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iamnotoriginalphil · 7 months ago

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To Be Taught a Lesson (Professor!Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Agatha has some anger to work out. Lucky for her, you happen to be right within touching distance.

Words: 6.9k

Warnings: Student/teacher relationship, power imbalance, toxic relationship, age gap (all 18+), corruption kink if you squint, bondage, swearing, degradation, marking, vibrator, begging, jealousy, possessiveness, overstimulation, dom!Agatha, sub!R

Tags: @sasheemo @buttercandy16 @chlondykebar @toomanylesbiancouples @midnight-lestrange @babybeeelle

You were curled up on the swing on Agatha’s back porch. Large swathes of skin were on show, your legs bare despite the chill in the air. Her sweater, the cashmere one that had cost an arm and a leg, looked good on you. With your head bent over the book in your lap, hair falling forward from where it had come free from the bun you’d thrown it into that morning, sunlight hitting your body, you glowed.

She looked away from you, back to the garden. The gardener had returned, planting something for the first blush of spring. You hadn’t even seemed to notice his arrival, buried in a book you’d been pouring over for days now. She knew that book. It was achingly familiar, the leather cover and embossed letters like a dream from another lifetime.

You tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear. Her eyes followed it, lingering long after your fingers had fallen back into your lap. Your teeth were worrying at your lower lip, a move that had grown familiar over the months of watching you. Every time you read, lost in thought, working on something, those teeth would sink in and she would feel her entire body come alive. Knowing what it felt when it was her teeth had only made the entire experience worse.

She wasn’t sure you knew exactly how tempting you were. You’d wandered into that library, in that insufferable bore’s home, and she’d known she had to have you. All wide eyed innocence and desperation, you’d been delicious from the moment she’d laid eyes on you.

And then you’d proven yourself to be exceptional.

Now, knowing you, knowing your body and your soul, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to keep you. Some nights she’d watch you sleep, worn out from her ministrations, and feel her heart squeeze. It wasn’t fair, how you impacted her, the effect you had on her, and you had no idea. None. That with a single word you could bring her to her knees.

You glanced up, lips parted on a soft sigh, eyes alighting on her. Your smile was immediate, your entire being brightening, melting back into the cushions on the swing. Your foot was on the wooden slats of the porch, gentle rocking yourself, bare leg making her mouth water.

“Anything else you need, Miss Harkness?”

She snarled, turning towards the gardener lingering was at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes widened, taking a step back from her.

“No,” she replied, the eye roll obvious in her voice, “get out.”

She watched him scurry away, a sick sense of pleasure coursing through her body. She shook her hair back from her face, her finger brushing back those strands caught in the wind. When she turned back to you, it was to find sparkling eyes and a hidden smile turned in her direction. The warmth that melted through her veins left her feeling unsettled.

“Do you aim to scare everyone you cross paths with?” you asked, slowing your rocking.

“Do I scare you, pet?” she asked in return.

You shook your head, lip caught between your teeth, keeping your pretty smile from blooming over your face. You made such a nice picture, in her clothes, bruises on your skin left from her lips and her fingers, looking at her like she was the only thing you could see. She wanted to devour you, to chain you up and keep you from ever leaving, to hold you so close and so gentle that nothing ever happened to you.

She sauntered towards you, hands in pockets, staring down at you. You watched her, mouth falling open, eyes sweeping over her body. She revelled when you looked at her like that, like she was every dream you’d ever had, like you were an innocent hoping to be corrupted.

She knew you were anything but innocent.

“I could, if you liked,” she said, stopping in front of you, “would you like to be scared?”

“I’d rather get my heart rate up over something else,” you said in that way that sounded so sweet but let her now what a naughty pet you could be.

Your hand reached for her, clutching at her shirt, tugging on her until she was close enough to curl her hands around you, to seek out your bare skin, to make you shiver. She skimmed her fingertips along your leg, pausing at the hem of the sweater you were in.

“I believe this is mine,” she said, pinching it.

“You can have it back if you want,” you said, stretching your leg out in a move that had her wanting to sink her teeth into your skin, “but you’ll have to take it off me yourself.”

You had grown so much since that girl she’d first met, careful to always say the right thing, stealing glances, wanting something you thought you couldn’t have. She chuckled, running her fingertips back down your leg, luxuriating in the warm skin under her touch.

“I wouldn’t bother,” she said.

You pouted and she knew you were doing your best to tempt her.

“It looks so pretty on you. Why deny myself the pleasure of seeing you in it?” she murmured.

Your eyes brightened, your smile turning pleased. She loved when she could please you. Your gaze turned down, head dipping, hair falling into your face, hiding you from her.

“None of that, kitten,” she said, her fingers raising your chin again.

Your fingers were still clutching her shirt. When you tightened them, pulling her closer, she let you without argument, wanting it as much as you seemed to.

“Sit with me?” you asked, and she couldn’t say no to you.

Your legs shifted as she sat beside you, feet pressing into her thigh. It was like you were unable to stay away from her, to keep yourself from touching her in some way. It had been so long since someone had been so intent on her. You’d made your promises of forever, but your actions were what made her believe there was a chance they would be true. You always reached for her, the moment she was in the same room. Your eyes always turned to her. Your entire focus caught on her. It was nice to know she was the only thing you could see.

“What are you reading, kitten?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

“A manual on how to be a witch,” you replied, smile turning impish.

She could imagine you as a witch. Dancing under the moonlight with a group of women, power coursing through your veins, brewing up potions. You’d take to it like a duck to water, your natural habitat. You’d be formidable with magic running in your veins.

“The one I sent you for?” she asked, delicate as she could be.

“Rio returned it,” you said, eyes darting up to her then back down to the book in your lap.

“How kind of her.” She wasn’t trying to hide her sarcasm.

“Are you mad?” you asked.

“Not at you, kitten.”

She curled her fingers around your ankle, tugging until your foot was in her lap. With a featherlight touch, she ran her index finger along the arch of your foot. You squirmed, trying to pull out of her hold. She did it again, tightening her hold, refusing to let you go.

“Agatha,” you whined and she so loved that sound. Her name on your lips was a delight she wasn’t sure she would ever grow tired of.

“Yes, pet?” she asked, still stroking your skin.

“Tickles,” you complained.

She continued for another few moments, enjoying the way you wiggled, the noises of complaint you made, but the way you stopped trying to pull away. She wasn’t lying when she’d told you she had complete control over your body. And the best part was the way you submitted to her so easily. She loved how easily she could take control, and how easily you let it go.

She placed your foot down again, stopping the torture. Holding it in her lap, she began the rocking of the swing again. Your toes flexed against her thigh. When she looked back to you, you were watching her with such a heartbreakingly fond expression on her face. It made her want to bury herself in you.

“So have you learnt how to be a witch?” she asked rather than letting herself examine that too closely.

“Maybe,” you said, “can I try reading your palm?”

“Are you hoping to read my fortunes?” she asked, but she was already presenting her hand to you, turning her body so she was sitting crossed legged across from you. You moved your body to mirror her.

“Perhaps I just want to know if fate knows what I know,” you said, taking it in both of yours.

“And what do you know?” she asked.

You flashed her a smile.

“That our lives will be entwined forever.”

You bent your head over her palm, fingertips tracing over whatever you saw there. She let herself study you as you did, the way she had lost hours to in her office, in her bed, on her couch. Every time she found something new in your features, something new to enjoy, something new that delighted her. Your face was more familiar to her than her own, and yet she couldn’t look away.

“So there’s your life line,” you said, finger brushing her skin like she was something precious, “it’s nice and long so you’ll probably live forever.”

You glanced up at her, grinning. Her own smile was an automatic response. Your fingertips were still brushing over her palm, making her head spin.

“It says you’re vibrant and full of life. No breaks in it either so you should have good health. No need for that nurses outfit I bought then.”

Her fingers closed around yours, holding them still.

“And when did you have time to go buy a nurse outfit?” she asked.

“A few years ago for halloween,” you replied, “I got a lot of free drinks in it.”

She gritted her teeth, knowing it was irrational to be mad about any liaisons you’d had before meeting her but just the thought of anyone looking at you with lust had her blood boiling. You were hers, and if she had her way, everyone would know that. She’d have her name branded over your skin and ensure anyone who looked at you felt the fear they should. No one crossed her and no one coveted what was hers.

Not when it came to you.

“And you wanted to wear it for me?” she asked through her gritted teeth.

“I thought you might like it,” you said, looking at her through your eyelashes.

Oh, you could ruin her with just that look.

“Of course, maybe you’d prefer me in something else,” you said, “I could dress up as a witch for you if you’d like.”

“You think I’d like you to dress up for me?” she asked.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t like to see me in my sexy little outfits?”

You were playing with fire. You had to know that. And yet you kept smiling at her like you were some kind of fucking angel.

“Go back to your palm reading,” she said, rather than giving you an answer.

You lingered, eyes sparkling at her, before looking down at her palm once again. She released your wandering fingers. You began tracing her skin again.

“The head line. A nice long clear line. You’re clever, but then, everyone knows that. A brilliant mind for a brilliant woman.” Your voice was so soft, “but this curve means you’re creative.”

Your lips ticked up and she was desperate to know what you were thinking. She could have asked but the answer might shatter her.

“And there’s your fate line. It starts where your life line does, speaking to your ambition and self-confidence. It’s not very clear though, so you might not have good luck. I think.”

Your self deprecating chuckle was familiar to her in a way that made her heart skip a beat. She knew you so well.

“Your marriage line is short so you might never get married and if you do it’ll be later in life.”

She felt her breath catch.

“And then there’s your love line.” You glanced up at her again before returning back to her hand, “interesting. Very interesting.”

“What is?” she asked, surprised how much she wanted to hear your answer.

“This says you’re going to have a happy long love.” Your fingers were still stroking over her skin, “and that you’re an exceptional lover.”

“It does not,” she said but she was smiling.

“It does. Right here.”

You tilted her palm towards her, your finger running along one of the line on her palm. She looked at it, more focused on the look of your skin against hers. You stroked her palm again and tilted it back towards yourself, holding it in your lap like it was something to be treasured.

“And then hand shape matters too,” you said.

You had begun to draw patterns on her palm, and she could see the cogs working in your brain. The book was still in your lap, just underneath her hand, the image of a palm facing up towards you. She wished she had a window into your brain, that she could rifle through your thoughts the way she could through that book.

“Agatha,” you said, voice quiet and she knew you weren’t about to tell her about her hand shape.

“Yes, pet?” she asked, bracing for whatever was about to come out of your mouth.

“Who’s Wanda?”

She hadn’t braced well enough.

It was like being kicked in the gut, her breath rushing out of her. Her ribs ached and heart was squeezing hard. It was as if her vision was tunnelling, focused on that one point of contact between you, her hand and yours and that damned book. She should have never sent you to go get it.

“Where did you get that name?” she asked, her voice not sounding her own.

You flinched back, hands dropping hers and you looked up at her. Your wide eyed innocence wasn’t what she wanted to see.

“Rio. She said… she said I should know what happened,” you said.

“She had no right,” she snarled.

Her anger propelled her out of the swing, leaving you behind as she tried to get a handle on the emotions coursing through her body. You stayed behind, giving her space, not drawing closer the way you often did.

“Is she why you hate Rio?” you asked.

“No,” she said, “that’s a different issue entirely.”

The swing creaked. She couldn’t look at you, not when there was still so much anger in her. If she did she might break you, irreversibly, and just the thought of destroying you had her seizing with panic. So it was better she continued looking out over her garden rather than face you.

“Why can’t you tell me?”

Her eyes squeezed shut, not liking how lost you sounded. There was so much you didn’t understand, so much she hadn’t told you. It wasn’t lying. It wasn’t. She’d been waiting.

She’d had to be sure you wouldn’t be like Wanda.

“Is it really that bad?” you asked.

“Does it matter?”

She turned to you. You’d pulled your knees up, curling your arms around your legs, chin resting on top. Watching her with those big sad eyes that she was certain could get her to do anything, you were so solemn. Her fingers clenched at her side, fighting against the impulse to reach out.

“She was your student, right?” you asked, “I know there were others, that I’m not the first.”

“Rio shouldn’t have told you that,” she said.

“I’m glad she did. I want to know,” you said.

She turned her face away from you, leaning back against the railing.

“And it doesn’t matter. Because I know I’ll be the last one.”

Her head snapped towards you. You were still watching her, so serious, and so perfect. She had no idea how something so lovely had landed in her lap.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Just that I plan on never letting you go. No one will come after me. This is it. And if you’re not okay with that I don’t really give a fuck. I’ll convince you if you’re not but there will never be anyone else for me but you,” you said, so fierce. Fire ran through your veins and it left her breathless.

She should have never doubted you.

“Wanda was my student ten years ago. The last student I mentored. I fell in love and she didn’t. When she graduated, and she graduated top of her class under my guidance, she took something from me. The book I’d been working on. She took it and when I confronted her about it she threatened to go to the administration about our relationship,” she said, the secrets finally spilling forth, “last I heard she was married with twin boys. Rio made sure to keep me abreast of her situation.”

“Agatha,” you sighed.

She hated the pity in your voice. Shaking her head, she turned back to the garden.

“She took everything from me. She’s the reason my career has stagnated for so long. I can’t move forward with my research without her destroying me and it feels unfinished so I can’t move on to something new,” she said.

The swing creaked again. She couldn’t bear to look at you, to see the pity she knew would be swimming in your eyes. There was a reason she hadn’t told you. Any weakness couldn’t be shown. She was strong and capable and there were no chinks in her armour. No chance of hurting her.

Arms curled around her body, tugging her towards a warm body. Your chin hooked over her shoulder, tightening your arms around her.

“You didn’t deserve that,” you said, voice soft, but there was steel there.

“No, I didn’t,” she replied.

“I’ll curse her for you,” you offered, “make it so she can’t even say your name.”

“Don’t tempt me, kitten.”

You nuzzled against her neck, lips brushing over her skin. She lent back, letting you hold her up. Pressing a kiss to her skin, you hummed. She let out a long breath, fingers twining through yours.

“Whatever you want, I’ll do it,” you murmured into her neck.

You’d been nothing but good to her. So sweet and so pliable and so accommodating. You were a literal dream for her.

So why was her stomach still roiling?

“Rio had no right to bring this up with you,” she said after a moment of silence.

“She’s had no right to do any of it,” you said.

She spun in your arms, slow as she thought over what she wanted. Mostly, she needed an outlet for her anger and there were no little students around to bear the brunt of it. No, all she had was you.

“You should have walked away when she tried to talk to you,” she said.

“Agatha, she had me pinned to a tree,” you said, fingers gently brushing her hair away from her face.

That was a bit of information you’d failed to mention when reporting back to her.

“She did?” Her fingers caught your chin, forcing you to look at her, “was she flirting with you?”

“Maybe.”

Her hold on you tightened. You shifted your weight from foot to foot but you didn’t try to pull away from her. Your lips parted and you were a picture of temptation.

“You don’t know? Or you don’t want to tell me the truth?” she asked, voice lowering.

You were close enough she could feel you shiver.

“I don’t think she was serious about it,” you said.

“You don’t know her like I do,” she said, “such a pretty little thing like you? She could never resist.”

“I’m not that irresistible,” you laughed.

You had no idea.

“Oh my sweet kitten.” Her nails dug in to your skin, “such a good girl. So innocent. You’re a siren call to her. You are everything that tempts her.”

“I’m not that innocent,” you pouted.

“You’re right. She doesn’t know what a naughty pet you can be.”

She spun the two of you, pressing your back into the railing. You gasped and your eyes widened. That was the innocent look she was talking about. It was the one that would drive Rio wild if she saw it. But if anyone was going to corrupt you, it was going to be her.

“Agatha,” you said, voice small and desperate and so delicious she wanted to drown in it.

“But she can’t have you, can she, pet?” she asked, tipping your chin up.

“No,” you said.

“Because you belong to me, don’t you, pet?” she asked.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Then go be a good girl and wait for me on the bed.”

She let you go and stepped back. You lingered a moment, staring into her face, before you scrabbled away, rushing to follow her orders. She watched you, something dark curling through her veins. You paused, looking back at her over your shoulder, her sweater clinging to your curves. With a sly smile, you ran up the stairs, bare legs flashing.

You were in so much trouble.

She flicked the cover of the book closed, wrinkling her nose at the entire thing. Throwing it onto the kitchen counter, she was not being careful with it. If Rio was going to plant a reminder of her presence in her home, she wasn’t going to treat it with any kind of reverence. No, that would be kept all for you.

You were kneeling in the middle of her bed, the sweater pooling around the top of your thighs, hair loose. Teeth were worrying at your lower lip and your eyes were bright. You’d tugged the sleeves over your hands, looking the picture of innocence. You’d understood exactly what she wanted.

She was never letting you go.

“Look at you, following instructions for me,” she murmured, stepping into the room proper.

“Anything for you,” you said.

Her fingertips ghosted over the apple of your cheeks, looking down on you. Your eyes watched her from under lowered lashes, blinking as she let herself touch you. You were so plaint beneath her fingers.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked, eyes sweeping over your body.

“Whatever you want,” you replied, sounding so breathless she’d be worried if she didn’t know it was all an act to excite her.

“That’s right, pet. I’ll do whatever I want to you and that pretty pussy between your thighs,” she said.

You made such a wonderful little noise. Leaning down, she let her breath ghost over your lips, grinning when you tipped your face up, straining towards her. She shoved you back, your back hitting the mattress. Crawling over your body, she felt you squirm.

“Are you wet, pet?” she asked.

“Uh huh,” you said.

“Are you making a mess on my cashmere sweater?” she asked.

You made another small noise. Her fingers dipped down, feeling how wet you were, seeking out evidence of you dripping onto her very expensive sweater. She already had a plan of how to punish you for it.

She grinned.

“Would you look at that,” she murmured, “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me.”

“Want you, Agatha,” you whined.

“You’re always such a desperate little thing. I bet you’d let anyone fuck you if they could get you off,” she said.

“No, no, only you,” you said.

“Don’t lie to me, pet. When Rio had you pinned to that tree I bet you were gagging to have her knuckles deep inside of you. If she offered you’d jump at the chance. You’re such a desperate little slut you don’t care who it is as long as it feels good,” she said, fingers featherlight as they ran through your folds.

“Only you,” you whimpered again, hips bucking into her hand as you tried to urge her on.

“I bet you got yourself off to the feeling of her pinning you to that tree. Was that why you came home so desperate for me? You got down on your knees right there in the kitchen for me because she left you all riled up. Should I send her a thank you note for sending you home in such a state?” she asked, watching you while her fingers brushed over your clit.

“Agatha,” you moaned, fingers clenching in her sheets.

“Or maybe I should offer her a go with you? A nice thank you for all the pleasure I’ve gotten from you. I’m sure you’d enjoy that,” she said, knowing she was being mean but not caring.

“No,” you moaned.

“No you wouldn’t enjoy that? Because I think you would. I think you’re such a slut it doesn’t matter who you’re in bed with. You don’t discriminate as long as they can fuck you good and proper,” she said, “you’re nothing but a dirty whore.”

“Agatha,” you whimpered.

She removed her hand from between your legs, forcing her fingers between your lips. You lapped at her skin, licking away the mess you’d made, sucking on them until your cheeks hollowed. You were watching her, such heat in your eyes it made her feel on fire.

She drew them from between your lips, wiping them dry on the sweater still encasing your body. With swift hands, she tugged it off your body, throwing it aside. Completely bare before her, all she could think of was the way you’d been sauntering around the house all morning like that. Nothing but a thin sweater between her and your body. You were such a little tease, knowing exactly what it would do to her.

“Parading yourself around in front of the gardener like that, I bet you would have let him take you right there on the lawn,” she said, “I bet you would have liked it if I’d watched.”

“There’s no one but you,” you whispered.

She scoffed but her hands were busy on your skin, feeling how soft it was beneath her touch. You arched into her, presenting yourself so beautifully for her. Fingers pinched at your nipples, watching the way your eyes slid closed, lips parting in a soft sigh. You knew how to drive her wild, to tempt her into losing control.

She would not be losing control.

With a strong grip, she manoeuvred you further up the bed. Catching both of your wrists, she lent over the top of you, securing them above your head. You tugged on them, your bonds, finding them unforgiving. Agatha grinned down at you.

“No chance of you slipping away to one of those other beds you warm now. Maybe I’ll leave you tired up here for days, use you to my heart’s content until you’re all fucked out,” she mused, finger tips brushing down your body.

She paused on your nipples, flicking them. You hissed, arching up into her touch, looking at her from under hooded eyelids. That was the look of her pet who thought she was going to get exactly what she wanted. The kind who thought she could get what she wanted by pouting her pretty lips and doing what she was told. The kind that thought she was a good girl.

How wrong you were.

It wasn’t until you were squirming on the mattress, your nipples pinched between her fingers, that she considered what she should do to you first. Spread out for her, bare to her gaze, you were the most beautiful view. She licked a long strip between your breasts.

“You’re so easy, pet. You’d let anyone tie you up like this,” she murmured into your skin.

You shook your head, whimpering when she harshly twisted one of your nipples. You were always so responsive to her, just a sweet little thing for her, just as she knew you would be that first time she laid eyes on you. Every part of you yearned to please her and you’d never made a secret of that fact. It alway sent a thrill through her.

“Should I keep you right here? Never let you escape?” she asked.

“Please,” you begged, “keep me forever.”

Her nose brushed along the soft curve of your breast, lips pressing to your skin. Your spine arched, offering yourself up to her. Such a good pet. Her teeth sunk in, your gasp gratifying. She wanted to see her teeth marks for days to come, your body marked as hers. She’d collar you, her name burned into your skin, make it clear to anyone who so much as glanced at you who you belonged to.

“You are rather beautiful,” she murmured, “I can’t blame them all for wanting you.”

Your fingers clenched around nothing, hips shifting on the mattress. Straddling you, she could see the way your eyes were beginning to glaze over, lips parted as you watched her, breathing growing faster under her hands.

“Who wouldn’t want you?” she asked, still gazing down on you.

She ran her hands down your body, leaving your breasts behind. Your skin was so warm against her palms. She could spend forever touching you and it would never be enough.

“You’re entirely too temping, pet. You have no idea what you do to me,” she said.

“Agatha,” you whimpered, “please.”

“Let me taste you.”

She slipped down your body, strong hands pulling your thighs apart. You were glistening in the afternoon light, so beautiful for her, and all for her. She lingered, drinking in the moment, wanting to feel the power she held.

Burying herself between your legs, she let herself taste you. She would never grow tired of that taste, the way you always exhaled softly, the cant of your hips towards her mouth. You never made it a secret how much you wanted her, how good she made you feel, how much you desired her. Even when she wasn’t between your legs, you desired her. Every single part of her. Even the bits she wasn’t always sure about.

Her fingers dug in as she held your legs open, wider than she knew was comfortable for you, but she didn’t care. She was made to fit between them and she would do what she wanted to get closer. You let out a shuddery breath, hips bucking into her mouth.

Her tongue teased you, grin hidden when you moaned her name. If only all those other stuffy professors could see her good girl, tied up and desperate for her touch. They would be shocked how dirty you could be. That wide eyed innocence was nothing but an act and just knowing she brought out this side of you with so little work was such a turn on.

You were begging her, a constant stream of words. You were writhing against the mattress, hips pressing closer to her. Her lips wrapped around your clit, that wonderful bundle of nerves that had you turning into a babbling mess. She dragged her eyes up your body, finding you watching her already. She flushed, loving being watched by you. Your eyes were the only ones she wanted on her, and just a glance from you could turn her breathless. A lovestruck fool. That’s what you’d turned her into.

It was pathetic.

She stopped going easy on you, turning rough again. This was all your fault. You encouraged everyone to become enamoured with you. She watched the way people looked at you when you walked across campus with her. They feared her but they were drawn to you. And the worst of it was you clearly didn’t realise it.

She wanted to snarl at the crowds of people who looked at you like you were something to covet. Like they wanted you. Like they could have you.

She had to teach you to stop encouraging them.

You cried out her name and she realised without even planning it, she’d made you cum. She’d been distracted, missing it. Too bad for you. You’d just have to go again. And she wouldn’t be stopping until she’d drunk her fill.

You whimpered, straining against your bonds, but you didn’t try and get away from her. She’d trained you so well. You took everything she gave, no questions asked.

She watched the way pleasure played over your face. It was a heady feeling, knowing she was the cause of that. She gave you no time to catch your breath, wanting to watch you. She was greedy, she knew it, but why bother denying herself when she knew you weren’t going to complain. Your legs were trembling, and your breathing was unsteady.

She loved the way you moaned her name.

Your body tensed, hips rising to meet her mouth. She lapped at you, refusing to miss a drop. You whimpered, a soft mewling noise, trying to move your hips away from her. Her hands only held you tighter, bruising your pretty skin, wanting more. She always wanted more of you.

“Agatha,” you pleaded, “it’s too much.”

“It’s too much when I say it’s too much,” she said.

But, looking at your face, the way you were wriggling, the squirming, she sat back on her haunches. And even so, you made a pained noise when she stopped touching you.

You watched her as she got off the bed. Her eyes swept over your body, lingering as she thought about all the things she wanted from you. She ran her fingertips along the arch of your foot, enjoying the way you squirmed.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised.

She considered her collection of toys. She had her favourites but now it was about you. Plucking one up, she turned to you. You were watching her from under hooded eyes, hair sticking to your temple, legs pressed together again. A smirk stretched over her face.

“Come on, pet. Show me how pretty your pussy is,” she said.

You parted your legs again, welcoming her back to her rightful place. The buzz of the vibrator in her hand had your breath hitching.

“Agatha,” you said.

“I know you can do better than that. You’re usually so insatiable. Don’t tell me you don’t want this,” she tutted.

When she pressed the vibrator between your legs, a strangled groan came from your lips. Your hips were already rising to meet it, squirming as you rolled against it. She held it there, watching you rut against her like the animal you were. All those crowds of people had no idea you were such a desperate little slut. That you would do anything to get your orgasm.

That you would do anything to get her to give you an orgasm.

She lent forward, capturing one nipple between her lips. She was harsh with you, refusing to be gentle, to go easy on you. This was what you deserved, welcoming Rio into your life to flirt and stir up trouble. That woman would never do this to you. She’d make sure of it.

You were arching up into her mouth, giving her everything. There was no chance anyone else was ever going to have you like this. No one else deserved to see you like this. This was only for her.

The noise you made was music to her ears. It only made her press the toy against you harder. You were whimpering above her, shuddering, tugging on your bonds. She let her teeth sink in to your skin, tasting you, ignoring the way you whined.

Your legs were pushing together, her hand caught between them. Tutting, she sat up again. Leaving the vibrator between your legs, she shuffled down the mattress. Catching one ankle, she tugged it towards the corner of the bed, securing it in place. You were looking at her with big pleading eyes but she ignored you, doing the same with the other ankle. You were spread out for her, swollen and dripping, making a mess of the sheets.

“No point complaining now, pet. You’re the desperate little slut willing to do anything for an orgasm. I’m just giving you exactly what you want. You don’t get to decide how many you get. Just be thankful I’m so willing to indulge you,” she said.

You made such a small noise, soft and sweet and so pathetic it made her grin. She swept her fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness. Her tongue dragged up her finger before sliding it between her lips. Her other hand found the vibrator again, pressing it to your clit, harsh, unrelenting, forcing you to feel more.

Even as you made those noises your hips kept rolling against the vibrator, grinding against it. It was like you couldn’t help it. Even when it was too much you wanted more.

She wouldn’t survive losing you.

Your back arched up off the mattress, almost bowing in half. Her name was barely intelligible on your lips but she knew. You only saw her. She was the only one to you. And she was going to make sure it stayed that way.

She slipped between your legs again, needing to taste you again. You whimpered but you didn’t argue this time. You were so well trained.

She lavished attention on you, tasting deeper, her tongue teasing at your entrance. Your eyes were squeezed closed but she could see the tear slipping down into your hair.

“Come on, pet. You can give me one more, can’t you?” she asked.

You nodded your head. She sucked a bruise into the skin over your hip, knowing she’d want to see it later. Returning to your throbbing core, she let her tongue penetrate you, licking deeper. She wanted to feel it this time.

When your internal muscles clenched and you made a broken noise above her, she knew. Turning off the vibrator in her hand, she tossed it aside, pressing a chaste kiss to your swollen clit. You shifted your hips away, but it was sluggish.

She was gentle as she moved down your legs, untying you. Her hands were soft as they stroked over your skin. Pressing soft kisses to your skin, she climbed up your body. She tugged the bonds off your wrists, lowering your arms. Your wrists were rubbed raw, bruises already forming on your skin. You shuffled closer to her, boneless and graceless, letting her rub the circulation back to your hands.

“You did so well for me,” she murmured.

You mumbled something, too quiet for her to hear. She pressed kisses to the top of your head, keeping you resting against her body. Her fingers ran through your hair, untangling the knots she knew she’d caused.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she said after a while.

“‘Kay,” you said, sounding so tired.

She lingered in the doorway for a moment, gazing down at you. You were so soft and malleable, worn out from everything she’d put you through. She would happily spend the rest of her life seeing you like this.

You were everything she’d ever wanted. She ached with it, how much she wanted you. Not even just sexually. It was everything about you that she wanted at all times of the day. Even the few times you weren’t with her, she missed you. It was ruining her.

You were ruining her.

With a warm flannel she cleaned you up, careful with your body. You let her, so pliable in this state. She pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your knee, nose nuzzling at your skin. You giggled, quiet, a little slurred. She tossed the flannel aside and crawled back up to you.

Her arms curled around you, letting you sprawl over her chest. You pressed your face into the crook of her neck, your breath ghosting over her skin. She trailed her fingertips up and down your spine, feeling you melt against her.

“No one even comes close to comparing to you,” she whispered, not sure if you could hear her.

Your lips brushed against her skin and you let out a soft sigh. She tightened her arms around you, refusing to let go. You burrowed closer, needy for her. She kept pressing kisses to your hairline, listening to your breathing, stroking your skin.

“Do you really think I’m irresistible?” you asked after some time had passed.

“You have no idea,” she replied.

You made a pleased little sound, wiggling closer.

“You know it doesn’t matter because no one will ever replace you, right?” you asked.

“I know,” she said, and it was so easy to believe it.

Your head tilted up and she felt you kiss the underside of her jaw. She threaded her fingers through yours, holding your hand.

“You know, you never finished reading my palm,” she said, looking down at your joined hands.

“What?” You sounded so sweetly confused.

“You said hand shape matters. So what hand shape do I have, kitten?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.” You tilted your chin up to look her in the face, “as long as we’re together you’re going to have a wonderful life.”

Maybe you could read the future because that sounded accurate to her. With you by her side, the future looked so much brighter than she ever could have expected. She couldn’t wait to experience it with you.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness #agatha all along

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objectheadzine · 3 months ago

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Object Head Zine 2025, Fantasy and Magic Preorders are now Open! Preorders will last until April 22nd, 11:59pm PST.

Thank you all for your patience, I hope you're as excited as I am for the 2025 Object Head Zine preorders! Click on the link in this paragraph to go to the Kofi where this is hosted. We got:

A book that's 164 pages long filled with comics, illustrations, and work-in-progress sketches. Features a painted edge and embossed cover!

3 vinyl stickers (1 glow in the dark, 2 holo) [1000 Dead Draculas, CHRISQI, and Bunnii]

A 25-piece bag of wax seal stickers (5 different designs) [Dr. Jingles, Solaire, Izu/Potentialforart, nauma, and Juliette GMM López]

A metal bookmark featuring the zine mascots with a gold tassel [Izu/Potentialforart]

2 lenticular bookmarks [Blacklimes and Guillermo Saavedra]

3 acrylic charms (1 gold flake, 2 holo) [Jeong/dunesand, planetsandmagic, and Tien]

3 heat sensitive prints (use a hairdryer or a hot surface for best effect!) [Yulia "Mikh-na" Abdulkhakova, cowsaresushi, and R-GIE]

5 Holographic prints [Kai_QS, koloquials, siins, Corruptimles, and SkyShard]

A cute 1.5" purple chrome enamel pin! [hello*today]

Our wonderful artists are:

Izu/Potentialforart, Kimberly Wang, Louise Kay Uy | Kalkie, Jeong/dunesand, theholeyness, Blacklimes, Autumn Haynes, hello*today, Juliette GMM López, Betney, Hal (Cacoethic) + Len (Critterature), KIDSID, Vetiverfox, Caitlin Ono, Inktrashing, nauma, Pastachyan, Kosse, CORVIDAY, krispy, JOU, PigDemonArt, CHRISQI, R-GIE, Kai_QS, SkyShard, Feefal, Bunnii, 1000 Dead Draculas, Nisnow, Derek Hetrick, Madame RinRin, Rainboopz, koloquials, Kaz Fantone, Andrea C./punkoz, Iris, Andrhomeda, Skylar Valencia, Den_Ai_D, TK Pinkerton, Guillermo Saavedra, Nighto, June Flores, Sarah Skrutskie, bluequills, april, Nikru, corruptimles, Jara Draws, ZOOT, siins, Nullcasting, Dr.Jingles, Solaire, arcadechan, planetsandmagic, Poofylion, cowsaresushi, AKIRATA, Tien, Mangozic, Mina Martinez, Lemonjuiceday, Jackarais, K_Duffles, Yulia "Mikh-na" Abdulkhakova, Winiberto J. Garcia + Tango, Jenny Park, cosmicloak

#object head #object heads #object head zine #objecthead #objectheads #異形頭

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hyorijie · 4 months ago

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Sorry, I fucked your wife. | Alastor x Reader

Warnings Infidelity, reader is married to a sinner on the rise , before Alastor's disappearance, P in v, Obscenity, overstimulation, Alastor is an idiot, sexual tension, possessiveness, Breeding kink, aftercare, Your husband and Alastor are friends (not for long). Summary Alastor has always been a demon of umpredictable whims, but this time... his interest has gone too far. A beautiful doe has completely captured his attention, there´s just one small catch: She´s married. Of corse, that would be a problem... if Alastor cared...

In the comfort of your home, you glided swiftly over the drink bar, most of the time you didn't drink, but right now the situation warranted it. Your husband had been gone for days and the loneliness consumed you like a slow and cruel disease.

The faint sound of music in the background relaxed your tense muscles a little, a sigh left your lips as you stroked one of your shoulders with the intention of releasing the accumulated tension.

Again you took a sip from the glass, the drink pierced your throat with a warm welcoming burn. Again, you were feeling hot, something very normal from wine.

Your gaze immediately went to the table, where rested that mysterious envelope that your husband had left on his desk, why had he left it that way?

You put the wine glass aside and the base of the glass clinked against the surface.

You walked a little disorientedly to the envelope, you saw that it was open. Curiously you reached out your hand gently until you reached the envelope, your fingers checked the embossing, while your eyes scanned the scarlet seal that stood out against the paper.

Before you could fully recognize the seal it bore, the sound of the door being knocked made you jump in place and let go of the envelope. The paper fell onto the desk and one of your hands went to your chest.

— Shit, who the fuck is that? — You growl to yourself squinting your eyes, cursing under your breath at whoever is behind the door.

With obvious annoyance, you walk towards the door, the moment you opened it, the heat seemed to shoot through your body from surprise.

— Greetings, my dear! May I have an audience with your husband at this time? — The voice that came from him was tainted with too much static, Alastor, your husband's partner was standing in front of you with a wide grin that almost forced you to return it.

You looked him up and down, hoping he wasn't real at this precise moment. But one of his eyebrows rose curiously.

You pulled yourself together immediately shaking your head.

— I'm afraid he won't be able to attend to the request, he's out.— you answered with a superhuman effort, praying to any deity that your voice wouldn't be slurred or cut off by the effect of the drink.

You took a discreet breath, trying to hold your ground as you watched Alastor, who was still smiling with that sly expression that got on your nerves.

— As I told you, he's not here. You'd better come back another time. — you repeated with a slight nod, hoping he'd take the hint and turn around.

But instead, the demon cocked his head to one side and let out a short chuckle, as if you had just told him a charming joke. Before you could react, he took a step forward and, with overflowing confidence, crossed the threshold of your house without waiting for an invitation.

— Oh, my dear, how inconsiderate it would be of me to make you spend the night alone in this storm out there. — he said in a falsely mournful tone.

You looked over your shoulder and, to your misfortune, the sky was still overflowing with disaster. You pursed your lips, holding back the urge to yell at him to get out immediately. However, Alastor was your husband's partner, and the last thing you wanted was to create unnecessary trouble.

With a restrained sigh, you closed the door behind him, turning around with your arms crossed.

— May I ask why you are still here if you already know my husband is not here? — you ask in a dry tone.

Alastor had already settled into one of the lounge seats, as casually as a cat would take over someone else's house. His eyes, lively and attentive, lingered on the glass of wine on the table.

— Well, let's just say I couldn't miss the opportunity to chat with you. After all, we're hardly ever alone. —he replied with a playful air. Then he narrowed his eyes with a spark of amusement.— Although… I dare say it's not the best night for a serious conversation.

A shiver of embarrassment ran down your spine.

— Don't imply nonsense. — you said quickly, in a tone that was meant to be firm, but sounded more like a weak defense.

Alastor let out a light laugh and leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee.

— Oh, honey, don't take this the wrong way. We all have days like that. And if you're going to drink, what better than to do it in good company. — he said with his wide, impertinent grin.— Although, if I'm honest, I'm more of a whiskey man… but I wouldn't turn down a glass of wine if you'd be so kind as to share.

You pursed your lips, trying not to show your frustration. The last thing you wanted was to prolong his stay, but you couldn't be dismissive of someone so close to your husband either.

Resigned, you took the bottle and poured one more glass, pushing it to him with a light tap on the table.

—Here it is.

Alastor took it gracefully and raised it slightly in your direction.

— Here's to an interesting evening. — he gleamed with a glint of mischief in his eyes before lifting the wine to his lips.

You just watched, wondering, not for the first time, what the hell this Overlord was still doing in your house.

The bottle of wine was nearly empty.

You didn't know exactly at what point you stopped wishing Alastor would leave. Perhaps it was after the third glass, when the conversation stopped feeling invasive and began to feel… intriguing.

He spoke with a magnetic eloquence, with the ease of someone who had seen and understood more than he would ever admit. And you, with the warmth of the wine in your system, found yourself increasingly caught up in his words.

— It's amazing how little humans understand about true ancient magic.— Alastor commented, twirling his glass between his fingers with an almost lazy air.— Always wanting to pigeonhole it into books, rituals, symbols… but magic is not something that is locked into written rules. It's a living art, a contract between the one who invokes it and the one who responds.

Your eyes sparkled with interest. You had been trying for months to decipher certain fragments of forgotten spells, but the lack of results had begun to frustrate you.

— So, according to you, the key is not in the exact words, but in the intention behind them. — you said, leaning slightly towards him without realizing it.

Alastor looked you in the eye, as if amused to see you so absorbed.

— Exactly, my dear. It's like a conversation… only with entities that may or may not be in the mood to listen to you.

You let out a short, somewhat carefree laugh.

—And what do you suggest? That I sweeten their ears?

— Oh, some require it. Others, on the other hand, prefer a demonstration of power.— he shrugged.— But everyone, without exception, responds better to someone who knows what they want.

That last sentence left a chill on your skin, though you didn't know if it was because of his words or the way his eyes bore into yours with that brazen intensity.

You ignored him, or at least tried to, taking another sip from your glass.

— You speak as if you know from experience.

— Let's say I've had my encounters with the forbidden.— your tone became lower, more intimate. — But, my dear… What exactly do you want most?

Something about his question made you flinch. Not in the literal sense of magic, but in what he was suggesting with his velvety voice and indecipherable smile.

You tried to deflect the conversation, but then he changed the subject as lightly as he was moving his glass.

— Your husband has been gone quite a while, hasn't he?

You didn't expect that turn of phrase.

— What's that got to do with it?

— Nothing in particular… just that it must be difficult. — he cocked his head, looking at you with mock innocence.— Such a big home, so much silence. I'm surprised you haven't gone crazy with loneliness.

You pursed your lips, unwilling to acknowledge that he was right. Instead, you snorted with a sarcastic smile.

— You'd be surprised how well I get along with myself.

Alastor let out a laugh, one that rocked you without you expecting it.

— Oh, I'm sure you can entertain yourself very well, my dear. But even your own company can become… unsatisfying over time.

You choked slightly on the wine - had he meant it that way, or were you beginning to read too much into his words and that had another meaning?

You looked away, trying to concentrate on the bottle. It was almost empty, and in your head the atmosphere felt thicker, warmer.

But then something caught your attention.

Alastor was still perfectly composed. While you felt the heaviness in your eyelids, the slight tingle on your skin, he didn't seem the least bit affected.

You frowned.

— It hasn't had any effect on you at all, has it?

He blinked, feigning surprise.

— Me? Ah, my dear, wine doesn't have much impact on me. Not like it does on you.

He pointed to your empty glass with a lopsided smile, and you suddenly realized how vulnerable you might seem at that moment.

Your body was relaxed, maybe too relaxed. Your judgment, perhaps a little numb.

And Alastor, with his bright gaze and smirk, seemed fully aware of it.

Alastor set his glass down on the table with a casual motion, but his eyes never left you.

— It must be difficult.— he said, picking up the conversation as if he had never changed the subject.— Your husband, with all his ambition… making ever greater strides up the hierarchy of Hell.

You straightened up in your seat, leaning your elbows on the table as if that would help you keep your composure.

— It's what he always wanted.— you replied, trying to make your voice sound firm.

— Mmm, no doubt.— Alastor tilted his head, his smile barely perceptible. — He has determination. Firm convictions. He knows what he wants and will do what it takes to get it.

Anyone else would have taken those words as flattery. But you notice the tension in his voice.

You watch him more closely.

The way his lips seemed to twist slightly, as if he was pronouncing the words with more effort than necessary. If you knew him well, you would have said he was having trouble admitting it.

— He's loyal. — he added after a brief pause.— A valuable colleague.

You looked at him carefully.

— Yes… he's always been like that.— You smiled, a tinge of nostalgia in your voice. — He was a man of principle even when we were alive. He wasn't always this calculating strategist you know. He used to be… different.

— Different? — Alastor raised an eyebrow curiously.

— More… human. — you said, almost without thinking. — Passionate, but not just about power. He used to laugh more, used to care more about the little things. It wasn't just ambition. There was much more love in him.

Alastor let out a short, almost inaudible laugh. But something in his eyes darkened.

And then, without warning, he asked.

— Do you really love him?

The air left your lungs.

Alastor slowly sat up, setting his glass down on the table gently, as if the conversation wasn't about to cross a dangerous line. He took a couple of steps toward you, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze locked on yours.

— After all this time… after all he's changed… do you still love him? — he insisted, his voice lower, more enveloping.

You opened your mouth, but the words got stuck in your chest. You didn't expect that question. You didn't expect him to ask it that way.

Your heart was pounding, you no longer knew whether from the wine or from Alastor's closeness.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting for an answer.

But you… you weren't sure what it was.

The silence that followed his question was dense, suffocating. But the burn of the wine in your system gave you enough courage to frown, feigning indignation, even as a part of you was still trying to process what you'd just heard.

— What kind of question is that? — you let out with a dry laugh, as if the very idea was ridiculous.— Of course I love him.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, his expression barely changed, but his smile… faltered. Just for an instant.

— Yes? — He said in an almost casual tone. — Because you don't seem very convinced.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, he tilted his head thoughtfully and continued in his usual silky voice.

— But now that you say it… I find it interesting. You say you love him, but when you talk about him, you mean how he used to be. Not how he is now.

Discomfort settled in your chest.

— That has nothing to do with it. — you quickly rebutted.

— No? — Alastor let out a small laugh, not taking his eyes off you.— I'd say it does. I'd say what you're feeling isn't love, my dear… it's nostalgia. Habit.

The way he said it, so confidently, as if he knew it better than you did, made you boil inside.

— And what the hell do you know about me? About my marriage? — you shot back harshly, standing up with a sharp movement.

Alastor didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, as if evaluating every detail of your reaction.

And then, without warning, he moved one hand fluidly, sliding it down your side until it rested on your waist.

The contact was an unexpected jolt of electricity. Not just because of the boldness, but because of the ease with which he did it. As if he had always had the right.

You gasped in surprise, your muscles tensing, but before you could react, Alastor applied firm pressure and pulled you to him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

For the first time all night, you looked directly into his eyes.

And what you saw made something inside you curl into a dangerous mix of fear and anticipation.

Hunger.

Desire.

Possession.

A look you hadn't felt on you in a long time.

Your pulse hammered against your neck, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But Alastor didn't move, just held your waist securely, leaning in just barely, as if waiting, as if savoring the moment.

— Tell me I was wrong. — he whispered, his voice vibrating in the air between you.— Say it's not homesickness you feel.

His closeness burned you. His presence filled everything.

But worst of all…you didn't know how to respond.

The air felt thicker, charged with something you weren't sure you wanted to name.

Your throat went dry, and when you tried to respond, your words came out slow, hesitant, as if each syllable would need to be precisely measured to avoid crossing a dangerous line.

— I… that has nothing to do…— you began, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

But Alastor wouldn't let you continue.

— When was the last time? — His voice dropped to a low, velvety tone, vibrant with that characteristic static of his. — The last time you felt loved. That you felt wanted.

His grip on your waist remained firm, a pressure intense enough to remind you that you were trapped in his orbit.

— When was the last time you experienced something real? Something that would make you feel alive?

You gasped, not only at his words, but because his voice reverberated through the air, sending a shiver down your spine.

No. You couldn't let it go on.

With both arms outstretched, you levered against his chest, trying to push him away from you. But it was like pushing against an immovable wall.

Alastor didn't even flinch.

Your frustration grew, and with it, anger.

— That doesn't concern you! — You snapped, glaring at him angrily.— Who the hell do you think you are to interrogate me like that? Your insolence is colossal!

But he just smiled.

Worse… he began to walk slowly forward.

And you, with no other choice, started backing away.

— You're not telling me because you don't even remember the answer, are you? — He continued, his every word pushing you further and further back.— Because you've spent so much time convincing yourself that you love a ghost from the past, you haven't even stopped to think about how you feel now.

— Stop it! — you demanded, but he didn't stop.

— Tell me… do you really think he still looks at you the way I do now?

His tone was a direct hit to your chest.

And then you felt it. The bar counter crashed against your back.

There was no more room to back up.

Alastor leaned in slightly, just enough so that his face was mere inches from yours, his smile now sharper.

— You know the answer. — he whispered, his fingers barely gliding over the fabric of your clothes, causing your skin to tingle again.— You just don't want to admit it.

Your breathing quickened. Your mind screamed a warning, but your body refused to move.

Because for the first time in a long time… you felt something you couldn't ignore.

The silence between you was almost deafening, broken only by the ragged breathing you tried unsuccessfully to regulate.

But you couldn't let him be in control. You couldn't let Alastor think he could push you wherever he wanted.

So you inhaled deeply and let the question slip out in a sharp, direct, blunt tone.

— Since when? — You blurted out suddenly.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, his smile barely twitching, but the spark of interest in his eyes flared brighter.

— Since when, my dear?

You looked at him sternly, your back still pressed against the bar counter.

— Since when did you have me in your sights. Since when did you plan all this. Since when did I become an object of desire for the radio demon himself.

For a moment, his smile widened in a way that made you feel as if you had fallen into his trap without realizing it.

— Clever. — He murmured, his voice vibrating with dangerous satisfaction. — Of course, it wasn't hard for you to notice.

Before you could move, his hand slid with precision to your chin, grasping it firmly and forcing you to look directly at him.

His touch was not rough, but relentless.

— The truth… I don't know for sure.— he admitted, his tone lower, more enveloping.— But I do know one thing…

His thumb glided barely over your skin, an almost imperceptible brush, but calculated enough to make you hold your breath.

— Your husband is a hindrance in the equation.

Your eyes widened in surprise.

— A hindrance that has prevented me from coming directly to you as I have wanted so much. — he added with a softness that was in dangerous contrast to the meaning of the word.

A shiver ran down your spine. The seriousness with which he said it, the certainty with which he admitted it… took your breath away.

Nerves exploded in your chest, and the heat of the wine in your system did nothing to help you keep your composure. But you refused to give in.

You growled in obvious disagreement, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.

— We may be in Hell. — you spat, holding his gaze.— but I refuse to give in so easily.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, but did not loosen his grip.

— I don't care what you feel. — you continued, in a tone you meant to sound cold, but which barely managed to mask the tremor in your voice. — I never cheated on my husband in life, and I will not do so in death.

For an instant, Alastor's face remained neutral.

But then you saw it.

A barely perceptible twitch in his eyelid, a shadow crossing his red eyes.

And then, his smile returned.

Only this time, it was tighter. Darker.

His grip on your chin intensified slightly, tilting his face just enough to make his every word feel more dangerous.

— You can say what you want, my dear… but we both know the truth.

— And what would that be, exactly? — you muttered through gritted teeth.

Alastor let out a small chuckle before whispering.

— You always look at me with a different gaze, perhaps, to other people's eyes it may seem like simple disdain… but to me…

Your body tensed.

— And that look was a gift from before I knew I would be your husband's colleague… from before I knew who you really were.

The air in the room became unbreathable.

Because his words were not an assumption.

They were a statement.

One that, no matter how hard you tried to deny it, was eating you up inside.

The air became thick as your mind was swept away without your permission, like a violent current of memories that had been buried until now.

A year ago actually.

You had barely been in Hell for a few months. Everything was an incessant chaos, a spiral of violence and decadence in which anyone could get lost. But you… you were living well.

Your husband had moved fast, establishing connections with powerful figures, making sure they lacked for nothing. And, indeed, nothing was lacking.

Except excitement.

Boredom had slowly begun to choke you. Even though you were in Hell, a place of chaos and madness, the routine had begun to devour you.

So you made an impulsive decision.

For the first time, you went out without your husband's company.

And you ended up in Cannibal Town.

It was as enchanting as it was dangerous. If you ignored the scenes of sinners being eaten alive in some corners, it had a certain intriguing air.

But something else caught your attention.

An enthusiastic murmur arose from a group of women with dark eyes and sharp smiles. They all seemed to be looking in the same direction, their red-painted mouths forming words of admiration and affable greetings.

Unable to help yourself, you follow their gazes.

A demon unlike any you had encountered before. Elegant, impeccable, with that presence impossible to ignore.

He was not a predator in appearance, but there was something about his appearance that made him more lethal than any of the beasts that prowled Hell.

Your eyes widened with surprise, and your heart….

It sped up.

You stood watching him without noticing the time passing, completely caught up in his image.

Until he turned around.

His bright eyes, red as fire, stared straight into yours.

They pierced through you.

As if they had been searching for you.

The air left your lungs in an instant, and an inexplicable nervousness came over you.

You looked away suddenly.

And without thinking, you fled from there.

Your memories scattered and again you forced yourself back to reality.

Your breathing was erratic.

You remembered him.

You had known him before your husband made any alliance with him.

And when your eyes returned to Alastor's, you found something worse than a smirk.

He was nodding. As if he had read your thoughts.

— That's right, my dear…— he whispered with dangerous delight. — From that moment… we both felt that spark, didn't we?

Your throat went dry.

— No…— You tried to deny, but the word came out choked.

Alastor tilted his head, enjoying your internal struggle.

— No, what? — he asked softly, as if he really wanted you to elaborate.

You drew in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to compose yourself.

— It was nothing. It didn't mean anything.

Alastor's smile widened.

— Oh… are you trying to convince me or yourself? — his tone was a venomous whisper, dragging you deeper and deeper into a game you had everything to lose.

— You ran away that time.— he continued, his grip on your chin loosening just enough for you to speak.— But… haven't you ever really wondered why?

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

Because the truth was devastating.

Yes, you had thought about it. You had felt something that day. Something you were terrified to accept in the present.

Inside you, the battle was merciless.

Denial.

You clung to it tooth and nail, looking for any excuse, any justification for what had made sense that day.

Intrigue.

That was it. Simple curiosity in the face of someone who seemed different.

Stupidity.

Yes, a passing foolishness. A moment of weakness in a new, chaotic world in which you were still learning your way around.

But not love.

No desire.

No… that.

But the more you dug into the memories, the more the barriers you had so painstakingly erected fell away.

You remembered how you spent weeks in a state of uncertainty, with anticipation growing in your chest every time you went out, hoping - without daring to admit it - to find again.

And there, in the bitterest depths of your soul, the truth waited patiently for you to accept it.

But not here .

Not in front of it.

Fury flared in your gut and, with a spark of courage, you summoned all your strength and pushed him with both hands.

The move wasn't enough to send him away, but it did send him staggering back a few inches.

You, on the other hand, crashed backwards against the bar, feeling the edge dig into your skin.

The air left your lungs in a sharp gasp as your hands shook at your sides.

— Go away. — The words came out harsh, laden with a panic you didn't want to show.— I will not do this to my husband.

Alastor remained in place, watching you with an intensity that made you feel naked, exposed.

But he doesn't move.

— Forget this whole damn circus and get out.

Your voice echoed in the room, but instead of an immediate response, there was a silence.

A different one.

One that didn't belong to Alastor.

It was in your own chest that you felt it first: a tremor.

Not in your hands, not in your legs.

In your heart.

And when you looked up again, you noticed it.

For the first time, Alastor wasn't smiling completely.

There was something subtle in his expression, something imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him.

But you saw it.

His refusal to accept your rejection.And then, without warning, he advanced with a single long stride.

You gasped for air.

His shadow covered you, and the distance between you shrunk to almost nothing.

It was then that he asked the unimaginable .

—Just one kiss.

Your eyes widened.

— What? — Disbelief cracked your voice. Alastor looked down at you, his eyes glowing like burning embers.

— A lasting kiss. A real one.

Your body tensed.

— And if we feel nothing…— he continued with a dangerous softness, — if this has all been an illusion, a foolishness… I will leave you alone.

His voice dropped a tone lower, like a promise.

— But if we get carried away….

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't need to.

The implication hit you like a punch in the chest.

— You're insane — you whispered, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

Alastor smiling, but not mockingly.

— Maybe.

You instinctively took a step back, but the bar was still there, preventing you from escaping.

Refusing was the only option.

But before you could open your mouth to refuse, you felt the touch of your hands.

Not on your face.

Not on your waist.

On your hands.

His fingers intertwined with yours in an unexpectedly delicate grip, and when you looked up, his eyes caught you completely.

There was no longer arrogance in them.

There was something else, something devastating, something you never expected to see in him.

Supplication.

The radio demon, with all his power, with all his overpowering presence, was begging you.

Without words, with his eyes, with his touch.

Your heart gave a brutal flip in your chest.

— Yes… —The word escaped your lips in a barely audible whisper, so fragile you could almost convince yourself you hadn't uttered it.

But Alastor heard it, and that was enough.

Alastor did not rush. He did not advance with the abruptness of one who takes what he desires without waiting for permission.

No.

He approached with exasperating slowness, measuring every inch he reduced between you, giving you the opportunity to flee.

But you don't move.

Don't look away from his gaze, even if the anticipation made you gasp, even if the air around you seemed thicker, suffocating.

Alastor noticed it all, your tense jaw, the slight quiver of your eyelashes, the sway of your chest as the air caught in your throat.

But you don't back down. And that sold your fate.

His hand rose parsimoniously, and the pad of his thumb brushed your lower lip with almost reverential gentleness.

The caress was light, barely a brush, but a violent shiver ran through you. You did nothing when his finger slowly probed it, as if he wanted to memorize its texture, its shape.

You did nothing when he pushed off it with a playful touch, just a slight tug that sent a tingle straight to your stomach.

And when he tilted his face and pressed a kiss against your lower lip, as delicate as a whisper… You closed your eyes.

Praying to whatever divine force that it would end there. That you didn't feel anything.

Because if you did…

If you really did…

You were going to end up in his arms.

But the universe was cruel, because the void he left when he turned away hurt you more than it should have.

You didn't have time to analyze it, because Alastor leaned in again. And this time, there were no distractions.

This time, he really kissed you.

It was soft, leisurely, almost lazy, as if he savored every second his lips moved over yours.

As if he was drinking in something long longed for.

Your fingers clung to the edges of the bar behind you, searching for something to anchor you to.

But when the kiss became firmer, when the heat of his mouth became an irrefutable reality, an instinct stronger than your reasoning took over.

You let go of the bar and, without realizing it, your fingers became entangled in his sack.

It was a minimal, almost insignificant action. But to Alastor, it was the equivalent of a match lighting a forest fire. Because the need exploded in his chest.

And the containment crumbled.

His hands slid to your neck, catching it firmly, and the gentleness of the kiss became something much more ravenous.

You opened your eyes, startled, trying to pull back, to speak, to do something.

But Alastor took advantage of the opening, sinking deeper, and his tongue slipped inside your mouth without warning. A choked moan formed in your throat, drowned out amidst the mess that was now the kiss.

There was no control.

There was no caution.

Only the sound of ragged breaths, soft gasps and the static electricity emanating from your skin.

A tingle ran through your entire body as his hands left your neck to wrap around your waist, drawing you hopelessly to him.

And you…

You didn't stop him.

In fact, it was quite the opposite. Because your arms found their way to his shoulders and you clung to him with the same desperation with which he was devouring you.

As if your life depended on it.

And worst of all… It's that at that moment, you felt like he really did.

The only thing that mattered at that moment was the heat.

The burning that spread through every corner of your body, every nook and cranny of your being, as the wet sounds of both lips colliding echoed through the air with an obsessive cadence. For him, those discordant notes were a heavenly melody, a symphony of desires fulfilled and temptations realized. But to you…

To you they were the sounds of decay, of the abandonment of everything you once thought you could be. They were obscene, the complete opposite of any standards you once thought important. And yet, who are you to define what is right or wrong in a place like this?

He kept moving over you, parting for an instant only to take over another spot on your face.

First, a warm, wet kiss on your cheek, followed by one on your chin, then on your cheekbone, leaving a sensation that added to the volcano burning inside you. Then a kiss on your eyelid, as if he wanted to seal you somehow, leaving a trail of fire on your skin.

And when he stopped on your forehead, he took you completely off guard. It was a soft, tender kiss… but the mixture of his warmth with his closeness made your legs wobble.

As soon as he could do this, he captured your lips again, leaving no room for doubt, the desperate need in his kiss burning hotter than any fire, every second consuming you insatiably.

Now, your hands didn't know where to go.

It was as if your whole body was in motion, touching what it could, clinging to what it found. Your waist. Your chest. His sack , which I had learned to want to feel in your hands. But your fingers didn't stop there, they slid down to her shoulders, running up and down her figure, searching for a stability that no longer existed.

Finally, your hands ended up in her hair, messy, intricate, and the desire to touch those deer ears, those details that only reminded you of her nature, became unbearable. You moved closer, wanting to sink your fingers there, to undo the only remnant of control left in him.

The thought of your husband… evaporated, almost as if it had never existed.

You don't think of him and you don't think of anything else either.

Because all there was at that moment was Alastor. His body, his presence, that electric tension that passed between the two of you, and the feeling that everything was so perfectly right . If you remembered nothing, if this was a new beginning, if Alastor was claiming to be the true lover in your life, you would feel that it could be true, no more questions needed to be asked.

This kiss… this was the only moment worth remembering, and the only truth you had left.

The last thing you remember, through the haze of arousal, is Alastor undressing you with delicate urgency, stripping you of every garment as if he were unveiling a work of art. And then, suddenly, you find yourself reclining on one of the leather seats, being fucked by him in such a delicious way that your moans burn your throat.

You don't know how many orgasms he has brought out of you, but you know you are overstimulated by the violent trembling in your legs and the pleasurable pain your pussy is suffering.

Your moans rise in intensity, tearing through the silence as Alastor rams you with unbridled passion. It's too much for you, that your voice shoots out with a plea.

It's a slow, exquisite torture. You feel the tip of his cock brush against your cervix, that sweet spot where all your nerves converge, and a choked cry escapes your lips. It's a pleasurable pain, an electric shock that makes you buck under his touch, feeling every cell in your body explode in an explosion of sensations.

— There? You like that, don't you? — Alastor whispers, his voice throaty and loaded with a possessiveness that makes you shudder. — You like it when I fuck you like that?

— Yes, there… M-more…— you hiss in a broken, shattered voice, tears in your eyes.

You open your eyes, your gaze lost in the haze of excitement. The world is reduced to him, to the intensity of his dark eyes and the way his body completely dominates you. Fear tries to creep into your thoughts, but pleasure is an unstoppable tide that drowns him mercilessly.

You lunge again like a madman, possessed by your own pleasure, arousal drenches you both and the smell of sex wafts through the room. And the wet sounds force you to roll your eyes back and paint them white.

Alastor, intoxicated by your surrender, watches you as he makes you his. A primal instinct overcomes him and, with a nimble movement, he shifts position. Now he takes you with abandon, with an unbridled ferocity that steals your breath.

He wants to see you cry with pleasure, to see you lose control completely. He demands it of you with words and actions, praising every moan, every spasm, every sign of your surrender. He kisses you voraciously, savoring your taste, and embraces you with a possessiveness that marks you as his own.

As he gazes at you, his eyes linger on your belly. An almost ravenous need invades him, and sharp words burst from his lips, "You're going to be the mother of my children," he exclaims in a throaty voice that runs down your spine. "You're going to be the sexiest mother in hell, sporting my seed."

And seeing that little bulge of his cock in your belly only slowly breaks the self-control he still thinks he possesses. And he grunts when he hears you moan, a long, choppy moan that seems so sweet to him.

Desire consumes him, the idea of procreating with you drives him crazy. Even though that is practically impossible in hell.

— Let me fill you. — he begs with a fervor that shakes you. — Let me sow my semen inside you and create a new life, a life that belongs only to us.

Sighs and low moans came from him as he uttered those words like a mantra, the climax approaching, so fragile you feel it inside you.

Melted and not really you, you look at him with tight eyebrows, clinging to the places of his thrusts and simply nod.

— Come… come inside me, please! — You cry out with heart-rending urgency, pleading for Alastor to bring you to the ultimate orgasm.

— Look at me, my love. — he hisses, his voice a dangerous purr, — watch me as I give you what you crave so much.

Alastor purrs, his static brushing against your skin and ruffling your hair. You, lost and sensing that at any moment you are both going to be finished, bite your lip trying to hold back the screams.

Alastor immediately notices this and leans in, a quick glance informing you what he's thinking.

— Scream… scream whatever you want, precious, just scream how good you feel, how good you take me… fuck — His voice came out raspy, demanding even.

Alastor, possessed by a perverse euphoria, grunts and gasps on you, each lunge a coup de grace against your last defenses. Your vision blurs, the world is reduced to him, to the heat, the salty taste of your own skin and the sound of your own pleas.

The climax hits you like a bolt of lightning. A torrent of heat and light bursts inside you, tearing apart any barrier that remained between you and him. You scream, a wild, primal sound, as your body contracts in uncontrollable spasms. Alastor roars over you, pouring his essence deep inside you, claiming you as his own.

When the aftershocks begin to subside, you find yourself staring into his eyes, your breath hitching, your body covered in sweat.

— You are perfect. — he whispers between gasps.

As you both recover from your climax, Alastor couldn't help but grab the back of your neck, pulling your face to his to kiss you with a hungry fervor. You accepted the kiss in response, surrendering to the passion still seething between the two of you. And as you kissed, Alastor slowly withdrew from inside you.

The contrast between the wild way he had possessed you minutes before and the gentleness with which he was now extracting his erection was mesmerizing. You gasped as you felt the emptiness in your body, a pang of longing mixed with the satisfaction of the pleasure just experienced.

Alastor contemplated the mess you were now. Your flushed face, your skin covered in sweat and your body freshly sated by his lust gave you a wonderful glow. He let out a static-laden chuckle as he watched some of his cum slide down your thigh.

With his claw, he scooped up some of the substance and looked down at you, a mischievous smile curving his lips. You blushed even more at the sight of the semen on his claw, a tangible reminder of your intimacy.

— You shouldn't feel ashamed, cherie. —Alastor exclaimed, his voice echoing softly. — After all, we have already shared a very intimate moment.

You felt a faint spark of helplessness at his comment, but it quickly vanished as Alastor lifted you into his arms, as if you were a feather.

— I'll take you to a hot bath. — he said, his voice a warm whisper in your ear.— So you can relax and recover.

The aftercare Alastor was giving you melted your defenses, weakening the resistance you were still trying to maintain. Clinging to his neck, you accepted his offer, surrendering to his charm and the need to feel his closeness.

— You're amazing. — you whispered, your voice barely audible.— I don't know what you've done to me.

Alastor smiled, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. As he carried you in his arms, you felt everything around you fade away.

In the depths of the pentagram city, a small establishment, an uncrowded place, was the ideal location for a meeting such as the one Alastor planned to have with his most promising associate

With a cup of tea in hand, he drank it neatly, savoring each sip as if it were the elixir of his victory. The sulphur-laden air and stale tobacco lent an aura of secrecy, a perfect setting for a meeting between men of his caliber.

The tinkling of the establishment's old bell resounded, marking your husband's arrival. Always punctual, always impeccable in his gait, he advanced with the confidence of a man who knows he is well received. He did not suspect, he had no reason to.

Alastor, with his perpetually stretched smile, received him with an elegant gesture. His mood was still high, his spirits renewed after the evening he had spent with you. He still savored the echoes of your presence, the memory of your skin, the timbre of your voice entwined with his on that special night.

— Alastor! — your husband exclaimed effusively, taking a seat across from him.— What a pleasure it is to see you again.

— And mine is even greater! — the demon intoned with his usual theatricality.— I'm glad to see you're still in one piece after your little excursion. I hope it was as… exciting as you imagined.

Your husband laughed, settling in with the ease of one who has good news to share.

— Oh, it was. From start to finish. Mercenaries, small-time demons, ambushes…— your husband exclaimed enthusiastically, pausing before continuing, —Violence at every turn, as expected. But you know what? It was all worth it.

Alastor tilted his head in mock interest, gently twirling the spoon in his tea.

— Ah, Yes? , And what did you find in the midst of such an odyssey?— he asked.

Your husband leaned forward slightly, and in one measured motion, pulled out a bundle wrapped in dark velvet. He held it reverently before unfolding the cloth and revealing his most precious find: a grimoire of infernal magic, its yellowed pages exuding a latent energy, its leather cover cracked and marked with symbols forgotten by time.

Alastor looks at the relic with a lopsided smile, interlacing his fingers on the table.

— Well, well… —he mused, slurring his words in his melodic tone.— It's not every day one stumbles upon a treasure like this.

— No, not every day. — agreed your husband with palpable excitement as he turned the pages with eager fingers.— But here it is. Lost magic, forbidden spells… and one in particular that changes everything.

Alastor did not react immediately.

He simply waited, letting the other man elaborate, let him drown in his own enthusiasm.

— One of these spells guarantees a conception in hell— he declared, his eyes glowing with a feverish intensity. — A pregnancy.

The silence that followed was almost imperceptible, a minuscule space of time in which the world seemed to hold its breath.

Alastor's smile did not fade, but something in his posture changed, a subtle tension in his jaw, a slight drumming of his fingers against the table.

— Oh… what a fascinating revelation,— he murmured with his usual sweetness, gently setting his teacup aside.— And tell me… who, exactly, will be the lucky one?

Your husband laughed with genuine warmth, oblivious to the storm brewing in front of him.

— Who else could it be? My wife.

Alastor felt the air grow heavy in his throat. The timbre of his laughter did not change, nor did the sharp glint in his eyes, but inside him, fury pulsed like a chained beast, clawing, wanting to escape.

No. Not yet.

Your husband continued to talk, rambling on about his love for you, about the future he planned by your side, about the miracle that was within his grasp. His enthusiasm was blinding. He didn't see the way Alastor settled into his seat, nor how the shadow of his smile took on a dangerous tinge.

And then, with absolute calm, the demon exhaled a sentence that split the conversation in two.

— I'm sorry, my friend… but. — said Alastor, his voice smooth as velvet, riddled with a steely edge. —…I fucked your wife.

The sound of his voice, though serene, felt like a thud against the table. Your husband stopped immediately. His words died in his throat, his face paled as if the blood had left him with a single jerk.

— Pardon? — he asked, a shaky laugh seeping between his lips.— I must have heard wrong… that was a joke, wasn't it?

Alastor didn't move. His smile was still there, relaxed, serene. His crimson eyes glowed with dark satisfaction, as if he enjoyed the bewilderment of the man in front of him.

— Dear colleague. — he whispered with a bone-chilling sweetness.— Do I look like someone who jokes?

The light of the establishment flickered over both men. The silence that followed the confession was thick.

Your husband, still incredulous, searched Alastor's face for some hint of mockery, a grimace that would disprove his words. But the demon only looked at him with that lazy and enchanted smile.

— No… — your husband muttered, his voice barely a choked whisper.— It can't be…

Alastor let out a light laugh, full of amusement, and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers.

— Oh, but it can. — he crooned with delight.— And it was.

Your husband swallowed dryly.

— When? —His voice cracked slightly. — How?

The demon narrowed his eyes, his smile curving with pride.

— Ah, you want details? — he asked, with a venomous sweetness.— It's funny… I thought certain images would be overused in your mind.

Your husband's jaw tensed, but Alastor didn't stop.

— Although, if you insist…— he continued with mock innocence, stroking the rim of his teacup.— I might say it all began with the allure of loneliness. Poor soul, abandoned by her beloved on such a perilous travel… so, so far away. What was I to do but offer her a little company?

Your husband's eyes grew wide with horror as he realized the truth.

The travel.

The damn travel.

The letter the radio demon had sent him, with a destination that promised only advantages.

It was all Alastor's idea.

All this time, the whole odyssey, all the effort to find that grimoire… it had been nothing more than a distraction.

An excuse.

For the Radio Demon to get tangled in the sheets with you.

The chair slid back with a violent creak as your husband shot to his feet, his face flushed with anger, chest heaving with erratic breathing. He pointed a trembling finger at Alastor, while his other hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white with restrained force.

— How could you…! —he bellowed, his voice rasping with fury. — How dare you betray our alliance like this! To climb into bed with my wife!

Alastor did not flinch. On the contrary, he leaned back comfortably in his seat, raising an eyebrow haughtily.

— Betray the alliance? —he muttered, his tone overflowing with condescension. — I don't know why you're so surprised. After all… she's always been mine.

Your husband's blood boiled in her veins. But Alastor was only smiling. He was smiling as if he had already won.

Alastor brought the teacup to his lips with that infuriating grace of his, but before he took a sip, he dropped one last lunge.

— ¡Ah yes!, and actually…— he paused briefly, enjoying the anticipation on your husband's congested face.— It wasn't on the bed. It was on the couch.

The silence in the room was immediate.

For an instant, there was only the subtle tinkling of china as Alastor finally set his tea down on the wood with absolute serenity.

Your husband, however, felt the last strand of his self-control tear. The vein in his forehead pulsed violently before he let out a fierce curse, his voice so powerful that some of the demons present in the small room were startled.

Murmurs began to run through the patrons, some watching with morbid interest, others feigning indifference as their ears pricked up to catch every word.

— You damned bastard! — your husband spat, his chest rising and falling with furious breaths.

Your husband pointed a trembling finger at Alastor, his other hand clenched into a fist that rose as if at any moment he was going to hurl it at the demon.

— She's my wife!— he spat, rage exuding from every word.— As much as you have taken advantage of my absence, she is still my wife!

Ah, but those words…

Something bubbled up inside him, a dense, toxic emotion that began to seep into the atmosphere like a dark fog.

— Is that so? Your wife…— repeated the demon, his voice a silken whisper.

The teacup hovered in the air for a few seconds before disappearing in a distortion of static, as Alastor's silhouette began to change.

The lights of the place flickered, crackling with irregular frequency. His shadow, which until that moment had remained obedient under his feet, began to lengthen and twist, transformed into a creature with a will of its own.

Little flashes of his demonic form began to manifest themselves involuntarily: his smile, once playful, twisted into something sharper, more predatory; and his eyes, those glowing red eyes like burning spokes, crackled with barely contained rage.

— Ah… — he whispered, rising with an unsettling slowness. — No, no, dear friend….

— She… She's not yours. —he exclaimed, each syllable making the ground tremble beneath his feet.— She never was.

A flash of red and black flashed across his figure. The temperature in the place dropped sharply, and static electricity made the lights flicker with a sickly hum.

The murmuring in the room ceased. No one dared move.

And then Alastor bowed his head slightly, his smile curving into something that no longer looked human, but the ravenous grimace of a predator ready to feast.

— And now..—He uttered in a tone that was almost melodic. — I'm going to get rid of the nuisance.

Your husband barely had time to inhale before the shadows around him began to move.

The radio broadcast, transmitted from high above, echoed in every corner where Alastor's signal could reach. At first, only intermittent static could be heard, distorted like the wailing of a spectrum trapped between frequencies. Then, the screams began.

Heart-rending sounds echoed through the air, where the infamous red demon's radio broadcast was emitting a special edition.

Suffering permeated every note of that macabre symphony, and the listening demons shuddered, some with morbid pleasure, others with a visceral unease that made their skin crawl. But no one turned off the radio.

Alastor's distorted guffaws filtered into the transmission between each interval of screams, each word a mocking echo, a sadistic mockery of the fate of the wretch who had dared to defy him.

And the wretched victim had been your husband.

— What a… lovely evening, my friends! — He intoned enthusiastically, his voice buzzing with a hint of static.— Don't you think despair has such a… melodious ring to it!

More laughter. More pleading in the distant background, fainter and fainter.

Then silence, and then a click.

The program had come to an end.

In the demon's hands rested the grimoire.

His fingers ran over the ancient leather cover, feeling the dark energy emanating from the book. The mere presence of those pages, covered with infernal inscriptions, vibrated the air with a primal power, one he recognized all too well.

His red eyes glowed with keen interest. A spell of conception.

The idea was fascinating. In Hell, damned souls could not create life the way mortals could, but that book…that spell promised the impossible.

Could it be true?

Could there really be a being born of his essence, of his power?

A snap echoed in the air as he closed the grimoire with a firm movement. His fingers drummed on the cover as an smile widened with barely contained excitement.

Well…

There was only one way to find out.

And you… you would be the perfect person in his little experiment.

___________________

Oh god, I still don't forget this series of stories, misfortunes consumed my time and at last I can upload this work. I am sorry forever. T.T

#alastor x you #alastor smut #alastor the radio demon #alastor #smut #valentines day #hazbinhotel #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #the radio demon

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adverbally · 4 months ago

Text

Yours, Mine, Ours

Written for the @stmarchmm prompt “collaring” | wc: 596 | rated: T | cw: none | tags: Steddie, Alpha Steve, Omega Eddie, established relationships, courting/mating traditions, dare I say: internalized omegaphobia

———

It’s everything Eddie never knew he wanted.

He’d spent many a lunch period ranting about how the tradition of collaring was archaic and demeaning. It dehumanized Omegas and cemented them as the property of their Alpha. He vowed not to be like those collar-chasing Omegas, with no aspirations beyond becoming a trophy spouse or a broodmare, defined by their designation and their mate.

But that was before Steve started courting him. Steve, who is now offering his collar to Eddie, the perfectly wrapped gift box shaking in his hands. “I know you don’t really subscribe to the whole, uh, ‘traditional dynamics�� thing but it’s… It feels important for me to give it to you. You don’t have to wear it all the time, obviously,” he’s quick to reassure, “but I dunno, maybe when we’re at home, just us?”

Eddie‘s whole world is rocked when he opens the box to reveal a collar of thin black leather with silver hardware. It’s clearly well-made, soft and supple, with no sharp edges or rough stitching to irritate the sensitive skin of his throat. The tightness can be adjusted to his comfort level. It even goes with his wardrobe and usual jewelry, for God’s sake.

“Turn it over,” Steve suggests shyly.

The back is embossed with tiny letters spelling out ‘I’m yours.’

Steve explains, “I don’t want to mark you as my territory, o-or chain you up in my room or anything, but I wanted you to know that it goes both ways. If you’re mine, then I’m yours, too.”

It clicks, then. A collar isn’t meant to be a neon sign advertising an Alpha’s ownership for society to see. It’s for the Omega themself– a tangible reminder of their Alpha’s devotion that they can reach out and touch throughout the day, a source of pressure against their scent gland to mimic the bite of their mate’s jaws. Possessiveness, not possession; belonging together, not belonging to.

The silence must stretch too long for Steve’s comfort, because he reaches for the box. “Or, you don’t have to wear it at all or even accept it, actually, I can just–”

Eddie yanks the collar away, tucking it protectively to his side. “No, it’s perfect and it’s mine now, no take-backs!”

Steve’s smile is small but full of relief and fondness. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I love it. And I love you.” He hands Steve the box and turns around so Steve can see the fastening while he works. “Put it on me?”

Steve does so with a gentle touch that makes Eddie feel like something precious. There’s a tenderness in the way Steve sweeps his hair out of the way, lifting it this way and that as he works so the strands don’t get caught. After he fastens it at the back of Eddie’s neck, he trails his fingers along the collar’s edge, shifting back and forth from soft leather to soft skin, then leans in to press a kiss at Eddie’s nape.

“You’re beautiful,” Steve tells him reverently.

Eddie spins in his arms so he can see the full effect. “Gilding the lily, huh?” he jokes, keeping his tone warm and soft to match Steve’s.

“Uh-huh.” Steve’s eyes are locked on the collar, pupils wide and as dark as the leather against Eddie’s pale neck.

“You know what would make it look even better?” He leans even closer to whisper in Steve’s ear. “If I take off everything else.”

Steve’s hands settle on Eddie’s hips, toying with his waistband. “We’ll have to test that theory.”

Yeah, Eddie might actually like this collar thing.

#stmmm25 #omegaverse #steddie #steddie fic #steve/eddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #mine

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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

Text

Signed, Sealed, Delivered | Bangchan

500+ followers special 🎀🐥

Trope: Slow Burn, Idol x Fan, Comfort & Healing, Love Through Letters Warnings: Mentions of insecurities, body image struggles, self-doubt, chubby!reader, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Word Count: 9068 words {Reading Time: 33 mins-ish} Songs to listen to while reading: My pace, youtiful, connected, mirror, you can STAY, hold my hand, grow up, hellevator, side effects, social path, cheese, time out, aliens, 19, 24 to 25, haPpy, stars and raindrops, sorry, I love you, I hate to admit, RUN, lonely st. , winter falls, railways Synopsis: What starts as a simple fan letter to Stray Kids thanking them for their music turns into an unexpected connection with Bang Chan. Through heartfelt letters, you share your deepest thoughts, fears, and dreams—never expecting him to truly see you. But when fate brings you face-to-face, you realize some words are meant to be more than just ink on paper. Author’s Note: This story is for anyone who has ever doubted their worth or felt like they didn’t belong in a love story. Chan’s warmth and kindness are a reminder that love isn’t about appearances—it’s about feeling seen. I hope this brings you comfort and a little bit of hope.

The silence in your room was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the desk lamp and the gentle melody of Stray Kids' "You Can STAY" playing on repeat. The melody, a comforting balm, swirled around you, a gentle embrace in the solitude. The scent of old paper mingled with the faint, lingering aroma of lavender incense, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere.

Your fingers, slightly chilled, traced the delicate embossed flowers along the edge of the stationery. It was a special set, reserved for moments of profound emotion, a gift from your grandmother, who always believed in the power of handwritten words. The paper, a creamy ivory, felt smooth and cool beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth that was beginning to spread through your chest.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. The music resonated within you, a silent symphony of the soul. Each note, each lyric, was a testament to the power of vulnerability, the courage to lay bare one's innermost thoughts and fears. You were about to do the same, to entrust your deepest insecurities to the very people who had given you the strength to face them.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, trembling slightly. You were about to write a letter, a confession, a thank you note that carried the weight of years of unspoken pain. How could you possibly articulate the profound impact their music had had on your life? How could you explain the way their words had pierced through the layers of self-doubt and insecurity that had built up around your heart like a fortress?

Dear Stray Kids,

The words, simple and direct, felt woefully inadequate. They were a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. You paused, the pen resting on the paper, and allowed the memories to flood your mind. The cruel taunts, the disdainful glances, the relentless pressure to conform to a narrow, unattainable standard of beauty.

You remembered the way you used to avoid mirrors, the way you would flinch at your own reflection, seeing only flaws and imperfections. You remembered the way you would shrink into yourself, trying to become invisible, to disappear.

But then, you discovered Stray Kids. Their music, raw and honest, spoke to the unspoken pain, the hidden insecurities. Bang Chan’s lyrics, in particular, resonated with a depth that felt almost personal, as if he had peered into your soul and written a song just for you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I needed to say thank you. Your music has been a constant companion, a source of strength when I felt utterly lost. Especially your songs, Bang Chan… they spoke to me in a way no one else ever has.

A lump formed in your throat, and tears welled up in your eyes. You had never shared your insecurities with anyone, not even your closest friends. It was a vulnerability too raw, too painful to expose. But writing to them, to the voices that had given you strength, felt different. It felt like a release, a way to acknowledge the pain without being judged.

I’ve struggled with my body image for as long as I can remember. The world seems to have a very narrow definition of beauty, and I’ve always felt outside of it. Your words, though, they reminded me that I’m not alone. That even in the midst of doubt, there’s strength to be found.

You remembered the first time you heard "My Pace," the way the lyrics had urged you to embrace your individuality, to walk your own path. It was a revelation, a gentle reminder that you were not alone in your struggles. Others felt the same way, others grappled with the same demons.

You wrote about the small victories, the moments of self-acceptance that had begun to sprout like fragile seedlings in the barren landscape of your self-esteem. You wrote about the way their music had given you the courage to look in the mirror and see not a distorted reflection of your flaws, but a person worthy of love and acceptance. You described the way a particular song, "Grow Up," had helped you to understand that it was okay to make mistakes, to stumble, to learn and evolve.

The pen moved across the page, a silent dance of emotions. You poured your heart onto the paper, each word a testament to the profound impact their music had had on your life.

I never expect a reply. I just wanted to express my deepest gratitude. You’ve helped me more than you know.

The words felt inadequate, a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. But it was all you had, a simple expression of thanks from a heart overflowing with gratitude.

You sealed the letter, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the paper, and placed it in an envelope. It was a small act, a message in a bottle cast into the vast ocean of the world. But it was also a declaration, a testament to the power of music to heal, to connect, to transform. As you placed the envelope on your desk, a sense of peace settled over you. You had released a burden, shared a part of yourself that had been hidden for too long. And in that act of vulnerability, you found a quiet strength, a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, your words would find their way to the hearts that had inspired them. You felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders, ready to accept the unknown.

Then the arrival of Bang Chan’s letters became a sacred ritual, a lifeline in the often-turbulent sea of your days. Each envelope, thick and bearing the weight of his words, felt like a tangible piece of him, a bridge constructed of ink and emotion, spanning the vast, silent chasm between your worlds. The subtle, lingering scent of his cologne, a complex blend of sandalwood, warm amber, and something uniquely, undeniably him, clung to the paper, a sensory echo that made him feel impossibly close, a whisper of his presence in your quiet room. It was a detail so minute, yet it amplified the intimacy of your correspondence, turning each letter into a cherished artifact, a testament to a connection forged in vulnerability.

As you carefully unfolded his words, the elegant script flowing across the page like a gentle, meandering river, a sense of profound connection washed over you, a warmth that spread through your limbs like sunlight after a long, cold night. He didn't offer platitudes or dismiss your insecurities with empty reassurances. Instead, he acknowledged them, validated them with a sincerity that resonated deep within the core of your being. He spoke of his own vulnerabilities, the weight of expectations that pressed down on him like an invisible, suffocating burden, the fear of falling short, of disappointing those who looked to him for strength and guidance. His honesty was disarming, a breath of fresh air in a world often choked with artifice and pretense.

Your replies became a sanctuary, a space where you could shed the armor of pretense and reveal the raw, unfiltered truth of your emotions. You shared your dreams, the fragile aspirations that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart like delicate, unseen wildflowers, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow, light and shadow. You told him about the books that transported you to other worlds, the music that resonated with your soul, the way the simple act of watching a sunset could fill you with a sense of quiet wonder, a profound appreciation for the beauty of the world.

He, in turn, opened up about the complexities of his life as an artist, the relentless pursuit of perfection, the sleepless nights spent in the studio, the constant pressure to innovate and create, to push the boundaries of his art. But he also spoke of the exhilaration of performing, the electric connection with STAYs, the profound sense of belonging that came from sharing his art with the world, the feeling of being understood and accepted.

“Sometimes,” he wrote, his words etched into the paper with a raw honesty that made your heart ache, a vulnerability that mirrored your own, “I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I want to be strong for everyone, to be the anchor that holds us all together. But sometimes, I just need someone to tell me it’s okay to be vulnerable, to admit that I’m not always strong, that I’m human too.”

His words resonated with you on a visceral level, echoing the silent battles you fought within yourself. You understood the constant pressure to project an image of strength, the fear of revealing the cracks in your armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface. You shared your own vulnerabilities, the way you flinched at the cruel comments about your weight, the way you avoided mirrors, the way you sometimes felt like a ghost, invisible and unseen, a whisper in a crowded room.

The letters became a lifeline, a sacred space where you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment. They were a silent symphony, a delicate dance of words and emotions, a testament to the power of human connection, a bridge built on shared vulnerability. You shared your deepest fears, your most cherished dreams, your quietest hopes. He shared his, the pressure of leadership, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the adulation of millions, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation.

One night, as you sat bathed in the soft glow of your desk lamp, the words spilled onto the page, a torrent of unspoken pain, a confession whispered into the darkness. “People like me don’t belong in love stories,” you wrote, the words heavy with the weight of years of self-doubt, the echoes of cruel words and dismissive glances. The darkness of your room amplified the quiet despair in your heart, making you feel utterly alone, adrift in a sea of unspoken pain.

His reply arrived a few days later, and it was longer, more heartfelt than any before. The ink on the page seemed to shimmer with an unspoken emotion, a raw vulnerability that made your breath catch in your throat, a testament to the depth of his empathy.

“(Your Name), love isn’t about a number on a scale, or the shape of your body, or the way the world perceives you. It’s about the soul, the heart, the connection between two people. It’s about seeing the beauty that lies within, the strength that shines through even in the midst of vulnerability. You are worthy of being loved, exactly as you are. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And please, never say you don’t belong in a love story, because you do. You deserve the world, and all the love it has to offer, a love that sees you for who you truly are, a love that celebrates your strength and embraces your vulnerability.”

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a gentle caress that soothed the scars of years of self-doubt, a gentle reminder of your inherent worth. You reread his letters, the words etched into your memory, a constant reminder of your own strength and resilience. The rhythm of your correspondence became a comforting constant, a quiet symphony played out in the still of the night. You would write, pouring your heart onto the page, and he would reply, his words a gentle echo of your own emotions, a testament to the profound connection that had blossomed between you.

With each letter, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions, a testament to the power of shared vulnerability, a bridge built on honesty and understanding. You felt seen, understood, cherished. But the thought of meeting him, of bridging the gap between your worlds, still seemed impossible, a distant dream. He was Bang Chan, the leader of Stray Kids, a star in a universe that felt light years away from your own.

Yet, a small, fragile hope bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart, a delicate flower pushing through the cracks of uncertainty, a whisper of possibility. It was a silent promise of something more, something deeper, a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation. The letters were more than just words on paper; they were pieces of your souls, shared and cherished, building a bridge between two worlds, two hearts, one word at a time, one shared vulnerability at a time.

The fan sign event loomed like a seismic shift in your reality, a terrifying yet exhilarating precipice. Winning the ticket had been a surreal dream, a distant, impossible star. Now, it was a stark, unavoidable truth. You were going to meet Bang Chan, the man whose words had been a lifeline, whose understanding had been a sanctuary. You were going to stand before him, face-to-face, after years of exchanging letters, of baring your soul in the quiet intimacy of written words.

The anxiety was a tangible entity, a cold, heavy weight that settled in the pit of your stomach, a knot of nerves that refused to unravel. You wrestled with the impulse to back out, to invent a sudden illness, to send a friend in your stead. But the thought of relinquishing this opportunity, of allowing fear to dictate your actions, felt like a profound betrayal—a betrayal of the connection you had painstakingly built with him, a betrayal of the fragile hope that had blossomed in your heart, a betrayal of the vulnerability you had shared.

The day of the fan sign arrived, a surreal blur of nervous energy and frantic preparations. You meticulously selected your outfit, striving for a delicate balance between comfort and confidence, wanting to feel seen but not overly conspicuous. You arrived at the venue hours before the scheduled start, the queue stretching around the block, a vibrant tapestry of faces buzzing with anticipation, a chorus of excited whispers.

As you waited, your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of your inner turmoil. You clutched your album, its cover worn from countless replays, a tangible representation of the emotional resonance you felt with his music. You rehearsed the words you would say, the carefully crafted phrases you had formulated in your mind, but they all felt inadequate, hollow echoes in the face of the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The scent of the venue, a mix of sweat, perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of stage lights, swirled around you, adding to the sensory overload.

Finally, your turn arrived. The line inched forward, each step an agonizingly slow descent into the moment of truth. You observed the interactions of the fans with the members, their faces illuminated with joy and adoration. You witnessed the warmth of Bang Chan's smile, the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine connection he forged with each person who approached him. The sound of his laughter, the gentle cadence of his voice, filled the room, a tangible echo of the man you had come to know through his letters.

Then, it was your turn. You stepped forward, your legs trembling slightly, and approached the table. The cacophony of the crowd receded into a dull hum, and the world narrowed to the figure seated before you. Bang Chan.

His eyes met yours, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The familiar warmth of his smile, the intensity of his gaze, it was like stepping into the pages of his letters, a tangible manifestation of the emotions you had shared across the distance. But there was something else in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, a silent question that hung in the air like a whispered secret, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

He froze, his pen hovering over the album, his smile faltering for a fleeting moment. His gaze searched yours, a deep, probing look that seemed to penetrate the layers of your being, to see into the depths of your soul. He whispered your name, the sound barely audible above the din of the crowd, yet clear as a bell in your ears, a hushed acknowledgment of your presence.

"It's really you. Finally."

The words hung in the air, a silent declaration, an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection you had built, the profound understanding that had blossomed between you. His voice was soft, intimate, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. The faint scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of sandalwood and warm amber, filled your senses, a tangible echo of his presence.

The moment stretched out, an eternity suspended in time, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. You managed a shaky smile, your voice lost in the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The fan sign became a blur, a series of fragmented images and sensations. You remembered the warmth of his hand as he signed your album, the delicate brush of his fingers against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You remembered the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to be searching for something in your eyes, something that transcended the boundaries of fan and idol, something that spoke of a deeper connection, a shared vulnerability.

He asked you about your day, your favorite songs, the details you had shared in your letters. His voice was soft, intimate, as if you were continuing a conversation that had never been interrupted. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, and you felt a sense of being seen, understood, cherished—a feeling that had been so elusive for so long. The sound of his voice, the gentle cadence of his words, was a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

As you moved away from the table, a sense of disorientation washed over you. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the familiar reality of your life shifting and rearranging itself. You had met him, the man behind the letters, the voice that had comforted you, the soul that had resonated with yours. And he had recognized you, not as a face in a crowd, but as the person he had connected with through words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You replayed the moment of recognition in your mind, trying to decipher the unspoken meaning behind his words, the intensity in his gaze. You wondered if he felt the same connection you did, if the letters had meant as much to him as they had to you. The lingering scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice—tangible echoes of your encounter—filled your thoughts.

You hesitated to write, afraid of shattering the delicate balance of your relationship. What if meeting him had changed things? What if the intimacy of your letters was lost in the awkwardness of a face-to-face encounter, replaced by the stark reality of your physical presence?

Then, a final letter arrived, slipped beneath your door, the paper slightly crumpled. The scent of his cologne was stronger this time, a tangible reminder of his presence, a whisper of his nearness.

“I don’t want to be just your pen pal anymore. Let’s write our own story together.”

The words were a declaration, a silent promise, a bridge extending across the chasm between your worlds. The fear and uncertainty that had clouded your mind began to dissipate, replaced by a fragile hope, a quiet anticipation.

You wrote back immediately, your heart overflowing with emotions you had kept hidden for so long. You agreed to meet him, to explore the possibility of something more, something deeper. The moment of recognition had been a turning point, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, that had set your hearts on a new course, a journey into the uncharted territory of your shared story. You were ready to write your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one tangible echo at a time.

The decision to meet Bang Chan outside the structured confines of a fan sign event was a leap of faith, a plunge into the uncharted waters of a relationship that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of written words. The anticipation was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a mix of excitement and trepidation that made your heart race.

The designated meeting place was a small, secluded café, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The warm, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. As you entered, your eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. Then, you saw him, seated at a corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp.

He looked different in person, more real, more tangible. The soft lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile—they were all magnified in the intimacy of the moment. The faint scent of his cologne, the same woody fragrance that lingered on his letters, filled your senses, a tangible reminder of the connection you shared.

The initial awkwardness was palpable, a silent tension that hung in the air like a delicate thread. You stumbled over your words, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding in your chest. He, too, seemed slightly flustered, his usual composure momentarily shaken. But as you began to talk, the familiar comfort of your letters returned, a silent understanding that bridged the gap between your nervousness.

You spoke of your dreams, your aspirations, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow. He spoke of his fears, the weight of responsibility, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the cheers of thousands. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like continuing a dialogue that had never been interrupted.

The quiet intimacy of the café, the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of cups, created a sanctuary, a space where you could be yourselves, unfiltered and unedited. You shared your vulnerabilities, the insecurities that had haunted you for years, the fear of not being enough. He shared his, the pressure to be perfect, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

With each shared confidence, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to him, your heart aching with the weight of his burdens, your soul resonating with his honesty.

As the hours passed, the initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a comfortable silence, a silent understanding that spoke volumes. You found yourselves laughing at shared jokes, reminiscing about the contents of your letters, discovering new layers of connection that transcended the written word.

He walked you home, the quiet streets of the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken emotions and shared understanding. At your doorstep, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours.

“I had a really good time,” he said, his voice soft, a gentle caress.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Can we do this again?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice filled with a quiet certainty.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of stolen moments and whispered confidences. You met in secluded cafes, quiet parks, hidden corners of the city, creating a world of your own, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes of the public.

You shared your favorite songs, your favorite books, your favorite memories. He shared his, the stories behind his music, the struggles and triumphs of his career, the quiet moments of reflection that fueled his creativity.

He listened to your fears, your dreams, your insecurities, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to his, the weight of responsibility, the longing for normalcy, the quiet ache for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

He became your safe space, a haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving. You became his, a source of comfort and understanding, a quiet anchor in the chaos of his life.

The connection between you deepened, a silent symphony played out in shared silences and whispered confidences. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

One night, as you sat in a quiet park, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. The touch was electric, a jolt of energy that sent shivers down your spine.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said, his voice soft, a whisper in the quiet night.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection that had blossomed between you. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.

A few months later, he introduced you to his members. The initial nervousness was quickly replaced by a warm welcome, a sense of belonging that made you feel like you had always been part of their family.

Seungmin’s playful jabs, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s protective warmth—they embraced you with open arms, their acceptance a testament to the bond you had formed with Chan.

“He’s been talking about you for months,” Seungmin teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We were starting to think you were a figment of his imagination.”

“He’s happier,” Felix added, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy. “He smiles more.”

Changbin, the quiet protector, offered a warm smile and a silent nod of approval.

Through it all, Chan never defined your relationship. You were just friends, a label that felt both comforting and inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the connection between you deepened, a quiet symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long.

The beginning of your story was a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared silence at a time.

Three years. Three years since the hesitant first meeting, the quiet sanctuary of the secluded café, the moment of recognition that had shifted the axis of your lives. Three years of stolen moments, shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The initial awkwardness, the tentative steps of your budding relationship, had long since melted away, replaced by a comfortable familiarity, a silent understanding that transcended the need for words. You had become an integral part of each other’s lives, a constant presence, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of your respective worlds. The silence between you was no longer a void, but a language of its own, a symphony of unspoken emotions and shared understanding.

The stolen moments, once a necessity born of secrecy, had transformed into cherished rituals, sacred spaces in the chaos of your lives. Late-night calls, hushed conversations in the quiet hours, impromptu visits to secluded corners of the city—they were the threads that wove the intricate tapestry of your shared life. You had created a sanctuary, a world of your own, where you could shed the weight of expectations, the masks of public personas, and simply be yourselves, vulnerable and authentic.

He called you when the pressure of leadership became an unbearable weight, when the weight of expectations threatened to crush him beneath its enormity. You listened, offering a quiet strength, a gentle reminder that he was not alone in his burdens. You reminded him to breathe, to find moments of peace amidst the relentless chaos, to remember the human being beneath the idol.

You called him when the insecurities that had haunted you for years threatened to resurface, when the cruel whispers of self-doubt echoed in your mind, a relentless chorus of negativity. He listened, offering a gentle reassurance, a quiet reminder that you were worthy of love, exactly as you were. He held you when the fear became a suffocating presence, his arms a safe haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

The members of Stray Kids had become a second family, their acceptance a testament to the profound bond you shared with Chan. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s boundless enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were the constants in your life, a reminder that you were loved, accepted, cherished, not as an outsider, but as an integral part of their family.

You had become a silent observer of their world, a quiet confidante in their moments of vulnerability, a witness to their triumphs and struggles. You saw the dedication, the passion, the unwavering commitment to their art. You saw the sacrifices they made, the pressure they endured, the unwavering support they offered each other, a silent symphony of camaraderie.

But through it all, Chan never defined your relationship with a label. You were just friends, a term that felt both comforting and woefully inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship, a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

On his birthday, October 3rd, you sat down to write him a letter, a culmination of the three years you had shared, a testament to the profound impact he had had on your life. The words flowed effortlessly, a silent symphony of emotions, a tapestry of shared memories.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words. You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his words.

The beginning of your story had been a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. Now, you were writing a new chapter, a chapter filled with love, acceptance, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared life at a time, one silent heartbeat at a time.

Chan,

Three years. Three years since the hesitant beginnings, the quiet sanctuary of our shared words, the silent language that blossomed between us. Three years since you became my sanctuary, my home, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of my life. I remember the first letter, the hesitant words of gratitude that sparked a connection I never dared to dream of, a fragile thread woven from vulnerability and honesty, a testament to the power of shared souls. You listened, Chan. You saw me when I felt invisible, a ghost in a crowded room, a whisper lost in the noise of the world. You understood me when I felt lost, adrift in a sea of self-doubt, a silent echo of the pain I carried. You cherished me, exactly as I am, flaws and all, a gentle reminder of my inherent worth, a beacon in the darkness.

You’ve held my hand through storms, both literal and metaphorical, your presence a steady comfort in the chaos. You’ve whispered comfort in the quietest of nights, a soothing balm to my wounded spirit, a gentle caress that healed the scars of years of self-doubt. You’ve shown me what it means to be seen, to be accepted, to be loved, not for who the world wants me to be, but for who I truly am, a soul laid bare. You’ve given me a home in your heart, a place where I finally belong, a sanctuary in the chaos of the world, a tangible echo of the comfort I found in your words.

And now, on your birthday, surrounded by the echoes of our shared memories, the silent symphony of our intertwined lives, I can no longer hold back the words that have been whispering in my soul for so long, a quiet chorus of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of my heart.

Chan, I’ve loved you for so long. Maybe I always have, from the moment your words reached into the depths of my soul and pulled me from the darkness, a tangible echo of the connection we shared.

Happy Birthday.

The final words hung in the air, a silent declaration that filled the room with unspoken emotions, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The momement he read it he looked up, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet symphony of unspoken promises. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a fragile thread woven from years of shared vulnerability, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

He rose, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room, his gaze never leaving yours, his presence a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters, a silent promise of something more. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a jolt of electricity that resonated through your body, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a silent symphony of hearts beating in unison, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and then, he kissed you.

The kiss was soft, tender, a culmination of three years of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a gentle exploration, a tentative acknowledgment of the unspoken language that had defined your relationship, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. His lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, a silent promise of something more, a fragile bridge between your hearts.

Inside your thoughts: It’s real. It’s finally real. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment. His lips on mine, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between our hearts, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. He tasted of warmth, of home, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in his words, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a fragile hope that whispered of a shared future, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

"I've loved you too," he whispered, his voice barely audible, a confession as fragile as a whispered promise, a silent echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the honesty that had defined your relationship. "For so long."

Inside Bang Chan's thoughts: Her words, a confession as raw and honest as the letters she had written over the years, echoed in my mind, a silent symphony of shared vulnerability, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. Three years. Three years of shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of our shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of my existence. Her kiss, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. She tasted of home, of comfort, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in her presence. She was my safe space, my anchor, the one person who saw me for who I truly was, flaws and all, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped around you like a lifeline, his warmth a comforting embrace, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his presence, a silent symphony of intertwined souls. The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

"You're my home," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a silent echo of the feelings that resonated within you, a raw vulnerability that mirrored your own, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. "You're my safe space. You're everything."

"You're mine too," you replied, your voice barely a whisper, a silent promise of forever, a tangible echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The members groaned in the background, a chorus of playful complaints, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface. "Finally! Now, can you please get a room?"

The moment was a turning point, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface, a love that had finally found its voice, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment, a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions, a mix of joy, relief, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were no longer just friends, no longer just pen pals. You were partners, lovers, souls intertwined, a silent symphony of shared lives, a tangible echo of the love that filled your world, a silent promise of forever.

The unveiling of your relationship, the whispered "I love you too" exchanged in the quiet sanctity of his birthday, was a cataclysmic event, a pivotal moment that irrevocably altered the landscape of your shared existence. The quiet sanctuary you had painstakingly constructed, a haven where vulnerability and honesty reigned supreme, was about to be exposed to the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent battlefield where emotions clashed and perceptions warred. The weight of that exposure was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a silent tremor of anxiety that threatened to shatter the fragile equilibrium you had painstakingly achieved, a storm brewing on the horizon.

The news, as it inevitably does in a world saturated with digital echoes and insatiable curiosity, leaked. A grainy photo, captured from a distance, of you and Chan sharing a quiet moment in a secluded café, accompanied by a sensationalized article that painted a distorted and often malicious picture of your relationship, spread like wildfire across social media platforms, igniting a firestorm of reactions. The responses were immediate, varied, and often volatile, a cacophony of voices echoing across the digital landscape, a symphony of scrutiny that threatened to drown out the quiet intimacy of your love, a silent war waged in the digital realm.

Some STAYs, the loyal guardians of Chan’s world, were overjoyed, their comments brimming with warmth and unwavering support. They celebrated your love, seeing it as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism and negativity. They shared your photos, wrote heartfelt messages, and created fan edits, embracing you as part of their family, a testament to the transformative power of shared joy and acceptance, a silent chorus of support.

Others, however, were less accepting, their words sharp and cruel, their comments laced with jealousy, resentment, and often, a deep-seated sense of possessiveness. They questioned your worthiness, scrutinized your appearance, and accused you of seeking attention, of exploiting Chan’s fame for your own gain. They saw you as a threat, an intruder in their idealized world, a disruption to the carefully constructed image of their idol, a silent battleground of conflicting emotions where personal desires clashed with the reality of Chan's life, a storm of negativity.

The online vitriol was a constant hum, a relentless barrage of negativity that threatened to drown you in a sea of doubt and self-doubt. You found yourself retreating into the quiet sanctuary of your shared world, seeking solace in Chan’s presence, his warmth a comforting embrace against the coldness of the world, a silent refuge from the storm raging outside, a fragile haven in the chaos.

He stood by you, unwavering in his support, a silent protector against the storm of public opinion. He addressed the rumors in a live broadcast, his voice calm and steady, his words filled with sincerity and conviction, a testament to the unwavering strength of his love, a silent declaration of his commitment.

“Yes, I am in a relationship,” he said, his eyes meeting the camera, his gaze direct and unwavering, a silent declaration of his unwavering love and commitment, a beacon of truth in a sea of speculation. “She is important to me. She makes me happy. She sees me for who I am, not for who the world wants me to be.”

He spoke of your kindness, your strength, your unwavering support, the qualities that had drawn him to you in the first place, the silent language of shared souls. He spoke of the connection you shared, a bond built on honesty, vulnerability, and mutual respect, a testament to the power of shared souls. He asked for respect, for understanding, for the privacy to navigate your relationship away from the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent plea for empathy and understanding, a fragile hope for peace.

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a testament to his unwavering love, a silent promise of protection and unwavering support, a beacon of strength in the darkness. But they also ignited a fresh wave of reactions, some supportive, some vitriolic. The online discourse became a battleground, a clash of opinions and emotions, a silent war waged in the digital realm, where words were weapons and perceptions were shields, a storm of conflicting emotions.

Chan's Instagram, once a carefully curated collection of artistic shots and candid moments, became a testament to your love, a silent declaration of his affection, a tangible representation of your shared world, a beacon of hope in the chaos. He shared silly selfies, cozy nights, handwritten notes envelopes, each post a silent echo of the love that filled his heart, a tangible representation of your shared world. He wanted the world to see his happiness, to understand that you were his safe space, his anchor, his home, a silent sanctuary in the chaos of his life, a testament to the power of shared love, a fragile hope for understanding.

The members of Stray Kids, your chosen family, rallied around you, their support unwavering and unwavering, a silent fortress against the storm. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were your shield, your fortress, your constant reminder that you were loved and accepted, an integral part of their family, a testament to the power of chosen bonds, a quiet chorus of support.

“He’s happier,” Felix said in a live broadcast, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy, a silent testament to the transformative power of your love, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in negativity. “He smiles more when she’s around.”

“She’s good for him,” Changbin added, his voice gruff but his eyes warm, a silent acknowledgment of the strength you brought to Chan’s life, a testament to the power of shared understanding, a quiet declaration of support.

The public scrutiny was relentless, a constant hum of judgment and speculation, but your bond with Chan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity, a testament to the enduring power of love. You learned to navigate the complexities of a public relationship, to filter the noise, to focus on the love that surrounded you, a silent sanctuary in the chaos, a fragile hope for peace.

You found solace in the quiet moments, the stolen hours when you could be yourselves, away from the prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny, a silent refuge in each other’s arms, a haven of peace. You found strength in each other’s presence, a silent understanding that transcended words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet understanding of shared souls.

You learned to appreciate the supportive voices, the fans who embraced your love, who saw your relationship as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism. You learned to ignore the hateful comments, the cruel words, the attempts to tear you down, a silent battle against the negativity, a testament to your inner strength, a quiet declaration of resilience.

The years passed, and your relationship became a part of the fabric of Stray Kids’ story, a testament to the enduring power of love, a beacon of hope in the chaos. Fans watched you grow, watched your love blossom, watched Chan’s happiness radiate like a warm glow, a silent symphony of shared joy, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke your name, the way he found solace in your presence, a silent acknowledgment of the love that filled his heart, a testament to the power of shared souls.

They began to understand. They saw the vulnerability, the honesty, the unwavering love that defined your relationship, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way you supported Chan, the way you understood him, the way you loved him for who he was, not for who the world wanted him to be, a silent declaration of your unwavering love, a fragile hope for understanding.

And in the end, that was all that mattered. You had found love in the midst of chaos, a quiet sanctuary in a world of noise, a testament to the enduring power of shared souls. You had built a home in each other’s hearts, a love that transcended the boundaries of fame and scrutiny, a silent symphony of intertwined lives, a tangible echo of forever, a testament to the power of shared souls. You had written your own story, together, one chapter at a time, a testament to the enduring power of love, a silent echo of forever's embrace.

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