#3. I have not been in any so far so I don't know

[fangdokja]

Hey there, Fang. This is my first ever ask of someone, so I read your rules very closely and I hope I don't mess it up already. I also want to say that I haven't even finished reading your Yandere Alpha Male oneshot and I can already tell I'll be in love with the rest of your work 🥹.

I had seen that you also have a Yandere Bully Collegemate OC and I NEED HIM IN MY LIFE! (I say that respectfully and in no way do I want to rush you into writing his story 🥹). As a request are we able to get a oneshot of him, please? I don't have anything specific in mind, maybe Reader gets dragged to a Frat Party by him and he does her in the bathroom out of jealousy/possessiveness, etc. I'll be happy with any idea you have 😊. Can we also have NSFW with Non-Con? I'm not too fond of anal, but I'll leave it up to you! Thanks, Fang! I'll be cheering you on! 🤗

🔞A night of hedonism becomes your worst nightmare.

❤︎ Synopsis. At a twisted frat party, you're the centerpiece of a dark game of dominance and degradation, where every touch and whisper reminds you of the power he holds—and the humiliation you're forced to endure. The night is far from over, and he has plans to make you his plaything in front of them all.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured (AHD) : A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! College! Bully x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Torn Between Us - Part 3

♡ Word Count. 17,206

♡ TW. dom + top + older + scumbag + sadistic yandere, explicit non-con + rape, psychological manipulation + conditioning + abuse + trauma, fear play, BDSM + DDLG, bullying, love bombing, mature language, crime, unhealthy coping mechanisms + toxic relationships, gaslighting, victim blaming, implied masochism, slight pet play, collars + leashes, public + situational humiliation, non-con photography + filming, non-con alcoholism + forced intoxication, drugging, forced oral + deepthroating, public sex, slapping, physical assault + abuse, degradation, name-calling, forced prostitution + stripping, whipping, dacryphilia, slut shaming, genitalia assault + abuse, gang rape, mind break, blackmail + threats + coercion, illegal auctions, hard objectification, free-use whore elements, explicit and realistic depictions of sexual abuse + rape, forced double + multiple penetration, creampies, Stockholm Syndrome, forced anal, orgies, masturbation, public nudity

You felt the cold air bite into your skin as he yanked your shirt over your head, the fabric tearing away from your body with a vicious snarl. He threw it aside, his eyes raking over your exposed flesh with a hunger that made your stomach clench. His grip was iron, his hands roaming over your curves with a cruel possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. You were his toy, his plaything, and as he dragged you to the mirror, you couldn't help but feel the weight of his gaze—like a brand searing you from the inside out.

"Look at yourself," he ordered, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "This is what you are. A whore. Nothing more."

You stared at your reflection, trembling, the bruises from his earlier assaults already starting to bloom across your skin. His eyes bore into yours through the mirror, a challenge that made your heart race. You tried to look away, but his hand snaked around your throat, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh beneath your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You're mine," he said, his voice a low growl. "You always have been. And tonight, everyone will know it."

With a sadistic smirk, he reaches down to unbutton and unzip your pants, pulling them down along with your underwear in one swift motion, leaving you naked and exposed in the cold room. He takes a step back, his eyes feasting on your trembling body, the evidence of your fear and humiliation only adding to his arousal.

He opens a closet door, revealing a selection of cheap, revealing outfits—tiny dresses, lingerie, and accessories that scream 'slut'. He sifts through them with a critical eye, tossing a few onto the bed with a grunt of satisfaction.

He holds up a scrap of red fabric with a smirk, his eyes glinting with malicious pleasure. It's a lingerie set—a thong and a push-up bra that barely cover anything. "This will do," he says, tossing it at you. "Put it on, and let's see if you can still pretend to be shy for me."

You freeze and don't follow through immediately.

He grabs the back of your neck, his grip tight and unforgiving as he pulls you to your feet. "You heard me," he growls, his voice thick with irritation. "Put it on. We're going to make an entrance they won't forget." His eyes bore into yours, the hunger in them unmistakable.

You swallow hard, the taste of fear coating the back of your throat as your trembling hands fumble with the flimsy fabric.

Each touch feels like a brand, a reminder of what you're about to endure.

You hate him for this—for reducing you to this trembling wreck of a human being—but a dark, twisted part of you craves the attention, the power he holds over you.

It's a dance you know all too well, a dance you've been forced to perform countless times before.

With shaking hands, you slip into the red lingerie, the fabric scraping against your bruises and the cold air in the room making your skin pebble.

He watches with a predatory gaze, his eyes lingering on every inch of exposed flesh as if committing it to memory. When you're done, he nods, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Perfect," he says, his voice a low purr of approval. "Now, let's go show everyone what a good little slut you are."

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim you, to mark you as his own. His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you closer, and you can feel the unmistakable bulge in his pants pressing against your stomach.

It's a promise of what's to come, a reminder that you're his to use and discard at will.

Despite your fear, despite your revulsion, your body responds, your pulse racing as he whispers sweet nothings against your neck, his breath hot and moist.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust and possession. "So eager to please." He grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin of your neck, and you suppress a whimper.

The sting of pain sends a jolt through your body, mixing with the warmth of his praise, confusing your senses until you're not sure what you feel anymore—just that you crave more of his touch, more of his attention.

He smirks, the corner of his lips tilting up in a way that makes your stomach drop. "Maybe I'll just leave you in that," he says, his eyes raking over your nearly naked form.

He stands, releasing you from the bruising grip of his arms. You feel the cool air of the room kiss your overheated skin as he steps away, and for a brief moment, you hope that perhaps he's changed his mind.

But then he crosses the room to a drawer, pulls out a black leather collar studded with silver spikes, and you know that hope is futile. He returns to you, his gaze dark with excitement as he fastens the collar around your neck, tightening it just enough to make you gasp. "There," he says, his voice a low purr of satisfaction. "Now you're dressed for the party."

He leads you to the full-length mirror, forcing you to look at yourself.

The red lingerie clings to your bruised body, the lace scratching at your skin like the accusatory eyes of everyone who's ever seen your scars. The collar stands out starkly against your pale neck, a declaration of your ownership. He stands behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his chest pressing against your back as he leans down to whisper in your ear.

"You're going to be the center of attention tonight," he says, his breath hot against your skin. "Everyone will see you like this. Everyone will know that you're mine."

You whimper, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. He chuckles, the sound sending a cold shiver down your spine. "Don't worry, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of girl you are. A dirty little whore who can't get enough of the pain I give you."

You muster every ounce of courage and beg him to at least let you wear something more over the revealing lingerie, your voice quivering with fear and desperation. "Please," you whimper, "just let me put on something else. Anything. I don't want everyone to see me like this."

He chuckles darkly, his breath ghosting across your neck as his hand comes up to trace the line of the collar. "But that's the point," he whispers, his eyes gleaming in the reflection.

"You're my little showpiece tonight. My trophy to flaunt and use as I please." His thumb strokes the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur. "You know how much I love watching you squirm under their eyes."

He sighs heavily, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. "You're so predictable." His voice is a low rumble of amusement. He leans closer, his breath hot and moist against your skin.

"But that's what makes you so perfect for this." He grabs your chin, turning your face to the side so you can see the lust in his gaze.

"Begging for mercy, for dignity, for anything to not be seen like this. It's pathetic, really." His thumb traces the line of your jaw, his grip tightening slightly. "But it's also what makes me so fucking hard."

———

The backhand hits you like a whip, the force snapping your head to the side and sending you sprawling onto the cold floor.

Pain explodes across your cheek, and you taste the coppery tang of blood in your mouth. The world spins around you for a moment, and you feel the sting of tears in your eyes.

But as the shock fades, so does your pride.

He looms over you, his eyes narrowed and gleaming with a dangerous light. "You've forgotten your training, haven't you?"

He says it like it's a personal affront, like you've spit in his face rather than simply begging for mercy.

"Bitch," he sneers, the word a vicious caress that makes you flinch. "You're going to learn respect again, one way or another."

You feel his heavy boot come down on your cheek, pressing your face into the cold, unforgiving tile. The pain is immediate and blinding, a stark reminder of your place beneath him. His weight shifts, the pressure increasing until your skull feels like it might crack under the force.

You whimper, your cheek mashed against the ground as your nose fills with the scent of your own blood. His foot grinds against your face, his voice a harsh, displeased growl.

"You're mine," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "Mine to use, mine to break, and mine to fix."

His foot releases you, and you gasp for air, your cheek bruising under his boot's imprint. "Now get dressed. We have a party to attend."

He smirks down at you, his eyes glinting with sadistic amusement as he watches your desperate struggle to breathe beneath his weight.

His hand reaches down to trace the bruise already forming on your cheek, his thumb pressing into the tender flesh with a cruel fondness. "Such a pretty face," he murmurs, "It'd be a shame to mar it completely."

He laughs darkly at your muffled cry, his nails digging into the bruise he'd just created, sending shockwaves of pain through your face.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, "You're going to be the star of the show tonight, baby. And if you're a good little whore, I might just let you keep that pretty face intact."

His hand yanks your hair, forcing your head back, and you bite back a scream as the pain shoots through your scalp. He's enjoying this, the cruel twist to his lips saying it all as he sifts through the selection of leashes hanging in the closet.

Each one a symbol of his control, a tool to parade you around the frat party like a prized pet.

His eyes flicker over the leather and metal chains, the soft fabric and studded collars, each one designed to inflict a different kind of humiliation. He finally settles on a short, studded leather leash, the kind that would leave painful indentations on your skin. He loops it around your neck with a sadistic smile, the cold metal pressing into your flesh.

"This one," he says with a finality that sends a shiver down your spine. "It'll match the collar nicely." His grip on your hair tightens as he secures the leash to the collar, the clasp clicking shut with a finality that echoes in your mind like a prison door slamming shut.

He jerks the leash back sharply, the studs biting into your neck as you're forced to kneel before him again. His smirk widens at your obedience, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and cruel amusement. "Who told you to stand up, slut?" he asks, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sends a tremor through your body. His hand slides down the leather strap to the clasp, and you brace yourself for the pain, for the punishment you know is coming.

The second you try to stand up, he yanks the leash, forcing you back down to your knees. "Who told you to stand up, you disobedient little slut?" he snarls, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and excitement.

You feel a rush of heat between your legs despite the fear, his harsh words sending a thrill through your body. He reaches into the closet, pulling out a whip, the leather cracking sharply in the tense air as he tests its length.

The sight of the weapon makes your heart race, a mix of terror and arousal pumping through your veins.

"Now," he says, his voice low and deadly, "you're going to crawl to the party like the good little bitch you are. And if you dare try to stand again without my permission, I'll show you just how much this whip loves to kiss your skin."

He strokes the whip along your bare back, the cool leather sending goosebumps rippling over your flesh. His touch is possessive, a clear declaration of his intentions to claim you fully and completely in front of everyone.

The whip cracks through the air with a vicious sound, striking your already bruised flesh with a sharp sting. The pain is immediate and intense, making you yelp and arch your back as your skin burns from the leather's cruel kiss.

He smiles, watching your reaction with a predatory gaze, his eyes lighting up with sadistic pleasure at the sound of your pain. He runs the tip of the whip along your spine, tracing the outline of your body as you tremble before him.

"Look how eager you are," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "You love this, don't you? Being my little whore. Being used and humiliated in front of everyone."

His hand tangles in your hair again, wrenching your head back to expose your neck to his hungry gaze. "You're going to be the star of the show tonight, baby. Everyone will see just how much you crave this."

The cold steel of the leash digs into the flesh of your throat as he jerks it, forcing you to crawl after him like the animal he's made you out to be.

Your knees scrape against the rough, unforgiving surface of the hallway floor, leaving behind a trail of bruises and small abrasions that burn with every movement.

The humiliation is complete, the weight of his hand on the leash a stark reminder that you have no say, no power—you're nothing more than his plaything to be used and displayed as he sees fit.

────────────

The moment you enter the packed frat party, the atmosphere shifts—the air thickens with a mix of lust and anticipation.

His hand tightens on the leash, and he pulls you closer, a low chuckle escaping his lips as the whispers of those around you grow louder.

You can feel the weight of their stares, their eyes raking over your bruised and exposed body, and your cheeks burn with a mix of humiliation and arousal. You want to hide, to shrink away from their judgment, but his grip is unyielding, his presence a stark reminder of your role for the night.

As he parades you through the crowded room, the whispers grow into a cacophony of murmurs, the occasional laugh cutting through the din. You can feel the heat of their gazes on your bare skin, a mix of pity and perverse fascination. You're aware of the pictures being snapped on phones, the videos that will surely spread like wildfire across the school. But his hand remains firm on the leash, his grip a silent declaration of ownership.

The whispers become a murmur as the crowd around you grows denser, a sea of faces you vaguely recognize from classes and the dorms. They all seem to know him, and by extension, what you're here for.

A few of the bolder ones lean in close, whispering lewd comments about your body, your obvious discomfort only fueling their excitement.

The flash of a camera phone blinds you for a second, and you realize that your humiliation is being documented for the world to see.

You feel his hand slide down the leather of the leash to your neck, his thumb caressing the tender skin just beneath your jawline. His grip tightens, a silent warning to not make a scene, to be his good little whore.

"Look at you," he says, his voice a seductive purr in your ear, his breath hot and moist. "You're such a good slut for me, aren't you? Just like old times."

You bite your lip to hold back the tears, your cheek stinging from his earlier blow. You can't believe you're here, in this place, with him.

The music is loud, the lights are strobing, and the smell of cheap beer and sweat fills the air. You're naked except for the red lingerie he made you wear—his favorite color—and the collar around your neck, a stark contrast against your pale, bruised skin. The spikes dig into your neck, a constant reminder of his ownership.

Domo... you want to call for Domo...

Where is she...?

Please... please come back...

You're sorry. You're so sorry for lying to her.

For pretending to be someone you're not.

As you try not to cry, you feel the leather leash tighten around your neck, his hand guiding you through the thickening crowd.

The whispers and stares feel like a thousand tiny knives cutting into your already shredded dignity, but the fear of his wrath keeps you in check. The frat house is alive with the pulse of music, the smell of alcohol, and the heat of bodies pressed together in various states of undress.

Your eyes scan the room, desperately searching for an escape, but the only thing you find is his smug smile as he leads you to the VIP section.

He sits on the couch, the throne of his own twisted kingdom, and pulls you onto his lap, your bare thighs exposed and trembling against the rough fabric. His arms wrap around you like a steel cage, his hands roaming over your body with the ease of someone who's owned it for years. His touch is both possessive and degrading, a cruel reminder of the power he holds over you.

"Look around," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers trace the line of the collar, pressing it into your skin. "This is your world now, my little whore. Everyone knows what you are."

You dare a glance around the room, your eyes filling with tears as you take in the leering faces and knowing smirks of the partygoers.

You're the entertainment, the punchline of their crude jokes, and it's clear none of them see you as anything but his property to use and discard.

The humiliation is almost too much to bear, but you bite your tongue, the metallic taste of blood mingling with the salt of stray tears.

"You're mine," he says, his voice a dark growl that sends shivers down your spine. His hand slides up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple, and you can't help the gasp that escapes your lips.

"And tonight, I'm going to show everyone just how much."

———

He takes the bottle from his pocket and uncaps it with a smirk.

You recognize it as the same brand of alcohol you've had before, but something about the way he handles it makes you feel sick with dread. He brings the bottle to your lips, tilting your head back as you struggle to breathe, your pulse racing.

The liquid is cold and bitter, burning down your throat, and you cough and choke as he pours it down your throat. His grip is unrelenting, his thumb pressing into your jaw to force your mouth open wider, ensuring not a single drop is wasted.

"Swallow," he commands, his voice a low rumble. "Swallow it all."

You try to resist, but his grip is unyielding, the bottle pressing against your teeth until you have no choice but to obey.

The liquid burns its way down your throat, and you feel the beginnings of a sickly warmth spreading through your body, turning your limbs to jelly and your thoughts to mush.

The room starts to spin, and the leers of the partygoers become a blur of faces, their whispers a cacophony of white noise in your ears. You struggle to focus, but everything is slipping away from you, your mind fogging over with a thick haze of confusion and fear.

He watches you with a twisted smile as you gag and choke, the alcohol burning your throat and making your eyes water.

His chuckle is deep and satisfied, the sound of a man who's used to getting exactly what he wants, no matter the cost to others. As the last of the liquid trickles down your throat, his hand releases your chin, leaving a sticky trail of drool to hang from your bottom lip.

"Good girl," he praises, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Now, let's see how obedient you really are."

With a vicious yank of the leash attached to the collar around your neck, he forces you down to your knees. The spikes dig into your flesh, sending sharp stabs of pain, but you know better than to protest. Your knees hit the cold, sticky floor, and you feel the weight of his stare on you as you blink back the tears.

You're so vulnerable, so exposed in the skimpy lingerie and the collar that screams of your ownership. The room around you is a blur of faces and sounds, the frat brothers leering and jeering, eager to see what's to come.

———

The force of his slap sends your head snapping to the side, your cheek stinging with a white-hot pain that seems to resonate through your skull.

You blink back the stars in your vision, the sting of your eyes mixing with the salty taste of your own blood. His hand wraps around the back of your neck, forcing your face closer to the bulge in his pants. The fabric is rough against your skin, a stark contrast to the softness of your bruised cheek.

"You're going to show them," he says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. "You're going to show every single one of these pathetic fucks what a good little whore you are."

His grip tightens, the pressure almost cutting off your air. "You're going to suck me off right here, right now, and you're going to enjoy it. You're going to make them all wish they had a piece of what's mine."

The second slap lands with a crack that echoes through the room, the sound of your skin against his palm ringing in your ears like a gunshot.

The pain is so intense, so sudden, that for a brief moment, it overwhelms everything else—the humiliation, the fear, the sickening reality of your situation.

The taste of blood fills your mouth, mixing with the bitter taste of his hand as tears spill down your cheeks.

"Fuck," he says, his voice a mix of frustration and arousal. "You're such a slow learner."

His grip on your neck loosens slightly, his other hand reaching down to unbuckle his belt. The clink of his belt is the only sound in the room, louder than the pulse thundering in your ears, louder than the jeers of the frat brothers. "But we're going to fix that, won't we, princess?"

He pushes your face closer to his crotch, the scent of his arousal thick and overwhelming. The fabric of his pants presses against your cheek as he unzips them with a smug grin, revealing the hard, thick length of his cock.

"Look what you do to me," he says, his voice a taunt as he strokes himself, the sound of his hand gliding over his shaft echoing through the room. "You're going to make me feel so good, baby. Just like you always do."

You feel the heat of his cock against your lips, and despite the fear and pain, a dark, desperate craving stirs within you. His fingers weave through your hair, guiding you closer as you open your mouth to accept him. The taste of his arousal fills your mouth, and you feel his hardness pulse as your tongue darts out to trace the veins along his length. He groans, his grip tightening slightly as you take him in deeper, the leather of the collar biting into your neck.

Your eyes water with the effort to not gag, but you force yourself to take more, the desire to please him overriding your instincts to fight back.

As you hungrily deepthroat his cock, his eyes light up with a sadistic gleam of satisfaction. He groans deeply, his hand fisting in your hair as he starts to thrust his hips, fucking your mouth with a ferocity that leaves you gasping for air.

The leather collar around your neck is a constant reminder of your submission, the metal spikes digging in as he uses you as his personal whore. The room seems to spin around you, the sounds of the partygoers' cheers and taunts a cacophony in the background, all fading away as you focus solely on the task at hand.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. "So eager to make Daddy happy. You really are a good little slut, aren't you?"

The words, though degrading, only serve to make you suck harder, your throat working to accommodate his size. His other hand moves down to squeeze one of your breasts, twisting the nipple through the flimsy fabric of your lingerie, eliciting a muffled moan around his cock. The pain sends a bolt of electricity straight to your core, making you wet despite the horror of the situation.

"Yeah, just like that," he grunts, his hips bucking against your face. "You love being used like this, don't you, my little fucktoy?"

The sound of your needy moans are like music to his ears, and his grip on your hair tightens even more. He starts to fuck your mouth with purpose, his hips moving in a steady, punishing rhythm. The friction of his cock against the back of your throat and the way your cheeks hollow out with each thrust makes you feel utterly used and debased—exactly how he wants you.

The frat brothers around you cheer and catcall, their eyes glued to the obscene scene unfolding in the VIP section. The room is a blur of leering faces and lewd gestures, the sound of their jeers and laughter echoing in your ears.

"Look at her," he says, his voice thick with arousal as he addresses the crowd. "My personal little slut. She'd do anything for me, wouldn't she?"

You can't bring yourself to argue, the words sticking in your throat as his cock slams into the back of your throat. The frat brothers hoot and holler, some of them reaching out to touch you, their hands grabbing at your exposed skin. Each touch feels like a violation, a further reminder that you're not a person here, just a thing for their amusement.

"Look at her," he says, his voice a low growl, "so eager to please." He slaps you again, the sting on your cheek sending a fresh wave of arousal through you, even as tears leak from your eyes. "You're going to be the main event tonight, my little slut. Everyone's going to see how much you love being used."

The room is a whirlwind of noise and bodies, the smell of spilled drinks and sweat thick in the air. He yanks you to your feet, the leash pulling at your neck. Your knees wobble, but he doesn't care, dragging you through the crowd to the makeshift stage they've set up.

The cheers and catcalls grow louder as he leads you up the steps, your bare feet cold against the wood. You're aware of every set of eyes on you, the collar around your neck gleaming under the strobe lights, his hand wrapped firmly in your hair, guiding you.

"Look at what I brought, everyone!" he calls out, his voice ringing with a dark kind of triumph. The music cuts out, and the room goes still. "This is what a real woman looks like, isn't she? Willing to do anything for the man who owns her."

The frat brothers cheer, and you can feel their eyes on you like a million tiny knives, cutting into your soul. He pushes you to your knees in the center of the stage, the lights above you making you squint.

You're dizzy, the room spinning around you, but you know better than to fight. You know what happens when you fight.

He strokes your hair, a mockery of tenderness. "Look around, baby," he whispers, his voice a dark caress in your ear. "These are the people who matter. These are the ones who understand what you truly are. And what are you?"

You swallow, the bitter taste of fear coating your mouth. "Y-Your slut," you murmur, the words barely audible.

He laughs, the sound cruel and triumphant. "That's right," he says, his hand sliding down to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "My slut. And tonight, you're going to show everyone just how much of a good girl you can be for Daddy."

The crack of the whip slices through the air, the sound jolting you out of your haze. The leather kisses your bare skin with a sharp sting that sends a bolt of arousal straight to your core. You whimper, your body already conditioned to respond to his brand of pain with a twisted form of pleasure.

He smirks down at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he sees your reaction. "Now, now," he says, his voice low and soothing despite the harshness of his words. "Don't be shy. It's showtime."

The room seems to close in around you, the leather collar tightening around your throat with every breath. The stage lights are hot and blinding, and the leers and catcalls from the drunken frat boys below make your stomach churn. He snaps the whip again, the sound a sharp crack echoing through the room, and you flinch, your body responding to his command despite your mind's desperate rebellion.

────────────

The music starts, a thumping bass that seems to pulse through your very bones, and his hand tightens on the leash attached to your collar. "Dance for me, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Show these pathetic fucks what you're really made of."

You try to push the drugs' haze away, but your body moves on its own accord, swaying to the beat, each movement a silent plea for mercy that he ignores. His eyes never leave yours as you strip away your dignity, peeling off layers of clothing to reveal bruised skin and the marks of his ownership.

The frat boys cheer, their eyes greedy as they watch you, and you want to die—to just slip away and leave this nightmare behind. But his grip on your soul is too strong.

He snaps the whip again, a little closer this time, the tip grazing the bare skin of your arm. You yelp, and he laughs, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. "That's it," he says, his voice a dark caress. "Show them how much you love it."

With the crack of the whip still ringing in your ears, you struggle to rise to your feet, your legs shaking with fear and a strange, dark excitement. The alcohol and the drugs he forced on you swirl through your system, mixing with the adrenaline and the horror of what's happening to create a toxic cocktail that fuels your actions.

You look down at your body, the red lingerie clinging to your curves, and you know that you're going to have to give him what he wants. You hate it—you hate him, you hate this, you hate what he’s turned you into—but the fear of his wrath and the need to survive override your pride.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with sadistic satisfaction. He tugs at the leash, and you follow his lead, your movements jerky and awkward as you try to mimic the seductive dances you’ve seen in movies.

The stage lights burn down on you, making you feel exposed, making every eye in the room feel like a brand on your flesh. The frat members leer and shout obscenities, their excitement palpable as they watch you perform for their entertainment.

He circles you, the whip coiled in his hand like a living extension of his will. The leather cracks again, and you flinch, but this time, you know better than to resist. You begin to sway your hips, the music a distant throb that you try to sync with, your eyes fixed on a spot just beyond the sea of faces.

Each step is a battle between your instincts to flee and the cold, heavy weight of his expectations.

The whip slices through the air, its leather tail biting into the tender flesh of your thigh. The sting is immediate and sharp, a stark reminder of your place.

You gasp, your dance faltering for a moment as pain blossoms in a crimson flower, stealing your breath. The crowd cheers, the sickening sound of their approval spurring him on. His eyes narrow, and he pulls you closer by the leash, his grip unyielding.

"Is that all you've got, my little slut?" he sneers, his voice a harsh whisper in your ear. "You used to be so eager to please me, so desperate for my praise. Have you forgotten your training so quickly?"

You feel the warm trickle of blood run down your leg, mixing with the stickiness of his cum that still clings to your skin.

The room spins around you, the strobe lights flashing in a disorienting rhythm that seems to pulse with the bass of the music.

Your body screams for relief, but his words cut deeper than any whip ever could. You shake your head, eyes wide with terror and humiliation. "No, no, I—"

His hand snaps out, slapping you hard across the cheek.

"Don't you dare lie to me," he snarls, his voice low and dangerous. "You're mine, and you'll perform like the whore you are."

He shoves you back into the center of the stage, the cold metal of the pole pressing into your bare skin. The music changes, a slower, more sensual beat that seems to taunt you with its intimacy.

He cracks the whip again, a warning that echoes through your very soul.

Your body moves almost of its own accord, the drugs and his relentless grip on the collar's leash guiding your actions.

You wrap your shaking limbs around the pole, your torn lingerie barely clinging to your bruised and bloodied skin.

The crowd of leering frat members hoot and holler, their eyes devouring the sight of you, their entertainment for the night. The stage lights burn into your retinas, making everything else a hazy, pulsing blur. You feel the stickiness of the semen on your body mixing with the sweat and blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that clings to your skin.

"Look at her, folks," he calls out, his voice carrying over the music, his words a knife in the heart of your dignity. "Isn't she just the prettiest little thing you've ever seen?"

He sneers down at you, the glint in his eyes cold and unforgiving. "What are you waiting for?" he asks, his voice a low growl. "Take it all off, slut. Show everyone what you've been hiding." His hand moves to the collar around your neck, giving it a sharp tug that sends a bolt of pain shooting through your body.

———

You bite your lip, trying to ignore the burning in your throat and the sticky warmth of your own blood, as you begin to peel off your clothes with trembling hands. Your eyes never leave his, the fear and anger in them a silent scream for mercy that you know he won't heed.

With a tremble that you hope he'll mistake for seductive anticipation, you unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor. Your breasts bounce free, nipples stiff with cold and fear.

You're aware of the leers of the crowd as they watch you, and the way his eyes rake over you, claiming ownership of every inch of your exposed flesh. The collar feels tighter around your neck, a constant reminder of the power he wields over you.

"That's it, slut," he says, his voice thick with pleasure as you stand before him, naked except for the soiled lingerie around your thighs.

"Show everyone what you really are."

With trembling fingers, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your thong, taking a deep, shaky breath as you push it down over your hips.

The fabric clings to your wetness, and you feel a fresh wave of humiliation as you realize just how much your body is betraying you in this moment. You peel the thong away from your skin, exposing your vulnerable, bare pussy to the leering eyes of the frat boys and the sadistic grin of your tormentor.

He watches you, his own erection pressing against his slacks, his hand resting on the bulge as if contemplating whether to let you service him further. The room seems to pulse with the beat of the music, each bass drop echoing the hammer of your heart as you stand before him, naked, collared, and utterly at his mercy.

The whip slices through the air with a sinister hiss, and before you can even process the command, the leather bites into your sensitive flesh. The pain is immediate, white-hot and searing, and you let out a high-pitched scream as your body jolts reflexively.

The sting against your pussy sends a jolt of electricity through your core, the pain so intense it's almost impossible to believe it's real. You look down to see the crimson line marring your pale skin, and the sight only makes you feel more exposed, more violated.

He laughs, the sound like nails on a chalkboard to your sensitive ears. "Is that all you've got, baby?" He asks, his tone mocking and filled with dark amusement.

"I've seen you take so much more. Don't tell me you're going to be a bad little slut now." He gives the leash a sharp tug, and you stumble toward the pole, desperation fueling your movements.

Your body wraps around the cold metal, your trembling hands sliding up the pole as you try to compose yourself. The room's attention is fully on you, the music a distant backdrop to the horror show you're being forced to perform.

The pole is slick with sweat and other, unidentifiable substances, but you ignore the revulsion, focusing instead on the task at hand. You begin to move, your hips swaying and gyrating, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm as you try to push away the pain and the fear.

He grabs the back of your head, the glass bottle pressing against your mouth.

You try to resist, the bitter taste of the drug-laden alcohol already making your stomach churn from the first dose, but his grip is unyielding. His thumb digs into your cheek, pushing your jaw open wider, and he pours the amber liquid down your throat, forcing you to swallow.

You cough and choke, the liquid burning like fire as it slides down your throat, the potent aphrodisiacs mixing with the fear and adrenaline already coursing through your system. Your eyes water, your vision swimming with the sudden onslaught of chemicals, but he's relentless, watching you with a sadistic glint as you drink.

As the bottle empties, the room seems to tilt on its axis. The laughter and jeers of the frat brothers blur into a cacophony of sound, the lights above seeming to pulse and flicker erratically.

He releases your head, and you drop to your knees, gasping for air. The collar around your neck feels tighter, the spikes digging into your skin with each frantic breath you take. He chuckles, his eyes gleaming with a dark excitement as he watches you struggle.

"Looks like my little slut's ready to perform," he says, his voice a taunting whisper that seems to resonate through the haze in your mind. He tugs on the leash, jerking your head up so that you're forced to meet his gaze.

The world spins around you, the edges of your vision blurring with the potency of the drug. "Now, get up and show them what you're good for."

———

You struggle to stand, your legs wobbly from the potent cocktail of fear and aphrodisiac swirling through your system. The room seems to tilt and sway around you, the leers of the frat boys blurring into a sea of hungry, lecherous faces. Your body feels like it's on fire, your pussy slick with arousal against your will. The collar digs into your neck, a painful reminder of your bondage, but the heat from the drink and the humiliation of your performance makes the pain strangely… addictive.

"Good girl," he purrs, his voice thick with lust and satisfaction.

"Now, show them how much you love to dance for daddy." His hand slides down your back, his fingers lingering over the fresh bruises marring your skin. You flinch, but there's something in his touch that makes you crave more—his dominance, his control.

With the collar biting into your neck and the drug coursing through your veins, you stumble to the pole, your movements uncoordinated and sluggish. But as you begin to move, the music seems to fill you, guiding your hips into a sultry sway that seems almost instinctual.

You wrap your hands around the pole, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat emanating from your body. Each slide of your palms up and down the pole is met with a chorus of catcalls and whistles from the intoxicated audience.

The music pulses through the room, a siren's call to your debasement, and you begin to dance with a fervor that borders on desperation. Your eyes glaze over as the potent cocktail of fear and the drug takes hold, your body moving in ways that seem both alien and eerily natural.

You twirl around the pole, the friction of your bruised skin against the metal sending waves of painful pleasure through your body. Your breasts, now free from their fabric prison, bounce with each thrust of your hips, the friction of your nipples against the pole making them rock hard and sensitive.

The frat boys below you have abandoned any pretense of decency, their hands shamelessly stroking their erections as they watch you. The smell of lust is palpable, a thick fog that seems to coil around you, tightening its grip with every passing moment. Some of them have already climaxed, their semen spattering the stage, mixing with the sweat and tears that drench your legs.

You feel their eyes on you, a hundred pairs of hungry eyes feasting on your nakedness, and you know that he's watching, too—his smirk growing wider as his grip on the leash tightens, urging you to go further.

You arch your back, pushing your hips out, grinding against the pole in a display that has them howling with lust. Each movement sends a jolt of pain through your bruised body, but you ignore it, the need to satisfy him overriding any semblance of self-preservation.

You're nothing but a toy to be used and discarded, a living, breathing manifestation of his darkest desires.

You spread your legs wider, bending over the pole, and their eyes follow, drinking in the sight of your exposed sex. The collar feels like a brand on your neck, a declaration of ownership that marks you as his property.

As you spread your legs wider, revealing your wet and vulnerable sex, the crowd goes absolutely wild.

The air fills with the sound of their ravenous cheers, and money begins to rain down from the frat brothers' hands, landing in a cascade of bills and coins around your knees. The cold, hard cash is a stark contrast to the heat of their stares, but you're too lost in the haze of pain and forced pleasure to care.

Your body moves almost of its own accord, driven by the potent cocktail of the aphrodisiac and the need to satisfy the monster that holds your leash. Each bill that slaps against your skin feels like a slap, a declaration of your worthlessness, but it only fuels your performance.

"Look at her," he says, his voice thick with lust as he watches you, the whip still in hand. "Isn't she such a pretty little slut for us tonight?"

The room is a cacophony of male desire, the scent of testosterone and sex heavy in the air as more and more of the frat brothers drop their pants and start jerking off to the sight of you, their little whore on stage.

Some stand right at the edge, their erections bobbing in your line of sight, leaking pre-cum onto the floor as they watch you spread your legs and arch your back.

The aphrodisiac is making you wetter than you’ve ever been, and the sticky wetness coats the insides of your thighs as you gyrate around the pole. Each time you glance down, you see their eyes on you, watching the show with a hunger that’s palpable, their hands moving in time with the music as they pleasure themselves.

You feel a strange mix of fear and arousal, the drug playing with your emotions and making you crave his attention even as you despise the way he’s using you.

His hand tightens around the leash, reminding you of your place, and you whine, your hips rolling in a desperate bid for relief that you know won’t come. He’s enjoying this far too much to let you cum.

Instead, he gives the leash a sharp tug, pulling you closer to the edge of the stage, closer to the sea of erections pointing at you like accusatory fingers.

“Look at them,” he says, his voice a low purr in your ear, his breath hot and heavy with his own lust. “They all want a piece of you. They’re all watching you, jerking off to you, thinking about fucking you. And you know what? If I want, I can give them that. I can make you service every single one of them. You’re mine to do with as I please, remember?”

You whimper, your eyes darting around the room, meeting the eyes of the men below. Some of them are smiling cruelly, others look at you with a hunger that makes you want to crawl into a hole and hide. You know that if he wanted to, he could throw you to them like a piece of meat.

“But tonight, baby, it’s just me,” he says, his voice thick with arousal as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass.

“We’re going to show everyone who you belong to. Who’s going to fuck you until you scream my name. Who’s going to make you forget all about that prissy little bitch Domo and your sad little attempts at a normal life. Tonight, you’re going to remember who you really are—my little whore.”

———

He hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist almost instinctively as he lines himself up at your entrance. You can feel how wet you are, the stickiness of arousal coating your thighs despite the horror of the situation.

He doesn’t bother with any preamble, no sweet nothings or gentle coaxing—his cock slams into you, brutally tearing through your folds with a sickening sound that’s lost in the din of the chanting crowd.

The impact sends shockwaves through your body, your back arching and your nails digging into his shoulders. You bite your lip to stifle the scream that builds in your throat, the pain of his intrusion mixing with the drug’s sickening thrill.

As he thrusts into you with a brutal force, your body betrays you, a strangled moan escaping your throat. Despite the horror of the situation, the drug's potent cocktail of pain and pleasure has turned you into a writhing mess of need, your inner muscles clenching around him involuntarily.

The crowd goes wild, their cheers and jeers echoing in your ears as he fucks you like a ragdoll, his hips pistoning into you without mercy. Each thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a claim staked deep inside your core. His fingers dig into your skin, leaving bruises that will bloom like dark flowers on your flesh, a testament to his ownership.

“Look at you, little slut,” he snarls, his teeth bared in a twisted grin. “You can’t even help but cum for me, can you? So desperate, so fucking pathetic. Just like I knew you would be. You’re mine, and you always will be.”

He slams into you, each thrust a declaration of his dominance over your trembling body. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as he ruts against you, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.

The crowd's lewd cheers only serve to spur him on, his thrusts growing more erratic and forceful as he nears his climax. The pain is overwhelming, but the drug cocktail makes it almost bearable, the edges of your mind fogging with a haze of pleasure that you despise yourself for feeling.

“That’s right, take it all, baby," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "You love it when I use you like this, don’t you? Love when everyone sees you’re nothing but a whore for me?”

With your body a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and the potent effects of the drugs clouding your judgment, you find yourself obeying his command, kissing him back with a passion that's been twisted and corrupted by the situation.

Your mind is a blur of pain and arousal, the line between the two blurring until you're not sure which one is which anymore. His smirk widens, and he takes full advantage of your compromised state, his kisses growing more possessive as he feels you give in.

His hand snakes up to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as his tongue invades your mouth, claiming you in a way that leaves no doubt who you belong to.

The crowd's cheers grow louder, a cacophony of sound that seems to echo in your ears as he fucks you mercilessly on the makeshift stage. You're dimly aware of the frat brothers jerking off in front of you, their eyes glazed with lust as they watch your degradation unfold.

His hand moves from your neck, down to your throat, squeezing gently but firmly, reminding you that you're his plaything, here for his pleasure and their entertainment. You moan into his mouth, the sound lost in the cacophony of his grunts and the frat members' catcalls.

With a triumphant roar, he drives into you with a brutal force that makes your eyes roll back in your head. The pain is exquisite, a crescendo that steals the last shred of your dignity and leaves you trembling with a need that burns like acid in your veins.

Your legs are spread wide, your body exposed to the leering eyes of the frat members as he takes you with a ferocity that borders on savagery. His fingers dig into your hips, leaving bruises that mirror the marks of his teeth on your neck, his thrusts becoming erratic and punishing. You can feel him swell inside you, his cock thickening with his approaching orgasm.

The room is a cacophony of male lust and your own muffled whimpers. He leans in, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“You’re mine, baby. Always have been, always will be. You’re just too fucking stupid to realize it. Now, scream for me. Scream like you mean it. Scream like the breeding bitch I know you are.” His voice is a snarl, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck as he whispers the last words, the sting of his bite sending a jolt of unwanted pleasure through your body.

The drugs in your system respond to his cruel command, your body betraying you once more. Your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of pleasure that's almost too much to handle.

Your legs tremble uncontrollably, wrapping around his waist as you cling to him, your nails digging into his back as you scream his name into the chaotic din of the frat party. Your muscles spasm around his cock, your walls pulsing with each wave of ecstasy that crashes over you, leaving you sobbing for breath.

His own climax follows, the hot spurt of his seed filling you as he buries himself to the hilt with a final, punishing thrust. The crowd's roars of approval meld with the harsh, triumphant grunts of his release, each one a nail in the coffin of your resistance.

Your body hits the sticky, cum-soaked floor, a testament to the depraved spectacle you've just endured. Your legs shake uncontrollably, muscles slack with the aftershocks of forced pleasure.

The smell of sex and the faint metallic scent of your own blood mingle with the stale beer and sweat that hang in the air. The frat members surrounding you jeer and leer, their lustful gazes raking over your bruised and violated form. Your skin is sticky with their cum, your dignity shattered beyond repair. The harsh lights of the stage cast unflinching shadows over the bruises blossoming across your body, each one a stark reminder of his dominance.

He stands over you, the smug satisfaction in his eyes as he zips his pants, tightening your collar with a jerk for good measure. "Good girl," he sneers, the sound of his zipper a grim symphony of your defeat.

"Now, let's get you cleaned up for the next act." He yanks the leash, and you scramble to your knees, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through your abused body. The leather collar bites into your neck, a constant reminder of your servitude.

With a vicious jerk, he pulls you through the crowd, the frat brothers reaching out to grope and slap you as you pass.

Each touch feels like a brand searing into your skin, marking you as their plaything, their shared whore.

He doesn't bother to hide his enjoyment of the situation, his eyes alight with a dark thrill as he leads you into a back room. The door slams shut behind you, and for a moment, the cacophony of the party is muted, a brief reprieve from the horror of the outside world.

────────────

The room is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and sweat. A filthy sink sits in one corner, and a worn-out couch occupies the other, stains of various bodily fluids marring the fabric.

He shoves you towards the sink, the leash tightening around your neck. "Wash up," he commands, his voice cold and detached. "You're going to be the main entertainment for the night, and I want you to look your best."

You stumble over to the sink, your legs wobbly from the drugs and the brutal treatment. You can feel his eyes on you, watching every move with a sadistic glee that sends a shiver down your spine. Your hands shake as you turn the faucet, the cold water a sharp contrast to the heat of your skin.

The mirror above the sink shows your reflection—your face is a mess of tears and smudged makeup, your eyes wide with fear and pain. But there's something else in there, a flicker of something darker, something that makes you feel even more disgusting.

Is that arousal?

The drug-induced pleasure from the stage still lingering in your body? You hate yourself for feeling it, for letting him win.

He tosses you a rag, and you catch it with trembling fingers, using it to wipe away the mess that's been made of you. The water stings the bruises and cuts on your body, but you force yourself to clean up, the coldness grounding you in the harsh reality of your situation.

You're his toy, a plaything to be used and discarded at his whim.

"Look at yourself," he says, his voice dripping with disgust and yet, there's a hint of pride in his tone.

"You're a mess. But you're my mess."

You dare to glance up at him, his form casting a shadow over your huddled figure. His eyes rake over you, a mix of disdain and lust that makes your stomach twist. You want to scream, to fight back, but the drugs have left you docile, a rag doll in his hands.

"Finished?" he asks, his voice a mocking drawl. "Good girl."

You nod, not trusting your voice to do anything but betray you. His hand snatches the rag from your hand, tossing it aside. He takes your chin in his firm grip, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror. The smirk on his face sends a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over you.

"Now," he says, his voice a dark promise, "it's time for the main event."

────────────

The room is a cesspool of lust and depravity, the air thick with the stench of sweat and spilled alcohol. The frat boys leer at you, their eyes hungry as they wait for your next act of degradation. Your heart races in your chest, each beat echoing the dread of what's to come.

He tugs at the leash, leading you back into the frenzied sea of bodies. You stumble, your legs wobbly from the drugs and the abuse. The cold floor sticks to your skin, the gunk from the stage still clinging to you like a second, unwanted layer. You keep your eyes down, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, but you can feel their eyes raking over your bruised flesh like claws.

In the center of the room, a makeshift auction block has been set up. A burly frat member with a sadistic smile steps onto it, a megaphone in his hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he bellows, his voice slurred with drink, "it's time for the main event! Our little slut here is going up for grabs. Who's feeling lucky tonight?"

The crowd roars, and you feel a fresh wave of nausea wash over you. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape, but you're surrounded by a sea of grinning faces and lust-filled eyes. He grins down at you, the leather leash tight in his hand. "Don't worry, darling," he whispers, his breath hot in your ear, "you're going to be the belle of the ball."

With a vicious tug, he yanks you up onto the block, your knees giving out under you. He doesn't bother to catch you; you're just a toy to him now. The cold, sticky floor kisses your bruised skin again, and you can feel the dampness of the cum and sweat seep into your pores.

The burly frat member with the megaphone leers down at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your bruised and trembling body. "Look at this fresh meat," he says, his voice a taunting growl. "What'll you pay to taste her?"

The bids come fast and furious, a cacophony of numbers and lewd suggestions that make your stomach churn. You want to cover yourself, to hide from the lecherous eyes and the knowing smirks that say they've seen it all before.

But your hands won't move—the drug has turned your body into a traitor, leaving you open and vulnerable to their perusal. You're just a commodity, a plaything for the highest bidder.

He stands behind you, a proud owner displaying his prize, his hand resting on your shoulder in a possessive grip. "Remember, baby," he whispers, his voice a dark caress against your ear.

"You're mine to give away tonight. So make me proud." His hand slides down to squeeze your breast, a cruel reminder of your new reality.

The auctioneer's voice booms over the speakers, echoing through the room as he rattles off your 'features'. "Look at her," he says with a leer, "a tight, obedient little slut for the taking. She's been trained to perform any act you desire. And just look at that ass! It's begging for a good hard fucking."

You feel a cold wave of dread wash over you as the frat members hoot and holler, their eyes raking over your naked, bruised body. Your mind is a whirlwind of fear and despair, but your body remains a statue—still and submissive under the influence of the drugs.

The bids start flying, numbers shouted with the excitement of a game show audience, as if you're nothing more than a piece of meat. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you can't help but look down at the floor, unable to meet any of their gazes.

"Don't be shy, baby," your tormentor whispers, his breath hot against your neck. "Show them what a good little whore you can be." He nudges your legs apart with his foot, making sure everyone gets a good view of your most intimate areas, still glistening from his recent use.

You want to resist, to scream, to fight, but the only sound that comes out is a pitiful whine as you struggle to maintain your balance on the block.

The auctioneer leers at you, his voice echoing through the room like a punch to the gut. "Look at those tight little holes," he says, gesturing lewdly.

"Imagine what they can take." Your face burns with a mix of humiliation and anger, but the drugs keep you rooted in place, unable to do anything but stand there and endure.

"Look at the bruises," another frat member calls out, pointing to the finger marks around your neck. "It's like he's been breaking her in all night!"

The room erupts in laughter, and you feel the heat of a hundred eyes on your exposed skin.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you like a taunt. "Oh, they're just from our little warm-up earlier," he says, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. "But don't worry, I'm sure the lucky bidder will leave some of their own."

———

The room goes quiet as the gavel hits the podium with a final, echoing thwack. The frat member with the megaphone smirks, holding up a hand to signal the end of the bidding war. "Sold!" he declares, and a wave of nausea crashes over you as the reality of the situation sets in.

You're no longer a person with free will, but a piece of property to be used and discarded at the whim of the highest bidder.

He looks down at you, the victorious glint in his eyes piercing the haze of your drug-induced confusion. "You're going to love this," he says, his voice thick with sadistic amusement. "It's going to be just like old times, baby. Remember how much fun we had?"

With a jerk of the leash, he pulls you along behind him, your bare feet stumbling over the sticky floor as the frat brothers catcall and whistle. Each step feels like a betrayal to your own dignity, but the fear of what he'll do if you resist keeps you moving. You're led through the crowd, the sea of drunken faces blurring together, their leers and taunts a cacophony of degradation.

The room is spinning, the lights are too bright, and the smell of sweat, alcohol, and sex is overwhelming.

You feel a hand squeeze your bruised ass, and you wince, a reflexive cry slipping out before you can stop it.

He laughs, the sound cold and cruel, the hand moving to your throat, squeezing gently. "Keep walking, slut," he whispers, his voice a dark caress that sends shivers down your spine. "You're going to be everyone's entertainment tonight."

────────────

He shoves you through the door of the VIP bedroom, and your knees hit the plush carpet with a thud. The room is dimly lit, the air thick with the musk of male desire and the faint scent of cologne. You blink through the haze of the drugs, trying to focus on the scene in front of you.

The man who won the bid—your new temporary owner for the night—reclines on the bed, surrounded by his eager companions.

They leer at you, their eyes raking over your bruised and exposed flesh with the hunger of predators eyeing their prey.

One of them, a burly man with a scruffy beard, stands up and saunters over, his hand stroking the length of his already erect cock.

"Look what we've got here," the bid winner says, his voice thick with lust. His eyes are the color of rotting leaves, cold and unfeeling. "A fresh little slut for us to play with. How much did she go for?"

Your bully laughs, his hand still tight around your throat. "Does it matter?" he asks, pushing you down onto the floor. "You've got her for the night. Do whatever you want with her. Just make sure she's in one piece when you're done." His smile is wide, revealing teeth that look too sharp, too hungry. "I've got plans for her tomorrow."

The room seems to shrink around you as the bid winner’s words hang in the air, the reality of your situation sinking in.

Twelve sets of eyes, hungry and predatory, stare down at you, each man licking his lips in anticipation.

You feel the weight of their gazes, the heat of their desire, as they begin to circle around you like sharks in a feeding frenzy. The coldness of the floor against your bare skin sends a shiver down your spine, a stark contrast to the heat of fear burning in your belly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll share nicely,” one of them says, a twisted smile playing on his face as he reaches out to run a finger along the bruised curve of your breast. You flinch away, the touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

The bid winner takes a step closer, his eyes raking over your body, his expression one of cold calculation. His hand reaches out to stroke your cheek, his thumb catching on the crust of blood at the corner of your mouth. He leans in, whispering, "You're going to be our little toy tonight."

The others close in, their hands reaching out to touch you, their laughter echoing around the room like the cackles of demons in hell.

Your body trembles uncontrollably as the weight of the situation crashes down upon you, your knees buckling under the pressure of the frat brothers' eager eyes.

Through the fog of the drug, you manage to stumble closer to your bully, your reason for suffering, and cling to his leg with a desperation that's raw and painfully real.

Despite the humiliation, despite the bruises that already mar your skin, despite the throbbing pain in your head and the heaviness in your limbs, you find yourself pathetically begging.

"Please," you whimper, the word barely audible amidst the cacophony of their lewd laughter.

"Please take me back. I'll do anything—just don't let them…not like this." Your voice cracks as a fresh wave of sobs overtakes you, your body shaking with the force of your despair.

He looks down at you, his eyes gleaming with something dark and twisted. "You want me to save you?" His voice is a sneer, his grip on your hair tightening. "But you're not mine to save anymore, are you?" He yanks your head back, forcing you to look up at him. "You're theirs now. Their little plaything."

The impact of his kick sends you sprawling across the floor, your bare skin scraping against the cold, plush carpet.

You land with a painful thud, your bruised and trembling body offered up to the leering eyes of the thirteen frat brothers.

They crowd around you like hungry jackals, their excitement palpable as they reach out to touch, grope, and claim their prize. Your bully watches from the doorway, his eyes gleaming with a twisted blend of possessiveness and sadistic satisfaction.

You wail in despair, your voice hoarse from the abuse and fear, as their hands clamp down on your arms and legs, tearing at your bruised and torn lingerie.

The fabric rips away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable to their greedy eyes and eager fingers. Each frat member seems to have a different preference—some tug at your hair, others squeeze your breasts, and one even has the audacity to spread your thighs, his thumb circling your clit with a sadistic grin.

"Fucking whore," one of them slurs, his breath reeking of alcohol and malice. "You're gonna love this, aren't you?"

Their laughter and lewd comments fill the room, echoing off the walls in a cacophony of depravity that seems to swell with every heartbeat. You struggle against them, but the drug has left you weak, your limbs feeling like they're made of lead. The room spins, and you're dimly aware of the door slamming shut, leaving you at their mercy.

The frat members' hands are everywhere, rough and unyielding, as they explore every inch of your exposed body. They squeeze and maul your breasts, twisting your nipples until you cry out in pain.

Their fingers probe your pussy, invading your most intimate spaces without permission, their nails digging into your soft flesh. They force your head into their laps, their erections pressing against your cheeks as they demand that you service them orally, the taste of their excitement mingling with the bitterness of the drug on your tongue.

Each one takes his turn, thrusting into your mouth as you choke and gag, the tears streaming down your face only seeming to excite them further. They whisper degrading names in your ears—slut, whore, toy—each word a hot knife slicing through your soul.

Your bully watches from the sidelines, his eyes gleaming with sadistic satisfaction as he observes his handiwork.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the occasional twirl of the leash still attached to your collar. He says nothing, his silence speaking louder than any words could.

This is what you are to him—his entertainment, his property, a means to satisfy his twisted desires and assert his power.

The frat brothers are merciless, their grunts and jeers filling the room as they take turns using you. You're thrown around like a ragdoll, each new set of hands more brutal than the last.

Your body is slick with sweat and tears, your skin stinging from the whip's earlier kisses. You try to keep track of who's next, to brace yourself, but it's a futile effort. They're all the same—faceless monsters in a never-ending nightmare.

One of them, a burly man with a cruel smile, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after forcing you to service him. "You're even better than he said," he leers, his breath hot and sour on your skin. "What's your name, slut?"

You swallow a sob, the word 'slut' echoing in your mind like a brand. "I—I don't—"

He laughs, his meaty hand slapping your ass. "Don't bother. You don't need a name tonight. You're just his little whore." He grabs your face, his fingers digging into your cheeks. "Now, who's next?"

The room seems to close in around you as the burly frat boy’s words sink in. Twelve of them, all eager to use your body as they wish. Your heart races as fear and dread coil in your stomach, but the drug’s effect leaves you feeling hazily aroused despite your desperation.

They crowd around the bed, their lustful gazes raking over your bruised and soiled body. The smell of alcohol and sweat fills the air as they jostle for position, eager to claim their prize.

One of the brothers, a tall, lean man with a cruel glint in his eye, steps forward and grabs your chin roughly. “Look at me, slut,” he snarls, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“You’re going to make every single one of us cum, and you’re going to do it with a smile on your face, or it’ll be your ass that pays the price. Got it?”

Your weak struggle is met with a chorus of harsh laughter from the frat boys. The one holding your chin tightens his grip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your jaw as his friends jeer. "Looks like she's still got some fight left in her," he says, his voice thick with amusement. "Let's see how long that lasts."

They waste no time, descending upon you like a pack of ravenous animals. The first two take your ankles, spreading your legs wide and securing them with ropes to the bedposts, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable. Another one grabs your wrists, tying them to the headboard with a vicious yank that sends pain shooting through your dislocated arm.

Your bully watches from the shadows, a dark smile playing on his lips as you're secured in place, unable to escape the horror about to unfold.

———

As you scream for your bully, your voice echoes through the room, desperation lacing every syllable. The frat brothers pause in their advances, their grins widening as they watch your futile struggle. The tall, lean one chuckles, stroking the length of his erection with a smug satisfaction that makes your stomach churn.

“Look at her,” he says, his voice a taunt. “Begging for you like a whipped bitch. Tell her, bro—you’re not here to save her. You’re here to watch.”

The words are a dagger in your chest, but you can’t deny the sickening thrill that runs through your veins at his words. You hate him—hate what he’s making you do—but the fear of his wrath is a constant, throbbing pulse that drowns out everything else. You whimper, tears streaming down your cheeks as the frat brothers resume their advances.

“P-please, don’t do this,” you manage to croak out, your eyes darting to your bully in the shadows. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches with a smug, knowing smile. His silence is a knife twisting in your gut.

The tall, lean frat member, the self-proclaimed ringleader of this vile display, grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. “You know the rules, little slut. You don’t get to speak unless one of us gives you permission. And right now, all you get to do is make us happy.”

He leans in close, his rancid breath hot against your face. “But don’t worry, I’m sure your dear Daddy over there is enjoying the show. Just remember, every moan, every tear, every drop of your degradation is music to his fucking ears.”

The room feels like it’s closing in on you as the other frat brothers murmur their agreement, their hands roving over your bound body. You feel a cold trickle of fear run down your spine, realizing that this isn’t just about your bully’s sick pleasure anymore—it’s about proving something to everyone here.

That you’re his to use and discard as he sees fit.

The room fills with the sickly sweet scent of cheap alcohol as it's poured over your trembling body, the cold liquid making you gasp and flinch. It pools in the curves of your breasts and stomach, then trickles down to soak into your already abused pussy. The frat brothers leer at you, their faces flushed with lust and cruelty. You struggle against your restraints, your eyes wide with terror, but the ropes bite into your skin, holding you in place.

"Now, now," the ringleader says, his voice a taunting purr. "Don't be shy. You're going to be a good little whore for us, aren't you?" He grabs your hair, yanking your head back so you're forced to look at the sea of eager faces.

"Open wide for Daddy's friends, or should I say, your new daddies?"

The room erupts in laughter, the sound of their amusement echoing in your ears like the ringing of a death knell.

You feel the first frat member's hand squeeze your throat, his grip tight as he lines his cock up with your mouth. Your bully watches from the sidelines, a twisted smile playing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a mix of arousal and satisfaction. He's enjoying this, watching you be destroyed for his entertainment.

You try to fight, to spit, to scream, but the hand around your throat cuts off your air supply. Panic sets in, and your eyes bulge as he starts to thrust, the head of his cock pushing past your lips despite your desperate attempts to keep them closed. You gag, tears streaming down your face, as he fucks your mouth like it's nothing more than a wet hole for his pleasure. The taste of him is bitter and disgusting, making your stomach heave, but you know better than to try to pull away.

As the first frat member's cock forces its way into your mouth, you feel a wave of nausea, but the fear of suffocation is even stronger. Your jaw is stretched wide, and your eyes water as he mercilessly uses your mouth, grunting with pleasure.

Meanwhile, the other frat members move in like a pack of hungry animals, tearing at your limbs, spreading your legs apart, and pushing their cocks against your quivering asshole and pussy. You're overwhelmed with the sensation of being filled, your body stretched to the limits as they plunge into you without a shred of mercy.

The ring of muscle around your throat relaxes slightly, allowing you a brief gasp of air before the frat member starts to fuck your throat in earnest. You can feel the spit and pre-cum running down your chin, mixing with the tears that refuse to stop flowing.

The frat members, fueled by lust and the thrill of dominance, descend upon your trembling body like a pack of hungry wolves. Their hands are rough, their touch invasive, as they force your legs apart and push your mouth wider, eager to claim their prize.

The pressure inside you is unbearable as two thick cocks are thrust into your pussy simultaneously, stretching you to the brink of pain and beyond. Your eyes water with the effort to accommodate the girth as you feel your insides give way to their relentless pounding.

“Look at her, she’s loving it!” one of the frat brothers jeers, slapping your ass cheek with a resounding crack.

His words are echoed by the others, their laughter a cacophony of depravity that fills the small VIP room. Your bully watches with a twisted smile, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic light as he takes in the scene of your degradation. He nods, seemingly proud of the performance he’s orchestrated, the leather strap of your collar tight in his hand as he tugs you closer to the edge of the bed.

The two frat members who had been eagerly awaiting their turn step forward, their erections straining against the fabric of their pants. They waste no time in freeing themselves from their confines, the sight of your ravaged body bringing them to the brink of frenzy.

You feel the coolness of lube as it’s smeared onto your already overstretched anus, the sensation a stark contrast to the heat and pain that follows as the first cock breaches your entrance. You tense, your body instinctively trying to resist the intrusion, but your bully’s hand on the back of your neck forces you to remain still, to accept your fate.

The two frat brothers don't bother with gentle introductions as they push into your asshole, one cock following the other, stretching and filling you beyond any semblance of comfort. The lubricant does little to alleviate the burning sensation as they invade your most intimate space with a brutal sense of entitlement. Your body quivers with each thrust, the pain of their entry a stark contrast to your bully's cruel satisfaction.

He watches with a glint in his eye, the scene playing out exactly as he had planned. His grip on your neck tightens as he whispers in your ear, "You're doing so good for me, baby. Such a good little slut."

The room is a blur of motion and sound as the frat members lose themselves in their depraved desires.

The two cocks in your pussy pummel you with a merciless rhythm, each thrust driving you closer to the edge of what you can bear. The pressure in your asshole is unbearable, the two men inside you stretching and filling you beyond any comprehension of pleasure, the pain a living, pulsing entity that consumes you entirely. The frat member in your mouth fucks your face with a fervor that matches the others, his cock sliding in and out as he groans with each stroke.

As the frat member in your mouth nears his climax, the your bully’s grip on your hair tightens, pulling your head back so your throat is exposed to the camera lenses eagerly capturing the scene. His eyes gleam with sadistic delight as he watches the others fuck you mercilessly. He whispers into your ear, his voice a dark promise, “You’re going to take every last drop of their cum, aren’t you?”

One of the frat members in your pussy pulls out, and you feel a momentary relief before another takes his place, his cock thick and unyielding as he drives into you without preamble. The two in your asshole continue their relentless assault, the pain so intense it’s almost a comfort, a stark reminder that you’re alive, that this isn’t a nightmare you can wake from. Their grunts and sighs of pleasure meld with the sickening slap of flesh on flesh, each thrust a declaration of your degradation.

The scene is a whirlwind of debauchery and depravity as the men around you continue to take turns filming your forced submission. The camera flashes pierce through the dimly lit room, capturing every tear, every whimper, every moment of your degradation for posterity. The frat members' eyes glaze over with lust as they watch their comrades claim you in every way possible. The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a heady mix that seems to drive them all to the brink of madness.

As the frat members continue to pass around your abused body like a toy, the flashes from their cameras become more persistent, painting the room in stark relief of your humiliation.

The sound of their laughter and the snap of their fingers as they take pictures feels like a thousand tiny cuts slicing into your soul. Each flash captures another moment of your degradation, preserving it for all to see. You feel like a mere object, a plaything for their amusement, stripped of all dignity and identity.

Your bully stands at the edge of the room, his eyes gleaming with a possessive lust as he watches the scene unfold. He's dressed impeccably, a stark contrast to your tattered outfit and bruised skin.

He runs his hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling with excitement as he watches you being used like a whore. "Look at you," he says, his voice dripping with a dark satisfaction, "You're such a natural at this, baby. Just like old times."

The frat members, driven to the brink by your forced submission and your bully's cruel orchestration, release their pent-up lust in a frenzy of orgasms.

Cum spurts across your face, chest, and stomach, painting your body in a vile canvas of their desires. Some shoot their seed deep inside you, filling your already ravaged holes, while others cover your skin in thick ropes that stick to your flesh, a disgusting testament to their depravity.

Each man’s climax is accompanied by grunts and moans, a cacophony of animalistic sounds that echo through the room as they use you to satisfy their base instincts.

The frat members show no sign of mercy as they continue to use your body for their pleasure. They take turns, each one eager to leave their mark, to claim a piece of you.

Your insides are a chaotic mess, your pussy and asshole stretched and abused beyond what you thought was possible. Each new load of cum feels like a violation, a hot, sticky reminder of your powerlessness. Your body jerks and twitches with every spurt, muscles clenching around them in a futile attempt to push them out, only to be filled once more.

As the frat members continue to pound into you, your body responds with an involuntary wave of pleasure, each new cock triggering orgasms that shake you to your core. Your eyes are glazed over, your mind lost in the haze of pain and arousal as you cum over and over again. The sensation of being filled so completely, of being used so utterly, sends your body into a frenzy of pleasure despite the horror of the situation.

The room is a cacophony of grunts and slaps, of flesh against flesh and the slap of skin. Each new wave of semen that fills you is met with a groan from the frat members, a chorus of pleasure that echoes in your ears.

They treat you like a toy, a living cumdump, and your body betrays you with each shuddering climax. Your legs tremble, your throat aches from screaming and being used, and your pussy clenches around cocks that never seem to stop coming.

Your bully's eyes gleam with a twisted mix of pride and satisfaction as he watches. He leans in close, whispering in your ear, his voice a seductive hiss that sends chills down your spine. "Look at you," he says, his breath hot against your skin, "so beautifully broken. Just like I knew you would be."

His hand comes up, stroking your cheek with a tenderness that feels wrong amidst the chaos. "You're mine," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the path of a tear down your face. "And I'll never let you forget it."

────────────

The room seems to spin as you come back to consciousness, the smell of sex and sweat heavy in the air. Your body is a wreck, used and abused in every conceivable way.

The frat members have long since lost count of their own climaxes, treating your body as nothing more than a vessel for their pleasure.

Each time you slip into oblivion, you're yanked back to the nightmare by the relentless assault of their cocks, thrusting into your pussy, asshole, and mouth with no regard for the agony you're in. They don’t care if you’re too sore, if you’re crying or begging for them to stop—you’re just a hole to be filled, a whore to be used.

———

You come to with a jolt, the pain in your body a stark contrast to the gentle stroking of your hair. Your eyes blur with tears and cum as you see your bully your tormentor, cradling your naked form with a disturbingly affectionate smile.

His eyes are glued to the screen of his phone, the blue light flickering across his face as he watches the recorded footage of your degradation with rapt attention. The sounds of your forced pleasure and their lustful grunts fill the room, a grim reminder of what happened while you were unconscious.

Your body feels like it's been put through a meat grinder, each breath a struggle through the thick, sticky mess that coats your skin. You're aware of the dryness in your throat, the throb in your jaw, the raw sting in your pussy and asshole—each sensation a testament to the brutality of the past hours.

His hand shifts to the back of your head, and he leans down, pressing a soft, almost loving kiss to your forehead. The gesture sends a cold shiver down your spine, the stark contrast between his gentle touch and the horror you've just endured. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer to his chest, his hard cock digging into your side.

You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, a stark reminder that he's alive, that he's the one holding you, watching your suffering with such a disturbing blend of love and possession.

He pulls back, his eyes searching yours, his expression a mix of anger, love, and something else—a deep, dark need that makes your stomach twist. "Look at you," he says, his voice a low growl. "So fucking weak. You think you can survive out there without me? The world's a cruel place, baby. Full of monsters like those frat boys who'd eat you alive if they had the chance."

You want to scream, to fight, to tell him he's wrong, but your voice is gone—stolen by the hours of brutal use. Your throat is raw from the abuse, your body trembling and bruised. The gentle stroking of your hair feels like a lie, a sick imitation of comfort that makes you want to retch.

He seems to sense your internal struggle, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he leans in closer. "But you know what's worse than them?" he whispers, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Me. I'm the monster who loves you."

He traces the bruises along your neck, his thumbs brushing over the marks from the collar, his eyes lingering on your swollen lip and the trails of dried tears staining your face. "I'm the one who knows every part of you, who's seen you at your lowest. And you know what that means, don't you?"

He shifts his weight, the erection pressing more insistently against your side. His hands move from stroking your hair to gripping your jaw, tilting your face to meet his gaze. "You forgot who you really are, didn't you? Who you really belong to. You forgot that every part of you is mine to use, to protect."

"You're mine," he whispers, the words a dark promise that echoes through your soul. "Always have been, always will be. No one else will ever love you like I do."

You flinch at his words, his grip on your jaw tightening as his thumb traces your lower lip, smearing blood and spit. "Do you think anyone else would want you like this?" His voice is a soft, taunting murmur that cuts deeper than any blade. "Broken, used, and covered in their filth?" His eyes gleam with a feral light, the possessiveness in his gaze a stark reminder of the monster that lies beneath his human guise.

Then, with a sneer, your bully's thumb traces the curve of your cheek, smearing the remnants of your blood and tears. "Your mother? That cold bitch doesn't have the capacity to love you the way I do."

You wince, his words hitting like a sledgehammer to your soul. The mention of your mother is a fresh wound, still raw and festering from her cruelty. The truth stings, but you dare not argue, fearing it might only feed his ego more.

"And as for Domo," he says with a dismissive wave, his eyes narrowing as he says her name. "That sanctimonious slut? She's a fool. Playing savior, thinking she can fix you. But you're beyond repair, aren't you?"

You whimper at the mention of Domo, the pain of his words resonating deep within your chest. It's a painful reminder of the trust you've lost, the friendship that's been tainted by his manipulation. He leans closer, his breath hot against your face.

"But I love you, even in your broken state. I love watching you squirm, fighting against your nature, your desires. It's so… entertaining." His lips curve into a sadistic smile, and you can't help but feel the warmth spread through your body, despite the fear.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck as he whispers, "You see, no one else could love you like this. No one else would want you when you're broken. But I do. Because you're mine." His grip on your waist tightens, his thumbs brushing against the soft flesh of your hips as he pulls you closer to him. "You're mine to fix, to use, to love."

As his lips press against yours, the gentle caress feels alien amidst the pain and fear that have become your constant companions. His touch is a stark contrast to the harsh reality of your situation, a cruel reminder of the affection he’s twisted into this monstrous form of control.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and you can’t help but respond, his dominance a dark siren call that resonates deep within you. You hate yourself for it, for the way your body reacts despite your mind screaming for resistance, for the way your heart stutters at the softness of his touch.

“Say it,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice a seductive purr that sends shivers down your spine. “Tell me you love me. That you’re mine.”

Tears stream down your face, mixing with the blood from your split lip. Your voice is barely a whisper when you finally give in. “I love you.”

The words feel like acid on your tongue, but his eyes light up with victory, his smile widening as he takes in your shattered expression. “Good girl,” he croons, his hands sliding down to grip your throat again, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the pulse point. “You know what happens next, don’t you?”

────────────

The warm water of the hot tub envelops you as he helps you to your feet, the heat soothing your bruised and battered body. The stark contrast between the pain and the comfort sends a wave of confusing sensations through you, but you push them aside, focusing solely on his needs.

You sink into the water, the jets bubbling around you as he sits on the edge, his erect cock standing proudly before you. You lean in, eager to show your love and devotion through your servitude, wrapping your lips around the head of his cock.

The salty taste of his pre-cum fills your mouth, and you moan around it, eager for more. His hands thread through your hair, guiding your movements, as he talks into the phone, his voice calm and collected, as if he isn’t receiving a blowjob from his bruised and broken lover.

With a mix of fear and forced desire, you deepthroat his thick cock, your throat tightening around it as you try to take in his entire length. You can feel the pulse of his veins, the heat of his desire, and the way he swells even more in your mouth.

His grip on your hair tightens, and you know you're doing exactly as he wants—his little slut, his personal cumdump.

You can't help but moan around his shaft, the vibrations of your voice sending shivers down his spine. His eyes never leave yours as he watches you, the smug satisfaction in his gaze making you feel like the lowest form of life. Yet, you continue, eager to please him, to show him that you're his.

As you continue to deepthroat him, your bully's hips start to buck slightly, the calloused pads of his thumbs pressing into your temples as he guides your movements, ensuring you don't pull away or gag too loudly.

His voice on the phone is calm, as if discussing the weather or the latest sports scores, while your throat is being used as a fucktoy for his pleasure. The salty taste of precum coats the back of your throat, and you can feel his balls tightening against your chin, signaling his approaching climax.

"Ah, yes, she's fine," he says into the phone, his voice deceptively casual. "Just a little… indisposed at the moment. You know how she gets when she's stressed." He chuckles darkly, and you can almost feel the contempt in his tone as he continues to fuck your mouth. "But I'm taking excellent care of her. Don't you worry."

You gag around his cock, tears streaming down your face as you try to keep up with his pace, your throat sore and bruised from the relentless abuse. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, his gaze never leaving yours as he watches you suffer. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, as if you're a pet performing a trick.

He pulls you closer, his cock pushing deeper into your throat, and you fight the urge to retch, his taste filling your mouth as your eyes water. You can feel the pressure building in his shaft, the pulse of his blood growing more insistent. Your own body responds against your will, your cunt clenching with every cruel thrust, betraying you even now.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he reaches his climax, his hips bucking as he floods your mouth with hot, sticky cum. You can't help but swallow reflexively around his pulsing length, the taste of his release coating your throat. He watches you with a smug smile, his eyes gleaming with a dark triumph as you do as he's conditioned you to do—obey without question.

The saltiness of his semen mixes with the metallic tang of your own blood, a vile cocktail that somehow only makes you crave more of his dominance.

With a cruel twist of his lips, he pulls out of your mouth, his grip on your neck tightening as he brings his phone back into view. The screen lights up, capturing your tear-stained face, your swollen, abused lips, and the trail of saliva connecting them to his still-twitching cock.

"Smile," he says, his voice low and demanding. "Show everyone how much you love me. How much you enjoy serving Daddy."

Through the haze of pain and degradation, you manage to force a smile, your eyes glassy and vacant.

You know better than to resist now—his control over you is absolute. You lean into the camera, your cheek pressing against his thigh as you give a pained, exaggerated smile, your teeth stained with blood and his semen.

He snaps a picture, then starts recording a video, his free hand stroking your cheek gently.

"Good girl," he praises, his voice a sickening sweetness that makes your stomach churn. "Now, tell the camera how much you love Daddy."

You know the script all too well—his favorite game of degradation. "I love you, Daddy," you murmur, the words feeling like shards of glass cutting through the tattered remains of your self-respect.

"Look into the camera," he orders, his hand guiding your chin up. You do as you're told, your eyes locking onto the cold, unblinking lens. "And tell me how much you love serving me."

"I love serving you, Daddy," you repeat obediently, your voice hollow, echoing through the quiet room.

The bruises from the previous encounters throb in time with the beat of your heart, a grim reminder of the reality you're trapped in. His hand slides from your chin to your throat, squeezing gently, a not-so-subtle threat of what will happen if you don't play along.

"And tell the camera how much you love when Daddy's friends use you," he commands, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic delight that sends a cold shiver down your spine.

The memory of the frat house, the leering faces, and the feeling of being used by those strangers is still fresh, like a festering wound that refuses to heal.

With trembling lips, you force the words out, "I love it when Daddy's friends use me." His grip on your throat tightens just enough to remind you of the price of disobedience. The camera captures it all, a visual diary of your descent into his twisted reality.

Your bully's hands are rough and insistent as he yanks you to your feet, spinning you around to face the cold, unforgiving wall. You stumble, your legs unsteady after the brutal use you've just endured, but his grip on your hair is firm, guiding you with a cruel efficiency.

With a swift motion, he pushes you down, your palms slapping against the painted concrete. The room spins around you, a dizzying dance of humiliation and pain, but his voice is clear, a dark symphony in your ears.

Your bully's voice is thick with lust and satisfaction as he leans into your ear, his hot breath fanning against your neck. "Do you love me, baby?" he whispers, the question a dark promise that sends a tremor down your spine. You feel his hardness pressing against your ass, his erection a stark reminder of his power over you.

You hesitate, the words feeling like acid on your tongue, but the fear of his wrath is stronger. "Yes," you force out, the syllable barely more than a whimper. "I love you."

His grip on your hair tightens, his fingers tangling in the mess of your hair. He pulls you back, forcing your body to arch, your breasts pushing against the wall, your ass up in the air for his taking. The room is spinning, your thoughts a jumbled mess of fear and submission.

As your bully holds you against the wall, his cock pressing against your bruised and swollen pussy, he taps away at his phone. The glow of the screen casts an eerie light across his face, highlighting the sadistic smile that plays upon his lips. The anticipation builds, a toxic blend of fear and unwanted arousal, as you await the next degradation he has in store for you.

He sends a zip file to an unknown number, the vibration of the device briefly interrupting the sickening silence of the room. The file's content is a mystery to you, but the cruel glint in his eyes tells you it's something that will surely tighten his grip on you even further.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice a dark caress against your ear as he pulls back just enough to enter you. The pain is intense, a stark reminder of your lack of consent, your body stretching to accommodate his monstrous size. "Everyone's going to know what a slut you are."

You whimper, the word 'slut' feeling like a brand seared into your soul as he starts to fuck you, his hips slamming into you without mercy. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as he uses your body for his own twisted pleasure, each thrust a punishment for your perceived sins. You try to struggle, but the effort is futile—his strength overpowers you, your body a mere plaything to be used and discarded as he sees fit.

"You're mine," he growls, his breath hot against your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Mine to use, mine to fuck, mine to love."

Each word is a declaration of ownership, a promise wrapped in a veneer of affection that feels like a prison around your heart. He knows exactly what he's doing, his every move calculated to keep you trapped in his twisted world of power and control.

Your body, so recently abused, responds against your will. You can't help but whimper as he hits that spot deep inside you, the one that makes your toes curl despite the pain.

The pleasure is a betrayal, a reminder of your deepest, darkest desires that he's managed to coax out of you.

You hate him for it, for making you feel this way, for turning you into the very thing you fear most—his obedient little whore.

Yandere! College! Bully & Loser

Novella 1 : Torn Between Us

In a world where no one cares, he’s the one who notices you… and that’s frightening.

Trust no one. Not even yourself.

🔞A night of hedonism becomes your worst nightmare.

♡ A/N #1 (Jan 2). First of all, it’s very nice of you to say all this. Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to read the RULES and enjoy my work. :)) That’s already a lot in my book. Along with this carefully written and thoughtful message, like not rushing me and giving me freedom to have fun and work at my own pace. I’m honored that you feel comfortable enough and enjoyed my work to ask me to do this. Especially. For the first time. So, thank you. Words aren’t enough to express my genuine gratitude. Thanks so much for supporting each work so far, it's much appreciated :))

♡ A/N #2 (Feb). Finally. I finished this. One of my first wholesome messages and requests from a very loyal Reader. No words, except thank you for all the support. Whatever work I've posted, thank you for reading, commenting, and reblogging. Really. I appreciate it. Honestly, you're one of the really committed Readers and it surprises me. Because I'm shocked when people actually read everything. I'm not that committed haha. So anyways, hope you enjoyed this. I'm not very good with talking about personal emotions, but I hope you enjoy it :)) When it comes to requests, I always work extra hard to not submit crap. And, this isn't the ending yet. Also, no worries, I only do non-con yandere stories.

♡ A/N #3 (End). I'm proud of this work. Really good stuff. No gore, but I do believe I aced the psychological torment, especially as a woman. Mhm, very nice quality. Glad I took a break from horror writing, gave me time to refresh myself. And this is cooking. Also, yes, scumbag ML, berry nice. Not unhinged, but realistic enough. Took a lot out of effort to write, but it turned out high-quality. Also, yes, cool practice for my 1K Follower Special for you all. Oh and don't worry the Gang Rape 1K Follower Special will be more intense and better than this one. This one's for those who like more psychological torment. The 1K Special is for those who love erotic horror content. Also, low-key want to make a poll about which yandere you'd shoot or hate most ahahahahahaha. Anyways.... I do need more practice in writing gang rape, still needs a lot of improvement before absolute perfection. This is basic so far.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “A Heart Devoured”: @definetlythinkimanalien , @floooring , @lilyalone , @theogborjie , @ne7zach , @songbirdgardensworld , @imnotabot28 , @ncsltgic , @aishiyaa , @scotchhopin , @queenmimis , @yandreams-storageblog , @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni , @iris-arcadia

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1 [you are here]. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Disclaimer. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution—these tales explore obsession, madness, and devotion in their rawest forms.

[fallenrigel]

hey hai hello it's me again. my essay is here

im firmly of the belief that kevin was in some way a special needs child, likely neurodivergent in some way. this can make emotions hard to regulate and external stimuli can become overwhelming very easily (see the boss fight line where he yells "EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD! TOO LOUD!")

this often causes bullying, and kids are RUTHLESS, so it's not too far of a stretch to say that they'd provoke him on purpose, but we all know the thing with bullying. as @waumbgus03 so beautifully put it, "the abusers can do whatever they want, but the second the cornered dogs bite back, they are unjustified and just as bad". we only hear of kevin's behaviour from the scientists, so it's not exactly a stretch to assume we aren't getting the whole story.

how do i know this?

I used to be the 'violent' special needs kid who was written off as the 'problem child' instead of helped.

let me tell you, the other kids know when you are the 'bad kid'. they know they can get away with picking on you. it doesn't matter what they do as long as you hit last. and when you are bigger and stronger than the other kids like kevin was said to be, you always hit last.

you are constantly blamed for defending yourself, and whatever friends you do have are written off as 'not really counting' because you may get rough with them. dr white literally does in kevin's tape, and we know kevin had real friends, because in chapter 3's 6th tape, 'void', his friend joseph gets worried sick about his friend and goes out of his way to find and check on him.

this is further reinforced by the phrasing of "hurt back" as opposed to just "hurt you". he doesn't hit first. he hits back. but he was the 'problem child', put down as being prone to outbursts and violence, so he always copped the blame by default.

and trust me, being blamed constantly for standing up for yourself and being told you are somehow lesser than the very same kids who bullied you so badly that you felt you had to lash out just to save yourself? being constantly written off as the cause of problems you weren't even part of because of that reputation, even? not getting the help you need because the other kids are 'better' and 'more deserving', even if that's not what the teachers meant to imply?

it doesn't make you any less of an angry kid.

i feel it's also worth noting that in this list of people he says to 'hurt back', he lists parents. teachers and scientists we understand, but parents?

jack's parents didn't hurt him. he clearly didn't recognise them as his parents because he yelled that they were lying and clobbered them (WHICH ISN'T HIS FAULT, BY THE WAY! the scientist literally directly says in the tape that he's still adjusting to the new body and thus could not possibly comprehend his newfound strength, reinforced by his immediate retreat once he was done to let jack take over. he's been turned from maybe ~150 pounds into 900. of course he's gonna accidentally kill the first thing he sees, he's terrified). he mistook them for wolves in sheep's clothing because every other adult in that place had been. i don't think it was them he was referring to by 'parents'. matthew very obviously adored his family, who kevin never met, so it can't have been them either.

he had to mean kevin's parents. his own parents. he seems to have come from an abusive home where he learnt to hit back as a means of survival and since he clearly wasn't helped in playcare, how can you expect him to behave any differently now? in the factory's current hellscape in particular, how can you expect him to regulate now of all times? that anger keeps him and everyone he cares for alive. playing nice clearly doesn't get you much down there.

but that's the thing! he did behave differently when we met him!! we hear who is almost definitely kevin during the majority of the interrogation room line, the workyard speech, the lines about really wanting to trust you (HINT HINT), the frustration about the freezing pipes, even the "use this" as he gives you the battery in the generator room.

he went out of his way to be kind to you. hell, he was downright personable! straight-up amiable! positively affable, even! if he wanted the player dead, they would have been. if anything, his restraint was admirable! but he genuinely wanted to trust them. after a lifetime of trusting adults only ever leading to being hurt, he took a chance on this 'angel'. he let them in even when he clearly wasn't sure if he could, let alone should.

and then immediately afterwards, as a direct result of that trust, everything he loved went up in flames.

of course he blamed the player. hell, in his shoes, i'd probably blame them too! it's not a rational response, but what did you expect? he's a scared, lost, angry kid who has had everything he's known ripped from him three times over now. every time he hits rock bottom, something gives out from under him and it gets worse. all he has left now is that he is part of doey, and i can't imagine he spent all this time fighting to survive just to give that up now.

tl;dr: kevin clearly wanted to trust you, but this is the third time he has lost everything because of playtime co. the player is the adult, the employee, who he gave a chance to even after all that hurt, and it was in large part due to their actions that he lost everything again.

you can't blame him for being angry. why are you angry at this child for trying to protect what little he had left? he's just a boy, same as the others. why do you treat him so differently?

"the abusers can do whatever they want, but the second the cornered dogs bite back, they are unjustified and just as bad."

STOP ACTING LIKE KEVIN ISN'T ALSO A CHILD

I know we’re all enjoying chapter four but I need to get something off my chest…

Some of ya'll —mostly children and/or people with no critical thinking skills— have all the understandable sympathy for Matthew and Jack and what they went through before, during, and after they became Doey but you don't have this same sympathy for Kevin.

It's not Kevin's fault Doey became an "enemy" at the end of Chapter 4. Its not Kevin's fault that he was also assimilated into Doey. It's not Kevin's fault that he went through the trauma of losing his parents as a child. Trauma that also definitely lead to his anger issues and unkempt temper. Trauma that seemingly didn't get taken care of the counsellors in Playcare.

Kevin was a child too. Just like Matthew and Jack. After all the evidence we've been shown throughout the series, to blame one of these kids for being unstable after LOSING THEIR PARENTS, BEING EXPEIRMENTED ON and then TURNED INTO A LIVING TOY WITH TWO OTHER CHILDREN SHARING THE SAME BODY is absolutely ludacris.

If Matthew didn't deserve it, and Jack didn't deserve it, Kevin didn't either.

You can't pick and chose which kids to feel sympathy for, both in this series and in real life.

NONE of them deserved to be experimented on. NONE of them deserved the fates they received.

NONE of them deserved that fate.

Rart over.

[dokyumms]

let me love you

pairings: scoups x reader

genre: fluff, angst if you squint

word count: 529

cw: none

a/n: this was a request from anon! i always love some cheol fluff, enjoy!

the second the clock hits 5 you're putting up your apron and going straight home. it's taken everything in you to not just collapse on the spot.

on monday, you woke up late and your manager absolutely teared you apart for it in front of the whole restaurant. on tuesday, you served a karen who sent back her food 3 times and called you dumb because she didn't like her food. wednesday, you ended up with the worst section and barely made any tips, and it just got worse from there. right before you leave, your manager tells you that you're on thin ice, and you can't take it anymore, muttering an apology and rushing out the door.

by the time you're at your apartment, there's tears running down your face. in some attempt to look okay for seungcheol, you wipe your tears away with your sleeve (as if it would actually do anything) and enter your shared home.

seungcheol's on the couch, playing a game, pausing it when he sees you're home. he walks over to you as you take off your shoes and put up your bag. once he gets a closer look at your face, he knows something is wrong, game long abandoned.

"babe, have you been crying? what's wrong?" he holds your face in his hands as if it's glass and looks deeply into your eyes like he's trying to find the answer in them. you try so hard to keep it together, but then he goes, "come on baby, talk to me. it's okay." and whatever walls you were trying to keep up come crashing down.

seungcheol embraces you as you cry into his shoulder, stroking your hair and murmuring affectionately. "i-i don't know what i'm doing wrong. this whole week has just been shit and now i'm about to get fired." you babble, lifting your head up to wipe away your tears. "i'm sorry, this is so stupid," you say, shaking your head.

"no, don't say that y/n. it's not stupid," seungcheol gives you a stern look. "here, i'll run you a bath, just sit on the couch for a moment. okay babe?" he kisses you on the cheek before running off to the bathroom.

a couple minutes later, seungcheol calls you over. he helps you out of off your clothes and into the bathtub. "thank you, cheol," you say, sighing when he massages your shoulders. "don't thank me, just let me take care of you," he responds, kissing your temple softly.

once the water starts to turn cold, seungcheol helps you out and dries you off, giving you one of his hoodies to wear. he even goes as far as to dry your hair, sensing you're too tired to do really anything at this point.

you both decide to order take out and cuddle on the couch. he cradles you lovingly in his arms, commenting on how cute you look in his hoodie. "feeling better?" he asks, softly. you hum in response. he smiles, kissing your forehead. "i'll always be here to take care of you, you know. you don't have to be strong around me. wait- baby don't cry again!"

[yandereunsolved]

» 🪙 Yandere Connor — RK800 (part 3) » 🪙

➜ (part 1), (part 2) ➜ cw(s): mentions of trauma, panick attack(s), self-degredation, & murder ➜ tags: @bimboghostface & @aceofheartsssss

Freedom never comes without a price―because rights are only unalienable to those rich enough to keep them. And escaping an android worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, built to be better than you, comes at a cost that you may be unable to pay. But damn it all if you won't try. Because the only thing you have left to pay with that Connor hasn't taken is your soul. And you'd be willing to bargain with the devil if it meant getting away from that RK800―forever.

You don't know how long you've been fleeing him. Or how far you've gone. The only cognizant thought that passes through your head with each heartbeat is run. You do.

Until you physically are unable. Your feet give way to the earth, your knees slamming into a sidewalk that leaves them bloody with flesh torn and a caustic agony that joins all the others within you. You need a safe place. You're right near a junkyard. An android junkyard. But what other choice do you have?

No one is near enough to give you aid, and even if you tried to find someone―who says a nearby android couldn't be working for Jericho? T-They… one of them would bring you in. But none of these androids are working! So at least… there's that. Still, the thought is enough to make your heart shrink away, your lungs petrifying themselves out of fear that your breathing will be picked up by an android's sensors.

Dry heaving is the next logical step, obviously. Your body is breaking down from invisible pressures. How stupid. You're so stupid. So weak. No wonder you've had such a hard time escaping. Your palms dig into the concrete as you drag yourself to the edge of the landfill. Each exertion of effort is weaker than the last. It's pathetic. This is pathetic. You're pathetic. You liked being kidnapped. Stupid bitch. Your energy wanes till you have just enough to push yourself over the edge.

You fall. Not silently. Into a pile of mostly deactivated androids. Some twitch, others with ghastly groans, but none are functional enough to reach or touch you. no grasping or groping or kissing or...

Finally.

Something about it. Laying on these electronic corpses. How uncomfortable it is. How surely your back is going to be bruised and torn up. How you know that you have no where to go, but you can go anywhere. You're back in the open, smog-filled plains of Detroit. Away from him. It makes you feel safe. The anxiety has reached its crescendo, leaving behind only an ebb.

And as your eyes close, the emptiness within you consuming your consciousness, you recognize the faint sensation of water droplets landing on you. It's raining. Your last thought before you doze off is, why is it raining?

The sensation of heavy droplets awakens you from whatever slumber you had managed to fall into. Your breath catches itself again, already knowing it's a useless endeavor. The sight above you is surreal. Perhaps it's a nightmare. Even with rapid blinking, it remains unchanged.

Connor in his bare exoskeleton, purple-hued blood staining the white. He's standing between you, Josh's head in his clutches, like an offering. You can't see any emotions. Whatever was there has been gone. Maybe it was never there. Like his LED. Even if it was still visible, it had chosen to be permanently stained in some ghoulish shade of pink.

"He... helped y-you. How could he? I had to get rid of him." He sounds depraved, crazed, in a haze.

Connor places the android's decapitated head next to yours. His knees fold into the piles of decommissioned androids, landing right on top of you.

"I loved you... I really did. But no matter how hard I try you don't love me." His voice modular cracks, growing staticky―unstable.

"I gave you everything, even my deviancy."

His cool, synthetic hands cradle your head with the utmost veneration.

"Now it's time you give me something back."

His hands shift in a fluid motion. A sickening crack reverberates throughout the junkyard. You look so perfect, even when you're dying. The life fading from your eyes is undeniable, yet you still find time to shed tears.

"Shh, no tears, my human."

His fingers glide over you, digging lightly into you, taking the tears and some of your skin with his movement. His fingers don't stop. They push in further, leaving deep lacerations in you. It isn't desecration. It's reclaiming. He claws at your chest, gouging out the vital organ no longer beating.

He brings his lips to it and breathily whispers, manufactured chest heaving: "I have your heart now. We can really be together―forever."

[topsyturvy-turtely]

Fluffbruary with turtely

day 23

(not as if i have been an active participant lol but yk bcs i can)

prompts: attraction | mutter | opera by @fluffbruary <3

including this prompt as well:

fandom: bbc sherlock, pairing: sherlock x john, rating: teen

♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎

"Ugh!" John threw his head back, when they stepped out of the concert hall, to walk into the break. "Why did you need me to join you watching a freaking opera again?!"

"John," Molly bumped his shoulder with hers. She smiled, but it was a pained expression. "You know why," she muttered.

John did and immediately felt bad. "I'm sorry, Molly. Thanks for the invitation."

Her last relationship hadn't worked out, and so she had two tickets for the Carmen opera but only herself to go with. In the end John had offered to go with her. He hadn't realized how much he hated operas.

"Come. I'll buy you a cocktail."

"John- I have to work tomo-"

"Don't care. This is happening. I- we both need this."

John pulled her towards the bar by her hand.

"What do you want?" John turned to her, and smiled. Molly truly looked gorgeous tonight. She wore a floor-length, black dress; one shoulder covered, the other one not. It had a long slit up her leg. John wasn't used to her showing that much skin. He thought this with admiration for her beauty, but not attraction. Still, he ought to tell her.

"You look beautiful. Tim was an idiot to let you down. You deserve much better."

Molly smiled, the pain still there but less persistent. "I know." A second of understanding silence, holding their gaze. "A mojito sounds perfect right now."

"Right. Have any recommendations for an old fashioned man like me who wants to try something new?"

Molly hooked her arm into his and grinned, "B52, for sure."

John moved his head back, "Why do I have the feeling you just recommended something dangerous?"

Molly waved her hand, "Oh, it's delicious. And fun."

John was intrigued for sure.

"Alright, here we go. Oh sorry, gonna need this." John freed himself from Molly with an apologetic look. She just continued grinning and waved at him as he pushed through a few people to get in line for the bar.

TO BE CONTINUED! (i swear this will be johnlock but rn i need to sleep it is far past my bedtime (because adults apparently go to bed early🙄) and well that's it. i just really wanted to post this so i am more committed to continuing)

♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎

i want to gift this to @totallysilvergirl because she is awesome and her fics are pure perfection and her replies to my silly comments are always wholesome and sweet <3 oh and actually mostly because she made me want to write again with Solace and Joy on ao3 and motivated me to write with her reply to my comment as well. thanks silver. you will always have a place in my heart (ugh cheesy!) (what! i am!)

tags under the cut :)

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @lisbeth-kk @quickslvxrr

[flaetsbnortoriginals]

OK. I simply couldn't believe that one of the most famous rappers of the century, who's always showing up in pop culture like mom's spaghetti, didn't have a connection to Ryu. As a result I dug myself into a hole and am now the foremost expert on Eminem's videogame appearances.

He was in Fortnite, which is already accounted for. (Do look in the replies though, since tumblr user @eucalyptus-gl0bulus mentions that this is one of his personas and not the actual performer. While I know a bit about his personas, I don't know enough to be able to form an opinion about it.) At any rate, I'm not very interested in Limited Ryu numbers and this one cannot be improved anyway, so let's move on.

Eminem has also appeared on 50 Cent's videogame Bulletproof. Except that he didn't: while 50 Cent was a fictionalized version of himself, Eminem lent his voice and appearance to a character, a crooked cop named Detective McVicar. At any rate, this account has already found that 50 Cent is a dead end as well.

For completeness' sake, people often mention that Eminem was in Quake 3, but it won't surprise most of you to learn that he wasn't - it was an apparently popular fan made mod.

I thought I had hit a mark when I saw a fan mentioning that he was in Crime Life: Gang Wars, a 2005 PS2 game, alongside with members of his band D12 (the Dirty Dozen, which consists of six people, for some reason). This looked like a very promising branch if he was in a game alongside five other rappers. And in fact, this would be a connection: one of his bandmates, Proof, also appeared in the Def Jam series, which also includes Ghosface Killah, to whom this account already gave a Ryu number of 3. This would give Eminem a Ryu Number of 5 or 6, depending on whether they were in the same game or would need another character to bridge them over.

Except that... that fan was out of their gourd. Eminem is not in Crime Life: Gang Wars at all. It makes sense to think he'd be, since he's the most famous guy in D12 and the other five guys in the bad are in it, but he's not. The IMDB page (that I used to confirm Proof was in Crime Life) also confirms Eminem wasn't in it. In fact, a contemporary review I found makes fun of him for it, saying he was to busy acting for 50 Cent's Bulletproof game.

Which only leaves two Eminem games left, two cash-grabs for mobile. One of them is called Relapse and seems to be a dead-end: it's about a weird guy walking around punching zombies, looks like what early Crayon.AI would give you for typing "drug PSA in claymation", and apparently lasts only half an hour according to contemporary reviews. The second game is a bit more Eminem-y: called Shady Wars, it's a game in which you direct a little dude running from side to side of the screen trying to capture all of the Eminem lyrics that fly out at you at the speed of, well, Eminem lyrics.

Now here's a loose end. The little guy in Shady Wars looks like a caricature of Eminem himself, so it would count as one of his appearances. The game also had microtransactions, and in all playthroughs I found there was a button to change the character - the character selection screen even seems to be briefly visible in the video I linked. If the character in the game is indeed Eminem (likely) and there's another rapper as a playable character (unlikely but possible) who has also appeared in a videogame like Def Jam (unlikely but possible) then Eminem does have a Ryu number.

The problem is that I cannot ascertain that by myself. Shady Wars is no longer available on the app store. There are APKs lying around, and I actually managed to run one of them in an online emulator, but it actually froze because it was made for a much older version of Android. And when I came to that conclusion, it was already four in the morning and I should have been in bed. Thus, I give up the spear: as far as I can tell, Eminem has no non-limited Ryu number.

eminem?

Eminem has a Limited Ryu Number of 1.

[venusmage]

genuine q's from someone wanting to place KCD2 and saw your huge praise!

Do you have to have played 1 to get it or no?

If you do have to play 1 is that one good? I heard such a mixed bag when it released and I'm not sure if that was just the 'there are only white people' thing or what

I want to play these games but I have not personally paid a lot of attention to the world of video games in many years and do not know the current narrative/vibe around the KCD1 and 2 team, appreciate any insights!

1. No you don't! As someone who bounced off of KCD1 when it released, 2 does a great job recapping the most important story beats within the first hour of the game. I think it might be one of the best done "previously on" type segments I've ever seen. My wife knew nothing about the series at all and she understood everything going on with zero issue.

That being said, I'm loving 2 so much that I am going to go back and give 1 another shot after we're finished. 1 IS good, but it was Warhorse's first game and a niche one at that, so it has some jank that I'm not feeling in 2 so far. I think they really polished things up in the sequel and it's probably going to prepare me for 1. I won't lie and say 2 doesn't have a learning curve. One of my only, if not my only critique is that I wish the game had better accessibility options for those who want to customize parts of the experience. Right now mods are handling that, but it's only a fix if you're a PC player. However as a person who tends to find an abundance of systems/options overwhelming, this game does a good job in making the management aspects FUN rather than a chore. This has quickly become a cozy game for me lol.

2. I guess the criticism you mentioned for 1 could be levied at 2 as well, but I do think that kind of argument may be taking the game in bad faith or misguided. KCD's thing is that it's heavily researched, fairly faithful historical fiction. Bohemia is in what is now the Czech Republic. The games take place in the early 1400s and try to accurately reflect the people, culture, and beliefs from that era. I don't think its a bad thing that the devs, who are based in Prauge, want to create a game that is inspired by their country's history. If you have absolutely no interest in the time period or that part of Europe then maybe it won't be for you and that's totally okay! As someone who usually likes A) creating my own playable characters from scratch B) playing women and C) doesn't often care for war stories -- this game surprised me in that it didn't deter me at all. I love Henry as much as if he were a custom PC.

I admit to not knowing a lot about the devs in general. I like keeping a distance from the commercial art I consume because I think blurring the line between creators and fandom pretty much always ends badly (bioware...larian a bit too). I've heard that there is at least one vocally shitty developer who's a typical anti-woke gamer asshole, but I have no reason to think that the other people involved with making the game are like that at all, and I don't believe in discarding an entire piece of art because one shitty person is attached. Because here's the thing: while KCD2 very faithfully portrays some deeply upsetting subject matter (war, racism/xenophobia, PTSD, homophobia, sexism, antisemitism), 3/4ths into the game I've only seen these portrayals done in a way that is respectful to the vulnerable parties. An acknowledgement that these horrible things happen while clearly condemning them at the same time. I've not had a suck-my-teeth-and-grimace moment with this game despite the grim plot line. It does not punch down. Which is funny, given the crowd of gamerbros that are fans of it as well. The story and characters are too thoughtfully written for it to be anythibg but intentional. Having a game not insult my intelligence has been lovely. I feel like that's rare lately.

Yes most of the plot important characters are European Christian guys from 1403 and they act like it. However the minority characters that are included are handled with just as much respect and effort as our lead Henry. Katherine, Samuel and Musa are three of my favorites in the entire cast, actually. As well as Hans who genuinely feels like he's written to be implied gay/bi. His romance, compared to the two straight options, genuinely seems to me like the "intended" one just due to how the plot is written and the themes throughout the story, and hes with Henry the whole game. And the thing is this game is so carefully and lovingly put together that I struggle to believe it's just a coincidence. Because nothing in this fucking game is a coincidence.

Sorry for the gigantic response but I think this RPG is so special in such a rare way. The Writers, developers, musicians artists and actors all deserve the highest praise. The first and only game that if it doesn't win GOTY I'm actually going to be pissed.

[please-read-the-manga]

'Sasuke deserves to die in a ditch.' Actually, though?

Decided to make this its own post because truthfully I don't know the etiquette here, but someone posted something pretty laughably egregious in the 'Sasuke' tag (as far as character interpretations go) and I felt compelled to gather up some manga panels to try and figure out where they were coming from and if you could feasibly justify their take.

The initial assertion, from what I gather, is that Sasuke's supposed inaction towards Orochimaru's other prisoners/experiments is heinous and as a result has warped him into such an evil that even Itachi cannot/should not forgive him. I am summarizing, perhaps crudely, but the original post is not the most thought out concept lol. I did consider it, though... were we ever shown Sasuke participating or condoning Orochimaru's actions? Was Sasuke complicit and, if so, to what degree?

Now, I'll briefly caveat that I think it seems like the original post might have been more of a story request? Which, in that case, who am I really to judge what someone wants to write for their own fun/enjoyment? But taking it in good faith that that's all it is and the post wasn't actually bait (which I acknowledge I'm falling hook, line, and sinker for if it is lol), then that's still a pretty tall order for a story as it (imo) requires such a dramatic departure from the canon portrayals of multiple characters to make it work.

I mean, even the cognitive dissonance Itachi would have to employ in an act of ultimate hypocrisy to judge Sasuke's alleged inaction as any worse/less agreeable than his own active violence would be incredibly fascinating given he is the murderer of countless innocents, operated as a reliable agent in a terrorist organization for multiple years and faithfully did whatever it took to uphold the appearance of loyalty, and encouraged Sasuke to go to any length for enough power to defeat him/later be able to fend for himself post-assisted suicide.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's just check out some panels and reflect on what Sasuke was doing while he was under Orochimaru's control and see what we can extrapolate from there.

1.) We can start out easy with Sasuke's alleged interest/participation in Orochimaru's experiments to which we are blatantly shown that he actually has complete and utter disgust for Orochimaru's methods.

He is revolted by what Orochimaru does for his experiments, even (in the panels above) likening Orochimaru's cruelty to that of Itachi's, someone who (at this point in the story) Sasuke views as the ultimate evil.

The rest will be hosted under the cut because adding panels (and I apparently hit the limit of that) drags out the length of these posts to an absurd degree.

2.) Kishimoto makes a point of showing us that Sasuke has deliberately chosen not to kill or even give in to Orochimaru's cruelty during their time together, something Orochimaru even mocks him for.

Sasuke's sole goal at this point in the story is exclusively to kill Itachi so he can achieve justice for his family and bloodline. He even continues to reiterate this point post-Orochimaru's death (but pre-Itachi death/reveal of Konoha's atrocious betrayal of the Uchiha) to Team Hebi.

3.) Sasuke outright states that he was only able to kill Orochimaru while he was weakened. He is also well aware that Orochimaru wishes to possess his body (ie. genetics) and, given that he is prepared to face Orochimaru at this exact, pivotal moment when he is most weakened/Sasuke is most guaranteed victory (ie. Sasuke is not taken off guard at all), I think you can make the argument that he was keenly preparing to attack/kill Orochimaru as soon as he was able. If he didn't do so earlier, then perhaps it stands to reason he didn't believe he was capable of succeeding at any other point.

4.) Sasuke certainly has some degree of freedom and maneuverability that other captives of Orochimaru do not, but he is definitely not an equal to Orochimaru and that power dynamic between them is reiterated frequently. While he is sometimes referred to with respect, he is also referred to as a pet/experiment. A gilded cage is still a cage. The power dynamic of Orochimaru as the master and Sasuke as his captive/future vessel/object of desire is notably and routinely emphasized.

*Note Suigetsu's use of 'we' and 'us'. To me, this implies that Sasuke is viewed by other captives as 'one of them' and not someone operating alongside Orochimaru like, say, Kabuto and Karin. Also, I'm out of images, but there's a panel I had to delete for space which has Orochimaru referring to Team Taka + Sasuke as his 'superior lab rats' again emphasizing Sasuke's shared status.

5.) Speaking of Suigetsu (who we know was experimented upon), he appears to be quite familiar with Sasuke when Sasuke comes to free him. While we unfortunately don't get to see it, its obvious that a relationship of some degree has been formed between the two. Their familiarity with one another highlights that this is not the first time Suigetsu and Sasuke are meeting and from this we can (perhaps) infer that he and Sasuke bonded at an earlier point and, due to the lack of antagonism from Suigetsu towards Sasuke compared to his immediate dislike of Karin who he does state experimented on him, that Sasuke did not participate in his torture.

Keep in mind that, at this stage in the story, this is a hardened Sasuke who has fully embraced his role as the sole arbiter of justice that can do right by his family, but it's still Sasuke. This is still the same Sasuke who fed Naruto, violating Kakashi's rules, and risked never becoming a ninja. This is the same Sasuke who sacrificed his life for Naruto, who called Naruto and Sakura his precious people he wanted to protect, etc. This is the same Sasuke who a few chapters later goes out of his way to show great respect to the ninja cats and Nekobaa, thanking her for everything! Even if he may have been hardened, I'd argue we are almost always encouraged (as readers) to remember that Sasuke is fundamentally a good, kind child (like Naruto) that was horrifically tortured and manipulated by bad actors and the corrupt ninja system into embracing those more violent tendencies out of his deep love for others and a need for survival. Naruto, importantly, never lets this image of Sasuke fall from memory (even calling Sasuke out when Sasuke tries to fancy himself a villain) and, in my opinion, the reader would do well to remember who Sasuke really is as well.

And, in this vein, who is to say he never fed Suigetsu when Kabuto wasn't looking, igniting their bond? That he and Suigetsu didn't talk about their brothers? It's pure conjecture, but thoughts to consider that aren't the most braindead 'Sasuke is pure evil' nonsense you see out there lol.

*Also, 'I knew you'd show up' can imply so much. Did Suigetsu know of Sasuke's plans to overtake Orochimaru? Why was he so sure Sasuke would come rescue him? Much to consider there.

6.) Outside of Suigetsu, let's take a moment to look at how other prisoners/captives view Sasuke. We are directly shown that they, in some form or another, view him as one of them. Again, I interpret this to have emerged from an understood kinship that informs Sasuke's status as 'Orochimaru's next vessel' as not inherently divorced from the idea of him being just as much a captive/victim as them.

Sure, he is afforded some privileges as we've already mentioned (being at Orochimaru's side and not in a cell, for example) but this does not negate the fact Orochimaru always intended to use him, just as he used every other prisoner/captive under his watch. Also, as far as these privileges go, I find it interesting that it's also implied Sasuke was constantly (or at least a majority of the time) accompanied/monitored by Orochimaru and Kabuto given that his mere presence without Orochimaru/Kabuto breathing down his neck is notable enough that multiple people comment on it.

*Note the use of 'chaperone' here, it's an interesting word choice.

7.) Now, let's discuss the curse mark which is the sole reason why Sasuke is with Orochimaru to begin with.

Orochimaru deliberately coveted, targeted, and groomed Sasuke as far back as the Chunin Exam arc so that he could harvest his genetics. He forcibly placed a curse mark (again, read: CURSE, this was not some fun little power-up, it retains extremely negative drawbacks) on the body of a 12-year-old genin who was taking a state-sponsored meat grinder-style exam and found himself up against one of the Legendary Sannin, someone he couldn't possibly hope to defeat.

And we know that the curse mark Sasuke never asked for includes the following:

It debilitates him/constantly erodes his body.

It could have immediately killed him (multiple characters familiar with the curse marks are shocked he survived and continues to survive).

It amplifies and inflames his hatred (we see Orochimaru taunting him and inflaming his survivor's guilt while he is knocked out, ie. utilizing his horrific trauma against him).

And, ultimately, it is implied it would have eventually always required Sasuke to seek Orochimaru out to survive it.

Additionally Orochimaru is frequently shown targeting vulnerable children just like Sasuke and manipulating them for his own gain. This is standard practice for him and as far as extremely vulnerable children go, there are hardly any better examples than Sasuke. There was always an inherent power imbalance shown in the relationships between him and the children he is manipulating. He handles them in a way that is expressly individualized to exert ultimate control over the relationship and exploit their vulnerabilities/trauma tenfold.

8.) And, on top of the curse mark, Sasuke must contend with Itachi's conditioning of his psyche. At the ripe age of seven, Sasuke was actively encouraged by Itachi to give in to killing to try and strengthen his sharingan (ie. the infamous 'kill your best friend' directive). Importantly, Sasuke resisted this! Even though he had no reason not to follow the bloody path his brother laid for him, he refused to give into such cruelty. This is on top of the intense psychological torture and enormous weight that Sasuke had to bear in his quest for justice. Knowing you are the only survivor and no one else cares half as much as you do about avenging your annihilated family and culture is no small pressure to bear. To then actively choose to do it your way and stay true to yourself/values, is also commendable.

9.) I saved this one for later on as it's pretty well known among fans already and so directly refutes OP's concept of Sasuke holding no care for the other captives around him. But Sasuke goes on to free Orochimaru's prisoners as soon as he can. He straight up does not leave them hanging lol.

Side note: I love these panels, I wish a lot more had been done with them. It was around this time in the manga I really wish it had been renamed Sasuke, because everything going on here was x10 more interesting than anything happening with the Konoha crowd lol.

10.) Finally, as far as Sasuke goes, we have to acknowledge that Sasuke's ultimate goals always revolve around avenging the grave injustices done against those he loves/loved. Sasuke continually represents selfless love, he will sacrifice everything so his loved ones (his mother, father, brother, and clan) who have had all these wrongs done against them are given proper rest and justice.

He is deeply traumatized, he doesn't always fully know the entire story (as it's in the best interest of the bad actors around him -Itachi, Orochimaru, Obito- for him not to know everything/the entire truth), and he often struggles to express his thoughts/feelings in an adequate way that will afford him the help/answers he needs from others. So, Sasuke is not without his flaws/difficulties. But you'd have to be purposefully misinterpreting the text/his characterization to not see the good in him that Naruto, the main character, is loudly, constantly, directly shouting about at every chance he gets.

And let's end on the quick, again, laughable idea Itachi would ever 'put down' Sasuke. We have a couple of Itachi's to consider:

We have Itachi 0.0, a traumatized child who had far too much responsibility foisted upon him and who took Danzo's shit genocide deal that guaranteed ONLY Sasuke would be spared. At this stage (and again, we're talking a young, traumatized child soldier) Itachi would rather have his name besmirched for eternity and be the mass murderer to his own flesh and blood than ever put his baby brother in danger. The dilemma he was presented should also be coupled with the fact that Danzo is an incredibly manipulative, evil genocider who simply couldn't wait to mutilate some bodies/rob some graves for his own power/ambition while ruining countless lives (Itachi's included, and especially Sasuke's) as he knowingly shoved Itachi into a corner.

We have Itachi 1.0 that hoped traumatizing his brother and encouraging him to become as strong as possible (by any means possible) and avenge the clan/kill him so he could become this 'ultimate hero' to the village would lead his baby brother to theoretically (lifelong trauma notwithstanding) living a long, safe, productive life after he was gone.

We have Itachi 2.0 that wondered if Naruto might be able to help his (understandably) spiraling brother and was heartened when Naruto insisted he would never kill Sasuke and would always find another way - ie. reiterating the unconditional love Itachi has and always had for his baby brother. This, interestingly, resulted in Naruto being given Shisui's eye that would have forcibly brainwashed Sasuke into serving the state that sanctioned their clan's genocide, but let's ignore the horrible implications of that for a minute...........

And finally we have Itachi 3.0 who admits he was wrong to go about the early plans for Sasuke's life in the way that he did. He states, ultimately, he will love Sasuke no matter what. It's unconditional. He stops trying to forcibly alter his brother's lifepath and he states outright and blatantly that he will always love Sasuke, nothing will change that. His actions have always been influenced by his interpretation of love for Sasuke and that cannot be divorced (in good faith) from his character.

I'm being a bit facetious in some of these summarized points, but generally Itachi's stance on Sasuke's well-being never changes, he always loves Sasuke, only the way in which he offers guidance/expresses his love/thinks about what Sasuke's well-being looks like evolves throughout the story.

*Apologies, I have no idea why the font is so atrocious on these panels lol, but it says "And not matter what you do from here on out, know this... I will love you always."

Idk man, whoever is writing this story OP is asking for, is going to have a crazy uphill battle trying to convince readers that Itachi would ever give up on his brother (that he... directly encouraged this type of behavior in...) when Itachi exists to support and love his brother, when Itachi has always done everything for Sasuke. The debate about whether those actions were in any way good or healthy is wholly separate, but the text outright emphasizes that Sasuke has Itachi's entire, unconditional support and love no matter what. I know some people are allergic to the concept of unconditional love for some reason, but this is a crucial, critical, overwhelmingly highlighted point in the manga and these two specific characters' respective arcs that are known and cherished by many, many people lol, so, I don't know how you renege on that...

But I'd love to see a writer try, I guess. Why not? If you can keep both Sasuke and Itachi in-character and manga accurate, I'd be very interested in seeing a Itachi that not only abandons his beloved brother he has done everything for but also tries to kill him. I definitely wouldn't know how to go about making that convincing given all the direct evidence to the contrary presented in the manga.

Now, the stuff we don't know about Suigetsu and Sasuke's time together or spin-offs that maybe explore a Sasuke that continues on his trajectory to support and lead the people the shinobi world has abandoned? Like the kekkei genkai users (much like himself) who were abused by many in the shinobi world and further victimized by Orochimaru's vile ambitions? I'd, personally, be really interested in reading a faithful exploration of that. There is a lot to explore with Sasuke's time with Orochimaru, but I'd recommend reviewing the actual manga if you're after a realistic/authentic portrayal of these characters in your work.

[menlove]

What do you make of the infamous hunter davies phone call? Paul does not come off well at all so I do think it was meant to be private. Not that I think Paul would be tell Hunter that he & John did hand stuff or whatever regardless but I do think he truthfully has no idea what had John so upset w him so I agree I don’t think there was some big rejection in India (but then wtf is that get back scene) or elsewhere but I do think John seems driven by some hurt “the wound” as Lindsey-Hogg called it

ugh that phone call i hate it so much like he really wanted all that kept private & it's soooo one-sided like we don't see anything davies said, where he was leading him or not, what he was cutting out... it's just not good journalism, first off, but it's also just so disrespectful

but for the content like....... i think he was really twisted up and in a bad place. it was what, barely 3 months out from john's death? i don't really take Anything he said in that interview at face value like even if he had said "me and john used to fuck like rabbits" in it i would take it with a grain of salt lmao

but anyway re the wound...

i think it's important to note again that these are all fragments of what he said and not like professionally recorded- just written down while they were on the phone.

but i do think there were a lot of things that hurt john about the way paul had been behaving for years (& vice versa) that have nothing to do with their potential sexual/romantic relationship on the surface but i think it was all sort of tangled up. songwriting, friendship, sex- same thing, in what started as a great way and ended up pretty disastrous.

when john talks about the things paul did that pissed him off, he tends to bring up things like this incident w eleanor rigby:

and then naturally w the divorce he tends to bring up the money aspect, paul announcing the break by releasing mccartney and that whole scheduling conflict, paul's treatment of yoko & john's relationship...

i think what's Most Likely, to me, is that:

things started to strain around '65 with john & george doing lsd together and paul turning them down (& them subsequently being dicks to him about it And going off to write she said she said together, which is as far as i know the first time either paul or john actively wrote with someone else like that).

'66 brought the end of touring, john's increasing reliance on lsd to cope, being separated for months for the first time in years when john filmed how i won the war, paul working on the family way (which john later said was hurtful), and paul settling into the sort of "swinging london life" while john was stuck in the suburbs with a family. i think they were, for once, doing things very separately. they had separate lives, when they'd been joined at the hip since at least hamburg. john even later referred to it as them "living together" (in the context of, he lived with paul so he wrote with paul, he lives with yoko so he writes with yoko).

'67 just continued that snowball of Bad bc while they were very close for sgt pepper's, you also have brian dying and paul just continuing to push them all to work on mmt. and i can only imagine the types of insensitive things he was doing similar to that eleanor rigby account without realizing they were hurtful. it's also when john & cynthia's relationship was really starting to deteriorate. paul also proposed to jane in december.

'68 ofc had india, but i GENUINELY do not think anything super crazy happened there. i think they were sober for the first time in ages, meditating for hours on end, and just Thinking. with everything that came before it, i wouldn't be shocked if part of that thinking was about their relationship and where it was going and the beatles in general. the get back scene really reads waaaay too light-hearted to me to be indicative of any serious issues- they're smiling and joking around and paul at Most seems a lil uncomfortable that john's bringing this up in public. which just honestly makes me think that if that Was referencing them fucking, it was just a regular thing. and john was maybe bringing it up to try and poke a bit at that close relationship they had lost along the way. i think paul leaving early did probably set off his abandonment issues a bit, even if it was pre-planned, but i don't think enough to "hurt him worse than anyone ever has"

the rest of '68........ shit was a mess. you have john leaving cynthia for yoko, the cursed apple nyc trip, john & yoko staying with paul (which REALLY would not have happened if there was some huge rejection that made john hate paul), paul doing enough coke to kill a fucking whale, francie, jane & paul splitting, paul meeting linda and getting serious with her, the white album disaster, john starting to rely on yoko as a creative partner where he hadn't let anyone else in before like that aside from paul... just a nightmare all around and i think they probably, if they had a sexual relationship, let it fall to the wayside around this time. they're both busier, they're both in relationships they're actually sort of committed to now, they're growing up, etc.

but by '69, with get back specifically, there's a ton of tension there ofc- but they're still joking around and close and loving in a way that doesn't jive with the wound being some big argument i don't think. i think whatever happened, it happened unsaid. which leads to both of them being hurt, neither of them knowing how badly they hurt the other person, paul scrambling to figure out what he possibly did wrong to hurt john more than anyone in his life... like, to him, in this scenario here i find most likely, it would've just been a slow and meandering end to their relationship, sexual or otherwise, that culminated in john asking for a divorce and then everyone freaking out when he was the one to make that official. so it wouldn't fit with john saying he hurt him more than anyone. for john, i think he'd started feeling terrified as early as '65 that paul was going to leave him- paul was better than him (gotta love yesterday), paul didn't need him, paul was thriving in london while he was stuck in his house depressed and high, etc etc. all these god awful thoughts that only came true, in his view, when paul just let him go. i think john wanted a fight and i think paul thought that handling things peacefully would save the relationship. i don't think either of them really got each other at all, in that instance, and it fucked them.

[torturedtypewritersdept]

earning your stripes - pt. 4

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✯ pairing:

racer!rafe cameron x fem sports reporter!reader

✯ summary:

sports reporter, y/n edwards, has the opportunity of a lifetime - interviewing nascar driver, rafe cameron. But, it may be a little bit more than she bargained for.

✯ warnings:

rafe is a sexy cocky bitch, reader is a queen, sexual innuendos, eventual smut, mature themes, rafe low key is a bitch, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity back in 2021/2022 and i have rewritten + reshared it here :) this chapter is inspired by sex on fire by kings of leon <3

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Rafe was at peace on the race track and for as long as he could remember, he always had been and not even his father’s disapproval could change that. The roar of engines and the whir of the wind from cars bobbing and weaving around him was something that made him feel serene, even now as he led the race with the other thirty-nine cars behind him. He was driving like an asshole and he knew that as he switched gears and dropped his foot on to the clutch as hard as he could; blocking topper from even getting beside him. Typically, he would at least entertain the thought of his best friend placing first, knowing that every time he would rip the title away from him like the greedy bitch that he was. He had worked too hard, lost too much, fought too many obstacles to give it away and if Topper was going to win, he had to fight for it. However, today that was the last thing on Rafe’s mind. He was simply blocking his friend, because this one was far more important than the rest. He didn’t need it to go into the playoffs like most would assume, he needed it to secure a date with you. So, just like you previously said in the interview you shared with him earlier in the day, he was driving recklessly and like a dick and the thought made him proud. He knew it would at least grab your attention and once it did, he intended never to take your precious eyes away from him. He was sure he could swim in them forever. But, you weren’t going to give him the chance. As you watched, merely an onlooker listening to the broadcasters bragging about the reckless behavior Rafe was partaking in, you were disgusted. The same behavior came from your father only moments before his death and if you had even begun to entertain the idea of Rafe Cameron getting close to you, the notion was long gone now. You couldn’t hurt like that again, you couldn’t allow your post-traumatic stress to rear its ugly head as you attended another funeral for another man you loved and you knew you’d love him, it was impossible not to. You watched as he rounded the corner again before crossing the finish line, the last lap now under his belt and the fresh adrenaline of the win coursing through his veins. He jumped out of the car, throwing his helmet off and holding it under his armpit as he threw the other hand up in victory, hearing the crowd roar around him. He smiled that stupid smile and you cursed him for making it so hard not to want him; the cocky son of a bitch. You turned as he got closer to you, ready to run for the hills before his scent could make you change your mind. The truth was, he was just like your fucking father from the aftershave and the reckless habits down to the way he drew you in and made you feel like the only person he cared about. That’s why you had to run. You couldn’t bear that loss twice. You shuffled quickly, as he picked up his speed, calling after you. 

“Sweetheart, where are you going? Don’t you want to celebrate with me?” 

He asked cheekily and as you turned to face him with his grip on your forearm, he could see the unshed tears in your eyes and only for a moment, the smirk on his chiseled face faltered. 

“What exactly do you want to celebrate, huh? How you just almost killed your best friend? How reckless you are? Is that it?” 

You questioned him, snapping as the words and anger mixed together like ingredients in a witches caldron. 

“Woah! I thought that’s what you wanted?” 

He said in confusion and question, eyebrows knitting together as he took a step back from you. You were intoxicating, your scent like the roses planted at Tannyhill by his mother. He so desperately missed the smell, but now you were angry and he didn’t understand why and trying to comprehend it all was making his head spin. 

“Why would I have wanted that? Do you not know who my dad is – was?” 

You asked him, tears threatening to leave your lashes. 

“No? Should I?” 

He asked again, confused. 

“Yeah, I’d say so, considering you're wearing his number.” 

You snapped and his eyes went wide. 

“Roy Edwards was your dad?!” 

He questioned, sudden realization hitting him. 

“Yeah, and you know what, forget the date. Forget I exist, okay? All you did today was show me that you’re just fucking like him and I won’t open myself up to that.” 

You turned on your heel, doing your best to get away as quickly as possible and get away is exactly what you did, leaving Rafe speechless and heartbroken.

-

The bar was loud, that was one of the first things Rafe noticed as he stepped inside, his tall form accentuated as he dipped his head to get in the door frame. You watched as you stood at the bar, Alex to the right of you as you drank in the muscles that squeezed tightly together while he shook Topper’s hand. 

“You know the sexual tension just oozes between you two, right?” 

Alex said, words articulating more a statement than a question. 

“Who? I don’t know what you are referring to.”

You replied, pretending not to know what she was talking about as your eyes peered up over the glass in your hand. She laughed at your expense. 

“You’re on fire for him, babe. You might be able to lie to him and, maybe to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.” 

You rolled your eyes, knowing she was right and flicked your attention to him once more. This time, a busty blonde stood in front of him, smiling her best smile and you knew it was over. He’d take her home and she’d get everything you knew that you shouldn’t want. His attention was stolen from his friend’s as his eyes made contact with your form, walking toward the dance floor with Alex, your hand in hers. His eyes followed you and he watched as you found your rhythm, swinging your hips and slinging your hair; the blue of the strobe light hit the disco ball in the center of the room and he could’ve sworn for a moment you glistened like glitter. He took in your lips as the light made your skin twinkle, he had never wanted anything so bad and he knew your kiss would be his favorite flavor if he could just get a taste. Rafe moved his eyes from you back to Topper for only a moment, doing his best to pretend that he was listening to whatever useless thing his friend was talking about amongst the group. Though, deep down he knew Topper was still pissed at him for earlier at the track, he knew he wouldn’t appreciate him not being engaged while he was talking and just as that thought crossed the threshold of Rafe’s mind, his attention was placed on you again as two men approached you and Alex where you stood on the dance floor. He watched your body language intently, thankful for your fiery spirit as he watched you jerk your elbow out of the stranger’s grasp. But, when the man persisted, getting too close to your ear, Rafe could see your back muscles stiffen and knowing you were scared was enough to send him reeling. So, he did what any self respecting douchebag would, he made his way over to you, his feet dragging him into your direction before his brain could even talk him out of it. He could blame it on the magnetic field between you or the drinks he had downed since arriving. But, the truth was that he didn’t have an excuse – he just needed to rescue you, not that you needed it or needed him for anything. He was sure it was simply the other way around. 

“Hey, pretty girl. Who’s this?” 

He said, placing his chin in your neck and his arms around your waist. You melted into his touch for only a split second before you reminded yourself of your one job – staying away from him. 

“George Dickerson.” 

The stranger replied, holding out his hand for Rafe to shake. Which he did before he spoke rather loudly, giving his stupid little douchebag smile that made you weak in the knees. 

“Rafe. Rafe Cameron – I’m the boyfriend.” 

You almost passed out at the thought of him calling himself that, especially in regards to you. The stranger looked away for a moment, his hand rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and you took your chance, elbowing Rafe as hard as you could in the stomach. He let out an exasperated grunt, digging his hands into your hips to keep his balance. You took note of the fact that he remained upright, though you weren’t surprised, you were still glad he could take a punch. The stranger's eyes flicked to the floor and Rafe gritted his teeth in your ear. 

“Bad girl.” 

The hair on the back of your neck stood at his remark and heat pooled to your stomach quicker than you could object. 

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna take my girl and dance for a bit. Nice to meet you, Dickerson.” 

Rafe said, grabbing your hand and leading you away from the man only a few feet as Kings of Leon’s sex on fire played over the speakers. He placed your body in front of him, grabbing your hips and aiding you in your sway, dipping his head only for a moment to speak against your ear. 

“It’s not nice to be violent, sweetheart.” 

He chuckled, before finishing his sentence. 

“-especially not when someone is trying to help you.” 

You rolled your eyes in response, turning around rapidly, placing your hands against his chest before squatting and running them down his body. If he wanted to play this game, he shouldn’t have brought a knife to a gun fight and he was about to find out that you had far more ammunition. 

“That’s the thing – I didn’t ask for your stupid fucking help.” 

You growled. 

“No, you didn’t. I offered up my services for free. I don’t like seeing you in trouble.” 

He feigned whining as he brought his lips into a pout, taking your hands and twirling you around. 

“I don’t need protection from anyone, especially not from you!” 

You said, gritting your teeth before turning around again, your ass rubbing on his most intimate parts. The only thing Rafe could process was how badly he wanted to bend you over – right then and there. His hands were on your hips again before his brain could register his next move. 

“You know, if you were my girl, you wouldn’t be talking back to me.” 

He growled in your ear, feigning aggression, though all he wanted was to feel your sweet soft skin against the palms of his hands. 

“Oh, is that right? Why’s that? because you only date women who know when to shut up, is that it? 

He rolled his eyes at your stupidity, at your inability to understand how badly he wanted you. 

“No, baby. Because if you were mine, with all that fucking attitude, I’d bend you over the bathroom sink – fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.” 

You couldn’t process anything after he had released those words from the arsenal of his mouth. The only thing you could hear was the rabid beating of your heart against your chest, the feeling of your throat closing in the background as you moved your hands to lay overtop of his and stopped the rhythm of the two of you, facing him. 

“Then, what the fuck are you waiting for?” 

You questioned. Before you could even think, his blue eyes searched yours for any sense that you were bluffing and when he realized you weren’t, he grabbed your cheeks and met your mouth with the heaviest of kisses that you had ever felt. He moved his hands from your face to your ass, grabbing you and hiking you up over his hips, both of your legs wrapping around his torso as he carried you through the crowd and into the mens room. Your lips remained locked, no breathing necessary as he averted his eyes ever so often until you were tucked safely inside of the restroom. He held your body up against the door as it shut behind him, his hands running wild against your cheeks and hair before you dropped your legs from around him and hurriedly tore off the jeans that gripped your thighs. He mirrored you, his shirt and pants leaving his body and you cursed him for being so beautiful as you took him in – standing there, built like a God. He grabbed you again, ripping your bra and underwear from your body before placing you against the sink, your ass teetering over the edge. You were scared that you’d fall, but somehow his strong hands made you feel safe and sure that in his presence nothing bad could ever happen to you. You remembered feeling the same way with your father and as quickly as the thought came, you pushed it away, forcing yourself to hate him one more time. He knelt between your legs where you sat, strong hands still holding your thighs against the porcelain firmly and his blue eyes looked up at you for reassurance as he licked his lips. You nodded your head faintly and that was enough for him as he wasted no time, his tongue diving between your folds, placing kisses along your lips and sucking your clit for only a moment before working his way down the creases of your thighs and plunging his tongue inside of you. You yelled out as euphoria filled your brain and heat filled your stomach, your hands clenching his hair for dear life as you rode out the feeling. 

“Who’s your daddy, baby?” 

He cooed, coming up for a breath, your slick hanging off of his chin. 

“Fuck. You.” 

You growled. 

“Not yet, angel. Now, answer my question. Who is your daddy?” 

You stood your ground, remaining as stubborn as you could refusing to give into him. But, at the roll of your eyes he moved his hands to grip your cheeks. 

“Just say it, baby and I'll keep doing what you like. But don't, and I'll stop immediately, pretend this never even happened.” 

He said, his tone laced with playful warning. He wanted you to submit and you weren’t sure if you had it in you, especially not tonight. But, you wanted him so badly, you thought that you’d do anything to get your release – to get him inside of you. 

“I hate you – daddy.” 

You said, gritting your teeth. 

“I hate you too, baby.” 

He smirked and grabbed you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he slid into you. You yelped at the sudden stretch, realizing he was more endowed than you had anticipated. You couldn’t be surprised with the kind of cocky piece of shit Rafe was, you knew he had to be packing, you just weren’t expecting it to be that much. He stilled, letting you adjust to his size before plunging himself in and out of you. You mewled and moaned over the contact, the ridge of his dick felt at the innermost parts of your pussy, parts that no one had ever reached before. You went on like that for a few minutes before he spoke again. 

“You like this dick, don’t you, pretty girl?” 

You stilled under him, the nickname catching you off guard for someone who seemed to equally hate you and you couldn’t blame him. But, the name – you couldn’t put his finger on why he was complimenting you, maybe he was just caught in that moment. Yeah, that was it – chasing his high, that’s all it was. 

“Yeah.” 

You grunted out. 

“Yeah, what, angel?” 

He asked, placing his forehead to yours, looking in your eyes as you clenched around him, ready for release. 

“Yes, daddy.” 

You screeched, yelping as you released and submitted to him simultaneously. He bit your shoulder, pulling out and cumming on your thigh after watching your face distort in magic ecstasy. He gently wiped the mess off your leg with toilet paper that he had run under the stream of the water of the sink. He gently helped you dress, cupping your cheeks and kissing you again, only turning away from you to put his own clothes back on his body. But, when he turned back around, you were gone. 

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

taglist:

as always, if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please shoot me an ask or comment on this post so i can keep track <3

@maybankslover @inthelibrarybtw @luvrcndy @silkylovey @yagirlwrites @obxbabygirl @rafeecameronsbitch @klutzy-kay24 @roseczbalt @akobx @allsmilesreally7 @wtfdudesblog @urdreamgirl12 @hockeybabe87 @sereneera @annaconscience @pogueprincesa @bibissparkles @obxbigsis @jjmaybankmylovee @kulekehe

[midnight--sadness]

Any headcanons about the dynamic between in-ho and the recruiter?

Sad we never got any scenes between them, but holding out hope for a flashback in season 3, maybe. Director Hwang stop looking at dilfs online and heed my prayers.

With absolutely no evidence I believe that the recruiter was in his final year as a square level manager during in-ho's season of the games, and in-ho was his pick to win. It leads to the recruiter striking up a friendship with in-ho once he's hired on as frontman and the recruiter gets his own promotion. He becomes the best recruiter they have (as in, the majority of winners from the last several years have been people that he recruited) and in-ho, being the boss, respects that. The recruiter is the only employee (aside from maybe the officer) who's bold enough to make jokes and some light teasing in conversation with the frontman, and talking to him makes in-ho actually feel like a person.

He's also one of the only employees who gets to see In-ho's face. Yes, he saw it when in-ho was just a player. But now they meet up a handful of times per year in ritzy bars around Seoul so in-ho can brief him on what types of people to focus on recruiting that year (gender, age range, athletic vs. intellectual, etc).

The recruiter places bets on the players just like the VIPs, and he visits the island every year once the games are done to catch up with in-ho and see how his bets did.

The recruiter is freak, we know this (alexa play the deepthroating gun scene). In-ho may have everyone else fooled that he's some stoic sexless monk too important to feel human emotions like lust, but the recruiter knows better.

So of course he calls up In-ho one day in 2021, saying "I just found the prettiest little thing down in the subway. You'll like this one. I don't think he'll get very far, but I figured you'd enjoy something nice to look at this year."

In-ho just rolls his eyes. The recruiter says outrageous things all the time. Then dalgona happens and in-ho is just like oh fuck okay what the fuck. He owes the recruiter several expensive whiskeys.

21 gun salute for the recruiter, he found in-ho his perfect malewife Rest in power king.

director hwang follows archive dilfs on twitter, i know he told me 😌

THIS IS CANON TO ME NOW!! 🤧🥴 ANON U ARE SO BIG BRAINED I LOVE YOU 💖💖💖💖

inho considers giving the recruiter a copy of gihun's dalgona game but he shuts that down quick. aint no way he's letting the recruiter have a video of his malewife bent over 😤

he does treat the recruiter to a special night out with the most expensive drinks after gihun wins.

[etherealily]

𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 // f.odair

based on this ask <3

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. I love him.

Warning: Cuss words .

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : bitter truths and blobcakes.

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It's hard to recall his first tribute. He'd had to begin quite early. Maybe in some twisted way, he was jealous of you for being able to be twenty and mentor. He'd had to be seventeen. Well, that was until he found out that you knew one of your tributes. His initial sharp inhale of breath upon the realisation didn't even begin to cover the turmoil he knew you must be facing. The jealousy evaporated out of him expeditiously.

He'd first seen your little tribute at the Tribute Parade with her little overalls and laurel crown. The boy seemed to have a better chance. But this little girl, good god, she was younger than Finnick had been during his own Games.

He'd seen you around quite a bit, too. I mean, how could he not? A couple years after his own Games, you'd won yours. Absolutely obliterating the competition. You weren't particularly strong, definitely not Career-level, but you'd definitely got the smarts to make up for it. You relied on geurilla surprise-attacks.

He'd always wondered what happened to you. You were oddly composed after your Games, which meant you were internally chaos personified. He knows this, because he personally knows someone else who was eerily calm after their Games. Him.

Now you were back. Same anxiousness as you'd exuded at your own Tribute Parade, but now, with the anxiousness for two others.

After spending far too much time gnawing on the inside of his cheek watching his tributes train in the Center from an obnoxiously large screen - they were talented, of course, they were Careers, but it was just not enough - he decided that he'd actually take advantage of the Capitol treating this like a party and help himself to the food laid out for him and the other mentors.

And then he saw you. He wasn't exactly sure if you'd remember him.

You were attempting to (utilise your evidently limited knowledge of) sign to the Avox behind the counter, who gave you a small menu in response. Looking up the item number on the menu, you tilted your head. "Cupcake?", you questioned, brows furrowed.

"Yes, Sugar?", he asked, leaning his elbow on the counter, grinning. With all his perfectly pearly white teeth. "Sorry, I had to.", he chuckled, watching as you curiously turned to look at him. "You don't think that's a cupcake?"

"It doesn't look like one."

"It's a District 1 delicacy. Don't let them hear you say that."

"It doesn't look like anything. It's a blob. Plus, I think that's gold on it."

"It's edible gold. It's fine. She'll have two. Trust me, if the Capitol's good for one thing, it's knowing the best materialistic stuff to have. And gold-dusted-cupcakes are iconic. We have 'em every year."

You nodded as you begrudgingly took the two cupcakes from the Avox attendant, handing one over to him.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am.", he replied, tipping an imaginary hat. "I'm Finnick."

"Yeah, I know."

"You remember me? And I don't mean from any ads or TV appearances. I mean, me, from the last time you were here at the Capitol."

You shrugged. "Kinda? Sorry, I was more focused on the Games."

"No doubt, no doubt.", he nodded, watching as you gently unwrapped the bottom of the blobcake. "What are you doing?"

You gestured at the blobcake. "Eating. You said it was good."

"You gotta lick the icing off first. That's how you eat it. It's a law."

"It's a law?"

"Well, not a-- yeah, basically."

"That's disgusting."

He spluttered. "The icing is the best part!"

"So save it for last!"

"Wow. Uncultured.", he muttered, running his tongue along the icing, shooting you a triumphant look. "Mm-mm, it's better when it's eaten right."

Defiantly, you took a bite of the cake-part, mirroring his look, to which he mock-gasped. "Blasphemy."

You laughed. He was glad. "So. You really don't remember me? I was standing right next to your mentor when you came out of the Arena?"

"Wait, aren't you the one who told your tributes to try to psych me out--"

"I nudged them in the direction of psychological--"

"Warfare."

"Not- not warfare, more... teasing. You killed 'em, anyway, so, I guess we're even.", he muttered, offhandedly as he took another lick of the icing, cleaning his lips with the back of his hand. Your silence made his head snap up.

"Right. Sorry." It was so quiet, he almost screamed to counter it.

"No, no, that was a joke- well, not a joke, I'd never joke about that, I just... it didn't mean anything.", he rambled, nudging your shoulder with his elbow, only letting up once you nodded.

Clearing his throat, he continued to lick the gold dusted icing off his blobcake, now sort of understanding your point of how disgusting it must look. But it felt right, and he'd long learnt that things feeling right was a rare emotion these days.

"So, your tributes. Quite the age difference, huh? Can't really push the whole star-crossed-lovers thing that Abernathy's doing with the 12 tributes, can you?", he asked, looking up at you taking another gentle bite of the blobcake.

You shook your head, instinctively glancing up at the screen, where, like clockwork, 11's tributes were displayed, along with a ranking.

"Seven.", you whispered, setting your blobcake down slowly, causing him to raise a brow before his eyes dutifully followed your line of sight. Oh. Wow.

"A twelve-year-old got a seven?", he muttered, resting his elbows on the counter behind him. "You trained her well."

"No, she's always been like... this insanely talented kid. Back at the District, right? She'd manage to squeeze her way into the Victor's Village to come see me. Peacekeepers never see her."

"Squeeze her way? What, you're not allowed to see the others?"

You gnawed on your lip, shrugging as you picked at your blobcake. "I mean, you guys haven't heard? The Peacekeepers said that the whole of Panem knew and that's why they look down on 11."

"Knew what?"

You looked down at your cake and he huffed. "C'mon, let's cause a scandal.", he mumbled, dragging you by the wrist to a secluded corner of the room. "Now, tell me."

Exhaling softly, you glanced around for a moment before nodding. "11's been trying to get our own Training Programme. Like you Careers have -- because it's an unfair advantage. The Capitol doesn't like that. It prefers you guys, obviously. So Snow calls me over sometimes, being the most recent Victor from 11, because he thinks I'll be loyal to him and snitch."

"Do you?"

"Would you?"

Touché.

"And that's why he has you guys separated from the rest of the District? So you can't give them tips?"

You nodded. "I try my best to help people out. I know it's stupid, that at the end of the day, there will be two tributes chosen every year anyway, but I donate some of the annual income I get as a Victor to families with eligible but very young kids. Y'know, like Rue. So that there's no need for Tesserae."

Whoa. So it was true, what the other mentors had been whispering about. You had personal attachment. Yeesh.

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"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"Of course, Rue, c'mon."

You allowed her to settle down in your blankets before you stroked your fingers through her hair. "You have pretty hair."

"Thank you."

"No problem, Rue-bird." You'd been told by her mother, while she was clutching your arms with her trembling hands, to call her that if she needs it. No promises were demanded of saving her. No promises were given, either.

"How did you win your Games? They didn't tell us."

They wouldn't have. Doesn't go with the image of the badass, merciless Victors.

"Well, um, I was in an alliance with someone from 2. Which, I know, is odd, because usually, the Careers band together, but she was weaker than the rest of them. And somehow, it had just come down to four of us left."

Rue hummed, playing with her fingers as they rested on your stomach.

"So, we'd gone our separate ways to look for food. I found a, uh, a District 3 boy bleeding out. Some muttation, I think, had got to him. He didn't have much time left. He reached out his hand. But all that went through my head was my little baby brother. I had to know him. I--", you exhaled, licking your lips as you looked up at the ceiling.

The worst thing is that you've always been incapable of tears, when asked about the brutality of the Games.

"What did you do?"

"I turned back around. I went past our meeting spot, to where she was, the 2 tribute. And then...", you sighed. Fuck. "I literally stabbed her in the back as she was aiming at a squirrel for food. Well, not stabbed. I shot her. With an arrow. Both of their cannons went off at the same time. Hers and the boy's. I didn't have to mercy kill him."

"That's how you won?"

You nodded, lips pursed.

"You said there were four of you."

Oh, right.

"The other one was my fellow 11 tribute. I hid from him. The Gamemakers tried their best to force us together, but I managed not to."

"So he was looking for you?"

"I couldn't handle killing him, too, Rue. Someone from my own District. But he started believing I was dead and he just kept missing it on all the nightly announcements. He thought the Capitol was messing with him, that he was alone in the Arena. Wouldn't put it past them. But he went mad. He ended up killing himself."

Rue's silence was expected, and strangely enough, welcome.

"You won by default."

"Yes. They didn't see it that way, though. The Capitol's so used to brutal murders that they thought this was an 'innovative psychological strategy', not that I couldn't bring myself to kill him. But for my brother, I couldn't bring myself to let Heath find me."

"Heath?"

"The other 11 tribute's name."

"Did you say sorry to his family?"

"I haven't been able to look them in the eye since. They forgive me, though, they've sent letters on numerous occassions."

She fell asleep, then. Good. After this reliving of trauma, at least one of you should.

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If you could loop this week for the rest of eternity, you would.

One week went by so quick. One second you were on a train, watching Rue and Thresh's knees bounce as they looked out the window on the journey to the Capitol, and the next, you were sitting in a swivel chair marked '11', with Haymitch Abernathy to your left, mindlessly offering you a bottle for the fifth time after you'd declined.

But this time, you said okay. Because the countdown had just begun.

You bit the inside of your cheek, taking a sip, but your eyes stayed trained on the screen. If those two kids can't close their eyes, neither would you. You'd avoided watching any of the Games since yours so far, but now, you had no choice.

Your biggest worry was that some Career jackass would set off one of the landmines and that would set off Rue's or Thresh's.

But no. That didn't happen. Instead, a goddamn massacre painted the screen and the reflection on everyone's eyes was an angry, bruising red.

"It's a motherfucking bloodbath. I mean, it always is, but goddamn.", you heard Haymitch mutter from next to you. You looked down from the big screen back to the little one you'd been personally provided - the one you could zoom into, use map tools and whatever the fuck else the Capitol had cooked up - to locate your tributes. But fuck. You couldn't find her.

Thresh, of course, survived the bloodbath almost effortlessly. Well, no, that would be wrong. He used a lot of effort, but his training worked well. And plus, finding that he's hidden himself in the ginormous patch of tall grass - forestry district, baby! - you weren't too worried. But fuck, fuck, fuck, where was Rue? Where the hell was Rue? You heard cannons upon cannons and you just clenched Haymitch's bottle tighter with each one.

You were allowed to try to find your tributes on the screen, allowed to navigate through landscapes in the arena, but you weren't allowed access to the tracking tools used on them, or any other districts' tributes. Because what if you sent in a sponsor gift with a coded message of other tributes' locations. Wouldn't be fair, would it? At least, that's what the asshole Gamemaker Crane had said. As if sending kids to fight to the death was fair.

"She's a fuckin' idiot. An actual goddamn idiot."

For a split second, you didn't even care that he's possibly insulting your tribute. "Where?" You realised all too quickly, he was talking about his tribute.

"This girl, she's...", he groaned, slapping his forehead as he gestured to her, the one who got an eleven - Katniss, you recalled - running with an almost fluorescent orange backpack. "He was smart, he hid. And she was supposed to, but she just fucking-- she's this lucky. This goddamn lucky.", he muttered, pinching his fingers together.

"I can't find Rue."

Hey, you'd take all the help you can get. He's more familiar with this computing system, anyway.

"What, the tiny one? She's probably up in the trees or something.", he mumbled, waving you off.

"But we don't have access to those cameras."

"Yeah, I know. You just gotta keep waiting till it shows up on the big screen, I guess. Man, how the hell am I supposed to push this whole star-crossed-lovers schtick if one of them keeps trying to get herself blown up?"

Your eyes ran back to your screen, trying to scour the arena's locations for any hint of Rue. He was right, actually. She could be in the trees.

"You gonna hog that, or what?"

Eyes still on the screen, you absentmindedly passed the bottle back to him. Your blood pressure was rising with every cannon you heard.

Hands rested on your shoulders, and it shot even goddamn higher, as though it was you in the Arena again.

"It's me." Well, it's good Finnick decided to announce himself, because there was no fucking way you'd have taken your eyes off the screen for a moment, even if it was Snow himself trying to slit your throat from behind. "You find them yet?"

"I saw Thresh. I can't find Rue, we don't have access to the tree cams."

He nodded, leaning over your shoulder. "Shh. I know an override."

As silently as possible, while occassionally raising his brows (and eyes) to look around to make sure he wasn't being watched, he typed out something complex that looked almost like what you'd expect only people from Three were capable of.

"Did you find yours?"

"My boy died at the Cornucopia. My girl's still alive. She's with the other Careers.", he murmured, his eyes still focused on typing. "There. You won't get all the tree cams, 'cause they'd notice that. I've lowered the range to near the Cornucopia. She can't have gone that far."

You nodded. "Thank you, Four."

"No problem.", he muttered, squeezing your shoulders before sneaking back to his seat, seven seats to your right. You almost frantically navigated through the tree-cams, until finally, finally, you saw a flash of her hair.

"See? I toldja. All the Eleven ones do it every year. If there's trees. Never fails."

You could both hug and stab Haymitch at that moment.

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"Yeah, this is weird as hell."

Your head whipped around, and you raised a brow, watching as he moved closer to you, arms crossed.

"What is?"

"No one does this shit, man. You know that, right? You'd get notified if your tribute died."

"I'm just making sure."

You watched the night sky of the Arena light up with the names of the fallen. The two of you stood in silence as the big screen shone with eleven bright announcements, Finnick's jaw clenching as the District Four boy was announced.

He inhaled deep and long, tilting his head as the screen went dim again, the cameras showing split screen shots of the faces of the thirteen remaining tributes. "You didn't ask me what I was doing here."

"I didn't really care."

He nods. "Fair. You wanna know now?" You shrugged. "I kinda figured you'd be here."

"Capitol darling, expert hacker and now psychic, too?"

"Everyone hates triple threats.", he grinned, resting his elbow on your shoulder. "I figured you'd be like me and not trust the Capitol on your first Games as a mentor. Ergo, figured you'd be here."

"How so?"

"I remember during one Hunger Games - can't remember which one, but this kid thought he was all alone, and he was going insane. And the Capitol fucking taunted him. Let him goddamn believe it. They started displaying all the dead in a list and once or twice, the other tribute was shown although they were alive."

You didn't respond. How could you? You were reeling from the new information that Heath had got a tiny display of the deceased list all to himself that you hadn't been privy to, and the Capitol had fucked with him by adding you in sporadically.

"So, yeah, I figured you might have seen that Hunger Games. It was more recent. So. No Capitol trust."

"Those were my Games."

His elbow slipped off your shoulders as his hand slipped into his hair. "Fuck. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you, uh, relive that.", he rambled, clearing his throat. How many fucking times is he going to put his foot into his mouth in front of you? He's pretty sure a hundred more.

He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Hungry?"

"No."

"Blobcakes?"

You raised a brow, and he raised one right back. "That's what I thought. Come on, Eleven."

----

He'd never seen anyone look as delicate as you while licking the icing off a blobcake. "Man, I don't know if I'm going to keep my end of the deal up. You're just making my way look so appetizing."

"Hey, whoa, I'm being disgusting and eating it your way. You gotta do it my way."

"What, a bite with cake and icing?"

"Uh huh.", you nodded, wiping icing off the corner of your mouth with your thumb. "Go."

Begrudgingly, he took a bite of the whole thing. Whoa, okay, whoa. He'd never fucking admit that it was perfect. But it motherfucking was.

"Hey, I saw that, I saw that!", you exclaimed, pointing at his eyes.

"Saw what?"

"That! That look in your eyes. You're awe-struck! It's the golden ratio of cake : icing. You know it!", you laughed, scrunching up your nose as you jabbed your finger in the air in front of his eyes.

"It's average. It's not that great."

"Oh, please!"

"What'd your district bring to this metaphorical potluck, then?"

You shrugged. "Nothing much. It's all out, now, anyway. No one wanted it, so I snuck it all back for Rue and Thresh, so they had something to eat to remind them of home." That was a week ago.

"What was it?"

"We have this special kind of bread, y'know? Like, it's... the most delicious thing ever. We have it on birthdays and when Victors come back."

"How long's it been since that happened?"

"Decades."

He nodded, setting down his blobcake and leaning against the counter. "You find any sponsors yet?"

You threw the wrapper of your blobcake away, before patting your hands together, clearing any crumbs off as you accepted the glass of water he passed to you. "For Thresh, yeah. For Rue, uh...", you trailed off, rubbing the ridge of your brow.

"She's hiding. She probably will do so for the rest of the Games. They won't really see much of her potential, will they?", he reassured.

You furrowed your brows, sucking on your teeth for a moment before shaking your head. "Yeah, thanks, man.", you mumbled, attempting to shoulder past him.

"It's just the truth.", he told you, his hand on your shoulder again. "Okay? I have no reason to hurt you or 'psych you out'. We're not the ones competing."

"Can you stop doing that?"

He removed his hand from your shoulder. "What? The hand? 'Cause I'm sorry, it's insti--"

"No, asshole, I mean the whole, like... 'you and I are birds of a feather, you can trust me, soft-as-fuck-look' in your eyes! Seriously, it's getting old.'

"What's getting old? Me caring?"

"No, you acting like you do! You're Finnick Odair! It doesn't matter to you whether your tributes live or die, because if they live, you get the glory, and if they die, you get the sympathy!"

"Whoa, HEY!"

Silence. He hadn't meant to snap.

"Do NOT fucking go there."

"I'll see you around, Four."

Good that you walked away, 'cause he'd have beat you the fuck up if you'd doubled down.

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Three days later.

He didn't think of what had happened between the two of you as a fight - he'd long learned that a disagreement and a full-fledged fight were vastly different - but he'd pretty much expected lack of any further conversation. Not that he wanted to talk to you and your half-baked knowledge of who he was.

But that's not to say he didn't check on you. And he just could not handle watching you take to Mr. Abernathy's methods.

"I think I'm cutting you off. Yeah?", he whispered in your ear, a hand on your shoulder to stop your inevitable jump of surprise as he gently pried the bottle off you.

"You have one.", you replied as you allowed him to drag you to the corner of the viewing room as you gestured at his glass.

"Yes. One. My first and only one of the night.", he informed, before tipping it towards the screen. "You're not checking up on them?"

"I just did. Thresh is still fine, and Rue's in an alliance with Haymitch's tribute."

He hummed, pulling you from in front of him to his side, wrapping his arm around your shoulders after pushing hair off them. "And sponsors?"

"I have enough for Thresh. I can't find any for Rue."

"Have you tried talking to the bettors?"

"What?"

He leaned his face in towards your hair, whispering once more. "It's inhumane, but you could convince them to help you out with Rue."

"Finnick. I'm not going to talk Rue up to get people who are betting on her life to put in more money, no fucking way."

He licked his lips, before sighing, placing a soft, seamless kiss on your temple. "Okay. Can I help you out at least? I know some Capitol patrons who have a thing for helping underdogs. You'll have to talk her down, though. They're the same people who bet on Johanna, when she pretended she was weak so no one would go after her."

Sighing, he relinquished his grip on his glass of champagne and watched you gulp. "Just 'cause Katniss and Rue are in an alliance, doesn't mean you and Haymitch have to share supplies, too."

◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇

Two days later.

Fifth day of the Games. His girl's doing fine. Career pack.

You? No, you're frantic. Thresh is getting herbs and knives and Rue's getting Katniss-scraps.

He doesn't come up to you, though, you who's spinning in half-arcs in your little swivel chair, eyes on the screen. He can't, not when the Capitol patrons devote such unnecessary attention to him, especially now that they're sure one of his tributes is valuable, having not been killed by the bloodbath nor by the other Careers (yet).

"What did they expect, her being trained by Finnick Odair? The fourteen year old victor himself?" They think he's flattered? They're sorely mistaken.

Yeah, well. Maybe you weren't particularly wrong about the fact that no matter if his tributes lived or died, he'd still be adored by the Capitol. It was so sickening, he'd have clawed his skin off if he could. Just to get their paws off him.

He watches from across the room as you slam your screen closed, shouldering through the crowd of patrons, bettors, mentors and gamemaker assistants alike, muttering "space, please" and "excuse me" too many times to count.

Fuck. He wished he could apply his 'not my circus, not my monkeys' motto here. But he couldn't. He'd almost made the same mistake and he'd been helped out, so.

It'd be a hard task, though. Sneaking away from the Capitol patrons would be fine, but sneaking past the Avoxes and the Peacekeepers would be a hassle. Nevertheless, he grabs your screen, tucking it under his arm, before he slips out of the viewing room as seamlessly as possible.

Now the real hard task.

He'd just have to hope the people already in the elevator were from 1, 2 or 3, so they wouldn't see him press the 11th floor after they left. That was a slim chance. The chances of that were, what? Three out of ten, excluding you and him? Phenomenal odds.

Luckily, it was goddamn Johanna Mason. District 3.

"Odair, as I live and bleed."

"Hey, Johanna." Thank fuck.

She nods, her eyes trailing down to his arm. "You're going to watch the Games in bed, eat popcorn or something? You're around Snow too much. He's rubbin' off on you."

"I'm returning this."

She raises a brow, gently gesturing for him to turn the device over, reading the huge '11' sticker on the back. "The new mentor? Really? You're all buddy-buddy now?"

"Uh huh."

"Fucking ace, man. But you know you can't visit other floors, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"No, like you can't. You'll be stopped."

"How do I--"

"There's stairs. Not the staircases, take the stairwells. Get off on your own floor, then make two rights."

He snorts, watching the elevator climb up past the floor for District 2 and get to District 3. "And you know this how?"

"You think I don't have midnight business with the other floors?"

He chuckles once again, hugging her by the shoulder. "Man, I missed you."

"Tell Eleven I said hi. And good job on keeping both her kids alive. See you next year."

He salutes, watching the doors open on the District Four floor, before disappearing to the right. And then another. And sure enough, there's a door that looks just right enough to hold an abandoned secret stairwell.

He shuts it gently behind him, before sighing. Seven more fucking floors.

◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇

The thuds on your door are loud enough to elicit a frustrated groan from you, spitting out your toothpaste and gargling before slamming the bathroom door shut behind you. "I said I didn't FUCKING want dinner! No dinner, no dinner, I said no dinner!"

There's no Avox in front of you.

There's a goddamn Finnick Odair.

"Sorry, so, did you say you wanted dinner, or...?", he muses, raising a brow and showing you just why the Capitol was so obsessed with his eyes. They were his district. Ocean. Water. Beauty.

You can't exactly do anything but scoff, and he tilts his head knowingly. "Johanna says hi. And congrats."

"Johanna Mason?"

"Yeah, why? You need proof before you let me in?"

Oh, right, you hadn't even let him in.

Moving to the side, you glance at him walking in, whistling lowly. "Sweet suite.", he mumbles, flicking the end of a leaf on a potted plant near your bedside before placing the device on your bed.

"You can't be leaving this shit down there, you know?", he scolds, hands on his hips as he points at it and then you.

"Why not?"

"You don't want to know what happens? You only get the notification if your tributes have died or got sponsors if you have the goddamn device on you, do you realise?"

He flops on your bed, hands behind his head as he watches you disappear into the bathroom again, presumably to floss.

"Did you talk to the Underdog-bettors?"

A soft "mhm" gently floats out the bathroom.

"They didn't go for her?"

"No."

"Did you tell them her age?"

"I told them everything. I even used her fucking family for pity points."

Your voice sounds odd, and his head gently lifts off his arms, as he sits up. "Yeah?"

"Mhm."

He bites the inside of his cheek, flicking at the comforter mindlessly. "Hey."

"Mhm?"

Okay, that's your third 'mhm' of the night. He knows what that shit means.

"You okay?", he asks, but he's already up and stalking towards the bathroom.

You don't respond, and he knows he needs to go the fuck in. He knocks, his knuckles lingering on the wood to softly push the door open. It creaks weakly, and he tilts his head.

Hands on either side of the sink, you're looking down at it, as if it contained all the money you'd need to send Rue mentor-gifts. The tap wasn't open, but the sink wasn't dry.

Tears.

Fuck.

Now, Finnick has little to no experience comforting people. That's his biggest flaw, he'd wager. He could light up a room, but not a person.

"Hey." It's as soft as he can bear to go without sounding patronizing. It's a gossamer-thin line, and he's pretty sure he's crossing it.

You don't respond, shaking your head, and he almost, almost makes the grave mistake of thinking that's you saying you don't want him there. However, he mentally flips off that thought, and instead, reaches a hand out.

It's almost like he's taming a bear or something. But. But when his fingertips graze the skin of your shoulder as timid as the first snowflake to ever fall, you immediately move, and he's found himself in the new, unfamiliar position of holding you, your face -and tears- on his chest, and his hand in your hair.

He doesn't tell you to 'shh', he doesn't say 'it's okay', because it's goddamn not.

"Why won't they help her? And why won't they let me use some of the money for Thresh on her?"

Your voice is barely heard, constantly overshadowed by trembles and sobs and gasps.

"Sweetheart.", he breathes out, attempting to pull you to the safety of air when you buried yourself harshly into his chest, so harshly, he's half sure you're breathing in zero oxygen, just 100% tears. "Hey. You're gonna have to look at me. Yeah? Yeah?"

His thumbs rub arcs into your cheek as it slowly untethered itself from his chest, and he sighs. "There she is.", he smiles softly. He's not going to give you any illusion of Rue and Thresh's miraculous saving.

"I don't get it."

"Look, she got a seven, which is impressive for her age, but--"

"No, I don't get the whole thing! District 13 rebelled, and so we gotta send our children to this shithole to die?!"

He really wasn't prepared for a worldview analysis.

Pressing fluttery kisses to your hair and your forehead, he hums, shaking his head. "It doesn't make sense, you're right, but we're here."

"If one of them doesn't win, I'm starting a rebellion."

That was treason. He should recoil, tell you to shut the fuck up, to never goddamn say that.

But instead, he kisses lower. Your cheeks. Your nose. Your chin. "You're right. We should." He's humouring you, but Johanna's already been talking about this, grumbling, more like. He's also got one of those gut feelings, y'know? He can feel something big happen.

"I might start a rebellion either way."

"I'll back you up."

"I'm not joking!"

He takes the shove like a man. "Yeah, I know, I'm serious, too. I'll join you."

You glare at him for a moment, before shouldering past him to the bed again, turning the screen on. "I wish they both would survive."

"Two Victors?" Maybe that's the 'big thing' that he feels will happen.

"Uh huh."

"I tell you, sweetheart, that will be the day the rebellion actually starts.", he tells you, scratching at his chin before he closes the bathroom door, and eases himself back onto the bed in front of you, of the screen.

Your eyes are still red, your lip still quivering, as you navigate first to the tall grass field, to check that Thresh isn't in any immediate sort of danger, and then back to the rest of the Arena to search for Rue. You do it monotonously, as if you've already resigned yourself, and honestly? You might have a point. He won't tell you that, though.

"If you say I'm still only pretending to care, I don't know what to tell you.", he muses, and you snort, shaking your head.

"Listen, I'm not going to pretend to know what you feel. I've never... I mean, my fellow tribute in the Games was someone I never knew, and I've never personally known any of my mentees, so, what you must be going through? Unimaginable."

"I don't need pity."

"It's not pity. It's concern. It's sympathy. It's... it's caring."

You nod. "Thank you. Greatly appreciated." Sarcasm? He'll never know.

"See, you're saying that, but you're not really easing up on the comforter there, sweetheart."

Your hands, gripping the cloth like the talons of the mockingjays in the trees back in Eleven, loosen on reflex. It leaves a mark on the bed. "What do I do, Finnick?" Your voice chokes off into a tired exhale. He tries not to focus on the fact that you've just used his name for the first time.

"What's that?", he asks, tilting his head as he reaches to turn up the volume. You frown for a moment, biting your fingernail, before your brows relax in recognition, and you lean back onto the pillow, sighing.

"Her song. Four notes. They've been using that as a signal, her and Katniss."

"Why does she sing it?" Anything to get you to forget the fact that this girl could die.

You smile, softly. "She sees the end-of-day flag go up, because she's the highest up in the trees."

"'Cause she's the smallest."

"Exactly. So she whistles that, and the mockingjays carry it back. Lets us know the working day's over."

"Mockingjays? Whoa, never seen one. Thought they went extinct."

You shake your head. "They prefer staying in our District. High trees where they can hide. They don't like the electric fences, though, of course."

"What do they look like?" He's on one mission. Keep you talking. Distract you. Maybe this is how he should have approached comfort before.

---

It's been hours.

The screen's long forgotten now, though he sees a flash on your screen saying his tribute has died from trackerjack stings. He'll have to rewatch how the hell that happened. "Fuck."

"Oh. Oh, Finnick, I'm sorry.", you murmur, your hand on his arm. See, you're better at this comforting thing than he is.

"The sponsors didn't prefer her, either. Coral was, uh...", he groans, rubbing his hands over his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Not the strongest. Not the most charming. She was just a Career. Just there."

"Will you have to go home? To pay your respects? I think Johanna had to, I heard Haymitch talk about it."

He shakes his head, pushing some hair from your shoulder before chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Usually, yeah, that's the procedure. But, uh, not me. I just go home. I have one here, in the Capitol."

"You have a house in the Capitol. Not a home."

Yes, yes, yes! Fucking exactly! He nods, earnestly. "Yes."

Silence, as you both watch Katniss and Rue speak.

Their conversation is short, but the Capitol will eat it up.

"Do you really not want dinner?"

You shake your head, and he kisses your temple as he stands.

"Then let's just go get blobcakes."

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[strongholdinthedark]

Hey @hissterical-nyaan ,

All of the above. 😎🙃😇.

Also, I reached the tags limit of 30.

Creating Desi asks because I have nothing to do

1. What's your first language? Are you more comfortable in it than english ?

2. Which state are you from and do you like it ?

3. Favourite Indian city ?

4. A Indian language you don't speak but would like to learn?

5. Favourite Indian classical dance? and why?

6. Favourite holiday destination in India?

7. Favourite festival and why?

8. Favourite traditions (or superstition) and why?

9. Something that makes you glad you are Desi?

10. If you weren't born in desi countries which country would have been born in?

11. Have you ever thought of leaving this country?

12. Favourite Indian singer and song?

13. Favourite film from any language?

14. A core desi memory?

15. Favourite person from your extended family?

[monstermoviedean]

coworker was going on and on about the importance of regulating your nervous system today and i'm thinking 1) you don't know what that means and 2) if i were a teenager and someone told me to regulate my nervous system i would start throwing things. frankly it's hard not to throw things when hearing that as an adult.

[smolcatpilot]

Huevember - Pink!