#mantra to control lust

[occamstfs]

Man-Candle

Under the guise of a gag-gift Chad gives his bookish friend a candle based on his own b.o. Little does Stephen know, as soon as he lights the wick he sets off to join the jock in sweaty abandon.

Very musk forward Jock TF! Hope you enjoy this story of Stephen's scent-based (new)self-discovery, Best! -Occam

His ears ring with tinnitus as he opens the gift. It’s as if an explosion has gone off as he tries to process the pancake in his hands. Everything in him says to laugh, it’s clearly a gag gift, a Man-Candle? His mouth is dry and all the blood in his head rushes to its other epicenter as Stephen looks up, eyes wide, to the man who by all appearances has given him a candle of his own musk, Chad.

His cocky grin is a perfect likeness of the one on the candle’s label staring up from Stephen’s lap. Chad’s expression grows even smarmier as he winks and raises an arm to smell his pit. Stephen’s face burns red as he sees the clear patch of grey that must have been fermenting all morning, his cock bumps against the package.

Chad’s eyes shoot immediately to the sound and his smirk shifts and an eyebrow’s raised in curiosity, excited that his friend must quite like the gift. Stephen speaks up quickly, lest the two brain cells bouncing around the jock’s skull stumble across any ideas, “What the fuck?” The first volley, bounces off Chad’s steel confidence. The second “what the fuck,” causes an eye narrow as the idea that this may be a misstep finally occurs to him, the third repetition of Stephen’s new mantra apparent gets through through Chad’s thick skull.

The jock’s arm remains raised to scratch his back and Stephen’s cock is more than happy to see the grey patch return and his mind must remain focused on not staring directly at the few pit hairs sneaking above his sleeve. Chad clears his throat awkwardly, “I mean bro… Chicks are always talking about how they love, huh- y’know,” he gestures to the air around him, “my aura. Just thought, you know, uhhh- a dude like you might too?”

The jock braces as he sees Stephen’s eyes narrow as he clearly winds up to somehow lash out. Unfortunately for the twink he takes a deep breath to start and is hit with the full force of the man’s ‘aura,’ it catches him off guard and underneath the package his cock pushes again. Stephen grits his teeth and averts his eyes as he tries to hide his desire, “Chad! Those are people you’re sleeping with! I’m just- This is-” Stephen does everything in his power to quiet his lust as he finishes, “Why would I want this?” 

Chad tongues his cheek and juts his stubbled jaw. Scratching his meaty stomach in thought, Stephen can hear the hairs dragged underneath the jock’s tight shirt. Making up his mind Chad decides to speak on the elephant, or moreover the trunk, in the room. Nodding to the gift poorly hiding Stpehen’s erection, Chad shrugs “I mean bro, seems like you’re enjoying it just fine.” 

“Jesus Christ, fucking straight men!” As unfortunately turned on as Stephen is from the gift and the hunk he has long tried to not be attracted to, at the highlighting of his out of control cock he finds the will to defend his paltry dignity. Though instead of speaking up as his mind is not running on all cylinders, his hands instead reach for anything not breakable to hurl at the man still smirking.

Pillows fly at the man as he continues to try and explain his thoughts, “Yo bro! Watch it-” he grabs one to use as a shield against the continued volley, “I mean I can take it back if you want!” Stephen’s dreams of salvaging dignity perhaps fall to the wayside as this remark causes the hardest throw yet. Chad smirks behind the pillow and finally gets to the door, “Whatever dude! I’ll see ya later! Once you’ve cooled off a bit-” 

Chad stands behind the closed door with a shit-eating grin on his face, straight men huh. Awfully dismissive of the bi jock’s identity but whatever. He listens to Stephen huff and unbox the candle through the wall, unaware that the real gift is to come when he finally lights that bad boy up. Whenever the pair get drunk enough it always devolves into Stephen wishing he’d hit the gym more and Chad begging for his friend to join him. He’d love nothing more than a gym bro he can fuck, and soon enough, unless Stephen has the strength to nip his blue balls in the bud, both wishes are to be granted.

It does not take long for already riled-up Stephen to give in to his curious urges. As soon as the scent of Chad in the air dissipates and he hears the front door of his apartment close, the countdown begins. Stephen stares at the obnoxiously smug photo of Chad on the candle and narrows his eyes, “I mean surely it’s a bit? It can’t actually smell like him specifically? Seems hm, expensive to do.” 

He bites his lip as he shakily goes to remove the lid, driven by a mind less than conscious and more than hungry. Mouth on the precipice of watering, as soon as the seal is cracked the scent washes over him like a tidal wave. Somehow more powerful, more alluring than the real thing. Rich and grimy, and indisputably the essence of Chad distilled into waxen form.

His eyes are glazed over and his mouth is now pooling with drool. It's anyone’s guess as to how the candle gets lit, but so it does. Stephen falls back onto the couch as his hands struggle to free his cock quick enough from pants that force it down at an awkward angle. It finally bounces free, flinging more pre than he’s ever produced upward. Droplets land just shy of his own face as his mouth falls wantonly open and his hands begin their gleeful work.

The creation of Eau De Chad was not light work, the boiling down of man into a single candle is quite the ask. Perhaps even more so than the transformative magic that it is to instill in Stephen. Within the candle are notes from every musky epicenter of Chad’s being, more than powerful enough to distract Stephen as he begins his journey into a musky jock’s shoes himself.

Foremost of the mind-numbing notes that the lost man is bathing himself in is perhaps the one he’s smelled the least. As strong as in his jock after a workout, sweaty pubes and dripping pre. The medley of scents from Chad’s crotch is so powerful that even without clearly even knowing the source it’s on the tip of Stephen’s tongue, much like he would dream to have on his tongue in reality.

Each breath pulling him deeper than the last, Stephen continues to paw at his cock now free to the open, musky air. With each kneading thrust his hands struggle to encompass his dick as it begins to change. Years of pushing down primal desires for his friend, the Adonis, evaporate into the air as he pictures himself working Chad’s cock. Breathing and licking the heady swear straight from the source.

He imagines working the larger man’s spit-covered cock and with each new image in his mind his own beast begins to reform. Dripping more pre than he’s produced in his life up to this point, his hips thrust into wanting hands as his dick thickens and spears high into the air. Lengthening to press against his sternum, veins bulge and criss-cross across its length as its head regrows a foreskin he never had the chance to enjoy.

When his smaller hands, unable to truly satisfy or encompass his new rod, shift down to try and cup balls bulging larger and pumping him full of masculinity, he hears them scratch against the new jungle of growing pubes. Though the jock tries to keep his chest relatively hairless, under the belt hair growth is wild enough to more than make up for it, and as Stephen begins changing into his new musky lover, he seems to be of the same persuasion.

The candle wick flickers as a new scent begins to rise in prominence. This one Stephen recognizes all too well, though usually poorly masked under cheap deodorant, the scent of Chad’s pits could never be truly hidden. His mouth waters as the scent washes through him and his whole body contorts in pleasure. When his own pits begin to itch he gasps and for the first time opens his eyes to find an impossibly large cock hanging over his thin thighs. His mouth quivers into a smile as the line between dream and reality shifts muddy.

For now though, for the pit fiend there is only one thing to do. He raises his arm and gasps as he sees his few pit hairs lengthening, while in between each one a few darker curls make themselves at home. Stephen forces his head into the sweaty spot and hungrily sniffs. Nose tickled by the growing jungle he moans as he encounters his own changing scent, currently overcoming his own, usually superfluous, deodorant it is but a pale imitation of Chad’s. Though it races to be something equivalent, no, greater. 

He continues taking deep breaths, switching between the candle burning strong and his own pit as his musk continues to heighten and shift. With each needy sniff it becomes clear that his odor is not the only part of him shifting. Previously undeveloped arms cramp as muscle begins to pile on. Veins pulse down their center as biceps that have scarcely known strain burn as muscle fibers break and reform to create an impressive peak.

Stephven’s face suddenly contracts into a smirk that he never quite understood before now as his arms force themselves into a pose. Flexing and exposing his newly hairy pits in what he now knows as a front lat spread, he almost laughs as his heady powerful musk begins to overpower the scent burning off the candle. 

Having not actually left the apartment, Chad puts an ear to the door as Stephven’s laughter and moans rise in volume and deepen in tone. He creaks open the door and is almost physically hit with the wave of musk as it pours out like a fog from Steven’s bedroom. His own brand mixing with the steam of sweat seeping from his new bros pits is almost more than he can handle. With every step his mind strains to not just give into his own hunger to pounce on his half-formed bro sitting in the chair. 

Hearing Steven’s socks fray and tear as a subtle note of foot funk rises to the top of the candle. Seeing his new partner’s legs fill his young-professional pants to their limit, bulging thighs pushing at and swiftly bursting the strained seams. Chad bites his lip almost to the point of drawing blood as he feels his own thighs cramp. He doesn’t know if he’s somehow growing as his new gym bro continues to edge larger or if he’s simply overwhelmed, if his own mind is too clouded from the hunger and musk.

Chad shambles towards Steven, mouth falling open as he sees the shimmering sweaty traps that have torn his shirt open. His eyes can’t look away from the newly heavy pecs that hang over his defined abs, he fights the urge to lean down and lap at the muscle as Steven delights in bouncing them. Sending cascading shadows across his sweaty core, and gaining more mass with every dancing flex.

 Instead, Chad leans in close to Steven’s delirium painted face. “Looks like ya liked my gift after all, huh Steve?” His breath mists across Steve’s face. Its heavy humidity barely overcomes the sweaty atmosphere but the sharp mint and undercurrent of musty breath underneath call to his nose like smelling salts. 

His jaw cracks and widens as the changes that have overtaken him finally begin their work on the final frontier. Unable to control himself Chad licks the man’s face as it prickles with stubble. Steve’s nose breaks then reforms, his brows thicken and cast a shadow over his eyes as they lose both their color and clarity. Deepening to brown as their default state becomes glazed and thoughtless.

Feeling Chad’s sticky tongue drag on his cheek, it’s like he was struck by lightning. Every new bulging muscle in Steve’s body flexes at once and he stands to his new height, able to make direct eye contact with the man staring at him, just inches away.

Steve tackles him onto the bed, knocking over the candle and sending wax flying through the air. The pair are sparingly coated in the Chad scented candle as they begin heavily exploring Steve’s new form. As their mouths that have always been left wanting find new delight, whatever shreds of the old Stephen that are left begin to vacate.

The anxieties and priorities of a small meek man who never let his id loose disappear as he positions himself over Chad. He bites his bro’s lip and thrusts downward as he pins the massive man’s hands above his head. Masked by the pleasure of true release, he doesn’t care as his old self washes away. Memories evaporate like the sweat pouring off his form. He delights in maneuvering across Chad’s form and enjoying his musk from the source.

His tongue dances across sweaty pecs that match his own as his collection of classics on a bookshelf disappear to be replaced by free weights. Steve’s nose finally shoves its way into Chad’s pits as his extensive collection of hygiene and beauty products down the hall clatter to the floor and disappear as they’re replaced by a single bar of clinical deodorant only used for special occasions. Sleeves fall off his wardrobe of cardigans and button ups as sweat stains yellow every garment. The tops throw themselves from hangers while musty shorts and jockstraps heap into a pile on the floor.

Sweat drips from his brow as with each thrust into Chad his mind gives up the ghost. Each impossible wave of pleasure erodes his old self, each drop of sweat an idea gone, each rivulet of pre dripping down his veiny cock a sign of his intelligence drained to increase the muscle mass of his new form. After all besides pleasure nothing matters to him nearly as much as his fucking hot bod.

He feels his balls pulse as every remaining aspect of Stephen’s self shoots down and is quickly converted. His eyes roll back as he cums the few specks of self remaining in a massive load onto Chad’s sweaty abs. After a few moments of total mindlessness from the jubilee of release, Steve awakens to find himself atop his bro and simply laughs, “Huhuh woah dude that’s a fuckin’ fat load huh?” He scratches at his hairy chest and grimaces as he imagines how that’s going to hide his gains.

Seeing the thoughts on his face as the two are evermore on the same wavelength Chad pauses rubbing Steve’s cum onto his abs and offers, “Lookin’ a little rough there bro, wanna go top up and then hit the gym?” Steve smirks as his bro basically reads his mind, “Yoooo totally let’s hit it!” He punches down into his bro as he stands, smirking as he watches Chad’s cock bounce before sprinting into the restroom and prepping to get pumped.

The gym starts to clear out as the pair arrive, judging by the musk already following in their wake no one dares risk having to smell what it’s like once they actually start going. Stopping in the locker room the pair stop publicly groping and sniffing each other long enough to take a pre-workout photo, tongues out as ever. When they see some poor soul who didn’t escape the gym quick enough covering his nose they eye each other up.

“Yo dude, looks like lil’ bro over there’s gotta problem with your stink.” Steve performatively sniffs his pit and shakes his head, “Nahnah bro. It’s definitely yours, check it.” They continue to talk up eachothers musk while the young man can’t help but sit there, stunned into silence. With each new statement the pair swagger closer until their sweat may as well be dripping on the man.

Gasping as he regains awareness just as the pair are almost standing over him, the sharp intake fills his lungs with their musk as a smile creeps over his face. “Looks like lil bro’s likin’ it after all Chad.” Throwing a sweaty arm over his bro, the man who can scarcely recall that his bro hasn’t always been like this laughs, “Huhuh, well obviously bro, no shot anyone’ll be able to resist us soon.” The pair help the hazy man up and begin ushering him through the ropes, eager to have another musky jock in their image and excited to see how far their little group will grow.

[wooyoungmybelovedhusband]

ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴍᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʟᴜᴛ | J. WY

» PAIRING : Wooyoung x f! Reader

» SYNOPSIS : The times when your aged-up husband fucked you dumb

» TROPE : Established relationship

» GENRE : Filthy smut

» WORD COUNT : 2k

» CONTENT/WARNINGS : Aged up! Wooyoung, Mob boss! Wooyoung, Age gap (10 years), dom/sub themes, face slapping, spanking, rough sex, degradation, dumbification, slut shaming, dacryphilia, voyeurism, Consensual filming, daddy kink, use of nicknames, possessiveness, public sex, breeding kink.

Despite what everyone assumed about your relationship with your ten-years older mob boss husband, you’d say the assumption of him being too old to fuck your pussy right was the most offensive one of all. To say Wooyoung had the bigger sex drive in your relationship, was more precise, for he fucked you in various different places, positions and times. And he managed to leave you practically broken every time, leaving himself to pick up the pieces and fix you up again just to fuck you into oblivion.

There is not a thing about you that is not hot for your mob boss husband, and he made sure to show you off just enough.

But no matter how blissfully Wooyoung fucked you into submission every time, you had to have some of the favourite times. Times when Wooyoung did nasty things to you, to satisfy his own lust.

Despite being oh so possessive over you, always making sure to leave his marks on you, Wooyoung surely loved showing you off to his mob members. Often taking pictures and videos that showed how he fucked you dumb into nothing but dumb puppy at his use.

So when he had your arms weakly wrapped around his shoulders, looking like you were minutes away from breaking in his hold as your pussy stretched to the maximum by his cock. He just had to take a video of his pretty wife. His left hand rested on your shoulder, pointing to the mirror for which you had your back facing. His other hand caressed your hair, ever so gently, before sliding down to your ass. You knew you had it coming when his hand squeezed your ass tightly, before pulling away to land a slap on your skin. “You think they are going to love your little whimpers, kitten?”

You barely realised you had turned into a whimpering mess when Wooyoung landed a continuous series of harsh spanks on your now red bottom. Wooyoung moved his hand back to your neck, pulling you away from the crook of his neck. He cursed at the way your face had turned red, little tears at the end of your eyes, clearly showing how much Wooyoung had teased you for the night.

Finally giving into your plea which had turned into a mantra for the night, he finally jerked his hips up, causing you to jump up in shock. “Seems like fingering my slut till her cum ran down my hands wasn’t enough, was it?” You finally break into a puddle of loud moans and whimpers. Leaving series of babbles at how good it felt and pathetic begs to fuck you hard.

Wooyoung sets his phone on the coffee table next to your couch, placing it as though to give it a perfect view of his dick hammering into you. “So much for training you into a good little slut, can’t even fucking handle being cockwarmed.” your face controls to protest back, “Was a good slut, daddy” but it barely makes it out coherently. Wooyoung leans down to press his lips against yours, gently kissing you, while his hips slapped against your ass. Only for him to pull away the next moment to land slaps across your face. “Let’s see what they will think about that, princess.”

The next morning, while you had your head rested against the thousand dollar pillows, Wooyoung slowly caressed his semi-hard cock, reading the messages San and Mingi sent.

Debating whether or not to fuck you awake, as his jealousy clawed at him despite a voice in the back of his head telling him to let you rest. In the end, he had you on your stomach, fucking you slow and deep as he snapped another picture.

Wooyoung

All mine to fuck. <3

If Wooyoung did not send anything to them, he would have them watch the both of you live. So for some odd reason whenever he took you to one of his club meetings, to ‘drink and have fun’, it mostly ended up with you on all fours to take him or his cock shoved down your throat while everyone either just watched or had their dicks out shamelessly masturbating to the sight.

And it was certainly odd that Wooyoung made you drink something before you go. But it was too much to care when your cunt dripped so wet, almost making a stain through your jean skirts. Knowing it was not a new thing for any of them to find you cock drunk, you decide to mount his thigh, not caring that a waiter was staring wide-eyed at you.

Your pussy rubbed against the friction of his jeans, your hips shamelessly bouncing you up and down on his thigh all while the room went silent. It is not a surprise when Wooyoung reaches up to your face to slap you, hard. The sound resonated throughout the room, but it did nothing to stop your hips from grinding down onto his thigh. “Fucking shameless. You look so pathetic right now, brat.”

There was barely any true malice evident in his tone, but oh the degrading words did not help your condition. “Don’t care, daddy. Want you to fuck me right now, please.” You draw out your plea, taking his hand to move it to your pussy. Wooyoung surprisingly leaned back as he let you continue your pathetic little stunt. You slide your wet folds over his thick fingers, messily trying to ride them.

Oh was the expression of utter disbelief looking good on his members as they try to wrap their minds around the current situation. Wooyoung’s eyes wander over to theirs, over your shoulder before your whine pulls his attention back to you. “Please daddy, pussy’s so wet for you, just want you to fuck me. Gonna be a good slut, please.” It wasn’t just Wooyoung who knew exactly how to break you, a pathetic series of begging and pouty whines from you was enough to make him have you on your back with your thighs pressed to your chest.

I mean, how could he ever deny his good little slut when she’s begging at his mercy? But he would be lying if he said he didn’t like overstimulating you in front of them either, to the point your hands almost come down to caress your pussy from the amount of abuse. Only for him to grab your arms and make you hold them up again as he leans down to lap at your swollen lips.

When you first started dating Wooyoung, he knew you were extremely inexperienced, for he was the first one to teach you how to suck a dick. So it was not a surprise for him to find out you were a pillow princess through and through despite years into your relationship. As much as it was supposed to bother him, Wooyoung liked the idea of you completely relying on him for pleasure.

And he for sure loved proving his theory. So when he found in deep slumber, all while your skirt rode up leaving your white panties on display for him. He just had to rub little circles on your clit to make it nice and wet for him, but applying minimal pressure so as to not wake you. But oh shoot! He had to leave to meet dealers at his house office minutes ago. Wooyoung felt so ‘guilty’ about leaving his princess all wet and ready, leaning down to kiss your thighs gently, “Be a good girl for daddy, okay?”

And thanks to the camera Wooyoung had set up in your bedroom, he could stalk your every movement when you woke up. Funny how he thought he would focus on anything that the dealers would say when the sight of desperately holding the vibrator against your pussy to find the spot, or your fingers trying to reach deep only for your attempts to go to vain.

Frustration was bubbling in your blood, your slick covered hands searching for your phone, hitting the top contact. As if on cue, Wooyoung heard his phone go off, and as soon as he picked it up, he was met with your frustrated pants. “Daddy! Where are you?” you didn’t mean the sentence to come out so bratty, but could you help it when you itched for a relief, down desperately. Wooyoung almost contemplated coming to you in an instant or leaving you hanging for a little longer. “Watch your tone, brat.” Wooyoung involuntarily raised his eyebrows, surprised at your outburst. There was an immediate whine on your end, almost sounding like a wail. “‘M so fucking wet daddy, really tried helping myself.” Wooyoung could hear the sobs coming up to your throat, and gosh did it make his cock harden in his briefs. Your fingers found their way back to your womanhood, grinning cause he loved watching you suffer a little too much.

“Maybe continue humping your little fingers just like that. And you’ll get to have daddy’s cock deep inside you again.” To say Wooyoung was shameless was an understatement. He absolutely had no hint of embarrassment in his tone for talking like that in front of everyone. Before you could let out another whine, he hung up on you, a subtle smirk hanging on his face as he set his phone down.

Wooyoung’s dick ached to be buried inside you, his eyes almost never leaving the screen except to answer some questions. So when Wooyoung finally walked past your bedroom door to find you only minutes later, to find you laying pliant on the bed. The sound of Wooyoung’s footsteps immediately had you on your knees, waiting for him like an obedient kitten. Knowing there was a plea in the tip of your tongue, his one hand moved down to wrap around your waist, while the other found home in between your thighs. The fluttering touch of his long fingers against your dripping folds had you moaning into the kiss.

“Such a tempting pussy.” Pulling away from your lips, he pushed you down on your back, hoisting your legs up and apart. His middle and ring finger slamming inside you without a warning, knocking the air out of your lungs as you gasp. Your face contorts into a fucked out expression that has Wooyoung grasping your neck tightly.

“So patient for daddy, weren’t you princess?” Your mouth formed an ‘o’, your eyes rolling back when his fingers penetrated the sweet spot over and over again. Moving his hand from your neck to push away hair gently, before tugging hard on it. “Dumb little mutt, your slutty pussy of yours can never get enough.”

Wooyoung pulled out his fingers just when a trail of liquid spurted out of you, causing your hips to twitch in place. “So fucking messy, you’re just a dumb little pet at my mercy.”

One thing about the way Wooyoung treated you while fucking you was he was unpredictable. His soft gentle touch on your body could turn into a harsh slap, hard enough to leave his hand imprint. But why did he do this? It was to simply see the way you would let out a little gasp, or the way tears welled up in your eyes as you tried to hold it in. but it was mostly for the latter. There was nothing Wooyoung wouldn’t do to see tears running down his pretty slut’s face, stinging your cheeks thanks to his harsh slaps.

But there was nothing unpredictable about Wooyoung when he caught sight of a rather younger guy, around your age, standing next to you at an absolute close proximity, his hand on your lower back which was exposed thanks to the deep cut in your dress. Anger was un understatement, to say the least. His hand grasped the back of your neck tightly to tug you back into his arms, his figure towering over you from behind. “As much as I hate to interrupt conversations, I believe my wife belongs with me.”

There were red marks of spanks and slaps, dark purple hickeys adorning your neck, and your abdomen almost bulged out thanks to being filled up by loads of cum twice in a row. It was safe to say you look the epitome of dishevelled mess. “Think that little fucker could fuck you this good? Think he can wear your pussy out like I do? Huh?“ his hand squeezed around your throat barely allowing you to respond, “No daddy, j-just you. O-only you can fuck m-me this hard.” Despite being pleased with your answer, his hand came down to swat at your bottom again. “My slut is so pleasing, maybe I should let you cum again.”

[kalki-tarot]

Spiritual advices from a Hindu spiritual freak 🪷

These are my personal opinions and piece of advice and may or may not work for everyone, pls do what you feel is right for you, I'm not forcing any advices on you, anything which is written below is not intended to harm anyone or any group of people🙏🧿💓

Karma is REAL, what you do definitely comes back at you at some point in your journey as a soul. Nothing happens without a reason.

You need to remove the fears associated with living for yourself instilled by your religion(s), parents, peers, etc.

There is no heaven and hell, they are just states of conciousnesses.

There is no "SATAN" or "GOD", good and bad are two sides of the same coin. Without one, another can't exist.

God is just the highest level of consciousness, which even transcends dharma.

Religion and politics are tools to limit and control you from inside and outside.

Dance is one of the deepest meditations possible.

There is no definite path to become one with godliness.

Everything is "maya" i.e, an illusion. It's all a play, and we all are actors. You are not the body, you are the eternal atman.

Love doesn't need marriage. Is love itself not powerful alone that it needs marriage? Love is natural, while marriage is not.

True love always dies at some point, just like a full blooming rose sheds after sometime. True love is momentary and can happen with multiple people throughout life.

Yoga is not what the west shows it to be, it has more spiritual significance. The west potrays some bs like beer yoga, lemonade yoga etc. Which is utter bs.

Never let other people, other ideologies, religions, etc mould your mind. Be who you are, not what you're conditioned to be.

Don't repress your shadow parts, like lust, sexual desires etc.

Meditations works for real. Try it yourself.

Tantra is not only about sex, it's much more than that.

Never practice tantra without a proper guru. Never chant special mantras without an authentic guru's advice.

People who trigger you are actually mirrors of your own deepest darkest fears and shadow parts.

Everything is temporary, you as a human being too, are temporary.

Practicing mindfulness actually does wonders.

Don't donate money, instead buy things with it like clothes, food, etc. Then donate it to the needy.

[daddyhausen]

「 COMMISSION FOR —@hobihoneydrops 」

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「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 MUSICIAN/BAND MASTERLIST 」 | 「 VESSEL MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

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「 SUMMARY 」 — vessel falls head over heels in love with his dream apparition

「 WARNINGS 」 — smut, 18 +, [ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ], DD:DNE !!, obsession, mentions of accidental drug overdose, mentions of death,

「 TAGS 」 — [ yearning ] [ forbidden love ] [ gentle sex ] [ vaginal sex ] [ penetrative sex ] [ unprotected sex ] [ male masturbation ] [ body worship ] [ cumshots ] [ oral sex — female receiving ] [ outdoor sex ] [ male + female orgasm ] [ multiple orgasms ] [ internal cumshots ] [ vaginal creampie ]

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 6.4k

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x vessel

「 GENRE 」 — smut, angst, DD:DNE

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you were only a dream — a figment of his imagination. the phrase repeated in vessel’s mind like a mantra. just on the cusp of reality you were. like a car in his peripheral vision, that inched closer than the rear view mirror anticipated—a deer in the headlights of your gaze, frozen in time as you stared at him with eyes of starlight, so bright and entrancing. the loneliness of his reality had plagued vessel for years, it still did — worse in fact. he has not felt the touch of another for quite some time, in a way he preferred. his mind too cursed, body too broken. the thought of burdening another precious soul with his troubles was far too much to bear. at least with you…he was able to control part of it.

even within his dream, as he stood within the evergreens, the prickle of wild, dew-slick grass between his toes, crisp spring air untangled the barbed wire wrapped around his lungs. he breathed — a deep shaky inhale — a breath that, in the waking world would have been too much of a chore. the shrouds that bind his tall, lanky body proved to be a godsent rather than a hindrance. the thin cotton fluttered against his obsidian skin, the sensitivity of his flesh heightened, buzzed with adrenaline as you came into his view.

an angel- no! a goddess you were. surrounded by and aura of golden sunlight that radiated throughout the forest, your shrouds white — pure, made of the finest silk, decorated with matching golden sun sigils, one around your waist that accentuated the wonderful curves of your full hips and thighs, the other two at your shoulders, shielded the swell of your breasts from his unintentional lustful gaze. vessel had never seen such a beholder of beauty in his pitiful existence, and even as you stared him down, with eyes full of reverence and care, he came to the realisation that not once had they touched, or even spoken for that matter. yet between them was this unannounced acknowledgement of each other, their eyes met, you would smile at him and he’d of course smile back, his heartstrings tugged and another appendage swelled just from your gaze alone. his belly ached and fluttered, his hands grew clammy with sweat, the perspiration never fully dissolved from his skin no matter how many times he’d wiped them clean on his shrouds.

and somehow each time he would near, drawn closer to you inch by inch, you’d fade out of existence, an invisible barrier blocked their paths — a wall build by his inner psyche to protect himself, even from the goddess he revered so. you’d never hurt him, he claimed that at least. for you were too kind, graceful, even to put up with his mere presence is enough to show your graciousness. the two off them connected by a string of fate never to be cut.

by this time he woke and you were no more. vessel rose from his bed in a panic, he clung desperately to the phantom images that flashed in his mind, the sensation of the wind that reminded him of what your touch would have possibly felt like. no more forest, no more greenery, no more freedom — no more you. just the desolation of his reality. the hopelessness that filled his bedroom. surrounded by piles of unwashed laundry that, if he squinted within the darkness, reminded him of the shrubbery of the forest, and the carpet — was a far cry from the soft tufts of grass.

barbed wire encircled his lungs again, he struggled to catch a breath with the sudden realisation that he’d alluded to for months—he was whole-heartedly in love with an apparition—for you could hollow out a place in his ribs and carve a home where his heart would be, nestle in the marrow of his bone and he would not object. he craved it. just one touch is all he asked, a simple meaningless touch of your hair, your shrouds, your skin. even if you faded completely from his memory after that he could at least die content.

vessel’s loins swelled with an unannounced arousal, he could envision you still so clearly, a picture painted behind his eyelids that would grace him every time he blinked. and a lovely image it was. so clearly splayed out of him, body nestled in a bed of daisies, a beautiful contrast against your delicate skin, a small shudder parted your lips as his fingers explore the warm cavernous void between your thighs, curled upward until he hit just the right spot that had you crying out his name in a fit of pleasure. your back arched each time he drove himself into your, gummy walls clenched around his length as he filled you to the brim, pulled him deeper, accepted all he had to offer. for he worshiped you and what kind of man would he be if he would allow such thoughts to remain silent?

vessel, with a shaky hand cautiously reached into his shrouds, his fingers tingled against the bare skin of his chest, so sensitive just from mere thoughts of his unnamed goddess. the fabric now felt constricting, his own skin even more so as arousal burned through him like untamed flames. he shuddered upon contact, beneath the fabric was warm, wet. his cock glistening and sticky with his own fluids. how he managed to spill over so quickly just from a dream of you was unbeknownst to him.

still, he did not stop, slender fingers grip his swollen shaft, hardly hesitant, almost primal with his actions. his tip sensitive, the bulb engorged and leaked with sweet pre-cum as he traced the calloused pad of his thumb across the slit. behind his mask grew hot, perpetration dripped down, through cracks of pearly white and ruby. his mouth dried, tongue cotton in texture, suddenly parched and in desperate need for a drink. a thirst only you could quench. his teeth somehow felt sharper, canines desperate to sink their teeth into your ethereal flesh, not to wound but to mark, just an indentation so others would know who’d staked his claim on you.

with haste, ringed fingers shoved down his shrouds, orate silver and polished garnett looks so stark in comparison to his skin — beauty amongst the darkness, akin to his mind in a way. his cock, now relieved that it has been freed from the confines of his shrouds, pulsed thickly against his toned stomach in small twitches, globs of white pre-cum stained his skin.

another shudder followed, he released it from his grasp, he let it fall heavy and hard against his body. he took another inhale — a heavy one though his nostrils, one that seared his blackened lungs. he contemplated for a moment, surely he was delusional. the woman did not exist. he created you to fill the void of loneliness that has consumed him since his adolescence. vessel was almost disgusted with himself, a pathetic attempt at self gratification would only lead to more loneliness in the end. and what woman would want him then?

vessel let his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment, a heavy pity-sodden sigh rested on his tongue, surely he’d have some self-respect for once in his life. pleasuring himself to a made up deity did not help quell his thoughts. vessel rested his head back against the headboard of his bed, a dull thud reverberated around his bedroom as his head made contact with the worn cherry oak, the frame had been damaged for a good while.

as he let his thoughts wonder, a flash of you repeated in his mind, not as coherent as the first, more so bursts of images, of you on top of him, gyrated and bounced atop his lap, breast clear and exposed in his line of vision. vessel’s throat tightened, a moan stifled in his chest. another followed, this time you’re backed up against him, his cock disappeared between your thighs, flesh rippled against his in an unholy dance, like still water disturbed by a stray pebble.

vessel’s eyes shot open, irises burned with desire. his body flushed with need, untamed and visceral. again, with no intention of holding himself back this time, his palm re-attached itself around his cock absentmindedly and he growled through clenched teeth like a starved wolf desperate for a feed.

his cock ached, and the movement of his hand began again as he stroked himself to thoughts — memories of you. memories that had no attachment to his reality, his mind too far gone to accept that, he did not allow himself to accept the reality that fate had laid before him.

“m-my goddess…” his whimpered out a plea, desperation laced in his voice with the hope that just maybe you’d heard him. responded to his cries of pleasure and save him from himself.

”just once…allow me to touch you…” his breath shuddered “…need to touch you….please”

he was desperate, called out to you as if you were there, naked before him, commanding him to submit to every wanton sexual desire of yours. to claim him as yours, to obey, to love, to fuck. if he could, vessel would peel off his skin if you ask so, he’d lay his body before a thousand ravenous wolves just prove his loyalty.

he’d let you mark him, beat him, degrade him anything of the sort and he would not falter, not once.

“fuck ahh..mmhmm..please…” he begged, the humiliation welled in his veins just at the thought of how pathetic he looked begging for an apparition to grant him what he will never receive.

he sweared he heard you sing his name with sweet praises, he felt the waterfalls of your lust rain down on him so sweetly. the voice conjured in his mind, so heavenly, an interpretation of what you might of sounded like. a voice so rich like honey that it could brought the most visceral beasts to their knees in obedience.

“my goddess…” he repeated, hot tears streamed down his sticky sweat-ridden cheeks as he tightened the grip around his shaft, a pathetic attempt to replicate just how you might stroke him, all taut and rough. the rings that adorned his slender fingers provided cool respite in between strokes, not much but enough to quiet his brain for a few milliseconds.

vessel crooned with pleasure at the tightness in his stomach, the dull throb of his cock against a rugged palm, pathetic whimpers passed through clenched teeth as he allowed himself to fully open his senses to the pleasure. as much as he desired domination, the faint whispers and pleas of you calling his name, breathless and lustful against you tongue paired with the visions of your sweet, dripping cunt accepted every inch of him. it was too much for vessel.

“you’re mine…i will have you, my goddess” he panted, aggression burrowed deep in his chest. angry at the predicament he’d found himself in, angry at the way the world was kept you barred and confined within his mind. god help when he finally was able to receive your touch, he will drink you in, get drunk on your essence, savour the feeling of your flesh on his tongue.

vessel let his mind wander further down the trenches of sin, his eyelids coated in visions of you in post coital bliss. instead of shrouds your body would normally occupy laid by the stump of a grand oak, laid an elegant, wedding dress made primarily of lace — detailed white lace with flowers, roses and lilacs hand embroidered so intricately into the fabric. marital bliss… his mind delved further, fastwarding, your womb now swollen, heavy with his unborn child, her gentle, motherly touch carresed the ever growing bump.

vessel could not help by let a tear shed from his eye — a happy one, marred with hopes and dreams of what could be.

“i’ll make it happen, my love…i promise…” even as empty as the promise was, he still wished to see it through. he hopes…

vessel’s breath laboured, the familiar twinge of his orgasm built deep in his abdomen, a thick, ever-growing pulse that thrummed from shaft to tip. he let out a small whine, almost pained as he gripped his cock tighter as he stroked the silky, wet appendage. he wanted to moan your name, it almost ripped his throat as a choked whimper passed through, yet no name he conjured up in his mind felt suitable or worthy enough for you.

his chest heaved, he panted with open-mouthed whines. the phantoms of touch against his bare chest, he hoped it would replicate the touches he’d envisioned of you. his hips rutted upward, primal in nature so desperate for release. a breath caught in his throat as he neared closer, unable to exhale until he finally released. spurts of white coated his knuckles, warm and milky as he spilt over, his body jolted and convulsed in pleasure upon release. yet he did not stop; he needed to drain himself fully, more as a form of punishment rather than gratification.

he did not feel satisfied, he felt disgusting, pathetic. pain shot through his hips, he silently asked you to punish him for his transgressions, he did not feel worthy to spill his seed for you, not under these circumstances. he wished to fill you, your womb to house the product of his one sided love.

he came again, he continued to stroke until his hand cramped, that was when he released his grip. he collapsed into the mattress, a disgusting mess of sweat and cum. his hips and stomach painted white, cock engorged and red, pulsed faintly, sensitive with lust.

he laid there in an uncomfortable silence, the wind howled in mockery, alluding to his shame and guilt. his bottom lip quivered with untamed sobs as a heavy guilt rose in his chest. the moon seemed dull on his skin despite the sheen of perspiration, no post-pleasure bliss to fall back on and soothe him to sleep having violated the sanctity of his dream deity.

”my goddess…forgive me…” he pleaded as if you could hear him. in many ways he hoped that you’d be lurking in his walls of under his bed, ready to forgive him at a moment's notice even though he knew it was impossible. he had no idea how he’d face you next, even if he’d be able to at all.

as his cock softened he stood up on weary legs, a hand positioned on the bedside table to stabilise himself. his head heavy, still whirled from the two mind-shattering orgasms. the disgust ran deep, chilled his bones as he recounted what had transpired. would you think differently of him? why would it matter when you’ve never spoken?

he shook his head of the thought, desperate to rid himself from the sticky residue that clings to his skin and quite frankly ready to boil himself alive in the shower. he took cautious step into the bathroom, as he shed the remainder of his clothing at the foot of the bathtub. he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the slits of his eyes sunken with shame, exhaustion, skin more grey than obsidian. he looked like death, yet even death had better presentation. he stared of a few moments until the shapes of his face started to shift around him, reminded him that he needed to blink. he did not see a man when he looked back at his reflection, he saw a lonely decrepit cryptid so starved of attention within and outside of reality.

vessel let a heavy, exhausted sight fall from his lips. limp hand begrudgingly turned on the hot water — and only the hot water. maybe letting himself burn would help quell the raging silence in his mind, give him something else to focus on even if it is pain.

he stepped into the water, steam billowed around his figure as a pained hiss crept up his chest and escaped through his teeth. he almost wanted to recoil away and out of the water but forced himself to stay still, let the water seer and redden his flesh. he stood there in silence, not even a squeak, his eyes began to water with tears and he sobbed, he sobbed for hours upon hours until his throat burned and eyes dried like empty wells in a desert.

he only craved you. for what else does he have to live for? no friends, family or even a realistic lover to call his own. he spent another hour in the shower, by then the water had run cold, sent shivers fluttering through his skin, bit and nipped at his flesh like hungry ants. he sat, cowered in the corner, knees to his chest, rocked back and forth against the damp tiles.

eventually he came to his senses, he rosed and shivered with the cold sting of the water plus the chill of the midnight air. again with weary steps he exited the shower, he took another glance at himself in the mirror, fogged from the shower, small beats of water danced in a frantic race down the glass.

beast. he thought. disgusting beast, who would ever want you?

he hoped you would….

he glanced down at the sink, a bottle of sleeping pills rested unopened on the counter. the same bottle he’d bought from a side street vendor a few months prior, right around the time the dreams of you started, he’d been hesitant to touch them, never needing them as sleep would come easy to him. lately he contemplated it. maybe one or two just to help sleep pass just a bit easier, more time spent with you.

he grabbed the bottle, inspected it for a moment, the bright orange plastic seemed to radiate against the bleak darkness of his bathroom. a reminder of your aura, which called him back so desperately. he closed his eyes, he shoved the bottle into the medicine cabinet behind the mirror..

not tonight…

—

for the next week, vessel’s sleep was resetless, closing his eyes seems like a chore not matter how hard he tries. nights filled with sorrow-filled weeping and manic sobs. falling asleep naturally was simply not working. he wondered if it was due to his actions the past week, pleasuring himself to you. were you angry with him? did you banish him? were you so disgusted with him that you could not possibly bring yourself to face him? the worst fate of all was if you allowed him in and ignored his presence, no curt smile, no gentle wave, just existing as if he was not there, it would be a fate worse than death.

vessel found himself crouched by the bathroom door, rocking absentmindedly as the exhaustion began to chip away at his sanity.

she still loves me…? right…?

my goddess…please don’t forsake me…

he could not bear the thought of that. then he would be truly alone…and it frightened him more than death, more than any pain imaginable.

vessel made it to his feet, gripping the sink weakly. he stared in the mirror, a empty stare greeted him back. tired eyes tried their best to remain conscious, no matter how much he wanted sleep. he stared for a good five minutes before ripping the mirror of its hinges, the sleeping pills in full view of his gaze.

he grabbed them, taking one small white pill out of the bottle. he downs it dry, swallowed thickly as the powery capsule scraped and dissolved down his throat. one could not possibly hurt, it has been a week since he slept properly — since he saw you last.

“i’ll be with you soon, my goddess”

he sighed, returning to bed.

vessel laid in bed, tattered sheets graced his half-naked figure, his chest burned with anticipation, hoping that the medicine will take its effect sooner rather than later. he stares up at the ceiling, his jaw tightens absentmindedly, deciding to count the cracks around the base of the ceiling fan, how long and far every branch and twig of each crack is out of boredom. he examines the water damage in the far left corner of the ceiling, the drywall damp and beginning to grow a musty smell, a faint one but none less nauseating.

slowly he feels the pull of sleep drag him under, awaiting your warm embrace as blackness begins to spot his vision. he smiles, a true, heartfelt smile he had been missing for weeks up until this point. his body grows lighter, like a feather floating through a brisk breeze. and he sees it so clearly—the forest, in all its glory. so green and lush, picturesque in its beauty. he exhales sharply, overwhelmed he is finally in the place he feels most content.

his fingers brush up against the stump of a fallen evergreen, committing to memory every crack, crevice, every ridge and bump, the texture, the scent. and he smiles again. this…is home for him…

a flash of golden light blinds him for a moment. he squints, turning towards the light, trying to make out the shape of the figure engulfed in the heavenly glow. he gasps, his heart stopping at the sight of you.

the same as ever, so beautiful, so divine. just on the other side of the river. tears well in his eyes, overwhelmed that he finally gets to see you again. he love, his goddess. and you…were coming towards him, a slow and meaningful stride.

this is it… finally my goddess..

his heart is sent into overdrive. all those months of yearning, waiting, watching you from a distance has finally come into fruition. finally he will feel your embrace, finally he will have you. he will be whole again.

your figure on the cusp of reaching him, the invisible string that connected the two of you grew taut, his eyes widen, unable to reach for you any further and you remained still, staring straight through him as if he wasn’t even there.

vessel’s body is pulled backwards into darkness, back into the waking world. he shoots up, a cold sweat glimmering on his skin.

”no…” he breathes. “no no no no!!-”

this could not be happening!

he was so close, a hare’s breath away from finally having you, only for you to be ripped away. undeserving he was, like always.

he races out of bed and into the bathroom once more, the mirror laid shattered in pieces by the bathtub and vessel did not care about the glass that punctured the soles of his feet. with haste, he grabs the bottle, capsules spilling into the sink as he dumped a handful into a shaky, disoriented palm.

his mind a foggy mess, a smoke show, a memory of you as he clung onto whatever visions he had left of you with a feeble, desperate attempt. vessel did not hesitate in swallowing that handful of pills, once again letting them run dry and scrape his throat, feeling them mould together and sink low in his stomach. it had to work…just to see you again…it had to…

he stumbles back to his bed, vision blurry and disoriented as he makes contact with the mattress, the splitting headache from cracked his head open his eyes sensitive to even the dullest of light. he curls up bringing his knees to his chest, cuddling his pillow as if it were your figure, so warm and comforting. black spots begin to cloud his vision, the speckles of chipped paint on his ceiling became nothing more than grey blurs.

and he smiles, letting sleep consume him fully.

—

his throat parched and cottony, as if his mouth had been filled with sand. his head ached and throbbed, like he’d taken a hammer to the temple, pain shooting behind his eyelids as he opens them, blinded by golden streaks of sunlight bleeding through the tree line of evergreens.

did it work…?

his mind flooded with countless possibilities, was his sleep infinite, surely with the amount of pills he swallowed inadvertently. he’d be a fool not to have succumbed. vessel’s resolve was indeed weak if the only solution to his predicament was…well.. an endless sleep.

vessel sits up, immediately hit with a wave of vertigo, feeling his brain swoosh and swirl in the cavern of his skill, needing both hands to cup around his temples to ease the sensation. he takes a glance around. the forest…he was indeed back. there greenery seemed more lush, more vibrant, the roses were in full bloom, fruits beginning to flower, apples specifically, the blossoms a bright white with the faintest hint of peach and pinks through the centre, and the scent, so sweet and fragrant—faintly akin to the honeysuckles his mother would grow when he was a boy.

a young doe in the distance, all wide-eyed and nieve grazing at the dewy grass at the foot of an old evergreen, taking cautious—precious— moments to raise her head, peeling strips of bark from the stump, unbeknownst to his presence. it was serine, peaceful almost, vessel only wish he could revel in such calm, such freedom.

“vessel?” a voice calls out to him. undoubted feminine. he freezes in his position, body chilling with a cold sweat, to his knowledge he’d never revealed his name while within the dream space, let alone made contact verbally with any other life form. his gaze at the ground, greeted by the familiar ivory silk, his breath catches in his throat, an exhale parts his lips with a shudder, his eyes scanned upward. that golden aura when he first awoke, it was not the sun—it was you. his goddess.

and you were just as beautiful as ever.

“are you alright?” your voice is just as wonderous as he imagined. all those nights spent theorising the tone, the soft accented lilt, the pitch, the cadence. nothing could have prepared him for the moment you first parted your lips. his heart soars at the first word to leave your lips was his name.

“i…you…you can speak?” it was all he could bring himself to say, not caring about the possibility of any injuries he sustained.

“of course, why wouldn’t i?” you kneel before him, examining his features, suddenly his face becomes flushed behind his mask.

“before…how come-?”

”the barrier has been broken”

the barrier that kept the two of you from ever interacting finally severed — his conscious

“you’re dead, vessel”

the words were blunt but had to be said.

dead…? the pills…of course…

”how am i here? you’re in my head…you’re not real…you should have died when i…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentance and you could offer him no response as to why you still glanced his presence.

he reaches out a weak, lanky hand, caressing the ends of your shrouds, a shuddering, pitiful sob wretch’s at his lungs, burns like bile in his throat.

“i’ve waited so long for this…” he confesses through tears. that hand clinging to the fabric like a lifeline. “may i touch you…please…my goddess?”

you nod, a not that was far to sudden, far too anticipating. his hand retracted from your shoruds, tracing up the bare flesh of your forearm, your skin tingled with bursts of electricity his touch, sending sparks throughout your body. vessel’s jaw quivered with a small whimper, rough rugged fingertips, grazing along the indentations of your collar bone, feeling your own breath quicken at the featherlight touches before his palm cupped your cheek, hesitant with his actions as his thumb smoothed across the petal of your bottom lip.

”you’re more beautiful each time i see you…” he croons, parting your lips with his thumb, tracing over the small ridges in the flesh. “all this time…i have loved you…please say it back…even if you don’t mean it…i just need to hear you say it…”

desperation flooded his voice, to himself his yearning seemed pathetic, just to hear you say you loved him back, even if it was a false proclamation, would heal the gaping wound in his heart, at least then he could pretend, hold onto the substance and manifest it incase you were to slip from his grasp.

the words left your lips with the same breathless desperation, four words that made his heart swell and sour with delight.

“i love you, too…”

the heat was instantantions, vessel’s lips crash against yours with such feverant lust that it knocks the air our of your lungs with a gasp. his stomach twirls and fluters upon the connection, hands roaming your waist with an impatient intensity that had been building – bigger and more aggressive with each month that passed, only for the culmination to be far sweeter that anticipated. your lips tasted of fresh cheries – recently devoured black cherries, so tart and tangy on his tongue, sheer and opaque as it mingled with his tastebuds. he savours it as if it were the final time he’d be allowed to sample it.

his chest rises and falls with bated breaths, body manually exerting strength as it was all he could focus on while your lips explored his. just incase his heart were to stop unexpectedly. your fingertips no longer phantoms on his skin, so real – so tangible. featherlight as they traces idle shapes and indentations into his chest and collarbones. Just as desperate as him.

your bodies fall into the tufts of wild grass, lips still connected in a passionate kiss. vessel’s blackened fingers tug at the sun broaches atop your shoulders, unclasping them, allowing your shrouds to fall clean from your body, a body that was far more delicate and beautiful than he could ever describe. he’d envisioned how it would look so vividly in his mind yet nothing compared to the way your body curved so naturally against his palm, your skin soft and supple, lustrous like the finest silk.

he marvels at you, the dips and curves of your figure far to maginiscent to describe, the only adjective coming to mind was…perfect. absolutely perfect.

even the little indentations of your hips, a perfect slot for his thumbs to rest. the clouded pads of his thumbs smoothing down the skin with gentle strokes, making small circular motions. his lips slow me intentional with their movements, slow, lingering kisses down your breasts, against the pillowy flesh. he gasps at how soft they are, like a cloud upon his tongue as he exhales with a shuddering gasp.

“beautiful…” he mutters, a huger undertones in his words, so primal and raw as his tongue flickers over your perked nipples, stiffened by his breath. his lips ghost around the swollen buds, teasing them with soft puffs of air. vessel watched on as your body begins to rise, your back arching as pleasure builds desperate for him to continue.

”please…?” your words leave your lips in a desperate whine. the subtle break in your voice, sent shockwaves to vessel’s cock, the appendage stiffening in his shrouds.

“yes…?” he pants. “anything you want my love, all you have to do is ask”

his lips wrap around your perky nipple, sampling the texture on his tongue, his eye fixated o. your form, an exhilarated whine ripped through your throat, pristine, manicured fingernails digging into the dirt beneath you, staining the pearly white claws a muddy brown.

“you know what i want…” your throat goes thick, swallowing down a moan as you inspect his actions, how his lips and tongue worked the pebbled bud, teeth tugging lightly at his, your cunt throbs with delight, wetness pooling between your thighs

“in time my goddess…” vessel pries away from your nipple, a slick pop sound reverberated through the forest as his lips parted with your flesh. “first…i need to taste you”

he sits up, sip lick the drool that accumulated on his bottom lip, his canines sharp and pointed, you feared he might cut his tongue as the appendage ran lightly across them. you peer down, his shrouds hang low on his hips, his body sculpted and lean, yet he maintains a slender figure. peering down further you’re amazed by just how impressive his length is, even fully clothed and semi-erect, you believe wholeheartedly that he could split you on two.

he stared down at you, your doe eyes widened and impressed glancing ever so often between his eyes and his length. he smirks and a devilish smirk it was, all those lonely night spent pleasuring himself to your image, it all culminates to this very moment.

“spread your legs for me, darling”

and you did. your pretty, perfect pussy barely visible from beneath your shrouds, catching a glimpse of it each time the wind fluttered against the fabric. vessel, on his knees, his hands shoving up the fabric until it rested comfortably at your hips. he marveled at the sight, speechless as your glistening, wet cunt shone under the sunlight, so ready and willing for his tongue.

he lowers himself, placing dainty kisses to your hip bones, feeling you shiver under his touch. he does the same to your inner thighs, swirling inconsistent shapes against the flesh, letting them linger for milliseconds more the closer he inches to your cunt. he felt you gasp, your cunt tightens—clenches around air as soft breaths whisp against your clit.

“relax for me, my love”

he takes your thighs, positioning them atop his shoulders, slender fingers holding you in place. his tongue parts his lips, licking a long purposeful stripe up your cunt, lips wrapping around your clit. your body instantly seizes with pleasure, hips bucking to meet the flicks of his tongue. as much as you wanted to relax into the pleasure, sink into the dirt as he devours you. you couldn’t, you needed to watch him, inspect just how skilled he was.

you prop yourself up into your elbows, watching the way his skill tongue worked your clit with expertise. his thumbs swirls against your hips, providing some comfort against the force of his tongue.

“mmhm vessel…”

god he loves the way you say his name, so perfect all pitched and desperate with pleasure. your stomach could and tightened, burning white hot as your orgasm built. so long you’ve been without release, so long you’ve needed this, needed him even if you did not realise it at first.

vessel moans into you cunt, a signal without words that he allows your release.

“it is alright, let it happened my love”

as if his words commanded it, you spill around him, nails clawing into the dirt, taking clumps between your plans as squeezing. an exhilarated moan rips through your throat, your body becoming sensitive to the feeling of his tongue. he pulls away, lips glossy with your essence.

“i cannot wait any longer, my goddess…” he removes his shrouds, his body bare, impressive cock standing proud against his stomach. he crawls atop of you, his cock slotting between your thighs just grazing against your overstimulated clit.

“finally…i’ll give you what you need”

your wetness drooling down his cock, feeling him prod between your thighs as he immersed himself within your void, the gummy ring of your cunt clenched around his cock, bottoming out instantly, a gasp takes both your breaths, leaving a cacophonous gap in your chest, where you should be breathing.

“does it hurt?” he remains still, not wanting to move until he was absolutely certain you were comfortable.

it takes a second for you to adjust, your perfect cunt moulding to fit the shape of him. your walls fluttering around his thick shaft, wanting to pull him in.

“i’m okay..” you whisper, still regaining your breath from the initial intrusion

“good…” he places tender kisses to your eyelids upon noticing tears beggining to well in them. “i’ll keep you safe, i promise”

he begins to move, slowly at first, the intrusion swishing in you belly, just fluttering against the opening of your cervix, not quite reaching, but enough to make his presence aware. vessel dips his head to the side, capturing your neck in a flurry of dainty kisses, muttering sweet nothings against the skin.

your legs, almost out of instinct, wrapped around his waist, ankles locks, keeping him trapped between your legs

“more…i can take it…” a moan tingles against your tastebuds, inhaling the inflicted scent of him, all manly, of earth and clay, dewy like grass and damp like stone.

with that notion, he increases his speed, a hands place firm on your abdomen gently massaging the flesh while his cock ravages you. how heavenly the sensation is. never in your life had you recieved such pleasure, each sense heightened, beaming with arousal.

even though your first orgasms has already broken through, you feel that familiar pressure in your abdomen, and not from vessels hand, it swirled and bubbled in your skin, down to your muscles and bone, tight, almost tearing. he could sense it as well, the lack of touch, the over exposure to it now sent you both reeling.

“can i cum inside you, my goddess?” he asks—no! begs for it, just the sound of his whimpers makes your toes curl in delight. you nod— a frantic, feverish nod in agreement. it was one thing to experience the sensation of his cock gutting your womb but to have it filled, oh that would surpass even the most pleasurable of orgasm

he lets out a shaky breath, one that catches in his throat, his lips travel to your, capturing them in another heated kiss, the hand once on your abdomen now drawing impatient circles against your clot, his cock bullying its way into your womb.

“cum for me, my love…”

you throw your head back, stomach coiling with release as you cum around him, the grass below drinking in your sweet essence, the scent like nectar to vessels senses, a trigger that set off his own release.

he coats your cunt in his warmth, a release so strong it sends wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you. your bodies intertwined, connected forever, laid sweat-covered and blissful in the grass, amongst the wildflowers. vessel’s head propped into the crook of your neckC his bodyweight pressing down atop of you, not painful, enough to make your breaths take some effort, other than that if was comfortable. a silence builds between the two of you, not one marred by awkwardness. the both of you content.

“i can’t wait to spend eternity with you, my goddess”

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

[gaypirate420]

Feeding and Control// Jasper Hale

Jasper Hale x male!reader.

Inspiration.

Smut. Sub!Jasper. Edging. Bondage. Vibrators. Blood. Overstimulation. Oh vampire stamina.

A/N: First time writing for Jasper so it might be ooc. Also please reblog and comment. Requests are open (only male and gender neutral)!

Jasper looked so pretty.

His head hanged low and those blonde curls hide his pale face, his scarred arms covered with that beautiful red rope that tie them back to the chair, his legs spread nicely for you.

Those ropes were basically decorations. Jasper could break them with ease, but he doesn't.

It was heartwarming really.

"P—please." He whimpered, he looked up, his precious golden eyes meet yours.

Your lips leaves a tender kiss on his forehead and your hand cups his cold cheek, his body relaxes almost immediately under you touch.

"We haven't even started, dear." You whispered against his ear, he whines and looks at you, you wrapped your an arm around his shoulder.

His dick twitches, you stopped pumping his member right before he was about to come.

"You know what you get if you behave. Your reward for being a good boy." You whispered seductively while brushing your neck.

Jasper's eyes look at your exposed neck, he nods slowly.

"Y—yes, sir. I'll be a good boy, sir." He whispers and looks at you, you smile and kiss him on the lips, he kisses back desperate, his arms shuffle under the ropes.

Jasper wanted to touch you.

He needed to touch you, it didn't help the fact that you were sitting on his lap and every so minutes you rub yourself onto his thigh.

You grabbed a little egg shaped toy next.

Jasper's eyes widen as you place it on his cock.

"Sir?" He asked curious and slightly nervous, you smile and stroke his cheek, he melts against your palm, rubbing his face against your hand like a cat.

"It's a new toy I got for you, cowboy." You revealed softly. Jasper nods slowly feeling flustered, if he could blush he would, you always find a new way to make him feel so loved.

The toy started to vibrate against his member and Jasper moaned loudly.

This was a hole new experience for him and it felt amazing.

The toy was so powerful, he felt like his body was alive again for a moment.

You looked at him, whimpering, moaning and his body twitching in pleasure. You moved the toy from the tip to the bottom, and from the bottom to the tip.

His legs started to shake, he moaned and rolled his eyes slightly.

The vampire called your name over and over again, like a prayer, a mantra, a plea.

He was about to come.

You turn it off.

Jasper whimpered loudly, chest rising with his deep breaths and his head collapses against your shoulder.

"Please! Please! I need to come." He whispered against you, begging for release, your hand teased his member.

"One more, darling." You proposed kindly while your other hand stroke his blonde hair.

"I— can't." He whimpered against your neck, breathing your scent and feeling the blood pumping through your veins, he wanted another thing now. His lust clouded mind suddenly got fixated on his strongest desire.

Jasper needed to taste your sweet blood.

Bite your soft neck and seeing your blood paint your clothes red, he licks his lips at the mere thought of you getting weak under his arms.

He hissed against your neck and showed his fangs. You didn't have time to move because the hissing ceased as fast as it came.

Jasper placed clumsy kisses on your neck, as if apologizing for his behavior.

"You will get your reward, remember? Control yourself for me, pretty boy." You spoke while looking at him, his golden eyes look at yours again.

"Y—yes, sir." He whispered so softly it was almost inaudible, you smiled and kissed his forehead.

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

"One more." You whispered and stroke his hair, he whines and cries your name, you keep stroking his hair while his head is buried on the crook of your neck.

You have said this five times, one time with the toy, another with your hand, it was torturous.

The vampire doesn't know how much time has passed, his mind only thinks of the pleasure, your hands, your voice and the sweet scent of your blood.

Jasper is an uncontrollable vampire, blinded by his bloodlust and hunger.

"Look at you, tsk.." You started talking, he looks at you with curiousity, he can't think straight anymore.

"Panting and crying for me, a mere human. You, a strong and powerful vampire getting reduced to a needy whimpering mess. How?" You say while starting to pump his dick again.

His member twitches against your palm at the mocking and degradation.

Jasper whimpers against your neck, he couldn't speak anymore, he was completely blinded by lust.

His nature wanted your blood and his hearth wanted to touch you and to please you.

"B—b—because, I—I love you a—a—and you— h—help me c—control m—myself." He whispered breathlessly, almost slurring his words.

You looked at him with loving eyes, his yellow eyes rolled back and he moaned against you as you kept pumping his member.

"Oh pretty cowboy, I love you too." You whispered and kiss his forehead, he smiled faintly and nodded.

Your strokes got faster, he cried against you, begged you and moaned your name.

He could break the ropes and just throw you into the bed and let you dry.

But Jasper doesn't want to, he wants to be good for you, he loves giving up control because he feels so pleased and loved.

The vampire loves your hands on him, he loves your sweet voice telling him what to do, he loves being in this position.

You spit on your hand and keep stroking him, he moans your name again.

His legs shake and you stop stroking immediately, he moaned and trust his hips.

"Ngh! N-no, please, sir, sir, sir." Jasper begged against you, you looked at him.

"Please, sir. It hurts so much, I need to come, please, please, please." He whispered breathless, you nod and kiss his lips.

"Where do you want to come?" You ask him softly, he thinks for a moment, trying to make some sense to his mind.

"Inside you, please, sir, please— I've been so good, please. It hurts so much— ngh!—hungry." He begged you.

Your fingers brushed his shoulder, his back arched as he felt shivers down his spine. Your fingers tracing a path down his arm and then at the ropes.

You look at him, he swallows nothing, he looks like his throat is completely dry.

Now that's the sing to stop.

He looks at you, you wink with a mischievous smile.

Jasper is quick to breake the ropes and throws you gently on the bed, getting on top of you.

His cold hands desperately touched your body, getting rid of your clothes, ripping them and tossing to the side.

Jasper leaned down and kissed you with an intense passion and hunger, you groan against him as his lips locked with yours.

His cold lips travel down your jaw.

It was like a cube of ice sliding down your throat.

"Do it." You whispered.

Jasper thinks for a moment, he doubts of his control over his hunger for a moment. His cold hand holds the back of your neck.

He hissed and showed his fangs, you blushed and felt your body react. He quickly buried his sharp fangs on your neck.

It didn't hurt.

Instead you were met with a wave of bliss, of pure pleasure that made you moan.

He groans against you while sucking your blood. Jasper's is hand making soothing movements on your neck plus his gift ceasing any pain or uncomfortable feeling.

Jasper pulls away, you blush even more when you see him.

His chin was covered with your blood, his golden eyes meeting yours, he licked his lips.

You tasted so delicious, like the finest of wines. He can't get enough off you, he is truly addicted.

Jasper leans and kisses you again, you taste the iron flavor of your own blood, he groans against you.

"I love you— I love you— I love you." He whispered over and over while his hand explore your body, he spread your legs gently and his aching member met your folds slowly.

He became weak in an instant, moaning against your ear.

Jasper starts to move, giving some sloppy trusts before getting faster.

The faster the trust, the louder his moans became against your ear, his whimpering always makes you melt.

The sounds of your skin clashing together mixed with your moans were loud and absolutely pornographic.

Jasper moans your name and you feel his cock twitch inside you.

"Jasper! F—faster!" You shouted. He nodded and spread your legs wider, his hands on your hips as he trust you deeper and faster.

Your eyes fill with tears, your legs start to shake and Jasper moves even faster.

Feeling his cock twitching, Jasper comes inside you. Your own climax coming next.

He buried his face on your shoulder, your hand grips those golden locks.

He tries to speak, he calls your name softly between pants and whimpers.

"S—sir, please, please, please— One more." He whispered against your ear as his hands caressed your hips.

You meet his eyes not sure what of the two things he wants one more off, still, you agreed without hesitation.

"Thank you— Thank you— Thank you." He kissed your lips before his own lips traveled down your neck again.

Jasper throws your legs over his shoulders, bending you in a way you didn't know you were able to.

His hips start to move again at the same time his fangs show up, he bites you again.

"OH! J—JASPER!" You moaned loudly, he keeps feeding off you while his trusts became more erratic and deeper.

Your orgasm comes faster than you thought, his own too, filling you with his cum.

He pants and give a couple of slow and sloppy trust, he lick the drops of blood that fall down your chest, not wasting a drop.

His golden eyes look at you with a pleading gaze.

"O—one more, sir, please."

---------------------------

A/N: Hey. Whatcha doing? So yeah first time writing for Jasper, I was planning on a non smut fic for the grand debut but oh well.

[2-dsimp]

i feel like if someone like me were around Uriel he might actually be tortured by total accident. i stretch and i whimper guaranteed every time and if i try to like quiet it then it comes out as a shaky breath which isn’t much better. having a big chest and just not wearing bras unless i’m going outside that day. holding stuff between my legs if my hands are full while sitting down/am distracted by something. poor Uriel would be absolutely going through it and it’d make it even worse if you’re a super affectionate and physically clingy reader. sweet thing would be repeating “love not lust, love not lust” over and over in his melted brain <3

(also might i be 🍮 anon? if that isn’t available then 🦢 anon works just fine!)

You would be the lovely bane of his existence. The poor incubus would have to excuse himself multiple times to save his cute image.

Or scrambled to retrieve a pillow to place in his lap. Uriel would be noticeably jumpy and hyper aware of everything you do. With his face and pointy ears all flushed pink. He’d barely register the blackening of his sclera’s while he desperately repeats his all saving “Love not Lust” mantra in a prayer for himself and you.

Yandere Incubus! Who’s in a constant uphill battle to treat his chastity as a nun would with her reverent worshiping of the lord. If you’re naturally affectionate and physically clingy he’d oftentimes act like a flustered skittish bunny. Unless you’ve made your intentions to be with him crystal clear. As he doesn’t wanna risk any attempt of him losing control and ultimately breaking you in before marriage.

Especially not when he’s a certified lover boy that has a goal of marrying you and making you lawfully his with a pretty heart diamond ring on your finger.

—-/———/———————-

A/n: you can be 🦢 anon!

[enhastolemyheart]

kinktober day 4 — somnophilia

nsfw content minors dni.

pairing bf!sunghoon x reader

warnings consensual somnophilia (m receiving), smut, kissing, nudity, profanity, a little bit of dirty talk (ig), p in v, petnames, not proofread lmk if anything's missing

requested @ anon

word count 0.8k

kinktober masterlist — here

You couldn't sleep. It was nearing three in the morning.

You tried to have some tea (which obviously failed 'cause you are not a tea person); you tried meditating; you tried listening to white noise; But, Alas! You were wide awake, tossing and turning in the sheets. And that surprisingly didn't affect your boyfriend's slumber, Sunghoon.

You get and go the washroom. After doing your business, you exit the bathroom but end up stopping yourself in your tracks, astonished by your mans' beauty.

He slept soundly on your shared bed. Blanket half-off his physique. He slept shirtless, his smooth muscles inflating and deflating at his low and constant breathing. He is too pretty, you thought. Too pretty for your own good.

His skin seems to glisten under the moonlight that was seeping through your open window. Or maybe he really is glowing. Well, that's how it seemed when he walked inside your apartment not long ago, drenched in sweat due his heavy and draining tour prep. He couldn't stay awake for dinner, he just passed out.

The flashbacks of the way he sexily, messily stripped out of his shirt, and the way he asked you to pull his pants down because he was too tired to, all come back to you and run straight to your core. Now all you can think about is his heavy breathing, the way his body moved along with it, and the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to take a breather before going to sleep.

And now, your wet. Absolutely, disgustingly, needily wet.

you need him.

you manage to somehow strip the pants off his body and now he's moved to his back. You straddle him, not before taking off your sleep shorts and panties, clad only in a flimsy thin strap cami. You groan at the contact of your core meeting his member. Feeling impatient, you start to rock on you dick slowly. Sunghoon stirs slightly underneath you, adding some movement to yours, causing you to let out a low moan failing to be quiet. you throw your had back, throat drying up since your mouth has been open due to the ecstasy. You start riding his fully hard clothed member.

before you can pick up your pace, you feel large, rough hands make contact with the flesh of your ass, squeezing it like a stressball. You look at him in surprise, but find that his eyes are closed, face with no expression, putting you under the impression that he's still asleep or half asleep at the least.

"hoon?" you try to slow down, but his hands guide your pussy on him.

"you stop and you won't get to cum." he slurs, finally opening his eyes to look at you, brown orbs oozing with lust, "couldn't control yourself, sweetheart?"

"No- ah!" you can't control the sound that escape your mouth now. the sight of his abs clenching only adding up to your pent up needs. You moan at the sight and he gets the hint. He stops you by a slap on your ass before he sits up against the head board. He pulls you towards him with grip on your hips until you land on his stomach, right on his beautiful, full, clenching abs.

"ride my abs and maybe you'll get to come sweetheart." he slurs, giving a wet and hot kiss on your lips.

at his signal, you start moving on his abs. such a new feeling, it got a clenching hard around nothing. "Ah fuck hoon, feels good!"

he chuckles lowly before clenching his abs, giving you're bud of nerves more stimulation that has you moaning out his name like a mantra. you already feel the knot in your abdomen tightening. "hoon fuck I'm close."

"yeah?" he tightens his hands on the sides of your hips, helping you get off using his abs, "come for me babygirl."

you swear you never came so hard in your life, "Sunghoon!" you immediately fall on top of him as his movements falter, coming to a stop. you release all over his abs and lower tummy, feeling all sticky. you let out a little chuckle of embarrassment.

"Sorry for waking you up from your sleep, I know how tired you were."

he smack his lips before placing a kiss on your lips, your hands circle his neck at you make the kiss deeper before he pulls away, "nonsense sweetheart. If you're gonna wake me up for these type of reason I don't care how tired I am. Your pleasure come first babygirl."

you groan in embarrassment, head finding home at the crook at his neck. he chuckles before squeezing your ass, wrapping his arms around and turning you both around resulting in a squeal at you.

"plus," he sits up, taking off his underwear, showing off his dick that rock hard at this point, begging for some release and attention, "you deserve a punishment for ruining my sleep." he smirks wildly, indicating that it's only getting started.

you elicit a chuckle before pulling him down for a kiss. He puts his member inside, your tight walls greeting him home. your moan getting muffled by his lips. You know this night won't really end when his thrusts are deep and sharp.

"let's have some fun sweetheart."

a/n. tysm for reading. im really sorry for not posting consistently, i've been having alot of school stuff. im trying my best to be consistent with this series! I really don't want to discontinue this saur I'm even gonna post kinktober if its not done within the month. I will finish it.

taglist. @seungiesluv @jak-ey @unlikelysublimekryptonite @seungcore @heeseungshim @arizejkt19 @manasasugarbaby09 @wildflowermooon @lixieisfrv @racerhee @kaykay11sworld @heeliopheelia

@ ENHASTOLEMYHEART, 2023. - please do not repost, copy or translate.

[askbrahmsheelshire]

hi!! i wanted to ask for a Brahms x gender neutral reader writing drabble! can you please write brahms with an s/o who has been drawing him a lot and accidentally finds their sketchbook on their desk? thank you!

ᴼᶠ ᶜᵒᵘʳˢᵉᵎᵎᵎ ᴵ ᵉⁿᵈᵉᵈ ᵘᵖ ᵐᵃᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶦᵗ ˡᵒⁿᵍᵉʳ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᶦⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗᵉᵈ ˡᵒˡ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ

Brahms x GN! Reader Warnings: Posessiveness, Consensual but Not Safe or Sane, Minor Sexual Content POV: 3rd Person Limited, Brahms Perspective

His fingertips glide across the cheek of his porcelain mask, riding the ridges of the lips that are cracked from years of wear. His eyes glance down to a discarded book, pages haphazardly flipped open. It feels odd, this flipped dynamic.

Being watched, that is.

His eyes are used to watching them through the cracks in the walls; from behind this mask he’s worn since the fire tore through his flesh. Being a predator hungry for its’ prey, hiding and concealing himself in the shadows.

He’s felt their eyes on his hulking frame every day this week, marking and etching into the paper of the moleskin they carry. Sitting in the parlor, behind the kitchen counters… In bed, as he stares down at them through this ceramic facade. Their eyes, locked onto his mask, trying to see through it. Scanning and memorizing, marking and recording.

More than a dozen different sketches of his own face and body lined and shaded are littered throughout the pages. These sketches show everything— the angry burns that crawl down from beneath his mask and onto his shoulder, his relentless body hair, the brown ringlets of his hair that frizz out and go straight in mismatched places.

He didn’t realize he’s been this thoroughly…examined. While he was busy recording their curves into his memory, their every movement throughout his home repeated like a mantra in his head, they were busy doing the same. His chest… His eyes behind his mask…The folds and draping of his clothes against his body. The unmistaken straining of his pants.

He can’t help but groan, wetting his lips to the physical desire of his lover leaking off the page. His thoughts becoming more and more muddied the more he sees his lust reflected back on the rough textured paper.

A creak of the staircase, barely audible, hits his ears. He knows every weakpoint in the old floorboards of this home to recognize when his lover is making their way up the stairs. Like a sixth sense.

His body catches them before even a squeak can escape their throat. Moving like a shadow across the floorboards of the bedroom to the opening door, just a gust of wind hits their face before they see him there. A hand reaches out, stopping the door’s swinging movement and pinning their bodies together against its’ frame. He looms over them, faces mere inches away. It’s only then do they find the air returning to their lungs, eyes wide in shock, finally seeing him there before them.

That look— that desperation! In the short time he’s had them here as his new plaything, he can still get this kind of reaction from them! That sort of desperation and fear when startled and backed into a corner, primal and animalistic. It’s intoxicating, it’s all his! Mine, mine, mine, he thinks.

“Gh— Brahms…! God, you scared me—” The blush errupts across their face, beautiful, hot blood, taking over the color on their cheeks. Their eyes whip from his mask straight to the scene of the crime, the mistakenly discarded notebook that lay open on the dresser. Whines and whispers of an animal pinned down by the teeth of a predator croak from their lips, followed by an embarrassed and nervous smile. “I didn’t mean to leave that out.”

Cute.

Cute, cute cute. Cute!

Their breath is uneven, shoulders shaking at every inhale, heart thrumming like a small little hummingbird. He moves in closer, God, he can’t control it, moving his face into the crook of their neck and his breath pounding on the inside of the ceramic. It’s like he can taste the blood on his lips through the thin skin of their neck. That racing pulse, drumming, drumming, drumming under their jaw is enough to make him faint.

“Did you see everything?” They ask, smugness and pride playing on their lips, despite their nervousness and embarrassment. Had they left it out on purpose? Was it meant to entice him, a game they've devised for his amusement? He loves these kinds of games.

He doesn’t answer, just breathes in their hot breath and scent, porcelain cold against the sensitive lobes of their ears. Shaking like a poor deer caught in the scope of a hunter’s rifle. It’s more fun this way, forcing information out of them, making them think they’re giving it up on purpose. Entice, sit, wait.

“You’re just beautiful, Brahms. I can’t help but draw you.” They smile, still shivering and swaying like long, wild grass. A spark of indignation flickers when he doesn't deny looking at their drawings, "It's only fair. You stare at me all the time."

His voice, high and wrong for a man his age, “You don’t like when I stare?” A hint of a smirk on his real lips.

“I didn’t say that!"

A quick retort, almost too loud for how close they are to one another.

That look—! The desperation for his approval, their fear and exhilaration. Their eyes cast down quickly, embarrassed by how quickly they needed to clarify.

He needs it. To the core of his being, he craves it.

The saliva pooling under his tongue is overwhelming as his eyes dart across their features. He swallows hard.

A whimper rushes past their lips. “I’m sorry, Brahms,” they apologize, voice light and unsteady. “I didn’t mean for you to find it, I—” A startled squeak as his hands find the sides of their face, thumbs nestled on the skin of their temples, stroking and smoothing the skin there. His grip forces their eyes to meet.

“Why?” He finds his voice, too delicate, too unstable. They didn’t want him to see? Why not? Hasn’t he been good? He knows he’s been good, he’s been nothing but obedient. He’s good, he’s good, so then why? Why, why, why?!

Their eyes shine with something he can’t place— something he can’t understand. He’s good, he’s been so fucking good.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Their hand rests on his chest, rubbing smooth, small circles. God, that feels good. Good. Good. He’s so good. “I didn’t mean for you to just… stumble upon it.”

His fingers tighten their hold, scratching the line of hair on their neck, sending a shiver straight down their spine. “And how would you have wanted me to find it?”

Their breath hitches, eyes wide as they look into the empty eyes of his mask. “I… I wanted to show you. I wanted to show you how I see you.”

“Show me,” he whispers, his hands releasing their grasp moving down, down, down to grip their waist.

“Show me how you see me.”

[sonnetsoncanvas]

Mess it up : pt 4

Summary: Years ago he had let you go for your own good. But this time, he isn’t sure he can

Part of the Mess it up series

Pairing: brother’s best friend rock star Bucky x fem reader (Steve’s sister) (dual pov)

Warnings: MINORS DNI, SMUT AHEAD, masturbation (M & F), fingering, vibrator, overstimulation, bondage, choking kink, possessive bucky.

Inspired by: Mess it up by Gracie Abrams

Notes: This is the first time a fic has made its way from my laptop to the internet. So please be kind and do leave your feedback. Happy reading!

We could make it better, breaking every habit.

Bucky POV

“You like that, don’t ya baby?” Bucky grunted in your ear; his voice unrecognisable to his own. You moaned loudly, the melody of that beautiful sound echoing through his apartment.

“Bucky…baby…please, pleaaaase…..oh my god.” You blabbered. Bucky was sure you had lost control of your mind. He had never seen you this vulnerable, this submissive. You had trusted him enough to take down all your defence and give yourself to him, a fact that warmed his soul even in through his lust filled haze.

He shifted his focus on your swollen clit, wet and slippery after being thoroughly abused for hours by his mouth and the little pink vibrator he had bought for the very purpose of turning you into the mess you are right now. He kept his fingers curled inside you to reach that one spot that made you squeal and kept on moving it achingly slow, just enough to keep you within the reach of your release, but not quite much to give it to you.

He was, after all, punishing you.

“Where’s that smart mouth now, huh, doll?” he mocked, his eyes sweeping over your stunningly ruined form, his mind not believing it was him who had done this to you.

“bucky please…. Sorry..aaah…..please I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You chanted it like a mantra to placate your man, to convince him to give you what you so desperately need. You arched your back, tugging on your tied hands, beckoning him to kiss you.

“I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet, pretty baby. I think you need to be reminded who owns this perfect pussy, no? I’m the only one who could make a mess out of you. the only one who can see you this way. But here you are, going around, giving people the impression that they can be in my place, giving you everything you want.” He bent down to lick the sweat off your neck, sucking another bruise to the already marked area, still angered by the way boys were ogling your ass at the afterparty today. He knew that you were fair game to them, considering that your relationship with him was a well-guarded secret. Still his heart burned with envy when they hit on you openly, in a way he never can.

And you, the minx you were, flirted back with them, knowing how this would mess with him. He had almost stalked to the boy, shoving him into his place (which was away from you, obviously). Thank God for Steve, who had glared on the boy enough to melt him to the ground. You, however, had simply smirked at Bucky, daring him to claim you.

And here he was, claiming every inch of you. kissing, sucking, marking it.

You mewled prettily, wriggling your hips to get some friction, making bucky chuckle. He gave in then, increasing the pressure on the vibrator, finger fucking you faster until you gave out a prolonged moan, your pussy fluttering and squirting, soaking him. And God above, he knew that this must be what heaven would be like.

“My sweet, sweet girl, did so good for me.” He murmured reverently as he untied your wrists and kissed the red marks. “My best girl, my girl, my doll.”

“FUUUUUUCCCK” Bucky growled, leaning all his weight on his metal arm, his flesh one jerking his dick roughly. A couple of more strokes and he came violently, his release smeared all over his  hand and the bathroom floor, before flowing down the drain.

He sighed, disappointed and dissatisfied. Jerking himself off, as surprisingly common as that was for him, was never enough. He was always left feeling empty inside, no matter how much he tried.

It was to rid himself of this emptiness he had been with other women, trying them on as clothes to see if they could fit the void of your absence. It was wrong of him to do that, he knew it. But all of those hook ups were just that, transactional sexual encounters where they traded orgasms and went home.

He could not classify them as relationships, even if the media or his friends seemed to refer them that way. Where was the emotional connect, the understanding, the long conversations, the longing. Bucky never felt an iota of what he felt with you with anyone else, a fact that had frustrated him initially. Now, it was just a fact he had accepted resignedly, that he would never fall in love with anyone the way he fell for you.

He was toxic bastard. Unfair to all those women who tried their best to live with his brooding ass. He had apologised to them much later, telling them how sorry he was for his emotional unavailability. Some forgave him, some still hated him.

Ultimately, he circled back to this, taking care of himself while thinking of you. this was what he’d done for all the time he was apart from you, nevertheless who was in his bed or if he was alone. He simply reminisced of the times you were together or imagining what he’d do to you if you were there with him. And great heavens, there were so many filthy, debauched things he would do to you, if only he could.

Your reappearance in his life had spurred him on in a bizarre way. It was like he was a teenager again, constantly horny. But it wasn’t even horniness that was driving bucky crazy. It was a strange longing for intimacy, to be intimate with you. to touch, taste and smell you.

Two days ago, he had almost gotten that. Bucky hadn’t meant to cross any of the unspoken boundaries set by you, but the moment he sensed you in peril his primal intuition to protect you had taken over, pulling you towards him.

that singular moment brought him more peace than anything had in the past five years. Everything just felt…right.

It felt wrong, how right this situation felt. His heart had grown so used to the cold, that warmth the seeped through you felt foreign, alien. And he’d jerked back, ending what was the best thing to happen to him in oh so long.

Trust bucky to mess it up.

He cleaned himself up and dressed, pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants that used to make your beautiful eyes wide. He smiled at the memory, walking out in the living room where he sensed you. it was natural to him, his heart finding where you are before your eyes could even locate you. you were sitting next to Steve, having an intense conversation from the sound of it. As he entered the kitchen, Steve hollered “Hey Buck! Y/n accidentally made some extra French toasts. They’re by the stove”

His heart stumbled a bit. He immediately refused to believe that you made a calculation mistake. You who had been cooking since you could reach the countertop, you who hated wastage of any kind and was so cautious of every spoonful. You did not ‘accidentally’ cook something.

Maybe you had noticed his feeble attempts at cooking. Maybe you still remembered he loved your French toasts. Maybe he should shut up and just eat.

He grabbed a plate and sat on the couch opposite to you guys, paying close attention to the topic of conversation. Turns out it was Steve convincing you to live with him.

“Steve I am not going to live with you and your girlfriend if I get the job. I am literally twenty four!” exasperation was evident in your voice, which bucky picked on. Your brother however, did not.

“Fine. At least get a place nearby. How about in our building? I’m very sure the apartment downstairs is empty ever since that emo guy moved out….”

You only chuckled at your brother’s naivete. He had to be doing this on purpose, no one is that dumb. “There is no way in hell I’m going to be able to afford living in this neighbourhood on an associate’s salary! Not all of us get a million dollars at our first gig!” you were trying very hard to retain your composure, but your body was betraying your annoyance.

Bucky had never butted between the two of you before. But this time he felt it was his responsibility to knock some sense into his foolhardy best friend.

“Steve, man, she’s a person in her own right. She has proved over and over again how capable she is of living on her own. I don’t think its right to be dictating your terms like that. If she needs help figuring stuff out, I’m sure she knows she can come to us anytime.”

The minute he said that, bucky’s entire body tensed with feeling of your eyes on him. You had looked in his general direction since he sat down, but now you were looking directly at him. His face warmed with awareness.

Steve was apparently pacified , his arguments reduced to a disgruntled grumble as he collected the plates and ambled towards the kitchen. And bucky was now alone with you in the room.

You turned your head and looked into his eyes “thank you for taking my side. I didn’t need you to, but I guess he needed to hear that from someone that wasn’t me.”

It was like the speech function of his brain stopped working. Say something damnit

“it was nothing. He’s missed you that’s all.”

“And I’ve missed him, but this is bordering on overbearing.”

“Steve had always been overbearing when it came to you, don’t you remember what happened when that emo boy hit on you?”

And that’s how the first real conversation between the two of you in the past five years began, ranting about Steve’s occasional misdemeanours. Which in turn started a conversation about your interviews (which he was elated to hear went great), which in turn started a conversation about his last tour and next album’s preparations.

 Before he knew it you were both laying the past four years bare in front of each other. And bucky felt like he could finally breathe again.      

You bath talked for what felt like an hour but was in reality three, only to be separated when sam dropped by to drag him to gym. He’d bid goodbye to you with a smile, and what made him giddy was that you smiled back too.

That day bucky did an extra hour workout, just because it felt like his heart was pumping extra blood in his veins in jubilation. He also wanted to replay every bit of the conversation in his head before it faded away.

Afterwards, as he ambled to his car with aching feet and burning lungs, all he could think was, “I can spend the rest of my life like this.”

Reader’s POV

As Bucky got up and left for gym, glaring at Sam as if he had snatched his favourite toy from him, he’d taken a moment to smile down at you

And it paralysed you. completely halted time. And turned it back to five years ago, when you had seen it for the first time.

Out of sheer courtesy you’d smiled back at him, you told yourself. That your smile had got nothing to do with fact that you genuinely enjoyed talking to him.

That you never wanted to stop talking to him.

you walked to the washroom to do your night time routine with a strange sense of relief, the sort you hadn’t felt for years.

“good.” You told your reflection in the mirror with toothbrush in your mouth, “now we can be amicable acquaintances rather than awkward exes. Makes things easier for me.”

“I mean now I have nothing holding me back from accepting the New York offer, right?” you debated with no one with particular as you disrobed for shower.

But as soon as the first spray of hot water hit you face, all your inhibitions melted to something primal. You closed your eyes and the highlights of the conversation played out in your head in slow motion.

His unfiltered smiles. His compassionate eyes. His long silken locks. His veined, tattooed arms. His long, ringed fingers

Damn his long, ringed fingers.

They had been your undoing long back, just like they were now.

Your own fingers travelled down your body to the one place that was aching for that blue eyed adonis.

It had frustrated you for so long that your brain will only ever conjure up Bucky’s image whenever you tried to masturbate. No matter how hard you tried, it was always him. His fingers, his tongue, his cock. You tried listening to erotic audios, reading the filthiest eroticas, watching porn, but no avail. You blamed it on the fact that your body had only known his touch. You never allowed yourself to become physically involved with anyone after him, and there was no one before him. It was and has always been just him.

But now your brain did not need any extra aid to make you imagine his fingers pressing on your clit and his other hand, preferably the metal one, caressing your breast, gently tugging and teasing your already hard nipples.

Soon his fingers would slowly probe your entrance, just circling it with his index until you begged him to enter your pussy. He had always been a jerk like that, making you beg, scream and squirm before giving you your sweet release.

With two fingers fucking your fluttering pussy, and his palm pressing on your sensitive clit, he would climb up and take you heavy breasts in his mouth, sucking them viciously, leaving his metal arm free to choke you just enough to make you delirious.

His rings would drag against your walls, his palms maintaining that insistent pressure on your clit, while he continued to whisper the obscenest things to you, the cool metal of his arm contrasting your overheated skin.

It wasn’t long before you clenched around your fingers as a shuddering orgasm washed over you. your eyes water and you sank down to the floor, panting, while warm water still poured down on you, washing away the evidence of your arousal.

Arousal that was the result of a mere conversation with this devastating man.

You were utterly and truly Fucked.

[adhdnursegoat]

Episode 12

Word count: 11.2K

Content Warning: none

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Ao3 link here!

Friday, February 15th, 2013 

He wanted her.

So what?

No big deal.

He could control this.

Edward straightened his tie with an abrupt, jerky motion. The fabric felt tighter today, stifling, though he knew it wasn’t. The knot sat at his throat like a noose, cinching tighter with every passing second. He adjusted it again, tugging sharply, but it didn’t help.

The discomfort wasn’t the tie.

He knew exactly what the problem was—though he dreaded admitting it.

Romy.

His student. His protégé. His assistant. That’s all. That’s all she’d ever been.

That’s all she should ever be.

She was there to learn from his greatness, his brilliance. That was the arrangement. She was there to soak in whatever fragments of genius he deigned to offer her. Someone so insignificant, someone with barely two brain cells to rub together, could only ever hope to hold a candle to his intellect. Maybe—maybe—if he were feeling generous, he could spare her one of his brain cells. Then, perhaps, she’d finally have a whole brain to call her own.

She was nothing more than a passerby. A background character. Someone who would fade from his orbit as easily as she’d entered it.

And the idea—the thought that she could be more—felt tenuous. It was jagged and dangerous, daring him to acknowledge it. To acknowledge her.

Control.

Control over his work, over his world, over the fortress of logic and reason. It was who he was, who he’d always been.

He was Edward Nashton, for God’s sake. He didn’t lose control. Not to anyone. Not to her.

Yet, that truth felt thinner now, stretched taut and fraying at the edges. His fingers twitched at his sides. Thoughts circled back to Romy with maddening insistence.

It was infuriating. She was infuriating. The way she smiled—self-assured. The way she carried herself, confident and poised, always with that faint air of amusement like she was in on some cosmic joke. The way she talked to him, like she belonged there, like she belonged in his world. 

She shouldn’t. She didn’t. 

The tie felt unbearable and he yanked it loose this time, abandoning the pretense of composure. His jaw tightened as he passed an officer climbing the steps of the precinct. 

Puffs of hot breath condensed in the air. It was cold today. Freezing, actually, and here he was loosening his tie as if he’d run a marathon, as if it were the middle of summer and sweltering. 

Get it together. 

He wouldn’t let this… this thing—whatever it was—undermine him.

Control. He repeated the word silently, again and again, like a mantra as he pushed through the front doors. Like a prayer. If he said it enough, thought it enough, maybe it would drown out the traitorous ache clawing at his chest. Maybe it would silence the part of him that wanted to linger in the memory of her touch, that wanted to let his mind wander to what-ifs and maybes.

Because that wasn’t who he was. He didn’t let anyone—especially someone like her—get under his skin.

And yet…

The ghost of her palms lingered on his cheeks, invasive and persistent. The scent of her perfume—the one he swore was too sweet, too honeyed—still clung faintly in his nose. The image of her hair hanging around him in curtains, shielding them both from the world, was burned into his visual cortex. He remembered the way her hands moved with deliberate care. He remembered the sharp hitch of his breath, the tightness in his chest, the way his pulse quickened against his will. And worst of all, he remembered the unbearable, humiliating heat that coursed through him, how his pants had felt too tight.

 Stop it. He avoided eye contact with everyone he passed, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. This is just biology. A chemical response to proximity, to touch. Nothing more.

It is just lust, Edward told himself, his footsteps echoing sharply against the tile floor as he strode through the precinct. That’s all this was. Biological. Logical. Manageable. Lust was simple, a physiological response, a chemical reaction coded into his DNA. His superior intellect knew better than to read into it. Romy was female, and he was male. That was the entirety of it. Cause and effect. There was nothing more. There couldn’t be more. 

It was just lust. Lust was manageable. Lust was easy.

Edward cast a sidelong glance at Officer James Edison as he passed him by, noting the smary smirk in his direction. He met the gangly officer with a glare. 

He didn’t have time for this. For her. For whatever ridiculous, intrusive thing this was. He had people to expose, people to burn at the stake of his crusade.

His fingers twitched, itching for something to anchor him—his tie, his glasses, anything. But he forced them to remain still, his hands balled into loose fists, one of them gripping the strap of his bag. He was methodical, composed. Always. 

Edward moved past the bullpen, ignoring the low hum of activity around him. Officers and detectives chattered, phones rang, and the sharp scent of stale coffee mingled with the faint tang of too many bodies in one space. It was familiar, predictable—a symphony of chaos that usually grounded him. But not today. Today, it was all static, noise he couldn’t seem to tune out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a cluster of officers gathered around a desk, laughing at some inside joke he had no interest in deciphering. Their laughter grated on him, too loud, too carefree. It only reminded him of the tension coiled in his chest, the thoughts he couldn’t seem to suppress. 

He brushed past a pair of officers carrying coffee cups, their conversation halting briefly as they glanced at him. He ignored them. He ignored everyone. He had to. Because if he stopped, if he let himself think about the way his chest still ached, about the way she looked at him with with those easy eyes of hers, he’d fall apart.

Connection. Care. Intimacy. He’d never needed those things. He’d never wanted those things. They were messy, unnecessary, and dangerous. He’d built a life around avoiding them, and he’d thrived because of it…

Hadn’t he?

So, why did the memory of her touch still burn? Why did he feel as though he were standing on the edge of something he didn’t understand, something he couldn’t control? 

Edward sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, the sharp sting grounding as he now stood in front of his office door. He exhaled, breath shallow and quick, and forced himself to straighten.

The door clicked shut behind him with a satisfying finality, sealing Edward away from the prying eyes and relentless noise of the precinct. For a moment, he let himself sag against the wall, his head tilting back as his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The ache refused to subside, gnawing at him, growing heavier with each passing second. It was as though everything he’d been pushing down had clawed its way to the surface, demanding to be felt.

You can’t crave what you don’t allow yourself to have.

It was a rule. A line he’d never crossed. The one that had kept him safe, untouchable, in control. But now Romy was here, with her maddening presence, pushing against that line, testing its limits, making him question why it existed in the first place.

And he hated her for it. Hated the way she’d made him feel unsteady, uncertain. Hated the way her touch felt like a brand, the way her voice wove through his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to shut it out. Hated the way she was always there, so impossibly close, and yet just out of reach.

So, he decided. He’d pull back. Reassert boundaries. Rationalize. Compartmentalize.

Distance, he decided, jaw tightening. It was the only solution. Distance from the curve of her lips, the warmth of her hands, the smokey softness in her voice. Distance from the way she tilted her head when she teased him, the way her emerald eyes glinted with amusement like she knew all his secrets. Distance from her.

It was the only way. It had to be.

But the thought barely settled before it was swept away.

“Mr. Nashton, um, you good, bro?”

Edward’s took a deep, deliberate inhale, forcing the sharp edges of his frustration into something cold, controlled. The ache twisted, meddling with irritation as his narrowed gaze shifted to Romy. His brow ached from the intensity of his furrow, his thoughts shattering like glass under the weight of her intrusion.

“Of course,” he snapped. “Why would you ask such a stupid thing?”

Romy didn’t flinch at the tone, which only irritated him further. Instead, she simply raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re just standing there…?” She gestured vaguely at his position against the wall.

For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. He felt exposed, caught in a moment he hadn’t meant for her to see. He combed a hand through his hair, forcing his expression to harden into one of natural disdain.

“And why does that concern you?” He pushed off the wall with calculated indifference, shrugged off his bag, and removed his coat and scarf. His steps were deliberate, precise, when he moved toward his desk, stomach twisting the closer he got.

She watched him, her attention following his every move, and he hated the way it made his skin crawl. He pretended not to notice, pretended he wasn’t hyper-aware of every glance, every breath, every slight shift in her posture.

“I’m just asking.” Her tone was light but probing. ”You seem... distracted.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her as he dropped his bag and settled into his chair, his fingers immediately finding the keyboard. The sharp clack of the keys filled his ears, a pointed dismissal, but his mind wasn’t on the work in front of him. It was still on her—her voice, her scent, her everything.

The solution was simple: distance.

But with Romy sitting there, her presence a constant, inescapable force. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the work in front of him, his thoughts kept circling back to her.

“What are we doing today?” 

For a long time, Edward didn’t answer. His gaze fixed on the monitor as if sheer willpower might drown out the sound of her voice. He really would have liked her to shut up.

“Finishing the case for Gordon and Bullock,” he offered finally, words bland, flat, uninterested. The tone was meant to push her away, to make her think he didn’t care. Maybe if he said it enough, he’d start to believe it himself.

“Is there anything you need from me?”

“Yes,” he snapped, not looking at her. “Sit there, shut up, be quiet.”

She clicked her tongue, the sound making him look to her. Her lips pulled to one side. Her eyes flick over him, making his skin prickle. “So, we’re back to this?”

“Back to what?” 

“Back to you pretending you don’t like having me around,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair with an ease that grated on him as she looked at her nails, almost in an absentminded manner. “Bit exhausting, don’t you think?”

His fingers tightened on the edge of his keyboard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” she quipped, the word harsh in a way that made him think everything was anything but. She shifted in her seat and crossed one leg over the other, the motion drawing his attention. “Keep pretending.”

Edward’s teeth clenched. “Why don’t you find something useful to do instead of wasting my time with your inane commentary?”

She blinked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment, and he hated how his chest tightened at the thought that he might have gone too far. But Romy only pursed her lips, squinted her darkened eyes, and sucked her teeth. “Whatever.” She turned her attention back to her laptop.

He didn’t respond. But out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. It was a mistake—one he realized the moment his gaze lingered too long.

She was leaning forward slightly, her posture relaxed yet purposeful, the glow of her screen reflecting faintly against her porcelain skin. Today, her hair was pulled into a ponytail, sleek and deliberate, skimming her spine in a way that sent his mind spiraling back to that night. Drinks at the bar. The way she had opened up to him, the way her ponytail swayed when she walked, exposing the delicate curve of her throat. He remembered the warmth of her arm brushing against his when she walked by him, the scent of her lavender and vanilla perfume mingling with the smack of alcohol and the smell of her berry flavored vape. He remembered how she wrapped the scarf around him and held on for a fleeting moment. And, God help him, he remembered how it felt like it meant something.

The stirring in his belly was immediate, unwelcome, and entirely too familiar. Why did Romy have to be so goddamn distracting? He forced himself to look away, his jaw tightening. His gaze snapped back to his monitor, the lines of code blurring for a moment before he blinked them into focus. He furrowed his brow into a deep scowl.

Work. That was the answer. That had always been the answer.

Control. Logic. Precision. Work.

But as his fingers moved over the keyboard, there was still an undercurrent of irritation, a low buzz beneath his skin that refused to dissipate. It wasn’t just her—or maybe it was. 

With mechanical efficiency, he pulled up the file from Gordon and Bullock. The familiar lines of the case details flashed onto his monitor, crisp and clinical, and for the first time in minutes, his thoughts began to shift. Numbers. Patterns. Solutions. This was what he knew, what he could control.

The ache in his chest dulled slightly, replaced by the familiar hum of focus as he began to work. His eyes skimmed the text on the screen, zeroing in on the cluster of digits that had been rattling around in his brain since the file landed in his hands: 044809111. His lips twitched into a quick sneer, irritation flickering across his features. He should have been working on this yesterday instead of indulging Romy’s and Kristen’s tomfoolery—a word that grated on his nerves just thinking about it. He wasn’t here to babysit or entertain anyone.

But then, the thought shifted, unbidden. No. Had yesterday not happened, he wouldn’t have felt her body in his arms. He wouldn’t have noticed how perfectly she fit against him, the way her chest rose and fell against his, the soft catch of her breath as she steadied herself. He wouldn’t have felt the delicate texture of her stockings beneath his fingertips or the way the warmth of her cashmere sweater clung to his palms as though it was designed to drive him mad.

Stop.

The heat in his body flared, mingling with irritation. His hand twitched toward his glasses, adjusting them. He straightened in his chair, forcing himself back to the task at hand. Focus.

The numbers on the screen blurred slightly before snapping into sharp clarity. He copied the string into a blank document, splitting it into chunks.

04.48.09.111.

04.48.091.11.

04.480.91.11.

0.44.80.91.11.

044.8.091.11.

0.448.0.91.11.

One by one, he arranged them into plausible IP address formats, each set separated by dots. His fingers tapped a steady rhythm as he fed the options into his query system, checking their validity. The process was painstaking, but his mind thrived on the meticulousness of it. The dull ache in his chest receded slightly, replaced by the familiar hum of focus.

Results began to populate his screen, each address associated with a far-flung corner of the world.

One pointed to a server in northern India. Another to a remote corner of Brazil. One led to a fishing port in Japan, another to a private network in Australia. Each address felt like a dead end, the sheer distance from Gotham making it unlikely they were connected to the case at hand—for the most part. He would only consider foreign servers as a last resort.

Edward sighed, leaning back in his chair. It was going to be one of those puzzles—layered, messy, time-consuming. His fingers drummed against the desk, his mind already working ahead. If these arrangements didn’t yield anything useful, the only logical step would be to reconfigure the digits into new permutations, even if it meant hours of painstaking effort.

He started again.

This time, he took the digits and began rearranging them systematically, testing every combination that could fall within valid IP address ranges. It was a grueling process, but Edward didn’t flinch from the tedium. The numbers flashed on his screen, one after another, as he cross-referenced each possibility.

Finally, his patience was rewarded. A handful of addresses surfaced, all associated with Gotham. Most of them were innocuous: a municipal server for the water department, a secondary school’s network, an outdated retail database. But one caught his attention.

10.194.8.140.

His eyes narrowed as he clicked on the address, running a deeper search. It was subtle—quiet, almost invisible in the digital noise—but there was something off about it. A sense of purpose behind its placement. He recognized the patterns, the fingerprints of someone skilled enough to bury their trail but careless enough to leave just enough for someone like him to notice.

Edward straightened, his pulse quickening as the pieces began to align. This wasn’t just another innocuous server. This was something different. His eyes narrowed at the screen, his thoughts sharpening with the thrill of discovery. He felt the familiar rush—exhilaration tempered with the satisfaction of being right. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk.

“Found you.”

But finding it was only the beginning. Now came the real work. His stilling for a moment, calculating his next move. He needed to delve deeper, to engage with the server without triggering any alarms. He was already working on autopilot, slipping into a rhythm honed by years of navigating Gotham’s digital underworld both professionally and for personal interest—just because he could.

The first step was hiding his presence. He activated a series of anonymizing protocols, bouncing his signal through a labyrinth of proxies and encrypted channels. Each one layered his trail, making it harder for anyone—if they were watching—to trace his intrusion back to him. The process was seamless, almost second nature, but he double-checked his work anyway.

Satisfied, Edward sent a ping to the server, his connection slipping through the cracks like water through a sieve. The screen flickered for a moment, then resolved into a basic directory structure. It was rudimentary, but he knew better than to trust appearances. Simple interfaces often hid the most complex systems. He began poking around, testing the architecture, searching for vulnerabilities.

At first, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. The file names were cryptic, coded in a way that suggested deliberate obfuscation. Numbers. Letters. Random symbols. It could have been anything.

But Edward wasn’t deterred. He dug deeper, methodically unpacking layers of encrypted data, breaking through firewalls that would have stumped lesser minds. Each barrier he breached only confirmed what he suspected: this wasn’t just a random server. It was something bigger. Something important.

And then he started to see it.

The first folder he decrypted was filled with transaction logs—hundreds, maybe thousands of them. The numbers were staggering. Payments funneled through offshore accounts, routed through shell corporations, obscured by layers of digital misdirection. His eyes narrowed as he scrolled through the entries, his mind racing to piece it together.

Edward shifted to another folder, this one containing images and blueprints. Weapons caches. Shipment routes. Lists of names. Some were marked with red flags, others with checkmarks, but all of them pointed to one thing: organized crime. Big organized crime.

He leaned closer, his focus absolute now. The deeper he dug, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just a treasure trove. It was a gold mine—a sprawling network stretching across Gotham and beyond, connecting players and operations he hadn’t even suspected.

And then he found it.

A file buried deeper than the rest, hidden behind layers of encryption that took him longer than he cared to admit to crack. His fingers flew over the keyboard, his movements precise and practiced, until the final barrier fell away with a satisfying click. A name appeared at the top of the screen: Omertà.

His lips twitched, the beginnings of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Oh," he muttered. "What’s this?"

This wasn’t just any server. This was important.

His smirk deepened, but it wasn’t just satisfaction—it was hunger. A new puzzle, a new game, laid out before him in tantalizing fragments. This server belonged to someone. Someone powerful. Someone dangerous. But who?

Edward leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled, and let the enormity of it settle over him. His eyes never left the screen. The pieces were there, scattered but tangible, waiting for someone with the intelligence to arrange them into victory. And who better than him?

He tapped his fingers together thoughtfully, his mind racing. He could see the shape of it now—like a chessboard mid-game, each piece representing another layer of Gotham’s corruption. But this wasn’t just about the server’s contents. This was about leverage. Power.

Yet one question gnawed at him: Who owns this?

He opened a new browser window, his fingers flying across the keys. A quick search for the term “Omertà” brought up the expected results—articles on the Mafia code of silence, historical references to organized crime syndicates. Omertà. Silence. Secrecy. A code that demanded loyalty above all else. Nothing immediately useful. But then, he wasn’t expecting to find anything obvious.

“Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.” His smirk widened. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His eyes scanned the screen, absorbing the information with mechanical precision. Omertà was a name chosen for a reason. It wasn’t just about secrecy—it was about trust. Control. Whoever owned this server wasn’t just any player in Gotham’s underworld. They were the player.

Edward exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of amusement and determination. This was the kind of challenge he lived for. But if he wanted answers, he’d have to be careful. He didn’t know whose toes he was stepping on yet, and the wrong move could set off alarms he wasn’t prepared to handle. He needed to put out feelers, to see if anyone else in the digital shadows had heard of this. A name like Omertà would carry weight, but it would also demand discretion. He couldn’t just ask outright—not without drawing attention to himself.

Edward opened a secure terminal, routing his connection through layers of encryption. The familiar sight of the droll black-market forums greeted him, the digital underbelly of Gotham alive with chatter. He navigated to a board frequented by hackers, fixers, and smugglers, his reputation already established among the more elite players over the years.

He typed a message under his long-time alias, carefully wording his inquiry.

Quant:Whispers of "Omertà"? PM if you know something worth sharing.

He hit send and leaned back, his eyes flicking over the screen as the post went live. It wasn’t much, just a single thread in a sea of chatter, but it was enough. The right people would see it. They always did.

Now, he just had to wait.

Edward tapped his fingers against the desk, his mind already spiraling through possibilities. Who would respond? Would anyone? And, most importantly, what would they tell him?

The thought sent a thrill through him. He loved this part—the anticipation, the slow unraveling of a mystery only he was smart enough to solve. This wasn’t just about finding the answer. It was about proving, yet again, that he was the only one in Gotham capable of untangling its secrets.

His gaze returned to the screen, lingering on the nam: Omertà.

“Let’s see who you really belong to.”

This was the game he was born to play.

But now came the question—the pivotal moment where most people would falter: What do I do with it?

He chewed the inside of his cheek, his teeth worrying at the soft flesh as he stared at the screen. Realistically, if he were to bring this to Bullock and Gordon’s attention, it would set off a chain reaction. He would be obligated to follow through—to shut the network down, to hand over the cache, to let them bumble their way through an investigation that would yield mediocre results at best.

He frowned. No. That wasn’t enough. That wasn’t worthy of the potential this discovery held.

Then, his gaze sharpened, his thoughts beginning to crystallize. Turning the information over to them would be the moral and ethical choice—the obvious choice. But it wouldn’t be the right one. Not when there was so much more to gain. Not when he could put this knowledge to better use.

He was still staring at the screen, but his mind was already racing far ahead, envisioning possibilities, plotting outcomes. This wasn’t about altruism or justice. It never had been.

No, this was about control. About wielding this knowledge, bending it to his advantage. With Falcone’s network in his hands, he could do more than just shut it down—he could understand it, dissect it, manipulate it. He could learn everything. Every name, every connection, every hidden facet of Gotham’s criminal underbelly. And with that knowledge came power. Power that belonged in the hands of someone who could use it properly.

Someone like him.

Edward’s frown eased, replaced by a small, calculating smile. His thoughts sharpened, coalescing into a singular, undeniable truth. He knew what he needed to do. The solution was clear.

For now, he’d keep this to himself. He’d dig deeper, map the network, extract every last detail until he knew it better than its creator. And when the time came—when he was ready—he’d decide how to use it. On his terms.

“What’s that?”

The voice shattered his focus like a brick through glass. 

Edward jolted upright, his spine snapping straight as his hands flew off the keyboard. “Jesus fuck! Bell! I’m buying you a bell!” His voice cracked with unguarded irritation as he whipped his head to the side. “What are you doing?”

Then he saw her.

Romy stood just behind him, leaning over his shoulder with that infuriatingly casual demeanor she always seemed to have. His breath hitched, his words caught halfway between indignation and alarm. His chin tucked defensively, but his gaze didn’t leave her—not when she was this close, close enough for her perfume to stir, faint traces of citrus and vanilla today, into the stale air. Close enough that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from her. Her hands braced on her thighs as she leaned in further, the hem of her skirt teasing just above her knees. 

Edward’s eyes darted downward before he could stop himself, catching the lace trim of her thigh-high stockings peeking beneath the fabric. A flush of heat crawled up his neck, and he clenched his fists around the armrests of his chair, his nails digging into the fabric.

Why was she always there? Always finding ways to throw off his careful balance, to make his focused feel like it was built on sand? He forced his gaze back to the monitor, jaw tightening against the frustrated noise threatening to escape.

“I’m just seeing what you’ve found, bro. Chill.” She leaned in further, her ponytail slipping over her shoulder, the soft strands landing on his shoulder. “You know you talk to yourself?”

Edward exhaled sharply, skin prickling. “And you are a nosy twit,” he snapped, the words clipped and defensive. His eyes flicked to her again, unwillingly drawn by her movements as her pink-tipped nail tapped at the screen.

“That looks like a log.” Her tone was casual, conversational. Too casual. Like she hadn’t just obliterated the fragile peace of his focus.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, turning back to the monitor with deliberate force. “And you look like someone who doesn’t know what the hell she’s looking at.” 

Again, she didn’t flinch. She never did. Instead, she tilted her head, lips curling into that faint, amused smile that grated on his nerves and twisted something deep in his gut. “Well,” she drawled, “that’s why I’m asking you, Mr. Nashton. You’re the genius here, aren’t you?”

The words should have inflated his ego, but they didn’t. Instead, they coiled around him, needling at him. 

“Don’t you have something better to do than hovering like an overgrown fruit fly?” 

Romy laughed softly, straightening but not stepping back. “Touchy.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Must be something important if you’re this jumpy.”

Edward exhaled through his teeth. God help him, one day he was going to figure out how to get her to stop.

But not today.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Instead, he locked his jaw, his eyes fixed on the monitor as though the screen alone could save him from the mess Romy had made of his thoughts. His heart pounded erratically in his chest, his mind racing with conflicting impulses—none of which involved the focus he so desperately needed to reclaim.

“I’m not touchy or jumpy.” His chair creaked as he swiveled slightly, putting more distance between her and the monitor. 

Romy’s purple painted lips flattened into a tight line, her head tilting slightly as her expression shifted into something skeptical, almost amused. “Uh-huh. Sure.” She nodded toward the monitor, her gaze flicking to the screen and back to him. “So, what’d you find?”

The muscles around Edward’s eyes contracted ever so slightly, his lips pulling down into a subtle frown. His mind raced, weighing his options, searching for the right response. He didn’t find one.

“Ooooh,” Romy drawled, her eyes narrowing as she leaned forward, bracing a hand on the desk beside her. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Should he?

Should he let her in on something so secret, so titillating, so revelatory, so dangerous?

His mind flitted through the possibilities, each one carrying its own set of risks. Trusting her would mean exposing her to something she might not be ready for, something that could put her in harm’s way. But keeping it to himself meant shouldering the weight of it alone, guarding a secret that grew heavier with each passing moment.

He looked at her. She blinked.

Edward’s eyes traced her face, catching on the faint freckles across her nose or beauty mark beneath her left eye, the subtle imperfections that made her impossibly perfect. The flecks of color in her irises caught the light, contrasting with the rich color of her lips, and for a moment, he felt the ache in his chest return with startling clarity. 

Romy was young. She had a future ahead of her—something bright and untouched by the shadows of Gotham.

There was something to be said about protecting that. About keeping her untainted by the sordid secrets he uncovered.

“It’s just a bunch of transactions for the Gotham City Waterworks,” he offered finally, his voice even, controlled. He leaned back slightly, forcing a smirk onto his lips. “Nothing interesting.”

Romy’s brow lifted, and her face fell flat, the light in her expression dimming into something cold, calculating. It was almost unnerving how quickly the change came, how her usual playfulness was replaced by a sharp intensity. She studied him closely, dragging over every line of his face like she was trying to pull the truth from his skin. 

“You’re lying, Mr. Nashton.” 

His gaze flicked away for the briefest moment before snapping back to her, sharper this time. “I don’t like being called a liar.”

“Then don’t be one.”

Edward’s teeth ground audibly, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he forced himself to rein in the rising tide of frustration. His breath came in slower, deliberate pulls, but it wasn’t enough to quell the simmering heat beneath his skin. “Girl,” his voice was low and deliberate, “I suggest you tread carefully.”

But she didn’t falter. Her expression remained calm, her lips twitching into the faintest of smirks as a glint of defiance sparked in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward, her movements measured, the space between them shrinking to something unbearably personal.

“Or what?” 

Edward’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his mind stalled, caught in the haze of tension and irritation she so effortlessly conjured. He crossed his arms over his chest, body taut as if holding himself back required every ounce of strength he had. His gaze bore into hers, searching for something—fear, hesitation, anything to remind him that he had the upper hand. But there was nothing. Only steady defiance and the sharp edge of amusement that made his blood simmer.

He leaned forward without thinking. His breath mingled with hers, shallow and uneven, his narrowed eyes locking with hers like a game of chicken neither of them wanted to lose.

“Careful,” he murmured. The word wasn’t just a warning—it was a plea, a desperate attempt to reassert some semblance of control. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Her head tilted slightly, a subtle shift that made his pulse quicken. Her lips curved into a faint smile, not mocking, but something worse: knowing. The glint in her eyes sharpened, a spark of duality that sent a shiver down his spine. “Maybe I do.”

His mind reeled, caught between fury and something darker, deeper, something that made his throat dry and his hands twitch with the effort to stay still. 

Did Romy know what she was doing to him? Did she understand the chaos she left in her wake, the way her voice, her presence, unraveled the careful threads of his control? He wanted to believe she didn’t, that it was accidental, that she was reckless but not calculating. But the way she looked at him, steady and unrelenting, made him doubt.

His eyes flicked down to her lips, parted just enough to tempt him further. His pulse roared in his ears as he swallowed hard, fighting to keep his breathing steady. But his body betrayed him—every muscle locked tight, every nerve ignited by the heat radiating between them.

Distance. He needed distance. Now.

His lips twisted into a faint smirk, the bitterness in it his only shield against the vulnerability clawing at him. “Don’t test me, princess.”

She didn’t pull back. Instead, she smiled wider, her gaze trailing his face with that unnerving steadiness. Her hands came to clutch his armrests, her face dangerously close to his. “What if I want to, Mr. Nashton?” 

Edward blinked, his mouth dropping open, but no words came.

And then, she moved.

Before he could respond, before his thoughts could untangle from the chaos she stirred, Romy’s hands glided up to grip his forearms, her fingers curling with quiet determination. He barely registered the warmth of her touch before she tugged, pulling his arms away from the protective barrier he’d crossed over his chest. His body complied, yielding too easily, as though it had been waiting for her command.

The breath caught in his throat as she climbed into his lap with slow, deliberate grace. Every movement was fluid, calculated, her confidence disarming. She moved like she had all the time in the world, like she was savoring every second of his unraveling, piece by excruciating piece. When her soft thighs settled on either side of his hips, Edward froze, his lungs constricting painfully as her weight pressed down in a way that felt alarmingly natural. Her warmth seeped through his clothes, grounding him and suffocating him all at once. 

Romy’s lithe hands slid to his wrists, gripping and tugging gently, guiding him around her with a sureness that left him reeling. His palms hovered just shy of her waist, the heat of her body radiating beneath his fingers.  She didn’t stop. Her hands moved upward, tracing the line of his arms, her touch impossibly soft as she kneaded the tense muscles of his biceps and shoulders. His breath stuttered, the rhythm jagged and shallow as she worked her way closer to his neck. Each stroke of her fingers, each deliberate press of her palms, was maddening. The memory of her touch from yesterday returned in sharp relief, but this was different. This was slower, more intimate, her touch no longer an act of calming but something far more intimate.

Then her nails skimmed his skin.

The featherlight drag sent a shiver coursing through him that made his teeth chatter, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost missed the way her hands moved higher, the way they trailed to his jaw. Her touch was maddeningly intentional, her fingers brushing against his skin with a precision that felt both personal and teasing. When her hands finally cupped his face, his breath hitched. His gaze flickered, unable to focus on anything but her—her dark lashes, her parted lips, the intensity in her impossibly green eyes as she tilted his head back ever so slightly. He didn’t resist; he couldn’t. Her thumbs brushed gently across his cheekbones, the motion so tender it made his chest ache.

“Make me stop,” her lips whispered against his.

Edward’s heart slammed against his ribcage, his thoughts scattering. But instead of pulling away, instead of issuing the sharp retort balanced on the edge of his tongue, something deep inside him snapped.

When his lips met hers, there was no hesitation, no restraint, no second-guessing. His hands grabbed her waist, gripping her with a force that was almost bruising, pulling her closer as if he could fuse their bodies together. The kiss was ferocious, consuming, his mouth moving against hers like he was starving, devouring her with a desperation he couldn’t suppress. She gasped into him, and it only spurred him on. His hold on her tightened as he leaned into her, his fingers digging into the fabric of her sweater like he was afraid she might disappear. He kissed her harder, his teeth grazing her bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. She moaned softly, the sound vibrating against him, and his entire body tensed, heat coiling low in his pelvis, making his cock twitch. Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging sharply, and he growled against her lips—a low, guttural sound that came from somewhere deep and primal. She wasn’t just meeting his intensity; she was matching it, her tongue tangling with his. He didn’t care that it was reckless, that it was maddeningly out of control. In this moment, it was everything.

The taste of her, the heat and the feel of her body against his—it consumed him entirely.

And then the vision shattered.

Edward blinked rapidly, his breath ragged as reality snapped into focus. Romy’s face was still in front of him, her gaze locked on his with an intensity that made his pulse trip. Her hands weren’t on his face but gripping the armrests of his chair, her body leaning forward just enough to invade his space. His lips were parted, his chest heaving as though he’d just come up for air. For a few beats, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, the ghost of the vision still clinging to him, vivid and maddeningly real in his mind.

“Something wrong, Mr. Nashton?” 

He swallowed hard and he fought to compose himself. “No,” he managed hoarsely. “Nothing at all.”

Romy’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. He forced himself to look back at the monitor, his gaze snapping to the blurred numbers until they sharpened into focus. The cold glow of the screen felt like his only anchor, a fragile but necessary distraction from the fire burning beneath his skin. Because he knew, if he looked at her again, if he let her push even a fraction further, it wouldn’t just be her testing limits. 

He felt her stare pressing into him, heavy and deliberate. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, and the silence curled around him, sharp and suffocating.

Finally, he heard the huff as she pulled away.

“You’re always so in your head.” The statement was laced with enough exasperation to make his jaw tighten. It grated against his ears, a needle sliding beneath his skin and burrowing deep.

“You ready for a break?” she asked, tone casual, but the sharpness lurking beneath it was impossible to miss. She gestured vaguely to the screen, the movement dismissive. “You’ve been staring at whatever”—her hand waved—“this is for hours now.”

“No,” Edward replied curtly, voice clipped as he spun around to resume his work, fingers trembling against the keys.

“Holy fuck,” she muttered under her breath. The sound of her sigh—long, exaggerated, and theatrical—tugged at his focus despite his best efforts.

“C’mon. You can’t be serious.” Her voice rose slightly, the sharp edge unmistakable as she grabbed the back of his chair and jerked him to turn just enough to face her. “Are we really doing this today? First, you want me to shut up. Then you barely talk to me—like I don’t exist. Your hiding whatever the hell you’re working on, like I’m some kind of liability. Now, you’re skipping our breaks? Our breaks? The ones we’ve been taking every day for weeks.”

She continued, the frustration in her voice escalating with each word. “I mean, seriously, what is your problem? What the hell is going on with you?”

He stiffened as her hand jabbed sharply in his direction, a perfectly manicured nail as sharp as a pink blade.

“Talk to me,” she demanded, her voice low but firm, narrowed eyes boring into his. “I’m done playing this game. You’re acting like an ass—moreso than usual—and I’m not just going to sit here and take it. So, spill.”

The words struck a nerve he’d been trying to bury all morning. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze flickered briefly to her before snapping to the side. His jaw worked, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing.

What was going on with him? 

Romy—that’s what. 

Romy, with her stupid questions and her insufferable persistence. 

Romy, with her soft, sweet-smelling presence that made the air around him feel too warm, too thick. 

Romy, with her sharp wit and sharper tongue, pushing him into corners he didn’t even know how to navigate. 

Romy, with her gorgeous face and mouth watering body.

It all clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting. This wasn’t about her. It wasn’t. 

He didn’t want to answer her. Didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she’d gotten under his skin, how thoroughly she’d unsettled him. It was bad enough that she was here, in his space, her presence a constant distraction. But the way she was looking at him now—eyes narrowed, expectant, unyielding—made it impossible to ignore her.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet her gaze out of the corner of his eye.

“Nothing,” he snapped, voice cold. “I’m just trying to work. But someone is making that impossible. And, after your stupid little detour yesterday, I am behind.”

It became quiet. He saw the faint flicker in her expression—a tightening around her mouth, a subtle narrowing of her eyes—and it sent a pang of guilt rippling through him, though he pushed it aside. She’d always been so composed, so infuriatingly confident, but this moment felt different. He’d struck a nerve, and for some reason, it didn’t bring the satisfaction he thought it would.

“Stupid detour?” she repeated, her tone calm but edged with incredulity. She shifted her weight, a hand on her hip, and head tilted. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

“Yes.” 

Romy didn’t let it go. Because, of course, she didn’t. 

“If you hadn’t been there I’d have likely broken something. Or worse.” Her gaze hardened, pinning him. “If you hadn’t been there, that asshole, Hartley, would have probably continued making his comments about me. But it was a stupid detour, right?” She scoffed. “Good to know.”

“You shouldn’t have been doing something so asinine and useless as putting up decorations anyway.”

“It was something fun. Something different. Not everything has to be black and white and boring.”

“Little girl,” he snapped, “you are heading into the wrong profession if you think anything we do has room for nonsensical holidays.”

“We can have a little fun while we work, Mr. Nashton. Morale matters. It’s productive—just as much as taking breaks can be, you know.”

Edward rolled his eyes, the movement exaggerated as though to dismiss her point outright. “You’re—”

“What?” she cut him off, her voice colder now, sharper. “Stupid? An idiot? A silly little girl? A menance? A pest? A nuisance?” The string of insults tumbled from her lips, each word laced with venom, and her black eyeliner, sharp and deliberate, framed her narrowed eyes with a glare that could cut steel. “I’m a bother. You don’t want me here. You don’t like me. I get it.”

The air felt tight, suffocating, and Edward swallowed hard, throat dry. His hands twitched against the desk, jaw clenching as he fought the urge to snap back, to escalate the tension boiling between them. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t trust himself to respond without giving too much away.

His gaze slid back to a monitor in sight, but the words on the screen blurred together, meaningless against the noise in his mind. Something bitter swelled in his throat.

“It’s not like that,” he muttered finally, his voice quieter, almost begrudging. The words felt weak, hollow, and he hated himself for even saying them. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “You’re just—” 

Just what? A distraction? A problem? Something else entirely?

She stared at him, her gaze unyielding, demanding an answer he didn’t have the courage to give. The silence pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. His fingers flexed into fists.

When she finally sighed and stepped back, the sound was heavy with exasperation. “Whatever. I’ll be back. Then I’ll be quiet and not exist. Not breathe.”

Edward flinched, though he masked it quickly, as he watched her turn away. The room felt colder in her absence, the silence that followed deafening. But relief didn’t come. Instead, the ache remained, heavier than ever, pulling on his shoulders. He stared at the monitor but he couldn’t focus. The memory of her words, her glare, the frustration etched into her face, lingered, replaying over and over in his mind. And for all his attempts to rationalize it, to shove the feelings aside, he knew the truth. Edward sighed and ran a hand through his hair before taking his glasses off and pinching his nose with the same hand.

It wasn’t just about her being here. It wasn’t just about the decorations or the case or the stupid detour.

It was her. It had always just been her.

Edward paced the short length of his workspace, his mind a tangled web of calculations and anxieties. The single fluorescent light above flickered intermittently, the uneven rhythm mirroring his thoughts.

Gordon and Bullock weren’t geniuses—that much was clear. But dismissing them entirely would be a mistake. Bullock was brutish, but occasionally he stumbled onto a truth through sheer stubbornness. Gordon, however, was sharp. Too sharp. His moral compass might as well be a beacon, but even that wouldn’t blind him to the implications of a half-empty report.

Edward pressed his temples harder, willing his thoughts to align.

“Think!” he muttered, the word biting in its desperation.

The digits—448009111—mocked him from the photocopy beside his keyboard. Stripped of any other identifiers, the string was a beacon of suspicion. No cop worth their badge would dismiss it as coincidence. But if he gave them everything, there’d be questions he couldn’t deflect. Questions he couldn’t answer without implicating himself—or Romy.

Romy.

He gritted his teeth as her name slithered through his mind. That wry smile, utterly unbothered by his tension. Her very presence fogged his thoughts, turned his meticulous plans into spirals of chaos.

“This is what she does,” he hissed, his fingers curling into fists. “She’s a distraction. A toxin.”

But even as he berated himself, the thought of her tugged at him, softening his anger like a drug he couldn’t quit. 

No. He couldn’t let this spiral. He needed a solution. A plausible story for the numbers. Something to misdirect Gordon and Bullock but not too much—it had to be just enough to seem credible.

Edward sat, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. For a moment, he hesitated, his mind racing through possibilities. The digits—448009111—stared back at him, deceptively simple but pregnant with implications. They couldn’t stay meaningless; Gordon and Bullock wouldn’t buy that. He needed a story, something plausible enough to satisfy their curiosity while keeping them far from the truth.

His fingers twitched, then began typing, slow and deliberate.

The digits: a bank account.

Yes, that would work. A dormant account tied to a ghost. He thought of a name—a low-level thug he remembered from an old case file. Someone forgettable, someone already missing or presumed dead. The sort of person who would leave just enough of a trail for Gordon and Bullock to follow without raising their suspicions.

Edward pulled up the GCPD’s financial crime database, sifting through inactive accounts until he found one that fit the profile: sparse activity, minimal funds, and an owner whose name was buried in the precinct's archives. He copied the account details into his report, his typing growing faster as the narrative began to take shape.

Now the trail. A series of deposits. He imagined an untraceable source—a shadowy benefactor with a penchant for cash-only transactions. Edward fabricated timestamps, spacing the deposits irregularly across months. Some were small, insignificant amounts, while others suggested something bigger: a payout for a job, perhaps, or the spoils of a deal gone wrong.

Withdrawals came next. He staggered them, placing some in Gotham’s seedier neighborhoods and others in nondescript suburbs. Enough variety to suggest movement, but not so much that it seemed coordinated.

Finally, the kicker: a transaction leading nowhere. Edward paused, considering his options. A shell company would be too obvious, but a failed transfer? That had promise. He added one final detail—a payment flagged as incomplete, the money vanishing into a defunct digital wallet.

He leaned back, his pulse quickening as he reviewed the trail. It was good. More than good—it was elegant in its simplicity. Just enough information to tantalize Gordon and Bullock without giving them anything solid. Still, it couldn’t be perfect. A flawless lie was just as dangerous as a bad one. 

Suspected link to organized crime. Further investigation is required.

It was the sort of conclusion that would make Gordon set his jaw and Bullock roll his eyes. Exactly what Edward wanted.

He pressed “Save” and printed the file, his pulse finally steadying. The numbers were no longer a threat. They were a tool—a means to an end, and a brilliant one at that.

Let Gordon and Bullock chase their phantom. By the time they realized the trail was cold, Edward would be several steps ahead, as always.

But even as he reveled in his success, a shadow lingered in the back of his mind. Romy. The thought of her refused to dissipate, her presence haunting his thoughts like an unfinished puzzle. She was a distraction, yes. But perhaps, he mused, she was also his muse.

For now, though, he set that thought aside. There was work to be done, and Edward Nashton never let anything—not even her—get in the way of his plans.

He looked at the time. 12:47. He had told them he’d have it done by Friday afternoon. And here he was.

Edward was nothing if not on the mark. With a sigh, he stood and simultaneously collected the warm pages from the printer on the far corner of his desk. Then, in movements so mundane they were hardly worth mentioning, he gathered the reports, exited his workspace, and into the bullpen. 

The sharp chill of winter wafted through, carried inside by officers who hadn’t shaken off the frost clinging to their jackets. The precinct’s heating system struggled to combat the cold, leaving pockets of the room uncomfortably brisk. The muted glow of overhead lighting cast uneven shadows on the tile floor, where the damp prints of boots formed. The bullpen was alive with its usual symphony of chaos. Phones rang out sporadically, their shrill tones cutting through the low hum of chatter. Officers shuffled between desks, some clutching steaming Styrofoam cups of coffee while others balanced precarious stacks of files. The air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and stale doughnuts, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the salt tracked in from the icy streets outside.

Edward walked with purpose, his shoes tapping quietly against the floor. His gaze remained fixed ahead, avoiding the eyes of the uniformed officers who milled about in small, animated groups. A pair of detectives argued near an evidence board, their voices low but tense, while another officer leaned against the water cooler, scrolling idly through his phone.

A few desks away, someone’s radio crackled with static, followed by a voice calling out a code Edward didn’t bother to listen to. The sound faded into the background as he navigated the narrow aisles between desks, papers rustling in his wake. His grip on the folder tightened as he approached his destination.

In the heart of the bullpen sat Gordon and Bullock, their desks pushed together in a functional but inelegant arrangement. Gordon’s desk was impeccably neat, while Bullock’s was a chaotic sprawl of coffee-stained files, candy wrappers, and loose change. A single green banker’s lamp illuminated the mess, its light casting a warm hue over the clutter. Gordon leaned forward, his brow furrowed as he scribbled notes into a leather-bound notebook. Bullock, in stark contrast, was reclined in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest while the other clutched a half-eaten hoagie. The crumbs tumbling onto the manila folders beneath him made Edward’s stomach churn.

“Mr. Nashton,” Gordon greeted without looking up. “You’ve got the report?”

“As promised.” Edward placed the papers neatly on the neater detective’s desk. “Friday afternoon.”

Bullock snorted, his mouth full. “Great. More paperwork to keep me awake at night.”

Gordon ignored him, flipping through the report with a practiced eye. Edward watched as the senior detective’s expression shifted, his brows knitting closer together. It was the reaction Edward had anticipated, one that sent a faint thrill of satisfaction through him. Confusion was a powerful tool.

“This account…” Gordon began, pausing to tap the page with his pen. A shadow of doubt crossed his face as his brows knitted together. “Why haven’t we seen this before? It doesn’t align with the rest of the data. Feels incomplete.”

It seemed quieter now, or maybe it was Edward’s imagination as he gauged Gordon’s words. He gestured lightly toward the page, his tone measured. “That’s why I flagged it. I came across it during a secondary search of dormant accounts.” A slight shrug followed, effortless, as though the explanation had cost him nothing. “I thought it best to bring it to your attention immediately.”

The precision of Gordon’s scrutiny was almost clinical, as though he were picking Edward apart fiber by fiber. Holding the stare with calculated ease, Edward remained upright, his hands hanging casually by his sides, betraying none of the tension coiling beneath the surface.

“Uh-huh,” came the soft mutter, Gordon’s eyes falling back to the report. The pages rustled as he flipped through them again, slower this time, his frown deepening. “Secondary searches? Dormant accounts don’t just show up out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, sounds convenient.” The sound of Bullock gnawing on his sandwich filled the pause, crumbs tumbling onto his tie with every obnoxious bite. Edward ignored him, his focus locked on his partner. 

“The transaction patterns were unusual,” Edward offered smoothly. “It wasn’t apparent at first glance, but some entries suggested something more deliberate. Of course, I could have ignored it, but…” His lips curved into a faint smile, calculated to land just shy of smug. “That’s not what I do.”

Gordon adjusted his glasses, leaning back slightly in his chair as he mulled over the answer. His pen began tapping agains the wood of his desktop, steady and deliberate. “You’re sure this isn’t a goose chase? We’ve had enough of those lately.”

“I wouldn’t have brought it to you if I thought it was insignificant.” Edward held Gordon’s gaze with a measured confidence. He gestured toward the file again, as though offering it up as irrefutable proof. “The activity warrants a closer look. It might connect to something bigger—or it might not. But I believe it’s worth investigating.”

For a moment, Gordon didn’t move, his sharp blue eyes still locked onto Edward. Then, he stopped tapping and tossed the file onto his desk. “Fine. I trust you. We’ll look into it.”

Relief flickered in Edward’s chest, though his expression remained neutral. “I’m sure you will,” he replied, his voice carrying a faint note of satisfaction. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Yeah, yeah, Nashton. We’ll call you if we need more numbers to crunch.” Bullock brushed the crumbs from his shirt and tie.

That’s not all he does, but okay. 

With out responding, Edward rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way back across the bullpen. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, to see if Gordon was still scrutinizing the report. He had done his part. Now it was their turn to flounder.

As Edward returned to his corner of the main chamber, his eyes were drawn—against his better judgment—to the small group gathered near his workspace. Romy sat perched on the edge of a desk, her posture effortlessly relaxed yet commanding attention. Her glossy, dark ponytail swayed slightly as she laughed, her shoulders moving with the rhythm of her amusement. Renee leaned casually against the same desk, her arms folded, while Kristen stood with her hands on her hips, an easy grin on her face.

The source of their laughter was a younger officer Edward didn’t recognize. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, his freckled face flush with the kind of youthful exuberance Edward found insufferable. Light brown hair curled just slightly at the edges of his regulation haircut, and his uniform was so crisp it practically squeaked. He gestured animatedly, clearly in the middle of recounting some story or joke. Whatever he’d said had landed perfectly—Romy and the others burst into laughter, their voices echoing faintly in the bullpen.

His steps slowed, gaze narrowing as he observed the scene. The young officer chuckled too, rubbing the back of his neck in an almost bashful manner. His grin widened as his eyes flicked to Romy, lingering just a second too long. Edward’s jaw tightened. It was subtle, but the kid’s body language screamed: the slight shift of his weight toward her, the way his smile softened when she looked his way, the way his shoulders straightened as if subconsciously trying to seem taller.

Romy, for her part, seemed utterly at ease, her low laughter fading into a cool smile as she tilted her head, watching the young man with a look of amused indulgence. Her smile glinted with mischief, and her demeanor—one hand resting lightly on the desk beside her, the other gesturing lazily—was that of someone completely in control.

Edward’s stomach twisted, a sharp, irritating pang that settled somewhere between his ribs and refused to dissipate. The sound of her laugh grated against his nerves in a way he couldn’t entirely explain. She had always been a distraction, but this… this felt different. The easy camaraderie, the way she drew people in without even trying, the effortless coolth that seemed to radiate from her—it was infuriating.

His eyes flicked back to the young officer, who was saying something else now, his hands gesturing as if trying to illustrate his point. Kristen nodded along, chuckling softly, while Montoya muttered something that drew another round of laughter from the group. The kid looked at Romy again, his grin faltering slightly as a faint blush crept up his neck. 

Romy was still chuckling, hand now covering her mouth as if trying to stifle the sound, her ponytail swinging as she leaned forward slightly toward the young officer. Her laughter tapered into a sly, knowing smile, her eyes alight with amusement.

Edward’s chest tightened as he moved closer to his workspace, gaze unwillingly pulled to her again. And then, as if she felt his stare, Romy’s eyes darted up to meet his. Her lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk, her gaze locking with his for the briefest of moments—enough to send a jolt of heat through him. Then, just as smoothly, she shifted her attention back to the officer, the smirk still tugging at the corners of her mouth as she gave the officer a playful push on his shoulder. 

“Give us another one, silly.”

Edward’s pulse quickened, his chest a knot of irritation and confusion.

The officer’s, ‘Mark’s,’  voice rang out again, a bit too loud, as if he were compensating for his nerves. “Okay, okay, you’ll love this one, computer girl.” He gesture to Romy. “Why did the computer go to the doctor?”

Kristen rolled her eyes. “Let me guess—it caught a virus?”

“Close.” He chuckled nervously. “It had cancer!”

“Wooow. That’s some… cutting-edge humor you got there.”

The kid flushed, freckles standing out against his red cheeks. “Promise I’ve got better ones.”

“Oh, please don’t,” Montoya groaned, though her grin suggested she was enjoying the show. “I don’t think I can survive another one of your bad jokes, Thompson.”

“I’m serious! I’m good at this,” Thompson protested, his confidence faltering as he glanced at Romy again. “I mean, at least Romy thinks I’m funny, right?”

She tilted her head, her ponytail swaying as she gave him a sly smile. “Ehhhh, you’ve got potential,” she offered, drawing out the words in a way that made Thompson light up like a Christmas tree.

Kristen giggled. “Don’t encourage him. He’ll never stop.”

“Oh, I think he should keep going,” Romy replied, tone laced with playful mischief. “It’s entertaining. Besides…” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing when she added, “I like a guy who can make me laugh.”

Edward’s nostrils flared involuntarily as he caught the flicker of pride in Thompson’s expression, the way his shoulders straightened like he’d just won a prize.

“See? Someone gets it.” Thompson grinned triumphantly at Kristen and Montoya. “Romy’s got great taste.”

“Debatable,” Montoya shot back before winking at Romy. “She hangs out with us, after all.”

“You said it; not me.” Romy chuckled and held her hands up in defense. 

Edward’s fists clenched when he walked past, head held stiffly forward as if ignoring the scene could erase it from his mind. The noise of their laughter receded, swallowed by the general din of the bullpen.

The corner of the building that he could call his seemed darker, colder, as though even the light from the overhead lamps had dimmed in his absence. He stalked to his workspace, every movement tight and clipped, and shoved open the door. The sound of it slamming shut behind him was louder than he intended, the sound sharp and stunted in the cramped walls of his office. His hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment, gripping it and clenching his teeth, before he let go and stalked to his desk.

Romy’s laugh—low and cool—refused to leave him. It spiraled through his thoughts, threading itself between the images seared into his mind: the way she leaned in, her ponytail swaying with a graceful ease as she tilted her head; the effortless curve of her smile, the way it transformed her face, making it glow with a warmth he couldn’t unsee; the softness in her voice as she teased that man—no, that boy.

Edward’s lip curled. The thought of him—flushed, fumbling, basking in her attention like a fool—made his stomach churn. She doesn’t need a boy.

He dropped heavily into his chair, the worn leather groaning under his weight, protesting the force of his descent. His hands moved to adjust his glasses, but the tremor in them betrayed him. The subtle shake was maddening, as if his body were staging a rebellion.

The room seemed quieter now. Too quiet. The faint hum of his equipment filled the void, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the ghost of her laughter. It echoed in his skull, insidious and maddening, worming its way into every crevice of his mind. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as he glared at the monitor in front of him, its soft blue light lost to his faraway mind.

He shivered suddenly, a sharp, involuntary spasm that sent his teeth chattering for a split second before he forced them still. The air in the office felt thinner somehow, brittle and biting, seeping through his suit like winter had followed him inside. He clasped his hands tightly in his lap, his fingers digging into his palms as he waited for the feeling to pass. The tension in his chest hadn’t eased; if anything, it had grown sharper, settling under his ribs like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered to himself in the empty room, the words barely audible. “It’s not my business.”

The lie tasted bitter, but he forced it down, his gaze focusing as he began to type. The keys clicked beneath his fingers, sharp and methodical, as he pulled up the files he’d been working on earlier: the Omertà, the response time case, the endless tangle of Gotham’s corruption. These were the things that mattered. This was his purpose. Not the stupid group in the corner. Not her laugh. Not the way she touched that boy’s arm. Not the way her smile lingered in his mind, soft and inviting—a temptation he couldn’t afford.

Ridiculous.

 He clenched his fingers, his knuckles tight under his gloves as he fought against the intrusive thoughts clawing at his mind. His throat felt tight, the pressure mounting. 

She wasn’t his concern. She wasn’t his problem.

Why do you care? The thought whispered traitorously, slipping through. Edward shoved it away, his fingers resuming their staccato on the keys. He focused on the numbers, the data, the cold precision of his work.

Edward scowled at his screen. He didn’t care. He didn’t.

He can do this. He only has: 

2 months and 11 days

10 weeks

70 days

1,680 hours

100,800 minutes

6,048,000 seconds

6,048,000,000 milliseconds

6,048,000,000,000,000 nanoseconds

1.122×10^59 Planck seconds

…

…

…

Edward shoved his hands under his glasses, face in his palms.

Fuck.

[thebimbowhisperer]

As a bimbo, I want to weaken my mind, to become more controlled and more of a living stereotype of the word "Bimbo" but I sometimes feel a little confused as to how I can most effectively become a doll for his pleasure. If there was something I could do to remind myself each day that I am "for him" what would you recommend?

Communication is the key. It is about rhythm, mantras, about key words, important suggestions and all-embracing attention. In truth, it is not so much your job as his job to give you this feeling. You are the playground in this picture, the molded desire, the puppet on a string, the joy at his will and mercy.

Tell him to give you mantras, rhymes, while you edge. Tell him to give you tasks, numbers you have to fulfill. Tell him to give you orders, schedules of lust. Tell him to give you commands, repetitive habits.

In consequence, you will just think about him. Think about his words, his desire, his needs and wants, and you have become what you crave, a doll, a sex toy at his command.

[morgana-ren]

Bailey, Leighton, both weak spots for me. If you wanted to share any thoughts, any lewd disgusting thoughts or random ideas you'd had about those two I'm more than willing to listen

Oho-ho, you came to the right place.

So here's the thing:

Bailey and Leighton are both absolutely repugnant, reprehensible characters. Most people in this game are abhorrent, yes, but these ones strike a special note with me for a few reasons, namely authority-- and the abuse of it.

Bailey's label is 'Caretaker.' He's the closest thing to a father that you have, presumably raising you since before you can remember. He's a dark mirror into what a parent should be. Where there should be unconditional love, affection, and trust, he provides exploitation, cruelty, and despair. He has absolutely zero qualms with quite literally selling you and your fellows to the debauched denizens of the town and subjecting you to one of the worst experiences that a human can physically go through, and he does it on a dime. Even other terrifying people in town seem petrified by him, and that should give a clue to how awful he really is.

Leighton is the 'Headmaster.' He is charged with your education and safety during the mandatory hours you attend his institution. He is arguably responsible for the success and the happy-ever-after of every student under his charge. Instead, he uses this power to sexually exploit the defenseless people under his care. There are multiple people over town with lingering trauma from his actions, including Daryll, and even Mickey, who has become a paranoid recluse largely in part to these actions, and has you get rid of the evidence of this abuse.

It makes these two particularly disturbing. Remy, Briar, all of the rest of them are disgusting, but they aren't beholden to you in any manner. I suppose it could be argued that Harper, as your GP, is also doing this, but it doesn't quite feel to the same degree to me.

Now, in reality, I can be counted on to be a thorn in the side of any authority figure. I have a real issue with it, and I do not like being controlled or told what to do.

In a sexual sense though?

Listen, something in my brain must've gotten twisted up along the way to adulthood because nothing gets my engine going quite like someone abusing authority. Fucked up to say, perhaps, but it is what it is. Maybe it's part of being the world's biggest brat, but who knows.

There is something enticing and utterly terrifying about it.

Bailey has access to you at your most vulnerable. It is only through him that you have a roof over your head, food to eat, and a bed to sleep in. He's a stern man who brooks no argument. You could say he's mostly the main antagonist; the one keeping you from any semblance of peace or happiness in this town by seeking you out and keeping you on a leash that he's got firmly wrapped around his hand. He isn't openly lustful-- quite the opposite, in fact. He probably has a 'I will not fuck my ward, I will not fuck my ward' mantra he repeats in his head.

Your presence is required at school, and Leighton will use any and all opportunities to exploit that, and he isn't shy about telling you. While not as much of an active antagonist as Bailey, he certainly is as evil. He seems to revel in using his position to meet his own.. uh.. "ends" and you aren't his only target in doing so.

Bailey is more difficult to provoke than Leighton. It requires a high ass seduction check to even get into the position of seducing him, and even higher skills to get him off. He wants to see you first and foremost as a cheque to be cashed, and he makes a point not to muddy his hands in the goods if he can help it. However, if you squint, all the signs are there that he isn't immune to your siren's call.

When you call, he comes running. Scream in the bathroom? Oh, he's fuckin' there. Disappear for a little bit too long? He seeks you out. You're a grown ass adult and his method of punishment is... bending you over his desk to spank you? If you do manage to seduce him, I think he lets a bit more slip than he actually intends to, saying things like "You've always belonged to me" and other possessive sentiments (most especially if you lose your virginity to him) that sort of give away that he's clearly thought about this more than once and is seriously going to indulge now that he finally has you.

Leighton on the other hand? Leighton wears his lust on his sleeve.

If you step foot in the brothel (whether to work there or just to get yourself a shiny fake ID,) Leighton is fuckin' quick on the draw to grab you, which tells me he's had his eye on you for a while. If you proceed to work at the brothel, he hires you the moment he sees you. Annoy him for even a second at school? It's spanking time. Be a little bit of a rascal at school? Get your tits out and lather 'em up! You're washing his car while he watches and twitches because he can't openly attack you here. Try to defend Sydney and say you'll take a part of the punishment? My man practically crawls out of his skin right then and there.

He has a high level of self-control, but it is easily possible to drive that man up a wall with the right actions, and it's pretty apparent from the get-go that he has his sights set on you in less than appropriate ways. Thing is, he really won't act outright similar to Bailey. He's more a voyeur than anything, preferring to watch and document rather than actually take part. It seems like a control thing for me, and also probably so he has dirt on everyone else while keeping his own hands relatively clean, but like with most things, I bend parts of the character in my mind to suit my tastes.

They're both difficult to outright seduce. They're both controlling, hideous fiends that abuse their vulnerable charges. They're monsters. Powerful monsters capable of foul, dastardly things.

Can you imagine being the weak point of that monster?

[yuri-is-online]

More asmo thoughts:

angels are all focused on "inner beauty" etc (or at least this is what makes sense to me) so generally all angels are considered beautiful no matter what and it didn't matter what asmo looked like because his soul could harmonize with basically everyone (also a hc for why hes one of the more helpful & agreeable brothers generally)

but now, as a demon, other demons are more selfish, cruel, etc. and value appearance and what you can DO for them, how you benefit them, and newly fallen asmo feels up shits creek in terms of his appeal.

so he gradually recreates his niche in hell (in a more corrupted version of it) by just forcing himself into whatever form he needs to be to be most appealing.

ENTER THE HUMAN who yes, humans can also be selfish, but this isn't a guarantee the same way it is for demons. and This Human doesn't like ANYTHING he's doing to gain their attention! hes saying all the right things, telling them all the ways he can be of Use to the human, spends so much effort to try different pleasing forms, all because it has been So Long since he's been around people who just want him to be there as himself that he can't FATHOM it.

Anyway anytime something genuine slips through his mask and the human reacts POSITIVELY?!?! absolutely bamboozled. he either thinks it's a fluke or that he has to lean into whatever they saw to an EXTREME because they can't just... like when hes real with them right???

so in the original ask I answered I was talking about a personal project of mine that's completely unrelated to Obey Me, but I do believe that is what you are talking about and because this is a very nice headcannon you chose to share with me I am going to talk as if I am thinking about Obey Me! Asmo and not my own o.c. Asmo.

I feel like an angel's soul would be less focused on beauty and more focused on taking on the appearance of what a person would find trustworthy. "Be not afraid" is the constant mantra of an angel's soul and Asmo is especially good at clicking with people and putting them at ease.

Like I said in that original ask, Lust is about projection of desire, so as a demon his soul can't reach out to other demons in the same way. It's not enough to simply put people's inner turmoil at rest, he has a role to fulfill, a million and one separate fantasies that are not interested in how he feels about things so he becomes hardened against being accepted for himself. After all if that's a lie then he has no reason to want it.

I had this idea jotted down for a fic I never wrote (for a fandom I have ever mentioned being in to on this blog) where a character essentially did what we are saying Asmo is doing here, but it was not something they could control. That character was under the impression no one had ever seen what they truly looked like, could not see it because who would want to see them for who they were? It's the same with Asmo, he's so used to playing a role that when the human mentions they love how he doesn't feel the need to hide how brown his eyes are he chokes.

What do they mean he doesn't need to hide it, how did they even see it in the first place? And when he angrily asks them to describe how he looks they enthusiastically describe and praise every plain, boring, hidden feature he has almost forgotten he had as if it was one of the forms he had specifically crafted to tempt someone to sell their soul.

"A person is at their most beautiful when they are most like themself!" There isn't a shred of irony in your voice, or a lie in your breath. He doesn't know what to do with you, really. Do you mean that or is it just that his truest form is what would please your tastes best? He doesn't know but he's so exhausted from trying to break himself into pieces, please say you will find him beautiful if he rests a while with you, won't you?

[m3loria]

𓈒 𓈒 𓈒  all humans have that certain.. tick

semper ad meliora is a statement which describes the journey towards a better life, or perhaps a better day, a better hour, a better minute, something better than where you originally appear stuck in your current position. such music videos couldn't be further from that, they're bleak, dark colors clashing against your formerly bright screen, rushing water smashing against rocks in a manner which derives pain from the discomfort of oneself. you are queasy, patiently awaiting the scare which doesn't come, surrounding sounds drown you despite your safety, if you had been in such a situation, you would be prey.

acta non verba reaffirms the “actions are louder than words” mantra. does the apology matter once you have already swung the axe? your deeds outweigh the terms you mutter, why speak it if not act on it? it is a high striking call out to all those who concern such actions, picking at the cowardly corners of your brain which prevent you from performing such actions. humans yearn yet cannot give, they speak yet cannot proceed. the release of muddled terms shall get you nowhere, perhaps if you swing your arm, you shall witness a better prospect.

amor vincit omina encapsulates a selfish thought all of us long to believe. “love conquers all” prods at the queasiness of your brain, it lingers, it whispers, it attacks. you want to believe it, who wouldn’t? all humans want to. reality is not so simple, it happens to stab you in the chest in contrast to allowing fate to fix it all, life is no fairytale. yet you want to believe anyway, it will hurt in the long run, blood will run down your wound and tears will stick to your cheeks, you’ll double over and life will cackle, point, shame you, isn’t that enough?

you use the age old mythology of sirens to perpetuate tales of the sin we all happen to be guilty of, lust, desire. just as those poor sailors are drawn to the mystifying voices of the sea, fueled by their self serving desire which render them useless to their very own whims. in every way, human beings are the same, you are the same. we all desire something, we have certain days of our lives tied to attempting to quell such desires. you long for all of it even if you do not deserve it, doesn’t everybody? in the similar manner of sirens, your magnifying desire outweighs your better judgment, seducing you into a feat of self destruction.

you consistently boast, it’s a regular habit, a trait you are unaware of never having even developed, yet you crave more of it as the spotlight lingers over your figure. they call it the worst sin of all to be exceptionally prideful, everybody seeks control in some regard, all yearning for the spotlight, all yearning for the status which showers you with such glory. occasionally you cannot fret, you do not even retain the knowledge of carrying such a trait, such a permanent mark across your skin you state as being vain. you loathe the judgment, you do it yourself. you detest the constant defenses, yet you hold up your walls. you abhor those laced with all that superiority, huh, how does one with such pride dislike themself?

you seem to enjoy the prospect of waste, gluttony. overindulgence is enjoyable, haven’t we all had our fair share? you destroy yourself with each chunk you bite, a replying chunk bitten in return. you lack self control, no wonder you’re on the chopping block. you gorge in the unhealthy muck permeating your very existence, occasionally, it may better the air, but only for a mere moment. what are you left with once you cease it all? you may as well die, huh? you’re greedy, blood is between your teeth, you lack any sense, mind riddled with lavish overconsumption you know you don’t deserve.

those who are lustful chaiya, hajoon, kyrie, haneul, chrysa. those who are prideful yohan, junmin, hwan, jian. those who are gluttonous kiro, z, byeol, taro.

[tomurakii]

I wish I could draw because the imagery of Durge returning to the Last Light to kill Isobel is so deliciously angsty.

Dragging their feet as they cross the threshold into the warm embrace of the Inn's light, white-knuckled with the sussur dagger in hand. Better to make sure that if she doesn't die in one hit, she gets no opportunity to heal. For the sake of mercy, they told themself.

Shuffling left, right, like the reanimated dead past the corpses of Horrors they'd slain only nights ago. Protecting the very person they had now come to destroy.

They had to do it. They remembered what happened to Alfira all too well, the brutality that would occur were they to kill another in their sleep. That same brutality, turned against the one they love most. It had to be Isobel. They had to maintain control. The mantra of justification rang in their head, barely able to conceal the giddiness that rose within. The blood-lust. The Urge, to kill that which is pure. Selûne's shield, Ketheric's favourite child. The Last Light's last hope.

A perfect, pretty corpse.

Isobel would react much too late. She had been so trusting, willing to allow that winged attacker several steps into her room before she responded. She would welcome her saviour with open arms, and a far more dangerous beast along with them. She would assume they were ill, perhaps, the sheen of sweat and unfocused eyes making them appear feverish. She would approach of her own volition, glancing over superficial cuts and scrapes as the silencing power of the sussur blade pressed against her back.

And then...

When it was over, they would clutch her tightly as they sank to the floor, watching recognition dawn in her eyes as she saw them for what they were. Myrkul gave her life, Selûne gave her meaning, and it was Bhaal who brought her death. Always a mere mortal pawn in the game of the gods. They would hear the people of the Inn succumb to the shadow curse, too entranced by the corpse to see Isobel's barrier break. They would do everything in their power to resist, push back against The Urge desperate to defile. Beg themself to push Isobel away all while their nails dug into her dead-pale flesh, leaving crescent-moon cuts that could not bleed. Jaheira would ascend the steps expecting to find a hero, an explanation.

She would find instead the shuddering Bhaalspawn, caked in blood.

[riversimmone]

Three's A Crowd - Chapter 18

Summary:

SasuSaku. He didn't mean to kill that man. He had simply reacted to being attacked. And now Konoha is forced to hunt down the rogue members of Team 7, or risk open war. Eventual NaruHina.

XXX

Read from the beginning. This is a work in progress story you can find on tumblr and AO3 and completed on FF.NET.

[All tumblr posts will be tagged ‘Three’s A Crowd’ with their corresponding chapter for quick and easy access.]

Enjoy. :)

The roaring wasn't coming from the Shinobi, but Sasuke could see it, plain as day. 'Kyuubi, Kyuubi… Naruto is the Kyuubi.'

The thought repeated in his head like a mantra and he hadn't realised at first that his Sharingan had activated. Sasuke's eyes trained on Naruto and the sound of crunching bones preceded the stench of blood in the air. Sakura's screams weren't helping his concentration, and Sasuke tried to think, to figure out how to get past the dozen or so Kumo Shinobi blocking his path to his teammate.

He could feel the heat rising in his own body, the blood lust taking over and he trembled, not able to hide his anger.

What were they doing to him? Those weren't death throes.

The red chakra was receding now, like they'd plugged him with a stopper, and Sasuke turned to Sakura. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that he didn't know what to do, but the expression on her face stopped him – she looked directly into Sasuke's eyes, horrified. His heart clenched and a knot was forming in his stomach. Sasuke growled at that, losing control of his chakra as those bright green eyes widened in fear.

Sakura watched, terrified, as the tomoe of Sasuke's Sharingan spun, shifting, dividing, and moved faster than she had thought possible. He had worked hard, earning that second tomoe; right now, it was splitting into three. He turned away from her, and she closed her eyes to the sound of the first screams. Black fire engulfed them, leaving Naruto untouched, and the smell of burnt flesh reached him as he tried to fight the deep seeded desire to burn down everything around him.

The power was so intense and Sasuke couldn't maintain it at this level – not yet. He closed his eyes, trying to will it away, and the air around him began to cool down. This fire was familiar to him: he knew what it was, now staring into the dying cinders that was once the Kumogakure ninja. It was Amaterasu – a Dōjutsu he'd only ever seen Itachi activate before ‒ he felt excited at this, despite the circumstance.

It was a few seconds before the extent of what he'd done finally dawned on him, but he couldn't bring himself to care, having blocked out the screams of the men before him. Their charred bodies meant nothing to him, but the pinkette next to him was shaking like a leaf.

Sakura's eyes snapped open at the touch of his cold fingers on her arm.

"Sakura…" He wasn't sure what to say, suddenly worried he'd just overdone it.

She inhaled deeply, nodding to him but unable to smile. "Naruto…"

She ran over to the blonde, avoiding stepping on the Shinobi on the forest floor, and pulled him into her lap as he groaned. His eyes were closed and his pulse erratic – she ignored the fact that she now had his blood on her and kissed his forehead.

"Oh Naruto," Sakura whispered. 'You should have told us.'

But, on some level at least, she understood why he'd kept this quiet. The villagers of the hidden leaf had treated him like he had the plague his entire life, and his two best friends were too angry at another jinchuriki to give him any hope they'd still love him if they knew.

"We do love you," she cooed in his ear, hoping he could hear her.

Crying, Sakura held Naruto to her chest, grateful for the soft sound of his heartbeat. She kissed the crown of his head. Sasuke watched her quietly, wishing there was something more he could do to help. Even though he was still alive, the blonde was fading fast; he didn't need to be a medic to know that his pale, gaunt skin meant he'd lost a lot of blood. He didn't want to see this. He didn't want to watch his best friend die, and he was helpless to stop it. Sasuke growled softly, feeling the blood rise in him again.

Sakura continued to hold Naruto, hugging his shivering, frail body with hers protectively. She didn't know what else to do. She hadn't even looked over the medical scroll Tsunade had insisted she have. Up until now, skill and luck had kept them alive; they'd never needed anything more than seeking refuge in a village and claiming victimisation from rogue ninja or bandits, to allay suspicions.

They needed outside help, but right now, Naruto couldn't be moved: it would likely kill him. Sasuke placed a hand on her shoulder and for a moment, Sakura thought he would drag her away from Naruto. The look on his face was almost feral. But his eyes, while still red and glaring, were directed outward. He was barely able to stand up under his own power as he kept his eyes away from hers.

She realised what he was seeing. "Someone else is coming."

X X X

"Don't worry," Sasuke said, relaxing almost immediately; his eyes trained on the thicket of the trees. "I can see her from here."

Sakura frowned up at him. "Her?"

He nodded but didn't say anything, instead relaxing his stance and deactivating his Sharingan.

"Hinata…"

Hinata burst into the clearing, looking startled as she took in the sight of the mangled and charred bodies on the forest floor. Her eyes swept over them, not really taking them in, before they rested on Kitsúne. The Hyuuga was alone, which surprised them.

"Why are you here alone?" Sasuke asked, suspicious.

But Hinata ignored him, her eyes widening as she full appraised Naruto's condition. She fell forward, onto her knees and inhaled sharply.

"He's dying," Sakura sniffed, still holding Naruto like he was precious china.

"Don't give up on him just yet Sakura-chan."

Sakura jerked slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"I know a little about medical ninjutsu."

"You can save him?" Sasuke asked.

"I can try stabilizing him," she said, "but there are proper medics with the leaf ninja group accompanying the Hokage – they shouldn't be too far away."

She placed her hands on Naruto's chest as Sakura watched her work.

"Where is your team?" Sakura asked.

"We ran into some cloud ninja," Hinata said, "and the Hokage sent me ahead to make sure you were all alright."

Sasuke reactivated his Sharingan and looked around. "They're coming."

Sakura frowned. "Which ones?"

"Cloud."

"He can't be moved," Hinata said, answering Sakura's worried expression with one of her own as she finished working on Naruto; she kept her hands on him, not wanting to let go. "Not yet – I could only heal his surface wounds. He needs a proper medical ninja or he won't…" She trailed off, her eyes on the blonde still being cradled by Sakura.

"The group coming this way is huge," Sasuke said. "And there's another one from the opposite direction. If they get here before the leaf team, they'll target Naruto again and no amount of healing chakra will help this time."

Hinata looked up at him in surprise. "They were targeting Naruto-kun?"

"The Kyuubi," Sakura whispered.

"We can lead them away," Sasuke said. "Create a clone to look like Naruto to drawn them in, and I'll cast a genjutsu over this area. Hinata?"

"Hm?"

"Is there a Hyuuga in the leaf team?"

"Neji-niisan," she said, and then narrowed her eyes at him. He was going to make sure the genjutsu was one the Byakugan could see straight through. "Sasuke, if you can fool them, we should all stay inside the jutsu."

Sakura shook her head at Hinata. "They'll still wonder where we went – no, we need to draw them away."

"Then create three clones," Hinata said. "And‒"

"It's okay," Sasuke said softly. "It's better this way."

"You can't leave him behind," Hinata said, her voice strained. "Please."

"The clones will disperse after a short distance if we're not near them," he said. "And the leaf team is too far away to get here before they do."

Hinata activated her Byakugan, looking back the way she'd come. There were multiple chakra signals about four and a half minutes out, and they weren't leaf. Chances were they couldn't see Kitsúne from their position, just yet. One of the dead bodies in the clearing belonged to C, the sensory right hand man of A; she had no idea what that meant for the alliance, but was sure it wouldn't be good.

"He has to go back with you," Sakura said softly, before Hinata could protest some more. It was a statement, not a question. If there was any hope that Naruto might live, he needed to return with Hinata, and she knew the Hokage would keep him alive. She wasn't going to argue the point with her, and Hinata knew it. She sighed, outvoted.

"Lady Tsunade is a wonderful Hokage," the Hyuuga said, shifting to take Sakura's place – gingerly manoeuvring Naruto's head into her lap as the pinkette shivered involuntarily. "She'll try to protect him."

"I hope so."

"I've done all I can, but if you are going to leave, you need to go, now. There's no time to wait for him to wake up so you can say goodbye."

Sakura threw her arms around Hinata. "Thank you Hinata. And take care of the idiot for us."

"They're about to come into range," Sasuke said, ever the pragmatist.

"What about you?" Hinata asked. "What if they find you?"

"They won't."

Sakura stood up shakily, feeling more confident as Sasuke stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Sasuke created a clone, watched it turn into an exact duplicate of Naruto, and gripped Sakura tighter – in his own way, he was clinging to the only lifeline he had now. His Sharingan had evolved, so he found that the area manipulation genjutsu he'd created had evolved with it. He set it up, making it look to outside observers like this clearing was empty. Hinata had insisted at one point that Neji saw through the one he'd put up the last time they encountered Team Gai, so he was positive he would this time as well.

Sakura gave the Hyuuga a sad smile. "Tell Naruto we love him, please?"

Hinata nodded. "Contact me if you can."

She didn't think it was worth the risk if they tried to contact Naruto directly – he was going to be watched very closely. Not to mention he was going to be royally pissed when he did wake up.

"That's a promise," Sakura said and even the Uchiha offered the Hyuuga a small smile of gratitude before they disappeared.

Hinata could feel a faint ghost-like chakra presence before it vanished completely, leaving no trace. She'd worried they might be caught, but it seemed their combined abilities made them stronger than she could've imagined. Naruto was the one she had to worry about now. She looked down at him, running a hand through the striking blonde hair, and kissing his forehead. He was still gaunt and pale, on death's door, but at least he'd survive long enough for when their help did arrive.

She waited patiently, watching as the sun passed overhead, and it was almost sunset when the leaves rustled around her and she heard a few chosen curse words before the genjutsu lifted and she found herself surrounded.

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