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duskidolsmut · 3 days ago

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"Coachella Whore"

Lisa is a k-pop star on fire, an insatiable slut who lives for the raw, limitless lust backstage at Coachella. She throws herself body and soul into lust, her body glistening with sweat, glitter and cum, her pussy dripping with every touch, every insult of “whore” or “slut” that ignites her desire. On stage, she shakes her hips like a hungry whore, her tight shorts showing off her pussy, her moans escaping as she teases, knowing that thousands of eyes are devouring her. Off stage, she is a submissive toy for the dancers, begging for cock in every hole — mouth, pussy, ass —, hot milk dripping down her face, breasts and thighs, shamelessly licking herself. Lisa loves being exposed, humiliated with dirty words, used without warning, her breath stolen in games of control, her body vibrating with pleasures that she cannot control. Every thrust, every jet of cum, every hungry look is a trophy for her, who lives to be the greedy bitch of the festival, dancing on the line of danger where everyone can see — or hear — her degradation.

Tags: exhibitionism, active voyeurism, light humiliation, cumplay, free use, breeding roleplay, breath play, shock eggs, submission, gangbang, oral sex, anal sex, vaginal sex, swearing, public horniness, cum on face, cumming inside, vibrator, breath control, sensual dance, backstage, festival

W: 13.938

The sun beat down hard on the open-air stage where Lisa was rehearsing with her new team of dancers, just three days before Coachella. Around them, tarps and equipment blocked the view of curious onlookers, but the hot wind kicked up dust, leaving the air thick with sweat and tension. Everyone was supposed to be focused on the choreography—or at least trying to be. Lisa, in a skin-tight black top and leggings so thin they showed everything, swayed at the center, her body glistening as the music blasted from the speakers.

The dancers were a team of ripped guys, most built like they had "big dicks" written all over them. Ricardo, the leader, stood out the most: tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and a commanding presence that made everyone snap to attention. But Lisa couldn’t take her eyes off Jamal, the new guy with a smirk and thighs so thick they stretched his shorts. When the choreographer yelled "Positions!", she felt heat flood her pussy just imagining what these guys were packing.

The routine was fucking sensual, full of grinding and touches designed to drive anyone wild. The main move was the worst—or best, depending on who you asked. Lisa had to bend forward, arch her back, and rub against the dancer behind her, who today was Ricardo. On the first try, she lowered herself slowly, the sheer leggings leaving nothing to the imagination as her ass brushed against his bulge. And holy shit, what a bulge. Even half-hard, his cock was thick enough for her to feel every inch against her, and the rush of lust hit her so hard she almost moaned right there.

"Fuck, Ricardo, you’re... really positioned well, huh?" Lisa murmured, laughing low, her voice shaky as she straightened up, heart racing.

He chuckled, his hand lingering on her waist a second too long. "Relax, Lisa, it’s just the dance... for now." His tone was pure filth, and it made her even wetter.

But Lisa didn’t want to relax. The slut in her was screaming for more. When the choreographer called for a repeat, she made sure to "mess up" the move, whining with fake innocence: "Dude, this part’s so fucking hard—let me try again!"

The other dancers, sweaty and scattered across the stage, exchanged glances, some smirking. Jamal, leaning against a speaker, bit his lip as her leggings rode up, showing off her slick pussy so clearly he could see the outline. Lisa knew they were all watching, and it only made her hotter. She bent over again, this time grinding harder against Ricardo, feeling his cock stiffen and throb against her ass. Every roll of her hips was a calculated tease, and she let out soft, barely-there moans—just loud enough for the nearest guys to hear.

"Damn, Lisa, you trying to fuck up the routine or fuck me?" Ricardo growled in her ear, his grip tightening on her waist as she rose, his cock now rock-hard against her leggings.

She laughed, tossing her hair back, her nipples hard under her top. "Just trying to get it right, Ricardo... but if you wanna fuck me, I won’t complain." Her voice was sweet, begging, already picturing him pounding into her.

The other dancers were staring, and Lisa loved it. The open stage, even with the tarps, felt like someone could catch them any second—a roadie, a fan, anyone. And she wanted them to see. Wanted them to know she was a cock-starved slut, ready to beg for every inch. By the time rehearsal ended, she was dripping, her leggings soaked between her thighs as she grabbed her water bottle, eyes locked on Ricardo.

"Man, you’re killing us with that move," Jamal joked, wiping sweat off his face, but his gaze was glued to her ass, and Lisa’s pussy clenched just from that look.

"Yeah, Jamal, but I’m a professional, right?" She winked at him before turning to Ricardo, who was packing up. Trembling with need, she slipped a piece of paper with her address into his pocket. "Come to my place tonight, Ricardo... please, fuck me, I’m your slut," she whispered, her voice so desperate he laughed, his cock twitching in his pants.

"Fuck, Lisa, you don’t play, do you? I’ll be there." His stare burned as she walked away, her ass swaying like an invitation.

At her place, the night was hot, and Lisa waited for Ricardo in black lingerie that barely covered her pussy, her tits practically spilling out as she paced. When he knocked, she opened the door shaking, her cunt dripping just seeing him there, sweaty, the bulge in his pants screaming he was about to wreck her.

"Fuck, Ricardo, I’ve been dying for you," she moaned, dropping to her knees instantly, hands yanking at his zipper. "Fuck me, please, call me your slut—I wanna be your whore!"

He laughed, pulling his cock out, and holy fuck—it was a monster: thick, black, veins pulsing, the kind of dick that’d make any girl whimper with lust.

"Your pussy was begging for this during rehearsal, huh, you greedy slut? Here—take it!" he growled, shoving his cock into her mouth without warning.

Lisa gagged, tears welling as she sucked hungrily, spit dripping down her chin. She moaned loud, the curtains wide open, streetlight spilling in—her arousal spiked at the thought of someone seeing her there, on her knees, being used.

"Yeah, call me your whore, Ricardo, fuck my mouth!" she begged, pulling off just to speak before swallowing him again, her throat clenching tight.

He yanked her hair, throwing her onto all fours on the rug, her lingerie ripped apart in seconds as he drove his cock into her dripping pussy.

"Take it, you hungry bitch, feel this dick tearing you open!" he snarled, pounding hard, the slap of skin—pap, pap, pap—filling the room.

Lisa screamed, pleasure exploding with every filthy word.

"I’m your slut, Ricardo, fuck me, call me your whore!" she pleaded, her cunt clenching as she came fast, body shaking. But she wanted more. All of it. "Fuck, harder, wreck me, please!"

He laughed, slicking his cock with her juices before lining up against her tight asshole.

"Wanna be my perfect little slut, huh? Then relax that ass—I’m gonna fuck your brains out," he ordered, spitting for lube.

Lisa froze, fear flashing hot. She didn’t take dick in the ass often, and that monster looked way too big.

"Wait, Ricardo, go slow, I… I don’t do this much, okay?" she whispered, voice trembling, heart racing as she arched—submissive but gut-churned.

"Relax, you dumb bitch, I know what I’m doing. You’ll beg for it," he growled, pushing the head in slow, her tight hole resisting.

"Fuck, it hurts, Ricardo, shit!" she cried, hands clawing the rug, body tense as he forced himself deeper, her ass burning with every inch. Tears spilled, but she didn’t tell him to stop—lust tangled with pain as she moaned: "Go slow, please, I’m your slut, but fuck—!"

He paused, spat on his cock again, then thrust deeper.

"That’s it, you fucking whore, take this dick! You’ll love it," he taunted, and the degradation lit a fire in her—the pain twisting into something else.

Lisa breathed deep, relaxing, and suddenly the burn melted into pleasure, raw and intense. His cock slid easier now, filling her ass, and she moaned loud, euphoria exploding as he started fucking her slow.

"Holy shit, Ricardo, it’s… it’s good now, fuck! Pound my ass, wreck me, call me your slut!" she begged, arching deeper, her pussy dripping onto the rug as her ass stretched for him.

He laughed, speeding up, his monster cock splitting her open as he switched back to her cunt occasionally, slicking himself.

"Take it, you greedy bitch—pussy and ass, you’re my perfect fucktoy," he grunted, slamming so hard she came again, her ass clamping around him as she screamed: "Yes, wreck me, I’m your whore, fuck!"

She was gone, lost in the stretch of her ass, the filth of his words, the thrill of being seen through the open window. Ricardo hammered into her, alternating holes, her soaked pussy coating his dick while her ass pulsed, already addicted.

"Fuck, Lisa, your ass is tight as hell—gonna fill you up," he warned, thrusting deeper.

"Do it, Ricardo, wreck both holes, cum in me, please!" she sobbed, body trembling from endless orgasms, the pain in her ass now pure pleasure, total submission.

When he was close, he dragged her to her knees and jerked off over her face.

"Open up, slut, take my load like the whore you are!" he growled, hot cum splashing her face, tits, even her open mouth. Thick streaks dripped onto the rug as Lisa rubbed it into her skin, licking her fingers, eyes glazed with lust.

"Fuck, Ricardo, give me more, cover me, I’m your greedy slut!" she begged, grinning as she smeared it everywhere—cum glistening on her tits, her face, her ass and pussy still throbbing.

He laughed, wiping sweat as he tucked his dick away.

"Damn, Lisa, you’re one hell of a cocksleeve. Don’t kill me at rehearsal tomorrow with that ass," he teased, leaving her a sticky mess on the floor—body spent, but her mind already craving more.

The next rehearsal dawned even hotter, the sun scorching the open-air stage where Lisa and the dancers sweated buckets. Tarps blocked outside eyes, but the wind kicked up dust, mixing sweat and lust in the air.

Lisa couldn’t stop replaying last night—Ricardo’s black dick splitting her pussy and ass, cum painting her tits, his voice hissing whore, slut in her ear. Her cunt dripped just remembering, and she needed more.

Today, she upped the ante. A skintight crop top, nipples poking through, and leggings so thin they showed everything—especially since she’d gone commando. No panties. Just her slick folds staining the fabric, and Lisa loved knowing everyone saw how bad she craved cock.

Ricardo led as usual, shoulders gleaming, but Jamal watched too—eyes locked on her ass, the bulge in his shorts screaming game on.

When the choreographer told them to start, Lisa was already in total slut mode. The sensual choreography was the same, with that awesome step where she bent over and rubbed her ass against the guy behind her. Yesterday, she felt Ricardo's cock harden, and today would be no different. On her first try, she went down slowly, sticking her ass up against him, her leggings marking her wet pussy as she rubbed against his hard bulge. Fuck, his cock was throbbing, thick as fuck, and she moaned softly, her arousal exploding at the thought of the other dancers watching.

"Fuck, Ricardo, you're always... ready, aren't you?" she murmured, laughing slyly, her voice trembling as she went up, her pussy dripping with no panties to hold the honey.

He laughed, his hand brushing her waist, the heat of his touch making her want to beg right there.

— Dude, Lisa, you're the one who doesn't make it easy with that ass, you bitch — he replied, low enough for only her to hear, and the insult made her pussy throb.

Lisa knew everyone was watching — Jamal, the other guys, even the choreographer seemed distracted. And she loved that. The open stage gave her that adrenaline rush that someone could peek through the canvas and see her shaking her hips like a hungry whore. So, she found a way to fuck up the choreography again. Every time they rehearsed the step, she made sure to “mess up,” complaining with an innocent face:

— Fuck, it's hard to get this shit right, let me do it one more time!

The dancers laughed, but their eyes were heavy with lust. Jamal, on the side, wiped the sweat with his shirt lifted, showing his abs, and Lisa bit her lip, imagining his dick rubbing against her. She went back to Ricardo, going down again, this time harder, her ass rubbing his cock until she felt it hard as hell, throbbing in her leggings. Without panties, her honeyed pussy was all over the place, leaving a wet spot that couldn't be hidden. She moaned loudly, letting the others hear, her exhibitionism taking over as she thought: I want them to see what a slut I am.

"Lisa, fuck, what do you want with that shaking?" Ricardo whispered, his hand squeezing her waist, his cock so hard it seemed to rip his shorts.

"I'm just training, Ricardo... but if you want to fuck me, I'm all yours," she replied, pleading, her voice so submissive that he laughed, his arousal exploding.

But Lisa didn't stop there. In one of the moves, when Ricardo was behind and Jamal came to the side to adjust the formation, she saw her chance. “Accidentally,” as she picked up the pace, she guided Jamal’s hand to her thigh, letting it slide until it brushed against her wet pussy through her leggings. The touch was quick, but enough for him to feel the wetness, his eyes widening as she moaned softly, pretending it was an accident.

“Fuck, Jamal, sorry, bro, I was distracted,” she lied, biting her lip, her pussy throbbing with the contact, her heart racing because he had felt how crazy she was for cock.

“Distracted, huh? Your pussy is saying something else, you bitch,” Jamal replied softly, laughing mischievously, and the insult made her want to fall to her knees right there.

The rehearsal continued, but Lisa was beside herself. Every brush against Ricardo, every look from Jamal, every repetition of the step was a torture of lust. The wet leggings showed everything, and she shook harder, moaning loudly for the others to hear, imagining everyone knowing that she was a begging whore. When the choreographer let the crowd out, she was shaking, her pussy dripping so much that it left a trail.

The rehearsal ended with Lisa shaking, her pussy dripping so much that her black leggings were stained, the wetness marking her honeyed pussy for everyone to see. She stumbled to the locker room to get her bag, her body on fire, her hard nipples poking through her tiny top. The air inside was heavy, a mix of sweat, testosterone and something else — pure lust. Ricardo and Jamal were leaning against the lockers, their shorts marking their big dicks, their hungry eyes glued to her. Lisa tried to walk past, but her pussy told her to stop, desire overcoming any shame.

The heat of Ricardo's body trapped her against the cold metal of the lockers, the strong smell of his sweat invading her senses, making her pussy throb faster. Jamal closed in behind her, his hot breath on her neck, his hard bulge brushing against her ass. Lisa's heart raced, excitement mixed with a humiliation she loved—here, pressed between two males, she wasn't a pop star, she was just a begging slut, a cock-crazed whore. Their silence only increased the tension, their eyes telling her they knew exactly what she wanted.

Without a word, Lisa fell to her knees, the cold floor biting into her skin as she tore at the zippers with trembling hands. Ricardo's cock sprang out first, black and thick, veins pulsing like a living threat, followed by Jamal's, almost as big, the head glistening with hardness. She swallowed Ricardo's hungrily, her throat tightening as saliva ran down her throat, the salty taste filling her mouth. She switched back and forth between Jamal, gagging, her eyes watering, each gasp a proof of her submission, an offer to be used like the whore she wanted to be. The wet sound of hickeys echoed in the locker room, too loud, and she knew the half-open door was letting it all out into the hallway.

Then she saw it: Marcus, another dancer, standing in the shadows of the doorway, his hand tucked into his shorts, jerking off with wide eyes. Voyeurism hit her honeyed cunt like a shock, her arousal exploding at the knowledge that she was being put on by someone else. The humiliation engulfed her—it wasn’t just being fucked, it was being seen as a greedy slut, a whore who threw herself at cocks while a stranger came watching. Her body trembled, her pussy dripping onto the floor, and she sucked deeper, her muffled moans vibrating on the cocks, wanting Marcus to see every detail of her degradation.

Ricardo grabbed her hair, pulling her up, the metal of the lockers freezing her back as he ripped her leggings with a yank. Her honeyed pussy was exposed, glistening without panties, and he thrust his big dick in with a brutal thrust, the wet sound mixing with her hoarse scream. Each thrust was a reminder of what she was—a hungry slut, a whore who begged for cock in front of anyone who wanted to see. The half-open door swayed in the wind, and Lisa imagined Marcus jerking off faster, his lust fueling hers, the humiliation burning hot as she thought: Look how slutty I am, cum watching this bitch take a dick.

Jamal was not far behind. He smeared his cock with spit, lining it up with her tight asshole, and pushed in slowly, his thick cock forcing its way in as she writhed, her body trapped between them. Her asshole still hurt from the day before, but the pain only increased her submission, the feeling of being broken in like a worthless slut. She moaned loudly, the sound echoing down the hallway, wanting Marcus to hear, to know that she was giving it all up. Ricardo pounded her pussy without mercy, his cock smeared with her honey, while Jamal opened her ass, each thrust deeper, the rhythm of the two becoming a fucking machine that made her body bounce.

Humiliation pulsed through every vein. Lisa felt exposed, degraded, a whore used for their pleasure and for Marcus' show, who was now moaning softly at the door, his hand flying down his shorts. She wanted to be called a slut, she wanted to be cursed until she came, but they were both so focused on breaking into each other's holes that the curses came only in their eyes — looks that said “you're our whore, take my cock.” And she took it, her body shaking as she came, her pussy squeezing Ricardo's cock, her ass winking at Jamal's, each orgasm a wave of delicious shame for being so greedy in front of a voyeur.

The locker room became a chaos of sounds — the metal of the lockers banging, flesh colliding, her moans filling the space. Lisa was lost, the pleasure overwhelming any thought, only the desire to be fucked, wet, humiliated. Ricardo sped up, his big dick pounding her pussy until she came again, the honey dripping down her thighs, while Jamal pounded her ass, her tightness pushing him to the limit. She wanted to scream “call me a whore”, but her voice came out only in moans, her body speaking for her as she begged for more with each shake.

When they were at their limit, they pulled her to the floor, on her knees, right in front of the half-open door, her body glistening with sweat and honey. Ricardo jerked off quickly, his big dick spurting hot cum on her face, the milk running down her lips, dripping onto her breasts, making her ripped top wet. Jamal came with her, the thick jet hitting her open mouth, her exposed pussy, until the floor was stained. Lisa rubbed the cum on her skin, her fingers smeared, licking it all up while she looked at Marcus, who was cumming on his shorts, his eyes glued to the image of her wet, defeated, fulfilled. The humiliation was perfect—a slut covered in milk, used for their cocks and a stranger's lust, every drop of cum a trophy of the degradation she loved.

She stayed there, on her knees, her body shaking, her pussy and ass throbbing, her face and tits glistening with cum. Ricardo and Jamal wiped away the sweat, chuckling softly, as Marcus disappeared through the door, silence returning to the locker room. Lisa smiled, exhausted, the delicious shame still burning, already dreaming of the next rehearsal, more dick, more looks, more milk to beg for.

The third and final day of rehearsals for Coachella dawned with the air so thick it seemed like the sun itself was horny. The open stage, surrounded by patched tarps and speakers, vibrated with the heat rising from the hot sand, the wind carrying a smell of dust and sweaty bodies. Lisa was electric, her honeyed pussy dripping since she woke up, her body still sensitive from the brutal fuck in the locker room with Ricardo and Jamal the night before. The cum smearing her face and tits, the insults of “bitch” and “whore,” Marcus jerking off while watching everything — each memory made her pussy throb, begging for more dick, more looks, more humiliation.

She arrived on stage with a dirty plan in mind. Her black top was just a thin strip, her hard nipples almost tearing through the fabric, and her black leggings — without panties, of course — stuck to her skin like a second skin, highlighting her wet pussy and pert ass. Ricardo was there, leading the dancers, his broad chest glistening with sweat, his eyes already glued to her as if he knew the bitch was ready to fuck everything. Jamal, next to her, wiped the sweat with his t-shirt, his six-pack exposed, the bulge in his shorts giving her pussy a shock. Marcus and the other guys completed the team, all with that look of someone who carried a big dick and knew how to use it.

Lisa couldn't think of anything else but dick. The rehearsal was just an excuse to tease, to feel their dicks, to be seen as the greedy whore that she was. But today she wanted more — she wanted everyone naked, their bodies exposed, the raw lust taking over. When the choreographer, already a little pissed off with her “mistakes,” told them to start, she felt the heat rise up her spine, her pussy getting even more wet on her leggings.

The sensual choreography was the same, with that step that made her blood boil: bending her body, sticking her ass up and rubbing against the guy behind. Lisa had already turned this into a provocative ritual, but today she was out of control. On her first try, she went down on Ricardo, her ass pressed against his bulge, his half-hard dick throbbing through his shorts. The thin fabric of the leggings let her feel every vein, every throb, and the honey from her pussy dripped down, staining her thigh. The scent of his sweat, thick and masculine, filled her nose, mixed with the sticky heat of the stage, and she moaned softly, a husky sound that vibrated in her throat, loud enough for Jamal and Marcus to hear from nearby.

The other dancers were transfixed, sweat dripping from their foreheads, their eyes heavy with lust. Lisa knew she was center stage, the slut everyone wanted to fuck, and the exhibitionism made her heart race. The canvas around her swayed in the wind, leaving cracks of light where someone could peek, and she imagined hungry eyes outside, roadies or fans watching her twerk like a whore. Each repetition of the step was more shameless—she went down slower, rubbed harder, moaning shamelessly as her leggings marked her honeyed pussy, the luscious fabric glistening under the stage lights.

But Lisa wanted more, she wanted everything exposed. During the break, while the guys were getting water, she threw out the idea, her sly voice disguising the mischief:

— Dude, it's fucking hot today, huh? I'm sweating my eyes off in this outfit. What if we rehearsed... I don't know, lighter? Like, without anything, to really feel the choreo?

The choreographer raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Ricardo laughed, his dirty look cutting through her.

— Without anything, huh? What do you want to feel, you bitch? — he muttered softly, and the insult made her pussy tighten.

Jamal joined in, taking off his shirt with a smile.

— For me, let's go. I'm really melting — he said, and the other guys, laughing, started taking off their clothes, their shorts falling down, their already half-hard dicks swinging free.

Lisa couldn't believe it was working. She took off her top in a second, her breasts bouncing, her hard nipples shining with sweat, and she tore off her leggings, her honeyed pussy glistening, the honey dripping down her thigh. The hot air licked her skin, mixed with the smell of male bodies, sweat and lust, and she trembled, the delicious humiliation burning as she exposed herself to the hungry eyes. Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus and the others were naked, their big, thick black cocks swinging, some already throbbing, and she wanted each one of them, wanted to be fucked in front of everyone, called a whore until she came.

The choreographer, embarrassed, mumbled something about “focus” and left, leaving the stage for the dancers. Ricardo took the lead, naked, his big dick pointing as he ordered “let’s do the dance”. Lisa obeyed, submissive, her body vibrating with desire as she positioned herself in front of him. The music came back on, low, a low pulse that seemed to echo in her pussy, and she started to do the dance, now with nothing between her ass and his dick. The heat of his hard cock brushed against her sticky ass, the head throbbing against her asshole, and she moaned loudly, the sound tearing through the hot air, her senses collapsing with the raw touch.

Without fabric, each brush was a delicious torture. Ricardo’s dick, sticky with sweat and her honey, slid between her buttocks, brushing her pussy and asshole, and Lisa repeated the step without stopping, her body trembling as she wiggled harder, slower, wanting to swallow him with her ass. The smell of sex hung over the stage, her sweat mixed with the guys', the heat sticking to her skin like a second layer. Jamal, Marcus and the others watched, spread out, their eyes glued to her ass, and Lisa saw their hands moving down to their cocks, starting to jerk off slowly, the guys' low moans mixing with the sound of the music.

The voyeurism made her horny. Being the show for those men, seeing their big cocks throbbing because of her, made her honeyed pussy drip onto the floor, the liquid glistening on the hot sand. The humiliation was perfect—a naked slut, shaking for one guy's cock while the others touched themselves, everyone knowing she was a begging whore. She wanted to scream "fuck me," but she held back, letting her body do the talking, each shake a silent plea to be fucked.

Then, on impulse, Lisa broke her pace. Halfway down, she turned her body, climbing on Ricardo like a bitch in heat, her thighs wide open wrapping around his waist, her wet pussy rubbing against his hard cock. The heat of his cock against her pussy was unbearable, the honeyed head throbbing so close to her hole that she trembled, sweat running down her breasts as the stage spun before her eyes. The other guys stopped, their hands on their cocks, pounding faster, the air filled with moans and heavy breathing.

Lisa, submissive, begged in a hoarse voice, the sound tearing through her throat:

"Please, Ricardo, fuck me, fuck me in front of them, I'm your slut!" Desperation dripped from each word, humiliation igniting as she felt the dancers' gazes, their big cocks throbbing, Marcus moaning louder, his hand flying.

Ricardo's cock brushed the entrance of her honeyed pussy, covered in sweat and her honey, and Lisa wiggled, begging with her body, wanting to be filled there, on stage, for others to see her be the whore she loved to be. The heat of their bodies, the smell of sex, the sound of the handjobs all around her—it all swallowed her up, the total submission, the delicious shame of being the center of all this mischief.

—Please, Ricardo, fuck me, fuck me in front of them, I'm your slut!—Lisa begged again, her voice cracking with desperation, her breasts bouncing, her hard nipples brushing against his sweaty chest. The humiliation burned her good—being a begging whore, exposed to everyone, made her pussy drip on his cock, the honey running down his cock until it dripped onto the hot sand.

Ricardo laughed softly, the deep sound vibrating against her, his dark eyes shining with mischief. Without saying anything, he grabbed her ass hard, his big hands sinking into her flesh as he aligned his big dick with the honeyed entrance of her cunt. The heat of the honeyed head rubbing against her hole made Lisa moan loudly, the sound echoing throughout the stage, an invitation for the dancers to watch her degradation. With one thrust, he thrust it all in, his thick cock tearing her pussy in one stroke, the wet sound mixed with her scream—half pain, half pleasure—filling the air.

The stage seemed to spin before her eyes, the heat of the desert licking her skin as Ricardo pounded mercilessly, each thrust a thunderclap that made her body bounce. Her honeyed pussy squeezed his cock, making everything wet, the liquid running down her thighs, shining under the improvised lights. Sweat dripped from her breasts, mixing with Ricardo's, the smell of raw sex dominating the space. Lisa moaned and moaned, the guttural sounds tearing from her throat, too loud, wanting everyone to hear, to know that she was a hungry whore. The exhibitionism consumed her—Jamal jerking off faster, his big black cock throbbing in his hand, Marcus moaning softly, the other guys touching themselves with their eyes glued to her broken pussy.

Each of Ricardo's thrusts was a perfect humiliation. Lisa felt like a worthless slut, a pussy to be used, and she loved it. His big dick hit her hard, the impact making her breasts bounce, sweat flying as she wiggled, her body begging to be fucked more. The dancers around her were mesmerized, their hands flying on their dicks, the sound of skin on skin mixing with the thrusts — bang, bang, bang — that echoed like drums. Lisa looked at Marcus, voyeurism turning everything on: he was almost cumming, his eyes wide, and she wiggled harder, wanting him to see every detail of the whore she was.

The heat of Ricardo's cock in her honeyed pussy was driving her over the edge. She came screaming, her body convulsing, her pussy squeezing his cock so hard that he grunted, thrusting deeper as her honey dripped onto the floor. But Lisa didn't want to stop — she wanted more, she wanted all of it. When Ricardo slowed down, his cock still hard, she slid down, on her knees in the hot sand, her body glistening with sweat, her pussy throbbing, wet. The dancers moved closer, their big cocks swinging in front of her, and Lisa, submissive, opened her mouth, her eyes imploring as she licked the air, begging for cock.

She started with Jamal, his thick cock filling her mouth, the salty taste of sweat and lust exploding on her tongue. She sucked hungrily, her throat tightening as she gagged, saliva running down her chin, dripping onto her breasts. But instead of letting him cum, she stopped at the last second, his cock throbbing in her hand, a frustrated groan escaping Jamal. Lisa smiled, the slut inside her loving the cruel control of denying him milk, even though she was submissive. She moved on to Marcus, licking the wet head, sucking deep until he moaned loudly, his legs shaking, only to let him go too, his big cock throbbing, unrelieved. One by one, she sucked them all—five thick, black cocks, throbbing with desire—, gagging, getting her face covered in saliva, but always stopping before she came, leaving each guy with a look of anger and pent-up desire.

The stage floor was stained with honey and saliva, the air heavy with the smell of interrupted sex, the frustrated moans of the dancers echoing as Lisa stood up, her breasts glistening, her pussy dripping. Her humiliation was double now—being the whore who sucked everyone in front of everyone, and the slut who denied them milk, even though she was begging for cock. The voyeurism was still pulsing: she knew the guys were crazy about her, their hard cocks proof of the power her submission had, and the thought of someone spying through the tents only made her want more.

Ricardo, the only one who had fucked her pussy, chuckled softly, wiping away the sweat as he put away his cock, still covered in her cum. Lisa staggered to the corner, grabbing her ripped leggings, her body shaking with lust and delicious shame, the dancers' eyes burning into her back. She imagined the cumplay that never came — the cum she wanted smearing her face, her breasts, her pussy — but she saved her desire for the next round, knowing she had left everyone hungry.

While the crowd got dressed, Ricardo pulled Jamal, Marcus and the others to the improvised lockers on the stage, out of her hearing. His mischievous smile said it all before he even opened his mouth. Sweat was still dripping from his forehead, the smell of his fuck with Lisa stuck to his skin, and he couldn't hold back his betrayal:

"Dude, Lisa is a slut who loves to be used as a hole. She begs to be fucked, sucks until she chokes, and wants to be called a whore while she takes cock. I'm warning you, this pussy and this ass are for anyone who wants to break in."

The guys' eyes widened, their big cocks jumping in their shorts, still hard from the frustrated blowjob. Jamal laughed, patting Ricardo on the shoulder.

"Fuck, she denied me my milk, but now I know this whore will let it all out," he said, his voice full of lust.

Marcus, still red from jerking off, muttered: "Fuck, I saw her taking dick and I already knew she was a greedy slut. I want to fuck her too."

The group laughed softly, whispering plans, their eyes shining with the promise of using Lisa as she wanted — a pussy, an ass, a mouth for dick. Ricardo's betrayal spread her fame, each word planting the seed of what was to come at Coachella, while Lisa, on the other side of the stage, wore her sticky leggings, her pussy throbbing, unaware that her submission was becoming a legend.

The rehearsal ended with the stage empty, the desert heat still sticking to her skin, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and unresolved lust. Lisa was exhausted, her honeyed pussy throbbing, her ripped leggings tucked in haphazardly as she walked to the makeshift dressing room—a tent at the back of the stage, surrounded by tarps and speakers. The honey dripped down her thighs, mixed with sweat, and her breasts swayed in her tiny top, her hard nipples marking the fabric. Her head was spinning with what had happened: the brutal fuck with Ricardo, his big cock tearing her pussy in front of everyone, the blowjob from the other guys, denying them their milk, the frustrated moans echoing. She loved the humiliation of being the stage slut, but she didn't know that Ricardo's betrayal had spread the fire.

Inside the dressing room, the air was stuffy, the smell of hot metal and dust mixed with the distant echo of the test music. Lisa threw her bag in a corner, her body trembling with desire, wanting to touch herself, but before she could breathe, the canvas of the entrance opened. Ricardo entered first, his broad chest glistening with sweat, followed by Jamal, Marcus and the other three dancers — five burly males, their eyes hungry, the bulges in their shorts pulsing. Her heart raced, her desire mixed with butterflies in her stomach. They surrounded her in silence, their bodies so close that she could feel their heat, the strong smell of male sweat invading her senses.

Ricardo crossed his arms, his mischievous smile cutting through the air.

“Your fame is spreading, Lisa. I told the guys that you love being a hole, a slut who begs for cock. Now they want proof,” he said, his voice deep, each word dripping with humiliation.

Lisa swallowed hard, her honeyed pussy clenching at the implicit insult, her exhibitionism igniting as the guys’ eyes devoured her. She should have been scared, but her lust was in charge — being surrounded, judged as a whore, was all the bitch inside her wanted. Jamal took a step, his hand on her shorts, his big dick marking her as he chuckled softly.

“You sucked everyone off and didn’t let them cum, you slut. Show that you’re the whore Ricardo said you were,” he said, and the “slut” made her moan softly, the sound escaping unintentionally.

Marcus and the others closed the circle, the space getting smaller, the heat of their bodies suffocating. Lisa trembled, submissive, her pussy dripping on her leggings, her heart beating so loud it seemed to echo in the tent. She had no way to escape — and she didn’t want to.

“Please… I’ll show you, I’m your slut,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, pleading, her eyes lowered as she tore off her top, her breasts bouncing free, sweat glistening on her skin.

The guys laughed softly, a sound that cut like a knife, and Ricardo pointed to the center of the tent, where a dim light hit the dusty floor.

“Then dance, you whore. Shake your ass naked so we can judge your whore body,” he ordered, and the order made her pussy throb, the humiliation exploding as she obeyed.

Lisa let her leggings fall, the sticky fabric sliding down her thighs to the floor, her honeyed pussy glistening, her asshole still sensitive from the previous fuck blinking with the cool air. Naked, she walked to the center, the hot floor biting her bare feet, sweat running down her back, dripping on her pert ass. The smell of male bodies enveloped her, mixed with the hot metal of the tent, and the silence of the guys was worse than any insult — a silent judgment, their eyes scrutinizing every curve, every drop of honey running down her thigh.

With no music, just the sound of their heavy breathing, Lisa began to shake her ass. She got down slowly, her hands on her knees, her ass sticking up high, her honeyed pussy glistening as she spread her thighs, showing everything. Her movement was slow, each wiggle an offering, a request to be used. Sweat dripped from her breasts, her hard nipples jiggling, and she moaned softly, the hoarse sound filling the tent, loud enough for someone outside to hear. Exhibitionism took over her — the canvas at the entrance swayed in the wind, and she imagined a roadie peeking in, jerking off while watching the slut show off.

The dancers watched, their big cocks throbbing in their shorts, some already with their hands inside, slowly jerking off. Jamal bit his lip, his eyes on her honeyed pussy, while Marcus, still red from the scene on stage, breathed heavily, his hand squeezing his cock. Ricardo stood still, his arms crossed, but the bulge in his shorts said he was dying to fuck her again. Lisa wiggled harder, her ass and pussy winking at the audience, her honey dripping onto the floor, the smell of her sex mingling with the sultry heat. The humiliation was perfect—being judged as a whore, her body exposed for evaluation, every moan a reminder that she was just a hungry slut.

She got down on all fours to the floor, her ass sticking up high, her hands spreading her buttocks to show her wet asshole, her pussy dripping as she wiggled. The wet sound of her pussy moving filled the tent, mixed with the guys' low moans, their handjobs getting faster. Lisa turned around, lying on the warm floor, her thighs spread, her fingers brushing her pussy just to tease, her body glistening with sweat as she moaned:

"Please, look at me, I'm your whore," she begged, her voice shaking, the humiliation exploding with each hungry look.

The guys were mesmerized, but no one touched her—it was the trial, just like Ricardo ordered. Jamal chuckled softly, his big dick throbbing in his hand, and Marcus groaned, almost cumming, but he held it in. Lisa stood up, her body shaking, her honeyed pussy leaving a trail on the floor, and stood, naked, in the center, her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing. The tent seemed smaller, the heat stifling, the smell of lust dominating everything. She knew she had proven herself—she was the slut Ricardo had said she was, the whore who begged for cock, and now the guys were dying to use her.

The stuffy air in the tent smelled of sex, male sweat and hot metal, the heat sticking to her skin like a sticky caress. Each of the guys' breaths was a burden, each of their low moans—their hands squeezing their big cocks in their shorts—a reminder that she was just a begging whore, exposed to satisfy their lust.

She stopped shaking, standing in the middle of the circle, her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing, sweat running down her thighs, mixing with the honey that glistened on her pussy. The silence of the dancers was worse than any curse, a silent judgment that made her heart race, her pussy throb with delicious shame. Ricardo took a step forward, his broad chest shining, the bulge in his shorts throbbing as if he wanted to rip the fabric.

“Fuck, Lisa, you really are the slut I said. Body of a whore, pussy begging for cock,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the air, each word a stab of humiliation that made her moan softly, the sound escaping uncontrollably.

Jamal laughed, his hand on his shorts, his big black cock marking it as he shook his head.

“You shook it really well, you whore. But proof isn’t just about dancing,” he said, and the other guys murmured in agreement, their eyes glued to her honeyed pussy, to her asshole that blinked with heat.

Lisa trembled, submissive, the humiliation exploding like fire in her pussy. She wanted to fall to her knees, suck everyone there, let them smear their cum on her face, but the desire to be judged, to be the slut who begged for more, ruled her. Voyeurism pulsed in the air — the canvas of the entrance swayed, and she imagined someone spying, a roadie or even the choreographer watching her degrade herself. The thought made her pussy drip even more, the liquid running down the floor, the smell of her sex dominating the tent.

Marcus, still red from jerking off during rehearsal, took a step forward, his eyes shining with lust.

“You denied us our milk on stage, you slut. Now what do you want? To be our real pussy?” he asked, his voice hoarse, and the word “slut” hit like a slap, making Lisa bite her lip, her body trembling as she nodded.

— Please... I'm your bitch, use me, judge me, I beg you — she murmured, her voice weak, pleading, her eyes lowered as sweat dripped from her hard nipples, the hot ground biting her feet. The humiliation was everything — being called a whore, being exposed like a hole for cock, being the showpiece of those males who were dying to break her in.

Ricardo laughed softly, the sound echoing in the tent like thunder. He moved closer, so close that the heat of his body burned her skin, the strong smell of male sweat invading her senses.

— You're a greedy whore, Lisa. Everyone saw that body begging for cock. But today you only dance, you bitch. Tomorrow, at Coachella, we'll use you for real — he said, the words dripping with promise and humiliation, his big cock throbbing in his shorts as he walked away.

Lisa moaned, desperation squeezing her honeyed pussy, her arousal exploding at the idea of being used by everyone at the show. The other guys laughed, some adjusting their dicks, their hands still sticky from touching each other while they judged her. Jamal gave her ass a light slap, the sound cracking in the tent, and she moaned loudly, the touch leaving her skin burning, the humiliation mixed with the desire to beg for more.

“Get ready, you whore. Your pussy is going to work tomorrow,” he said, laughing as he left, followed by the others.

Marcus was the last, his eyes glued to her breasts, his big dick showing through his shorts. He didn't say anything, but the low moan that escaped him as he passed her was proof that he was dying to fuck her. Lisa was left alone in the tent, naked, her body glistening with sweat, her pussy dripping onto the floor, the smell of lust and humiliation clinging to her skin. She grabbed her ripped leggings, the sticky fabric sticking to her thighs as she put them on, the tiny top barely covering her hard nipples. Her heart was pounding, her head spinning with what had happened — the fuck with Ricardo on stage, the frustrating blowjob from the others, his betrayal by telling her she was a hole, and now the naked dance, the judgment of her body as a slut ready for cock.

She left the tent, the desert sun beating down on her face, the hot wind licking her sweaty skin. The stage was empty, the tents swaying, but the echo of her moans seemed to hang in the air, as if Coachella itself knew what was coming. Lisa smiled, her honeyed pussy throbbing, her arousal still alive as she thought about tomorrow's show—the stares of the audience, the big cocks of the dancers, the promise of being used like the whore she begged to be. The rehearsal day was over, but the slut inside her was just beginning, ready to give herself body and soul on the festival stage.

Coachella day arrived like a storm of heat and adrenaline, the desert vibrating with the pulse of the crowd, the sound of bass echoing through the tents and stages. Backstage, the air was thick, full of dust, sweat and the metallic smell of equipment under the sun. Lisa was electric, her body on fire since the last rehearsal, where she gave herself like a slut on stage naked, fucking Ricardo, sucking the dancers and shaking her butt naked in the dressing room while they judged her slutty body. Her honeyed pussy dripped just remembering it — the insults of “slut” and “whore”, the big dicks throbbing, the promise of being used as a hole. Today, on stage, she was going to dance for the world, but backstage, the slut inside her was begging for cock.

Lisa was wearing her show outfit: a red top that barely covered her breasts, her hard nipples showing through the fabric, and shorts of the same color so tight that her honeyed pussy left a wet outline, without panties, of course. Sweat was already glistening on her skin, mixed with the glitter from the stage, while she mentally checked the choreography. Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus and the other two dancers — five burly males, their sculpted bodies shining through their tight shirts — were gathered in a corner backstage, laughing softly, their hungry eyes glued to her. The smell of testosterone and sexual tension hung over her, and Lisa felt her pussy throb, knowing that the day was going to be an explosion of naughtiness.

Before the last stage check, Ricardo called the dancers to a corner, his deep voice cutting through the noise of the roadies. Lisa was adjusting the microphone, but she heard bits and pieces, her heart racing with each word.

“Listen, bros. Lisa is our reward today.” Whoever stands out in the choreo, whoever makes the audience go crazy, will fuck this bitch however they want. She begs for cock, she's an open hole for us — he said, laughing, his big dick marking his pants while the others exchanged punches on her shoulder, their eyes shining with lust.

Lisa pretended not to hear, but her pussy dripped immediately, her shorts wet as she imagined being used by everyone, called a whore, covered in cum. The humiliation was like fire — being announced as a “reward”, a trophy for cock, made her want to fall to her knees right there. The exhibitionism was pulsating: backstage was full of people — roadies, technicians, other artists — and she loved the risk of someone hearing, of knowing that she was the slut of the group.

The time for the show was approaching, but before that, the dancers pulled Lisa into the main dressing room, a cramped tent at the back of the stage, the stuffy air smelling of hot canvas and sweat. The lights were dim, casting shadows on their bodies, and the sound of the crowd outside was a distant roar, mixed with the throbbing bass. Ricardo had locked the canvas entrance, but left a crack, the wind rustling the fabric, and Lisa felt her pussy tighten with voyeurism—someone could spy, watch her degrade herself like the whore she was.

Without warning, Jamal grabbed her arm, the heat of his hand burning her skin, and pushed her to her knees on the dusty ground. The impact made her breasts bounce, her top riding up, almost exposing everything. Lisa moaned softly, the hoarse sound escaping her as she looked up, surrounded by the five dancers, their big cocks marking their pants, their hungry eyes devouring her. The smell of male sweat filled her nose, mixed with the sticky heat of the tent, and she trembled, submissive, her pussy dripping in her shorts, her heart beating so loud it seemed to burst.

“Show us whore you are, Lisa.” Prove you want to have sex before the show — Ricardo said, his voice deep, each word a humiliation that made her pussy throb.

Lisa didn't need orders. Her trembling hands went to the zippers, pulling out Ricardo's cock first, that thick black monster glistening with sweat, the veins pulsing as if it were alive. She opened her mouth, swallowing hungrily, her throat tightening as saliva ran down, the salty taste exploding on her tongue. The wet sound of hickeys filled the tent, too loud, and she moaned, wanting the crack in the canvas to let the noise out, for someone to hear the begging whore. Ricardo grunted, his hand in her hair, but pulled his cock out before he came, his big cock throbbing in front of her face.

“One at a time, you whore. Show each one of them,” he ordered, and Lisa obeyed, submissive, passing it to Jamal.

Jamal's cock was almost as big, the sticky head brushing her lips before she swallowed, sucking deep until she gagged, her eyes watering as she moaned. But it wasn't enough—she wanted more, she wanted them all at once, she wanted to be fucked like a slut.

"Please, fuck me together, I'm your whore, I'm begging for more cock!" she whimpered, her voice cracking, pulling his cock out of her mouth just to beg before going back to sucking.

Jamal laughed, pulling his cock out, leaving her mouth empty, his frustrated desire making her moan louder. Marcus came next, his big black cock throbbing as she licked, sucking until he moaned, but he also pulled away, denying her release. One by one, the other two dancers — Carlos and Trey — took over, their thick cocks filling her mouth, their saliva dripping onto the floor, mixed with the sweat that dripped from their breasts. Lisa sucked desperately, begging between each exchange:

— Use me, please, I want more cocks, I'm your greedy slut!

The floor of the tent bit her knees, the desert heat sticking to her skin, the smell of sex and testosterone suffocating. Voyeurism exploded — the crack in the canvas swayed, and she imagined a roadie spying, jerking off while watching the pop star on her knees, being used as a hole. The humiliation was perfect: being the promised reward, sucking one by one while begging for more, her body exposed to the hungry gazes. Her top was crooked, her breasts almost jumping out, her wet shorts marking her pussy, and she loved being seen like that — a begging whore, ready for anything.

But the guys had other plans. Ricardo came back, his big dick in his hand, jerking off quickly in front of her face.

“Open your mouth, you whore, you’re going on stage as our marked slut,” he growled, and before she could respond, the hot jet of cum hit her face, smearing her lips, her nose, dripping down her chin.

Jamal came right after, his cock throbbing as he came, the thick cum painting her forehead, running down her eyes, the hot milk glistening on her skin. Marcus, Carlos and Trey joined in, each jerking off, the jets hitting her face, her breasts, her top, even her wet shorts. Lisa moaned as the cum dripped, the strong smell of male milk mixed with her sweat, the floor of the tent stained. She rubbed the milk into her skin, licking her fingers, begging with her eyes for more, even though she knew it was just the warm-up.

"That's it, you whore, you're going to dance with our cum on your face," Ricardo said, laughing, while the others put away their dicks, their laughter echoing in the tent.

Lisa got on her knees, her face sticky, the glitter from the stage mixed with the cum shining under the dim light. The sound of the crowd outside grew louder, the show minutes away, and she smiled, her pussy dripping, her body shaking with lust. The humiliation of being marked, of going on stage as the dancers' slut, was all she wanted. But she knew that this was just the beginning — the real fucking, the total mess, would come later, when the stage went dark and backstage became her playground.

Coachella was on fire, the desert vibrating with the roar of the crowd, strobe lights cutting through the purple dusk sky. The main stage was a living beast, the bass of the music pulsing like a giant heart, the heat of the day sticking to everyone's skin. Lisa was backstage, her body shaking with adrenaline and lust, her pussy dripping in the shorts that clung to her pussy, highlighting every curve. The top barely held her breasts, her hard nipples shining under the glitter, but what no one in the audience knew — and what made her burn inside — was the dried cum in her hair, on her face, on her breasts, stuck like a tattoo of the dirty dressing room.

The cum dried quickly in the desert heat, leaving shiny trails that mixed with the glitter, the salty smell still stuck in her nose, mixed with the sweat and the sweet perfume of the stage. Lisa didn't clean up anything—she wanted to dance like that, marked like the backstage whore, the heat of humiliation pulsing in her pussy as she imagined the audience seeing, even without knowing, how greedy she was.

She grabbed the microphone, the cold metal against her slick lips, and looked at the dancers, all lined up, their sculpted bodies shining in their tight clothes, their naughty eyes telling her they knew what she was carrying. Ricardo smiled a little, his big dick marking his pants, while Jamal blinked, the promise of the post-show fuck hanging in the air. The roar of the crowd grew as the announcer announced her name, and Lisa took a deep breath, her pussy dripping, her heart beating so loud it drowned out the bass. It was time to be the pop star—and the slut—on stage.

The lights exploded, the stage igniting like a volcano, and Lisa came out twerking, her shorts riding up, her ass shaking as the music boomed. The crowd screamed, thousands of eyes glued to her, the heat of the lights licking her sweaty skin, the glitter and dried cum shining like diamonds. She sang, her hoarse voice mixed with moans that escaped without wanting to, the microphone picking up every sigh as she danced. The smell of smoke and electricity hung in the air, mixed with her sweat, her cum-slicked hair sticking to the back of her neck, every movement making her feel the dancers' marks on her skin.

The choreography was pure heat, each step a provocation that set her pussy on fire. But the moment she wanted most — her favorite step — came in the second song. The beat slowed down, a sensual bass that made the floor tremble, and Lisa positioned herself, Ricardo behind her, the heat of his body burning her back. She got down slowly, her ass sticking up against his big dick, which was hard as hell, throbbing in his tight pants. Her shorts rode up, marking her wet pussy, and the contact of his cock against her ass elicited a loud moan — “hmmm, fuck” — that escaped into the microphone, echoing to the thousands in the audience.

The crowd screamed, thinking it was part of the show, but Lisa was shaking, her excitement exploding with the exhibitionism. Ricardo’s cock rubbed her ass and pussy through the fabric, covered in sweat and her honey, and she wiggled harder, moaning again — “fuck, that’s it...” — the hoarse sound leaking into the microphone, her voice mixing with the music. The smell of his sweat, strong and masculine, filled her nose, and she imagined the audience seeing the truth: a begging slut, dancing with dry cum on her face, crazy for cock. Voyeurism consumed her — every eye in the crowd was a judge, every scream an applause for the whore that she was.

Lisa repeated the step, “missing” on purpose, like in rehearsals, going down on Ricardo again, her ass pressed against his big dick, her moan now a muffled “fuck, fuck” but loud enough for the microphone to pick up. The crowd went crazy, their cell phones recording, and she loved the risk — would anyone notice? Who would see the cum shining in her hair, the sticky shorts, the moans of a slut? The heat of the lights stuck to her skin, the sweat running down her breasts, dripping onto the stage, and she danced with more fire, her body begging for more.

But it wasn't just the steps. Other movements became naughty. In a spin, she rubbed her breasts against Jamal's chest, her hard nipples scraping his shirt, a low moan — "hmmm" — escaping into the microphone as her pussy dripped. In a change of position, Marcus moved behind her, his hand "accidentally" brushing her ass, and she moaned again, the sound echoing, the audience thinking it was a performance. Every touch, every brush, was a torture of lust, the stage turning into a disguised orgy, the smell of sweat and glitter mixed with the echo of the bass, the dried cum on her skin burning like a brand.

Lisa sang, but her voice was hoarse, interrupted by moans she couldn't hold back. She wiggled alone in the middle, her thighs open, her shorts showing her pussy, and moaned softly — "fuck, I want..." — the microphone betraying her again. The crowd screamed, the flashes of their cell phones capturing every curve, and she imagined the world watching: the pop star with cum in her hair, moaning like a whore, her body begging for cock. The humiliation was perfect — dancing marked by the dancers' milk, the glitter not hiding the truth, her arousal exposed to thousands.

The pace picked up during the last song, and Lisa went all out. She went down on Ricardo, her ass shaking so hard that his big dick seemed to rip his pants, the heat of his cock wetting her shorts. She moaned loudly — "fuck, put it in..." — the microphone amplifying it to the entire festival, the crowd exploding without knowing it was real. Sweat dripped from her forehead, mixed with the dried cum that stuck to her skin, the salty smell returning with the heat, and she wiggled, begging with her body while Ricardo laughed softly, his cock throbbing against her ass.

The show ended with Lisa in the center, panting, her body shining with sweat, glitter and dried cum, her pussy staining her shorts, her moans still echoing in her head. The crowd roared, the applause like a wave, but she only thought about backstage — about the dancers' big cocks, the promise of being fucked like never before. She left the stage, her sticky hair sticking to the back of her neck, her face marked by dried milk, and looked at the dancers, who were waiting, their eyes hungry. Coachella had seen the pop star, but now the bitch was ready for the real show, the one that would come when the lights went out.

The Coachella stage still echoed in Lisa’s head, the crowd’s cheers mixing with the thumping bass as she ran backstage, her body on fire. Lisa staggered down the canvas hallways, her shorts clinging to her pussy, her top askew, one nipple nearly popping out as she dodged roadies and speakers. The air was stuffy and dusty, and the sound of the next act was distant, but all she could think about were the big cocks—Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos, Trey—waiting to fuck her again. The humiliation of dancing with cum on her face, of moaning “fuck, fuck” to the audience without them knowing the truth, had driven her crazy. She wanted to be used, called “whore,” covered in cum until it dripped, her exhibitionism exploding at the thought of someone watching her degrade herself backstage.

But before she could reach the main dressing room, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Lisa? Oh my God, what happened to you?” Rosé was standing at the entrance to a smaller tent, her eyes wide, her blonde hair shining in the dim light. She was wearing a light dress, her face made up for her own show, but her expression was one of pure shock.

Lisa stopped, her heart racing, her pussy dripping as she felt Rosé’s gaze travel over her state—her hair tangled, the dried cum glistening on her forehead and cheeks, her sticky top stuck to her breasts, her shorts stained with honey and sweat. Her smell was pure sex—cum, sweat, lust—and the heat backstage made everything stick even more, her skin sticky under the glitter. The humiliation hit her hard: being caught like this, exposed like a slut, made her pussy clench, but the lust mixed with a thread of shame that only increased the fire. — Rosé... I... it's just the show, you know, heat, glitter... — Lisa stuttered, her voice hoarse, trying to laugh, but the sound came out weak, pleading, as if she were asking Rosé to believe her lie.

Rosé frowned, taking a step, her nose catching the strong smell before stopping, her eyes widening even more.

— Dude, that's not glitter, Lisa. Are you... oh my God, are you covered in... cum? — she whispered, her voice shaking between shock and something else, maybe curiosity, as she looked at the dried tracks on her neck and breasts.

Lisa bit her lip, the dusty floor of the tent biting her bare feet, the desert heat rising up her legs. She could lie, but the slut inside her wanted to confess, wanted Rosé to know how much she loved being a whore. Voyeurism throbbed — the tent canvas swayed, and she imagined a roadie eavesdropping, listening to their conversation, jerking off while watching the pop star get wet.

— It's... it's cum, Rosé. I... I fucking like it. I'm crazy, I know, but I love being used like this — she admitted, her voice low, submissive, her eyes on the floor as sweat dripped from her forehead, mixing dried milk with glitter.

Rosé was silent, breathing heavily, her eyes glued to Lisa's sticky face. The air in the tent was suffocating, the smell of cum and sex surrounding them both, the sound of the crowd outside a muffled roar.

— Used how? Like... what did you do, Lisa? Tell me, damn it — Rosé said, her voice now firmer, a mix of shock and fascination, as if she wanted to understand her friend's madness.

Lisa took a deep breath, her pussy dripping in her shorts, the clinging fabric showing everything as she spoke, each word a humiliation that made her arousal explode.

— The dancers... Ricardo, Jamal, the others... fucked me before the show. They put me on my knees, they smeared my face, my body. I begged, Rosé, I begged to be their bitch, to call me a whore, to cum inside me. And on stage, I danced with it on my skin, moaning into the microphone, crazy for more — she confessed, her voice shaking, her hard nipples throbbing in her top, her body begging for cock even as she spoke.

Rosé swallowed hard, her eyes wide, but now with a different shine — it wasn't just shock, it was curiosity, maybe even a hint of lust. She took a step, her dress brushing her thigh, the heat of the tent sticking to her skin too.

"Fuck, Lisa, do you... do you really like this? Being like... one of their whores? Doesn't it hurt you?" she asked, her voice low, her gaze fixed on the dried cum that glistened on Lisa's neck.

Lisa laughed softly, the sound hoarse, almost a moan, as she shook her head.

"Hurt?" No, Rosé, I love it. Every curse, every spurt of cum, every look judging me as a slut... that's what makes me cum. I'm running to the dressing room now, they're going to fuck me again, all together, and I want to beg for every cock — she said, her eyes shining, submissive, her pussy dripping so much that her shorts were soaked, the honey running down her thigh.

The floor of the tent seemed to pulse with heat, the smell of her sex dominating the space, the glitter falling on the dusty floor as she spoke. Rosé stood still, her breathing quickened, her eyes roaming over Lisa's sticky body, as if trying to understand the abyss of her friend's lust. The tent swayed louder, and Lisa felt the voyeurism again — she imagined the dancers waiting, maybe listening, knowing that she was confessing to being their whore. The humiliation was perfect: telling Rosé, exposing her degradation, made her want to run to the gangbang even more.

Rosé touched her arm, the contact warm, almost electric, and Lisa moaned softly, the sound escaping unintentionally.

“Dude, you’re crazy… but, like, if it makes you happy, go for it. Just… be careful, okay?” Rosé said, her voice soft, but with a tone that said she wouldn’t forget this conversation.

Lisa nodded, her heart racing, her pussy begging as she smiled.

“Thanks, Rosé. But watch out, it’s not me. I’m the bitch who begs for everything,” she replied, laughing, and left the tent, her sticky shorts sticking to her ass, her hair with dried cum swinging as she ran to the main dressing room, where the dancers waited, their big cocks ready to break her in as promised.

Lisa ran backstage at Coachella like a bitch in heat, her heart beating so hard it drowned out the roar of the crowd outside. The show had been crazy—dancing with the dancers’ dried cum stuck to her hair, her face, her tits, moaning “fuck, fuck” into the microphone while she grinded against Ricardo’s big dick, her honeyed pussy dripping onto her black shorts. The conversation with Rosé minutes before—confessing that she loved being the sticky bitch, begging for cock—only lit the fire. Now, her shorts were clinging to her pussy, her silver top was askew, a nipple almost popping out, and the smell of cum, sweat and glitter hung over her, the desert heat sticking to her skin like a promise of mischief.

She entered the main dressing room, a wide tent at the back of the stage, the stuffy air smelling of hot canvas, metal and testosterone. The lights were dim, casting shadows on the bodies of the five dancers waiting for her — Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos and Trey — all sweaty, their pants showing their thick cocks, their hungry eyes shining. The canvas at the entrance was half open, the wind swaying, and Lisa felt her pussy throb with voyeurism — someone could spy, watch her degrade herself like the whore she begged to be. The dusty floor bit her bare feet, the sound of the next attraction echoing softly, and she trembled, submissive, eager to be used. Ricardo took a step, his broad chest shining, his big dick throbbing in his pants as he chuckled softly.

"It's time, you slut. You're our toy now, a hole for us to fuck however we want," he said, his deep voice dripping with humiliation, the "toy" making her pussy drip in her shorts.

Lisa moaned, the hoarse sound escaping as she fell to her knees, the hot floor tearing at her skin. Jamal grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, and shoved his big dick in her mouth, her throat tightening as she choked, saliva dripping down her chin. The salty taste exploded on her tongue, the smell of male sweat suffocating, and she sucked hungrily, her eyes watering, begging with her body to be used more. Before she could breathe, Ricardo ripped her shorts, the sticky fabric falling in shreds, and turned her face down on the floor, her ass sticking up without her order.

— Take it, you whore, a toy pussy doesn't ask for it — Ricardo grunted, shoving his big black cock into her pussy without warning, the impact eliciting a scream from her, the sound muffled by Jamal's cock in her mouth.

Lisa was an object, a slut to be fucked without consideration, and she loved every second of it. Ricardo's cock tore her pussy apart, the honey running down her thighs, dripping onto the dusty floor, while Jamal pounded her throat, his saliva smearing her breasts, her torn top hanging from her hard nipples. The heat of their bodies burned, the sweat dripping onto her ass, the smell of sex dominating the tent. She moaned, the sound muffled, wanting to beg for more, but there was no room — she was just holes, used however they wanted.

Marcus joined in the game, his big cock throbbing as he took Jamal's place, shoving it into her mouth without saying a word. Lisa choked, her throat burning, her saliva dripping onto the floor, mixed with the honey that was dripping from Ricardo's broken pussy. Suddenly, Carlos turned her sideways, his thick cock lining up in her ass without warning, covered only in spit, and thrust deep, the tightness eliciting a scream that vibrated in Marcus's cock. The pain mixed with the excitement, her ass blinking as she was fucked in all three holes, turning her into a meat doll, humiliated and fulfilled.

The sound of the thrusts echoed in the tent, mixed with her muffled moans and the guys' grunts. Lisa imagined a voyeur — a roadie, maybe Rosé — watching her being broken in, her exhibitionism exploding as she thought: Look at what a slut I am, fucked like a toy. Sweat ran down her breasts, dripping onto the floor, the glitter falling with the dried milk that still marked her skin, the smell of old cum and new sex suffocating everything.

Then came the humiliation, rising to a new level. Ricardo, pounding her pussy, leaned in, his hot breath in her ear.

— I'm going to fill that pussy, you whore. I'm fucking you to get you pregnant, you greedy bitch — he grunted, his big dick throbbing as he thrust deeper, his threatening tone making her pussy tighten, even though she knew it was a game.

Lisa moaned, Marcus's dick muffling the sound, and tried to beg:

— Please, fill me, I'm your bitch! — the words came out jumbled, the humiliation of “getting pregnant” burning hot, her pussy dripping even more.

Jamal, who was now jerking off next to her, laughed, taking Carlos' place in her ass.

"This ass too, you whore. We're going to fill you with milk, make you drip like a pregnant slut," he said, sticking his big dick in her tight ass, the squeeze eliciting another scream from her, pleasure and pain mixing as she trembled.

Each guy "threatened" to fill her, calling her a "slut" and a "milk hole," and Lisa came nonstop, her pussy convulsing, her asshole winking, her body begging for more humiliation. Trey took her mouth, his thick cock pounding her throat, while Carlos fucked her pussy, switching with Ricardo, all of them using her as a toy, without warning, without pause. Sweat dripped, the dusty floor was stained with honey and saliva, the heat of the tent was suffocating, the smell of sex and cum dominating everything.

Ricardo was the first to cum inside her, the hot jet filling her, the milk dripping as he grunted:

— Take it, you whore, milk to get you pregnant! — The humiliation of the internal orgasm made Lisa cum again, her pussy squeezing his cock, the honey mixing with the cum.

Jamal came in her ass, his big cock throbbing as it filled her tight hole, the hot milk dripping into her ass.

— Your ass is full, pregnant bitch — he cursed, and Lisa moaned, her body shaking as Carlos took her pussy, cumming inside too, the hot jet mixing with Ricardo's.

Marcus and Trey finished in her mouth, their cocks throbbing as they smeared her throat, cum running down her chin, dripping onto her breasts, her torn top now just a rag. Lisa swallowed what she could, licking her fingers as she rubbed the milk into her skin, the strong smell of fresh cum mixing with sweat and glitter. The floor of the tent was a puddle—honey, cum, saliva—the heat sticking everything to her skin, the air heavy with the echo of her moans.

Lisa was sprawled on the dusty floor of the tent that served as a dressing room, her body glistening with sweat, glitter, and fresh cum dripping from her pussy, her broken ass, and her wet face. Her top was just a torn rag, her shorts torn to shreds, and the heavy smell of sex—cum, saliva, honey—choked the stuffy air, mixed with the desert heat that came in through the half-open canvas. The five dancers—Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos, Trey—stood around her, their thick black cocks still half-hard, sweaty, chuckling softly as they looked at the begging slut they had just fucked. But Lisa, submissive, was shaking with desire, her pussy throbbing, wanting more humiliation, more cock, more of everything.

What she didn't know was that Rosé was there, hidden. After the conversation in the hallway, where Lisa confessed that she loved being used like a whore, Rosé followed her, driven by a burning curiosity. Now, crouched behind a pile of speakers on the side of the tent, Rosé peered through the crack in the canvas, her eyes wide, her breathing fast. Her hand slid under her light dress, her fingers brushing her wet pussy as she watched Lisa covered in cum, moaning like a whore. Rosé's active voyeurism was secret — no one could see her, not Lisa, not the guys — and she bit her lip, her desire exploding as she touched herself, hypnotized by her friend's degradation.

Ricardo grabbed Lisa's wet hair, pulling her to her knees, the dusty floor scraping her skin.

"Do you think it's over, you slut?" I'm just getting started with your toy body," he grunted, his big cock throbbing as he thrust into her mouth, pounding deep, her throat tightening.

Lisa choked, saliva dripping, the salty taste of fresh cum and sweat filling her tongue. That was when the breath play began. Jamal, next to her, wrapped his hand around her neck, squeezing lightly but firmly, his thumb pressing against her throat as Ricardo fucked her mouth.

"Breathe when I let you, bitch. If I let you," Jamal said, his voice cold, his grip controlling her air, his eyes shining with the humiliation he knew she loved.

Lisa's eyes widened, the controlled desperation pounding hard, her pussy dripping as she fought for air, her throat blocked by Ricardo's big cock and Jamal's grip. The pleasure was insane—being used without control, her air stolen, her body begging for more. When Jamal let go, she sucked in a sharp breath, only for Marcus to take his place, his thick cock pounding her mouth while Carlos squeezed her neck, repeating:

The sharp tone making her cum without touching her pussy, the honey dripping onto the floor.

Rosé, hidden, sped up her fingers in her pussy, her dress riding up, her arousal exploding as she watched Lisa choke, her face red, saliva dripping onto her breasts. Her voyeurism was feverish — seeing her friend humiliated, treated like a toy, made her pussy drip, the wet sound of her fingers muffled by the noise of the tent. She wanted to scream, but she held it in, her eyes glued to the scene, her heart racing at the idea of no one knowing she was there, masturbating to Lisa's degradation.

In the middle of the action, Trey brought something. While Lisa was on all fours, her pussy exposed, he took a small vibrator, covered in her own honey, and stuck it in without warning, while Ricardo stuck it in her ass. Lisa moaned loudly, the sound muffled by Marcus's cock in her mouth, not understanding what was happening until Trey pressed a remote control, the vibrator turning on with a shock that made her pussy convulse.

"Who— fuck, who's controlling this?!" she screamed, her voice torn between involuntary moans, her body shaking as the vibrator pulsed, her arousal out of control.

Trey laughed, hiding the remote, leaving her begging.

"Shut up, bitch, you're our toy, take whatever we want," he said, as Jamal went back into her pussy, sticking his big cock in with the vibrator, the tightness making her scream.

Lisa was turned over without warning, her ass fucked by Carlos while Marcus stuck his fingers down her throat, the vibrator keeping her on edge.

"Breathe, you whore, or you'll choke," Marcus grunted, his fingers covered in saliva squeezing her throat as Jamal turned up the vibrator, the shock making her cum screaming, her pussy dripping cum and honey.

Ricardo, now in her pussy, pounded deep, the vibrator still inside, and cursed:

"I'm going to fill you up again, you pregnant slut, that pussy is going to drip my milk," his big cock throbbing as he came inside, the hot jet mixing with the vibrator making Lisa tremble.

Carlos, in her ass, came with her, the milk filling her tight hole.

"Your ass is full, whore, ready for one more," he said, and Lisa begged, her voice muffled:

"Fill me up, please, I'm your slut!"

Lisa lay destroyed on the dusty floor of the tent that served as a dressing room, her body covered in sweat, glitter, fresh and dried cum, a living map of her submission. Her honeyed pussy dripped a mixture of honey and warm milk, her broken asshole throbbed, leaking more cum that ran down her thighs, staining the floor. Her face was glistening—cum on her lips, her chin, her forehead—her tangled hair stuck to her neck, her torn silver top hanging from a hard nipple, her black shorts reduced to rags. The vibrator still pulsed softly in her pussy, forgotten by Trey, each vibration eliciting hoarse moans that echoed in the stuffy tent. The smell of sex was insane—cum, saliva, male sweat—mixed with the desert heat that filtered through the half-open canvas, the sound of the Coachella crowd a distant roar.

The five dancers — Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos, Trey — were standing around, sweaty, their thick cocks finally softening, their low chuckles cutting through the air as they wiped away the sweat.

Rosé, hidden behind the speakers, had already cum twice, her wet pussy dripping onto her light dress as she watched Lisa being fucked. Her secret voyeurism was feverish — no one, not Lisa, not the guys, knew she was there, her fingers flying in her pussy, biting her lip to keep from moaning out loud. But now, exhausted, Rosé was slowly backing away, her heart racing, her head spinning with what she saw. She left the tent unnoticed, her body shaking, already thinking about what it all meant, especially with Jennie arriving for the show in two days.

Lisa lifted her wet face, her eyes shining with lust and exhaustion, cum running down her chin as she licked her lips.

— Please... I'm your bitch, use me always — she murmured, her voice hoarse, pleading, the vibrator still pulsing in her pussy, eliciting one last moan that made the guys laugh.

Ricardo crouched down, the strong smell of his sweat invading her nose, and pulled her sticky hair.

— You're our hole forever, you whore. Coachella is over for you, but we'll fuck you whenever we want — he said, the final humiliation dripping in each word, his big dick swinging as he stood up.

Jamal gave her sticky ass a light slap, the sound cracking in the tent, and laughed.

— And there's more bitches out there, bro. Jennie's coming in two days, right? I bet she'll want a piece of this — he said, his eyes shining with the idea, planting the seed of a new game.

Lisa moaned softly, her body shaking at the comment, imagining Jennie—her friend who was always so controlled, but with that fire in her eyes—falling into the same madness. The exhibitionism was even pulsing now, the floor stained with cum and honey as proof of the show she put on, the canvas half-open letting the echo of her moans leak backstage. She wanted the world to know—the sticky slut, fucked like a toy, was who she loved to be.

The dancers left, their laughter echoing as they disappeared through the canvas, leaving Lisa alone, face down, the vibrator finally turning off. The heat of the tent was stifling, the smell of sex clinging to her skin, sweat dripping onto the floor. She smiled, exhausted, her pussy and ass throbbing, her face glistening with fresh, dried milk. Coachella had been everything—the stage, the moans into the microphone, the gangbang that had branded her a greedy whore. But Jamal’s comment stuck in her head: Jennie, in two days, on the same stage, with the same dancers. Lisa imagined her friend shaking her hips, maybe hearing rumors of what had happened, maybe giving in to the same lust that had consumed her.

She stood up slowly, her sticky body staggering, cum dripping down her thighs as she picked up what was left of her torn top. The festival was still roaring outside, but for Lisa, the real show had ended here, backstage, sticky and fulfilled. Two days later, Jennie would take the stage, and something told Lisa that Coachella still had more nastiness in store, with the same big dicks ready for another begging bitch.

#kpop smut #blackpink smut #lisa smut #lalisa smut

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 28 days ago

Text

Let’s Call It Even

Where Y/N is an interviewer who pushes Harry Styles too far.

Word count: 2.5k

The hotel suite is dimly lit, the kind of warm lighting designed to make people feel at ease. It’s supposed to create intimacy, lower defenses.

Y/N doesn’t buy into it.

She sits across from Harry Styles, her recorder already running, her notepad resting on her lap. He’s leaned back in his chair, the picture of effortless ease—legs spread slightly, fingers tapping a light rhythm against his knee. He’s been in interviews all day. She can tell by the slight shift in his posture, the polite but rehearsed smile.

He thinks this will be just another round of the same.

He’s wrong.

She clicks her pen. “Let’s talk about Jack.”

Harry nods slightly, shifting forward in his seat. “Let’s.”

She studies him for a second before speaking again. “Do you think Jack sees himself as the villain, or does he believe he’s the hero of his own story?”

The smile on his lips falters just a fraction, but it’s there. He takes a moment, pretending to really think about it, but Y/N knows that’s just part of the act.

“I think Jack believes he’s doing what’s right,” he says finally. His voice is smooth, unhurried. “That’s what makes him dangerous, isn’t it? He thinks he’s protecting something. Love, security, order. But he’s also selfish. Blind to how much control he really has over Alice.”

It’s a good answer. Polished. Almost too perfect.

Y/N doesn’t even blink.

“But isn’t that just a way to excuse him?” she presses. “Saying he thinks he’s doing the right thing doesn’t change the fact that he actively chooses to manipulate Alice. It’s not a gray area—it’s deliberate harm. Doesn’t that say more about how men like Jack justify their actions?”

There. The shift.

His jaw tightens slightly. His fingers stop their rhythmic tapping.

For the first time, she has his full attention.

“I think you’re trying to make it black and white when it isn’t,” Harry counters, voice still calm but firmer now. “Jack is a product of his environment. The whole world he exists in is built to make him believe he’s right.”

“But that doesn’t make him any less responsible.”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

She watches as he exhales through his nose, the muscles in his jaw working as he measures his next words.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that you came into this interview already deciding what you wanted to hear from me.”

A flicker of something in his eyes—challenge, annoyance, something deeper beneath the surface.

And just like that, the easy rhythm of the interview is gone.

Y/N doesn’t flinch at Harry’s words. If anything, she leans in slightly, her grip on her pen tightening just a fraction.

“I think,” she says, mirroring his tone, “that you came into this interview already deciding how much you wanted to say.”

Harry’s lips twitch, something between amusement and irritation flashing across his face. “That’s what interviews are, aren’t they? You ask, I answer. Isn’t that the game?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she counters. “Unless you’re just playing it safe.”

His expression shifts—still composed, still carrying that air of practiced charm, but his body language betrays him. The way his fingers flex against his knee. The way his jaw tenses, like he’s biting back something sharper.

“I don’t think wanting to be thoughtful with my words means I’m playing it safe.” His voice is controlled, deliberate. “It means I’m not interested in giving you some soundbite you can twist into a headline.”

Y/N tilts her head slightly, studying him. “I don’t need to twist anything, Harry. Your answers do that on their own.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

The tension stretches between them, thick and unspoken. There’s something electric about it—not just frustration, but something deeper. An unspoken challenge hanging in the air.

She watches as he inhales through his nose, running his tongue along his bottom lip before he speaks again.

“I think Jack is complicated,” he says finally, voice lower now, more measured. “I think he’s someone who believes his love is enough to justify everything he does. And I think that kind of love—the kind that demands control—is the most dangerous kind there is.”

Now that is an answer.

Y/N doesn’t say anything for a beat, just lets the weight of his words settle between them. Then, slowly, she nods.

“I think that’s the most honest thing you’ve said today.”

His smirk is barely there, but it lingers, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And I think,” he murmurs, “you like getting under people’s skin more than you like the answers themselves.”

She smirks right back.

“Only when they need to be pushed.”

The interview continues, but the air between them has shifted. Every exchange is laced with something unspoken, something simmering just beneath the surface.

The interview wraps. The cameras stop rolling. The crew starts moving around, packing up lights and cables, but Y/N barely notices.

She can feel him watching her.

She keeps her focus on gathering her notes, her movements precise, calculated. She’s expecting him to leave—to shake hands, flash one last easy grin, and walk out like he does in every other interview.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, she hears the quiet shuffle of his boots against the carpet. The shift of fabric as he moves closer.

Then, his voice. Low. Sharp.

“Was that the goal?”

Y/N exhales, fingers tightening around her pen before she finally looks up at him. He’s closer than before, standing just at the edge of the table, his expression unreadable.

“Excuse me?”

Harry tilts his head slightly, eyes flickering over her face. His jaw is still tight, like he’s holding something back.

“You wanted me to get mad, didn’t you?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it, something simmering. “Push me hard enough so the clip goes viral. ‘Harry Styles loses his cool.’ That the angle you were going for?”

Y/N lets out a short breath, shaking her head. “That’s insulting.”

“Is it?” he challenges, stepping just a fraction closer.

Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t move back. If he’s trying to intimidate her, he’s wasting his time.

“I wasn’t trying to make you mad,” she says evenly. “I was trying to make you think. There’s a difference.”

His lips press together, and she can tell he’s fighting the urge to snap back. She’s seen this before—the way frustration sits behind his ribs, the way he wrestles with it instead of letting it spill over.

But this time, it’s personal.

“You think I wasn’t thinking?” His voice drops, quieter now. “Or do you just not like it when people don’t give you the answers you want?”

Y/N exhales through her nose, tilting her chin up slightly. “I think you’re used to people letting you get away with easy answers. And I think, for once, someone actually made you sit in the uncomfortable part of it.”

A flicker of something—anger, intrigue, something tangled in between.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, then lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You are a real piece of work, you know that?”

She smirks, crossing her arms. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

For a second, he just looks at her. The air between them feels thick, charged with something unsaid.

Then, he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before turning toward the door.

But just before he steps out, he pauses.

“You know what the worst part is?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His voice is lower now, almost too quiet. “You’re right. And I fucking hate that.”

And then, he’s gone.

It happens at a party.

She’s not surprised. The industry is small, the circles even smaller. She knew, deep down, that their paths would cross again.

But she didn’t expect it to be like this.

The venue is dimly lit, golden light casting long shadows across the room. Low chatter hums beneath the pulse of bass-heavy music. It’s one of those exclusive events—where artists, directors, and industry names sip expensive drinks and pretend they’re not watching each other.

Y/N isn’t here to play the game. She’s here because she was dragged by a friend, because she needed a break, because—

Because she told herself she wouldn’t think about him.

And then, she feels it.

That familiar prickle at the back of her neck. The unshakable sense of being watched.

She turns, and there he is.

Harry, leaning against the bar, a whiskey glass in hand, watching her like she’s something he can’t quite figure out. His suit is tailored but effortless, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he stopped caring the second he walked in.

But it’s his eyes that catch her—the way they flicker under the low lights, dark and unreadable.

She should look away.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, a silent challenge, before turning toward the balcony.

She doesn’t need to check if he follows. She already knows he will.

The air outside is cooler, quieter, a stark contrast to the warmth of the party. The city stretches out below, glittering and endless.

She leans against the railing, exhaling slowly.

“Didn’t think you were the type to sulk in the corner at these things.”

His voice comes from behind her, smooth but laced with something heavier.

She doesn’t turn around. “Didn’t think you were the type to hold grudges.”

There’s a low chuckle, and then she hears his footsteps—slow, unhurried.

“You made quite an impression, love,” he murmurs, coming to stand beside her.

She finally glances at him. “I do that.”

His lips twitch, but there’s something else in his gaze. Something he hasn’t decided if he resents or respects.

“I meant what I said,” he continues, taking a sip of his drink. “You like pushing people. You like watching them squirm.”

She shrugs, turning back to the skyline. “Only when they need to be pushed.”

“And you decided I needed it?”

“I didn’t decide anything,” she says, then glances at him. “You showed me you did.”

That does something to him. She can tell by the way his jaw clenches, by the way he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to temper whatever is simmering beneath his skin.

“You think you know me, don’t you?” he mutters, more to himself than to her.

Y/N tilts her head, studying him. “I think you hate that I might.”

Silence. The air between them shifts, tightening.

She expects him to snap back, to smirk, to find some way to deflect like he always does.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sets his glass down, leaning in just enough that she can feel the warmth of him, the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“Tell me, then,” he murmurs. “What do you think you know?”

Her pulse jumps, but she doesn’t let it show.

She meets his stare, unflinching.

“I think you like control.” The words are deliberate, measured. “You like being the one asking the questions. You like being the one who sets the pace, who decides how much people see.”

His throat bobs as he swallows.

She steps closer—not much, just enough to test the space between them.

“And I think,” she continues, voice softer now, “you hate that I see past it.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His fingers flex against the railing.

For a second, she thinks he’s going to walk away again.

But then—

“And what if I don’t hate it?”

The words hang between them, heavy, raw.

Her breath catches, just for a moment.

She should say something sharp, something cutting.

Instead, she whispers—

“Then that’s a whole different problem, isn’t it?”

And for the first time since they met, he doesn’t have an answer.

The weight of his words lingers between them.

Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, watching her, like he’s trying to decide whether to close the space between them or run before it’s too late.

Y/N holds his gaze, waiting. Daring.

For once, he doesn’t have a smooth response, a rehearsed quip to throw back at her. And she sees it—the crack in the armor, the flicker of something raw beneath all the charm.

“This is a problem, then?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerously soft.

Y/N exhales slowly, feeling the cool night air against her skin, the contrast of the heat rolling off him. “It is if you make it one.”

His jaw clenches. His hands flex against the railing.

Then—

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t look away. “Funny. I was just about to say the same thing.”

His breath hitches—just slightly, just enough for her to notice.

And then it happens.

He moves.

Not fast, not reckless, but with a sharp, deliberate intent that makes her heart lurch.

One second, they’re standing there, balancing on the edge of something unspoken.

The next, he’s close. Closer than before.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing over the column of her throat, tracing the line of her jaw. Not quite touching, not fully closing the distance, but there—a silent question, a warning, a threat.

Her pulse pounds beneath his fingertips.

She knows this is a mistake. She knows they should stop, pull back before it spirals into something they can’t control.

But when his thumb drags lightly across her skin, when his lips part like he’s about to say something and then doesn’t—

She doesn’t care.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

Her breath catches.

“Say what?”

His fingers slide to the back of her neck, his touch just firm enough to make her head spin.

“Say you don’t want this.”

Her throat tightens.

Because she should. She should say it. She should tell him that this is just leftover tension from their interview, just a fleeting moment of frustration, just—

But then his nose brushes hers, his breath warm against her lips, and all rational thought crumbles.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

The second the words leave her mouth, everything snaps.

His lips crash against hers, and it’s nothing like she expected. It’s not slow, not tentative—it’s urgent, desperate, messy in a way that betrays just how long they’ve both been holding this back.

His hands tighten against her waist, pulling her flush against him. She fists his shirt, grounding herself, anchoring herself to something before she completely loses her mind.

He tastes like whiskey and something she can’t name, something sharp and intoxicating and so fucking infuriatingly him.

The kiss is a battle. A push and pull.

He bites her lower lip, and she gasps. He smirks against her mouth, but she drags her nails down his back, making him groan, and suddenly the tables turn.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be even.”

He presses her back against the railing, one hand gripping her waist, the other tilting her chin up, deepening the kiss like he’s trying to prove something.

Like he’s trying to win.

When they finally break apart, their breaths are ragged, lips swollen, pupils blown wide.

Harry drags his thumb over her bottom lip, watching her like he’s waiting for her to take it back.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she smirks.

“That wasn’t very professional of you, Styles.”

His answering chuckle is dark, breathless.

“You started it.”

She arches a brow. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

He leans in again, lips ghosting over her jaw. “No?”

Her grip tightens in his shirt.

“No,” she murmurs, voice softer now.

He hums, his nose trailing along the curve of her neck.

“Then let’s call it even.”

Y/N exhales a shaky breath, tilting her head slightly.

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eternallyordinary · 2 months ago

Text

"He Belongs to You" - Part 3

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series masterlist<3

Summary: A last-minute shopping trip turns into a game of power and control as you and Homelander navigate unspoken tension, playful defiance, and the undeniable pull between you. The night isn't even close to starting, yet the stakes already feel dangerously high.

Warnings: obsession, possessive behavior, power imbalance, mild violence, harassment, implied dark themes, mild smut

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

You step out of the photoshoot, the air thick with tension. The halls of Vought Tower are quieter now, but beside you, Homelander is anything but. You’re still in your bikini, cardigan, and Uggs, arms crossed over your chest. Your body feels exposed, and not just because of the flimsy outfit.

You glance up at him. You've heard the stories. You've heard the rumors. You shouldn't be alone with him. But yet, you feel so safe when he's near you. You’ve only spent one day together, so why does it feel like a lifetime?

You break the silence.

"Can I ask you something?"

Homelander’s sharp gaze flicks to you, softening just slightly. His eyes trace your casual, mismatched outfit—the bikini hidden beneath your cardigan, the way your Uggs make you look small, delicate.

"Of course. Ask me anything."

You hesitate, then say it. "Why are you being so protective? You don’t even know me."

He stills. The answer is simple—he knows why. But admitting it out loud would make it real.

"Because you're different." His voice is lower now, rougher. His fingers twitch at his sides, restraining the urge to reach for you. "I've been around a lot of people. But you? You're not like them."

His voice drops further, a dangerous edge creeping in. "You're good. Innocent."

You exhale slowly. The intensity of his words makes your stomach tighten.

You try to lighten the moment. "Even though we just met today?" You give a teasing smile. "What if I’m actually a secret supervillain? Or a serial killer? Maybe I’m conning you, ever think of that?"

Homelander scoffs, his smirk returning, but his eyes don’t lose that possessive glint. "You?" He tilts his head, stepping closer. "A secret supervillain or a serial killer?" His voice dips, smooth but deadly. "I’d have figured it out by now."

He takes another step forward. His presence is all-consuming. "And even then, sweetheart? We’d still have a great time."

Your breath catches. You can hear the shift in his tone—the way it thickens, lowers, filled with something unspoken. He leans in, too close now. His gaze flickers between your eyes and your mouth.

He’s going to kiss you.

And that’s when you cut him off.

"Do you… want to go to the premiere together? Tonight?"

Homelander blinks.

You add quickly, "They set me up to go with The Deep, and I don’t really want to go with him. And after what I did to him earlier… I doubt he wants to go with me either."

"The premiere," he repeats, voice tight. "With The Deep." A beat of silence. Then— "Mm-mm. No."

Before you can process it, he takes another step closer, his body practically pressed against yours. His arm snakes around your waist, firm, possessive.

"You’re going with me." His voice leaves no room for argument.

You laugh, breaking the tension. "Okay, but… what do I wear?"

Homelander smirks, his grip tightening slightly, his gaze dropping over you like he’s already deciding. "That’s for me to decide."

You raise an eyebrow. "For you to decide? Didn't know you were a costume designer!"

His smirk deepens. "I have a very specific vision for how I want you to look tonight."

You cross your arms. "Hm. Well, I guess that means you’re taking me shopping."

Homelander exhales sharply, shaking his head with a low chuckle. He should’ve known. You’re not going down that easily.

"Fine. Shopping it is."

But before you disappear down the hall, you turn back over your shoulder. "On one condition."

He narrows his eyes, amused. "What condition?"

"You can’t wear the suit." You grin. "It’s basically saying, ‘Hi, I’m Homelander, please bother me for 800 selfies.’"

Homelander stares, then lets out an exasperated huff. He hates this already. "Fine," he mutters. "But don’t get used to it."

You beam. "Great. Meet you in the lobby in an hour!"

He watches you disappear, rolling his shoulders. What the fuck is he supposed to wear?

—

Homelander waits. He’s still adjusting to the fact that he’s in normal clothes—a fitted black Henley, dark slacks, and polished boots. He feels naked without his suit.

Then you walk in.

Tight Alo athletic set, jacket tied around your waist, chunky sneakers that only girls your age can pull off without looking like they belong in a nursing home. Your hair is in a loose braid, sunglasses perched on your head.

You look so normal.

And somehow, so beautiful.

Homelander exhales sharply, his gaze raking over you. "Damn," he mutters under his breath. "You look…" He stops himself.

You arch a brow. "You clean up nicely too. You should’ve warned me—I would’ve worn my fancy dress."

Homelander smirks. "Yeah, yeah. I look damn good, don’t I?" He strikes a mock modeling pose.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. Before he can say anything else, a little girl tugs on your jacket.

"Misses, why aren’t you wearing your costume?" she asks, eyes wide. You glance at Homelander, amused. You know he wants to say, I told you so.

You crouch down. "Well, sometimes I just want to feel like a normal girl. You know?" You smile. "But while I’m normal for a few hours… will you pretend to be me? You might have to save the day somewhere, though. Think you can handle it?"

The little girl gasps in excitement, nodding eagerly. Her mom snaps a picture, beaming.

Homelander watches all of it in awe. He’s never seen anything like it. The way people look at you, trust you, adore you.

You turn back to him, smiling. "Alright, ready?"

Homelander snaps out of it. He clears his throat, jaw tight."Yeah," he mutters. "I’m ready."

And as you walk beside him, his arm brushes against yours. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all.

—

Homelander leads you into one of the most exclusive designer boutiques in the city.

The sales associate, Lana, immediately recognizes him. "Good evening, sir," she greets, her gaze flicking to you before returning to him. "It's good to see you back. How can I assist you and your girlfriend today?"

"Oh, I’m not—"

You’re cut off by the subtle tightening of Homelander’s grip on your waist. His voice is smooth, unshakable. "That’s right. This is my girl. We need something elegant for tonight."

Your brows furrow. Did he just call you his girl?

Before you can protest, Homelander looks back at Lana. "Something that makes a statement. Power. Strength. Beauty."

You huff, then decide to push back. "Specifically, your most expensive dresses." You smile innocently.

Lana brightens. "Of course, miss. Right this way."

Homelander narrows his eyes. Oh, you’re playing games now.

You emerge from the dressing room in a tight black dress. He watches you twirl toward the dressing area, completely in control of this moment. Homelander’s entire body stiffens.

The dress clings to you like a second skin. The hemline too short, the neckline too low.

Then—he sees it. The peek of cheek.

You’re not wearing underwear.

His jaw locks. His hands curl into fists.

"Okay, what would you rate this one?" you ask innocently, giving a spin. The dress rising up, showing a glimpse of your pussy. He can feel his mouth start to water.

He takes a sharp step forward, his voice low, strained. "No."

You blink. "No?"

His expression is dangerous. His voice drops to a snarl. "You're not wearing that. Not in public."

Your lips curl into a mischievous grin.

"Why not? You don’t like it?"

"I love it." His voice is almost painful to admit. "Which is exactly why no one else gets to see it."

You roll your eyes. "Fine, next one."

Nine dresses later, you finally step out in a gorgeous red gown. It fits like a dream. Elegant, classy, but still sensual.

Homelander inhales sharply. He steps forward, his fingers brushing against the fabric. His gaze roams over you, admiration flickering across his face.

"You look…" He exhales, voice gruff. "Like you were made for me."

Your breath catches. For a moment, it feels like something is shifting. Homelander leans in, his lips inches from yours—

You turn away, again.

—

While you’re in the dressing room, Homelander buys the dress. Along with several designer outfits in your size. Over $2,000 worth.

You emerge, eyes wide at the mountain of bags in his hands. "You… you didn’t have to do that."

Homelander shrugs. "I know." His voice drops. "But I wanted to."

His gaze lingers, possessive. "I want you wearing things I bought."

You hesitate, then smile softly. "Alrighty then."

You won’t submit to him. And it’s driving him insane.

—

Back at Vought Tower, you pause in the lobby. "I need to get ready. Meet me here in an hour?"

Homelander gives a slow nod, eyes fixed on you. "An hour," he murmurs. "Don’t keep me waiting."

He watches you disappear upstairs. Tonight is so important. And you don't even realize it.

Because tonight....

Everyone will know you belong to him.

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

#homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #homelander #homelander fanfic #homelander x you #homelander x yn #the boys #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy #the boys fanfic #the boys smut #the boys amazon #soldier boy x reader #annie january #billy butcher #william butcher #yandere

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mythicalmisery · 8 months ago

Text

Bull Rider AU: GhostxSoap

AO3

Bull rider Ghost and clueless Soap who doesn’t know the hat rule.

Soap had a stupid smile on his face as he picked up a discarded, black cowboy hat and put it on his head while turning to Gaz. They had been heading back to their seats after a quick snack break when Soap had spotted it, unable to help himself.

“Ye think I can pull it off?” he asked grinning, completely unaware of the hulking figure that had appeared at his back only moments later.

Soap froze at the deep, yet still whispered, “Don’t think that belongs to ya, mate,” spoken right beside his ear. He could feel the other’s hot breath on his skin.

His eyes went wide, pleading, as he looked at Gaz for a lifeline. His friend had the same expression reflecting back at him, unsure what to do either. Without any help from Gaz Soap turned around.

His eyes met a broad chest clasped in a black leather vest, decorated with various patches of brands and sponsors he had never heard of. He slowly lifted his gaze to the man’s face, or at least what was showing of it. The lower half was covered in a black bandana with a skull design painted onto it.

It was real dusty and the man was clearly one of the riders competing, so Soap didn’t think twice about it. Hell, he wished he had one right now to hide his own embarrassment that was surely written all over his face.

The only thing he could make out underneath the stadium lights were amber eyes and blond lashes that matched his mop of sweat-clumped hair that stuck to his forehead. Those eyes that pinned Soap to where he stood and felt like burning flames licking at his skin.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice coming out dry and crackly despite his efforts. “Sorry mate, didn’t mean to offend anyone,” he tossed out in an attempt of easement.

He grabbed the hat off his head, stretching out his hand and offering it back to its rightful owner. The man didn’t remove his gaze from Soap once as he took his hat back.

Soap was all too aware he had been holding his breath during the whole interaction. He was hoping the man wasn’t offended by Soap touching his property. A fight was the last thing he needed right now, especially three beers into his night. His internal panicking was interrupted by the stranger’s gruff voice.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell ya not to go ‘round touching things that don’t belong to ya?” Soap took a reflexive step back when the man took a step forward.

He could still see Gaz out of the corner of his eye, which helped a little knowing he wasn’t alone if things went to shite. Although, he would feel really bad if he made Gaz get into an altercation and ruin their night out due to him being an idiot.

Soap laughed nervously. “Always seemed to have a problem with authority and rules.”

That had the other raising a brow. “That right?”

There were alarm bells ringing in Soap’s head. The adrenaline pumping through his veins should have been warning enough but he never claimed to be smart. The man glanced over Soap top to bottom, as if he was assessing him. The undivided attention had goosebumps breaking out over Soap’s skin.

He leaned in closer, invading the already non existent space between them.

“Do ya know what the hat rule is, mate?” he asked with a smirk, like he already knew Soap didn’t.

“Uh, n-no.” Soap felt like a bumbling idiot.

The man simply nodded at the answer he was already expecting. He lowered himself until he was looking over Soap’s left shoulder, speaking directly into his ear.

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Soap could feel the heat flood his face like a dam opening.

Oh fuck.

It was as if Soap’s mind, mouth, and pretty much whole body went offline. He couldn’t seem to get anything to work after the other man’s words had registered. Well, except maybe one body part, that seemed to be working just fine.

After standing frozen like an idiot once again for too long, he somehow managed to stoke the last dying embers of a functioning brain cell and took control over his body once again.

With a nervous laugh he took a staggered step back, his arms outstretched in a placating way. The man wasn’t angry, but fucking hell was he intimidating and Soap needed some space to breath especially after that comment.

“Oh, well that’s.. uh.. ye know, we really should be getting back to our seats,” he spewed out while grabbing Gaz by the shoulder. Soap didn’t wait for the man to say anything else, leaving him to stand and watch as he scurried away like a coward.

He made a beeline for their section in the stands, subtly adjusting his now uncomfortably tight pants. He glared at Gaz when he made a comment at his flustered appearance, doing his best to block out his incessant teasing. He felt like he was fifteen years old again, popping boners when the wind blew just a little too strongly.

The announcer came back on over the intercom speakers, introducing the next round of riders as they finally reached their seats. Soap did his best to try and focus on the riders in the dirt down below, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of that man’s breath on his neck, the way his voice was that deep even at a whisper, the way his eyes made his skin feel like it was lit aflame.

And as if God was playing a cruel trick on him, his gaze was drawn to the rider getting ready to mount the bull in queue. It was him.

He couldn’t make out too many details from this far up, but he was able to spot that familiar mask on the jumbo screen hanging in the center of the arena. The man had his hat on this time. The same hat that Soap had just been wearing. He couldn’t deny it, the man looked good in it.

The announcer chimed in, getting the crowd going. Gaz leaned over, hitting Soap’s shoulder as he whispered, “There’s your man.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth at his friend’s words. Soap glanced back up to the screen, eyes scanning until he found what he was looking for in big, bold letters.

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

Simon. Fuck. Even his name was hot.

He looked back down to the roping box, the bull that - Simon? Ghost? - was about to ride. It was fucking massive. He could see it already bucking and ramming the sides of the fence from up in the stands and on the screen, clearly pissed off.

The anticipation in the arena was electric, the crowd buzzing with excitement as Ghost settled himself on the bull. While the men around him steadied him with their hands, Soap’s heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t even know the man but his stomach was twisting into knots.

He watched as Ghost adjusted his grip on the bull rope and flexed his hand, his muscles tensing under the strain displayed on the big screen.

Soap’s breath stuttered as the gate flew open, the bull exploding out into the arena twisting and bucking with raw power. Ghost moved with fluid precision; the man’s arm raised into the air, his waist snapping back and forth in perfect sync with the bull’s wild movements. Soap couldn’t tear his eyes away, completely captivated by the sight.

The crowd roared around him, cheering and shouting their encouragement as Ghost held on. Soap found himself leaning forward in his seat, his breath caught in his lungs. He silently willed Simon to stay on just a few seconds longer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the ride. Ghost leaped off the bull, landing as gracefully as one could while running from a crazed animal with horns. Soap’s heart was still pounding as he watched Ghost run back toward the gate, somehow still maintaining his casual demeanor as he climbed over.

He watched as the rider disappeared behind the gate and out of sight. Gaz elbowed him playfully, a knowing grin on his face. “Go congratulate your cowboy, he just one first place,” he said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

Soap whipped his head to the scoreboard, eyes scanning before he saw Ghost’s name jump to the top as his points were entered. He couldn’t help the stupid smile spreading across his face.

“Ye sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, already standing up. Gaz scoffed, “Get the fuck outta here Soap.”

Soap put his hands together in a mock prayer. “Thank you, Garrick.”

He turned around and nearly sprinted down the stairs, cursing the crowds blocking his way. He had to make it down there before the rider left.

Soap finally managed to make it down to the ground floor, booking it to the area cornered off for the riders and their crew. He got farther than he thought he would before security stopped him, asking for his pass that he clearly didn’t have.

He tried a handful of excuses but there wasn’t any reasoning with the man. He was about to ask if he could at least pass on a message for him before he felt someone brush up against his back.

“He’s with me.”

Soap swallowed. That low, gravelly voice back in his ear. Right where he wanted it.

The security guard stood there a moment before he nodded at Ghost and walked away, as if Soap wasn’t even there.

It took a herculean effort for Soap to turn around. He was very close to losing his nerve and chickening out of this whole ordeal. Hell, he didn’t know this man. What was he doing?

“Now, what are ya doing all the way over here. Breaking more of those rules, I see,” he said forcing Soap to take a step backwards.

Soap cleared his throat, voice coming out surprisingly steady. “Well, I figured I would congratulate the winner.”

“That so?” he asked with a tilt to his head.

Soap took a step forward in a random burst of boldness. Now or never.

“Aye, I also think I owe ye a debt,” he punctuated by grabbing the hat off the man’s head and placing it upon his own.

Soap wasn’t sure if it was the passing headlights from the sea of cars and trailers behind them, but he swore Ghost’s eyes flashed at his words. He leaned down in a mirror image of their earlier interaction, a strained “Follow me,” was spoken in his ear.

Soap let out a deep breath as he watched the man walk away. Not ashamed to admit he enjoyed watching him as he did so. Fuck. This was happening.

They walked through a dirt and gravel lot off to the side of the arena. Soap observed the ranchers loading the livestock back into trailers under the parking lot lights as they passed through.

They ended up on the outer edge of the lot, the closest light post was a few cars down so it wasn’t overly bright where they were. Soap nearly missed it when Ghost turned a corner around a large parked trailer.

He followed suit, unable to stop the embarrassing yelp that left his mouth as he was thrown against the side of said trailer. All thoughts of cursing the man out disappeared when Ghost’s lips were crashing against his. The initial impact had him grunting, the sounds immediately swallowed by Ghost’s domineering mouth.

Soap couldn’t breathe, and normally he wouldn’t have any complaints about the matter given the situation, but he was starting to get lightheaded. He reached his hands up, gripping onto that leather vest and regretfully pushed the man off of him. He gasped at the separation, greedily filling his lungs at the first opportunity.

“Air, air is good,” he wheezed out.

The bastard huffed a laughed right in Soap’s face. Between the night sky and Soap’s racing mind, he hadn’t quite registered that Ghost had taken off the bandana from earlier. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, just barely making out the details of the face currently six inches from his own.

He was fucking beautiful.

Soap didn’t need sunlight to come to that conclusion. He had strong features; a Roman nose that had clearly been broken one too many times and never healed quite right, full lips that had a small scar running across the bottom as if it had been split in a fist fight and never got the proper stitches. He had another scar going from his chin to his neck, the moonlight illuminating the silvery healed skin that was no doubt part of an impressive collection.

Soap couldn’t help the heat rushing to his face when he realized how blatantly he’d been checking out the other man. To his credit, Ghost just stood there; not saying a word while letting him have his fill.

His attention drifted back to reality when a wave of lights and shadows danced across their faces as a car drove by. Soap unconsciously grabbed onto Ghost’s vest, pulling him onto himself while trying to melt into the trailer out of fear of getting caught.

“Relax,” Ghost whispered.

His mouth moved down to Soap’s jaw, kissing his way across his flushed skin until he reached his ear. Soap couldn’t help the full body shutter that racked through him as the man licked up the shell of his ear before biting down on the tender cartilage.

He turned his face slightly to the right in a poor attempt at stifling his moan in Ghost’s shoulder as the other slotted his knee right between his legs.

Fuck. He hadn’t realized just how hard he was before Ghost started grinding against him.

The friction was almost unbearable, just the right amount of pain to still be pleasurable but still not enough. “More,” he groaned out. All reservations about sounding too desperate were out the door, he needed this man. Now.

Ghost turned his head to stare directly at Soap with a smirk plastered on that stupidly handsome face.

“Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” he teased.

He didn’t even give Soap time to defend himself before he was reaching down to undo his belt buckle and slide his hand down Soap’s boxers.

“Fuuuck,” Soap hissed out as Ghost gripped his cock with those rough and calloused hands. Every twist of the man’s wrist had a jolt of pleasure shooting up Soap’s spine. His hand had felt like a branding iron, scorching to the touch and Soap had no complaints over the claim.

He was full on panting now. The only air he could manage to get was what Ghost allowed him when his lips granted reprieve.

Soap was gradually nearing his breaking point. He normally would have been embarrassed for not lasting longer, but he decided to give himself a break when he’d been sporting a semi nearly the entire second half of the event. No thanks to the bastard who currently had his tongue shoved down his throat.

Soap hadn’t even realized the involuntary bucking of his hips, his body’s feeble attempt to get off. The shallow thrusts got quicker, insinuating his building release. Just as Soap was about to reach that blissful moment he had been craving all night, Ghost snatched his hand away and removed them from Soap’s pants entirely.

“Oh, you fuckin’ bastard,” Soap spat out at the other man.

Ghost stood straight before clicking his tongue. “We have a debt that needs paid now don’t we, darling?” he cooed at Soap who did his best to not let the pet name affect him too much.

Soap groaned in frustration. “Then hurry the fuck up cause I’m not gonna last much longer, ya fucker,” he growled out.

Ghost shook his head at him. “Ya sure do have a mouth on ya,” he stated.

“Aye, ye can do something about it next time.” Soap didn’t really care that he just left an opening for this to occur again, mind too preoccupied on the fact his balls felt like they were about to explode.

Ghost had that smug look back on face as he reached into his pocket for something. He pulled out a set of black keys and pressed a button, the black truck behind him flashing its lights twice before he put them back.

“Are ye kidding me? Your car was here the whole time?,” Soap whined.

“Sounds an awful lot like complaining, mate. Not a fan of being watched, are ya?” Ghost taunted. The way he talked to Soap like he was a child was some fucked up mix of extremely hot and infuriating.

Soap glared at the man. “Get the fuck in the back seat. Now.”

Despite Ghost narrowing his eyes, Soap didn’t leave any room for argument and the other man complied with no further complaints.

Ghost climbed into the back of the truck, spreading out across the seats with his hands resting behind his head as he looked at Soap. Well, didn’t he just look like the cat who got the cream.

God, he was fucking hot.

Soap climbed in after him without another word. With the door closed, the lights in the truck went out and the space was filled with darkness once again. Soap was straddling the man’s massive thighs, nearly hanging off the edge. It was cramped, barely any room to move but he would make it work. Had to make it work.

“Just gonna sit there and look pretty, darling?,” Ghost snarked, breaking the silence.

“Oh, fuck off,” Soap replied with no real heat. He reached out to undo Ghost’s belt, hoping the way his throat bobbed at the clear outline in the man’s pants wasn’t visible in the moonlight. Good lord he was massive. That earlier apprehension started to slowly creep back in and wash away his false confidence.

Ghost made another one of those clicking sounds with his tongue that had Soap freezing his movements. When he looked up into the man’s eyes, he couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped. Ghost had a way of looking at him that sent every warning bell and nerve in his body off like a crack of lightning. Like a predator finally catching his prey after having it in its sights for too long.

“Get undressed,” Ghost demanded.

Normally, Soap would put up a fight just to be an ass, but he didn’t have much fight left in him at this point. He was so on edge, so close to finally getting off he was honestly scared what he would do just to make it happen. With nothing more than a roll of his eyes in complaint, he started undoing the buttons of his shirt. It was only a matter of minutes before Soap was spread across the man’s lap in the back seat, completely naked.

He felt like his brain was melting. There shouldn’t have been something so hot about the fact he was completely naked and bare while Ghost hadn’t even removed so much as his hat during all this. He could feel the rough denim on the sensitive skin of his thighs, the cold buckle from the man’s belt when he leaned forward just an inch. Soap wasn’t even ashamed when he realized he had been slowly grinding himself against the man, anything to ease his burning desire.

Ghost finally spoke up, but Soap didn’t even stop his movements. “What’s your name?” he asked with that low and rough voice. Soap’s own ego was slightly stroked, he could hear the strain in the man’s voice despite the calm demeanor he was trying to convey.

“John, but most people call me Soap,” he breathed out. He was two seconds away from ripping the clothes off this man himself.

“Soap? What kind of nickname is that?”

“Says the man called Ghost?” he quipped back.

“Alright, I’ll give ya that one. Why don’t you go on and get yourself ready for me, darling?,” he asked, but they both knew it was another command.

Soap couldn’t help the pointed stare he threw at the man. “Ye gonna make me do all the work, is that it?”

Ghost’s lopsided smile was answer enough. “I’m not the one who picked up the hat, Johnny.”

Johnny.

Fuck, why was that so hot to hear coming from his mouth? He really needed to get this thing moving.

Soap held his fingers out in front of the man’s mouth. When all he got was a questioning look in response, he rolled his eyes and pushed them against his lips. “Suck,” was all he said, patience wearing thin now.

Ghost opened his mouth slowly, letting Soap glide his fingers over his tongue. They were probably dirty as hell, covered in germs and popcorn butter but he didn’t really care at this point. The bastard would live.

He was mesmerized as he watched Ghost work his tongue across his fingers. His mouth was hot, but nothing compared to the flames dancing across his skin as Ghost never lost eye contact during the whole ordeal. He could probably cum from this alone.

Before that thought became reality, Soap pulled his hand back. Watching the string of spit connecting his fingers to Ghost’s mouth glisten in the moonlight.

He cursed lowly as he gripped himself in one hand, rising slightly before reaching around. He entered himself without a fuss, moaning at the friction as he slid his fingers in further. It burned a little, Ghost’s spit only helping ease the way so much. He preened like a peacock when he felt, more like heard, the other man’s sharp inhale below him.

He started moving with a little more urgency at that, opening himself up while rocking his body back and forth. He wasn’t overly moaning like a whore, but he wasn’t exactly trying to hold back anything either. Quite enjoying the sharp little intakes of air and jerky movements of the man beneath him. He managed to get up to three fingers before he found that particular spot inside him. This time, his moans might have been a little porn starry. Ghost finally lifted his hands at that, gripping onto Soap’s hips like he was his lifeline.

Soap wasn’t having any of that. He swatted the man’s hands away, pushing down on his chest with the hand not currently inside him when Ghost tried to protest. “No touching,” he scolded, taking great pleasure in the frustrated look on his face.

Ghost grunted in response, like a damn toddler who didn’t get his way. “Awww,” Soap cooed at him, “Needy little thing, aren’t ye?” he said, throwing the other man’s words against him.

Ghost narrowed his eyes at that, but didn’t complain any further. “Funny.”

“I’d like to think so,” Soap replied.

This time, when he went to undo Ghost’s belt, he wasn’t met with any resistance. With quick movements, he had Ghost pulled out in no time. Fucking hell. Massive was an understatement. It took everything in Soap to school his emotions. He wasn’t letting this bastard know how intimidated and equally impressed he was. He must have done a shit job cause Ghost had that satisfied, smug look back on his face. He could probably read minds for all he knew.

Soap gave a few quick pumps to Ghost’s cock before he lined himself up. He froze just as the other man was about to enter him.

“The hat,” he said. It took a while before Ghost could tear his eyes away from where Soap hovered over his cock, the words finally registering before he reached up and placed his hat on Soap’s sweat-slicked mohawk.

They were both burning up, feeling like a damn sauna in the backseat of the truck. The windows had fogged up a while ago as they swapped air in the small space, thankfully providing a thin form of privacy.

Soap smiled as he adjusted the hat with one hand, the other still lining Ghost up as he slowly lowered himself down.

Fuck.

They both moaned in chorus as Soap’s still too-tight heat enveloped Ghost’s cock. He sunk lower and lower at a glacial pace, letting gravity do the work and take some of the strain off his shaky legs.

He bottomed out eventually, resting on Ghost’s hips as he caught his breath. Ghost was panting below him, chest heaving as his body was strung tight with tension. Soap knew the man was dying to take control. Too fucking bad.

When Soap’s world wasn’t spinning anymore, he lifted himself back up before repeating the process all over again while setting a steady pace. He wasn’t going very fast, but he didn’t really need to. Ghost was so big that he reached all the spots he needed him too, the stretch and burn sending bolts shooting up his spine was enough for him.

He gripped tightly onto Ghost’s leather vest with his right hand, his own make shift bull rope as his left held onto the black hat resting on his head. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Ghost, but he still had to lean and bend at a weird angle to fit in the cramped space. He started to pick up a little speed, his movements mimicking Ghost’s from when he rode the bull earlier. Soap snapped his own hips back and forth, occasionally grinding down in a circular motion that had Ghost groaning unabashedly.

He wasn’t normally one to be overly cocky, but he basked in the satisfaction of ruining this man. That calm and collected demeanor washed away by the panting, barely held back animal beneath him. Hell, he was equally just as ruined. He couldn’t contain the little punched out moans that escaped every time Ghost hit his prostate on each rock backward. He wouldn’t last a minute longer and judging by the shaking man before him, he wasn’t the only one.

“S-Simon, pleaaase,” Soap groaned out between moans. He tried to convey everything he was thinking and wanted in that one word. Ghost being the mind reader he was picked up on it without dropping a beat. Like he was waiting for it.

He immediately grabbed onto Soap’s hips with enough force to bruise. Fuck, Soap wished they would. With one last glance at the man below him, Soap closed his eyes as Ghost started jackhammering into him. The car was a symphony of curses, moans, and grunts. Neither man holding back now. Soap removed his hand from the hat and pushed it against the ceiling, trying desperately to find purchase and not fall over. The rough movements had the sweat from his forehead running down his face, beads dropping onto Ghost’s chest off his nose and chin. He couldn’t find a single fiber of his being that cared.

His end was nearing and he wasn’t going to deny it this time. “Fuuuck, don’t s-stop,” he moaned as Ghost abused his prostate at the angle they were in. If Ghost decided now was a good time to tease the man, Soap would probably end up committing murder.

He could tell Ghost was almost at his breaking point as well. The man’s thrusts started to become wild, losing all sense of coordination as he chased his release. Soap screamed out when Ghost lifted his hand off his hip and grabbed his cock, pumping it in an off beat against his thrusts, never allowing Soap a second of reprieve from overwhelming sensation.

“Go on, cum for me, Johnny,” he rasped out. Who was Soap to deny him?

Soap’s whole body seized as Ghost slammed into that bundle of nerves harder than he’d done all night. It felt like lightning was shooting through his body as his vision whited out. He didn’t even feel bad that he made a mess all over Ghost’s vest, too blissed out to even care. Ghost lasted around three and a half thrusts more before he was following Soap over the edge as well, cursing his name as he did. It was the best thing Soap had ever heard in his life. He responded with a groan as he felt Ghost empty out inside him. The feeling making his own spent cock twitch in response. Round two was not an option currently on the table. Soap felt like rolling over on the floor right there and taking a twenty hour nap after this. He didn’t think Ghost would mind very much.

They sat there for a few minutes, chests heaving and skin sweaty where they were still connected. Soap started looking around, his eyes scanning the man’s truck before he found what he was looking for in the center console. He popped the lid off and held it between his teeth as he unzipped Ghost’s soiled vest and unbuttoned his shirt. He ignored the curious eyes watching his movements. With the man’s chest now bear, Soap moved the marker to scribble out his number in his chicken scratch. He pulled back, looking down at his work with a satisfied expression as he capped the marker and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Give me a call next time you’re in town, cowboy,” he said as he slowly raised himself off of Ghost’s softening cock.

He wasn’t sure if the man had even heard him. His attention drawn to where he pulled out of Soap, his cum slowly starting to drip down his thighs. It was gonna be an uncomfortable ride home. He glanced around and grabbed his discarded clothes, doing his best to put them back on in the limited space. Ghost just sat there watching him, lounging across his backseat without a care in the world.

Soap finally managed to put his shoes back on, pulling out his phone and ordering an Uber ride. He turned down Ghost’s offer to drive him home, he needed to get away from the man so his brain wasn’t mush anymore. With one last glance around, he leaned over Ghost on his knees.

“Ye know, I like this hat. I think it’s mine now,” he stated.

“That so?” Ghost asked as he looked up at Soap.

“Yeah, it’s mine. Ye know what that means?”

“What?” Ghost responded, genuinely curious.

Soap lifted up the hat before lowering down, placing it back onto Ghost’s head as he whispered low in his ear. “Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Soap didn’t say anything else as he exited the vehicle. The smile was uncontrollable as he walked across the gravel lot back to the car pick up zone.

A man with a short circuiting brain laid in the backseat of his car behind him.

#ghostsoap #ghostxsoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #bull riding au #bull rider Ghost

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doberbutts · 2 years ago

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I was typing a big long thing about the changes I've experienced in a year on testosterone and how it's affected me and all that and then tumblr ate it and I really don't feel like retyping that whole thing but I am kinda salty about it so tldr:

Starting testosterone has been the best thing for my health that I've done. Ever. Better than getting a service dog. Better than restructuring my life to cater to my disabilities. Better than any procedure or medication or otherwise that I've tried. Simply rubbing a pack of gel on my arm once a day has done more for me than anything else.

When I went to my endo to start T, I went with a suspicion that I am intersex. She confirmed it via blood test and told me that with my variation I could try two different things: estrogen to control my high levels of natural androgens, or testosterone to lower my estrogen further and make it stop arguing with my androgens about whether I'm supposed to be a boy or a girl, as it's that argument that was causing a significant portion of my health problems. Estrogen has been tried in the past and only made things worse. She told me it was my choice, and only I could choose my path forward, as I knew my body the best.

When TERFs have a fit about gender affirming care, they usually leave out people like me, or they brush my story aside by saying that I'm just an anomaly, or they claim for me and my demographic that we don't want to be part of this discussion. But I don't fit their definition of a woman- I have a testicle, and my natural testosterone was within normal range on the low end for a cisgender, perisex man, and enough male sexual partners have commented on what's in my pants to tell me that it's far from the picturesque womanly pussy, especially considering I can- and have- use it to penetrate with the help of devices designed for cis men who are a little lacking in length.

When TERFs have a fit about gender affirming care, they scaremonger about side effects and changes. But, I was already hairy. I was already growing facial hair. I already had atrophied- and by 30 to the point that it's not really possible to fix without significant medical intervention. I was already infertile. I already had an adam's apple and a deep voice. I already had belly fat and blood pressure problems. My menstrual cycle was already hellish and had interfered with my school and work schedules. A popped ovarian cyst sent me to the ER.

I'd tried no treatment. I'd tried estrogen-based solutions. These not only did not work but actively made things worse. I was fainting at school. I was calling out of work. I couldn't drive without my service dog. I couldn't go out and have fun with my friends. I spent days at a time laying in bed in too much pain to move.

TERFs say, gender affirming care turns you into a forever patient.

I already was one of those. I almost died when I was a baby strictly because of lack of access to care that accepts children who are born who are both and also neither from the womb, before anyone has a chance to develop a personality or understand the difference between a boy and a girl.

Testosterone has turned me into a "once every 3 months" patient instead of a "twice a month minimum" patient. I pay less than $15/month for my prescription and it's mailed to my house in three-month increments. Stopping my wildly irregular and incredibly painful menstrual cycle has increased my quality of life so much. My body doesn't ache for no reason anymore. I don't faint anymore. I can go out and do things and not be punished for it for days on end by fevers and chills and vertigo.

Don't let a handful of transphobic assholes scare you. If this is your way forward, then live your life to its fullest.

My only regret is that I didn't have the chance to do this sooner.

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jo3ydr3w · 11 days ago

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Stobotnik Week Day 7

Prompt 1: Haircutting

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“You are. You’re brushing your bangs out of your face every six seconds. I counted.”

Stone sighed and lowered his tablet. “It’s just getting a little long. I’ll cut it later.”

Robotnik spun in his chair like a gremlin overlord. “No need. I’ll do it.”

Stone blinked. “You’ll… cut my hair?”

“Yes,” Robotnik said, already storming across the lab, coat flaring. “It’s a distraction. An aerodynamic flaw. A hazard to precision. I will not be defeated by rogue follicles.”

Stone hesitated. “Do you… know how to cut hair?”

“Stone.” Robotnik grabbed the lab scissors off the workbench. “I once built a fully functional robotic barber drone with emotional regulation issues. Of course I know how to cut hair.”

“That drone tried to give a police officer cornrows,” Stone reminded him.

Robotnik grinned. “Exactly. Flawless craftsmanship. Now sit down.”

Stone sat on an overturned crate with a towel draped around his shoulders, trying not to laugh as Robotnik made incredibly intense faces behind him, scissors flashing like he was defusing a bomb.

“Hold still,” Robotnik muttered. “This side is rebelling.”

“It’s just hair.”

“It’s not just hair. It’s part of your silhouette. Your whole presentation. Your face is too symmetrical to be hidden behind this mop. I am liberating your bone structure.”

“You’re really passionate about this,” Stone said, amused.

“I’m passionate about efficiency. Also, you’re hot and it’s annoying.”

Stone choked.

Robotnik paused mid-snip. “That was a joke,” he said, absolutely lying.

The final result was… surprisingly decent. Shorter on the sides, still a little tousled on top. Clean. Sharp. A bit softer than Stone had expected.

Robotnik handed him a mirror like he was presenting a war medal. “There. No more tactical weaknesses.”

Stone tilted his head, then smiled. “Thanks, Doc.”

Robotnik sniffed. “I accept your praise.”

He turned away, already grabbing a broom—but paused just long enough to glance back and say, far too casually:

“…If it grows out again, I’ll cut it for you. Just say the word.”

Stone grinned. “Deal.”

Prompt 2: Breakfast

It started with eggs.

Robotnik hated mornings. They were a reminder that time still moved forward and that he hadn’t managed to control that yet. But today, something smelled suspiciously like… breakfast.

He shuffled into the lab’s kitchenette in bare feet and an oversized robe stolen from a defunct general. His hair was already in chaos mode. He looked like a war crime in progress.

And there was Stone.

Stone, standing at the stovetop in a soft black t-shirt and slacks, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease. Coffee brewed nearby. The lights were low and warm.

Robotnik narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing.”

“Making breakfast,” Stone said, unfazed. “You didn’t eat yesterday, Doctor.”

“I consumed seventeen energy drinks and an entire bag of pistachios.”

“Which is not breakfast.”

“I invented breakfast. Once. During the mushroom period.”

Stone plated something onto a dish and turned around.

It was eggs. Two perfectly cooked sunny-side-up eggs, yolks gleaming, arranged very deliberately to resemble a familiar shape.

A shape Robotnik knew all too well.

“…Are you mocking me?” Robotnik asked, stepping closer. “Because if this is about my mech designs—”

“Not at all,” Stone said smoothly, sliding the plate toward him. “I thought you might appreciate the theme. A personal touch.”

Robotnik stared at the plate. Then at Stone. Then back at the plate.

“They do look like my Egg-Bots.”

“Mmhmm.”

“They’re even positioned like—like the primary sensor domes on the Mark 5 hover drones.”

Stone just sipped his coffee.

Robotnik sat down without another word and picked up a fork. He took one bite. Then two. Then all of it.

He didn’t say thank you.

But when Stone turned around to rinse the pan, he noticed Robotnik had carefully arranged the two empty eggshells on the counter.

In the shape of a heart.

Prompt 3: Dancing

The lab was quiet. For once.

The screens had dimmed into standby mode, drones docked and recharging, metal arms folded neatly against the walls. The overhead lights were low, casting everything in soft blues and warm shadows.

Stone was at his workstation, going over a diagnostic report for one of the crab mech’s stabilizers. His world was clean numbers and calm silence until—

A flicker of music.

He looked up.

Robotnik was across the room, standing like a question mark with a tablet in one hand and the other awkwardly behind his back. A speaker near the ceiling was playing a quiet instrumental—a vinyl-record crackle in the background, something vintage, slow, and rich.

“…You dancing, Stone?” Robotnik asked, like it was a code phrase.

Stone blinked. “What?”

“Do you want to dance.” His voice was clipped. Hesitant. Defensive. “You know. The thing. With music. And movement. Like sentient mammals sometimes do.”

Stone just stared at him, gently lowering his stylus. “You’re inviting me to dance. You. Doctor I-only-dance-alone Robotnik.”

Robotnik twitched. “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not.” Stone stood, already walking toward him. “I’m just making sure I’m not hallucinating.”

“You’re not. I already tested the air filters.” He swallowed. “I just thought… if I’m going to share the floor with anyone—”

“You’d want it to be me.”

Robotnik scoffed. “Don’t make it weird.”

Stone smiled and held out his hand.

Robotnik took it.

They danced in awkward silence at first. Just a shuffle, a slow sway, their feet unsure. But then Robotnik placed one hand carefully on Stone’s back, the other holding his hand in a surprisingly firm grip, and moved with slow purpose.

He wasn’t graceful. But he was intense. Deliberate. He leaned in, letting the music loop and fill the space like gravity.

“This used to be sacred,” Robotnik murmured. “I didn’t let anyone in. Ever.”

“I know.”

“But you’re not anyone.”

Stone looked up at him. “I know.”

Prompt 4: Laundry

It started with a sock.

Robotnik had been tearing apart the upper level of the lab looking for a specific blueprint when he opened a maintenance closet and found—oddly—warm air.

And a sock. A folded sock, sitting neatly on a shelf.

“…What,” he muttered.

Following the heat and the sound of soft splashing, he descended the stairs into the under-lab storage room that was supposed to be used for spare drone parts and leftover crab mech shells.

Instead, he found Stone. Kneeling on the floor. Hands submerged in a plastic tub, rhythmically wringing out one of Robotnik’s black turtlenecks. His sleeves were rolled up. A faint trail of lavender-scented steam drifted from a kettle-powered rig nearby.

“Stone.”

Stone jolted, splashing suds on the floor. “Doctor!”

Robotnik stared.

Stone stared back.

Silence.

“Explain.”

Stone tried to wipe his hands on a towel. “I was doing your laundry.”

“By hand?”

Stone gave a sheepish smile. “Yes.”

“We have a washing machine.”

“It stretches out the collars,” Stone said quickly.

“There are settings for that.”

“You hate the dryer sheets.”

Robotnik’s nose twitched. “They smell like despair.”

Stone stood and started wringing out a pair of pants with militaristic precision. “I don’t mind doing it. It gives me something to focus on. Meditative.”

Robotnik looked around. There was a little line strung across the ceiling with socks clipped on it. A perfectly folded stack of his clothes sat on a crate, neatly organized by level of wearability. Everything smelled clean and familiar.

He blinked. “We can just… hire someone. GUN has enough overpaid ‘handlers.’”

“I don’t want anyone else touching your stuff,” Stone said simply.

Robotnik stared.

“And besides,” Stone added, tucking a damp sleeve just right, “I’m the only one who knows how to fold the sleeves so they don’t crease your shoulder seams.”

Robotnik continued to stare.

Then—awkwardly—he reached into the tub, plucked out a sock, and held it up. “What detergent do you use?”

Stone smiled. “The one that doesn’t smell like despair.”

Prompt 5: Morning Coffee

Stone’s eyes fluttered open to a… presence.

Not sunlight. Not birdsong.

A looming, caffeinated presence.

Robotnik was sitting at the edge of the bed, legs crossed unnaturally, perched like a goblin on a throne. In his gloved hands: a mug.

Stone blinked a few times.

“…Doctor?” he croaked, voice still gravelly from sleep.

Robotnik beamed like a feral cat. “Ah. There you are.”

Stone sat up, squinting. “What are you…doing?”

“Observing the miracle of your unconscious twitching habits.”

“…What.”

“You kicked in your sleep precisely eleven times. Once every three minutes. Fascinating stuff. Possibly neurological.” Robotnik leaned forward, pressing the mug into Stone’s hands with unnerving gentleness. “Also, I made coffee.”

Stone stared at the mug. Then at him. “…You made coffee.”

“Yes. For you.”

Suspiciously, Stone sniffed it. Real beans. The roast he liked. A perfect splash of oat milk.

Robotnik, somehow sensing the hesitation, raised a brow. “You think I’d poison you. With coffee.”

“No. I think you’d poison me on principle, and accidentally make perfect coffee while doing it.”

“Tch. Please. I only poison government agents I don’t like.”

Stone took a sip.

It was perfect. Smooth, warm, a little earthy, just the way he always made it for Robotnik.

“You watched me sleep for—how long?” he asked, still waking up, brain slowly catching up to the situation.

“Forty-three minutes,” Robotnik replied without missing a beat. “You drool slightly to the left.”

Stone rubbed a hand down his face. “Why…why would you—?”

“I wanted to see your face when you woke up to something good,” Robotnik muttered, suddenly fiddling with the seam of his glove. “You always make it for me. I thought maybe… I don’t know. You deserved a moment.”

Stone blinked again. He wanted to say something, something charming, something coherent—but instead he just took another sip of the coffee, hiding his face behind the mug.

Robotnik stood up, striding toward the lab door. “Don’t get sentimental. I’m still going to scream at the blender today.”

“Understood,” Stone called after him, voice warm.

Robotnik paused in the doorway. “…Let me know if you want a second cup.”

Stone smiled into his coffee. “Always.”

Prompt 6: Sleeping

The lab was quiet, humming only with the low static of monitors left on standby.

Stone was curled on the old couch tucked in the corner, a blanket barely pulled over his shoulder, but his body was taut—shoulders rigid, fingers clenched, breath uneven. Even asleep, he looked like a man waiting for impact.

Robotnik paused at the threshold. He had come down to scavenge a charging cable but instead found Stone mid-nightmare, face twisted in some silent memory, brows drawn like he was still in the field, still waiting for an order or a gunshot.

Robotnik hovered, unsure.

Then—

Stone startled awake with a sharp gasp. Sat up too fast. Looked around like he forgot where he was.

Robotnik didn’t say a word.

Stone ran a hand down his face, trying to steady his breathing. “…Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

Stone glanced up, and Robotnik could see the hesitation before he asked, barely audible, “Will you… stay?”

Robotnik tilted his head.

“Not with me,” Stone added quickly, like he regretted it already. “Just… in the lab. So it’s not—empty.”

There was silence.

Then, Robotnik stepped forward, dramatic as ever, and flopped onto the couch beside him with zero grace. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it over both of them.

Stone blinked.

“I meant—”

Robotnik huffed. “I know what you meant, Agent. But I’m staying like this.”

Then his arms wrapped around Stone, tugging him in without fanfare, and before Stone could resist, his head was resting over Robotnik’s chest, catching the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and real.

Stone’s voice was hoarse. “Doctor…”

“Hush,” Robotnik muttered. “You can sleep. I’ll… guard the perimeter or whatever it is you think I do.”

Stone exhaled, a shaky sound that was almost a laugh. He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand lightly gripped Robotnik’s coat.

After a moment, Robotnik added, quieter, “You can wake me up if you need to.”

“I thought you weren’t sleeping.”

“Well, if you’re going to be needy, I may as well recharge.”

Stone finally smiled, breath evening out, eyelids heavier now.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

Robotnik didn’t reply.

But his hand stayed resting on the back of Stone’s head, steady, warm, and not letting go anytime soon.

Prompt: Shopping

Stone didn’t exactly ask for company when he headed out to the store. He was used to doing it alone—shopping, grabbing the essentials, maybe picking up a few snacks to munch on while he worked in the lab. It was simple. Routine. A necessity.

But apparently, Robotnik had other plans.

“Why,” Robotnik grumbled, trailing behind Stone like a disgruntled shadow, “do you insist on performing this… this menial task so often?”

Stone glanced back at him as they entered the store. “I’m just picking up groceries. You know, food. To survive.”

“Survive? Pfft. I could survive perfectly fine without ever seeing another loaf of bread.” Robotnik adjusted his gloves, which weren’t exactly ideal for pushing a cart, but he made it work, somehow.

Stone raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never been to the store?”

Robotnik scoffed, his nose wrinkling as if the thought of the place was offensive. “I’ve had drones for that. I can’t fathom why you, a government agent of all people, would spend hours of your valuable time here… in the produce section. You’re literally picking out fruits.”

Stone snorted. “You could just stay in the car, you know.”

“Ah! That’s the problem! There is no intellectual stimulation in waiting! No problem solving!” Robotnik gestured dramatically to the rows of cans on the shelf. “Who decided that peas should be in the green section? Preposterous.”

Stone picked up a bag of flour, mildly entertained by Robotnik’s apparent existential crisis over the organization of the grocery store. “Well, it’s kind of simple, right? Pick what you need, pay, and go home.”

“Simple? You call this simple? This is chaos, Stone! These items have no purpose out of context! I need a reason to choose the right variety of tomato! This is a waste of time!”

Stone placed the flour in the cart, trying to hide his grin. “It’s a little more relaxing than breaking into military bases and stealing experimental tech.”

Robotnik scowled, but it was more of a reflex than actual offense. “Hmph. I suppose even an agent like you needs something so basic to pass the time.” He paused, eyeing the fresh produce. “Why do you need to pick out bananas? It’s… it’s just… a banana.”

“I like them fresh,” Stone said simply, tossing a bunch into the cart.

“Fresh? You realize they’re just going to rot on your counter, don’t you?”

Stone threw him a look over his shoulder. “I’ll eat them before that happens.”

“Hmph.” Robotnik sighed dramatically. “You’re a mess. I could never understand how you can do something so… mind-numbing on repeat.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Stone said, holding up a bag of chips. “You could get in some basic practice here. Maybe… learn to blend in with the human world.”

“Blend in?!” Robotnik barked, his voice carrying slightly over the aisles. “I’ll have you know I’m an individual, Stone! I do not conform to the norm of ‘shopping,’ nor will I!”

Stone snickered and placed the chips in the cart. “Sure, sure. But you’ll get it eventually. You just need to spend more time in the… basic world.”

“I don’t need to understand basic people. I am a genius.”

"Right," Stone said, tone dry. "A genius who's picking out spaghetti sauce because it ‘looks promising.’”

“Do not mock my decision-making!” Robotnik snapped, holding up a jar of tomato sauce as if it were an ancient relic. “This is precision! I am utilizing this shopping experience for intellectual exploration!”

Stone smiled to himself and pushed the cart forward. “Sure, Doctor. Sure.”

Stone plucked a box of oat milk from the refrigerated shelf, the way he always did. Like it was just another item on the list. Another piece of daily life sliding neatly into place.

Robotnik, standing beside the cart like it personally offended him, narrowed his eyes at the packaging.

“I don’t understand. Milk, but from oats? Just admit you’re milking dirt.”

“You drank mushroom sludge for over a year, Doctor,” Stone replied, keeping his tone mild. “You can’t judge.”

“I can and I will.”

Stone raised an eyebrow and tossed the oat milk in the cart anyway. They walked in silence for a beat, passing down an aisle lined with chips and pretzels. Stone grabbed a bag without thinking.

Then, casually, without looking at him: “So why did you even come?”

Robotnik froze like Stone had lobbed a wrench at his head.

Why did he come?

There were at least fifteen answers a brilliant mind like his could give.

He opened his mouth. “To observe the degradation of human society via… processed snacks.”

No. Too obvious.

“To examine the flawed systems of supply chains and capitalist infrastructure up close.”

Ugh. Too Marxist.

“To test how long it takes before I commit acts of unspeakable violence in a Target.”

Okay, technically true, but… still no.

Stone glanced at him, one brow arched. Waiting.

Robotnik’s brain, which could calculate gravitational anomalies and create artificial intelligence with a handful of scrap metal, was drawing a complete, mortifying blank.

I wanted to be domestic with you.

He couldn’t say that. He couldn’t think that. And yet there it was, screaming in his head louder than a klaxon alarm. It echoed through his skull like a confession caught in a tin can.

He stared blankly at the snack shelf. Something… something with peanuts.

Stone took a step closer, standing just near enough that their sleeves brushed.

“I mean, you didn’t have to,” he added lightly, but there was a flicker of something underneath it. A quiet curiosity.

Robotnik finally managed: “I had…a hypothesis.”

Stone blinked. “A hypothesis.”

“Yes.” Robotnik nodded, gesturing with a jar of peanut butter like it was a sacred object. “A scientific hypothesis about… your shopping methods. I thought I could improve them.”

Stone looked him over. “You didn’t even bring a clipboard.”

Robotnik’s eye twitched. “It’s…a mental clipboard.”

“Mhm.”

Stone’s smile grew smug. The kind that meant he knew exactly what Robotnik wasn’t saying. But he didn’t press it. Instead, he just turned and pushed the cart forward again.

“Well, keep observing, then,” Stone said over his shoulder. “But if your ‘hypothesis’ involves replacing everything with powdered mushroom supplements, I’m leaving you in the parking lot.”

Robotnik followed, glaring at a bag of cheddar puffs like it insulted his lineage. He grumbled under his breath. “Domesticity is a myth perpetuated by sitcoms and Hallmark cards.”

But he didn’t leave.

Not even when they passed the home goods aisle and Stone casually stopped to look at dish towels.

#🍷 Actor #stobotnik week 2025 #stobotnik week #stobotnik #eggs and rocks #agent stone #dr robotnik

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cheesycatz · 11 months ago

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Wow! It only took me 966 days of Spamton brainrot to make an actual reference

(text ver under cut)

- Based on ventriloquist dummies and ball-jointed dolls, both of which require strings in order to move

- Bird nostrils: one of the only remaining "addison" features (also I didn't want to make him a chronic mouth-breather)

- Black hair is permanent from puppetification shenanigans

- Widow's peak to make him more skeletal

- Eyes, teeth, and muscles visible through joints are the only biological bits that haven't been covered by the plastic exoskeleton

- Scratches and yellowing across the plastic epidermis

- Tattered suit jacket and dress shirt; repaired with messy stitches and patches on elbows

- Joints poke out weirdly under suit, especially in the torso area

- Toes, tail, fur, skin, and part of his fingers are missing—destroyed in puppetification process

- Seam lines on body to mimic manufactured dolls

- Four fingers because bird

- Shoe-esque feet

- Where are his pants? Top 10 Questions Science Can't Answer

- Technically had an underbite? Your lower teeth are not supposed to be directly below the upper teeth

- "Ball jointed body"—he still has muscle, organs, etc. under the plastic

- Animatronic puppet eyes

- Lazy eye? He just like me fr

- Had blue eyes, but they're more gray at this point

- Pipis are, uh... he canonically makes nests for his eggs of unknown origin, I guess

- Jacket is longer in the back and ripped at the seam

- Design is meant to work in a 3D environment; AKA no weird v-tuber hair flipping when he's facing forwards so he looks more "real"

- Flesh under his chin where the puppet jaw connects to his actual jaw hinge

- Glasses are screens & clear on his end

- Lenses glow

- He controls what [the lenses] display when he's not having one of his frequent mental breakdowns

- Four hair spikes on top make his mullet look less weird from the front

- Blue tongue (mandatory Spamton design element)

- Addison Spam: 4 ft 11 in without those heels

- Puppet Spam: 3 ft 6 in - height of a ventriloquist dummy

- Puppetification: he slowly transformed into a living puppet due to his exposure to supernatural forces beyond reality. He was mostly unaware until he was on the streets due to his desecrated mental state.

skill issue

- Most shrinkage is from his legs getting shorter from the puppetification

i think i have developed chronic spamton wasting disease

#spamton #spamton fanart #deltarune #deltarune fanart #deltarune chapter 2 #spamton g spamton #traditional art #cheesycatz art posts #crusty diseased dumpster puppet <3

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ivesambrose · 2 years ago

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Rest of 2023 Forecast 🎐

1. 2. 3.

Just like that, it's already autumn 🍁

How was everyone's year so far?

Mine was rather eventful towards the later half.

But let's take a look into what the closing messages of 2023 are for you 🩵

To book a personal reading with me DM or email me at [email protected]

Personal Readings

Masterpost

Thank you for the tip

Picture 1

Realizing that you want to do and achieve certain things for yourself and not because someone expects way too much from you and you have to somehow gain their validation. However, you'll also come across people who inspire creativity in you and encourage you to step into your power, be more assertive without the fear of standing out.

Whatever labour you put in around this time will have it's turn out by next year. Stay patient, it will be rewarded.

You'll slowly see fortune turn in your favor, there might be sudden changes that push you to walk away from a certain place or situation but you'll be happy to do so. It's likely you were waiting for it for the most part of thr year and it's happening now.

Some of you might also hit the lottery, win a jackpot, receive unexpected money through your business, work or just randomly have it come to you.

You'll be making plans for the next year to venture out, manifest important connections, make travel plans etc you'll be looking forward to having fun and admist all the fun you'll see situations that earlier were out of control or stagnant, fall into place for you.

Be wary of certain manipulative people who seem all talk no show, they're just trying to dupe you into something. Trust your intuition here.

If you have a business or working on launching one, you'll find the right people and see a lot of growth. Have faith in your abilities.

Picture 2

Initially I see you being conflicted with something, being unable to decide with the number of options in front of you. You might also be picturing the possible ways certain things can or will play out in your life and trying to stick to the best case scenario. Eventually, you'll be able to focus. You just require some discipline.

You may also be unable to see the progress you've made so far or are making but it'll suddenly occur to you that you've indeed climbed to the top of the ladder and overcame a lot of obstacles, you're almost there, so it's best to simply enjoy the process and the journey since success is imminent if you don't stop.

There's a possible union with someone special or even celebration with your friends. Gifts being exchanged and a lot of financial prosperity coming your way.

I see by the end of this year you'll be feeling lavish and happy since something significant came through somehow.

I heard the words, "seems I'm lucky after all!"

Picture 3

It may have been a tumultuous year so far, good news is thar youre finally finding your center. Body and mind in sync, slowing down and offering a better perspective of things.

For a lot of you, I see that you had been struggling with your health a lot both physical and mental, you'll be seeing considerable progress. You might start getting into exercise again, likely lower intensity ones, it will give you better benefits as well as put you in a meditative state.

Your true glow up starts now. Instead of pushing yourself to break and grind in order get something you'll simply allow yourself to receive. You might feel creative and want to get back to the arts be in sketching, keeping an art book, makeup, even cooking or fashion/fashion design. You'll be feeling more beautiful inside and out.

You'll be excited to welcome the new year, a new chapter of your life is beginning. You'll be feeling more energised and hopeful. Attend more events, celebrate with friends, make new ones, travel etc

You have a lot of intellect and wisdom, there's a power in your words as well as your voice, you'll be influencing the right people who'd want to be around you or know you personally. Have discernment when letting anyone in, eitherway the right ones will stay and add value to your life.

#free readings #tarot community #divination community #pick a card #PAC #pick a pile #pick a picture #pick a photo #2023 forecast #spiritual community

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fir3ylolol · 1 year ago

Text

stay behind the rope

pairing: Johnny Cage x Reader

summary: why do you think johnny has rope in his house, huh?

tw: oral sex, vaginal sex, vaginal penetration, afab!reader, gn pronouns, rope play, tied up lol, sub/dom, sub!Johnny, dom!reader, overstimulation, pleading, begging, the idea of 'punishment', multiple orgasms, controlled orgasms, a bit of dacryphilia, porn with absolutely no plot

a/n: hear me out O.O but fr i'm happy to have the problem of too many requests/asks for more. see yall again soon

word count: 1.07 k

Ao3

It’s a beautiful Malibu evening, and you have no time to appreciate it. Straddling Johnny’s lap on his large couch, your hands touch up and down his chest. Your lips dance with his, making out messily. His hands grab at your hips, desperately searching for more. They start scooting lower, very slowly. He tries to quickly slip his hand in your pants, almost like you wouldn’t notice. You notice.

You pull away, pushing against his chest lightly. “Excuse me, Cage?” He looks like a deer caught in headlights, hands freezing in place. You cross your arms, looking at him with intense eyes. He starts to move again, hands scrambling out of your clothes as he pleads. “No, wait, love, I’m sorry, it was an accident. I just got…distracted! It’s hard, you’re so pretty and you’re on top of me and kissing me. Please, I’m sorry.” You turn your head away from him, trying to hide how happy his pleading makes you. But he says the magic words, “Love, I’ll do anything, please. I don’t want to stop.” And you turn back, a wicked smile spreading across your face. And he realizes what he said.

Much faster than he thought you could, he’s in a dining chair, completely naked as he watches you, begging eyes. There you are, standing above him as you finish your masterpiece. He is tied to the chair, ankles firmly in place, arms behind his back, and criss-crossing designs down his chest, squeezing his pecs. Tying the final part, you step back and quirk your head to the side. “Something’s missing…” Your eyes light up. Johnny watches as you shuffle your underwear off, step toward him, and grab his jaw to open it, shoving them in his mouth as a gag. You clap happily, “There we go! You feeling ok, dear?” He is straining against the bindings, but he nods his head flopping around.

You kneel between his knees, watching his desperately wanting eyes as they follow you. “You’re not allowed to cum, got it? Not until I let you.” He mumbles around the underwear in his mouth, a cry of understanding and need. Smiling menacingly up at him, you quickly sink your mouth down on his weeping cock, gagging slightly since you didn’t have time to adjust. Well, neither did he, as he jumped at the feeling, straining against the restraints. Muffled moans seep out, his head tipped back in pleasure. You don’t hold back, grasping his thighs for stability as you move quickly. You move your head down in twisting movements, one of your hands reaching out to play lightly with his balls. He’s already getting overwhelmed, twisting in the chair against the restraints. His eyes are starting to water, and loud moans coming out from his stuffed mouth. You can see his hands open and close desperately, wet eyes looking down at you pleadingly. But you give him no break, continuing at a quick pace as his head falls forward, chin hitting his chest. You pick your head up, taking a deep breath as you lift his head as well. You reach two fingers into his mouth, removing the makeshift gag. Johnny takes in a deep breath before his pleading comes back out, as desperate and whiny as ever. “Oh, please baby. I know you said I’m not allowed to, but you feel so good, and, and I can’t help it. Please please please.” Silently, you go back down, continuing at the same pace.

He gasps loudly, no longer muffled, and starts moaning out your name like a prayer. His head thrashes side to side, short, huffy breaths coming out mixed with his whines. You finally pick your head back up again, and Johnny lets out a whine. He is shut up when you finally strip down in front of him, wide eyes full of want. You walk slowly back over, taking a seat and straddling his spread legs. “You wanna fuck me?” You ask, coy and teasing. He nods rapidly, gulping at the thought. Your face drops as you speak again, “Then, you cum when I say, got it?” His nods falter, but he agrees. You smile, readjusting to fully take him in short, stuttering drops. He’s unraveling under you, loud whines at each movement. You finally reach the bottom, his head falling forward to the crook of your neck as he bit down for stability. You stifle a moan, biting your bottom lip lightly. But you start bouncing against him, touching up and down his chest again with light touches. It contrasted your near-violent drops, rolling your hips each time. His eyes are still watering, babbling out praises that get cut off with each whimper.

He can’t stop making noise, whining loudly, “You feel so heavenly baby, fuck, I’m so lucky to be yours. To be at your mercy like this, I’d do it al day if I could.” You squeeze around him, a heady whine in your ear. You can tell he can only last a little longer, so you decide to be nice. Whispering in his ear, you say, “You’ve been so good, love, so good that you can cum. Go ahead, for me.” That does it, the force of it rippling through his body in small shakes.

You remain seated, leaning forward slightly to untie his hands. As soon as they’re free, they reach out and hug around you. You smile into his touch and start bouncing again. Suddenly, his grasp is tight, and his hands trembling. He can’t make sounds at this point, mouth hung open and eyebrows knit in a twisted portrait of ecstasy. You tease him, whispering in his ear again, “I thought you wanted this, to be at my mercy, hm? You want to cum? Then cum?” You keep moving, feeling his grasp moving rapidly up and down your back as his head falls back, eyes wide and seeing stars. Suddenly, he seizes up, latching his arms around you as he lets out a final, high-pitched whine as he cums again, insanely sensitive and heightened. You kiss his cheek and stand back up, earning a gasp from Johnny. You untie him, freeing him from the constraints, seeing the light red marks on his pretty skin, gently kissing against the ones on his chest. He flinches and manages to speak out, “I knew it was a good idea to keep rope in the closet.”

#johnny cage #mortal kombat #johnny cage x reader #x reader #johnny cage smut #mk x reader #afab reader #johnny cage mk1

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waayoutofline · 4 months ago

Text

Murder On The Dance Floor (part 4)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Prompt: Vigilante!Reader x Agent!Natasha

Summary: Natasha isn’t having the best of luck in trying to bring one of the ex Hydras general down. You however may be able to assist her. Will you two be able to cooperate? Or is it your fate to always stand on opposite teams?

Warnings: Angst

WORD COUNT: 2560

A / N: I'm sorry for being so late with this update, uni is beating the shit out of me :´) I had a bit of difficulty in trying to piece the last parts of this sorry, as I didn't expect for it to be longer than three eps-- oops. However, we are near the end! I'll do my best to try to post the next part by next weekend :) Thanks for reading and have a nice day <3

***

It wasn't complicated with white, rich, narcissistic men. You could see it in the way their eyes draped over you—a glint of overconfidence merging with a sick sense of entitlement. It never failed to make your stomach churn in disgust.

You had once been under the control of disgustingly self-assured men like Ashford. Treated as a mere object designed for their sick interests. Still, overpowering them with their own foolishness came naturally, and a part of you found joy in trapping them.

It thrilled you, especially to see their terrified expressions morph into desperation just before their downfall.

But that familiar thrill didn’t come this time. Instead, a pressure on your chest weighed you down, an unfamiliar sensation that made your stomach twist uncomfortably. The exchange with Natasha had shaken you. It’s ridiculous, you thought. Since when did you feel bad for doing what you did best?

“I couldn’t help but notice your eyes back there,” you started, carefully positioning yourself in a way that exuded naivety. Your arms rested delicately in front of you, drawing his gaze to your exposed skin. You mentally huffed at his complete lack of subtlety in ogling you. “Is everything alright?”

Your voice was remarkably soft, contrasting with the heavy bass vibrating through the air. Each word was pronounced slowly, deliberately, with a hint of a slur as though you’d had one too many drinks.

“Oh, nothing bad, I assure you.” He replied, his grin oozing overbearing confidence. But that’s exactly how you preferred it—unsuspecting and malleable. “Quite the contrary.”

You giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m glad. I actually was…” You paused with overdone hesitance, fingers fiddling nervously with the edge of the tablecloth. “Never mind, I—”

“What is it, darling?” he interrupted, leaning forward as though entranced by your feigned shyness.

As if baffled by his encouragement, you stammered. “No, I… It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

His greyish eyebrows shot up, his body leaning closer, practically dangling on the hook you’d set for him. Got him. “Well, you’ve come so far. Might as well say it.”

“…Well, if you insist. I um fear I made a few mistakes when I felt your eyes on me. I just couldn’t help it! I’m such an admirer of yours.” you finally spat out, letting your expression shift into that of a star-struck teenager meeting their idol for the first time.

“An admirer, you say?” he teased further.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead nodding shyly and lowering your gaze in mock embarrassment.

“Yes, Mr. Ashford. Your reputation precedes you. I may or may not have gone to some of your… um…” You paused, letting the silence stretch just enough to make his eagerness blatantly obvious. You cut the distance slightly while looking around a bit. “Clubs. Just to see if I could catch a glimpse of you there.”

Your voice dropped lower as you spoke, but he still caught every word. You saw it in the way his grin widened, his ego practically swelling before your eyes. His expression darkened slightly when you mentioned his extracurricular activities.

“I appreciate a young woman like you taking an interest in my… enterprises,” he said, his tone thick with self-satisfaction. “But tell me, what do you expect to gain from this conversation, girl?”

He spat the last word as if asserting his dominance, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you paused, biting your lip in what appeared to be reluctance. Letting him think he was in control of this interaction would ensure that you’d get exactly what you wanted.

“I don’t want to come off as too forward, but… I was wondering if maybe…” Your hand moved closer to his sleeve, your fingertips just barely grazing his wrist. Your fingers twitched, as if you were anxious to tug at his sleeve. “You could help me. You’re a man of experience. The guys my age just don’t… command attention the way you do. I could always learn from that. If you’d agree, you could give me my first—” You paused deliberately, smirking as you looked up at him through your lashes. “Lesson, after this?”

He chuckled, his grin widening, his eyes darkening with a twisted kind of amusement. “Ah, I do admire your boldness. But I hope you understand that if we were to have these… lessons, they’d require a certain level of discretion. And, well, closeness.”

He reached out, his hand catching your wrist. His grip was authoritative, disgustingly possessive, as though he already thought of you as his property.

“Let’s do this,” he said, his voice low. “How about you keep dancing with that little friend of yours for now, hmm? I’ll be attending the VIP party after this. Who knows…” He leaned closer, his grin widening. “Perhaps we’ll see each other there.”

You forced a bashful smile, nodding demurely as if flattered by his attention. Inside, you were seething, but you let none of it show.

“Oh, I’d love that,” you murmured, your tone soft and eager.

His grip on your wrist finally released, and you clenched your jaw to avoid pulling your hand away as if you had been burned. Smiling delicately on cue, you swiftly moved away, merging into the crowd. Your pulse quickened, but you tried to ignore the racing thoughts swirling in your head.

You would usually be more thrilled, knowing you had achieved your objective—a step closer to bringing down another disgusting individual for good. But the satisfaction was dampened by the heavy shadow of Natasha’s worried expression.

Funny. Usually, you would have felt euphoric at finally coaxing real emotion from her firm, steel demeanour. But this wasn’t as gratifying as you thought it would be.

Whatever this was—this ache enclosing your chest—it had to go away. You couldn’t afford to let it linger. After all, she depended on you.

The music resumed its usual rhythm, signalling that the final round was about to begin. Shaking off the nerves crawling over your skin like ants, you let out a sigh. But a presence behind you made it harder to settle yourself.

“Guess who just skyrocketed our chances to win.”

Finally daring to turn around, you were met with her reluctant green eyes. She said nothing else, her silence cutting deeper than any snappy remark could. Flattening your smirk slightly, you accepted her offered hand and moved back into position.

The air swirled around you both, heavy with tension. Not your usual kind—the teasing dynamic you’d come to expect—but something sharper, almost suffocating. Trying to distract yourself from the unease, you focused on sneaking glances at Ashford over Natasha’s shoulder.

Even when he sent you a sly wink after speaking with Cole, the unrelenting heaviness didn’t lift. Natasha remained silent, offering no biting commentary or judgment. Her quietness made the unease sharper, more difficult to ignore.

But what her mouth didn’t say, her body did. Her movements were now sharp and constrained, a stark contrast to the almost goofy rhythm you’d shared earlier in the evening. Her expression was unreadable, her jaw set. Whatever flicker of worry or emotion she’d shown before had dissolved into a mask of cold professionalism.

“Natasha, I—” You started, the words clumsy and uncertain, unsure if you even should say something.

She cut you off before you could find your footing. “Let’s just get this over with,” she said finally, her voice not unkind but detached.

The words stung more than you wanted to admit. It's unfair, you thought. Ten minutes ago she was practically begging for you not to talk to him with utter worry in her eyes and now she was behaving as if none of that happen. If she didn’t want to care, then why dare to say nothing at all? Why mess with the dynamic you two had?

Fine. If she was playing this game, you decided, then you would too.

“The mission is the priority, right?”

You forced a smile, matching her tone.”Of course, Agent Romanoff.”

Her grip on your waist faltered slightly, her eyes lingering on yours for a brief second, but then she steadied herself, pulling you back into the flow of the dance.

After that, it didn’t take much. The last competitors, exhausted, crumbled under the pressure, their flashy styles dulled by fatigue. With Ashford’s support behind you, their disqualification came swiftly.

Honestly, you barely remember being called to the podium. The crowd clapped enthusiastically as Cole placed a tiara on your head and handed Natasha a large bouquet of flowers. A photographer called for a group photo, and you barely registered Ashford’s presence sneaking up beside you. The deliberate way he moved closer left no doubt about his intentions.

Your body tensed ever so slightly—a reaction you thought would go unnoticed. But this was Natasha, after all, and she wasn’t just anyone.

With a long stride, Natasha placed herself squarely between you and Ashford, leaving his eager hand grasping at nothing but air. Her body was as warm as ever as she pressed against your left side, her arm resting—almost protectively—on your shoulder. The sudden intimacy of the gesture stole your breath.

You could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft brush of her remaining perfume teasing your senses and making it nearly impossible to think of anything else. The weight of her arm was grounding, an unspoken claim that demanded attention without a single word.

It caught you completely off guard. Given her disapproval of your recent… choices, you’d assumed she would leave you to deal with Ashford on your own. But instead, she was here, firmly stepping in and ensuring the middle-aged man didn’t get any closer.

Some of the tightness in your chest loosened at her intervention, though the flutter of nerves in your stomach was an entirely different problem.

Shortly after, the dreaded VIP card was finally thrust into your hands—the culmination of the first part of the mission. At least it was over. You sighed softly, glancing toward Natasha.

Her eyes met yours for the briefest moment, something unreadable passing between you before she broke away. With a shared understanding, you both headed off in separate directions to change into something more casual.

The mission wasn’t over yet. There was still the after-party to survive.

***

“Got eyes on him,” Yelena muttered through both your comms, finally returning. You were confused by her disappearance, thinking that Natasha wouldn’t allow you to go unnoticed for even a moment. Still, you said nothing. “South entrance, on the balcony.”

Twirling your margarita, you subtly glanced in the direction. Hmph, for being so wanted, he sure was… rather disappointing to look at. His red hair was slicked back with what seemed like an entire bottle of hair gel, his eyes reddened (clearly affected by the unrelenting smoke surrounding him), his beard slightly unkempt, and his suit was overdone. He wasn’t very tall either—Natasha was easily a head taller than him.

So, he wasn’t the charismatic type of renowned criminal. You could work with that.

“Oh, I see him alright…” you answered, your mind already racing with all the tactics you’d need to make him talk. As if on cue, Natasha’s voice cut through.

“Raven, for the love of God, stand down. We must proceed carefully.” She reminded you, making you huff in annoyance.

“Yeah, I know, careful. Got it.I can be that” You swore you could feel Natasha arching brow rising at that. Still, you did managed to follow their plan. Rather boring if they asked you, but effective.

The two of you had to eliminate his guard team without causing any commotion, using Yelena’s assistance. Afterward, Yelena would cut all the electricity, and that’s when you would swoop in, distance him from the crowd, and take him into custody.

The first step wasn’t really complicated. Perhaps it was from the years of fighting alongside each other, but Natasha and you moved as fluidly as you did on the dance floor while incapacitating Horvat’s security team. One of you would divert attention, and the other would take someone down. It was almost like a dance of sorts, the two of you working in perfect tandem.

With a flick of your wrist, you spilled the drinks on the last two men at the bar, making them more susceptible to Natasha’s sneaky spider bite. You almost flinched when they were hit, remembering the sting of them too well. The two of you caught them just before they hit the ground, casually draping them over your shoulders as if they were just two random drunks who’d had too much to drink.

Natasha said nothing as you positioned them suggestively, one on top of the other. At her inquiring gaze, you just shrugged with a mischievous smile. “What? Look around! People are both making out and passing out.”

Before you knew it, the area had mostly cleared, which should make it easier to get to the former Hydra general without much resistance. It was almost going to good when the light and the music were shut down, Natasha slipping to Horvat’s side and pretending to be one of his guards to take him to “safety” in between the slightly panicked crowd. You meanwhile parted the way, opening one of the backdoor exits so the three of you could slip away though the stairs.

Maybe it was the exhaustion from dancing all night that caught you both off guard, or maybe it was the eerie silence in the absence of Yelena’s usual sarcastic commentary after she cut the electricity. Whatever the reason, neither of you expected to be ambushed by a full squad of heavily armed men just as you reached the exit.

The cold night air bit sharply as you and Natasha froze in place, her grip on Horvat reluctantly loosening. He laughed, unsteady and throaty.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own guards?” Horvat rasped, his almost unbearable, scratchy voice grating as he stepped into view. Glancing over his shoulder, he sneered, “It’s going to take more than this flimsy plan to take me down, Black Widow.”

You managed to hold back a scoff. Excuse him? You were here too!

“Dispose of them,” he barked, gesturing to his guards. Then, catching the rising guns next to him, he added, “Jesus, do it quietly you morons! The last thing I need is the entire Avengers team on my back. Just do enough damage to teach them a lesson.”

With that, he turned and was escorted away, leaving you and Natasha surrounded. Your eyes met hers, a mutual understanding passing between you as you positioned yourselves back-to-back almost immediately.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” you said, amused, as the guards advanced with electric gauntlets and other shiny gadgets. “Black Widow and Raven fighting side by side? Please.” You snickered, shifting into a defensive stance.

Natasha hummed in response, her tone cool but slightly teasing. “Just try to keep up.”

You smiled faintly as the familiar spark of your usual banter flickered back to life. Perhaps not everything was ruined after all.

“Oh, you’ve got it twisted, Widow,” you shot back with a smirk, echoing her words from earlier that evening. “You’ll be the one trying to keep up with me.”

It could have been the wind, but you swore you heard her chuckle.

Time for the second dance of the night.

#nat x f!reader #fanfic #mcu #natasha romanoff #avengers #marvel series #natasha romanoff x reader #vigilante reader #shield agent natasha #marvel #wuh luh wuh #wlw post

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sadseungmin · 11 months ago

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ahh it’s nice to find a skz writer who is into darker content and dead dove. those kind of fics are the ones i enjoy most. could you maybe do something with minho and darker role play? any type of play you want!

♡ dark sexual roleplay with psychotic lee minho ♡

psychotic lee minho x reader | gender neutral | dead dove | nsfw (MDNI)

p.s. i hope this is to your liking, anon! if you're not too shy, tell me in my dms, ok?

『 ↳♡･ﾟ psychotic!minho likes...doctor & patient roleplay ೃ⁀➷

Minho would turn his bedroom into a makeshift medical room, complete with an examination table, surgical tools, and various medical supplies. The cold, clinical atmosphere would be designed to unnerve you, to make you feel vulnerable and exposed.

You will be naked, lying on the examination table, which is really just his king-sized bed covered with freshly laundered white sheets. Minho, dressed in a lab coat, would play the role of the doctor with unsettling enthusiasm.

"There's no need to be scared, kitten. You're my favorite patient, after all. I just need to conduct some...special examinations."

Minho's touch will be clinical and intimate, his hands tracing over your body slowly with practiced precision. He will explain each step of the examination in a detached, professional tone, but the dark intensity in his eyes will be easily noticed by you.

His hands slowly slip between your thighs, hooded eyes locked with yours...

"Be a good kitten and open your legs wide for me. Hook your arms under your knees and pull your legs as far back as possible. I need to do a thorough physical check."

The idea of medical control is exciting to him. He will use various medical instruments to heighten your anxiety, the cold metal against your bare skin sending shivers down your spine. Minho's favorite instrument to use is the speculum.

He takes the bivalve and slowly drags the cold instrument down your inner thighs.

"Do you know what this is for, dumb kitty? This is to measure how wide that pretty hole of yours can stretch. I wonder how far I can stretch it before it starts to tear and bleed?"

He will test your reactions, his touch alternating between gentle and invasive. His questions will be probing, his tone demanding honesty.

He inserts the very tip of the instrument into your entrance and watches in fascination as your hole uselessly clenches around it.

"How many fingers do you use to fuck yourself open when I'm not around, hm? You're too much of a whore to use just two. Do you use three? Or, maybe you use four? There's no need to lie to me, kitten. Patient-doctor confidentiality, remember? Besides..."

Minho slowly pushes the cold instrument further into you, and you whimper as the cool metal burrows deeper into your sensitive walls. You will want to close your thighs, but you know better than to disobey.

"I'm going to find out the truth regardless. I'm a doctor; it's my job to know everything about my favorite patient."

Psychological domination appeals to his psychotic side. Throughout the examination, Minho will assert his dominance, reminding you of your helplessness.

He begins to slowly open your entrance with the instrument, and watches intently as the cold metal pushes your walls farther and father apart. The feeling is unfamiliar; it burns but it accompanies the heat building in your lower abdomen. You whimper pathetically as you are stretched wider and wider, to the point where a part of you fears you might actually tear. There are hot tears beading in the corner of your eyes, and you're trembling and breathing erratically, yet your legs stay wide open for doctor Minho.

"I don't care if it hurts. You need this, kitty. You trust me, right? I'm only doing this for your own good."

The mixture of care and control in his voice will be disorienting, leaving you unsure of his true intentions.

Minho pulls the instrument out of you carefully, leaving you gaping; it's humiliating and the look in his eyes is unsettling. Minho leans forward, and spits. You watch as a big glob of saliva pushes through his pursed lips and falls directly into your open hole. The heat of the liquid coats your walls as it slowly slips deeper into you. You release something between a strangled gasp and a moan, toes curling as any sense of shame dissolves into pure arousal.

Minho reaches into the pocket of his lap coat, pulling out a blue pair of latex gloves. He pulls them on, looking at you with a darkened stare, tone still detached and professional.

"I know you're already fucked out from having your walls opened, but this is far from over. With a hole that wide, further examination is necessary. The next step is double fisting. Are you ready, kitten?"

#lee minho #minho #skz lee minho #skz minho #lee minho x reader #minho x reader #lee minho imagines #skz x reader #skz headcanons #skz imagines #smut #skz smut #yandere skz #anon request #sadseungmin

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ross-hollander · 4 months ago

Text

Refurbished.

I'm actually writing Transformers fanfiction, we are so donion rings.

Feat. Shockwave doing a science project, and an iconic face.

Shockwave had grown deaf to the chatter of laser fire. It was all part of the backdrop, now. Not a cycle since Cybertronians could walk the surface freely, and half of it seemed like craters already, he would muse to himself. Once he had fancied himself an archaeologist, going to those ancient cities, Vos, Stanix, in what free time an outcast bandit had, salvaging what was left of the Primes' reign from the rubble. Now, he only heard those names spoken of for the redoubts and advances and outposts.

One sound cut through all the skirmishing outside the facility, one that he would never be able to tune out: a fusion cannon. Three shots, four, in steady rhythm. Megatron's mood was easy to determine by his firing pattern. Rapid-fire meant short of temper; staggered shots like those betokened a deliberate mindset, thoughtfulness. But if Megatron saw fit to personally drive off those Autobot raiders, it meant he was eager for results. Shockwave turned his attention back to the slab.

He was just lowering the last of the chest-plates into position, micro-tuned tracking laser following his lone optic's most minute twitches for a surgical touch a nanomachine couldn't have, as the doors opened. No other bot walked like that, but a fine quavering note in the air, a hum, an auditory shiver, betrayed another guest.

"Megatron. Soundwave. Only a moment, now-" the final plate was sealed in place, a laser tracing its edges, and he shut down the program, turning, with a bow. Gestures of loyalty had become in high esteem among the Decepticons. It was like that since the First Starscream Coup, the Construction Coup, the Second Starscream Coup, the Third- it wasn't enough to be loyal, not even with Soundwave's truth-scan itching your audio-receptors as you spoke; you had to act loyal.

Megatron stepped forward, looking over the surgical slab. Metal purple with deac-reac sickness, the color of a Cybertronian dredged up from the rusty clutches of death. Armaments slimmed down. A face like horror itself. Megatron turned to Shockwave, gesturing at the recumbent machine.

"Go ahead. What've you done for me here?"

"A miracle, if I may say so, Megatron."

"Lord Megatron," rasped Soundwave, arms folded. He had taken to fanaticism like an electroduck to oil.

"Lord Megatron, I meant to say," Shockwave repeated, flashing a dullest-glowing glare at Soundwave. "The commandos retrieved the body from nothing less than Autobot top secret storage. A few techniques scoured from intelligence on Ratchet's work-"

Megatron tilted his head, giving a blank look and a rumbling rev. Shockwave felt it was time to cut to the chase.

"He should be as alive as any of the rest of us, once the energon infusion is complete. You left him in poor condition- I quite approve of it -but I had to remove the wings altogether to get the rest of him functional. His flying days are over. The sonic weaponry suite has been tested to perfection. I would wear audio dampeners-"

Megatron turned his gaze once to the body, then back to Shockwave, the body, the scientist, back and forth, until fixing Shockwave with a look he would have preferred staring down a laser cannon to being face to face with.

"I notice, Shockwave, he isn't online. Can he be turned back on, or not?"

"Lord Megatron, the- that lever-" Shockwave gestured to it on the control panel at the foot of the slab, faltering with haste, "I only supposed that you would want to be the one to make it official, so to speak, my lord."

Megatron turned his gaze towards the lever, and Shockwave unfolded slightly from his defensive cringe. Then he turned back.

"The mask?"

"Designed to your exact specifics, Lord Megatron. To the micrometer." The scientist stepped aside to his workbench, under his wall-sized surface map, and pulled the armored case off of it, releasing the catches of the shockproof metal with the smoothest of clicks; Megatron cracked a rare grin as he brushed one servodigit against the cargo within. Shockwave bowed stiffly.

"You don't disappoint on this kind of work, Shockwave. Allow me." He took the mask from its metallite-foam cushioning, walking around the slab, fixing it in place over that face, still locked in a death-scream of horror. Magnetic locks hissed and clicked. Shoot the wearer point-blank in the face, run them over, drop them from orbit, this mask did not "fall off".

Megatron circled around the other half of the slab, coming full circle to Shockwave's control panel, one servo grasping the lever. Soundwave shot Shockwave as dubious a look as his visor could manage.

"Lord Megatron, pardon my impudence," Soundwave droned, "but to reassemble him when better 'bots have gone to the smelting fire..."

"I'm not doing this for what he will be, Soundwave." Megatron's digits locked around the lever, began to push; concentrated Energon suffused the empty core of the dead 'bot. Blank light began to pour from his optics.

"I'm doing this for what he was. He was a liar. A traitor!" Shockwave toned down his audio receptors as Megatron's voice rose to an outburst, nearly drowning out the rising surge of Energon and creaking of machinery forced back to life.

"He kept 'bots in line, he kept them where he could step on them all! Tortured! Disassembled! Murdered! I want worse for him than just being dead, I want him to live, Soundwave. Live for the Decepticon cause! Live despised by both sides of this war, chained up in a prison the size of himself, locked behind that mask! All he did was die; I want him to suffer!"

The lever had gone all the way forward, the infusion complete; the bot was sitting up on the slab, which itself tilted slowly upwards, shunting him onto his feet. Were it not for the bracing brackets keeping the 'bot in place, he would have toppled to the ground.

"Excellent reasoning, Lord Megatron," Soundwave hummed. He scanned the 'bot, looking him over. "Welcome back. Welcome to the service of Lord Megatron, Sent-"

"Give him a new name," Megatron said. His voice was brusque; it had been a command, not a recommendation. Shockwave swiveled his torso, glancing at the surface map over the workbench, his gaze roving until it fixed on a point at random. He turned back to face the 'bot, whose optics roved wildly behind the mask, grating agonized moans as he got his bearings.

"Welcome to the service of Lord Megatron, Tarn. You will receive your first orders shortly."

#rh.txt #maccadam #tf one #transformers one #shockwave #soundwave #megatron #tf mtmte #tf1 megatron #tf1 soundwave #tf1 shockwave #tf fanfic

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horseshoegirl · 2 years ago

Text

Damn Those Dog Tags: Part 20 - Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)

📜 Everyone wants Jake's reaction to Liz's risky photo. 👀😂Well, you got it... and something else... Let me put it this way: I have to take my chance where I can....

❗+18, sexual themes, strong language, godmother reader/original female character, Mentions of an original child character, deployments, letters, verbal fights, hurricanes, near-death experiences, angst, Don't read if you have Thalassophobia/Aquaphobia cause Jake and Bradley... well, you'll find out, intense moments of peril/disaster.

#7.4k words

Part 19 | Masterlist | Part 21

Hangman could hear his breath, the mechanical exhale and hiss, through his oxygen mask as he finally set his eyes on the carrier alone out at sea.

The tension in his shoulders released, and the weight that had been pressing him down since he and Rooster launched this morning lifted slightly.

"Rooster, where are you?"

"Right behind you, Hangman," came his crackled tense reply.

The attack on the facility had been gruesome and extremely time-sensitive. They only had a few seconds to spare in reaching their destination should there have been any reason for a delay. It was one of the few things he had worried about when they were being briefed, worried if the same ghost that had haunted Rooster on the uranium mission would resurface yet again.

Thankfully, it didn't, and the pair of them managed to get to the target well on time, just to take down two enemy fighter jets before they had even managed to get above the hard deck line.

It might have helped the attack happened right around dawn when nobody was least expecting it—three weeks at sea for an hour in the sky. And the worst of what they thought would happen and what they had prepared for didn't.

You and Sadie had been with him the entire time, your polaroids pinned in his cockpit near the control panel. They were the same ones he had before, the one Sadie took of you and the other of Sadie standing in front of the F-18.

He was looking at them now, between you, Sadie and his navigational beacon, knowing that the second his wheels hit the upper deck, he'd be that much closer to going home.

Hangman was cleared to land, his radio buzzing with the familiar voice of the control tower as he approached the tiny runway. He adjusted the F-18's flaps, feeling the jet respond instantly beneath him, knowing it wasn't over yet, not until both he and Rooster were safely on board.

He took a steadying breath, the sound echoing in his mask as he said to himself in his head, 'Make it perfect. For them."

The back wheels touched down flawlessly, catching the arresting wire with a strong tug. Jake felt himself being pulled forward out of his seat, the straps of his harness tight on his chest. But the second his back hit the chair, he finally felt like he could breathe. The weight on his chest dissipated, and Jake couldn't help the smug grin.

He was finally in the clear.

"Nice landing," he heard the landing officer say through the radio. Jake, taxing himself to the elevator on deck, watched as the officer gave him a thumbs up from the runaway below.

"What can I say? When you're good, you're good," his cheeks hurt from the edges of his mask, grin wide as he cockily gave a two-fingered salute.

If Jake heard the following tense groan coming out of his radio, he didn't let on.

Parking the jet on the elevator strip, Jake watched as he was lowered down into the ship's hanger bay, looking for his designated mechanic as he turned off the flight system. The second he reached the ground, he guided the machine into its designated spot, turning it off completely.

He popped the canopy open before going for his helmet, unstrapping the buckles with haist. He went for one of the pockets on his harness, reaching into the tight space to grab at the zip-locked bag, placing it on top of his helmet before reaching for the polaroids of you and Sadie. Holding both between his thumb, he brought them to his lips, kissing the images simultaneously before placing them safely inside the bag where they belonged.

As Jake stepped down the ladder, a mechanic greeted him, readying a list of questions as Jake started up his post-flight checks.

"It's a good thing you guys finished when you did. Radar points to a tropical storm coming in tonight."

Jake raked his fingers through his hair, trying to combat the sweat. "So we got confirmation we are moving out?"

The mechanic nodded, not bothering to lift his head as he dug for his notepad. "The second you guys were called back. We're already on route to base."

The news only added to his high spirits. Today was a good day.

He was going home.

As Jake answered all the mechanic's questions while checking the jet, out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Bradley's jet ascended down the elevator and rolled into its resting spot. Bradley popped his canopy, climbing out, sliding down the ladder and high-fiving his mechanic, smiling.

He had no idea where the urge, or dare he say courage, came from when he finished walking over to Bradley as he was finalizing his post-flight routine.

Jake waited till Bradley said his last word before approaching him. Jake held out his hand, his voice clear over the commotion, as he said, "Good job flying out there, Bradshaw."

Bradley glanced at Jake's outstretched hand, then to his face, his expression inscrutable. There was a palpable pause, a pregnant beat of tension, before Bradley deliberately rested his hand on the side of his jet, ignoring Jake's overstretched hand completely.

"Don't think one mission changes everything," Bradley replied tersely, eyes sharp and focused.

His reply didn't deter Jake. In fact, he only smirked, lowering his hand. "Didn't think it would. I just wanted to see if you had the balls to acknowledge a job well done. By the way, I went to Liz and apologized. Something you probably never imagined I'd do."

Bradley scoffed, a short, derisive laugh escaping him. "You think an apology is your ticket to redemption? You must have been more rattled up there than I thought. She'd never forgive you after a stunt like that."

Jake bit his lip, contemplating what you or Sadie might say to Rooster at this moment.

So, in a rare second of honesty, in front of his rival, Jake answered Bradley.

"I never expected her to accept my apology, Bradshaw. But I had to try. For her. For Sadie." Jake paused, looking solemn before continuing on. "You know what it's like, leaving on a deployment, not sure when or if you're going to come back. I had to try, and believe it or not, I want to try to get along with you for both their sakes. It's what they would want."

Jake lifted his hand once again, hoping Rooster would take it. But Bradley didn't, nor did he reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Jake to bow his head and drop his hand once again, not knowing if he should sigh or roll his eyes. At this point, it was frugal to think Bradley would ever change his ways.

Least of all for him.

...

"Seresin! Bradshaw! You have mail!"

Jake looked up from his plate just in time to see the communications officer slam a white envelope down to the empty space in front of him. The officer continued her journey down to the other end of the table to Rooster, tossing a nearly identical envelope into his outstretched hands.

Bradley hadn't spoken a word to him since the hanger earlier, not that Jake expected him to. The mess hall wasn't necessarily the friendliest place, and while Jake couldn't have cared less about whether or not he was making friends, he and Bradley tended to stick together silently. They didn't really speak to each other, though. Even when they had to bunk together.

It's funny how deployments did that.

Jake slid his tray over to the side, reaching out to grab the thick piece of paper between his hands and inspecting the front.

White was probably the wrong word to use. The envelope looked like it had a rough time getting to him. There were dirt marks and scuffed-up edges, several post stamps thrown uncaringly on the front. Even a few water marks, which made sense, considering a gust front was currently pounding the upper deck.

What stood out to Jake, though, was your handwriting still perfectly intact. He'd recognize it anywhere.

Lt. Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Jake flipped it over, not expecting to see the words written across the back.

This is everything I didn't say

Jake pulled himself back in his seat, only to realize he had a pair of eyes on him. He looked over to Bradley, noticing how the chicken was staring at the object in Jake's hands. He had already opened his, two pieces of lined paper on the table in front of him.

"From Liz?" Jake finally asked, tilting his head towards Bradley's letter. Rooster looked back down at his, staring at the front. "Sadie, actually."

As if that didn't sting a little bit, Jake thought. Bradley looked back up, eyes fixed on the one in Jake's hands. "Liz?" he asked. It was almost sombre.

Jake tore his eyes away from Bradley to trace your cursive writing with his fingers. "Yeah."

There was something to be said about receiving letters or packages from family and loved ones while in service. Regardless of whether or not Jake and Bradley were on the outs, no one ever dared to mock this particular part of their job. Hearing word from the other side, the outside world, was something sacred, and Bradley knew better than to hold it against Jake- even if he did break your heart.

You had chosen to write him that letter. There was nothing he could really do about it - like he even had a choice. Bradley had to pick and choose his moments where he could.

Jake finally broke the seal, immediately going for the folded-up pieces of paper inside. He let the envelope drop, the sound heavy as it hit the table, and Jake knew you had probably stuffed polaroids inside.

He unfolded your pages and began to read.

Jake,

Everything became still the moment my sister passed away. I keep remembering, picturing it like hands on a clock, having counted the seconds away before finally coming to a stop. The days didn't matter. My next thought, my only thought, was Sadie. Then you came into my picture, our picture, and cheesily enough, that seconds hand on that metaphorical clock started to tick.

I can’t lie; I knew you'd break through my walls the first time I saw you. Not in the Hard Deck that day, but when you were playing football on the beach, me watching you from Penny’s chair. I knew who you were instantly.

Because you had a rep, and everyone had warned me about you - Womanizer.

But I knew the second you spoke to me, the second I had turned around after fixing that damn keg, seeing that mona lisa smile of yours (Yes - I have been calling it that and no, your ego does not need to grow two more sizes because of it), my heart was screaming, Hello, I love you.

(Those are in reference to a song; they don't count just yet).

I have a confession to make, which is partly why I wanted to write you this particular letter.

I put up a wall between you and myself then and there. I think that's the only secret I've ever kept from you. Because as much as I knew something was probably going to happen between the two of us, whatever it would have been, I knew you had the power to devastate my heart completely.

I didn’t get your name that day. Not until you showed up on my doorstep with my favourite flowers, asking me to forgive you, and you sat out in my backyard with everyone singing along to Southern Nights.

The first crack in the wall started when you followed me inside, helping me with the dishes. You were honest with me that night, not the person I thought you to be, and I realized you were putting on a show for others to see. And when I showed up in that long cool black dress at the hard deck that day, and you taught my klutzy ass how to throw a dart, the wall cracked further.

(I can hear you as I write, Jake Seresin. Saying I love your ass, don't diss my ass. Stop making everything sexual, you horny beast.)

Sadie knew it, too... that my walls were cracking. She sees everything. It's why she invited you on that damn hike. And there is also a part of me wondering if Ridley sent that damn sake from wherever she is now, hoping to get the two of us together - it would be something she'd do if she had the power…if she was able to rule the world to make it happen.

Then, all of you guys were deployed. And everything that could have gone wrong went wrong.

I don't know if three little birds told me things were going to be alright back then, but I somehow knew, deep down, they would be - even if you fly like you have nothing to lose and everything to prove. You don't, not to me. And oh, what a night it was when you came home.

I wanted you to kiss me that night. But I'm glad you didn't. Because the night I drifted away in your arms, you might as well have shot a missile from your F-18 and made my walls crumble almost completely.

Almost. Because what truly did it was when you let Sadie hang on to you during that thunderstorm. How you cared for her and told her it was going to be okay. How good you were with her and how you might be with your own. I will never stop saying how much that meant to me- what it still means to me.

Then you rammed me up against my hallway, and I had to really hang on for dear life.

(I just realized we never talked about our futures on our first date. We were too busy screaming Let's dance to figure out if Marriage/Kids, etc., were on the table - if they are something you want. Cause I'm all in Jake, whether we do or not. All I know is that I want to be with you - you and Sadie are enough.)

Then someone made himself known, and hell would have to freeze over before I mentioned his name in a letter to you - Dream on asshole. But you loved, yes loved, me through my worst moments, Sadie's worst moments. When I sang as a Blue healer for my feelings deep blue, when sons and daughters of people long gone raged, and I had to hide in my bathtub, waiting till it was all over.

When you showed me it was okay to live and experience life through the bad moments, that it was okay to remember my sister, even in the rays of a sunset from the sky. And when you made me want to scream sex on fire, cause damn Jake, we definitely weren't taking things slow.

I won't mention the 'incident' with George or how much rain I saw when Bradley drove me home. I know; I've always known how much generational trauma you've carried in your blood throughout your entire life. I will say, though, out of all the songs that had to play on the jukebox the night things for Sadie and I finally came to an end, it had to be Come a little bit closer. (That pissed me off, you have no idea, Jake.... stop laughing, you asshole).

And although it’s been weeks for me since you left me standing at the end of my driveway, after you apologized and I felt like a Sapling, searching for an Oak, watching you drive off to go our separate ways for a small length of time, being worlds apart, I’m counting down the minutes, the hours, the seconds till I can tell you what you need to hear.

Because My sister had a box. A just-in-case box. Filled with letters, objects, and memories. I finally opened it, with Sadie, of course, on an evening I will never soon forget. I don't want a repeat of that. Of me finally visiting Ridley and reading her letter, her last words to me on her grave.

I don't want that to be us.

So Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, after breaking down my walls not once but twice, I will not write those three words down in this letter. I'd rather tell you in person. So I can see your face when I do. I’m a fair lady - if you wanted me to wait to tell you until you are home, I’m waiting till you come home.

So much of our relationship started backwards. A first kiss before the first date, an extended sleepover before the first touch. We made a promise to each other, not already realizing we had already broken it.

So, sir, if you think the second I see your face, I'm not going to try to jump you, drag you home and lock Sadie out of my bedroom, you can kiss this idea of going slow out the window. Life's too short to go slow when... well, you'll find out soon enough.

And I know you think Sadie doesn’t want to see you again. That's she's still mad at you and will be forever mad for what happened. But I know for a fact the second she sees you, she will jump into your arms. You’re her uncle - you count more than you’ll ever know.

And while sleep deprivation is my remaining side effect from dealing with the grief I’ve shouldered, I know part of it involves counting down the days for when I can fall asleep with you next to me.

And maybe even doing something else ;)

Your darlin' Elizabeth

P.S. Sadie wanted to send some Polaroids - I promise you, she doesn't hate you, but I know you're still going to think otherwise until you come home. We went on a hike, so there are probably some bug-themed ones in there... I'm sorry for what you see... so if you have anyone lurking over your shoulder, you might want to be careful. They aren't for everyone.

You were right about one thing: he was still so sure Sadie had it out for him. The day she had cornered him at the beach haunted his thoughts. The look and level of disappointment she had on her face would forever remain imprinted in his head.

Yet, he still wiped at his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair, his heart feeling like it was going to beat out of his chest. He reached into the envelope and grabbed at the small stack.

The first few were from the hike you mentioned; Sadie chose one of you, sitting on the same rock she had done last year. He still had the photo he took on his phone. There were some ones with bugs, no question about it. But they weren't random ones, either.

There was one of Sadie surrounded by what looked like to be monarchs. Jake had never seen her look so happy, her smile wide and beautiful, and he couldn't help the grin on his face looking down at the image.

But when Jake went to slide the image of Sadie behind the others, he did a double take, quickly hiding the following polaroid from view.

You wouldn't have, he thought. There was no way.

Jake glanced around the hall, turning the collection of pictures down to face the table in his hands, wondering if anyone had seen what he had seen. But next to Bradley, who was too engrossed in his own letter even to lift his head, the hall had cleared itself out, leaving the two of them practically alone.

Hesitantly lifting his hands, Jake slid Sadie's photo over, carefully peering down at the image of you.

You. On your bed. Half naked.

You seemed carefree, leaning back on your bed, damp tendrils of your hair half clinging to your face, half covering the sharp lines of your neck. Oh, how many times he had kissed that neck, and now, seeing it on display, only for him - Jake had to draw in a sharp breath.

And his dog tags hanging between your half-bare breasts, framed by the silk of your robe, glinting in the soft, warm sunlight from your bedroom window. And written along the bottom... Come home and take them back ;)

You cheeky... Jake could feel the heat rush to his face: surprise, desire, and pure pride. He was thousands of miles away, and you found yet another way to remind him of what awaited him when he got home.

The Mona Lisa smile, as you had so deemed, spread wide across his face as he whispered to himself in one ragged breath, "Damn, Liz."

He felt himself getting hard just looking at you.

He'd send you a message when they were closer to American soil, hoping you and Sadie would be there to greet him. But more importantly, if you'd make plans for Penny to take Sadie that night. Cause fuck the lock on your bedroom door. He wanted to find out all the ways he could make you scream for him, all the sounds you had yet to make for him.

Until then, Jake climbed into his bunk that night, reading your letter over and over, staring at the photo you had gifted him, wondering and coming up with all the ways the two of you would celebrate his homecoming. Because lying on that narrow bunk, he couldn't stop his rampant thoughts.

He could almost feel the silk of your robe against his fingertips, the wet strands of your hair brushing against his palms, and the warmth of your skin. And those fucking dog tags he gave you, nestled between the soft curves of your breasts - everything made a fierce heat coil in the lower half of his stomach.

Jake shifted uncomfortably, the rough sheets tangling around his legs, the damp are doing little to soothe his fevered skin. He rolled over into his pillow, trying to summon any other thought but that photo - anything to take his mind off the overwhelming feeling of pure want that consumed him.

You were there, in every corner he turned to, beckoning him with both those innocent and mischievous glint in your eyes, making him crave the day he finally came home. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to find some semblance of calm against the lust you had ignited within him.

But falling asleep, his dreams were only filled with you. And all the ways he'd finally have you cumming on his cock.

...

Jake jolted awake to the sound of a high-pitched beeping in his ears, almost hitting the bunk above his. His stomach felt uneasy, like it had been flipped upside down, and every sense was screaming at him something was wrong. He was off balance, unable to ground himself to a solid point.

He hated not being in control.

Rooster shouted from the bunk above, and Jake pressed himself against the tiny wall as he felt himself tilted hard to the side, masked by a shutter that shook their entire room.

Bradley wasn't as lucky, rolling straight out of his bed and landing hard on the ground with a massive thunk. Jake wanted to laugh, but even he couldn't stop the grimace as he heard the sound.

Bradley groaned a long, pitful sound, lifting himself to rest on his hands. "What the hell is going on?!"

"What do you think, Bradshaw? You've never been stuck in a storm on a deployment before?"

He knew he shouldn't be so snarky with Bradley, but this morning had left him in a sour mood. Not to mention, the storm was but another obstacle in his path stopping him from getting home sooner.

It was going to be a long night.

Bradley sat up, about to reply with a remark just as snarky, when the PA system blared above their heads.

All currently available personnel report to the lower decks for assistance. I repeat all currently available personnel report to the lower decks for assistance.

Jake tore out of bed, and Bradley stood sharply, both reaching for their fight suits, putting them on in a rush. As Bradley laced his boots, Jake reached for your letter and picture on his bed, quickly shoving them inside the packet he had in his chest pocket with the other Polaroids.

He didn't know if and when he'd be back here.

As the pair emerged from their room, they had to dodge multiple people flying past in a mass panic, trying to get to their respective stations. The added struggle of not knowing what the carrier was going to throw at them next also didn't help. All Jake and Bradley knew was that, given a storm, let alone even in a hurricane, they needed to be down at the lower docks, reinforcing the restraints on the Jets.

The ship groaned, then shook, the floor vibrating beneath their feet.

"What the hell was that?" Bradley shouted, his voice strained with concern. Jake struggled to steady himself, gripping a nearby railing. His Texian accent was strong as he shouted his reply, "It doesn't matter. Let's just get to the hanger bay!"

It was pure chaos the second they arrived. Bright flashing red emergency lights, crew members scrambling in every direction. Next to the high-pitched alarm going off every other second, the ship continued to creak and groan, rocking enough that Jake and Bradley had to steady themselves.

"Get the damn secondary restraints on the F-18s!" A senior official shouted as they passed. Jake and Bradley's 'Yes, sir' only seemed to fall on deaf ears.

The pair raced towards the first jet, stopping momentarily to assist what they needed to do. Jake's voice was barely audible above the chaos. "We need to get the secondary straps down and make sure the wheel jacks are in place!"

Bradley shot him a disdainful look. "Thanks for stating the obvious. I was about to suggest a picnic."

Jake gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to snap back. "Not now, Bradshaw."

Bradley only rolled his eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

As they began to secure the planes, the ground started to tilt enough to throw them off balance if they weren't careful. Jake and Bradley tried to brace themselves as one adjusted the straps while the other secured the wheel jacks.

A cry for help managed to break through the alarms and shouts, and both turned towards the sound. Bradley was closest, shouting out, "I got it!" before running off, not bothering to hear Jake's reply.

The sound of a wire recoiling, snapping hard like a whip through the air, startled Jake, making him turn sharply. A wooden crate, the height of his chest, had broken loose from its net, sliding directly towards him.

Bracing himself, Jake charged forward, holding out his hands to stop it from crashing into the jet behind him. He grunted hard as the wood slammed into his palms. Jake used as much strength as he could gather, baring his teeth and straining his muscles, to push the crate back towards where it came from.

Jake's mechanic from before suddenly appeared next to him, helping him push the crate back into the relative safety of the net.

"What the hell is going on?!" Jake shouted over the alarm system. The mechanic continued to work as he replied, "Everything! The whole ship is going to hell! We've got engine failure. Some of the airlock doors won't seal properly on the lowest deck, and to fucking top it off, one of the ballast tanks is compromised! In a fucking hurricane!"

That would explain the rocking, Jake thought, as the ship titled back, allowing for the create to easily slide back into its original spot with no more effort. The mechanic knotted the net through a few metal loops on the ground while Jake rested his hands on his knees, bent over and panting hard.

The second he finished, the mechanic left Jake standing there as he was called off towards another task.

Jake straightened, looking around to see where he was needed next, his eyes instantly landing on Rooster, who was dealing with his own crate. He ran towards him, using his weight to help Bradley push the crate back and away into its designated spot.

The two managed to secure it, and struggling to catch his breath, Bradley glared at Jake. "Didn't need your help."

"Of course, you didn't," Jake retorted, frustration evident.

"I had it handled."

"Right," Jake panted.

"Always gotta be the hero, don't you, Hangman?" Rooster grumbled.

Whatever had encouraged him to reach an olive branch earlier was long gone. Whether it was Rooster's words or the situation, Jake simply had enough.

He hit Bradley square in his chest with both hands, sending him backwards a few steps. "Okay, what's your damn problem with me, Bradshaw?!"

"Now?!" Bradley shouted, ready to fight it out. "You want to do this now?"

"Good as time as any!" Jake remarked, throwing his hands to the side in open invitation. He was tired of Rooster's animosity, of the constant back and forth, but damn if he wasn't ready for the confrontation.

"What is it? My call-sign? What I did to earn it!?" Jake cocked his head, stepping to the side, causing the two pilots to circle each other. "Or is it what I said about your old man two years ago?! You didn't even let me finish, so I couldn't have said anything that truly pissed you off. And you know what, not that it matters, but I'm sorry if it hurt your feelings."

The floor shook beneath their feet, but neither man seemed phased. Bradley only fisted his hands tighter with each remark that passed Jake's lips.

"Or is it Liz? Sadie? The fact they welcomed me in with open arms, loved me, and there wasn't a hell of a thing you could have to stop it?"

The surrounding chaos only seemed to amplify Bradley's longstanding irritation with Jake. Bradley stalked forward, slamming his hands to Jake's chest and returning the favour.

"It's everything! Everything you stand for!" he shouted, his nostrils flaring hard. "Don't you dare say Sadie's name, not when I know you are going to leave that little girl out to dry. I won't have it, Hangman!

Recognition flashed in Jake's eyes, and he knew, he understood right then, amongst all the chaos and panic, the lengths any one of the Daggers would go to make sure their bug was loved and protected above all else.

It had never been about you. It had always, always been about Sadie.

"Sadie?!" he shouted. "That's the reason?"

Jake clenched his fists, struggling to find the words. "You think I would ever abandon Sadie? Or Liz? You've seen me, day in and day out, fighting for them, fighting fucking Tyler, fighting to get back to them. I would die before they were hurt. Before any one of you were hurt."

"But you did! The second your brother asked you to." Bradley's voice hardened. "Answer me this: in the heat of the moment, when you're faced with a choice, can you honestly tell me you'd put them first?"

Tyler and everything he had wrought flashed in Bradlely's mind, but he pressed on.

"Not your pride, not your ego, but them? Or any of us. Unasked or not on the job! Cause I know you wouldn't!"

Jake reeled back, Bradley's words hitting him hard. But Bradley didn't falter. His face was still lit up with all the pent-up anger and frustration he held for Jake since the day he got his call sign.

"I see the man behind the show, the guy who thinks he's invincible. But you're not." Bradley pointed his finger. "Until you prove otherwise, I won't trust you with them. Not with Sadie. Not with Liz. Not with any of us."

Jake opened his mouth to reply, but a shout from the officer who gave them orders before interrupted him.

"You two, Top Gun! Quit standing around and go to the communications office and see where we are at with our navigation systems!"

Bradley stomped past Jake without another word, leaving him to silently fume for a few seconds before following him out of the hanger.

In the dimly lit, claustrophobic corridors of the carrier, the metallic walls groaned, strained by the might of the storm. Water or steam, they weren't sure which, was starting to pool in patches along the floor. With each wave and rock the ship encountered, the intermittent jolts sent the two pilots grasping for whatever was nearest to stay upright as they tried to make it to the communications office.

Following Bradley, Jake felt a spike of irritation. 'Why's he got to make everything so damn personal?' Jake thought bitterly. Bradley, meanwhile, was a simmering pot of anger.

"Why do you always have to be right in the middle of everything, Hangman?" Bradley shot over his shoulder, clearly irritated. "Can't you just once follow orders without making it about you?"

Jake gritted his teeth, trying to hold back a retort. "Look, can we just get to the comms and figure this out? We can bicker like an old married couple later."

Bradley's face twisted in a smirk, his pace never faltering. "Don't flatter yourself. I have standards."

A loud klaxon sounded, the eerie wail echoing through the narrow halls of the carrier. Jake and Bradley covered their ears, falling into the walls.

The second they managed to pull themselves up onto their feet, the PA system blared out another warning.

Begin bail-out and evacuation procedures. I repeat, Begin bail-out and evacuation procedures. All personnel should be on the upper decks in five minutes.

Jake turned to Bradley, his face filled with urgency. "We need to go! Now!"

Bradley snarled. He had no idea whether it was out of frustration with the current situation or Jake barking orders at him. But Jake was having none of it, grabbing Bradley hard by the collar of his suit and tugging him hard.

Jake's eyes were hard and furious as he remarked, "I'm not dying today, and neither should you."

Something flashed in Bradley's eyes that Jake could not name. But it was enough to give Bradley pause, water droplets running down his face as the anger and tension decided to leave him from earlier.

"We need to get home! For the girls," Jake roughed out. "For Liz and Sadie! Whatever hate you have towards me, we need to get out for them. Now!"

Another name came to Bradley's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud, even now. Instead, Bradley could only sallow and nod. He couldn't deny Jake was right.

It was damn near impossible to sink an aircraft carrier. Jake and Bradley knew this. The things were built to withstand the roughest seas, hurricanes included. They were the most balanced and sturdiest things that ever graced any body of water on this planet. They had to be if aviators were literally landing planes on them.

But as water continued to breach the carrier, and as the pair raced through the ship to get to a proper stairwell that would get them to the relief point on the upper decks, they both wondered about the series of unfortunate events that led them to this point. The mechanics in the hangar bay had said everything was going wrong.

Bradley was on the verge of saying sabotage, wondering if they had a spy amongst their ranks. The mission had gone so much better than they had thought. But in their line of work, if something suspicious didn't happen, then their job wasn't over.

Jake just wanted to get both of them out of there.

They finally reached one of the escape hatches, a stairwell that led directly to the upper deck. Bradley was the one to turn the wheel on the door first, Jake joining in shortly after once he realized the sheer force Rooster was putting into opening the door.

A pressure vale released, and the second the two managed to open the door, Jake surged forward, followed by Bradley, who made their way into the narrow stairwell, hoping all had not been lost.

Jake paused on the small landing, looking up at the flights guided by the emergency light. There were a few fires scattering the walls, but it was climbable, and if both of them hurried, they wouldn't have any issues.

Bradley's hand on his shoulder made him pause.

"Dude, we have to book it."

Jake turned his head, ready with a cocky reply of something resembling a 'you don't think I know that' until he took in Bradley's panicked face, staring at the stairs below. Following Bradley's eyes, Jake reeled, noticing the rising water levels.

Grabbing Rooster by the back of his suit, Jake pulled Bradley in front of him, pushing him up the stairs, urging him forward and shouting, Go!

The two tried not to look up as they climbed, picturing their destination in their minds. Ignoring the sound of the alarm and the rushing water, Jake and Bradley counted their steps as they tried to reach the top. And they were close. Even as the rest of the ship creaked and groaned, they still fought to reach the top, unaware if help was waiting for them on the other side.

Then something blew up on one of the upper levels, the sound, the vibration, causing Jake and Bradley to slam themselves into the wall, trying to make themselves as small as possible. The lights flickered once, twice, then completely out, before a rotating red emergency light dimly lit the narrow stairwell. Metal crunched above their heads, snapping like twigs, and Jake didn't dare look up for fear of what might happen to either of them.

They felt it before they saw it, thin metal snapping out from underneath their feet. Feeling himself lurching forward, Jake immediately reached out for anything to hold on to. His fingers met a railing untouched by damage, and he latched on, suddenly opening his eyes to pull himself up and towards the relative safety of the remnants of the broken landing.

Bradley hadn't been so lucky.

Because the falling debris favoured his side of the stairs, the section he'd been crouching against completely crumpled under the impact, leaving only an empty space where thick, rushing water roiled menacingly below. There was nothing Bradley could have clung to, nothing that would have saved him from falling towards those black depths or allowed him to reach the warped edges of that landing.

Till his hand slapped onto a piece of a broken railing, Bradley struggled to find a grip tight enough to counteract the sweat on his palms. A panicked noise escaped his mouth as he slid down the newly indented piece of metal, finally stopping just before the end, muscles taunt and ridged as he forced breath into his body.

Jake had managed to pull himself up onto the landing as Bradley had fallen, instantly rolling himself up onto his chest to look down for the pilot.

He was within reach, and Jake extended his hand, on the verge of falling off the flimsy piece of metal. Bradley was hanging on, barely, looking between Jake's hand and the beam, the metal becoming looser and looser by the second.

And yet, Bradley still wouldn't take his hand.

"For godsakes, Bradshaw, just take my fucking hand!"

Jake purposely tried to jolt his arm forward in emphasis, hoping Bradley would finally take the leap and let go. But Bradley bowed his head, trying to force air into his lungs through his mouth as he looked down. With each pulse of red light, the water appeared to be getting higher and higher with each second.

He let out a panicked noise, trying to adjust his slipping grip. The movement caused the metal beam to drop slightly further, accompanied by a jarring clang. Bradley cried out, trying to reach for the broken edge of the landing.

Jake could feel himself slipping, sliding forward until he caught his boot on the railing, locking his body tight as he hung over the edge. Sharp, broken pieces of metal bit into his stomach as he swayed, trying to reach once again.

"Bradley! Just take my hand!" he shouted over the alarms, not any less urgent than before. "Please!"

Jake had never begged a day in his life, let alone to someone like Rooster. But there was no way he wasn't going home without him. You would never forgive him, and Sadie would never recover. He knew that for a fact.

Metal snapped, and Bradley dropped another inch, thinking this was it. That the railing was no longer attached to whatever had been holding it in place, baring his entire weight. Bradley threw his arm up towards Jake's in a desperate move.

Jake grabbed his wrist at the last possible second, a pained shout escaping his lips as he completely absorbed his weight, metal grating bending underneath him. But the grip he had on the railing with his foot held, and Jake bowed his head in relief, taking a few seconds with Bradley hanging dangerously off his arm to ground himself, trying not to think about what might have happened had he not caught him.

Jake grunted hard as he pulled Rooster up, his other hand finding a grip on the fabric of his flight suit along his back, hoping the railing from where he grounded himself would hold long enough to support them both. Bradley did the same with Jake's, using it as leverage to hoist himself up over the edge, only to roll onto his back, breathing hard.

Jake twisted his body away from the edge, laying on his back next to Rooster, staring up at what remained of the remaining flights of stairs. With the water still rushing below them and red lights spinning above them, the two dagger pilots took a few seconds to recuperate in the middle of the danger.

"You had to wait till the last second, didn't you?" Jake roughed out, panting hard. Bradley took three deep breaths before managing to gasp out, "I had to keep it interesting, right?"

Jake slammed his eyes shut, rocking his head to the side in slight annoyance. Bringing himself to a stand, Jake held out his hand again to help Bradley up. This time, Rooster didn't refuse it, instantly throwing his arm out to grasp the back of Jake's elbow, hoisting himself up.

Jake went to let go the minute he was up, but Bradley's grip remained firm.

"This is the second time you've saved me," he said, trying to make out Jake's face in the red light and dropping water. "You could have left me this time, for everything I've done, said..."

"What would be the point?" Jake interrupted him. "If I'd left you, I'd be no better than the person you thought I was. Besides," Jake added, smirking, "who else would I have to constantly prove wrong if you weren't around?"

Bradley scoffed, a tint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Asshole."

Jake shrugged. "It's in my nature. Now, can we please get the hell out of here?"

Bradley nodded, releasing Jake's elbow. In a dramatic fashion, he gestured for Jake to lead the way, looking up towards the rest of their journey to escape. But Bradley's eyes widened in horror as he saw the chunk of ceiling, metal, and wiring breaking loose directly above Jake.

"Jake, move!" Bradley bellowed, his voice echoing with urgency as he dropped to the ground, trying to drag Jake with him.

But in the chaos of falling water, blinking lights and cacophony of alarms, Jake was a split second too late to comprehend the warning fully. Just as he turned to see the descending danger, the heavy debris crashed down, the force of the impact throwing him off balance, rocking whatever remained of the grating they were standing on.

A metallic clang resonated sharply, followed by the splash of water as Jake was sent reeling backwards. The last thing Bradley saw, huddled against the wall, was the look of shock and realization in Jake's eyes, his silhouette disappearing beneath the surging tide of murky water, quickly consuming any trace of him.

Bradley, mouth agape, crawled over to the edge, Jake's call-sign a cry masked by the high-pitched alarms.

"Hangman!"

Bradley couldn't see him anywhere. Water continued to rush into the space, and Bradley, kneeling against the metal grating, tried to spot any area where Jake could manage to resurface. But with the power out and the pulsing red emergency lights, he couldn't see beyond the water's black surface.

Last call, I repeat, last call for evacuation and bail-out procedures.

Rooster pulled himself to stand, weighing his options.

He could jump and look for Jake. Despite the precarious situation they found themselves in, the water was still slow to fill the narrow stairwell. Bradley estimated he had minutes before the water became too much for him to handle.

Or he could leave, save himself. Say he did everything he could. That Jake was lost, the situation was too dire.

That Jake died a hero, trying to save him once again.

But it wasn't even a choice; the decision had already been made. It had been made the second your face appeared in front of his, and how it changed into a faded memory of his mom, collapsing to the ground at the news of his father's death. And Bradley, watching it all from behind the corner of a wall, forever feeling small.

But then it wasn't him as a child, but Sadie, the same look on her face the day the two of you walked up the driveway of your sister's place. The same look he found on her face the day she ran into your backyard, pulling at grass.

Jake would be another person for the both of you to mourn. He couldn't let that happen.

Bradley crossed his arms over his chest and jumped, diving under the water.

All he could see was black.

I had to cliffhanger you guys one last time with this one 😂 Please forgive me....

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Part 21 - My Fair Lady Coming Soon 👀

-Wickett ;)

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