looks at his hand, then his face, before looking at the slightly crumpled letter.

“please, charlie, don’t make this harder for me” alastor continues, empathizing his hand.

charlie looks at vaggie, then to the letter, then to the door and finally at alastor.

“…i’ll think about it” she mutters quietly, tucking the letter into her jacket as alastor’s sad demeanor changes like a mask falling off.

“wonderful!” he grabs charlie and vaggie by the shoulders and starts hearding them towards the portal. yapping their ears off about how they’ll do amazing, and that heaven ‘won’t know what to do once they see you both.’

but vaggie continued to look back, husk’s slightly turned up face didn’t betray the emotion on it. one she never thought she’d see on him.

pity.

charlie left first, tugging vaggie in as she met alastor’s twinkling eyes, and shit eating grin as he waved.

alastor had won, and vaggie knows he’s going to get ready to celebrate his spoils.

i edited it and added some more… things 🤭

[utahimeow]

cw — reader and gojo have a daughter, established marriage, gojo is sad but reader comforts him

satoru gojo is not a man of many fears. heights, spiders, needles, death—fearing these is alien to a man who’s looked death itself in the eye and refused to let it touch him. however the words that his five-almost-six year-old daughter just uttered send shivers down his spine.

he’s frozen, eyes wide, face pale. he thinks his lungs stop working and his heart stops beating.

big, blue eyes round as a bug’s stare up at him, oblivious to the implications of it all.

the sentence echoes in his head like a taunt. he thinks he’ll hear it in his nightmares tonight.

then, her little hand as she tugs on his pant leg yanks him back to reality.

“daddy, i said my tooth fell out!”

satoru gulps, gaze falling to the crumb of bone in her hand, then to the tiny gap that’s now in the front of her mouth.

he didn’t think it would happen so soon.

you’re home from work not long later and the girl rushes to greet you at the door, screeching with delight to announce the loss of her tooth to you.

you’re gasping dramatically, gathering her up in your arms as she gives you a gummy smile so wide her eyes scrunch shut. staring at her is like looking in a mirror, a perpetually perfect reflection of you and your love combined into one small being.

“it didn’t hurt, did it?” you ask her.

“nope! i didn’t even cry,” she tells you, beaming with pride.

“oh, how brave you are,” you tell her, kissing her soft cheeks, grinning as her giggles bubble throughout the entire foyer.

she wriggles out of your grasp and then she’s off again, bounding back upstairs to her room to the pile of plushies upon her bed so she can continue to brew up tales and backstories for each of them. now that both her mother and father have heard her big news, she’s satisfied enough for it to no longer need to be on her mind.

you’re not surprised to find satoru in the kitchen, rummaging through the snack cupboard. you are surprised at the fact that he doesn’t turn to greet you like he always does. with a pout, you stride over to his towering frame and snake your arms around his slender waist, pressing yourself flush to him.

“hi, lover,” you hum.

in your embrace, satoru becomes lighter. the tension in his hard muscles lifts, his shoulders dropping, his back shedding the weight of the world.

“hi, pretty,” he replies, uncharacteristically quiet, yet somehow his voice still drips with affection for you.

“what’s the matter?” you ask him. you’re well aware of your husband’s melodramatic nature, and it’s because of that that you don’t find yourself worrying over his state of despair. still, you’re rather filled with a curiosity—what minuscule nonsensical issue has him down today? did they discontinue his favourite kitkat flavour?

hands migrating up his torso and finding his chest, you squeeze your fingers into the fat of his pectorals. in the blink of an eye, satoru is facing you and his cold hands have grabbed hold of your wrists. he grins down at you softly, amused by your antics as always, but you blink again and his face drops, growing almost grave.

“talk to me,” you urge, prying. his soft grasp leaves your wrists, moving to envelop your hands which drown in his. he brings them to his lips, kissing at your fingertips, making your heart beat in your ears and your face grow hot. it’s strange to think he once shrivelled away from your affection, convinced he was not worthy of it.

“how was work?” he asks.

“fine. good. same as always,” you tell him. “but you’re avoiding my question. and your feelings.”

he shakes his head, a child through and through. “tell me about your day.”

“satoru,” you say, stern, and it feels like you’re scolding your daughter for not listening to you. “i hate it when you’re… off like this.”

his eyes pierce through yours then, filled with unspoken apology. then, he exhales, long and hard, a sigh that’s heavy with weariness. for you, he’s learned to surrender.

“our daughter losing her tooth today made me realise that she’s getting older and i can’t stop it,” he admits.

you sigh along with him, half relieved that your conscience had been right in believing that it wasn’t anything serious. well, in the sense that no one had died. the rest of you knows he’s not being irrational. since becoming a father, and even before that, when having children was just a distant fantasy for him, an anxiety had lived inside of him. an anxiety of fucking up, of being inherently unsuited to fatherhood, of the idea that she may suffer the consequences of him being her father.

and now, a new anxiety sprouts.

“true, but we get to watch her grow, satoru. don’t you think that’s amazing?”

he stays silent, mouth forming an absentminded pout.

“i just keep thinking about when she was a baby… how tiny she was, how she would waddle around, and drool on my chest. soon she won’t be my little girl anymore, you know?”

“satoru,” you say firmly. your hands curl around the back of his neck, scratching at the snowy hairs of his undercut. “she’ll always be your little girl. i know that because she’s your whole world, and you’re hers. she may never be that little baby again, but she’ll never be as little as she is now either, so love and cherish her now instead of moping about the inevitable passage of time.”

satoru smiles a dopey smile at you, the same one his daughter has.

“i’m so glad i married you,” he says. his hands are warm now as they settle on your lower back, dipping down, down, down.

you roll your eyes at him, opening your mouth to reply with something witty, but he beats you to it.

“i’m being serious now, baby. you always know what to say when i’m being stupid.”

“when you’re being overdramatic, you mean,” you say, grinning playfully.

“hey, it just shows that i care, doesn’t it?”

you pull him down to your face by his neck and kiss him, moulding your lips against his, tender and warm and home. it’s not just his thoughts that melt away when he kisses you, it’s his entire head, until all that’s left is a man with nothing but his wife on his mind, heart beating for no reason other than to keep him alive so that he can keep thinking about you.

briefly, you pull away, in spite of how he chases your lips with his, because he could kiss you until the end of time and you could do the very same, but there’s something weighing on your mind suddenly.

“if you want a second baby i can make that happen, by the way,” you tell him, your hips pressing against his.

“oh, now you want another one? but every time i ask for one i get an earful? heh,” he says, quirking a brow, but unfortunately for him he’s hard in his pants in an instant.

“yeah, but now i feel bad for you.”

“babe, i don’t want a kid out of pity!”

[bunny584]

OBSESSED: GOJO

A/N: Satoru is neither patient nor kind. Pity the poor soul that crosses him. So, don’t cross him 🤭 (ok ok I swear the Yuuta one is up next, Satoru was just being demanding, per usual).

C/W: This man is his own content warning LOL. Mature, 18+

“So. Damn. Pretty”

Satoru snaps a photo of you bent over, contemplating the pastries. Another one to add to the infinite album of his only muse.

You’re wearing his favorite pair of yoga pants. And his eyes ride your curves without any brakes in sight.

The pants are suctioned to your rounded hips from your hot Pilates class. Your precious little cunt is so puffy from all the heat and sweat, well outlined like a perfectly packaged gourmet dessert.

You never wear underwear with them. And always try to skirt by him when you come home after your workout. Self conscious about how he always tosses you on the kitchen counter and laps you up until you’re screaming his name like a prayer. Eventually squirting all over the Italian marble.

Satoruuu. You couldn’t have waited until after I showered?

You always blush and whine and avoid his gaze. Hands squeezing down on your thighs, trying to hide how they tremble for him.

His adorable, sweet girl.

He leans back against the window of the coffee shop. What’s a couple more minutes of eye-fucking?

Satoru places his rounded black glasses in his back pocket and pops a dark chocolate Hershey kiss in his mouth. What he really wants is your pussy melting on his tongue but chocolate will do for now.

“He’s so hot.” The shrill, irritating, buzz from the airheads next to him shear through his daydream about you.

“Hey, Blue eyes!”

“Sorry sweetheart. I’m spoken for.”

Satoru flashes one of his empty, razor sharp grins. Which means it’s the end of the conversation for him, but the start of a lifelong infatuation for the other party.

Eyes back on you.

He pierces through you. 3 of the 7 cardinal sins wage war against each other within him.

The barista is looking at you how he looks at you and well…

That simply won’t do.

He approaches you like a lion stalking its prey. Satoru towers over you in less than a second. And you don’t notice.

He finds it so troublesome.

You are oblivious and tiny and smiley and vulnerable and so damn trusting. If the Heavens spoke they’d sing your praises. His beautiful, sacred girl.

Men are vile.

With horrible, depraved, nefarious intentions. They see a girl like you and want to violate. And take. And ruin. And push you to your knees. Pin your head against a wall. Shove his cock through the back of your throat until you’re choking and gurgling his name. Pathetic, pretty pleas for mercy. Hot salty crystalline showers raining from your baby doll eyes — it always makes him rock hard. The way you cry when you’re overstimulated.

Fuck.

Wait. What was he thinking about again?

Right. Protecting you. From scumbags like this fucking barista who won’t stop undressing you with his beady eyes.

He can make those eyes go away. Real quick.

You’re up next to order. Satoru snakes his hand around the back of your neck. You startle back into him, just like a wild doe.

“Sato—“

He kisses the rest of his name off your lips. Tonguing every corner of your sweet mouth. Sucking on your warm muscle. He smirks against your feeble attempts to pull away. Gorgeous face flushed cotton candy pink. So shy. So embarrassed. He can feel himself stiffen in his pants.

“S—sat…”

“I’ve missed you, princess.” He pulls away and you’re gasping for air. Sexy little pants. He could fuck you in the middle of the shop right now.

And he will.

“Hi Satoru,” you purr his name and his dick twitches, “you’re being dramatic. It was one night.”

You toss a glance at the barista apologetically. And Satoru decides he definitely has to end him.

“Can I have a small vanilla latte please?”

God. Your voice alone grabs him by the fucking balls.

You longingly look back at the pastries, and furrow your brows. As if your figure isn’t goddamn perfect. You don’t need those silly pilates classes. Satoru could work you out on his cock every day. Would be more than sufficient enough.

“She’ll also take the biggest slice of berry cake you have.” He follows, shamelessly gripping your ass in his large palm.

You muffle a falsetto whine. But Satoru knows that sound. You act so sheepish and innocent. But there’s a pool of lust between your legs right now and he can’t wait another fucking second to sink into it.

“Good choice.” The idiot smiles and Satoru could rip his trachea out then and there.

“And I’ll have an Americano. 2 extra shots of espresso.” He barks his order before kissing you on the forehead.

“Baby, go get us that back booth in the corner. Yeah?”

You give him a tiny smile that dismantles him. So he grips the back of your head for another bruising kiss before sending you off. He lingers on you walking away from the counter. Brazenly taking another photo of you. Completely ignoring the growing line of patrons behind him.

Satoru turns back to the barista, and he watches the blood drain from his face.

His favorite.

A hunter and the hunted.

“Pretty, right?” Satoru muses casually, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket.

“Uh, y-yeah man. S-she..”

“Probably want to fuck her, don’t you?”

Satoru flashes a toothy grin, pulling out a couple hundred dollar bills. He doesn’t carry anything smaller than that.

“W-what? No. No man. I was just. I was being polite.”

Satoru motions for the barista to lean in to hear his next words. He has no choice but to oblige.

“Well, I am going to fuck her. Senseless. In that back booth over there. And if you so much as look in our direction. Or look at her ever again, I’ll rip your throat out and feed it to stray dogs.”

Satoru palms Barista’s cheek two times before stuffing the hundreds into his shirt pocket.

“Keep the change.” Another grin as bright as the sun before sauntering over to the booth with your treats.

“Mmmm, gimme gimme.” You paw at the caffeine and cake, less guilty that you didn’t order the sweet treat for yourself.

He purposefully places them out of your reach.

“Hey! Why—“ Satoru’s large hand encases your neck and pushes your head against the plush booth.

The way you gaze up at him. Wide-eyed. A pretty little deer in his headlights. Oh he loves that about you. How he can read your book front to back with his eyes closed.

His cock can’t stop beating. Against his zipper. Against his thigh. It needs the nourishment between your legs.

Satoru wires his tongue back in your mouth. He bites down on your perfect lips, knowing it’ll get red and flushed and swollen. Just how he likes it when you’re sucking the cum out of him. He can’t feed you his cock here, not yet. But you can sit on it.

You struggle to keep up with his pace. Little moans, little gasps, little “ohs”.

He reluctantly pulls away. Still close enough to your face that the tip of his nose grazes yours. Satoru stares at you. Unblinking. With a quiet smile on his face. He knows what his intensity does to you and he can’t get enough of it.

You squirm. Eyelashes fluttering. Looking in every which direction except into his eyes.

“Look at me baby.” He strums your chin.

“Y-yes daddy.” You whine. So obedient. So pliant.

He much prefers you like this. Not like last night. Out with your friends. Without him. Not letting him pick you up or bring you home. He fucking hates that.

But this. This is perfect.

Satoru stands to his full height. He shrugs out of his black leather jacket before sitting in the booth next to you. Not once breaking his gaze.

You need to be disciplined.

And there’s nothing Satoru loves more than to discipline you with his dick.

“On my lap, little one.”

You eagerly nod and nestle into his legs. His length digging into your clothed flower. He can already feel the heat emanating from your petals.

He drapes his jacket over your lap. Concealing how your bodies are about to mesh.

“I’m going to fuck you, right here, baby.”

“S-satoru, h-here?” He loves when you sound so desperate and nervous. Satoru answers your question with a nip and lick on your earlobe.

“Pull them down.” He husks in your ear.

But Satoru is an impatient man. Your tiny hands take a millesecond too long so he drags your pants to your thighs himself. At the same time unzipping his pants just enough to pull his blushing, leaking lead pipe length.

He’s too big for you. For your petite, doll-like frame. And whenever he rocks you down to his base there’s a Satoru-shaped bludge at the center of your feminine torso.

It makes him want to lock you in his room, forever.

“Oh, oh my god.”

You try to pant quietly when Satoru slides all 10 of his thick, almost inhuman inches into you. And your warm, drenched walls clamp down around him. Like it’s the first time he’s invaded you.

He groans into your shoulder blades. Tilting and rocking you in long, languid movements. Purposeful. He wants you needy. Subservient. Under his spell.

“I missed you last night, baby.” Satoru starts his mind fucking.

“M-missed you…”

“I can’t protect you when you’re not by my side, sweet girl.” He suspends his hips and starts small, saccharine bounces. Making your head bobble like it’s connected to your body by a string.

“Men want to hurt you baby. Take advantage of you.” He continues his rhythm.

You grip the sides of the table. Your cunt creaming all over his length. Clipped, falsetto gasps and whines tumbling from your open mouth.

Satoru’s lips graze the shell of your ear and you evanesce into him.

“You need me. Don’t you pretty? To keep you safe.” His lips trail down your jaw. Nibbling little marks. His territory.

“Y-yes, daddy. I need you.”

Satisfied, Satoru lowers himself back down on the booth. Still violating your womanhood with his length.

So fucking pretty. You struggling to catch your breath and squirming all over his cock. Staining his pants with your arousal.

Satoru pets your head. That’s better. All better.

Just like how he likes you.

[sytoran]

ARSONIST'S LULLABYE

kinktober day 011 | cheerleader!natasha x player!reader

"don't you ever tame your demons but always keep them on a leash" — arsonist’s lullabye, hozier

summary. natasha gets more attached than expected after a one-night-stand with the college's infamous player, both on the field and with the ladies. however, she's always been good at getting what she wants.

rating 18+ | word count 7438 (shittt)

note. natasha is 18 and y/n is 19, y/n is described to be masc-representing (eg. cropped hair, compression tee + grey sweats, tattoos, piercings)

note ii. please please please please take your time to read it, you don't understand how long i've spent pondering over every intricacy in this fic.

note iii. drinking game: take a shot every time i say 'don't fall for the player'

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

Don’t fall for the player.

This was a warning, circulating within the hallways of Avengers Institution, whispered under hushed breaths and divine lips.

Students in this renowned college came from all walks of life — from children of billionaires to self-made achievers, from prodigal minds to brilliant brains. One thing stood for certain, though, and that was the infamous Y/N L/N.

It was a rumour, tried and true, that every single girl — regardless of their sexuality, physical appearance, or social status — would all eventually fall under the spell of the school’s “player”. Try as they might, victim after victim fell helplessly for an effortless charisma and unstoppable magnetism.

The chase never lasted long, a one-sided apex predator hunt. Once you had your eyes set on someone, there was simply no escaping the undeniable fact that the following morning, that girl would wake up in bed next to you.

Problem was, you had this rule, written in stone: Never sleep with a girl more than once.

Alas came the cruel and vicious cycle of girls falling under your spell within milliseconds, only to have their heart shattered within the next twenty-four hours. Sometimes even less.

Boys looked on in jealousy, girls looked on in intrigue. (Or maybe jealousy, too.) The wiser ones kept a distance, but either way, one fact stood true, the moment one stepped into Avengers Institution.

Don’t fall for the player.

Little did you know, soon would arrive a thorn in your plans, an unwanted distraction, your ultimate downfall.

All due to an equally irresistible girl by the name of Natasha Romanoff.

***

“You’re fuckin’ impressive for a freshman, Natasha,” Pepper whistles, clapping her on the back. “Consider yourself a member of the Avengers Institution’s cheerleading squad.”

Natasha nods breathlessly, dropping the pom-poms onto the ground. She had just completed a complicated routine for the cheerleading tryouts, a rigorous one with flips and twirls that required pristine balance.

“I guess that’s expected from a girl who was with the Red Room,” Sharon adds, somewhat snidely. She was another freshman trying out for the cheerleading squad, with a snake-like smile that was coated with too much venom to convey any sort of genuineness.

Natasha returns the smile blankly, false emotions overtaking her face like second nature — propriety, expectations, rectitude. She knew what those words meant, when they put emphasis on the Red Room.

The Red Room, in question, was one of the highest-class organisations internationally that trained talented young female cheerleaders. With a near overly-daunting curriculum, payment fees so impossibly high, and only the most renowned instructors, the Red Room was essentially associated with filthy rich wealth and spoiled privileged kids.

And such comes the tragedy of warped views on capitalism and the unfairness of the world. Sharon leans next to Natasha’s ear in the false pretence of picking something up, but her lips move dangerously swiftly and whisper, “Daddy’s money lets you get everything you want, hm?”

It only takes a second, and then the faux-innocent perpetrator briskly moves away as if nothing had occurred. Natasha stands still, the gripe washing over her back like a cold shower. She steels her shoulders, refusing to be provoked. It wasn’t her fault she’d been born with a silver-studded spoon in her mouth.

Shrugging off the strange looks some of the other girls give her, Natasha hides her annoyance by fiddling with her short skirt. Alongside college came the novelty of less-strict clothing etiquette, and that resulted in the most miniscule cheerleading skirts Natasha had ever worn in her life.

“Ready on the count of three,” Carol announces, tapping her clipboard with a ballpoint pen, surveying the expanse of the wide field.

It wasn’t Natasha’s fault she simply got everything she wanted.

“One.”

An invisible force of magnetism pulls Natasha’s gaze to the bleachers above the field, unyielding and unstoppable. There stands a tall and dark figure in a relaxed position, looking directly at her with piercing eyes. A shiver of anticipation sweeps through the air, and Natasha feels goosebumps rise on her skin.

“Two.”

Aloof charisma exudes from the person’s very presence, so compelling and captivating that it takes Natasha a moment to realise that there’s another girl standing next to the enigmatic soul. She’s chatting animatedly, under a false belief that she’s got your attention, but Natasha knows better.

Her eyes travel over the person’s sculpted figure clad in a leather jacket, tacit confidence written in your lazy smirk and composed posture. Electricity erupts in Natasha’s bloodstream, sending shockwaves coursing through her mindwires, forcing her to look back up to your alluring, forsaken eyes.

“Three.”

Natasha’s body moves mechanically, practised and poised. The rhythm thrumming from the portable speaker seeps into her practised muscles without her brain actually registering it, still reeling from the sheer impact of you.

If there was a fracture in her composure, if her routine was ever-so-slightly off, if her legs trembled more than it normally would’ve, Natasha would blame you.

Natasha would blame you and your stupid smirk, your silly leather jacket, your sickeningly magnetic allure. How you made her feel unstoppable with that come-hither gaze, then left her so low when your eyes inevitably left her.

And suddenly, like a golden key slotting into place, the words Natasha had heard whispered in the hallways finally made sense. The coveted prayer that could only be spoken under hushed tones and divine lips.

Don’t fall for the player.

When Natasha finishes the series of tumbles that ignites impressed cheers from the senior cheerleaders, she lifts her lowered eyes back to the bleachers.

Only to find your lips locked with the blonde girl from before, your hands creeping dangerously low on her back. You move like a predator python, the silver piercings in your ears glinting in the light with every of your calculated moves.

A burning feeling courses through Natasha’s veins, like an ugly green monster unfurling gradually, indescribable anger making her jaw tick.

Don’t fall for the player? Well, now that just sounded like a challenge.

***

Natasha makes her way through the crowd of students filing out from the lecture hall. The chatter fades to a background buzz in her ears as she beelines towards a group of more bearable folks.

“No, they’re a sophomore,” Wanda explained, leaning against the locker door.

“Who’re we talking about?” Natasha intercepts with a curious gaze, slinging an arm around Clint lackadaisically. Professor Banner’s lectures were highly educational, but he tended to drone on a little, and she could feel the rising boredom making its slow crescendo into the back of her mind.

Clint raises his eyebrows amusedly, then lowers his voice in humorous dramatisation. “The player.”

Natasha’s face flashes in recognition at your title. Several things flit across her mind in rapid succession — a fetching character, a lofty smirk, and a pretty girl hanging off a forearm.

“So, this uh… What’s her name?” Natasha tries to ask subtly, faking an expression of indifference. Clint, as always, side-eyes her with a playfully accusatory glance. Natasha shrugs with an odd feeling of guilt.

“Well, I’m a sophomore too, so I do have the guilty pleasure of knowing Y/N L/N,” Wanda said with a bit of a grin.

“Knows her in more ways than one!” Sam cackles, ducking as Wanda swipes at him.

Natasha feels that burning feeling rising in her chest again, and perhaps it was due to the knowledge that someone else had experienced being in bed with you — which was arguably silly, because of course you slept with plenty of women, but that didn’t quell her growing unease.

“Was the sex really that good?” Clint asks bluntly, folding his arms as he leans against the locker next to Darcy. Natasha chokes on air.

Wanda only raises an eyebrow, as if to question the poor boy of his doubts of your sexual prowess. Her knowing smirk told a thousand tales, of your sentient being seemingly reincarnated from a Goddess of Sex, of your mighty skillset of lust, the ultimate sapphic enigma.

“You tryna pull a lesbian, birdboy?” Natasha asks dryly, nudging Clint in the rib. The jibe doesn’t even give her that satisfaction. Thinking about you again had unnerved her very skin, causing clammy hands and a dry mouth.

“She leaves all the girls the morning after, though, so don’t get your hopes up,” Wanda sighs wistfully, waving her hand in the air as if she prophesied of a legend. “It’s a one-night-wonder. Kind of like an eclipse. Only happens once, but when it does, it’s really astronomical.”

Natasha flexes her fingers to get her blood flowing. All this talk about your specialised skillset in bed was making her heart flutter, in the best way possible, but maybe that per se was the worst thing possible.

Because she might acknowledge that you were attractive, but that didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to sleep with you, right?

“And that’s why it's a common tongue around here,” Wanda concludes. “Don’t fall for the player. Simple as that.”

On cue, the noise in the hallway comically fades to silence. The gathered crowds of students make way for a quickly striding figure, clad in the same dark clothing Natasha thought about day and night.

Crossing the hallway with an easy purpose and confident composure, you walk past girls who could be seen swooning. Your gaze slides over them casually, sending small smiles here and there but never really quite focusing.

Until your eyes meet Natasha’s, of course. Like a love scene straight out of a drama, your composure cracks fractionally, and your loose confidence is subverted. It only takes a second before your persona snaps back into place.

“Hey, Natasha,” A smooth voice spills out from your angel-crafted lips. Your voice runs over her weak-willed skin, suddenly so vulnerable in your presence, and then you’re gone.

Natasha stills in place, staring after your disappearing figure. Your two words had left such a searing imprint into the front of her mind that it was honestly concerning. The chatter rises again, as if you were never there.

“Looks like you’re Y/N’s next conquest,” Wanda comments, mildly impressed. “Good luck, my friend. Just remember, don’t fall for the player.”

***

Why on earth there was a dorm party on the second day of school was a question that would forever remain unanswered.

Perhaps the adolescent spirit was the root cause of it, free and tameless and reckless, or maybe it was the temptation of alcohol and attractive folks, intoxicating and thrilling.

Either way, Natasha was here for a good time, not a long time.

Her short midnight dress flounces as she makes her way over to the partially occupied couch, the rather risky slit making its way up her thigh to reveal awfully beddable skin.

“Hey, babe!” Wanda calls enthusiastically, waving her over. There’s a Matrix movie playing on the screen, Natasha isn’t clear of which one, and there are students sprawled over the couch, the floor, and on each other.

She ends up playing a game of truth or dare with strangers, driven by warm bodies and the repetitive encouragement to indulge in a little bit of ‘fun’.

“Truth!” Darcy yells drunkenly, almost crushing her red solo cup of cheap alcohol.

“Jeez, woman,” Carol mutters, sighing at the tipsy girl’s antics. “So, truth— ever had a threesome?”

A bunch of ‘ooh’s wave like a ripple through the huddle of students, but Darcy answers with surprisingly quick coherence for a woman on her sixth cup of beer. “Hell yeah,” she drawls. “Y/N and Jane. Best night of my fuckin’ life.”

Natasha feels that wildly uncomfortable feeling of butterflies fluttering — no, thrashing, around in her stomach. It’s absolutely ridiculous that she’s so easily unsettled by you.

Said Jane Foster flushes in her seat, clearly embarrassed at having her sex life exposed. She waves a hand, trying to quiet down the growing hoots and whistles. “I mean, is it really that surprising, guys? I’m definitely not the only one! Okay, jerks, who else has laid with the famed Y/N L/N?”

Immediately, all eleven women in the dorm room have their hands raised. Well, all except Natasha, that is.

“Oh, she’s a free woman!” Valkyrie yells out, pumping her fist, and the crowd of women let out victorious cheers. “Our last standing soldier!”

Natasha smiles awkwardly in the limelight of all these older students, the strangling sensation in her gut growing stronger.

Seriously? ‘The Player’ has already slept with all these pretty girls in her second year? I would never sleep with someone who treats sex so meaninglessly…

Natasha refocuses on the game, dispelling all her thoughts that seemed to constantly circulate around you. In the bleachers, in the hallway, and now in a dorm party…

So why is Y/N L/N a muse in my mind? Why is she so inescapable?

After about six rounds of revealing shameful truths and accepting rather pointless dares, Natasha’s ready to ditch the scene altogether.

She’s barely touched any alcohol, but it was honestly a shame that her imagination was still so lucid. Getting some of that cheap beer into her system would probably help her to relax quicker, and to stop thinking about you.

“Hey, uh,” she whispers to Wanda. The older girl pulls her gaze away from the current life of the party to regard Natasha with a drunken smile.

“What’s up, Nat?” Wanda drawls, sprawling forward a little too close for comfort. Natasha cringes at her beer-tinted breath. Wanda murmurs softly, “Hey, you got a lil somethin’ in your eye. Looks like a little cloud… Oh, that’s just the light. Silly me, silly–”

“Wanda, I’m gonna head back now. Don’t worry about me,” Natasha says, slightly impatiently but affectionate nonetheless, patting Wanda’s head.

“Awh, okay,” Wanda responds drunkenly, breaking off into a little giggle as Natasha gets up. “Hey, Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fall for the player, yeah?” Wanda asks with an innocent smile, but her eyes are reminiscent of a ghost doing its last haunting. Then Wanda’s gone, gone with the wind, her attention lost to the exhilarating game of truth and dare.

There’s a moment of quiet in Natasha’s mind, save for the explicit Nicki Minaj song playing in the background with lyrics that would make a stripper blush.

She had heard that simple statement all too many times. Almost like she was meant to hear it. Like it was a premonition, a foreshadowing.

With the odd feeling of being defenceless, Natasha makes a beeline for the door. She’s had enough of silly conservations and awful thoughts; conversations that encircled around the subject of The Player, and awful thoughts of hers that always ended up being about you.

However, a shining bottle of cheap alcohol catches Natasha’s attention from the makeshift bartending station, essentially a kitchen counter. “Wouldn’t hurt, I guess,” she mutters under her breath, reaching out to grab a bottle for herself.

“Ah, that beer’s shite. The good one’s in the cupboard.”

Embarrassingly startled by the familiar smooth voice that greets her, Natasha jumps in her own skin. You again, she thinks with such indignation. What kind of sheer audacity did you have to approach her, after you were making out with another girl just the other day–

All coherent thoughts left Natasha’s mind when her eyes rake over your short-sleeve compression shirt that clung to your abdomen and arms like a vacuum-sealed package. Paired with grey sweats, it was such a beguiling mixture of taut muscles and casual wear that had Natasha growing hotter under her skin.

“I guess it’s alright for me to assume I’ve chosen the right attire for today,” you say, folding your arms in a little bit of satisfaction. That has Natasha staring at the black tattoos that decorate your thick forearms, and she’s half-crazed by the alluring sight.

Perhaps you’re showing off a little more than you normally would, but the girl standing before you was one that had invaded your mind for days on end, which was entirely uncharacteristic of your constantly horny brain.

“Can I ask you a question?” Natasha asks snarkily, returning your confidence with her very own crossed arms. Your eyes don’t miss the way her awfully kissable lips form the words on her tongue, and you certainly don’t miss the way her crossed arms push up her cleavage.

You lick your lips imperceptibly, and you notice the way Natasha’s eyes follow the movement with a hawk-like gaze. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” you respond easily, taking a single step closer to the object of your desires.

Natasha scoffs at the pet name, but you can see your close proximity subverts her composure in the slightest. Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you reach out to place your hands on her altar-like hips. She bristles under your touch, but she doesn’t move.

“Why’re you so fucking arrogant?” Natasha finally asks, hating how breathless she sounds, struggling to keep cool as your ring-adorned hands thumb the material of her short dress. You’ve got her entrapped between the kitchen counter and your sinfully sculpted body, with no way of escape. (Not like Natasha was looking for one.)

“Brat.” The dry laugh that sounds from your throat has Natasha’s heart pounding, a choked sound of pleasure caught in the back of her throat. Your big hands have moved to her sides, cradling her waist tenderly but withholding power, as if you’re ready to dig your fingertips into her soft skin at any given moment.

She thinks it’s unfair, the way your eyes are damn near psychedelic. They’re screens of mercury, smouldering and smoking with the way it trails over her body. If you’re a spark of fire, Natasha is a pool of gasoline that feeds your will.

Hot lips slant against Natasha’s ear lobe, taking it between your teeth as she shudders. Natasha’s breathy release of air as she fights to keep silent has you tugging on her earlobe with pure want.

“Can I ask you a question?” you ask, your voice a touch lower than it had been before, your hands tightening its grip on her deadly hips, the metal of your rings cool against her hot skin.

The overwhelming sensation of your big hands, hot lips and sharp teeth is enough to have Natasha’s eyes fluttering shut. She almost loses control of herself, almost lets herself fall victim to your hypnotic touch — But then you pull away, and a desperate little whine nearly falls from Natasha’s lips.

The cheerleader swallows as she stares at your crafted face, your eyes darkened with something far deeper than want, your lips tugged upwards into a devilish smirk.

“My room or yours?”

Natasha would like to say that the rest was a blur, and her alcohol-tainted memories got lost in translation — but it was a shameful and unequivocal statement that she had been entirely sober, and yet recalled every single detail of that night to vivid precision.

***

Natasha remembers you pressing her up against your door, a fervent urgency of lust unlocked within the confines of your dorm.

“So fucking desperate,” you grunt, hips knocking into Natasha’s front as you pin her against the door, lithe legs wrapped around your muscled torso.

“Shut the fuck up,” she spits, throwing her head back as your sharp teeth sink into the softness of her porcelain neck. The edge of your canines are hard and unforgiving, just how Natasha likes it, just how you scatter dark hickeys across her pale skin.

You smirk at her brattiness, finding it an exceptionally arousing trait of hers. “Pretty girl, you’re not the one in charge,” you tease, with your words and with your hands, dragging your fingertips up and under her short dress.

Natasha remembers her fingers twisting into your hair as you play her like a fiddle, teasing and edging and so blatantly talented like a prodigal concertmaster.

She whines as the cool metal of your rings nudges her nipples, her sensitivity skyrocketing with the shock. “More,” she tries to demand, but it ends up sounding like a helpless whimper and your hands move with such purpose.

You don’t help her cause by taking a hardened bud between two fingers and tugging, cries and whimpers following your fingers. Heaven is the way her breasts look all marked up by your mouth, hardened nipples and raw skin dancing in your vision.

Natasha’s nails dig into your hardened abdomen, scraping at your every muscle for all it was worth. It was something about you, something about the look in your eye, something about the way you commandeered her body with such precision and control like it was meant to be.

Natasha remembers her complete relinquishment of power, giving herself up for you, with a sick urge to be fucked within an inch of her life and then some.

Your right hand slides across her damp inner thigh to brush at her demesnes, and the sheer wetness that awaits your fingers makes you growl against her skin. “So fucking wet,” you grunt, peeling apart the thin material of her panties that cling to her sodden pussy with strings of slick.

Natasha wails, face completely flushed and so utterly gorgeous, and you can’t help but meet her lips with clashing tongue and teeth. She moans as your pierced tongue explores her mouth, and you drink up her cries of pleasure.

“Wanna fuck you silly,” you pant against her ear, fingers tracing the outline of her pretty pussy, dragging arousal along with it. Your knee keeps her legs spread nicely apart for the taking, and the vulnerability you bring out of Natasha is perhaps also the hottest thing.

Humiliation is the way Natasha agrees so quickly, nodding dumbly in acquiescence, thinking it would be nice to feel her brain melt to mush with your thick fingers and prodding tongue.

Natasha remembers the earth-shattering pleasure that wracks her body, as you divulge in providing, by leaps and bounds, the best sex she’s ever had.

Three fingers slide in and out of her dripping cunt at a phenomenal pace, and Natasha’s panting like a dog, tight velvet walls clenching around the thickness of your fingers for all it’s worth.

Finger-fucking her against the door like a heaven-descent, you bask in Natasha’s cries of pleasure. It’s never been like this, never been this heated. With Natasha, you felt like you were ascending.

“You’re gonna make a mess on the fucking floor,” you bite, a low gasp caught in the back of your throat. Natasha’s head lolls to the side, high-pitched whimpers making themselves known as she drips down your wrist and her thighs.

Natasha remembers the unravelling, the way her body seizes up out of its own accord, electricity erupting behind her half-lidded eyes.

Your hands dig into the plush of her thighs as you bring Natasha to a stupendous climax. Your fingers curl harshly, hitting her sweet spot and drawing out obscene noises from her.

“Fuck–” Natasha chokes out, high-pitched and breathy and absolutely delightful. Her hips jerk in your hands as your fingers move inside her.

“Another,” you grunt, not a request, and before Natasha can get ahold of her senses your fingers are thrusting again. She wails as your wrist jackhammers into her wet cunt, slick sounds echoing around the four walls of your room.

The second orgasm arrives even more harshly than the first, and Natasha clings onto the broad muscles of your back as you pin her against the door, toes curling and eyes squeezing shut.

She thinks she could find solace in the way your arms entrap her in a certain type of warmth, almost as if you don’t want to let her go.

But that would just be a hopeless fantasy, wouldn’t it?

Natasha remembers waking up the next morning to an empty bed.

The morning air is too cold on her bare skin. Your side of the bed isn’t even warm anymore. You must’ve left ages ago, in the dark of the night, and that thought in itself has Natasha choking on emotions she’d rather not feel.

Her clothes are still strewn on the floor and the furniture is a mess, a mockery of how far she’d let you go last night, driven by an inescapable high.

This is the game you play. Toying with girls' hearts like it was child’s play, making them feel like they were one in a million for one night only. All that alluring charisma was ugly and falsified, viewed through rose-tinted glasses.

This is the game you play, and Natasha Romanoff had fallen victim to it.

Don’t fall for the player.

Now, it was just another warning sign that she’d overlooked, and she was just like those other girls, stumbling into your open arms and cocky smirk.

Vehement fury slugs inside the cheerleader, as she forcefully picks up her strewn clothes.

Then she looks around the dorm room, your room, and time stills for a moment.

She’d expected it to be somewhat furnished, like all other dorm rooms were, maybe a cactus in the corner or a poster of a rockstar. Instead, your walls are blank and there isn’t a trophy or an award in sight.

You’re the captain of the football team, above average in academics, yet there isn’t a trace of the mark you’ve left as a student at Avengers Institution. There isn’t a trace that you’re a living, breathing human, with emotions that craft your very humanity.

Scarily enough, she feels like she’s laid in the bed of a complete stranger.

And suddenly, Natasha understands.

Don’t fall for the player.

Suddenly, everything feels a little too real, and Natasha comprehends that the statement holds far more depth than what your reputation suggested.

You were just fucking scared.

Scared of commitment, scared of growing attached, scared of being abandoned. You feared getting your heart broken, and thus you feared the longevity of relationships that involved love and romance.

As Natasha picks up her strewn clothes from the floor, with aching limbs and dishevelled hair, only one statement rings in her mind.

Don’t fall for the player.

“Maybe I will,” Natasha whispers to the ghost of your handsome, misunderstood self in the room. “But haven’t you heard I always get what I want?”

***

You couldn’t fall asleep.

You watch the empty sky as you sit on the empty rooftop of the school at four in the morning, a cigarette hanging limp between your lips. There’s an underlying anger bubbling beneath your skin, an itch that you can’t find, simply stewing there to your frustration.

Romance was bullshit.

It was plainly obvious from the way girls approached you. Flirty eyes and feather-light touches meant only one thing. And they were all so pretty, so who were you to complain, right?

All those girls always ended up in your dorm bed, sweaty and short of breath. Your heart would pound, and your mind would go wild with endless possibilities of what could happen if they just stayed.

“You can stay if you want,” you muttered off-handedly to one of your first few hookups in college. The look that the girl returned was so unimpressed that you never asked that question again.

But it was okay, because sex was something that you were good at, and those girls had their fun. It was okay, even if there was something missing. It was okay that your reputation preceded your identity. Even if those expectations spiralled far beyond your control.

With every passing girl you brought to bed, the gnawing hole in your chest only grew bigger. You craved something that you couldn’t obtain. Even if your heart was crawling out of its ribcage every time a girl breathed your name, every time she laid a hand on your chest.

Last night, Natasha Romanoff took that gaping hole in your chest and ripped it right open.

“Please, Y/N,” Natasha had whined, and there was reverent devotion in the way you held her hips, in the way you pulled her close.

“Stay,” you had wanted to whisper, so badly, so many times, but her hands were streaking red marks down your back and her body was shuddering under yours.

So you kept your forbidden mouth shut and continued to do what you did best. All the ‘what-ifs’ were just hopeless dreams. You couldn’t stay, you couldn’t commit. You weren’t allowed to, not after the expectations that had been set for you.

Romance was bullshit, after all.

“You seem troubled,” a female voice announces from behind you, but you don’t bother to turn back. Taking your silence as consent, the girl sits next to you.

“Give me a light,” the girl says, leaning closer to you, and only then do you turn to look her over. Blonde girl, 5’8, blue eyes. Freshman.

“Sharon Carter, right?” you ask indifferently, and the girl lets out a bemused huff as she makes her comfortable next to you.

“Wow, so you do know every girl in this school,” Sharon comments, and there’s a teasing lilt in her voice that hints at how this is going to end up.

You pull out a cigarette, passing it over to the blonde girl, noting how her fingertips brush over yours for a second too long. “Maybe I do,” you respond with false cockiness, the smirk overtaking your face almost unconsciously.

This is the right thing to do, you convince yourself, as Sharon’s hand creeps to your thigh. One girl after the other. You couldn’t get attached.

“Impressive. Put away your light. It’s healthier to destress in another way,” Sharon whispers, tossing her cigarette to the rough concrete.

What a waste, you think, but then the same could be said about a lot of other things in your life.

For a fraction of a second, you contemplate your existence. You wonder why you’ve ended up this way. What you’ve done to deserve girls throwing themselves at you when you began to despise all of them.

When Sharon brings her lips closer to yours, and you find yourself meeting her halfway, because you’ve done it so many times.

There’s this tugging of your heart that almost feels like guilt, but you shove it down and drag your tongue between a set of lips. All too easily, your hands draw patterns across her chest and her thighs, a mastered craft that came mechanically.

Even if it is the right thing to do, it doesn’t feel right.

Your head is swimming with unbearable thoughts of Natasha Romanoff, and you try to erase her on the tongue of another girl who could never compare.

It doesn’t feel right, but it’s the easy way out, and it’s what’s expected of you.

Always has been.

***

“Fuck, Y/N—” is the first thing Natasha hears when she meanders into the bathroom the morning after.

She had wanted to get an early start on the new morning, but alas, fate had it out for her.

For a while, Natasha is surprised that she isn’t surprised. You’ve got a pretty blonde girl on the bathroom counter, one hand up her skirt and the other twisted in her hair.

The girl throws her head back in a bout of pleasure, and Natasha’s thinking that maybe she looks a little familiar. It’s her cheekbones, strung high like a haughty prick. “Daddy’s money always gets what you want, hm?” rings in her head.

A spark of fire burns any ounce of indifference Natasha has to ashes. Sharon Fucking Carter.

Sharon’s painted nails were digging into the expanse of your shoulder blades, and it looked downright painful. Your dexterous fingers were plunging into her sodden cunt, rendering her barely coherent.

It all looks so wrong, and Natasha wants to crawl out of her skin before the jealousy eats her alive.

“Fucking hypocrite, aren’t you?” Natasha spits venomously, hands clenched into fists of fury, making her presence known.

When Sharon jumps away from you like she’s been burned, Natasha can’t help but let evil glee surge through her stomach. Serves you right, she thinks, staring at your dishevelled hair that somehow only made you look more handsome.

It’s different, this time, with your eyes darting as if you were unsure of yourself. (Astonishing, considering your mean streak of being cold as ice.) There’s resentment in the way your face sets, and a type of hurt that causes Natasha to falter.

“Daddy’s little bitch,” Sharon scoffs, fixing her skirt with no attempt to hide her disdain. “Why don’t you fuck off, huh?”

Natasha scoffs, eyes widening in fractional aggression. “I-”

“You should go, Carter,” you say monotonously, almost defeated but wavering on the edge of frustration.

The blonde girl whips her head around to stare at you with incredulousness written in her wide eyes. She lets out a dry laugh of betrayal. “Fuck, look at the two of you. Match made in hell.”

The bathroom door slams shut with a piercing thud. Both you and Natasha don’t flinch.

“You didn’t have to call Sharon a hypocrite,” you mumble, flicking your head back to look in the mirror.

There’s something off about you that no one else has ever had the privilege of seeing. It makes Natasha’s heart soar and her blood boil simultaneously.

“She wasn’t the one I was calling a hypocrite.”

A moment passes between the two of you where you flick an invisible switch.

“I’m the hypocrite, Romanoff?” you ask, evidently provoked. A crazed look in your eyes draws Natasha’s attention, because you’re putting on a false facade all over again.

“Am I the hypocrite for fucking another girl? It’s all I do, isn’t it? That’s what I’m known for. You don’t get to be so butthurt because you were just a one-night.”

A sickly sourness lines your mouth as you spew words that aren’t true, because your heart was fighting every battle to get to Natasha Romanoff.

“What you’re failing to realise,” Natasha begins stately. “Is that this isn’t about me. Fuck it if I’m just another girl on your ever-growing fuck list. Because maybe I am. But you’re lying to yourself if you think you’re happy.”

“Oh, so now you’re determining my emotions for me,” you retort with as much snark as you can muster. “You weren’t acting this high and mighty last night in my bed.”

“Quit the act,” Natasha scoffs, then letting a bittersweet smile cross her face. “You’re hiding behind weak retorts because you’re scared. Scared of being alone. But you don’t have to be anymore.”

Lost, your hands twitch, and you allow yourself to believe that maybe Natasha is your salvation. Defense mechanisms kick in, but you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Sorry to disappoint, Romanoff, but don’t try to play therapist. I’m not some kind of victim you’re going to diagnose,” you sneer. “I’m free to do whatever the fuck I want without your judgment.”

“Free?” Natasha asks, an incredulous look in her eyes. She laughs in mockery with an unwavering gaze. “You’re not free. You can’t go a day without fucking a girl. You’re a prisoner, and you’re shackled by your own desires and wants. Except this time, that luxury has become an addictive coping mechanism.”

Dark eyes flash with a glimmer of danger, and you’re so much like a trapped animal gone hostile that Natasha’s heart breaks a little.

“You’re wrong,” you answer, but your hands are shaking so violently that you hardly seem like the person she once thought you were.

Where complete equilibrium once was, a desperate frenzy of unease is what exudes from you now. Natasha feels a twinge in her heart when you whisper “You’re wrong,” again, this time substantially more quiet and resigned.

“Prove it, then,” Natasha challenges, bringing a hand up to cup the side of your face. Her eyes search yours so desperately, and you’ve stripped naked in front of a hundred girls, but you’ve never felt more vulnerable. “Prove that you’re more than whatever they say about you.”

With the strange urge of tears pricking at your eyes, you stare at Natasha with all the hopelessness any broken heart could muster, and for a moment you can see the doubt in her eyes. Like you’ve disappointed her, just like all the girls who’s hearts you’ve broken.

But when you first kissed Natasha Romanoff, it was never going to be just another one-night, was it?

With the final semblance of humanity in your burden-stricken mortality, you drag a shaky thumb along Natasha’s cheekbones like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, and the deeply-rooted self-loathing inside you fades away, just a little bit.

Your parted lips meet Natasha’s in a prologue to an unfinished symphony. You delve in like she’s your last lifeline, and maybe Natasha is, from the way she rests her fingers on your hips with a gentleness you’ve never experienced.

A carnal urge washes over you, because this time you’re not afraid to admit that you want Natasha Romanoff. You spread your hands, feeling up as much of her as you can, running it down her back then squeezing at her rounded ass—

And then Natasha’s pulling away, and only then do you hear the cluster of footsteps approaching the washroom.

“Tonight,” she whispers with a hint of smirk. Natasha goes on her tippy-toes to press a kiss on the tip of your nose, and then she’s gone.

You stand there with wide eyes, in the washroom where students filter in, lingering with the ghost of Natasha Romanoff’s lips and a piece of your heart melted onto the floor.

***

You were positive you were going to start ripping off your skin if you didn’t start fucking Natasha Romanoff in this exact moment.

But that would be a bad idea, because you were in the middle of a psychology lecture, and Professor Harkness probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

After a torturous hour of you shifting in your seat, you sprint out the lecture hall. Thanking the heavens that it was your last lesson of the day, you dodge and weave through the crowd of students in the hallway.

“Hey, Y/N,” A small group of sophomore girls call out, checking you out like a piece of meat. Normally, their flirtatious winks and little skirts would have you folded in an instant, but you couldn’t wait a moment longer.

You send them a polite smile and continue on your hasteful journey, missing the comical way their faces fall.

Upon your dutiful research, you knew where Natasha’s dorm was located, but you planned to stop by your own dorm to pick up a little something. (Okay, maybe the something wasn’t that little.) You yank open your door with purpose—

Only to find Natasha already sprawled out on your dorm bed, dressed in one of your shirts and nothing else. You almost pass out. Almost.

“Nat,” you groan, locking the door behind you. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before I come, I’m afraid,” Natasha sighs with a pleased smile. She beckons you over with a come-hither motion, spreading her legs in invitation.

You bite back an affected noise in the back of your throat, pushing Natasha back down on to the bed with fervour. With a crushing sense of urgency, you slide your hand between her pretty thighs, not waiting a single moment.

“Slow down,” Natasha instructs, tilting your head up to stare at her blown pupils. “Take your time. Don’t just fuck me. Do it like you mean it.”

Upon hearing those words, a rush of pride washes over you and then you’re so eager to please, desperate to somehow prove yourself.

Your fingers find the hem of her shirt and tug it over her head, revealing the bare mounds that are Natasha’s tits. A shaky exhale leaves your lips as your fingertips experimentally brush over her hardened buds.

“God, you’re built,” Natasha moans, running her hands over the edges and curves of your muscle. It’s tight and taut under her touch, so defined and carved.

You shudder under her explorative touch, returning your attention back to the beautiful girl in front of you.

You were so used to hot, fast, explosive sex that turning back time was such a jarring awakening of everything that you were missing out on.

It put things into perspective, that you had never actually made love. And since this was your first time, you were determined to do it right, especially for Natasha.

You trail open-mouthed kisses down her sternum and stomach, savouring the taste of her skin. Your hands grasp at her tits, enjoying the feel of it in your hands.

You’re experiencing things you never got to experience, like the rise and fall of Natasha’s pale chest, the way her eyelids flutter gently.

Temporarily avoiding where she needed you most, you hear Natasha let out a whine. You tease her hole with your tongue, smearing her slick messily.

“Fuck,” Natasha curses, winding her fingers into your hair. “Please, I need it,” she whines, as you lick at her clit.

“M’kay, baby,” you mumble against her wet folds, because you could never deny Natasha of anything, could you?

You slide your tongue in her twitching pussy, and begin one of the most passionate love-making sessions

You listen out for when Natasha hitches her breath, when her hips stutter, when she mewls out. You learn the instrument of her body, understand and test out the different reactions you can draw out.

After minutes of what seem like pure bliss with erratic breaths and pleading keening, you speed up and the reaction is immaculate.

“Y/N,” Natasha cries, as your tongue goes in and out of her dripping cunt. Her slick goes down her thighs and your chin, making the most obscene noises.

It’s wet and squelching, and you proceed to devour Natasha’s pussy for everything it’s worth.

For a millisecond, Natasha wonders if anyone has ever died from being eaten out too passionately. Erotic Oral Overdrive, maybe.

Her first orgasm comes in a gradual crescendo, her hips rocking in waves as you dutifully match her unwinding.

Natasha lets her eyes flutter shut as the moment overwhelms her senses. Until the silence is finally broken by you.

“Got a little something for you,” you say with a quirked brow, sliding your hand into the bedside cabinet to retrieve that little something.

“Oh, fuck,” Natasha whines, upon seeing the biggest strap-on toy she’s ever had her eyes upon in her life.

You ease in the cock with no amount of trouble, through Natasha’s already slick cunt. You start with a gentle pace, because you’re trying to be slow.

Apparently, Natasha has different plans this time around.

“Harder,” Natasha growls, digging her nails into your muscled back. You let out a low gasp, because you’re already so deep inside her divine pussy, and you didn’t think you could go any deeper.

Gripping her thighs and spreading it as far apart as you can, you thrust impossibly deeper and your hips slap against Natasha’s.

Her eyes roll back, and she arches off the bed as you continue to thrust and make a nest for yourself inside her.

“Y/N, ungh– please, fuck—” Curled toes wrap around your back as she writhes against the bed.

With the way your cock bulges against her skin, you’re quite sure you could actually split Natasha in half. She’s clawing at your back, calling out your name to the ceiling.

When you pull out, Natasha whines, velvet walls clenching tighter around to keep you deep inside. But then you thrust all the way in again and a scream rings around your dorm room.

You don’t give a flying fuck about the noise level as you pound into Natasha, splitting open her pretty little pussy. “So fucking tight and wet,” you moan into her ear. “All for me, baby?”

It’s fucking possesive, the way you manhandle her to look at her rolled-back eyes and slack jaw.

“Mhm– yes! Oh God, yes, please, Y/N!” Natasha shrieks, clenching so tight you swear you can feel her wet pulse through the huge strap-on.

But it isn’t just any strap-on, and Natasha realises this with a breathy gasp, because it’s a squirting strap-on, and then you’re unloading into her ruined cunt with a deep growl.

Natasha wails, legs in the air, as you pump your seed into her pussy. It’s thick and flows out in pumps, and she milks your cock dry.

“Good girl, Nat,” you breathe, rocking in slow motions so she can recover from her high.

Finally, you collapse on top of Natasha as she lets out a breathy laugh. “What happened to not fucking the same girl twice?”

“You’re infuriating,” you grunt, rolling your hips once in retaliation. You delight the small victory of Natasha whimpering under you.

Natasha rolls her eyes at your impertinence, leaning up to press a small kiss on your forehead. “Infuriating? More like irresistible.”

It’s your turn to laugh, grasping her hips and pulling her impossibly closer. “You’re right,” you whisper truthfully. You think you could stay like this forever.

“Stay if you dare,” Natasha whispers, letting her hand trace over the curvature of your angled face. As you lay above her, you turn your head so that your lips brush against her palm.

Your warm lips are so delicate that Natasha could almost weep, and that’s all the response she needs before breathing a gentle sigh, hence letting sleep drift her consciousness away.

For the first night amongst many, a quiet calm settles in your dorm room ‘til the sun rises again.

***

Don’t fall for the player.

Once upon a time, that used to be a warning, circulating within the hallways of Avengers Institution, whispered under hushed breaths and divine lips.

Tried and true, was the rumour that every single girl in this school would eventually fall victim to The Player’s effortless charisma and unstoppable magnetism.

And this might be true, because whenever you strolled the hallways or scored a touchdown, you were bound to have admirers cheering your name or flirty winks thrown in your way — However, there was a catalyst. A change, if you would.

Boys looked on in jealousy, girls looked on in intrigue. (Or maybe jealousy, too.) What used to be a smooth mouth and wandering hands became a delicate kind of control, saved for only one particular student.

Gone was your blatant charisma and swagger in treating other girls, because now there was only one on your mind — Natasha Romanoff. Be it in on the bleachers, in the hallways, or during dorm parties, never were you seen without the girl who always got what she wanted.

And that included the very subject of the mantra that defined Avengers Institution:

Don’t fall for the player.

so... this was one full month of work. i've never been this dedicated to a singular project. wow. uh, please reblog. it's the only true way of supporting your little creators on this app, so help me out here. thanks for reading. out of curiosity, which part did you like the most?

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

[igotanidea]

Family rules: Damian Wayne x reader

Christmas bingo day 23 : midnight kiss

The first time she truly understood the meaning of the proverb heart over mind was on a school trip in September.

He was just standing by the wall, doing nothing except staring into space with those piercing green eyes.

Such pretty eyes

Such devilish, snake eyes.

Acting like he was who knows who.

Arrogant, cold, keeping his distant, rough, self-absorbed, not caring about anything or anyone.

Just like his father.

Damian Wayne.

***

Y/N had the misfortune of being born into a technological company family. Obviously she didn’t know it when she was a kid, but the word Wayne was inflected in her home on all occasions.

Wayne this, Wayne that...

 sort of spell or- more likely - a curse.

Damn it!

She was 12 when she gathered enough courage to ask her father what this was about. A mistake she only made once, cause even the mention of the Bruce Wayne and his famous, profitable company made her father see red.

That's how she found about the on-going competition between her father and Damian's one.

Obviously it was not like she was excluded from family rules and allowed to live in a bubble. Y/N was supposed to hate the entire Wayne family, the progenitor, his adopted kids and everyone who even came close to them. The only blood son included.

The only problem?

Said blood son was attending the same school, the same class as Y/N was. Which meant a lot of time spend together.

And you just command a teenager to do something and hope they'll listen. It's pretty much impossible, if not foolish belief.

***

In her defence - she tried.

She really tried to hate Damian.

But for five years, his name has been coming to her from every way on every occasion.

Wayne this, Wayne that.

Damn it!!

She could tear her hair out in utter desperation. How was she supposed to not think about him when all the world seemed to be dead set to remind her of his existence.

Of his stupid, unnecessary existence.

With his stupid, idiotic smile and his ridiculous handsome face and infuriating behaviour and the tendency to just be mean all the fucking time.

The internal fight between what she felt and how she acted made her clench her fist and grit her teeth every time Damian came into her view. The little bastard has been doing it on purpose just to see her flustered and enraged. It was like he was trying this best to show his superiority and just rub it into her face.

„L/N.”

„The hell you want Wayne?”

„Will you be attending this year’s New Year's Eve?”

„Will I what now?” she raised her gaze, unable to hide the confusion.

„want me to spell it out for you or something”?”

„Hm.” she muttered „I had no idea you knew how to do that Wayne.”

„I;m only telling you because I know you have problems with reading.”

„Clearly you have a problem with understanding simple things.”

„What I understand is that your father was left out when the invitations were being send. Are you finally going bankrupt”

„You little piece of-!” before she could stop herself her palm met with his cheek with a loud slap.

Shit.

He got exactly what he wanted. Provoked her and got the awaited reaction. She exposed herself, cause acting so dramatically only proved her contradictory, violent emotions he evoked in her.

„Nice one. Didn’t think you had it in you.” he wiped the little drop of blood she drew with her nails.

„Trust me I had it in me ever since you invaded the class.”

„I’ll let you make it even when you invade Wayne Manor for the party.”

„Though you said my family wasn’t invited?”

„It’s a charitable thing to open the door for the poor. I’ll see to it personally.”

„Such a generosity on your part, Mr. Wayne.” she rolled her eyes. „You can take your fake bounty and shove it up-”

„I can’t wait till you meet Todd. You two have so much in common.”

„Your older brother? Yeah, from what I heard you two have quite a rocky relationship. Maybe we’ll gang up on you.”

„Can’t wait.” Damian laughed dryly and with a mischievious glint in his eyes walked away not bothering to say another word.

***

„I;m not going.”

„You;re going.”

„I am so not going!”

„You don’t have a say in the matter!”

„Last year you said that new year’s party is not a place for kids!”

„You’re not a kid!”

„I’m 17! I;m a kid!”

„You ran away from home few months ago. You’re not a kid. You’re going. End of discussion.”

„If I’m not a kid then how come I can’t make a decision on this?” she smiled at her father with absolutely innocent eyes, pointing out all the holes in his logic.

Well-

He didn’t take her defiance in a good way.

Almost dragging her to the wayne manor, but dragging nevertheless.

***

Vomiting.

That’s how she felt entering the place,

Running away.

That’s how she felt walking up the steps and being thrown to the sharks when all the gazes landed on her and her father.

Hiding.

That’s how she felt when the gravity of being judged only based on her clothes and outlook sunk in.

Instead Y/N was forced to fake a smile, dance and do the rounds pretending to have fun.

All for the glory and good publicity of her father’s company.

Worst part?

He has been watching.

Like a predator in the darkness, waiting to strike when she was least suspecting it.

„Mr L/N.” Damian crept behind the girl and her father and she was sure he only did it on purpose to startle her. „Would you mind if I steal your daughter for a dance.

The tragicomic of the situation was truly poetic.

Her father went pale. Then red. His jaw got tense. Then loose. And then he smiled forcefully nodding his head, unable to say the dreaded yes. Apparently being torn between the devil (his daughter dancing with the son of his archenemy) and the deep blue sea (offending the host) was too much to handle.,

Too bad, Y/N had no chance to object or get away before Damian led her to the dancefloor.

„It’s not XVIth century Wayne, women can make their own decisions.” she hissed not really happy about his hands circling around her waist.

„Then run away if that’s what you want. I dare you.”

„I’m not going to make a scene here!”

„thought so.” he chuckled, capably leading her in the dance.

„what the hell is that supposed to mean!?”

„absolutely nothing.”

„I’ve known you for five years. There’s never nothing with you Damian.”

‘You used my name, Y/N.”

‘And you repeated my mistake.”

„Maybe it’s not a mistake?” he pulled her slightly closer, causing her to let out an involuntarily gasp. „I’m just saying-”

„I’m supposed to hate you.” she whispered making a turn and then a swirl

„So you don’t.” this was not a question but a statement, his hands trembling slightly. It was hard for him to keep the attitude while dealing with a whirlwind inside. He was 17 and liked a girl, having no idea how to behave to not make a fool out of himself, get embarrassed and lose in her eyes.

„don’t let it get into your head.” she whispered pressing herself closer to his body. They were dancing and it was only because of that.

„Me?” Damian smiled but it came unnoticed due to her head leaning on his shoulder „I think you’re the one who’s fantasising.”

„You sure you’re not hoping for a midnight kiss?” she mocked

„Are you?”

„no.”

„me neither.”

Bruce and f/n were carefully watching their kids.

Damian and Y/n couldn’t care less.

Family drama and conflicts seemed light years away at that moment.

 Future could be figured out later.

Part 2: moment of weakness