#neon butterfly print

[nounoustouzy]

neon butterfly - Posters with Wooden Frame

Bring your artwork to life on these posters made from high-quality photo paper (250gsm). These posters come with a pine wood frame for a natural look and come with a protective acrylic glass cover for long-lasting home decor. Their natural wood frame is available in black and white and you can choose between a satin or matte finish for your paper. Available in three sizes, and vertical orientations to best suit your art. Sawtooth hanging hardware included (except for the 11.7" x 8.3" size which has a small metal hole on the back instead).

- High-quality 250gsm photo paper in a satin or matte finish

- Pine wood frame with a protective acrylic glass cover

- Natural wood, black and white frame color options

- Three sizes

  8.3" x 11.7"

  11.7" x16.5"

  20" x 28"

[heartnosekid]

carrieaf_ on ig

[lilamala]

festival write-up! Notable artists I saw: Cobrah, Slayyyter, Domiziana, Eartheater, Isabella Lovestoryyyyyyy (and don't u ever forget it!)

Cobrah was insaneee I was in the front row and she is SUCH a performer. we showed up like 15 minutes before her set started and the stage hands were still setting up this ominous prop

before the concert i thought she might be the type not to talk at all between songs because she seems so otherwordly and alien to me but she did talk and was super cute actually haha tho during her songs she has that dominatrix-esque charisma. mesmerising. (also it was so funny how the photographers absolutely dashed towards her everytime she was popping her pussy lol) the crowd was screaming like crazyyyyy after suck. everyone give it up for cunnilingusssss also she was going crazy on the cross during that one, it didnt even cross my mind to film it because i was sooo sucked in (lol) her performance. amazing, 10/10 (the face the waist the nails the shape etc)

For Domiziana I just knew Ohne Benzin before and sort of listened to her music a bit before we went to her show and I really liked it! she only had a 45 minute set and I did think it was a bit of a shame that she shortened her already short songs in favour of playing a few covers, id rather she play her full songs and not the covers. anyway greatttt energy i liked the songs that i hadnt heard before, ive had malena and auf die party on repeat ever since. she was also super cute when she talked between songs lol before she played amore she talked to a fan who was apparently going offfff in the front row and asked her if she was single and then went "Oh mein Gott Lea ist singleeeeeeee 🤖" and her DJ turned the autotune on halfway thru that was so funny. im afraid im writing this in a boring way haha u had to be there 😌 she was actually walking around the festival the next day i saw her around! (and I also Nura formerly from SXTN once? that was kinda wild. she's way shorter than i thought)

Slayyyter was wall to wall gay men as expected lol. she absolutely has a set of pipes on her, those grand 80s type pop songs off of starfucker suit her sooo well. she was really giving diva, u know when drag queens strike a pose and do that intense stare at the crowd, thats what she was doing. she played remixes of venom and self destruct, they were def more techno than the originals, i wonder if that is fixed in her setlist or she did it bc its technically a techno festival. it was fun to see the contrast between her more melodic poppy stuff and then the super noisy songs like james dean and the aforementioned remixes. the crowd were loving it all. i loved it, shes a great perfomer and a lot of her songs really go offfff live, theres nothing like a crowd yelling "K! COKE! MONEY!" in the call response that is Purrr (one of my fav songs off starfucker!) and she introduced that song by going: "Who here has done any substances toniiiiiiiiiight!!!" to a grand cheer of the audience. amazing truly.

Eartheater was. um. well i think she had the most thankless venue/time slot combination, she was the very first act on the last day on the big stage and there weren't that many people in the beginning, though it filled up as her set went on. i don't really listen to her music, i've just heard a few songs before and someone whose musical taste i trust recommend that i see her show and it was cool musically! her fit was sick as well. she just seemed to be in a bad mood throughout? she told off some guy in the front row who was on his phone (?) during a song and showed him the middlefinger instead of singing, made some annoyed comments that you could hear the bass from another stage a bit, and then for her last song she played like 20 seconds on the guitar (which she had played during the concert before) and then she stopped and complained that it was out of tune blabla we dont have time to tune it and then sang accapella. idk ive never experienced something like that, i thought it was a bit uncomfortable to witness as an audience member tbh

Isabella Lovestory baby! my love my angel my mother. its my second time seeing her, last time was in a tiny club were i bullied myself to first row and didnt really have space to stand and had to lean on the speakers the entire show, good times. this time also front row because i am bordering on being a groupie for her. the guy next to me was filming her on his flip phone i hope u enjoy ur 144p footage of her king <3 anyway she was soooooooo good as expected! she opened with botoxx which was so great to see live, vip was fucking sick as well. and she played an unreleased song called telenovela which sounded great!! im really looking forward to her new album <3 and she possibly played another unreleased one but im not entirely sure? i didnt recognise it but she didnt announce it so idk it might just have been something off her first ep. i think kamixlo was djing? and he opened with love4eva by loona yyxy lol my weeb queen. oh actually for that stage there were like screens in the back (u can see it on the cobrah pic further up) where they projected some like mood images and isabella had some of perfume (the jpop group), tommy february6, and possibly newjeans? at some point. but anywayyyyy i love her so much it was so great to see her live again. oh and i did get a little chin caress at the end when she went down to the audience lol successful groupie moment

actually Cobrah Domiziana Slayyyter and Isabella Lovestory were all on the same smaller stage and i thought it was a bit of an issue that the lights coming from the back were way brighter than the ones from the front so they were all backlit as hell and u couldnt really see their faces a lot of the time :( but still great performances from all of them

other than that there were quite a few dj sets, i liked schwefelgelb and we checked out horsegiirl who was also cool though a bit too high energy for me at that moment. i liked her original songs that she played! my little white pony and obsessed were both good. and the horse mask really is something else lol. and i wanted to see sega bodega as well but he cancelled short notice bc of an ear infection :( get well soon king 💪

[squoxle]

HIIEUSI WAS WHHEE HI SIS I WAS WONDERING U COULD DO ARCADE FF WITH HEESEUNG ?

Omg girl I haven’t had time to write a damn thing yet and my drafts are piling up. But moots take TOP priority and I try to respond to asks as fast as possible. Anywaysss here you go and I hope u enjoy 🩷

Ride Me ~ L.HS

pairing: Heeseung!bf x Reader!gf| wc: 1k | summary: Things take a steamy turn after your boyfriend shows you his new at-home arcade setup. | cw: 🔞MDNI!! unprotected sex, cumshots, fingering, clit stimulation, pet names [daddy, good girl, baby] <- 100% Heeseung coded [porn with a plot] Enjoy :)

“Well babe, what do you think?” Heeseung asked as he uncovered your eyes revealing the mass gaming setup. “I figured I’d use this more than the theater room,” he ruffled his hands through his hair, anxiously waiting for you to respond.

“It looks great, but I’m gonna miss our little movie nights under the blankets,” you smiled as you walked up to one of the machines.

You clicked a few of the large buttons, anticipating a pixelated image to flash across the screen. “Umm, how do you turn this thing on?” You asked as nothing seemed to work.

Heeseung placed his hand on the edge beside you, trapping you beneath him as he reached down to flick a power switch. You felt his weight slightly press you against the machine as he did this.

“I must’ve forgotten to turn this one on,” he met your eyes through his shaggy hair. Something about that state felt off, but maybe it was just you so you brushed off the feeling and proceeded to look at the other games he had.

A zombie survival simulator that came with 4 guns.

A claw machine filled with plushes.

A retro fighting game.

And a two player motorcycle game.

Eager to try this one out, you climbed onto the bike.

“Of all the stuff you just saw, im surprised this is the one you wanted to play,” Heeseung tilted his head.

“Yeah, well, I like racing games. Stuff like MarioKart, y’know,” Heeseung watched as you struggled to reach the coin slot from your seat. The opening sat just out of your reach.

Your tits pressed up against the leather as your cheek meshed with cold material.

"Let me help you," Heeseung whispered in your ear as he reached over to insert the coin. You felt him pushing himself up against you from behind which sent butterflies through your stomach.

You went to the loading screen and customized your bike, "If you wanna play, there's another bike," you said as you noticed your boyfriend was still straddled on the bike behind you. His hands gripped the back of the seat as he sat there with his legs spread open.

You had a bad habit of staring at the print in his pants, didn't matter if he was hard or soft. You craved to feel him inside of you.

"I know, but I wanna see how you ride," he smirked as he grabbed your hips, quickly jerking your hips backward.

Feeling the heat rush to your face you continued to start up the game. You chose a Tokyo map because of the neon cityscape terrain at night time. Though you tried your best to stay focused you couldn't shake the feeling of Heeseung sitting behind you like this.

"San, ni, ichi...sutato," the automated female voice called out as tri-colored traffic lights flashed across the screen. The aggressive rumble from the bike startled you as it took off.

You felt as Heeseung squeezed your hips again before leaning against you. You nearly crashed as his touch caught you off guard.

"Be careful baby," he said before placing a kiss on your neck.

"I-I'm trying. But you keep distracting me," you stuttered.

"Am I really that distracting," he asked as he slipped his hands around your thighs, squeezing and pulling at the flesh.

"Ngh," you groaned. "Yes, you are."

"Oh, but you like it when I touch you like this. Don't you?" Heeseung grinded his hips against you.

"Mmm," you moaned as you felt his budge pressing into you. "H-heeseung," you said letting out a soft breath.

"Keep driving baby. If you come in first place, I'll give you a little treat," he hummed as he reached his fingers in between your folds. Your growing wetness slowly seeped through the fabric of your panties.

"Ngh!" you huffed as he massaged your clit through your shorts.

He continued to tease you as you struggled to finish the race, barely coming in first after finding a shortcut.

As the gold star shot across the screen, Heeseung hummed a raspy "Good girl," in your ear before helping you out of your shorts.

At this point, you were only wearing your hot pink thong--something you knew Heeseung loved to use. "Show me that pretty little pussy of yours," he bit his lip as you pulled the small fabric to the side, exposing your wet folds.

He smiled as he palmed himself before pulling his veiny cock out only to glide it between your slimy lips and tease your sensitive bead with his tip.

You whimpered as you began pushing yourself against his hard dick, eagerly trying to force it inside.

He halted your movements by gripping the inside of your thighs, spreading your legs more, before telling you to "ride Daddy's dick like the good girl I know you are."

Immediately after he said those words, he shoved his dick deep inside of you, causing you to let out a sharp groan. "Fuck," he winced. "You're still so fucking tight," he said slowly pumping his cock into you. "Ngh," he moaned before leaning forward to kiss your neck as your ragged breathing filled his ear. "You sound so fucking sexy when you're taking my dick like this," he pecked your cheek as you finally adjusted to his length.

You started to grind into your boyfriend, stuffing his cock deeper into you as he held you from your waist. "That's it, baby, just like that," his words encouraged you to pick up the speed as he pulled your lips into his, gripping your throat.

He turned you over and fucked you from the back as your tits pressed up against the leather. You clenched around him as he let out a groan. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he gritted through his teeth before 3 long, hard thrusts. You felt his warm seed spill into you and drip out as you came with him. Fortunately, your panties caught the majority of the spill.

Exhausted, you laid across the bike as Heeseung kissed your shoulders.

❀ Thank you all so much for reading! Make sure to check out other works on my masterlist!

❀ 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: @chlorinecake @mimikittysblog @nikisdubblchococake @wonbinisbabygurl @hynjinnn1 @mrswolfhard3 @laylasbunbunny @sussyjake @furious-eagle @cherrriesss @abbyizzy @weyukinluv @addictedtohobi @thatonenoona @wavykook @givemeyourtmihyun @jaeljn @hoonmywk @valennshit @19-yunalyn @hoonbby @frostedblankets @hoonsyo @no-mannerism @perfectxserendipity @chubbibish @ihrtlix @bunniesforsoobin @thereadersparadise @thatbooknerdfr @aiden2001 @belongstoheeseung @jakeybabe @donut-crazs @rizzhee @nikimeows @woonieees @uarmyxtae @rebecca-johnson-28 @they2luv1naia @isa-2007 @silcry @riverscafe @pearlwhitesoul @nikohiroshi @thatbooknerdfr @wonniewonwon @sughoonieeee @babyy-bambii @adrika04 @sehunsharpasseyebrows @wtfyangjungwon @fr-3-akn-4-stymf @rikiloversworld @shawyle @sunoosrightbuttcheek @uarmyxtae @lovesickxmina @urfavberry @urauntiefaye @breadlover01 @taehyunsfavmoa

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔚𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔗𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥

Summary: Tired of being trapped in the suffocation and monotony of your life, you make the hair triggered decision to abandon it all and escape to an eccentric town in California.

You never expected to get spirited away by a charming man one night on the boardwalk. But you should have known from the look in his eyes that he was nothing but bad luck.

Warnings: Fem bodied reader, fem pronouns. 18+ MDI. Oral (F!Receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, sex outdoors, mild gore (blood drinking). Reader is dodging red flags like it's a profession. Not proofread.

Notes: 14k words. I rewatched The Lost Boys a few nights ago and couldn't resist writing for one of my favorites.

Santa Carla is almost jarring to witness. Even in the day, when the mid sun is bright and blunt on the shifting scape of graffiti and grimy corners and sidewalks marred with old gum, it's unabashed in its abnormality. It's entirely unlike the hushed, quaint little streets of your hometown, with its lush lawns and the little elderly ladies in their Sunday best, speaking amongst each other in gossip that's quiet and passive aggressive. A complete one-eighty of the punks that skulk down these avenues with black smeared around their eyes and worn cigarettes dangling between their pierced lips while they lug old boom boxes over their shoulders, spitting out metal and rock and roll. 

Just the sight of them would have been enough to send the old committee in your town into a conniption, banding together to drive the demonic filth from the city limits. But here, no one bats an eye to this sort of thing. It isn't shocking to the locals to see a man who's old enough to be your grandfather gliding down the pavement in hot pink booty shorts that are tight enough to show what he's packing. 

Your own mother had nearly been sent into a spiral when she had heard about you wearing a crop top - she hadn't even seen you herself. Someone had snitched to her apparently. Your best bet is Audrey. She's always bored on her shifts at the market, sitting at her register with a glazed overlook in her eyes until she manages to find something worth blabbering about. You're sure she had all but flown over to the phone on her lunchbreak to snitch and warn your mother that she had spied you perusing over the ice cream freezers with your stomach shamelessly bared for the entire world to see. 

It's pretty embarrassing to have your mother barrel her way into your kitchenette at the middle of 10 p.m. to scold you for "acting like a harlot." 

But here it's normal. People are dressed in so many different styles. Sporting hair dyed from fried bleach blonde to bright neon green; decked out in leather, ripped jeans; women and men alike strolling around in tight swimwear that leaves little to the imagination with diamond bellybutton jewelry that glints in the sun. Tattoos on tanned skin and manicured nails with leopard print. 

Your mind still hasn't caught up with it all yet. It's like you've stepped into a music video, or another world entirely. It's like the air is permanently charged. Electric and humming, pulsing like something alive. Fluttering in your stomach like a flock of nervous butterflies. But that's probably just the anxiety. You've dangled between pure excitement and tension for the past few days that you've been here. Forcefully fixed there by the stubborn ball of apprehension that's tucked itself behind your sternum like a heavy rock. It's almost makes you nauseous. So caught up in your nerves to truly let go and enjoy the moment. To revel in the reality that you've finally escaped. That you've finally managed to wrangle yourself free of shitty little town in the middle of nowhere and have run off to a place where no one will notice you. Where you can blend into the masses and disappear without the worry of judgement. 

It's just not that easy though. It never is. There's guilt behind your panic. The dread that you've just abandoned her. Left her without little more than a letter tapped to her front door before you shoved most of your belongings into a couple of suitcases, took up all of the money you've saved up over the past three summers and vanished in the early morning without a trace. 

It was dumb maybe. But you prefer desperate. You had to get out. You had to do it while you still had a chance, while you're still young and hopeful. Before Gallatan could eat you up of all your worth and turn you into one of those judgmental ladies perched out in front of one of its buildings with a mean scowl on your face. You had to do something before you lost sight of yourself or became the woman your mother wanted you to be. All barefoot and pregnant with another baby on your hip while your husband - probably Oliver Palmer if she could have a say so - was busy at work. 

The idea to run had snuck into your head, all forbidden and frenzied. You had shunned it for as long as you could, ignoring it while you droned away at your job, pouring the same grouchy bastards' hot coffees and running the same sunny side up eggs and suspiciously damp pancakes in trade for measly tips. And then one day, for no particular reason at all, it had all just become too much. Too stagnant. Too gray. You had to go before you'd suffocate, and that's how you found yourself cruising down the highway with the window rolled down to let the crisp air in, still damp and fresh with morning dew. 

You couldn't look back now. You wouldn't. Still, that wouldn't keep the guilt from biting at you. From nipping at your heart, a little bit at a time. It stung. It twisted in your chest like a knife, your selfishness. But you'd been selfless your entire life. Dating the man she had wanted you to date, taking the ballet classes that she had wanted you to take, wearing your hair up the way she wanted. For once you were going to put yourself first, even if it was a tad foolish. 

Your newfound liberation didn't banish the anxiety away completely though. The first night here once the high had finally worn off, you had been forced to face reality. And the unfamiliar walls of the dingy hotel didn't help, with its shabby wallpaper and linens that smelt faintly of generic detergent and cigarette smoke. It was alien. Unnatural almost, the chirp of crickets traded in for the rhythmic thumping of music pouring out from the bar across the street. You had stayed inside, hidden away by the locked door, trying desperately to tune out the noise of your own scattered thoughts with the audio of the TV. Using the soft, watery light that spilled out from the screen as a nightlight to try and ward off the confusion and unease in the pit of your gut. 

Your sleep had been difficult. Spent tossing and turning on the mattress, its springs creaking lightly with each shift as you tried in vain to ignore your own guilt. Helplessly fighting off the images of your mother pacing about her living room, wearing a pathway into the blush-colored carpet, nipping at the edges of her polished nails with tears in her eyes. The urge to reach over for the landline on the nightstand had nudged at you so insistently that you had to unplug it to keep from dialing her number. You knew that if she answered, if you heard the sound of her voice drifting out in that worried, angry stream that you'd be unable to keep yourself from packing yourself into your car and driving all those miles back to Gallatan. 

The morning after you had been unable to resist the allure of the call from outside. Like a slave to your impulses, you had allowed yourself to get caught up in the magnetism of it all. It's as though the scent of the sea had coiled around your throat, salt and wind taking ahold of you to usher you into the wonder of it all. You had spent the entire day exploring all of the shops that Santa Carla had to offer. Everything from quaint little outlets full of sage sticks and minerals that claimed feats such as granting fortune or banishing negativity, to music shops, and boutiques with lingerie and toys that you'd only ever seen in Playgirl magazines and cheesy sex tapes hidden in the back of your town's video store. 

It was a wonder in every corner. Everything in the imagination placed to draw your attention. To lure you in. And it had succeeded, stringing you along. Like a moth drawn to dazzling lights you had let it take you. Santa Carla is always a spectacle, but at night is when it truly comes alive, and the boardwalk is the pentacle. It's as though the entire town is lit up in a thousand individual pyres, burning and flickering, a kaleidoscope of neon and thrills. 

It sounds dramatic, but your first night on the boardwalk had nearly left you breathless. It was a place that's likeness you've witnessed in movies, or maybe the pathetic little county fair Gallatan throws each year. But the tiny kiosk of buttered corn-on-the-cobs and the pony rides are nothing in comparison. 

You had felt like a kid in a candy store despite your initial apprehension. Once you had seen it in all of its glory, wooden pathways swarming with chaotic masses, and carnival games and seedy stores adorned along the streets; sugar and salt and the musk of weed tainting the air in a distinct brand all cultivate to create a unique kind of charm, you had been unable resist.  

Like thousands before you, you had fallen for Santa Carla, like a mouse falling into a vat of honey. 

And it doesn't take you long for you to give in a splurge a little, ignoring your limited funds in favor of spoiling yourself. It's only something small, like finally trading out the pair of corduroy pants that you'd worn for years in favor of a couple skirts. Your favorite is lightyears away from anything you would have been able to wear before. Tight, dark, buttery leather that molds smoothly to your hips. Just low enough that you don't feel exposed but still skimming up past your knees. It's beyond any of the clothes that you had allowed yourself to purchase, but it feels nice to wear. Even though you still find yourself subconsciously tugging the hem down every once in a while, there's something undeniable freeing about wearing it. Like some kind of middle finger to all of the people who had kept you stunted and trapped. And as a final fuck you, you had immediately tossed your old pants in one of the trashcans settled outside the shop. 

You've been out here every night since, basking in the energy and the buzz that prickles over the boardwalk. A sort of treat for yourself after spending all of the hours in the day job searching, walking into all of the vintage themed diners and hole-in-the-wall thrift shops to turn in your applications. You don't have a long-term plan as of now. If you're planning on staying here. If that's even a possibility for you. But it'd be nice to have some extra cash while you try and figure that out. Something to keep you afloat while you try to course your future. 

Tonight is just as charged as last night. Shifting and alive with the bodies of tourists and locals alike, all looking for entertainment. You wander aimlessly, people-watching as you go, admiring the different kinds of groups as they all meander around in search of excitement. Children clutching onto the stuffies that their parents have won at carnival games; a gaggle of girls laughing happily as they cling onto each other as they navigate through the crowd; a couple walked by you in a rush earlier, the boyfriend spilling out what sounded like desperate apologies that were going completely unheard. 

Despite the speed of everything else around you, you're content to take your time, strolling around while you idlily drink your soda from the cherry-colored straw. You aren't in any particular rush to get anywhere. The dusk is still visible, occasionally peeking past the buildings and the horizon above the sea, all thin and dusty in a rich blue. You have all the time in the world to enjoy yourself, at least for now. You have no desire to go and hold yourself up in your dingy hotel room, clicking through basic cable to try and find something worth watching while you hopelessly chew through another cheap delivery pizza. 

The excitement is contagious out here, and you're in the mood to indulge. You let your feet carry into a record shop, a quick glance at the magenta neon sign above declaring it as one of the many music shops displayed along the boardwalk. The cashier posted behind the front desk shoots you a lazy nod before quickly returning to the porn mag boldly held in his hands. You grimace when you see it, but it doesn't keep you from drifting further into the dimly lit depths of the store, glancing over the many aisles of records as you go. 

You've burnt yourself through most of your music, playing them ceaselessly in favor to listening to spotty radio stations that turned to static whenever you drove through mountains. If you hear another song off of Like a Virgin you might actually lose your mind. 

It takes you a moment of searching the place before you find the cassette tapes, most of them organized in the back of the shop in shelves secured to the walls. The variety is a little overwhelming and the flimsy laminated signs taped above the racks did little to help. Either people have just been shoving tapes back wherever they fit, or the employees have been doing a lousy job of organizing the shelves, because despite claiming to be arranged by genre, you've found Metallica mixed in with Duran Duran, and Def Leopard and Anthrax placed with Prince. 

It doesn't bother you much though, and you keep searching over the massive collection of music, stepping around other customers and squinting through the dim golden lighting to read the album names properly. You barely notice it at first. A light brush along the back of your neck. A pressure that prickles and skips down your spine. It's so soft that you almost mistaken it for the press of your shirt nudging at your back, but it feels different. 

Like the weight of a stare. Warm and insistent. It has buried animal instincts welling up to the surface. It's kneejerk when you sweep a searching glance over the few people dotted around the shop, skipping over faces that don't meet your stare. They're all caught up in their own personal bubbles to notice your discomfort. 

Somehow, it only makes you feel more on edge. Viewed by a potential danger that you can't see. You don't know why it makes your breath snag, but it does. Someone is watching you. But no matter where you look, you can't find them. It has your mouth running dry, even while you assure yourself that it's nothing, nervously tapping at the straw in your soda to distract yourself. Something electric is trembling down your spine, magnetic and alien. It grips ahold of your neck, looping around your throat like static fingers, catching you on a string to tug you around on your feet. Your focus shifts somewhat frantically, with the hope to reassure yourself that no one might be sneaking glances at you, and then, your stare is suddenly moving all on its own. When you notice him and you have to wonder how you missed him in the first place. 

He's standing off on the other side of the store, separated by rows of music. You notice his fingers calmly flipping through vinyl's, the silver rings banding his fingers winking softly in the red neon spilling out from behind him. Your eyes seem to have a mind of their own as they continue in their sweep up to admire more of him. He looks like a rockstar. Like he had leapt out from an album cover, with fluffy long blond hair. It's messy, spilled out like a lion's mane, wild tips glinting in shades of gold and the cherry red that's projected from the neon. 

The first thought you have is dumbstruck and a little captivated: He's gorgeous. He looks like the type of guy that would be spotted making out with models at some exclusive Hollywood club, not here in some dingy shop with a blow-up doll and random movie posters taped to the ceiling. 

His eyes shift up then, sudden and unwavering as they land directly on you. It's shocking as they pin you down, prompting a tight gasp from your lungs. His stare is firm but playful, shooting through your body like an electric current. You turn back around like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't, latching you attention back onto the cassette tapes like they're some sort of lifeline all while your cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

You didn't miss the amused smirk that had nudged at his lips before you looked away. Almost as though he was expecting you to have been admiring him, all cocky. Self-assured. The hazy air seems too thick now, the ting of cigarette smoke stinging at your lungs is all acrid and heavy. You could choke on it, but you're determined to remain in place. You keep still, secure in your spot as you search the disorganized tapes. Seeing but not really noticing them anymore, the letters and titles all melting into nonsense as you tap at the sweating paper cup clutched in your palm with your fingertips. 

You don't know why you feel so nervous. You haven't been like this since your first crush on Christian Bakely. It's bashful. Almost timid like a juvenile, fickle attraction that you have when you're young. It makes you want to scold yourself for developing some sort of superficial, puppy love for the first hot guy you've seen since you've left home.

You will yourself to move down the aisle a little more, going slowly to at least try to appear unbothered while you've become horrendously aware of yourself. A part of you entertains the idea of leaving. There are a million other stores just like this posted along the edges of the boardwalk, but you're quick to squash down your unease. You aren't going to run out over something so stupid. He's probably already forgotten your blatant staring anyway, traded in his amusement in favor of flipping through records and forgot that you even exist. 

You try to do the same. 

Your attention perks up when you notice a tape that gets your focus and you're quick to pluck it free from its place wedged between the rest. You listen to the song pumping softly from the overhead speakers, falling back into the gentle lull of it all. The delicate hum of the crowd shifting just outside, the chill of the hard plastic casing in your palm, the sweet syrup of the soda on your tongue as you take another sip. It's gentle. Calm in a way that isn't curated. 

"Nice choice."

The voice drifts from over your shoulder, but before you fully register it, you're already jumping. You think your heart skips when you do, fluttering briefly as you jolt on your feet. 

"Jesus Christ," you hiss through your teeth. You can't hide the glare on your face when you turn to look at the figure standing beside you, but your mind just about falls silent when you realize that it's the pretty blonde that you had been gawking at. 

"Shit. Sorry, that was my fault." He holds one of his hands up in a placating gesture, like you're some cornered animal that might startle otherwise. Except he doesn't look all the apologetic. He's smirking, almost like he's pleased. Eyes all bright with mirth like you've done something funny. "Didn't mean to make you jump." 

You don't believe him. 

"It's fine." You offer a weak smile, torn from your nerves which are frayed between adrenaline and the warm flutter in your chest. Somehow, he's even prettier up close. His features are sharp with a strong, a straight nose that connects to high, pronounced cheekbones like you've seen on old statues. His lips are plump. Rosy and pink. But it's his eyes that really get you, glittering faintly under the light in a blue that's too soft for the mischief lurking around the edges. It takes you a moment to remember what he had initially said, and you have to all but wrangle the delicate thank you out from your throat. All while you know that there's no way in hell that someone like him is listening to Cindi Lauper in his free time. 

He doesn't look like any of the men from your hometown. Most of them were just as clean cut and blue-collar as the rest, with worn steel toed boots and baseball caps smeared with grime and sweat. They were handsome in the well-mannered, country kind of way. Hats off at the dinner table sort of guys, even though more than half of them have wound up drunk and lost in someone else's field more than once. But this guy was the type that you've been a victim to fantasizing about more than once. Helpless daydreams about unobtainable rockers. 

You can smell his cologne with how close he's placed himself next you, rich and masculine and heavy with something that smells earthy. Damp like dark soil. It has your mouth going dry. It you want to lean in towards him to draw more of it into your lungs, but thankfully you snap out of it before you could actually act on the urge. It makes you horrendously aware of the face that you're staring at him again. 

You snap out of your daze, casting your attention back over the shelves to keep yourself from shamelessly ogling him any more than you already have. God, you're like some lovestruck middle schooler all of a sudden. 

"You're not from around here, are you?" He remains at your side, nearly brushing his arm with yours while he briefly pulls a tape from its shelf before poking it back in. Something tells you that he's pretending to inspect them just as much as you are now. 

"What gave it away?" You dare to shoot him a glance. The tension that had turned your muscles taught finally beginning to thaw. 

"Nothing," he shrugs. Then he's shooting you another lopsided grin. " I'd just figure that I'd remember seeing a babe like you walking around." 

It's undeniably corny, but there's something in the way that he delivers it, the way that he carries himself that sells its charm. You find a weak laugh bubbling from your chest, still nervous but also reluctantly content. You shift down the aisle a few feet and like a brand-new shadow he follows. 

"I bet you say that to all the tourists that come through here." You draw another sip from your drink, and you're a little disgruntled to find that it's almost empty. 

"I may have used it once or twice," he admits. There's no hesitation when he says it, still displaying as much ease and bravado as he has been. 

"And has it ever actually worked for you?"

"I'd like to say that I'll be successful for a second time, but I guess we'll see how tonight goes." 

The look you give him is playfully unimpressed, openly toying with him in a way that seems oddly natural. All of that pervious uncertainty shifting and melting down into something new but fluid. His eyebrows perk up in mock disbelief, an arm raising to flatten a palm to his chest as though he's shocked by your answer. 

"Damn, shot down already." 

"Afraid so." You mirror his shrug from earlier before slipping around the corner made by the edge of a rack, continuing in your search. It feels a little like a chase as he trails after you, all lazy in his pace but no less motivated to keep you in his sight. 

"So what brought you to Santa Carla?" he asks from behind. 

"Kind of just passing through, I guess. Needed a break, you know." 

He nods like he might understand. "Well you lucked out coming here. There's always something going on; parties, drugs." He pauses for a minute. When his voice dips out its right up against your ear, coiling low and dark to tremble down your spine. "Murder."  

You spin around to face him then, a gasp snagging in your throat. But when you see him, he isn't close behind you at all but a few feet off. He almost seems delighted to have your focus back on him. Confusion nestles in the back of your mind. You could have sworn that he was directly behind you. That you had felt the subtle weight of his chest on your back, the brush of his breath on the nape of your neck, but he would have had to have leapt back to be standing as far away from you as he is now. 

Odd. 

You clear your throat, trying to collect yourself as you latch back onto the memory of his voice. "Wai- Murder?" 

"Oh yeah, people die here all the time." It's almost bored how he says it, like his discussing some monotonous fact and not tragedies. "It's like a nightly thing." 

You wait for some kind of a punchline. Or some reassurances that he's only joking but it doesn't come. He must pick up that you're expecting some kind of explanation, but he must find it funny because that smile is back, just hinting at the corners of his mouth.  

"Murder capital." His eyes get a little big when he speaks, somehow entirely serious and teasing all at once. "There's been talk for years about anything from a reclusive serial killer hiding away in the hills to a black market, or maybe devil worshippers." 

Figures that in an attempt to escape from your old life that you'd manage to flee to a place where killings are apparently "a nightly thing." An extreme exaggeration you hope. You can practically imagine your mother laughing at you, all snark as she revels in your less than stellar luck. Like some kind of joke from the universe. But now that you think of it, this town would be a prime place for a black market or a cult or whatever. With the massive influx of visitors that rush through here in the summer, it must be easy to snatch people up off the streets without too many noticing. 

He laughs at your troubled expression. The silver-plated belt that he fashioned to the shoulder of his coat chimes softly as he shifts himself into your space with a grin, flashing teeth that look sharp. "Don't worry, I'll keep you safe." 

You still haven't entirely adjusted to his blatant flirting. Sure, you've encountered your fair share of horn dogs at your past job. Men who would leave their phone numbers on their checks or shamelessly stare at your tits and ass while ordering. Still, you never had someone approach you out in the open like this, apart from maybe at the bar when egos are high and liquored up.  

But he's clearly confident. Dripping with a roguish charm that's magnetic. You could almost call it intoxicating, the energy around him is palpable. The way he moves is rushed and light, like a puppy that's too hyper. 

"I think I'll manage on my own." But there's no snark in it. It's friendly. A warmth that he shares as you both exchange smiles. You pluck another cassette from its shelving, one you'd been eyeing during the conversation, but you can't manage to pry your attention entirely from him. "I mean, I don't even know your name. You could be a murderer or some cultist creeping around for his next sacrifice." 

"You found me out," he teases. Eyes shimmering and blue, all mischief. "There go my plans for the night." 

"Sorry about your luck." 

He shakes his head. "Nah, it's good. Besides, I think you might be too cute to cut up." 

"Oh, well thank you so much," you gush in a mimic of appreciation. 

"Of course," he jokes easily. He's holding a hand out then, his voice just a little bit more authentic as he waits for you to take it. "The name's Paul." 

You have to tuck your empty cup in the crook of your other arm to accept it. When you do it nearly shocks you how chilled his skin is. His fingers are cold, palm smooth and almost icy against the warmth of your own, but you don't pay it too much mind. Instead you give him your name, speaking it softly through a light smile. He repeats it under his breath, and you try to ignore the pleasant ripple of heat that runs through your body at the sound of it. How he cradles it on the tip of his tongue like he's testing it out and found that it tastes sweet. 

"So, are you still looking for some excitement?" 

You fall silent, eyeing him a little suspiciously. "It depends. What did you have in mind?" 

The grin that spreads across his face is much more puckish. Much more so than the ones before it. There's almost something dangerous there. A darker edge to his stare like you've lit a fire in him somehow. He nods down to the tapes clutched in your hand, and before you can realize it, he's taking them in his own. 

"These are the only ones you want?" he asks, backing away from you. It leaves you confused, watching him with your words lost in your throat. 

"Uh, yeah?" 

He hops back on his feet like an excited kid, jerking his chin like he wants you to follow him as he continues to walk backwards in the direction of the register. He doesn't pause for you to catch up, suddenly twisting on the heels of his boots. He acknowledges the cashier as he draws closer to the direction of the counter, but his lips have drawn up tight like he's repressing a laugh. Like he's in on a joke that you aren't. 

You feel like you're being guided by an invisible string as you urge yourself into a hesitant walk, squinting at him through a bewildered stare as you quicken your pace to keep up. But he doesn't switch gears to approach the register at all, instead he's making straight for the front door of the shop. The employee must come to the same conclusion as you do, because suddenly he's dropping his magazine to stand up from his chair with a jerk. A loud shout already raising up high to demand Paul to stop. 

Paul only tosses you a look over his shoulder, glancing back at you like he's confirming that you're still trailing after him, and when he sees you, he flashes an impish thousand-watt smile.

"C'mon! We gotta make a run for it."

And then he's bolting. Lurching towards the door with quickness of a high-strung dog let off its chain. A part of your brain stalls, and for a moment your body follows suit, freezing still for less than a split second but it feels like an hour as your mind splits down the middle between two decisions. The clerk is screaming, clammy skin flushed red with anger as he attempts to climb over the front counter like he means to body slam Paul in a tackle. But he's already shoving the glass door open, the bell above sounding his quick leave in a metallic cry. 

You should stay back. Keep far away from the random stranger that picked you out in the middle of a random store and is attempting to shop lift your cassette tapes, but before you can properly decide, your body is already in motion. You can hear your feet thumping across the carpet as you rush over to the door that's beginning to slip closed. 

"Oh, you fuckers!" The clerk yells so loudly that you're sure he's probably spitting. There's a violent clatter as the tray of lighters that were beside the register make contact with the ground in a messy thump. It has all the impact of a gunshot, and it's all it takes for your system to flood with a burst of adrenaline. You slip through the door before it can close in on you, escaping out into the chaos of the night like a bullet. 

Paul grips your arm once you're out, using it as leverage to guide and pull you through the oblivious crowd. He's cackling and howling into the air like a madman, practically skipping as he tugs you forward. You think that you might be laughing too, but it's hard to tell through the blur of it all. The world around you is a rush of colors, lights and sounds. Someone thumps against your shoulder as Paul ushers you through the sea of bodies, but his grip is firm, fixed tightly around your wrist like a cuff. 

The voice of reason chants in your head for you to jerk yourself from his hold. To vanish into the cover of the crowd and pretend that tonight never happened. But you don't do that. Against all common sense you allow yourself to be spirited away by some giggling maniac with a pretty face. 

His eyes are wild as he looks back over at you, the reflection from the lights of the nearby amusement park rides glinting bright in them. Everything about him might be a red flag, but like a fool you find yourself chasing after him. Running towards the rush; the excitement sparking under your skin and turning your blood white hot. He lifts the cassette's up, still secure in his hand as he waves them in the air like trophies. 

You aren't sure how long you two keep running for, but eventually you both slow to walk. The even pace allowing you to catch your breath as he guides you to a set of motorcycles that have been parked along the edge of the boardwalk, the back wheels nearly pressed up against the wooden railing. He releases your arm only so he's able to circle around the one at the end of the line with red rims.  

He holds your stare as he swings a leg over to mount the seat, making himself comfortable on the bike. Only then does he hand you the cassette tapes back, and you take them with shaky fingers. A product of the adrenaline that still thrums through your limbs like an electric current. You make sure to tuck the tapes safely in your jacket pocket. It seems dangerous to accept them. It feels good too. 

"You know, if you were trying to impress me, you didn't have to all that." 

"No?" his eyebrows perk up. "I wish you would have told me sooner then, babe." 

"Oh, so it's my fault then." 

"Nah. I steal shit all the time." 

You can't help but to scoff. Still, there's a bit of a genuine laugh in there too. He hums lowly, leaning forward to hang his wrists over the support of the bike's handlebars, spreading his thighs to get comfortable. You almost hate how pretty he is. It isn't normal. There are bonfires burning on the beach down below. The pyres reaching high enough that the light casted by the fire spills over his hair like sunlight, gold and amber and red. He almost seems otherworldly. Like a spirit that's been raised to tempt you. To lead you astray. God, you think you could let him. 

"The question still stands." He tilts his head, watching you expectantly. "Still lookin' for a thrill?" 

Time pauses again, churning down into a placid stream. This is another moment when you should say no. And it's right there, held just at the base of your throat. A small puff of air and the word slip out, materialize out on the warm summer air with a punch of finality. That's all it would take to cut this night short. To put a cap on all of it, bottling it all up so you could let it collect dust and become a distant memory. 

The voice of reason, bearing a striking resemblance to the sound of your mother's, echos in your head. Chanting from the sidelines for you to back away from him before he drags you down into a pit of trouble that you can't crawl out of. But when has doing anything she's wanted you to do gotten you anywhere? 

"Yeah, I think I am." That's your answer. 

"What are you waiting for?" 

He scoots himself forward, straightening his posture a little and slipping his hands around the handlebars. It's a clear enough invite, and you don't let the air around you both stagnate. You grimace a little when you drop your empty soda cup on the ground, leaving it to drop while you move to lift an arm up to grip onto his shoulder. Using it for stability as you swing your leg over the seat of the motorcycle. He doesn't waste any time starting it, kickstarting it before you've even sat down on the seat. 

You try to be mindful of your skirt as you lower yourself down onto the leather cushion. Tugging it down as low as it'll sit while scrunched up around your spread thighs. 

The bike is loud. It's engine purring in a great roar, metallic and sharp in your ears. It thrums under your legs, almost like a living, breathing thing. Pulsing as the engine hums and spits. You're quick to slip your arms around his waist, ignoring the stubborn layer of hesitation lurking underneath the exhilaration of it all. You cling on to him, shamelessly tucking your chin over his shoulder as you drape yourself over his back. He doesn't seem to mind, passing you a joyful glance, turning his head just enough that his nose almost brushes over yours. 

"Don't be shy now. Better hold on tight." 

That's the warning you get before he revs the engine, sending the bike into a jarring lurch. You yelp when the bike blazes off like a rocket, squeezing your hold around his middle tighter to keep yourself from blowing off the seat as he swerves it down another strip of the boardwalk. 

He's laughing again. Sounding like a madman as he suddenly directs the motorcycle to the left, smoothly jerking the front wheel to dip it into a turn. Your heart falls down to your ass when a descending staircase drops down in front of the bike. It seems as sudden and daunting as a cliff, but you don't have time to shout. Your cry stays lodged in your lungs, and you only have enough time to tuck your head into the crook of his neck, hiding your face in his hair just as the bike speeds down the steps in a quick glide. The bumps are just barely felt by the speed that he's gunned the motorcycle into, but it doesn't stop your stomach from flipping. 

He might be laughing, but it's difficult to tell if the vibrations rattling his ribcage are from the engine or not. But based off of what little you know of him; you wouldn't put it past him in finding your panic funny. 

The tires meet the loose sand with a brief drag, spinning for a fleeting second as the bike darts off like a bat out of hell. Once you can feel the solid ground rushing beneath you, you're able to get yourself to lift your head up from the safety of his neck, peeling your eyes open to sweep a cursory glance around your surroundings. 

You see the bonfires first. Burning and twisting in the night like glowing spires, flickering in molten amber towers that reach at the sky. People are scattered around them, some holding beer bottles while they dance. You can't hear it over the howl of the wind in your ears but you're sure that they're all laughing. All barely holding in their mirth as they cavort around the fires. And you can smell the smoke in the air, spicy and pungent, melding with the salt of the beach. 

It all passes by in a blur, the ocean little more than a pale, twisting smear. Foam tumbling over sand. But the rest of the water - what lies beyond the waves, is a vast black. Stretching out farther than your eyes can perceive. You only get hints of it in the traces of moonlight crossing over the water like silver lace. 

The nervousness coiling in your gut finally begins to unwind, and the tight grip of your arms around his ribs follows, slackening just enough for you to slip your hands up to his chest instead, letting you sit up just a little straighter. It makes you extremely aware of how scant the tight fishnet shirt he's wearing truly is. You can feel his skin from between the mesh netting, trepid and soft on your palms. Your fingers flex, the urge to remove your hands bolting up as though you've touched something hot, but somehow you find yourself hesitating. You don't remove them. And he doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest. Weaving the bike through the bonfires scattered around the beach and coasting it just a little too close to the people walking and dancing around on the sand. 

He just narrowly misses running over a few of them. Calling out an unworried, "Get out of the way!" when he nearly clips a guy in the shoulder and sends him diving on the ground to avoid being struck. The man's angry shouting trails after you both, a dim, warbling sound that's quick to die over the wind and heavy rumble of the motorcycle. But Paul's laughter almost sounds louder than all of it. Pitching high over the balmy night air like the cackle of a coyote out on a hunt. 

You feel a little guilty, but you can't keep yourself from answering with a similar laugh, all light and airy. Welling up from your chest with an ease that makes you feel alive. It's like you've shed a skin, almost. It's easy to pretend that you're flying. It feels like you are, with the wind pulling at your clothes, nudging at the shape of your face like the sweep of prodding fingers. You can't really remember a time when you've felt so far above the world, miles from your worries and insecurities, soaring past the anxieties that keep you awake at night.  

You twist back a little to look over your shoulder, emboldened by the rush in your veins to watch as the man clumsily scrambles up from the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt as he lifts an arm in the air to flip you both off. 

"Sorry!" you yell after him, but it doesn't keep you from smiling. 

Eventually Paul veers off of the beach, cutting through a parking lot that he uses to merge onto a vacant street. The boardwalk grows smaller and smaller behind you, the lights of the rollercoaster and rotating Ferris wheel growing dim until it's hardly more than a few faint dots in the distance, just barely peeking out over the roofs of buildings. He shoots through downtown, blowing past a redlight without any care. He doesn't slow a single time, ignoring the speed limit like it's merely a suggestion. The way he drives is insane, and it makes you wonder if he has a license at all. Probably not. 

Uncertainty unfurls when the houses making up the edges of town grow sparse, thinning out until you only pass a few odd little homes bordering the edges of the backroad he's taken you on. You ignore it when he turns his bike, veering off the worn asphalt and onto a dirt path. It looks well-traveled enough, thankfully. The headlight on his motorcycle spilling over the beaten dirt, highlighting the prints left by a vehicle's tread that seems fairly recent. 

Apprehension prickles at the nape of your neck, that old instinctual feeling again. It weighs a little in your gut like a physical thing. Your brush it off, telling yourself that you're only being paranoid. But a pair of animal eyes peek out from the field growing on the side of the road, glimmering in the passing headlight like a couple of coins; it seems like a bad omen. 

You keep your voice trapped in your mouth, letting your concerns fall silent as he guides the bike up an incline, driving it up a path where tree branches stretch out like reaching fingers. It's like you've been holding your breath, keeping yourself suffocated as the motorcycle eats up the ground, powering up the hill until it levels out into something flat. You see immediately why he brought you here. 

From this high up, you can see it all. The entirety of Santa Carla is laid like stars glimmering in the night. Streetlamps, porchlights, and the entire boardwalk flickering in the distance in shimmers of gold and silver. It looks so small from this perspective. Like the little model towns that your grandfather used to make in his basement. Like you could walk right up to it and place a building in your palm. It's a stunning view. One that makes you wish you were able to take a picture of for safe keeping. 

You've hardly noticed that he's parked the bike, stopped it close to the edge of the hill and killed the engine. But once you realize the silence it becomes heavy. But not necessarily in a way that's uncomfortable. It's a blanket draped over your shoulders, soft and inviting. You have to remind yourself to move, unmounting the bike to stand up on legs that have become weak from the heavy thrumming of the engine. 

Paul's quick to follow, shifting up with an ease that you're a little jealous of. Your muscles feel like Jello. It makes you quick to walk over to the picnic table positioned out in the center of the barren lot, settling yourself up on the weathered wood to shake some feeling back into your legs. Paul is fast to follow, practically skipping over, jewelry jangling as he jumps himself up on the tabletop. He begins absentmindedly picking at the chipping old paint, tearing it from the notches that have been carved into the wood, defaced to immortalize the initials of lovers.  

"What did you bring me all the way out here for?" you ask. 

"This is one of the nicer spots in Santa Carla. Figured I'd show you." 

"Oh, yeah?" you tilt your head, rotating a little in your perch on the bench. "What's the best?" 

A smile pushes at the corners of his mouth. It's another one of those amused, secretive little looks. Like he's in on something. "Maybe I'll show ya some time." 

"I'd like that," you agree. There's a small bout of silence then. You've gained the feeling back in your legs and it inspires you to sit up from the table, stretching out your limbs as you approach the rounded edge of the hill. A delicate breeze rolls up the slop, shuffling the leaves with a delicate hiss, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the hint of the ocean. It such a simple thing but it abates some that paranoia, loosening its talons, even if just a little bit. 

The weight of the cassette tapes in your pocket press against your stomach. Nudging there like a reminder. It has you glancing back over your shoulder, and you see that he's already watching you. The way he holds himself is relaxed, but there's something intense reflecting in his gaze, burning and hot. It makes your heart skip a beat, body flushing with warmth. It could be the shadows, but you think his smile grows. 

There's a flash of his teeth. "You'd have to stick around for that." 

He doesn't wait for your response as he shoves off of the table, bounding from it with a jump that rattles the silver on his chest. It's like you're both magnetized to each other, unable to stray far now that you've crossed paths. A part of it is almost frightening. You've had crushes of course. A couple random fling before, and a relationship - as complicated and fleeting as it had been, but you can honestly say that you've never been so swept away by a guy. Never enough to that'd be willing to become an accomplice in theft; never enough that you'd get on the bike of stranger and let them carry you off to spot in the middle of nowhere. It's as though all of your common sense has been picked up and dumped out on the ocean tide. Even worse is that you really don't care. 

Maybe you're just caught in the whirlwind of it all. Spun up by the excitement of finally being able to do things on your own terms without the worry of hundreds of people watching. Or maybe you're just addicted to the discovery; when you look at him, all of those concerns seem to melt away. Thinning and evaporating like snow in the summer sun. It's terrifying. It's thrilling. 

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't." 

It's almost as though he takes it as a challenge, stepping into your space like it's where he belongs. His cologne sweeps back over you again, bold and muddled with the spice of tobacco. Combined with his proximity it makes you a little dizzy, fingertips prickling with warmth as he fixes you with a stare that seems the seize you, burrowing down like he's cradling some delicate, wild piece of your soul. 

You just barely notice when his hand slips into your coat pocket to grasp the tapes tucked inside, like he's confirming that you still have them. He seems pleased when his fingertips slide over the hard plastic covers, as though it means something to him. His face hovers just a little above yours, noses nearly brushing. With the glow of the moon emitting from above, it makes it easy to see how his gaze flickers down to your lips. Like he's considering if he should try kissing you or not. You don't think you'd mind if he did. 

"At least you'll have something to me remember me by," he muses softy. 

"I haven't known you for very long but believe me when I say that there's a very slim chance of me forgetting you." 

Emboldened by your response, he cocks his head, daring to lean forward just enough that you can feel the faint press of his lips on yours. Not kissing, but just enough to tease the possibility. It's a little pathetic how something so simple has heat licking through your veins. The line you're treading on feels dangerous. Like you're dangling on the edge of some unknown territory. And you are. But what makes it so particularly daunting is the uncertainty of where this might go. 

Something about Paul is already addictive. Like a shot of liquor after a long week. You've always been the type to keep yourself from getting too attached, but he's like an adrenaline rush. It'd be so easy to get hung up on a guy like him, and the last thing you want to be is one of those women lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling while they fantasize about the one that could have been. Spending the remainder of their years living back in the memory of that one night in the past. 

He's a temptation that you've never had to face before. Bursting into your life with all the subtly of a firecracker, abrupt, explosive and invigorating. You want to hold onto that. Grip it tight with greedy fingers and enjoy this - whatever this is - for all it's worth. 

He speaks then, his voice has dipped into something low and hushed. Almost like a secret being exchanged, a promise being made. "I'm happy to hear it, but I like to be thorough." 

You think he's the one who kisses you first, but you really can't be sure. It a little daunting, how it completely sweeps you up. There isn't any of that dramatic stuff, like explosions, or fireworks, but something about it just feels right. It already makes you breathless. Time stretching out and yawning, heat draping over your body like you've been dipped in warm honey. 

The way he kisses you is starved. Passionate and fast like he's trying to have all of you at once. His teeth nip at your lips, a sting that he soothes with the tip of his tongue when you gasp. There's hardly any build up. He approaches it like he seemingly does everything else; just pure intensity as he reaches for you with eager hands that seem to be everywhere all at once. Squeezing at your hips, pressing down at the base of your spine to mold you close to him, and then he's cradling your jaw with chilled fingers. 

You can't help moaning into his mouth, a quiet noise that's still definitely heard if the way he smiles into the kiss is any indication. You aren't bothered by his smugness though, only encouraged by it. You slip a hand over his stomach, feeling the lithe muscle under cool skin. It's cute when his abdomen twitches under your palm. He reprimands you by biting at your lip again, only enough for a slight sting, but you really think that it was only an excuse for him to dip his tongue into your mouth, letting you fully taste each other. 

There's the subtle sugar of something sweet on his lips. Probably some kind of treat from back on the boardwalk. It mixes with the distinct rich pepper of tobacco, all warmth and cream on his tongue, but there's the edge of something almost metallic lurking beneath it all, almost as though he's been sucking on pennies. It isn't enough to be distracting, and you can't be bothered to pay it any mind as he turns you around without breaking the kiss to blindly back you up until your lower back nudges into the rough lip of the picnic table. 

He practically mauls you once he has you pinned, consuming you with a hunger that's infectious. It has you tugging at his hair, clawing your nails through the thick of his soft waves, dragging them along his scalp and it rewards you with a throaty groan that has sparks shooting up your spine. He must enjoy it because he's breaking his mouth away from your and immediately latches it onto your throat. The scratch of his stubble as you arching into his body, your head lolling back to bare more of your throat which he quickly takes advantage of. His tongue laps out at your skin like he's drinking up the subtle salt there, sucking softly like he wants to brand you with the shape of his mouth. 

The gasp that leaves you is wrangled when he wedges a thigh between your legs, bending his knee to press it flush against your cunt. Your grip on his hair squeezes tight. Holding on like it might help keep you grounded. Like it might keep you from float up to the heavens. The weight of his leg on you makes you cruelly aware of the wet patch that's dampened the center of your underwear. It's a little embarrassing, already being this worked up by a little making out, but he lights you on fire with a frustrating ease. It's unfair how he's already taking you apart piece by molten piece. 

He licks up the base of your throat, sucking at the edge of your jaw before he speaks against your skin like he doesn't want to pull away. "Can I eat you out?" 

You swear the question could have knocked you out. He says it casually, but his words are slurred. Almost like he's drunk. It's all moving so fast. Your head is spinning, and your heart is racing, chugging blood through the same artery that he traces with his tongue. It's hard to remember how you've gotten here, curled up in a stranger's arms while he grinds his thigh between your legs. This night has gone completely off the rails. Hurtled far past a simple night out to a haze of chaos and heat. It doesn't really make any sense to be here right now. 

But when Paul manages to tear himself away from your neck to meet your stare something seems to fall into place. You don't think you'd want this night to have gone any other way. 

There's a desperation glimmering in the blue of his eyes, bright and hungry. It has you contained in place. Swallowed up by the fervor in his expression, the gluttony in how he holds onto you. 

At this point you don't think it needs to be said, but you find yourself nodding anyway. "Yeah - yes. Fuck, please." 

He flashes you a grin before he's dropping down onto his knees without any fanfare. You decide to help him out a little, planting your hands onto the tabletop to heave yourself up on the surface, spreading your legs open to make room for him. It's brazen, the short length of your skirt scrunching and riding up high on your thighs, flashing the pale fabric of your underwear. His attention zeros in there immediately, stuck between your legs with an intensity that's almost concerning. He's looking at you like you're a piece of meat. All splayed out. It's a compromising that almost has embarrassment creeping beneath it all, but there's a perverted brand of delight on his face, and it's mixed with a strange kind of sincerity that has that shame fizzling out. 

He slips a hand up to cup the back of your knee, lifting it up to hook it over his shoulder so he can trail kisses up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It's much slower than the starved bites and licks that he had given you earlier, the ones that you can still feel on your neck, aching dully from where he had sucked. It's like he's teasing you now. Too caught up in his own desire to indulge you yet and it feels like torture. Just the weight of his head parting your legs open, the brush of his wild hair against your skin has you flushing with heat. 

Your hips rock on their own, rolling in an effort to seek out friction that isn't there. The press of your underwear on your cunt is like a taunt, applying a barely there pressure that has your lungs skipping with a silent gasp. 

You don't expect the smack that he cracks down on the outside of your leg. It's more surprising than painful, but you jerk anyway, subconsciously trying to escape the smarting that fizzles across your nerves. The look that you shoot him is one of shock, but he doesn't look the least bit apologetic. Expression all smug as he presses his lips down on the crook where your leg joins your pelvis. Slipping his tongue out to lick at the tender skin there, running it along the seam of your underwear. 

"Feelin' greedy?" he smirks up at you, looking so smug that it nearly irritates you. "There's no need to flip out babe, I'll give you what you want." He kisses you over your underwear, gripping both of your knees to spread you open wider, giving him the room to nose at your cunt from over the damp fabric. There's something so vulgar about the way that he mouths at you while you're still wearing panties, circling your clit with the point of his tongue before flattening it to suck through your underwear. 

It makes your spine bow, fire and smoke blazing up your back and smoldering beneath your skin. There's a plea right there, just at the base of your throat but thankfully you don't have to voice it. He slips both of his hands under your underwear and tugs it down roughly, giving away his own impatience as he moves back just enough to be able to rip them down past the heels of your shoes. 

You're pretty sure that he pockets them, bunching them up and stuffing them inside his coat. But you don't get a chance to scold him - not that you would if you were able - because he's dropping his mouth open to lick a stripe up your bare cunt, splitting you open on his tongue. It has your fingers flexing, dragging your nails over the edge of the wood in a wild claw to have something to keep you anchored. It doesn't do much though. Not the chipped, textured paint under your palms, not the faint chill of Paul's hands clamping down on your skin, it fades out into a meaningless blur. Distorted to the sidelines as your brain blocks everything out, banishing it all into a muted background noise as the sensation of his mouth commands all of your focus. 

It's mindless how your body chases after its pleasure, your hips attempting to thrust under the unforgiving hold of Paul's hands to build the pressure coiling hotly in the base your abdomen. His grip is practically steel bands, vices around your skin to hold you open and immobilized while he torments you with the ceaseless drag and curl of his tongue. 

"Paul, come on, please," you beg. Panting out into the sultry summer air. It's stupid how easily he's pulling noises from you. Tense, breathless moans that drift over the hilltop in a shameless stream. It almost makes you a little thankful that he drove you both out here in the private little lookout, far away from potential witnesses. Based on the joined initials etched and written into the wood, presumably with pocketknives and permanent markers, you'd wager that this is a popular date spot. A cute little place for couples to admire the town lights and take advantage of the privacy while they hookup. You definitely aren't the first person to be splayed out here on this table. A part of you wonders if you aren't the first person that he's brought out here. 

You try to ignore the flickering of something stinging and unwelcome that lashes its way through your chest. It's obscure and startling, blinking in and out like a ghost, and you're quick to snuff it out. To turn it over and ignore it entirely. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that it felt suspiciously close to jealousy, but that's a route that you aren't going to dare to go down - a load of baggage that you have no desire to unpack. Not for a stranger, no less. 

Your hand pries itself from the edge of the table to grip onto his hair, fingers slipping down through his roots to thread through in the way you think he likes. You're almost instantly gifted with a pleased groan and his tongue dips inside of you, lapping up your taste like he's starved for it. 

You nearly sob when he pulls himself back from you, parting his lips from your cunt just enough to mumble out something; his voice slurs, thrumming against your clit as he speaks. "Don't worry about being rough, pull harder if you want." And then he's smothering himself back between your thighs. You do as he says, mostly out of reflex as he traces over you in tight circles that has your nerves running hot, your muscles burning as though you've been submerged in steaming water. 

A finger prods at your cunt, running up just along his mouth to get it slick enough and then he's thrusting it inside without little warning, filling you up with a smooth stroke. You moan out raggedly when he suckles at your clit just as he crooks his finger, brushing it in deft swipes. Your grip locks on tight in his hair, digging in through long, golden strands while he practically turns you inside out. Your grasp has to be painful, but he doesn't seem affected by it in the slightest. His effort actually seems to double each time your fingers tug and claw, like he might like the sting. 

You don't know why you enjoy the thought of that, but you do. Your hips jerk sharply at the idea of it. Of how he might react from your nails slashing down his back, leaving red cuts behind. Reminders of you on his body. How he'd sound while you bite bruises on his neck and shoulders; the bursts of red and plum placed where they would peek out from the worn collar of his shirt.  

"Oh, my god - Paul." 

You can already feel your orgasm rising up, winding up your body in an almost violent twist. It's eating at you rapidly. Climbing up at a rate that you can hardly track. You can feel yourself tensing; each individual muscle drawing up. Your lungs squeeze in your ribcage, rendering you breathless. You turn into a broken record, a stream of words and his name spilling out of your like a chant. It hits you like a freight train. Searing and rippling up your body in a splashing of stars that leaves you keening into the open air. 

He doesn't part from you, coasting you through the remnants of your orgasm with the stroke of his fingers and tongue, sucking steadily at your clit until your thighs shake. You have to tug him away by the grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to give yourself relief before the pleasure could become too much. He yields to you reluctantly, nipping pointed bites up the tender flesh of your legs as you drag him to stand. 

You feel almost outside of yourself as you grip onto his shoulders, clutching onto his coat while he crawls himself over you, notching his hips against your own like he belongs there. You're still floaty from your orgasm, pleasure thrumming and hopping along your nerves in a pleasant buzz but somehow you still want more. It burns and burrows deep in the pit of your stomach, lighting a fire in your veins that you haven't felt in a long time. Not like this, at least. 

His lips crash against yours in a meeting of teeth and tongue. It's almost animalistic, how you both reach for each other. His hands are all over you again, grabbing at everything he can like he's trying to commit the shape of your body to memory, like he wants to brand the warmth of your skin on his palms. And you're just as desperate. Your own slip down as a pair, reaching with trembling, frantic fingers for the buckle of his belt. You struggle blindly with it for a minute, fingertips slipping uselessly over the smooth metal from the way they tremble. You'd swear if your mouth wasn't occupied.

You can taste yourself on him, just subtly sweet and smearing on your own lips. It's dirty. Filthy, but it only makes it hotter; the very idea of breaking the kiss seems like torture, so when he huffs a laugh in your mouth and tries to pull away to help you with his belt, your other hand moves on its own to cradle the back of his skull. Keeping him pressed to your lips with an annoyed groan. 

"Don't." You demand into the kiss, nipping lightly at his pout to draw him back in. He complies easily, but that doesn't stop him from laughing a little. 

Finally, you manage to slip the leather free from buckle, tugging it loose from over the prong to pull it open. And then you're fumbling with the zipper, tracing over the metal teeth to find it, tugging it down like it's molten on your fingertips once you do. You're almost delirious with a single goal, slipping your hand down inside to feel him, and you don't hesitate to take him within your palm. He hisses lowly when you grip him, thrusting up in an uneven grind to chase after his own pleasure. 

He pants into your mouth when you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, smearing a drop of precum to aid in your glide and it makes the clutch of his fingers around your hips squeeze. Bordering close to almost painful, but the ache of it ebbs into an afterthought. He's thick in your hand, so hard that it has to be uncomfortable. You take pity on him, unable to string either of you out any longer than you already have and take him out of his pants. 

He moves like a man possessed now, slipping of his hands down lower to hitch your thighs high around the trim length of his waist, and then he's reaching down between the thin gap of your bodies to bat you hand out of the way, taking ahold of himself. Gripping the base of his cock to slide it between your legs, grinding the head against your clit in teasing strokes. It makes you whine, the sensitivity from your orgasm lights over you like small bolts of electricity and yet you find yourself raising your hips to chase after the feeling. 

"Gonna let me fuck you?" He scatters kisses along the corner of your mouth and the edge of your jaw, much too tender and saccharine for what this is. Cradling you like a lover would despite the ardor and desire saturating the air like the perfume of whisky. It makes a pathetic little piece of you melt, turning syrupy and pliant like a strip of wax held over an open flame. 

You find yourself nodding, swallowing thickly as you try to find your worn voice again. "Yes - just stop teasing." You lock your legs tighter around him, drawing him in closer, aiding his cock in grinding over your pussy like it'd help urge him along, and luckily for you it seems to snap through the rest of his restraint. There's no warning as he guides himself down to your entrance and drives himself inside in a single stroke. 

He punches the air free from your lungs as he buries himself to the hilt, the both of you groaning in relief through the stretch. He's so deep, holding you open around his girth, and you know that you're going to feel him for a few days after this. You hope that you do. You want this night to be vivid in your memory for as long as possible. You want it tattooed into your skin, stained behind your eyes like watercolors, sunk bone deep. 

You can't remember the last time you've been able to exist beyond the pressures and judgement of the world. A thousand miles above prying eyes, confiscated within the hushed intimacy of your own bubble - except for the first time in what might be forever, you aren't alone in it. It's a shard space, gone from quiet and lonely to fiery and scorching. Howling in the dark. You think it's too late. You really are going to be one of those women staring up at the ceiling, fantasizing about that one perfect night from a decade ago. But right now, you really don't give a damn about that. 

All of the thoughts rattling around in your brain are turning into mush, liquifying like hot sugar on stove. It's like you've been engulfed. Ate up by the wet bite of his mouth on your throat, the persistent weight of his hands clumsily tugging up at your shirt and bra to ruck it them over your breasts. He doesn't take his lips off of your neck once; it's like he's been captivated by the smooth stretch of skin, lapping the flat of his tongue over the column of it like he wants to stain the taste of you on his mouth. But it doesn't keep his hands from taking greedy handfuls of your breasts. 

You gasp when his chilled fingertips squeeze around the shape of them, the frigid rings around his fingers force you to gasp and arch into his palms. He plucks at your nipples, circling around them in tight circles that has your voice pitching as he drives his cock into you. The way he fucks you is unrestrained but no less practiced, burying himself into you with calculated strokes that have you tearing at the seams. 

You don't know if you've ever felt so full, so spread out in your entire life. Granted you aren't the most experienced person. A lot of your practice coming from an ex that frequently left you high and dry and a couple of flings you met from the bar. One of which wasn't the most satisfying affair considering that his roommate had burst in before things could really get good. But Paul has to be the first guy that's ever really taken your pleasure into any real regard. All the others were quick to get you off with a sense of obligation, as though your pleasure was transactional so they wouldn't feel too much guilt for using you to get themselves off afterwards. 

He fucks you like he wants to. Like he's hellbent on making you cum as quickly as possible. Like he needs your pleasure to satisfy his own. 

"You're so hot," he groans. His teeth clamp down on the muscle in your neck like he might tear flesh, inspiring a muted ache up your neck but he lets go before it becomes too violent. His voice is all gutted, like he's growing drunk on the bliss cutting though his body. "Fucking squeezing me." 

He sounds just as wrecked, and it you can't help how your cunt clenches down tight around his cock, strangling another rough groan from the base of his chest. The small silver plates of the ornamental belt he has fixed to his coat dig into your exposed skin, pinching at your abdomen from how closely he pins your bodies together. It's like he's trying to join the two of you together, pressing into you until you live in the same body. 

You tear uselessly at his shoulders, digging your nails into the thick material of his jacket so wildly that you think you'd probably be able to rip it. You pant into his hair as he laps at your jugular, breathing in the fresh, chemical fragrance of the hairspray that styles the soft gold in selfish gulps. All of it cumulates, tiny little elements stacking on top of the other until the ecstasy starts to raise again. Maybe it's just riding off the afterglow of the first orgasm, but somehow, this feels like it's going to be stronger. More devastating than the one that still hums under your skin. 

You almost mourn that you're so close already, and a part of you tries to shun off the thick rapture building between your thighs entirely. You don't want this night to end yet. You aren't prepared for the awkward silence that will inevitably come next. You don't want to live through the silent ride back into town, where he'll drop you off at your ramshackle hotel room and presumably drive out of your life forever, leaving you to stand outside on the balcony outside your door while you listen to engine of his bike fade out and grow silent like a dying pulse. 

But he seems bound and determined to have you reach your high. One of his hands strays down from your chest, sweeping low until his knuckles are dragging over your clit in firm figure eights. A moan shudders through you, your ribcage wracking from what almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't let up though, driving you directly towards a yawning precipice that promises to swallow you up whole, and you can't do much else but cling onto him like he's a buoy in a storm. 

"Paul - I - " 

"Let me feel it. You're so close, baby, just let go." He bites at the shape of your ear; voice low and rich as he fucks himself into you like he wants to watch you black out. "I want to feel you cum all over me. You can take it." 

Like a slave to his voice your body draws up tight, muscles bunching up to strip you down of all you're worth. You kind of hate him for hurtling you towards the edge already, but you can't keep yourself from chasing after it. It's dirty, the cum between your thighs squelching lewdly each time he plunges into you, his skin meeting yours in damp smacks. And yet he cradles your cheek like you're something delicate, running the print of his thumb over the swell of your cheekbone in a gentle brush. It's all a juxtaposition of the other, and it has you crumbling. 

"You'll taste so good, just let go for me." The fires burn a little higher, white-hot and lashing, turned into an inferno that uses your bones as kindling. His teeth drag over your skin, sharp points gliding over flesh. You don't remember them feeling so lethal, like they could rip you open with a single touch, but it's hard to focus through the haze of it all. He bites deep and you swear that skin gives under the pressure, nerves lighting up light they've been doused in fire, parting like butter under a serrated knife, and the world erupts in a flurry of embers.  

This must be what it's like to be struck by lightning, static curling your toes and fingers, cosmos bursting in your eyes. You think you might scream. A chorus of his name that sounds like a prayer and a plea for help all at once as rapture's injected directly into your veins. It's almost brutal as pleasure rolls its way through you, seizing you up and stripping you to piece like a burst of dynamite. Just like before he fucks you all the way through it, pumping himself deep inside until he shudders, cock twitching inside of your cunt as he spills over into his own orgasm. 

It's almost abrupt how he drops you both back down onto the support of the table, leaning his body over yours like he's gone boneless. Crowding you in with his weight while he continues to grind himself against you without pulling out, drawing his pelvis on your overstimulated clit. You moan at the static searing through you, writhing under his body as he guides out your pleasure until it stings. 

But you can't find the strength to stop him, staring past his shoulder and up at the sky while your thoughts spin and flatline. You feel like you're floating, admiring the way the stars above twinkle and shift in an iridescent sheen with a drunken kind of fascination. You've felt good after sex before, but you've never been reduced to a state like this. It's like you're no longer in your body, tethered to it only by a thin, pulsing string, almost giddy from the pleasure. 

It's like you've been cocooned in warmth, something alcoholic tingling at your fingertips as he sucks and laps at your throat. Groaning softly while he cradles your skull, just barely thrusting himself into you like he doesn't want to stop. And despite how sensitive you've become; you don't think you want him too either. You're sense of time has gone all fuzzy, turned sluggish and pleasantly warm as you drift on your high, all loose limbed and heavy. 

It could be seconds or hours before he finally parts his mouth from you, a hollow sting digging into your neck as canines slip free. It's strange. Far from the bites that he had scattered over your throat before. It feels deep. Like he'd broken skin and pierced deep. He still hasn't pulled his face from the crook of your neck, licking up your throat like it's layered in sugar. Your skin is warm. A starling sensation against the weird chill of his tongue. Damp and hot. For a moment you think that it might be his spit, but it's not cold enough for that, trickling lazily down your throat like a slow leak. 

You're face pinches in confusion and will yourself to remove your arm from around his shoulder. An almost herculean task considering that your limbs have turned to lead from the dopey effects of your orgasm, but you force yourself to move. Years have passed by the time your fingers curl around your neck, dragging over your damp flesh to collect the liquid that's smearing over it. 

You blink sluggishly when you raise your hand up over your face, trying to focus past the blur that smudges around the edges of your vision. For a moment you think that you're hallucinating it. That the dark liquid staining your fingertips, glittering in the dark, tinged red and running hot from your body heat isn't real. You're trapped as you stare at it dumbly, horribly transfixed by the thick of it dripping down the crook of a finger in a single rivulet. 

You think your heart stops, a wild panic setting in as you scramble beneath him to try and slip free. But suddenly the comforting weight of him is now as unyielding as a snare. A cry locks in your throat, snagged behind the catch of your quivering lungs. 

A hand catches your wrist as you struggle, silver jewelry winking in the dark like a warning, horrible talons sprouting from its fingertips. It paralyzes you in place, the ice pumping through your frantic heart, turning your lethargic limbs into heavy stone. 

It's then that he chooses to lift his head from the vulnerable stretch of the throat that you had offered so foolishly, placing a kiss to the ache that you now know is bitten flesh. Your thoughts run into scattered cries, a litany of voices rattling around in your skull like taunts and yells. Shrieks that chant, told you so, over and over again in a bitter, acidic stream. And then you hear the echo of his voice. 

It's like a nightly thing. 

God, he had been toying with you this entire time. 

You can't escape. Too weak to move. Too overcome with fear - drained and so wrung dry that the adrenaline singing throughout your system falls useless. Your bones tremble with a broken cry, tears tainting your waterline, but even that isn't enough to keep you from seeing him as he is now. The logical part of your brain scrambles to find reason, but there is none as flashes of burning amber pin you down - the eyes of an animal's, peering from a face that's gone bestial. Inhuman. A demon's face stretched over a human skull; jaw smeared with a rich red like a feral dog that's been feeding on a fresh corpse. The smile that you had once loved is now tainted. Ruined by the blood that soaks his mouth; lips peeled back into a grin. But that charm is ruined, stretching into something sadistic and sharp, violent teeth baring in the dark. 

It's cruel when he guides the hand that he has caught within his own up to his mouth, easily bending your limb, overpowering you as though you aren't resisting him; made instead out of weakened clay and not muscle and bone. He snickers when you try to jerk your arm from his hold, like you're a mean kitten that he's picked up by the scruff. 

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart." 

You don't believe him. And suddenly the conversation you had back in the record store seems like a twisted joke. You think back on all the smiles he had passed you then. Like he was in on a joke that you weren't. But now you are and it's like the universe is laughing at you too for being so dumb, digging the knife in deeper for being so naive. The cassette tapes in your pocket are now as weighted and crushing as stones. 

His tongue slips out past his mouth, lips parting as he takes your fingers into his mouth, licking up the blood there like it's something precious. A drug in short supply. Despite the amusement glinting in his eyes, there's an unmistakable fringe of something intense and determined peeking through it all, as though you've made a bargain that you didn't know you were signing. Etched out your name in blood and written over your soul for the taking. 

"I think you're too sweet to part with, babe. " He places nauseatingly tender kiss to the palm of your hand - a mockery, and dead in the center, where you'd maybe slice your hand for a blood pact, and you know now that you aren't going to escape. At least not with your life intact. His eyes gleam like gold. Like two roaring fire pits. Hellmouths opening wide to consume you, bones, blood and all. 

"I think I might keep you."  

[sturnwh0re]

*- You like that? -*

C.S

⚠️: pet names (mama, baby, etc), smut, rough, Dom!chris, sub!reader, suggestive behavior, dr!nking, partying, sloppy, Overst!mulation, cream, p in v, grabbing, squeezing ass, smacking ass, dirty talk

( if I missed any lmk! )

Description: You and Chris (bf) had arrived at a party you guys were invited to. The party was fun but each drink and each started to deepen the desire and tension for each other. They couldn’t let each other go so they continued in an empty bedroom

Chris and I had just arrived and parked outside of the party house. He released his grip on my thigh as he pulled the gear and put the car in park.

“You excited baby?” He said as he removed his keys from the car instantly turning it off. He put his hand on the handle of the inside of the car door. After he had turned off the car he placed his car keys in his lap and returned his hand onto my thigh again before squeezing it.

“Yeah.I haven’t been to a party since Highschool.” I smiled as I felt your hands slowly tickle into my inner thigh before you retreated your hand again.

“Let’s go.” Chris smiled, clearly eager to drink and party for a couple of hours with me. He pulled the inside handle of the car door and slammed it shut before running to the other side of the car to open the door for me.

“Thanks baby. You’re such a gentlemen.” I said grabbing my purse and swiftly leaving the car in one motion. I grabbed Chris’ face and left a wet kiss on his cheek. As the car door slammed behind me.

“Won’t be such a gentlemen in bed later tonight.” Chris smirked before smacking my ass and grabbing my flesh and squeezing it. He pulled down the bottom hem of the dress so it wouldn’t expose my behind as much for somebody else to see. He clearly had expectations later tonight— not complaining at all.

“damn—!” I said grabbing my behind as Chris removed his strong hand. “Jeez baby.” I laughed as if butterfly’s weren’t shooting up and down not only my stomach, but my entire body. As they were slowly getting me wetter between my legs.

I intertwined my hand with his, but he quickly left the hand-holding situation and wrapped his arm around me to hold me closer. “After a couple of drinks you’ll get used to your ass having my hand prints all over it.” Chris smirked before leaving a wet kiss on my neck.

I tried to keep my face from turning a deep red but I took a deep breath and let out a large sigh. Chris knew how to get to me and the only thing I felt was myself getting wetter. How long was I going to be able to hold this desire back.

As we started making our way onto the porch and into the party, Chris’ grip on my waist with his one hand even more. It was clear that Chris wanted to keep me close to him and basically touching his hip.

As me and Chris walked into the party, the music was loud and neon lights were the only lights keeping the entire house lit up. We and Chris had walked by people literally making out and drinking together.

Chris had immediately walked us over to the bar and ordered us some drinks

“Do you want a shot baby? Really get this party started?” Chris smirked before pulling his wallet out of his back pocket still looking at me and waiting for a further order.

“Hm.. yeah— I guess I’ll order a shot. Only if you order one though.” I smiled as I leaned onto the counter where the drinks were served

“Of course baby. I’m tryna fuck as soon as possible.” He mumbled acting if I wasn’t supposed to hear that, and then ordered a shot for us both while shuffling through his thick wallet.

That same familiar butterfly feeling overtook my stomach as I bit my lip and yet again— felt myself getting even wetter. In no time my panties were going to fucking soaked.

The loudness of the music and the neon lights were making my eyes water and slightly squint. Chris leaned against the counter like I and tickled his hands around my waist before pushing me over slightly so we weren’t leaning against the counter anymore.

I felt Chris’ soft lips leave wet kisses on my neck. My fucking gosh. He knew how to get me wet and how to get under my skin. I was convinced I was gonna be soaked by the end of this party that we may have to leave early.

The bartender interrupted the moment by giving us our shots and told us the cost of our tab.

“I’m not ready to close it out yet, I’ll let you know when.” Chris said looking at the bartender and one of his hands left my waist and the other hand slipped more onto my waist and he wrapped his arm around it.

Chris picked up a shot glass and looked down at me. “Ready to take some shots mama?” Chris smirked as Chris’ hand rested on my hip.

“Mhm.” I said as I tried to grab the shot glass from Chris but he moved his hand— almost siking me out. “Baby.. I want the shot.” I said almost whining as my hands planted onto his chest.

“Let me do it for you.” Chris said as his hand tickled up my body and he gently gripped my neck and pulled me closer.

Fucking hell. This man is gonna have me under his trance by the end of the night— well shit.. he already has me under his trance.

I couldn’t deny this. His hand was on my neck. “Okay.” I said swallowing heavily.

Chris still had that smug smirk on his face knowing what feelings he’s giving me. He pulled me in even closer my by neck and poured the shot into my mouth “swallow.” He said sternly. The words vibrated through his throat.

It was so hard to disobey him. I quickly swallowed the shot and right after I felt his lips nip at my ear and he kept his hand on my neck.

“Good girl.” He mumbled through his raspy voice before he released his tense grip on my neck. I had looked down at his pants and seen his bulge slowly grow and rise. It was clear this was also turning him on too.

Chris grabbed the other shot glass from the counter and quickly drank it swiftly. He fixed his backwards hat like he was some type of frat boy.

As I was thinking I felt this shot start to hit. This had to have been a stronger shot because I already felt myself getting drunker and drunker. It was clear Chris was feeling it too. He wrapped his arms around my waist and I basically threw myself into him.

The neon lights were tripping us out and the music was still basically blasting all over the house. This was such a good feeling.

“I need you so badly mama.” Chris said almost begging to fuck me right then and there. His hands were rubbing up and down my waist and he was looking down at me before leaving a sloppy kiss to my lips.

“I need you so badly too.” I mumbled and gasped as I felt his lips touch my neck. Gosh. I didn’t just need him. I craved him. I needed this now.

“Let’s go baby.” Chris said wrapping an arm around my waist. He was leading me somewhere but it was clear as if he knew where he was going. He brought me to an empty room and he had walked us in here, then closed and locked the door behind us.

He lifted me up and carried me onto the bed before laying me onto my back. He had used his strong arms and spread my legs apart to stand between them. I felt his bulge through his pants pushing at me.

“Your so fucking beautiful baby.” Chris had said in his raspy voice before leaning down and kissing my neck up to my desperate and starved lips. It was clear how badly we needed each other by how fast this had progressed.

Chris was quickly broke the kiss and groaned as he desperately started to undo his belt and to unzip his pants. I had just stared in starvation and need, knowing this was what is what I was looking forward to the whole night.

His cock springed out of his pants as he tossed his shorts to the side. Chris has leaned down to kiss me again and the tip of his thick flesh pushed against my entrance through my red laced panties.

I let out soft noises through the kiss, just eager for him to fill me up. I felt his tongue push past my lips and slither around through my mouth as if he was exploring it.

We had released our sloppy kiss and I lifted my dress up further and started to take my panties off as Chris started to stroke himself.

“hurry up.” Chris said as his voice rattled through his throat. We had swallowed eagerly and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he did.

I wanted to tease Chris and take my time— but before I knew it he stopped stroking himself and ripped my panties off himself, he had thrown them where his own pants were.

All of this was so much to handle. This alcohol was hitting like crazy and there were even green neon lights in the room. The music from where the actual party was, was muffled but still legible.

“Don’t fucking tease me.” He mumbled in need and sexual frustration as he pushed the head of his cock against my entrance. He was slowly pushing inside and entered me inch by inch.

“Fuuuck..” Chris mumbled. “You’re so fucking wet for me.. aren’t you.” He said as he started to thrust in and out of me.

small noises and squeaks were coming out of my as I gripped the sheets. He had filled every part of me so perfectly as if he was made for me. The slight tilt of his hardened cock hit my sweet spot every time he had thrusted.

“Who does this cunt belong to.. tell me.” Chris said thrusting in and out of me faster as his sack slapped against my ass. He had grabbed my faces waiting for an answer as he let out groans.

He was almost thrusting the words out of my mouth. A knot in my stomach started to form before Chris pushed on my lower stomach slightly.

“Tell me Mama.” He said thrusting slightly faster. This one large shot I took was hitting me so hard. The world was spinning and I bet his was too.

It took me a few tries before I let out a full sentence. “Y— nghh.” I had struggled the first time trying to let a sentence out “yours..” I mumbled as it slipped from my lips.

“good girl mama.. good girl..” he said as he added more pressure to my lower stomach that made me moan out even louder.

“F-fuck..ing.. hell..” I moaned between breaths. My eyes fluttered closed and my mouth opened as more gasps and moaning-sighs came out.

“You like that?” Chris said starting to slam into me without any type of mercy. The head of the bed was slamming against the wall and would soon leave a dent if this speed and harshness kept up for any longer.

“M-mhm.” I side biting my lip harder and harder. My cunt was basically getting torn apart by Chris’ long and thick flesh.

Chris had let out multiple groans and his head had fallen back. “Fuck.. fuck.. I’m gonna cum..” Chris had said again, in his raspy voice. It was clear he was so close to an orgasm because he was starting to whimper. He grabbed my legs and put them over his shoulders as he started to thrust faster. “Nghh..”

The feeling of Chris suddenly throwing my legs over his shoulder gave me even more butterflies I felt like throwing up, or maybe it was the shot, or it even could’ve been the repeated slamming of Chris’ cock into my womb.

I felt every vein on his hardness and his warmth stuff my full. My legs were slightly trembling over his shoulders as I felt the overstimulation eat at me.

I was moaning and my eyes fluttered closed. The knot in my stomach started to get tighter and tighter before it suddenly popped. I had came and it coated all over chris’ cock.

“C-cumming!” Chris yelped out as he held his entire cock inside of my tight cunt before unleashing his long ropes of cum inside of me. “F-fuckkk.” Chris whimpered before collapsing over me. I felt Chris lay wet kisses on my collar bone leaving purple spots.

“shit..” I said mumbling as if I was almost breathless from the abuse between my legs. I had to have been swollen. Chris had finally pulled out and stroked himself to get every last drop out of him and small ropes of cum painted my lower stomach.

“fuck Chris.” I whimpered as he had pulled out that created a loud popping sound. I had finally caught my breath and closed my eyes. I couldn’t tell whether it as relief or just because I finally caught my air that had escaped before hand.

“you did so good mama.” He said wrapping his arms around me and laying with me. He was also catching his breath too. The alcohol had peaked on us. We were drunk and fatigued from the pleasurable time we had.

“Mhm..” I said sighing again, but the things I’d do to have this moment even restart or happen again. I felt my overstimulation finally releasing from my body and my legs slightly twitch.

“Round 2?” Chris smuggly smirked. He kissed my neck and nipped at my ear. He was sweaty and still breathing heavily as he fixed his backwards hat. The room was hot but filled with tension and desire.

The neon green lights in the room and also the alcohol that was messing with my vision distracted me from the sentence, but I still understood what he was going at.

I nodded and bit my lip as he took off his hat and released his long and fluffy hair from it as he threw it with the rest of our clothes before climbing on top of me.

“That’s my good fucking girl.” Chris said in his raspy voice before grabbing my neck and preparing for our round 2. I felt his hand tickle down to start rubbing my clit with his big thumb.

Fuck. He knows how to keep me going. And I guess he really showed me he was a gentle men out of the bed but a freak in it, and that’s not something I could say I didn’t like. In fact, I fucking fein for it.

—————————————————————————

Here we are again, my 3rd ever writing project. 2nd smut but my first time actually taking inspiration from something other than my head.

I hope you enjoyed this fanfic & give me some suggestions :)

alsoooooo I’m prolly gonna be deleting and adding more stuff to this as I read it again and again. So if you read it back it may not be 100% word for word the same.

[inkabelledesigns]

Belladonna Nightshade - Halloween Dark Fairy

Base Doll: G3 Twyla from Monster High Clothing Pattern: Dollightful's Asymmetrical Dress (read to the end, I have notes about this)

Happy Halloween everyone! Since becoming a doll customizer, my Halloween dolls are usually related to my favorite indie horror game, Bendy and the Ink Machine. However, seeing as I've completed two Bendy dolls already this year, I felt it was time to give myself a break and try something a bit different. My friends over in DollyAnna's Discord server wanted to do a collaboration, so we decided to all make some Dark Fairies for Halloween!

Belladonna Nightshade is a mischievous fae that loves to play tricks and tempt mortals. That said, she's easily bribed with a sweet treat or two, and will usually let you be if you have a little candy or pastry to give her. I haven't decided what I want to do with her yet in terms of a story, but there is a part of me that would love to have her in my Equinox story.

When you consider the fact that most of my other Halloween dolls are black and yellow, it's no surprise she ended up super colorful. XD Would you believe this is my first doll with rainbow hair? Yeah neither did I, but she is! Part of my style is having really colorful and vibrant dolls, it surprises a lot of people that I've never done a rainbow before, but honestly? I'm glad to have finally tackled one! I'm also glad to have worked with another G3. Twyla is very near and dear to my heart, and I was so psyched to work with her mold! You can't see it in any of these photos, but I used glow in the dark varnish on her eyes and neon markings, so that her eyes still glow like the original. I will say, this doll has a lot more acrylic paint than my others, just by the nature of I don't have any pencils in neon colors. It was nice to get the practice in, I feel more confident than I did before in my brush skills. It was also nice to have a doll with dark scleras for a change! I haven't done that since I made Dreamer, it's surprisingly fun to draw on!

I was inspired by a LOT of different things with this one, and I went back and forth on my concepts a lot. Black light skeleton make-up, butterflies, fairies with non-traditional wings, candy, jesters, these were all sources of inspiration, and I think most obviously of all, Dollightful herself. This wasn't intentional, but I ended up using a doll of one of her favorite characters, with a lot of saturated colors which we know she loves, and even her dress pattern! I've been wanting to make this garment for ages, and finally I had a reason to try it!

So those of you who know how this pattern works are probably asking "Kat, how did you make this fit a G3? This dress is supposed to fit a G1 Monster High doll!" Believe it or not, Requiem Arts has a method for easily adjusting G1 patterns to fit G3 bodies. It's as simple as scaling a pattern up to 104% and printing it that way. It's meant for her garments, but I don't see any reason why it wouldn't work for other doll patterns. So I tried it with Katherine's dress, and I'm happy to say it worked out just fine! I think I probably should have adjusted a bit more on the skirt though. This outfit is essentially two pieces, and the skirt with all the ruffles is a little tight around the booty, it could have used a little more sizing up. So if you own this pattern and want to try this yourself, do keep that in mind!

Do let me know what you think! I had so much fun working on Belladonna, she's so vibrant and fun, I wanna try more fairies like her someday. I also need to try using props more. I got these pumpkins and hay bales on sale, and it was fun using them to craft a little temporary set for photos.

[rigginsstreet]

thinking about el giving billy earrings for his birthday except she doesn’t really take his style into account so they’re more like Claire’s type stuff, dangly butterflies or a burger and fries with big googly eyes and smiles. A pair of giant puffballs that are neon tie-dye, chunky plastic purple flowers, you name it, that girl shopped with her eyes not her head 😭 but he wears them for her, I want mechanic!billy rolling out from under a car with a sparkly blue rose stud in his ear

THIS IS CANON TO ME!!!!

el still doesnt really understand the concept of personal style and taste like she's still finding her footing with that. and shes very attracted to loud colors and prints and glitter so shes like "i love this. billy would love this too". makes total sense to her.

so billys opening his gift at his birthday party and immediately steve and the boys are snickering and billy and max shoot them daggers which shuts them up real quick. like yeah billy isnt out here picking out claires jewelry for himself but its coming from el so he loves it now. best gift ever.

AND!!!!! because he only wears one ear ring at a time he gives the second ones to every set to el so they can match!!! which el is very excited about

also billy finally having an excuse to get second third etc holes pierced in his ear so he can fit more of the studs onto one ear...

you say one word about his claires ear rings he'll beat your ass his new baby sister gave him those bitch he wont tolerate the disrespect!

[cherrygirlystuff]

Brat Summer - We're Obsessed, What To Wear?

Hey Bestie! 💖 We’re All Obsessed with Brat – Here’s What to Wear During Brat Summer!

Hey, babe! 🌸 Let’s talk about the vibe of the summer: Brat Summer! If you’re anything like me, you’re totally obsessed with this trend – it’s sassy, it’s bold, and it’s everything we’ve been waiting for. So, let’s dive into the must-haves for your Brat Summer wardrobe, because we’re not just here to look cute – we’re here to own it. 💅✨

What is Brat Summer? (And Why We’re Living for It) 😈

First things first, let’s get into what Brat Summer is all about. Think of it as your inner diva coming out to play – with attitude! It’s that confident, unapologetic energy that says, “I’m here, I’m fierce, and I’m not taking any nonsense.” We’re talking about living life on your terms, being bold with your fashion choices, and embracing your most playful, rebellious self. Sound fun? Trust me, it is!

The Essentials: What to Wear During Brat Summer 🛍️

So, how do you channel your inner brat through your wardrobe? Let’s break it down, bestie. This summer, it’s all about mixing bold, statement pieces with playful accessories. Here’s your ultimate guide to looking fabulous during Brat Summer.

1. Crop Tops & Mini Skirts: The Power Duo 💃

When it comes to Brat Summer, less is definitely more. Crop tops and mini skirts are the ultimate power duo that scream confidence. Think 90s-inspired fits – baby tees, spaghetti straps, and anything that shows off your midriff. Pair a cute crop top with a plaid mini skirt or a sassy tennis skirt for that ultimate bratty vibe. Add some chunky sneakers or platform sandals to keep it playful yet fierce.

2. Bold Colors & Patterns: Stand Out, Don’t Blend In 🌈

Brat Summer is all about making a statement, so don’t be afraid to go bold with your color choices. Hot pinks, neon greens, electric blues – the brighter, the better. Mix in some wild patterns like animal prints, checkerboard, or tie-dye to really stand out. This summer, your wardrobe should be just as bold as your attitude.

3. Accessories with Attitude: Because Details Matter 💎

Let’s talk accessories, babe. This summer, your accessories should be just as bratty as your outfit. Think chunky chains, oversized sunglasses, and lots of bling. Don’t forget a cute, sassy handbag – maybe one with a cheeky slogan or a pop of neon. And of course, no Brat Summer look is complete without some serious hair accessories. Claw clips, scrunchies, and butterfly clips are your best friends.

4. Platform Shoes: Elevate Your Style (Literally) 👠

Platforms are a Brat Summer must-have. Whether it’s chunky platform sandals, sky-high boots, or even platform sneakers, these shoes will give you that extra boost of confidence (and height!). Plus, they’re super comfy for all the adventures you’ll be having this summer. Pair them with your favorite mini skirt or some distressed denim shorts for a look that’s equal parts cute and fierce.

5. Statement Outerwear: For Those Cooler Summer Nights 🧥

Even brats get chilly sometimes, so make sure you’ve got some statement outerwear in your closet. A cropped denim jacket, a bold windbreaker, or even a faux fur coat for extra drama – these pieces will keep you warm while still slaying. Opt for something in a bright color or with a funky print to keep that bratty vibe going strong, even when the sun goes down.

Embrace Your Inner Brat: Confidence is Key 💅

Here’s the most important part of Brat Summer, babe – it’s all about your attitude. The clothes are just a bonus. Whether you’re rocking a mini skirt or lounging in your fave oversized tee, what makes this summer truly bratty is the confidence you bring to every look. Own your style, strut your stuff, and don’t let anyone dull your sparkle.

Brat Summer is about living your best life, having fun with fashion, and being unapologetically you. So go ahead, mix those bold colors, pile on the accessories, and step out in those platform shoes like you own the place – because you do!

Final Thoughts, Bestie: Let’s Slay This Brat Summer Together! 👑

This summer is all about embracing your inner brat and letting her shine. Whether you’re heading to the beach, hitting up a festival, or just strutting through the city streets, make sure you’re doing it in style. We’ve got a whole season of fierce fashion ahead, and I can’t wait to see all the amazing looks you come up with.

So, grab your crop tops, pile on the accessories, and let’s make this the most unforgettable Brat Summer ever. 💋✨

What’s your go-to Brat Summer look, babe? Let’s chat in the comments – I’m dying to see how you’re styling your bratty vibes! 💕

[lifeofpriya]

(are you sick of me yet) can i also please request "being emotionally available to one another, and having each other and knowing you're not alone <3" prompt from the each other's safe space prompt list? 🥺 - @pyotrkochetkov

bestie, i could NEVER be sick of you ever 🙂‍↔️ i am sorry for what i have done [but in reality, not really 🤪]

You're My Everything

wc: 2.83k

You couldn't help but gently smile as Jack, your boyfriend, picked up the stray piece of lint on your shirt, his thumb lingering on the fabric a second longer than necessary. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine. It was a simple gesture, but it was moments like these that reminded you of the profound connection you two shared. You met Jack at a charity event in London. His intoxicating greenish hazel eyes had captured yours from across the crowded room, and your heart had fluttered like a butterfly's wings.

Jack's dedication to the sport was only rivaled by the dedication he had for you. In the whirlwind of his professional life, he had made it a priority to always be emotionally available, a trait you found both rare and refreshing in a man of his stature. The unpredictability of his schedule never once made you feel neglected or forgotten. He had a way of making every second you spent together feel like a lifetime of love condensed.

"What are you staring at, love?" Jack's voice was a soothing melody that could calm even the stormiest of seas. His eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine curiosity as he met your gaze.

You blush, realizing you've been lost in thought. "Just the way the sun hits your eyes, they look so green but also so brown at the same time," you say, feeling a bit shy.

Jack laughs, a deep, warm sound that fills the air between you like a comforting blanket. "They're just eyes, you know," he says, but his cheeks betray a hint of pleasure at your words.

"That may be true, but you know what they say, the eyes are the window to the soul," you tease, nudging him playfully.

Jack smiles, his teeth a dazzling contrast against his sun-kissed skin. He's just come back from a grueling two weeks at the Australian Open, but fatigue doesn't mask his affection. "And what does my soul tell you today?"

You lean into him, breathing in the faint scent of sweat. "It says you're more than just a tennis player."

Jack's smile widens, his eyes lighting up like the neon signs of Piccadilly Circus. "Oh really?"

You nod, feeling your own heart swell with love. "Yes, your soul whispers of a man who's strong and determined, but also caring and empathetic."

Jack's hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers. His grip is firm yet gentle, a reminder of the hours he spends on the court, but also of the tenderness he holds for you. "I'm just Jack," he says with a shrug, as if trying to downplay the grandeur of his soul.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest like a spring. "Jack of all hearts," you reply, leaning closer so that your foreheads touch. The warmth from his skin is a balm to the chill of the London evening.

Jack's eyes dance with amusement. "And what does your heart whisper to you?"

You look into the depths of his gaze, feeling the weight of his question. "It whispers that I'm the luckiest person in the world," you reply, your voice barely above a murmur.

Jack squeezes your hand, his thumb tracing the line of your palm. "You deserve all the happiness you've got, and more." His words are as earnest as the promise of dawn, and they warm you from the inside out.

You've always admired Jack's ability to balance his intense training regimen with his dedication to your relationship. The way he juggles his love for tennis with his love for you is nothing short of a grand slam. His strong arms, sculpted by countless hours of practice, are a stark contrast to the gentle way he holds you at night.

You decide to cook dinner together, a rare treat when his schedule allows. You both don aprons with whimsical prints—Jack's has cartoon tennis balls bouncing around the edges, while yours is adorned with strawberries and cream, a nod to Wimbledon. The kitchen in your shared flat is filled with the aroma of garlic and rosemary as you both prep the meal, laughing as flour puffs into the air when Jack opens the bag too enthusiastically. His laugh is contagious, and soon you're both giggling like teenagers in love.

Jack's movements are fluid, a dance learned from years of precision on the court, as he chops vegetables with the same focus and grace he brings to every serve. You, on the other hand, are a bit more chaotic, but your passion for cooking shines through in the way you toss ingredients together. You've learned to appreciate the beauty in the mess, much like you've learned to cherish the imperfections in your relationship.

As the oven preheats, Jack leans against the counter, sipping on a glass of iced water. The condensation forms a ring on the wooden surface, a temporary imprint much like the marks you've left on each other's hearts. The kitchen is a blur of activity, with pots clanging and the fridge door opening and closing as you both move in harmony.

"You know," you say, pausing to taste the sauce simmering on the stove, "I've never seen you this relaxed off the court."

Jack's eyes, a blend of emerald and caramel, twinkle mischievously. "It's all your doing, I suspect." He winks before turning back to the salad, the muscles in his arms flexing with every toss.

You roll your eyes playfully, stirring the sauce. "Me? I'm just a mere mortal, not a wizard casting spells of relaxation."

Jack laughs, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "I'm not complaining, love. It's like you've got the Midas touch for stress relief."

You blush again, the heat of the stove matching the warmth rising in your cheeks. "Well, I'll take that as a compliment," you reply, your voice light and airy.

Jack sets down the knife and steps closer to you, his hand reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "It's not just a compliment, it's the truth."

You smile, feeling your heart flutter like the pages of a well-read book. "I'm just happy to be here, with you."

Jack's eyes soften, the green and brown swirling like a warm cup of tea. "And I'm happy to be here with you, too." He leans in closer, his breath tickling your cheek. "But you know, love, I'm not just a one-trick pony."

You laugh, feeling your own cheeks grow warm. "What do you mean?"

Jack's smile grows into a grin. "Well, I might have picked up a few things from you, too." He takes a sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "Like how to appreciate the little things, like the sound of rain on a Sunday morning or the smell of freshly baked bread."

You blush deeper, feeling a warmth spread from your cheeks to your toes. "Jack, you're too sweet."

Jack shakes his head, his eyes still locked on yours. "No, I'm just speaking from the heart."

You lean back against the counter, the coolness of the granite a stark contrast to the warmth of your blush. "What else have you learned from me?"

Jack's grin turns wistful, his eyes dropping to the floor briefly before meeting yours again. "How to love without conditions, I think."

You're taken aback by the sudden depth of his words, feeling your own heart swell with a mix of pride and affection. "Jack," you whisper, "you've always been loving."

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "But you, my love, have taught me the art of unconditional love. You've shown me that it's okay to be vulnerable, to let someone in all the way."

Your chest tightens, a warmth spreading through your body like the aroma of the dinner you're cooking. "Jack, I didn't do anything special. I just love you."

Jack's smile softens, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "No, you listen. You understand. That's all it takes." He leans closer, his voice a whisper that could quiet the loudest stadium. "And in return, I promise to always be here for you, no matter what the scoreboard says."

You gaze into the ever-shifting landscape of his eyes, feeling the gravity of his words. The kitchen, once alive with the chaos of dinner prep, now seems to hold its breath. The only sounds are the sizzle of the garlic in the pan and the thunderous beat of your hearts.

"Jack," you say, your voice barely audible over the crackle of the stove, "you don't have to prove anything to me."

He pauses, the knife hovering over the chopping board. "I know," he responds, his eyes never leaving yours, "but I want to. I want you to know that I see you, all of you. And I want to be more than just a tennis player to you."

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling a sudden surge of emotion. "You already are, Jack," you reply, your voice thick with sincerity. "You're my rock, my confidant, my muse."

Jack's eyes soften, and he sets down the knife, walking over to you. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into a warm embrace. You melt into him, feeling the comfort of his presence like a blanket on a cold night. "And you're the wind in my sails," he murmurs into your hair. "Always pushing me forward, no matter how hard the match of life gets."

You tip your head back, looking up at him, his smile the brightest light in the room. "Jack, you're not just a tennis player to me," you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. "You're my everything."

Jack's eyes searched yours, a silent conversation passing between you. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his touch as gentle as a feather landing on a still lake. He leaned down, and your heart fluttered like the wings of a thousand butterflies.

"You know," he began, his voice a soft caress, "I've been thinking."

Your curiosity piqued, you turned away from the stove, the sizzling garlic a distant echo to the anticipation in the air. "About what?"

Jack took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the cotton of his T-shirt. "I've been thinking about us," he began, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through your very soul. "And how we've grown together, despite the challenges."

You nodded, feeling the truth of his words. Your relationship had been a dance of highs and lows, much like the tides of the English Channel that you both loved to visit. "We have," you agreed, your voice a soft echo of his.

Jack's grip on your hand tightened slightly. "And I want to make sure we keep growing together," he said, his eyes searching yours for any trace of doubt or hesitation.

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words resonating within you. "I do too," you replied, your voice a soft whisper.

Jack's gaze held yours, the intensity of his eyes speaking volumes. "Then, will you…?" His voice trailed off, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand.

Your heart skipped a beat. "Will I what?"

Jack's eyes searched yours, a question hanging in the air like a lob that hadn't quite reached its peak. "Will you be my forever?"

Your heart felt like it might burst out of your chest. The kitchen, the dinner, the whole world seemed to fade away as you looked into the soul of this man who had captured your heart with his every serve and volley.

"Jack," you whispered, "you already are my forever."

His smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling like the pages of an old map. "Then, will you marry me?"

The kitchen air thickened with anticipation, the aroma of the simmering sauce a faint backdrop to the moment. The tick of the oven timer seemed to echo through the room, syncing with the erratic rhythm of your heart. The world outside the kitchen window—the bustling streets of London, the distant hum of cars, the chatter of passersby—faded into a muffled buzz.

Jack's question hung in the air like a lob at the peak of its arc, suspended in time. The warmth of his hand enveloping yours was the only grounding force in the swirl of emotions. You felt the weight of his gaze, his eyes a swirl of hope and love.

Your heart fluttered like a hummingbird's wings, and you could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks. You took a deep breath, the aroma of dinner mixing with the scent of Jack's sweat—a scent that was as familiar to you as your own. "Jack," you began, feeling your voice shake slightly. "I never thought I'd find someone who could handle my mood swings, who would love me even when I'm as tangled as a bowl of spaghetti."

Jack's smile grew, his eyes shimmering with love and hope. "And I never thought I'd find someone who could handle my crazy schedule, who'd support me through every match, win or lose."

You nodded, feeling your own eyes well up with tears. "Jack, yes, of course I'll marry you."

Jack's smile grew, his eyes lighting up like the neon signs of Times Square. He slipped the ring onto your finger, your dream engagement ring that you'd pointed out months ago during a casual Pinterest break. The diamond sparkled, catching the light and reflecting the joy in the room. You couldn't believe this was happening, that the person you'd shared your life with, the man who'd seen you at your worst and still chosen to love you, was asking you to spend forever together.

You leaned in, your heart racing faster than the speed of light. "Yes," you breathed, your voice shaky with emotion. "A million times, yes."

Jack's smile was brighter than the gleaming tennis trophies on his shelf. He pulled you into a tight embrace, lifting you off your feet. Your laughter mingled with his, filling the kitchen with a symphony of pure joy. His lips found yours in a kiss that was as sweet as victory and as comforting as a warm cup of tea on a rainy afternoon. The kitchen, once a battleground of chopping and sautéing, had transformed into a sanctuary of love and commitment.

As he set you back down, the oven timer beeped, breaking the spell. "Looks like dinner's ready," Jack said, his voice still thick with emotion.

You both laugh, the tension of the moment shifting to a lighter note. "Well, we can't let it go to waste," you reply, wiping a tear from your cheek.

Jack nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "But first, we need to celebrate." He takes your hand, the ring glinting in the kitchen lights.

You look around at the mess of pots and pans, the half-chopped vegetables scattered on the counter. "Celebrate?" you laugh, wiping your hands on your apron. "We haven't even finished dinner."

Jack's smile doesn't waver. "We've got all the time in the world for that. Right now, I want to cherish this moment." He takes your hand, leading you to the living room, the warm light from the pendant casting a glow on your faces. The city outside the windows seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for your answer.

You both sit on the couch, the same couch where you've shared countless Netflix binges, lazy Sundays, and heart-to-heart talks. The cushions are worn from the imprints of your bodies, a testament to the comfort you find in each other's company. The air feels charged with excitement, the kind that makes your skin tingle and your pulse race.

Jack pulls out a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne from the fridge, the one you've been saving for a special occasion. The pop of the cork echoes in the room like a gunshot starting a race, signaling the beginning of something new. The bubbles dance in the flutes, a celebration in themselves.

You both sit on the couch, the ring on your finger feeling like it's pulsing with happiness. The TV is on mute, the tennis match you'd planned to watch now just a backdrop of silent figures moving in the background. "To us," Jack says, holding up his flute.

You clink yours against his, the sound as delicate as the moment itself. "To us," you repeat, feeling the warmth of the liquid as it meets your lips. The bubbles tickle your nose, much like the way Jack's laugh does when he finds something utterly absurd.

As you sit there, sipping on your champagne, you can't help but feel a sense of disbelief. This is Jack Draper, the 23-year-old phenom of the tennis world, the man whose name is whispered many times in recent months, the man who has fans across continents. And yet, here he is, in your London flat, asking you to be his partner in the most profound sense of the word.

[camilladerricoart]

What’s your favorite color and why⁉️ Mine is teal…and neon pink lol! 🩵🩷 😍 Ahh libra brain so indecisive 🤪🧠 But I knew when I was creating "Pandora" i was on a mission to discover natures teal wonders, and I couldn’t believe the teal snakes, birds, and butterflies in on the planet. 😍🐍🦜🦋 We live in a magical world!! 🌍💖

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Pandora is gonna debut as a new open-edition print at San Diego Comic-Con on July 24-28 booth 4723 and also online during my release on July 24.🎉🙌 Hope you snag her in-person or online!😉🥰

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#artprint #Pandora #TealLove #Nature #HealingArt #SanDiego#ArtistLife #camilladerrico #arttheraphy #geeklife #SDCC2024 #onlinerelease

[rottendollface]

Like Home.

Character: Strade.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+; female student reader is a naive person with unnamed mental distress, reader is collecting books, OOC, my own headcanons, panic attacks, stressful itching, family abuse, stalking, strong language, killer in love, femininity sexualization, misogyny, sexual violence, CNC, humiliation, eating from a dog bowl, physical violence (including various tortures), description of vomiting, psychological abuse > physical abuse, kidnapping, romanticization, keeping hostage, unprotected sex, painful virginity loss, oral sex (reader giving and receiving), rimming (reader receiving), 69 pose, blood drinking; mentions of: red rooms, cannibalism, necrophilia; Neon Demon spoilers; reader is the first victim kept alive, and Ren doesn't exist here; Easter egg with Celia (The Price of Flesh).

Word count: ~17,500.

A/N: I don't speak German, but I used plenty of words from it here. If you find any mistakes, feel free to correct me ♡.

Strade was watching you through the window of his car: how you looked around before you went down the stairs, then put earphones on your head to muffle the noise of the streets and searched for a needed playlist, while keeping your free hand on your bag, which you had put over your shoulder, as usual. After you found a song, you hid your phone in a pocket before going to the bus stop: looking straight on the ground, you didn't care what was happening around, as you were immersed in your thoughts and worries. It was windy and cloudy, almost raining today, and you hugged yourself, when another cold breeze had blown over you; wind ruffled your hair, so you checked on a green butterfly pin, afraid that it could fall from your head, then you moved your hand to a cheap heart locket, before hugging yourself again; knitted black blouse with long sleeves and low neckline, light green midi skirt with flower print of darker shade and classic black Mary Jane shoes (his mother (or grandma even) would like this style) weren't suitable for a weather like this. For Strade it was amusing to see a young college student dressing up in such outmoded style, but he was honest with himself — your fashion made him notice you. At first he didn't plan anything serious on you and just chuckled to himself: a girl in old-fashioned clothes and with a haunted look in her beautiful, pleading eyes — probably another victim of bullying. Something made him give a better look at you, and he found you attractive, magnetic even, which made his interest light up.

It wasn't in Strade's style to stalk someone, but with you he couldn't suppress such a strange whim of his. You weren't a sociable person: Strade could hardly remember you talking to someone more than a couple of minutes outside your college. During the conversation you were touching your locket constantly: twisting it in your fingers, or adjusting it on your neck. After a few days of observing you, he could tell that you were a neurotic with no social life. You lived in a small rented apartment in a bad neighborhood, which meant that you didn't have a lot of money and that your parents (if you had them) didn't care about you — no parent in their right mind would let their daughter live in the neighborhood with three most disgusting bars in the area. Creeps of all sorts were coming here at night, and who knows what could happen to an elegant girl who lived here all alone. At least you were smart enough not to show up on the streets after dark.

Your flat was small and resembled a doghouse, not a normal apartment. It was easy for Strade to get inside while you were in college. When Strade came in, he bumped into a stack of books that were staying near the front door's wall. Dozens of books fell on the floor, showing him a collection in art, astrology and alchemy, magic and history. Strade looked over your room and found many more stacks of the same type; another noticeable detail was a bright poster in blue tones of the Neon Demon movie. He cursed softly, mostly from surprise. Strade put all the fallen books back in their place and went to look at other stacks to understand what genres you were collecting so obsessively. He had seen you coming into a bookstore a couple of times, but he didn't expect you to be a pack rat, who was spending all her money on her addiction. The flat was clean and left the smell of your perfume — as it should be in all the women's apartments, Strade believed. It was poorly furnished: you didn't even have a table or a bookcase; a small wardrobe was full of clothes: dresses, blouses, skirts, two pairs of jeans. Strade couldn't fight a sudden desire to sniff your clothes. He chose a blouse that you were wearing yesterday and buried his nose in it, inhaling perfume and the sweetness of your sweat. 

The bathroom was so confined it was hard to breathe in here; the air was damp and still hot and scented after your morning shower; it smelled with lemon and basil and turned out to be your shower gel. He gave a careful look at the products you were using: rather expensive, not suitable for an apartment like this. You had plenty of body creams and oils, all of them with floral fragrance. Strade also found four bottles of perfume, again, indecently pricey for a crumbling apartment you were renting. Those mismatches and the quirk of yours made him interested in your persona even more — he wanted to know everything about you until the smallest details. 

Mulberry, bergamot, bitter almond and blackberry — it was the fragrance you cared on your body today. Strade wished to feel it on your skin mixed with your natural smell. He didn't have fun for a while, so Strade made big plans for you. Hunting you down this way had its pros: he became better in stalking and picking locks; your plainess and restlessness amused him too — every time someone started talking to you, your first reaction was fear: you gained some self control, but his allerted eyes could easily see how you were losing your composure with your eyes round and brows curved, corners of your lips looking down. Strade laughed every time he saw you having a conversation with some poor soul: you were nodding slowly, imitating interest, but your eyes were looking sideways and you were pursing your lips, chewing on them, then letting them free, only to repeat this ritual later — if it was Strade talking to you, he would certainly give you a nice punch in your face for such an inappropriate behavior.

Your naivety was outstanding: you didn't even notice the same car was following your route for a few days straight. Maybe if you had more interest in what was happening right under your nose you wouldn't be stuck in a situation like this. Strade could bet you didn't notice that someone had visited your apartment. He was alien to this small world of perfection and neatness, even his own smell was too strong, too outstanding from the sweet mix. Before leaving your home, Strade looked at the books again: all of them were in a good state, which meant you weren't using them. Textbooks about chemistry, one about physics and math; medicine, geography and taxidermy — he tried to find some logic in your collection, but failed: Strade was gaining information on you to find the right topics that would make your tongue loosen, but he certainly didn't want to talk about science. He also noticed black digital radio box on your bed and a pair of on-ear headphones near it, which made him think you were collecting audio books as well. 

Usually Strade hated to build up plans and strategies: Strade was proud of his charisma and ability to improvise easily in dialogue. He didn't need any special preparations to find his victims, but not in your case — he couldn't let you go so easily, but he couldn't get you as well, and it was pissing him off. Strade was simple in his actions and met plenty of his victims in bars and nightclubs, but you were avoiding all of his favorite places like a plague. You weren't his type, however you became his obsession — unreachable and so desired. He wanted to force you to open this sweet mouth of yours and scream for him, plead for him. Strade was sure you wouldn't last for long, probably you wouldn't survive even the first round: girls like you had a very weak heart and died from fright mostly, just like canaries. It would be… such a waste. Strade was surprised at his own regret, tried to chase you away from his thoughts, but you were staying here with him, making him see your silhouette in a dance of cigarette's smoke. He couldn't forget your face: charming and always sad, with unspoken grief, that gave you an air of a heroine of a tragic novel. It would be nice to see you smiling at least once. 

You reminded him of a mermaid: your always glistening eyes, delicate blush on your cheeks and vibrant pink lips, the rare, divine charm. Your steps were fast, but careful, as if you were walking on the sharpest of knives. The beauty of your face and loveliness of your pose were bewitching Strade, leaving him fantasizing about you and dying in anger from the impossibility to touch you, feel the warmth of your body against his.

The next morning Strade was following your route again, but today he left his car not far away from your house and was ready to ride the bus with you. Suddenly you walked past the bus stop and headed straight to the subway. You were in a hurry and kept looking around sharply. It made Strade think you finally noticed that something wasn't right, but your unexpected move made him nervous as well. He was waiting for this day to become closer to you, and now you trampled on his plans roughly — you would pay for it later. Strade almost managed to elbow his way into a full subway car; his wandering gaze found you in a crowd, and he made an effort to reach you. Finally he was staying not far away from you and could see your worried face. With every stop new people came into the subway, leaving less space in the train. You clawed into a handhold in front of you, your knuckles turned white from the tension and power you had put in your grip. 

The air in the train was stale. Sweaty bodies were pressing him and you from everywhere, making it harder to breathe and restraining any moves — it was rush hour, everyone was coming home after a long working day and no one cared about someone else's comfort. Strade noticed changes in your emotions: you were breathing hard, stared at the floor without blinking. Tears stored in the corners of your eyes. He could understand your feelings, but it all was your fault: you made him suffer this hell on the earth, and you won't get away with it. 

You were smothered in awful smells of cheap perfume, bad breath, sweat and dust; dozens of irritating sounds were buzzing in your ears, and the man's body behind you, pressing on yours with heavy weight, was driving you crazy slowly. Your knees were shaking but you kept staying, leaning on your tired hand. You were praying for this to end, but couldn't hear the names of stations as you were concentrating on your physical senses.

You didn't sleep well for the whole week and had no stress relief, which led to overeating and itch in your limbs. Right after you remembered about it, you felt your forearms itching. Fresh cuts from your nails were burning from your own sweat. You needed to scratch it — your hand shuddered, then started shaking from annoying tingling. 

You started feeling nauseous and dizzy. You were afraid to come back home on your normal route: someone got into your apartment but didn't take anything from here. Not a thing was touched, as if your apartment was a museum someone decided to visit out of boredom. You didn't have any proof of it, but you could feel something was wrong when you entered your flat. You just knew something wasn't right — but you weren't sure of the reality of your guess. Your parents told you many times that you got a good imagination for your own bad: it wasn't the first time you felt like someone had visited your apartment while you were out. It was the reason you were changing apartments a lot. At first you ran away from your family house, then you changed five flats in different parts of the city. It was your sixth apartment, and you already were thinking about leaving it.

You knew something was wrong with you, but you couldn't help it. It started not so long ago but already turned you into an antisocial shadow of yourself. You were missing the old you, the one who liked to chat with people and walk in the park, who didn't skip meetings in her club of interest, and could visit her friends freely, without a fear that something would happen. 

You weren't a fatalist and didn't believe in signs of destiny, but you were sure that something was about to happen with you. It was haunting you for a year already, turning your life into a nightmare: every time you came home you locked the door on all the locks, then checked on it for the rest of the day and before going to sleep; you could come back from the college just because you forgot to check if you closed a bathroom faucet. You had to write all your check ups down in your notes and reread it during the day, but you didn't trust it — you were always thinking you forgot about something. You didn't know exactly what would happen to you. Maybe it would be something good or neutral. You made yourself nervous by causing depressive thoughts, and you knew you were wrong, but you couldn't stop the process. 

Book collecting was your stress relief method. The amount of money you had spent on your strange hobby was enough to rent the best apartment for the whole year, but you were ready to live in the worst neighborhood until the rent was low and you had free money on the books. You wanted to store the human's knowledge and wisdom and spent all your free time hunting for another book. You hadn't read even a half of your collection, but you couldn't stop yourself from getting a new copy. It was some sort of a mania of yours, maybe a disorder even.

Now, staying in a subway, full of people, you were about to pass out. You had already regretted your decision to deceive the fictitious stalker with an unplanned change of your way home, and you were fed up with yourself as well. All your life was torture, and it couldn't go like this any longer or you would lose your sanity. You were choking from the lack of air slowly and turned your head back to the open doors. You tried to leave but couldn't squeeze through a crowd until someone caught you by your hand and helped you to get out. You felt them pulling you to the exit and didn't resist. You gasped for fresh cold air, leaning to the nearest wall in an attempt to calm down and catch your breath. A drop of rain fell on your face from heavy black clouds, and you hurried to wipe it.

'Hey, are you okay?' The person asked anxiously. You looked at the man and smiled at him, but your smile was twisted and pitiful.

'I feel much better now. I could swear, I thought I would suffocate in this cursed subway. I don't even know how to thank you enough for your help,' You didn't want to say all of this, but suddenly the words were coming up your throat and you couldn't stop yourself from speaking. The man in front of you looked fine and kind, and he seemed to worry about you sincerely. Something about him made you feel strange: he was just a normal, inconspicuous man, rather handsome than ugly, as his face had no outstanding or especially beautiful features that could fascinate a woman. Massive thick eyebrows with sharp ends, big round eyes with a frisky sparkle, high cheekbones, somewhat heavy lower jaw and nice thin lips.

'No need to be so formal,' he smiled and then laughed: he closed his eyes and his shoulders twitched, as he let out a soft chuckle. His laughter was warm and friendly, caring even. All his posture was relaxed and confident. 'My name is Strade.'

He was speaking with an accent, pronouncing "r" as a roaring throat sound and replacing the "d" at the end of the words on a "t". You told him your name and he made a compliment to it. This small conversation helped you feel better almost immediately — it even gave you hope that your paranoia was disappearing.

'You want to thank me right? Then what about us going to a bar tomorrow, how do you like that?' Strade gave you a big friendly smile and stared at you, waiting for your answer. His accent became stronger, and you understood that he was speaking in a German manner. You wanted to decline the invitation, but agreed, as you were embarrassed by his stare and his self confidence. 

You had to ask Strade for help one more time, as you looked around and realized that you didn't know where you were. You weren't familiar with the city despite moving around regularly, so you had no idea how to get back home. The situation worsened with a falling dark — during night hours you were as helpless as blind kitten. Strade gladly agreed to walk you to your neighborhood and didn't stop chatting with you for a minute. You had to admit that you felt safe with him, so you were chattering willingly, without any dredging thoughts crippling into your head. Strade picked up the place and time for your next meeting, and as you headed home you didn't forget to wave your hand to him as a goodbye. 

Strade's smile disappeared right after he left your area. The day was stressful and brought him painful arousal mixed with excitement and a sheer impossibility of your abduction right away, in this God-forsaken part of the city, where you and him only got off. You turned out to be a horrible chatterbox: you were talking so much he got a headache from your ringing voice. You fell for his fake compassion and told about your worries — Strade had always used this trick and it always worked. You were the type of person who liked to share their problems with unknown people, as you wanted to be heard and didn't need actual help. 

When Strade showed up in a bar you were already here, staying alone in a corner, far from everyone, and waiting for him nervously, like a dog that didn't meet its owner for a good time. You were holding your drink, but didn't make a sip of it even. This place wasn't for you as well as its visitors — men in their thirties and forties, bikers mostly. Rough, drunk and noisy, they were scaring you. 

'Hey there,' Strade got himself a beer and stopped next to you. You trembled, as you didn't notice him, but smiled immediately after it. You looked a little different today: green blouse with plunging neck and long sleeves, short black skirt that was fitting your round thighs, transparent black tight, leg warmers on your calves at the same color as your blouse, and Mary Jane shoes again. You were wearing pretty makeup with dark eyeshadow and painted your lips with a dark red lipstick. Strade couldn't help but smile: you wanted to look more attractive for him, dressed in an innocent but seductive manner. 'The weather is awful, I hope you didn't get cold. I wanted to buy you a drink, but I can see you are enjoying this evening already.'

'No, it's just soda. I don't drink alcohol.' You said in an embarrassed tone. 'My friends made fun of me because of this. Is it raining again?'

'Hell yes!' Strade ruffled his wet hair. 'Where are your friends now?' He asked, sipping his beer. 

'I lost contact with them. When all of this started I isolated myself from everyone. They tried to take me out, but gave up. I concentrated on my college and other stuff, trying to suppress my strange condition. I'm talking about myself only, I'm sorry.'

It was the first time you went to hang out, so you felt a little nervous and wanted to scratch your forearm. Today you weren't very brave and the conversation was dull. You tried to come up with some catchy topic, but you couldn't. 

'My hobby? Huh, good question!' Strade was taken aback when you switched the dialogue on him. 'I like mastering things and mechanisms.' 

'Wow…' his answer fascinated you. You knew almost nothing about this field and it seemed like pure witchcraft to you. 'It may sound silly, but I hope to see some of your creations one day.'

You smiled at Strade and gave him an innocent look, as you were speaking from your heart and was honest in your little wish. Cute dimples on your cheeks, the way you squint your glistening eyes and arched your brows just a little in a kind way melted his heart, causing him to bite on his lip not to guffaw at this picture in front of him. Strade was happy that he found you — he would have so much fun with you. You wished to see some of his creations — Strade appreciated it, so you would have an opportunity to test the best of his collection on yourself.

You couldn't even guess what was waiting for you at the end of the evening, and this mischievous trick gave Strade motivation for courting you more. Your cheeks were flushing pink as he was telling you the best of his compliments; you covered your mouth with your palm while laughing at his jokes and wiped tears of joy from your eyes with the knuckle of your index finger carefully so as not to ruin your makeup. Strade was telling you funny stories from his younger years and you found many moments that were similar with your experience, so you replied lively, happily even, as you found someone, who was understanding you easily. 

'Oh, I should go home already!' You exclaimed after dropping a look at the clock in your phone. 'It's almost midnight… Thank you for your company, Strade. I really appreciate it. Would you like to meet up again tomorrow?'

'Of course, Fröschli,' He was looking at you through half lowered eyelids and smiling cunningly, as if he was knowing something you didn't even suspect about. 'You will see me a lot.'

(Froggy)

You were confused by his reaction, but didn't show it. Instead, you scratched the back of your head and giggled. 'I should take some lessons in German to understand you better.' You remarked. You probably looked like an idiot, but you preferred this over awkward silence.

'I'll give you a ride back home.' Strade placed his hand over your shoulder and you yelped, never expecting him to do this. 'Is something wrong?'

'I just…' You looked sideways at his hand, then back at Strade, and found him staring at you with an attentive piercing gaze. You wanted to reply, but suddenly all the words were gone from your mouth and you were just staring back at him, batting your eyes. 'It is the first time a man is… uhm…' you swallowed nervously, not sure if you should tell such an information to the male you had known for two days. 

He hummed at your words. 'Use your tongue, Fröschli. The first time a man?..' Strade repeated your sentences for you.

'... is touching me.' Your cheeks turned pink from embarrassment and you looked away, not being able to handle Strade's gaze anymore.

Instinctively you reached your hand to your neck to touch your locket, but found nothing. You remembered that today you decided not to put it on, however Strade had already noticed you started acting nervous. 

'But what about your boyfriend, Fröschli? I won't believe you don't have one.' Strade was grinning mockingly, his hand on your shoulder felt heavy. 

'It's a long story,' you made a nervous chuckle. 'Not all girls are noticed by guys.' You didn't have an idea of how to explain Strade the phenomenon of your loneliness and you didn't want him to ask about it. You were beautiful and interesting as a person, but all the boys around you had seen you as their little sister. Even the one, that you fell in love with — you shared the same company and were studying together with him, so you were sure he would notice you. Unfortunately he was already taken, but wasn't happy, because his girlfriend wasn't interested in him, dating him only because he was cool and handsome. You were the one to whom he was usually complaining about another fight or disinterest from her side. He had never noticed the way you looked at him, never cared about your feelings, used you like a plush toy to calm himself, then went away, leaving you broken. He was your first love and you wanted him to be your first in everything, you still believed that things would work for you two. When you caught your paranoid distress, all your friends and he abandoned you as you became grumpy and depressed: you were annoying them with your constant bad mood, didn't want to take care of them and entertain them. They were talking with you in the college, more from obligation than from a personal interest.

'We should be leaving already,' Strade stated off the topic, ignoring everything you just said. 'Have you kissed at least?' He asked inappropriately, but you shook your head in dissent. 'So sweet. Well, it's not such a big deal, right?' Strade's tone was cheerful and cooing again. 'Get up, Fröschli.'

You were following Strade in a haste, as he was walking faster than you, and covering your head with your palms from rain. Despite the bad weather, you didn't expect the rain to start today's evening, so you left your umbrella at home. Strade didn't seem to be bothered by it, too. The chilly night air made your body cover in shivers, and you hugged yourself to save some warmth. You were surprised when you saw Strade's car: you didn't expect him to own a family style car of a new model. You expected to see something eye-catching, sporty even, the type of car that cool guys from your college were driving, but Strade's car was simple, average even. He opened the door to a front passenger seat for you, and you climbed inside. You were putting a seat belt on when your eyes suddenly fixed on the door and you noticed that it didn't have a handle, making it impossible to get out of the car from inside. You froze with a seat belt in your hands as you were slowly processing everything. 

'What's wrong?' You heard Strade's husky voice near your ear and shuddered. Your heart was beating like crazy, causing pain in your ribs, and your hands started itching badly, begging to be scratched. Strade was burning your nape with his gaze, his always friendly smile now was sinister and creepy: he was waiting for your reaction, as he had already known you realized that you wouldn't go home today.

'Everything is okay, Strade!' You turned your head to him and smiled. 'Can you fix it for me, please?' you waved your head at the seat belt. 'I can't pull it out for some reason. I don't want to mess it up accidentally.' You made a sad face, looking at him with puppy eyes. 

Strade cackled, then burst into laughter. You could use this moment to punch him, but you were sitting still and playing dumb. You were nothing against him, only one slap of his big palm on your face would be enough to knock you out. Adrenaline was rushing through your blood, distracting you from real understanding of the whole situation you ended up into. It was funny to you how you felt so composed while you should be panicking and screaming for help, but you knew one thing for sure: you wanted to survive. And for this, you believed, you had to behave respectfully and submissive. 

'I adore little idiots like you, Fröschli,' Strade took the belt out of your hands and put it in its place instead of fastening it. He rubbed your cheek with his fingers gently to see the hope in your watering eyes. In a second Strade grabbed your face hard and pressed his fingers on your cheeks, squeezing them roughly. 'Let me do something more for you.'

You missed the moment his hand clutched in your forehead and he bashed your head in a tinted window. You let out a shriek, then a low groan escaped your lips, as you were blacking out slowly. Your whole body felt numb and you went limp on the seat, leaving a bloody stain on the window. 

Strade chuckled at how easy he broke the skin on your nape, wondering if you got a concussion. He started the engine and remembered about your phone. Strade had to look for it, as he forgot that you had put it on your knees, when you got into the car. It fell off your body and was laying under your legs. He got a paper towel from the glove box and took your phone with it. The street was empty, so Strade threw your phone on the ground and then crushed it with his boots.

You woke up in the dark and cold room. You were lucky enough not to feel pain in your head; it seemed like you escaped the brain trauma as well. You tried to move your limbs: your arms were first and you found them tied behind your back and a steel pole. The wave of panic covered you, left you trembling, as you understood the whole horror of your situation. Your life couldn't end like this — you didn't deserve such an end. It wasn't fair. 

'Strade!' You started screaming his name because of feebleness. You had no one but him now, and you still were hoping that he would take pity on you. 'Strade!' You cried for him again, your high pitched and lingering plea filled the whole space of the basement and was noticed upstairs.

You heard his steps above yourself, then he came to the basement door, letting the light from the house into it.

'My-my, rise and shine, baby girl!' Strade looked at you with clear amusement. 'To tell the truth, I expected you to wake up in three hours at least, but you made it out in forty minutes! Going for a world record, huh?'

Strade was mocking you with his usual smile, that was glued to his face, you thought. His perky tone and his always happy personality insulted you, which was clearly shown on your face by the way you curled your lips and arched your brows, like a child. You were about to burst into hysterical tears, and your chest was already rising slowly.

'Oh, meine Süße,' Strade cooed, giving you disturbed look. 'You don't like when I'm making fun of you? I didn't even say anything! But I remember you told me about your problem with controlling emotions.' 

(My sweetie)

'What do you want from me?' You were stuttering as tears and fear were filling up your chest with a heavy and cold feeling of waiting: waiting for something gruesome coming for you. 'I'll do anything, just please don't…' you couldn't finish your sentence — you were afraid that your words would provoke him into doing the opposite things instead. 

'Hm? Don't do what?' Strade was staring at you, waiting for your response. Instead of answering you lowered your head, looking on a dusty ground with dull brownish stains from blood that soaked it a long time ago. 

Strade squatted and frowned at you. His fingers tugged in your hair, and he lifted your head, making you look at him. 'Lost your tongue, Fröschli?'

You shook your head. You tried to suppress fear or come up with anything else but this cursed plea of saving your life. Your sudden silence pissed Strade off. He cupped your cheek; his thumb was caressing your skin, smearing black trails of your tears. For a moment you even decided that he was trying to calm you, but when his palm left your face, Strade gave you a slap that would make you fall if you weren't tied to a pole.

'Please, don't kill me!' You screamed, breaking your voice. 

Strade stood up and came to the counter, started searching for something. 'I like your enthusiasm, meine Süße!' He picked up his favorite knife and returned to you. 'I did nothing, but you are already screaming your lungs out. Save your breath, okay?' He laughed at the way your eyes widened at the sight of the knife. 'Would you like to eat or drink something maybe? Just before we start. You have one chance.'

You shook your head, shuddering and sobbing.

'Well, no means no!' Strade giggled and squatted again to untie your hands. 'Someone told me she would do anything, am I right?'

'Yes…' You pressed your hands to your chest immediately after they were set free. Your wrists were burning, but you didn't care — your whole attention was concentrated on the knife. You weren't afraid of cuts or stubs — you were terrified at the thought that he could cut off your breasts or clit, stab your genitals until the bloody unrecognizable mess, or cut out your lips and eyes. You didn't know what to expect from him, how much pain he would cause to you happily. 

'Take off your clothes.' Strade's voice became serious. You started undressing yourself without delay. Was he going to rape you then set you free? You couldn't hope that everything would end so easily for you — you weren't a lucky one. You took off your blouse and put it next to you; your shaking fingers touched a bra hook, and you heard Strade chuckling. 'Wow, wow, lady! Aren't you a little too eager for me? I feel like I'm the one being kidnapped!'

Your cheeks turned red immediately, and he started guffawing with a loud and deep voice at his own witty remark and this stupid face expression of yours. New tears formed on your eyes, but you swallowed them, kept undressing, until you were sitting on the cold floor in your black lingerie only and covering your body with your hands from embarrassment. 

Strade gave you a slow appraising glance. You looked like an expensive porcelain doll, and his followers would certainly love you. The stream with your participation would gain a lot of money: messy hair and ruined makeup made the noble features of your face even prettier, your lovely lips looked more plumpy with smudged lipstick; fleshy body with delicious curves tempted Strade to lay his hand on it. He kept in mind that you didn't date anyone, so probably you were a virgin — his fans would bathe him in donations for deflowering on air, and he couldn't stop imagining the moment his length would pierce your tight unprepared cunt; probably you wouldn't be able to take all of him in one go, and this libidinous fantasy kept him enthralled. Strade felt his own body becoming hot: all of the thoughts about raping you on camera for other people to watch were enough to make him fully hard in his pants. 

'Hey, Fröschli,' Strade gave you an intimidating look and pressed the end of the knife under your chin, forcing you to lift your head. 'Eyes on me.' Then he passed the knife to you. 'Cut yourself.'

You took the knife, confused with his words, and pressed it on your forearm. Strade focused his eyes on the red scratches with a thin layer of dried blood that were covering both of your hands. 'I can see you had some fun before me, huh? Böses Mädchen.'

(Bad girl)

You swallowed nervously and drew the blade over your arm. The knife turned out to be unexpectedly sharp and the cut was deeper than you expected. A thick stream of blood started trickling from the wound, some of it was dropping on your thigh and other part was dripping up to your elbow. Strade's breathing became hard, his eyes were half lidded and his gaze was clouded with lubricious pleasure. 

'More,' Strade ordered with a husky voice, and you hesitated, searching for a better place on your body. You tried to be careful with the knife, but you weren't skillful at using it, so it was easy for you to put more force in your movements than you planned. You placed the blade on your thigh and left a cut, again, it was deeper than you expected it to be. You were whimpering silently, groans of pain left your lips rarely, as the pain you were causing to yourself didn't feel so striking. 

'More.' Strade repeated, his erection was pleading to be touched, as he was watching you, enchanted by how obedient you were. Strade decided to keep such a treasure for himself — he was a possessive and jealous person, so he didn't want to share this picture perfect sight with anybody else. You tried to leave another wound, but couldn't. Leftovers of your sanity were screaming for you to stop, or you would bleed out — you noticed that blood didn't stop leaking out fresh cuts. 

'I… I'm sorry I can't!' you shook your head helplessly, and gave the knife back to Strade. You started shivering uncontrollably again, realizing what had you just done.

'It's okay,' Strade caressed your skin with the flat side of the knife, then stubbed it into the soft flesh of your thigh, making you scream. His neck turned red from arousal, your heartbreaking shriek was the best aphrodisiac to him. 'I'll help you.'

Your vision blurred from tears and pain, you felt every move of the blade, that was tearing your fragile skin apart, and hot blood was scorching wounds like fire. From your thighs Strade moved to your torso, cutting obscure superficial ornaments on your tummy and under your chest. You were twitching unwittingly, making the process more painful and harmful. Your throat was sore already, but it was impossible not to howl and cry. 

'That's it, meine Liebe. Louder,' Strade put his knife out and pressed his hands on your thighs, groping the supple and slippery meat. He was smearing your blood on your skin and tracing holes of your wounds slowly, in a sexual manner, and penetrating them with his fingers lightly, getting physical satisfaction from it. While you tried to come round, you didn't notice how he pressed himself to your body, one of his hands was resting on your waist, caressing tender skin. Strade was sniffing your hair — it smelled sweet with a mix of perfume and shampoo, as always.

(My dear)

Strade knew he should patch you up before continuing this pleasant torture, but it was hard to keep himself cool while looking at your pathetic, frightened essence. He could kill you right now: stab you to death, or break your head on the floor, crash your neck, or burn you alive — you gave him the sense of unlimited power over you, but at the same time you also gave him your gratitude for keeping you alive for another minute. And he loved it. Strade liked obedience and politeness. He believed that the modern world lacked these two traits and he could rarely find someone, who would combine both of these in their character. 

Strade buried his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your natural scent and it drove him crazy. You shivered as his hot breath tickled your skin, gasped when you felt his tongue licking your neck. He was stained in your blood; his shirt stuck to his chest from the amount of soaked blood in it. Strade didn't wait any longer and pulled your panties down, enjoying your surprised shout. You didn't even think about resisting him — you were preparing yourself for an upcoming pain, crying again. Strade spread your legs and placed his hands under your buttocks, holding you in a comfortable position for him to thrust, after he unzipped his pants, freeing the hardly erect member. You tried not to look at his dick, closed your eyes from embarrassment when you felt how Strade was trailing natural curls of your pubic hair and spreading your cunt with his thick fingers. He plunged them inside without warning, but with a great effort, and you screamed from acute pain in your lower stomach. 

'Look at yourself, meine Süße,' Strade laughed slowly, moving his fingers inside and spreading them to stretch your walls. Despite the tightness of your core, it was easy for him to slide inside. 'Secretly enjoying everything I do to you?' He pulled out and you had seen his fingers, fully covered in your viscous slick. 'Fühlt sich gut an, nicht wahr?'

(Feels good, doesn't it?)

Grudge and bitterness were tearing your heart apart, but you just closed your eyes to suppress them. At least you managed to get wet somehow, which meant you would bear the whole process better. Strade pressed his fingers on your clit, stimulating it with circling motions, nevertheless it didn't help — all you felt was just irritating pressure. A punch in your nose perked you up. You pressed your hands to your face, trying to recover, but Strade tugged in your hair and shook your head, until you looked at him.

'Eyes on me. Did you forget our small rule?' He grinned at you, and you nodded, fixing your eyes on him. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of your nose, falling on your lips. 'Das ist so geil…' He pressed his dick to your entrance, and you held your breath when you felt him plunging it in with one fast thrust. You screamed and arched your back, started bustling around to get out of his grip, but Strade just pressed you harder on his dick, pushing it deeper. This pain was even worse than the one from the knife, it felt like he was tearing you apart from inside, bruising every part of your body.

(This is so hot)

You were drowning in cries and tears, your wounds still were bleeding, staining everything around you. Coldness of the basement's floor, smell of the blood, emotional breakdown, tiredness and blood loss made your head feel dizzy — you were about to pass out in every second. Rhythmic poundings in your abused tired cunt made it even worse, so you didn't notice how you blacked out.

You woke up from your disturbing slumber because of the sound of Strade's footsteps. You slowly opened your eyes. Your whole body was aching, blood crusts were covering you and you felt cold slick under your buttocks and thighs, probably, it was your urine. You looked down and noticed that all your wounds were sewn up with rough stitches that would leave scars after healing.

'Morning, sleeping beauty.' Strade was looking at you with a satisfied smile. Instead of you, he probably had a lot of fun yesterday. 

'Fucker…' you thought, staring at him from under your brows. Strade burst out laughing.

'It's not my fault that you pissed yourself, okay? I almost had time to put it out before your attack!' He kept giggling. 'Need something? Or can we continue our rendezvous?'

'I want to bathe,' you wheezed. All you wanted was to get rid of this stench that was coming from you and from all this blood that was covering your body.

'Bathe?' Strade asked in surprise. 'Bathe… Well, that's possible.'

 You closed your eyes to take a breath. Strade was walking somewhere away from you, then he came back and you had seen a hosepipe in his hand.

'Here's your bath, Schatz!' Strade opened the handle and a powerful spurt of ice water hit you right in your chest, causing you to scream. 'Oops, wrong pressure!' He changed the pressure and started pouring you from head to toes, like a fanciful plant. Now you were cold and wet. 'Wow! Look at this little swamp I made. All for you, Fröschli! How do you feel, though?'

(Lovely)

The water and your blood made dirt on a dusty concrete floor. 

'Great!' You snapped. It was unusual for you to answer with such a tone, but you couldn't help it. You noticed that Strade's facial expression had changed and hurried to make up for your sudden outbreak of anger. 'Strade, please… Can you give me something to eat and drink? It would be very nice to have something. I… feel very dizzy. Please…' talking to him with a dying voice you were looking at Strade with puppy eyes, begging him to feed you. 

'So polite, I like it.' Strade patted your head in reward. He came to the fridge and opened it, tapped his chin, deciding what you deserved to eat. 'You had a fever for a couple of hours after passing out, so you can have a sandwich. We want you to have enough power for our next game, right?'

'R-right!' You gave him a wry smile. You wanted to take the sandwich from Strade's hand, but remembered that you were tied. 'Will you feed me?'

'Sure! Be a nice girl and say a-am!'

Strade took the food out of its container and held it to your lips. You did like he said, as you didn't want him to punch you. 'Here you go. Don't hurry, we have enough time.'

At least he was nice while feeding you, you decided. Your hungry stomach twitched in pain as you made the first bite. It was a simple product store chicken sandwich, terrible while cold and a little better while being warmed up. It seemed like Strade wasn't caring about what to eat and didn't bother himself with cooking. You finished it quickly and Strade opened a bottle of water for you. This simple action marveled you enough: you expected him to put the hose pipe in your mouth and turn it on high pressure.

'Thank you, Strade.' You felt much better now. You could never think that you had so much health and stamina to be able to talk and think straight after everything he had done to you. Maybe you still were under the effect of adrenaline, maybe Strade had given you some drugs while you were blacked out — it didn't matter. You had to survive one more day in his company, and you were sure that today would be much more cruel than yesterday. 

'No need, meine Süße, you make a cute face while eating,' Strade patted your head one more time, like you were a dog. 'You told me in the bar that you want to see my creations.'

You broke a cold sweat and you felt weakness in the pit of your stomach. Strade placed a black box in front of you. It was closed and looked like a tool box, but after Strade opened it, you had seen a phone handset inside and strange details. 

'That's a field telephone, Schatz. It was developed in the United States, then it was spread worldwide, and used in both World Wars, and many others. This model I made myself. Look here,' Strade pointed his finger at a small lever on the external part of the box. 'It's a dynamo, it creates electricity. And this,' he pointed at a prominent case inside the telephone, 'This is flame resistant. It is made of paper impregnated with a plasticized phenol formaldehyde resin. Did you understand at least a half of what I had said, Schatz?' 

Strade gave you an indulgent gaze and smiled, as if he was talking to a kid, while you were praying to be wrong at guessing the reason he decided to show you this cursed phone.

'Yes! It was very interesting to hear. Can you tell me more, please? How is it used without cables?' You stammered, feeling tremor in your hands. 

'I'll tell you later, Schatz. Now it's time for my reward. Don't be so egoistic.' Strade cut off the ropes. He took one of your hands and stretched it, then started to put wires on your fingers. 'We are gonna play a very interesting game! A guy who I was working with long ago had taught me this. Are you excited?' Strade waited for your nod. 'Great, Schatz. The rules are simple: I ask you questions, you answer them correctly. If not — I press the dynamo. Hast du kapiert?' 

(Do you understand?)

You nodded. It was easy to predict the rules of his game, but Strade kept explaining it to you.

'So, the first question. What is the biggest island in the world?' 

You were expecting to hear everything, but not this. You were confused and chuckled at this stupid question. Your laughter made Strade smile too, and you, tricked by a false tenderness, didn't notice how he pulled on the dynamo. In the next second your muscles contracted, piercing you with so much pain that you couldn't imagine even in your bravest thoughts. 

'I don't like to repeat myself, so you better remember what I asked you if you can, of course.' Now Strade was the one to laugh. You were laying on the floor with your eyes wide open and trying to catch your breath.

'Greenland…' you whispered, still shocked.

'Yes, correct! Well, I guess I shouldn't ask such questions to a girl who trashed her whole apartment with books.'

You almost jumped at his words, the puzzle in your head made a whole picture. All this time you weren't crazy. Your foreboding was right. 

'Let's ask you something personal then. Why did you leave your parents?' It was clear that for Strade the game wasn't funny at all: he didn't care about you, he enjoyed only pulling on the trigger. He didn't want to kill you yet, so he had to give you chances on saving yourself from another jolt by giving honest and correct answers. 

'Because of my paranoia. I was afraid to stay with them.' It wasn't the complete truth, but it wasn't a lie either. Despite it sounding so well and smooth from your mouth, Strade felt that you were hiding something. His hunter's instinct sensed clearly the little shaking of your voice and caught the moment you lowered your gaze to the floor. 

'So you left the warm and caring family house and started living in a shitty flats where murderings were committed, right? You think I'm an idiot, Schatz?' Strade pressed on the dynamo, laughing wickedly at your convulsions. 'You are kinda calm here. Not like others. They were screaming and shouting "Oh Strade please let me go! i won't tell anyone! please put your knife back"' And when they finally realized that I won't let them go, all of them started to curse me. While you are just waiting silently for me to return, not a noise coming from you while I'm gone. Sometimes I even think that you died here without me! Feels like home, Schatz?' 

You pursed your lips and looked away. It wasn't fair. He couldn't dare to open your old psychological wounds that you managed to heal with a great effort, but Strade was staring at you, his light brown eyes were burning you with an intent, waiting gaze. Strade's smile, that once made you feel better, now was making you feel nauseous.

'My mother abandoned me when I told her that I don't want to be a financial expert and won't send my documents to the college she had picked for me…' You bit on your lower lip. 'She is very strict and unforgiving. She forgot about me so fast, like I had never existed. I didn't want to move out, but she told me to. Thank God I had money saved on my account, and my grandpa gives me some every month. With a bursary from my college I had… I have enough to live.' 

'Poor baby,' Strade cooed and cupped your cheek, rubbing on your skin with his calloused thumb. 'I bet you wish she could see you right now. See everything you have to come through and regret what she has done to you. Want her to suffer, hate herself for cutting you off from your family, owe you care and love for the rest of her life.' 

'Why…' Your eyes widened at his words. 'Why would I?..'

'Because I know you well enough to understand it.' 

Strade smiled his satisfaction: it was amusing to see you doubting your own feelings. It was so easy to trick you. He loved your face at the moments like this: fine eyebrows raised, your doe-like eyes shining with a clear bewilderment, and your mouth slightly opened, as if you wanted to object, but didn't dare to. 

'You should be thankful you have me, Schatz. I will always be here for you to solve your problems.' 

You didn't believe your ears and gave Strade a confused, stupid look from your eyes. It couldn't be true. You probably were delirious. 

'I am, Strade.' You forced a smile on your bloodless lips. 

'Gutes Mädchen!' Strade was pleased enough with your answer and gave you another head pat. It was time for him to leave, but he didn't want to — his emotions about you were so complicated he chased them away, knowing perfectly one day he would have to live through them. You were his obsession — and he didn't want to admit it. Admit that he was bewitched by his own captive, admit that he was addicted to you and that his mood depended heavily on yours. Something beyond his understanding, something supernatural had linked you to him, caged Strade in a cage of his desires. You were the number one to him, you were the top priority, despite everything he was doing to humiliate and destroy you in a futile attempt to stifle his feelings. 

(Good girl! (for animals))

Maybe it wasn't too bad to fall in love with someone? The unique experience he had brought you through made you two really close by now, but could Strade trust you? It was a good question, and Strade needed to test you before actually letting you live with him. He left you without tying you back to the pole and didn't lock the basement's door. You were free to walk here and touch everything you wanted: you could even take his tools and have a fight with him! Strade was ready for your every move, but you were silent as usual, not a rustle even could be heard from the basement. He was expecting you to come out at night, but you didn't do it as well. 

You were waiting for Strade to come back nervously. It was obvious that he was testing you, so you did your best to behave. You had water and food there, but you didn't touch anything without his permission: you were afraid he would get mad at you. This irrational fear chained you to your place and didn't let you breathe freely, while he was gone. You were starving, your aching wounds needed painkillers and care, but you kept enduring the discomfort. You wanted to survive — and the thought of a reward for this test was giving you power and determination. 

Maybe Strade wasn't bad at all, you thought and got terrified from it. He was a sadist and a maniac, and you could only imagine how many people he had slaughtered before you, as well as how many would come to this damned basement after. Strade was a monster and a psychopath you should be aware of. He was a little more patient with you, but it didn't mean anything good for you — he would offset later, you were sure. There was a saw in the basement, nothing would stop him from sawing you in half, or decapitating you while being alive. You had too many fears: they were driving you crazy even worse than Strade. You were expecting everything from him: starting from pulling out your nails and peeling your skin and ending with bludgeoning you to death, until the unrecognizable meat blob. What if he would cut off the parts of your body and make you eat it? You shook your head, trying to free yourself from thoughts like this. You were behaving well and pleasing him enough. You would do even more for him if he let you go upstairs. You would never escape or say a bad word to him, would be obedient until he would decide to let you go by himself.

And then… you weren't sure what you would do after, but you were sure you wouldn't go to the police. You believed Strade wouldn't be arrested, and you didn't need his revenge. It was better to befriend a monster like him.

Strade came back to check on you the other day. He was pleasantly surprised to find you sleeping; he examined all his stuff to find out if you had stolen something, but nothing was touched. You either were fooling him or you were a real idiot. Strade wouldn't believe you didn't want to eat or drink, but the fridge was full of beer and various food. Were you waiting for him to hear his permission to eat? — it was outstanding. He had never met someone like you before. 

'I guess I should thank your parents, Schatz. For raising a stupid and obedient doll like you,' Strade whispered at your sleeping face. He took a knife from the ceiling and slightly pressed its end right under your eye and let it slide down, carefully, not to cut you but to leave a small red stripe that looked like a bloody tear. Your face was the most loveliest one he had ever seen, and he didn't want to leave scars on it — such a perfection of Nature should be delighting him in its original state. 

You woke up, but didn't shift — your inner senses had saved you. Terrified, you felt tears dropping from your eyes, the one repeated the way of Strade's knife, causing you pain.

'Hey girl,' Strade pressed his knife between your brows. 'You are very, very stupid. I know all your little manipulations. You're not the first to suck up to me.'

You lowered your face in shame, standing the ruin of your plan. Of course you knew that someone had certainly tried this way to survive before you, but you thought that you would do it better. Somehow you would make everything perfect and he would trust you. You were lost — you didn't even know were your emotions real or fake. In both ways you were shocked with yourself, at how calm you were despite everything that was happening. Maybe it was something wrong with you?

'Where is your smile now, Schatz?' Strade grabbed you by your hair and forced you to look at him. 'This martyrdom face of yours makes me sick.' He narrowed his eyes, their gaze showed clear disdain. Strade showed the tip of the knife to your lips, forcing you to open them, then pressed it to the corner of your mouth. 'Smile, or I will have to teach you how to do it.'

You smiled, smiled until the pain in your cheeks, while tears were streaming down your face. You were looking at Strade in panic, trying to catch every single change in his pose and emotions, mentally preparing yourself for stinging pain and blood loss. You were breathing rapidly, gasping for air deliberately and carefully not to move the blade accidentally. You were scared to death that Strade would execute his plan and tear the half of your face. 

'That's much better.' Strade became jolly, no sign of a sudden outbreak of anger and grumbling. You exhaled loudly when he put the knife out of your mouth, but your arms were still trembling. 'Poor baby. Suffering here and all because of me,' he started talking in a caring voice, then it became mocking. 'Say something already.'

'I have nothing to add.' You barely spoke, as you suddenly felt exhausted. Your eyes were closing, but you tried to keep them open. Your whole body was numb and sore, all the pain was withdrawn into the background and seemed alien to you. 'I'm sorry.'

You closed your eyes and fell asleep immediately. When you woke up, you were alone. You heeded, listening for Strade's steps, and heard nothing. Your stomach hurt with hunger, your limbs were stiff and your whole body felt cold — you didn't want to do anything with it; you were too tired to move, even breathing was hard for you. You heard a noise of falling drops of water, and its monotonous sound started to irritate you immediately, but you managed to come back to sleep, falling into the deep dreamless slumber that felt like suspended animation.

You didn't know how many days had left since you were captured in Strade's basement, but you were sure that your friends and teachers from the college had noticed your sudden disappearance. You were a good student and didn't skip even a day of lessons, so it was obvious that something had happened to you. Probably they had already visited the police and now the story about you was in the news report. You were steadfast in your statement, and it warmed your heart. You were sure you would be saved soon.

You woke up because of a spurt of cold water that was splashed in your face. You sat immediately and started coughing, but it was impossible due to the stream that was hitting you right in your face and filling your nostrils and mouth. You tried to protect your face with arms, but they were tied to the pole; you tried to dodge, but the stream was following your moves. When Strade decided that he had enough with you, he closed the handle and you got an opportunity to breathe and cough.

'Good way to know that you are still alive, Schatz.' He giggled at uncontrollable shaking of your body and your barking cough. 'You slept for two days straight, my dear! Didn't even wake up when I decided to play with you.'

You immediately started to look at your body to find the traces of his 'games', and you found them — small white dots of burned skin with a vivid pink edge, the one that appeared after a cigarette burn, were located on your shoulder. Then you felt that something was leaking out from your core, and you shuddered in disgust. How sick he was to use you while you were unconscious?

'When was the last time you ate?' Strade dropped the hose pipe carelessly and came to you to untie your hands. You let out a groan when you finally moved them, and heard an obnoxious crack of numb limbs. You looked at your wrists with two stripes of rope burns on each hand, bright red and aching. 

'When you fed me…' you tried to get up, stretch your body, but fell on your trembling knees and put your hands in front of you not to hurt your face, but they gave way under your body and you plopped on the ground. Both of your palms and knees were scratched and started itching badly, as well as rope burns and other wounds. 

'How pathetic. Was it worth it? I mean starving yourself to this state.' Strade clicked his tongue and leaned on the counter, watching your attempts to get up on your own. 'You know, you can always ask for help. Why do I have to remind you of such simple things? Vollidiot.'

(Idiot)

'Don't insult me, please, I want to do it myself.' You made another attempt, this time you were doing everything slowly, without putting too much effort not to open the old wounds and not to hurt the new one. You managed to rise on your legs and leaned to the pole, using it as a help. This simple action took all of your power, and you heard noise inside your head.

'No need for pole dancing, Schatz, feel sorry for me.' Strade giggled at his joke and a sigh you made.

'It's not funny.'

'No, it is!' In proof of his words he guffawed. 'You are very talkative today. Asked the Wizard of Oz for a bravery potion?'

Your body gave up much faster than you expected and you slowly sat on the floor, breathing rapidly and shaking both from cold and tiredness. Until now you didn't understand how dangerously cold your body was: your limbs could hardly move, and every manipulation you tried to perform was clumsy and slack. Your throat spasmed in a coughing fit; you started coughing with a loud dry cough that became worse instead of giving you a sort of relief. All the air in your lungs had ended fast enough to make you choke, forcing you to get on your hands and knees to ease the torturing cough. You inhaled sharply with a whistle, gulping your cough, then froze before another coughing fit broke you. Saliva was running down your lower lip and chin, dripping on the floor, but you ignored it, as your throat felt raw and sore.

'Don't you dare die like this, Hure.' Strade was watching you carefully, with a certain irritation. 'If you are acting like this to make me take you upstairs you will regret it. Why are you always bringing me troubles?'

(Whore)

You were lying on your stomach silently, waiting for Strade's final decision. You couldn't think: your head was empty, you felt fever slowly taking over you and muffling every other sound with a noise in your ears. Strade came to you and kicked you in the ribs with the toe of his boot to turn you over on your back.

'I guess I don't have a choice. I'll get you some medicine. For now, you can go upstairs, Schatz. See you here.' Strade smiled and left the basement, but didn't close the door. The light from the house was lighting up the dusty floor. It felt like a mock: he knew you wouldn't be able to go upstairs by yourself, still he left you. 

You started crawling to the stairs, ignoring muscle pain and the fact that you were dragging your hardly healed wounds on the sharp floor. You would do anything to escape the basement and stay another night upstairs, in warmth and comfort. Step after step you were slowly climbing up the stairs; your teeth were clenched, your bloodless lips stuck to each other. If Strade wanted you to die he would have just tortured you to death, but he wanted you alive — he gave you enough opportunities to recover after his visits. You just needed to hold out a little longer, and everything would end. 

It smelled nicely with food and your stomach made a loud rumbling, you felt it twisted from hunger. You heard music playing from the other room: calm and slow, with a man's vocal and pleasant melody. Surprisingly, the music made you feel better. Everything seemed to be alive and normal. 

'Here you are, Schatz! Go find a bathroom before going to the kitchen. I won't let you join the table while you look like a pig.' Strade stooped and patted your head. 'You will have to clean the mess you made later.'

'Yes, Strade…' you whispered, then you felt him picking you up on your legs suddenly. Your vision blurred and you immediately felt dizzy, leaned to the nearest wall, trying not to fall down again. 

'Save at least a little human dignity, Schatz, don't crawl here like some disgusting insect.' Strade grinned. 

Strade didn't stay for long: he told you how to find the bathroom and left. Taking a hot shower felt like a blessing, despite another wave of pain that you felt from water and shower gel. While showering you were heeding to hear the music again, to catch at least some noise. You didn't miss a chance to wash your underwear — you weren't sure if Strade had any lingerie. 

'I forgot to give you something, Schatz!' Right after you were thinking about him, Strade showed up in the bathroom without knocking or any warning. 'No need to cover up, I've already seen everything and even more.'

Out of instinct you covered your private parts with your hands, and his caustic remark made you feel sick. Strade gave a look at your body, rating his own work. To your own surprise you had found wounds you didn't know existed before — it seemed he had enough fun while you were blacked out. Scraped knees, deep blue bruises with purple droplets on your thighs and waist, small bruises in a form of his fingers on the inner part of your thighs, almost healed stubs and cuts (still with stitches) on the different parts of your body, cigarette and rope burns on your arms, small cut under your eye — another person wouldn't be able to look at you without tears, but you could swear Strade clicked his tongue in a criticizing manner — he, for sure, needed more to be pleased enough.

'Good, but not perfect,' he shook his head, and you sucked the air sharply at his words. You didn't want to he perfect, not for him. 

'I need to dress up.' You looked away to escape his stare. 

'So what? Go ahead.' Strade arched his brows. 'Oh, I guess the problem. You want some privacy, Schatz?'

You nodded carefully. 'If that's possible.'

'No, it's not!' Strade chuckled. 'I spoiled you, Schatz. You really need a behavior lesson. Why are you caring about privacy so much? Don't you like my company?'

'No! It's not what I meant!' You exclaimed and hurried to get out of the shower and start drying yourself. 'Can I use the towel?'

'Sure.'

Strade kept staring at you, watching your every move carefully. You tried to ignore it, convincing yourself that it was okay, but your heart was pounding heavily and your hands started shaking. You dried yourself and dressed up in a black longsleeve and simple domestic shorts. The clothes were bigger your size and obviously belonged to Strade — it still had the scent of his deodorant.

Your stomach had twisted in pain again and you felt the new wave of fatigue. All these events made you feel a little better but the effect was short and made you feel even worse than before. You covered your mouth with your palm, then yawned, both from sleepiness and lack of fresh cold air.

'Go to the kitchen, Schatz.' Strade smiled slyly. His face was strangely satisfied and a little smile never left his lips. You tensed up, praying for him not to scald or burn you in the kitchen.

You came to the kitchen on your tiptoes (you were afraid to step on the floor with your whole feet as if the sound of your steps could probably piss Strade off), and had seen the table with a plate of soup. Strade passed by you and took a seat, chuckled at your confused look.

'Come here, Schatz. I want a little company for lunch.' Strade pointed his arm on the dog bowl that was staying near his chair. You missed it when you were looking around. 

Did he want you to eat from the bowl? By the joyful expression of his face you understood — yes, he did. Tears filled your eyes, but you did as he told you to: sat on your knees and leaned to the bowl. It was filled with a simple chicken soup and smelled nice, making your stomach grumble loud enough for Strade to hear.

'Thank you…' You appreciated this act of care from his side, but tears dropped from your eyes into the soup. 

'Enjoy your food!' His tone was happy. 

Despite the humiliation and bitter anger in your heart, you started eating, lubberly licking the soup and catching meat and vegetables with your teeth. As a generous master, Strade tossed you a slice of bread, and his jest made you cry silently. It was disgusting, but you swallowed your resentment because you were terrified at the possible punishment for your protest.

You ate everything that was in your bowl, finally warmed up from inside. The result of a good lunch was clear: your body stopped shaking and your face got its delicate blush back. You were looking more vital, almost healthy.

Strade came from his seat and sat down on his knees in front of you. He touched your face, then wiped your mouth with a napkin.

'Gutes Mädchen. Healthy appetite is the key for a fast recovery.' Strade gave you another head pat, ruffling your dump hair. Confused, you freezed at his touch. It was… different. It wasn't a powerful, painful grip, it wasn't a domineering touch, it was something more intimate and gentle, appreciating. You were so thirsty and damaged, you couldn't help but lean to his hand, pressing your head to his palm and closing your eyes to catch this feeling fully. 'You like it when I'm touching you, Schatz, aren't you?' 

'Yes.' You opened your eyes and found him grinning eerily. 

It was the second part of the day, around two in the afternoon, you guessed. The weather was windy and rainy: the light from the window was cold and gray, putting the room into the dark. The sky was covered in heavy leaden clouds that were so thick they took the whole space, leaving a small expanse between the neighborhood and the sky. In this atmosphere Strade's smile had a special, terrifying meaning.

Strade gave you short instructions on what to do next, and you obeyed, immediately did his will. He wanted you to go to his room and rest: you found the master's bedroom easily and came inside, closing the door behind yourself. You hesitated for a moment, not sure if you should lay on the bed, but your tired body decided for you: joint pain, ache of your disturbed wounds and new wave of fever forced you to lay and cover up with the blanket. You didn't even give a quick look at the view in the window to get a better understanding of where you were staying. All the resources of your body were exhausted, and you fell asleep immediately on the soft mattress.

Strade found you sleeping and rolled his eyes in irritation — every time he was leaving you, you fell asleep the moment after. He was patient with this ability of yours only because of your current sickness and the fact that your body probably was fighting an infection by sending you to sleep. Despite the obvious cons, this method had its pros: at least you weren't annoying him with festering wounds and he didn't have to clean it, then cut off contaminated parts of your body after infection progressing, and the smell from you was way better than from others; you didn't die from blood loss or some heart issue, more to say, you were pretty strong and ready to endure everything he would put you through just to prolong your miserable life. What a praiseworthy enthusiasm! Also Strade wasn't as terrible as his victims portrayed him before their death. He was much more patient and merciful than his 'colleagues' and he kept his business clean: Strade had never promised things he wouldn't do, he gave all his victims a recovery period and hospitably fed everyone. He rarely got angry with anyone and had never touched youngsters and animals, had never blackmailed his victims' families with body parts or snuff videos of their darlings, no! Strade was a gentleman, as he used to call himself.

Strade opened the window to let the cold air inside the room, as he preferred chilly temperature inside his house. The moment after he went to bed he felt you pressing your body to his to find more warmth. It was already hot under the blanket, so Strade had just tugged you in it and hugged you with his arm, laughing to himself. You turned out to be a very affectionate and clingy person — and it added special fun to the game. Strade could easily tell that it wouldn't take too long from you to fall in love with him, especially while he would be staying in a good mood.

His unusual behavior that day was motivated by a new good deal with his old acquaintance, a business woman with plenty of rivals she wanted to get rid off. Her requests were an extra side job for Strade. She had never disappointed him: she gave him interesting cases of any complexity and paid well. Sometimes she even asked to make a certain person a new guest in his show for her to enjoy, and Strade couldn't resist her little wish. It wasn't hard for him to torture people for her, so the lady could sleep well for the rest of the next month or two. She was quarrelsome and somewhat hysterical, but it didn't bother Strade at all — he respected her as she did a great job to find him and convince him to work with her. Unlike others, she was an iron lady with a strong character and had enough contacts at the police and the local government to protect her own and Strade's reputation. Strade didn't need her protection, as he had his own connections saved from his previous job, but it was better for him to meet with new people not to make waves on their territory accidentally.

The world was a cruel place and you, little idiot, should be more grateful to him, Strade thought, looking at your calm sleepy face. You were a perfect type of victim: lone, timid, abandoned by her own family, and lived in the bad neighborhood and tended to rent cheap flats with an interesting background. For the landlords you were a dream came true: not a person with stable finances would ever rent a flat in which a murder or a robbery was done. Strade was surprised at how many apartments with a terrible backstory the city had — you were collecting them, Strade guessed. You were lucky to attract the attention of Strade: in your area there was another killer, who was more perverted (even Strade considered him sick) and plus to him, enough kidnappers and murderers were passing through the city in their cars, perfectly equipped for caring a body and getting rid of it somewhere in the woods or on a waste ground. Someone like you could never imagine how deep the web of crime was here: for you, as for every normal citizen, the city seemed to be peaceful, because police didn't know about the biggest part of disappearances.

You shifted in your dream, dropping off the blanket, and Strade felt the hectic warmth radiating from your body. Your breath became heavy and came in broken gasps, your cheeks reddened in an unhealthy way. You were in a fever, and Strade couldn't resist the desire to touch your skin, hot and sweaty. Despite the inner hotness, you were trembling from cold, and your nipples hardened from the temperature difference. It was easily seen through the longsleeve texture, seducing Strade. He could bet, you felt sort of neverending strange agony now, drowned in your torturing delusional slumber with psychedelic dreams worsened by aching pain in your joints, that made you tossing on the bed, trying to find the right position to ease your state. Using you and stuffing you full with his cum would be beyond cruel, and it aroused Strade even more. You looked vulnerable, even inviting, so Strade put your shorts off with a one motion and pulled his half erected cock out. Just pressing the tip against your soft smaller lips felt insanely good and Strade couldn't resist but thrust inside your cunt, bucking his hips into yours. You were too hot inside, almost scorched Strade with this unbearable warmth, like you were in heat actually. It was painful, but amazing, and in this both sadistic and masochistic pleasure Strade wasn't holding back, snapping up into you. Your face twitched in pain, but in this damned ill slumber you couldn't even realize what was real and what was fake. Strade pressed his fingers on the skin of your waist hard, squeezing it until a groan from your lips. You were suffering: he reduced you to nothing but an aching junk, the shell of a human — and it was just the beginning. 

You opened your eyes; your vision blurred, but a figure of Strade pounding into you could be guessed easily. You tried to shift, tensed your lower muscles, but made him feel better than before accidentally, as your spasming cunt hugged his dick tightly, sucking it deeper. Strade let out a moan, wicked smile showed on his lips. You blacked out, encouraging him to go rougher on you. Continuing in a brutal pace, Strade didn't care that you wouldn't be able to walk and sit for a few days after. He released himself inside your body with a low grunt, filling your still untrained cunt to the brim. Strade took out his now softening cock and put your shorts back, then covered you with a blanket again.

Day after day you were recovering slowly, and by the end of the week you finally were alright. You didn't have many things to do, so you were cleaning the house as best as you could in your state. Fortunately Strade liked to turn on the TV and leave for his duties, so you were always listening to a soft noise of it, never really caring about the shows that were running at the moment. You didn't need to understand what was on air  — you needed only a background noise that was calming you and making you feel less lonely here.

The neighborhood was fancy but deserted. It seemed that the biggest half of it just moved out, or, maybe, all of these rich men were having a nice vacation somewhere else. Strade didn't make an impression of someone, who could live in a neighborhood with such an expensive houses, but his house was nice (maybe less pretentious than the others on the street but still very well furnished and comfortable to be inside), making you wonder from where did he get so much money to buy it. You were free to walk everywhere inside, despite just the one room that was constantly locked by the key, which Strade was keeping with himself. You didn't need any adventures, so you weren't showing near it. 

Strade became a little nicer with you — he behaved more tender and didn't torture you for a while. You even started to forget how it feels to be restricted and cut, until you understood that Strade was planning something else for you — he was working at a body shop for the whole day and left it deep at night, ate the dinner made by you and went to sleep. You tried your best to behave, and Strade seemed to be pleased enough: he gave you head pats regularly, could even hug you, when he was in a good mood or had drunk three bottles of cheap beer. You decided to use it to your advantage and asked him to bring you the digital radio and some books from your apartment. Surprisingly, Strade agreed, and the first thing you got was your radio with headphones.

Later he invited you to go downstairs with him. Laughing at tears in your eyes and at your trembling legs, he was following you to the basement, blocking you the way out. Right after you stepped into the basement, Strade locked the heavy door after you and shouted that he would come later. Panicking, you started bumping at the door and pleading Strade to get you out, but he was gone already. 

In between hysterical tapping of your fists at the door you heard a noise downstairs. The noise was similar to a sigh, that changed to scream in a second. It belonged to a young woman — a terrifying shriek that made your heart slow down, before continuing in broken fast pace. You turned your head to her slowly, ignoring all the pleas for help. With your left eye twitching, you looked at her, but it was too dark for you to see and you only recognized the silhouette of her shaking body.

You came down as a shadow, settled in the nearest corner and sat on the floor, pressing your arms to your head. The girl didn't stop screaming, making it hard to ignore her. You wanted to help, you actually wanted to give this idea a try at least, but you knew Strade would come here soon and he would brutally punish you for what you did, so you chose to stay indifferent. You pressed your face to your knees, curling like an upset kid, and hugged your head as if you were protecting yourself. 

Finally the girl got tired from screaming and the basement went into silence. You didn't know how much time left before you heard Strade's steps above you, then the door cracked. You knew he needed to make ten heavy, leisure steps to come down. By habit you were counting them, and finally Strade turned the light on. 

'Doing yoga, buddy?' Strade giggled at your pose, his voice was sounding muffled, so you opened your eyes to see the reason for it. You froze in bewilderment when you noticed a professional camera on a tripod, a laptop on a table, and a tablet. By a miracle, you didn't get stuck in it in the dark, but it wasn't important for you. The most important things were a black mask with a print of the lower part of a human skull and the fact that the girl in front of you had the same type of appearance as you — from head to toes she looked just like you: being rather a sketch of yours, she remembered you as a whole, but after giving her a better look, the difference was clear. As if the whole situation was a homage to your first night with Strade, she was wearing black lingerie of the similar cut as you did. 'Well, sorry for interrupting you, but I need your assistance.'

'What is it?' You pointed on a tripod. 'What's going on?'

'That's a tripod, idiot. Never seen it? 'kay, it's a thing that holds the camera still at a needed level.' Strade turned the laptop on and started to set something up. 'You should stay behind the camera, buddy, and do what I said without delay. Understood?' Strade looked at you, and you nodded. The girl was watching you both with terrified eyes. 

'Strade, what are we going to do?..' Your scare was growing with every second. You almost shouted your words at him. 

'Some kind of dirty job that gives me money to keep you, wastrel.' 

You felt uneasy in your stomach. It was obvious now that Strade's job was hosting red rooms for perverts. You were close to fainting; you actually wanted to faint — just to escape this cruel reality you were forced to stay in.

'Why are you so gloomy, Schatz?' Strade came to you and lowered the mask to his chin. 'You are a big fan of the Neon Demon, I know. Probably, the bitch like you enjoys the scene in the morgue a lot. Wanna repeat it in real life after I finish the show?' Strade caught your chin and squeezed it with his thumb and index finger. 'I would like to see some girl on girl with you.' He put his tongue out and licked your lips, enjoying the way they turned pale from fear. Tracing your lower lip with the tip of his tongue, Strade forcefully pulled your chin down, opening your lips, and spat into your mouth. He whispered: 'Then you can eat her raw and bathe in her blood.'

The girl wanted to cry out, but she only broke into tears. You felt disgusting, so disgusting you wanted to kill yourself right now, disfigure your whole body to something gruesome and ugly like everything around you. Without any other preparations, the stream started.

It was going for thirty minutes already, and she didn't stop screaming even for a second. You didn't ask for more — just a fucking second of silence, without guttural screeching that was similar to the one that came from a slaughtered pigs on a butchery. Everything you could see was blood, so much blood you couldn't even imagine how you would clean it after. You were sitting on a chair in some kind of delusion. Every Strade's action you felt on yourself. Every shriek of this poor girl was yours, every knife, nail, chisel and blade she got, you took with her. 

'Hey, buddy,' Strade held out his hand, waiting for a new tool. 'Choose something for me. I trust your taste.'

You looked at all the tools in front of you and started shaking, feeling an urge to throw up. You just ran away as fast as you could without looking back. You barely made it to the toilet and almost had time to fall on your knees, before puking everything you ate. The red mash that still resembled human features was in your mind, torturing you worse than anything else.

Choose something for me…

You hardly stopped yourself from coughing, but Strade's words in your mind made you puke again and again, until there was only saliva and bile left in the vomit. Your forearms and thighs were itching badly, but you were breathless and tried to gasp for fresh air — the smell of the cleaning agent from the toilet was irritating your nostrils, making you feel nauseous again. He wanted you to kill her. He wanted you to participate in his vile plan but you escaped. Maybe you would better take something deadly to end her suffering… You finally touched your limbs with nails and started scratching it until blood, then moved to your face.

You needed to distract yourself, had to do something to forget about it, so you washed your mouth then started cleaning the toilet, but it wasn't enough. You were cleaning everything that was caught by your eyes. You needed a noise, something to talk in the background. You turned on the TV, found your radio, turned it on too and put earphones on your head, and continued what you were doing. Your hands were burning from chemicals, the skin became red and you felt as if it was melting — you didn't bother putting on a pair of protective gloves. 

'You are so fucking pathetic.'

You jumped from the surprise when your earphones had fallen down by a punch of Strade's palm, and his voice roared behind your back. When you wanted to turn around, you got punched in your face. You fell on the floor, pressing your arms to your bleeding nose. Strade kept beating you. His fists were tight and strong. Covering your body with blue bruises, he was punishing you for cowardice and disobedience. 

'When I give you an order,' Strade squatted and grabbed you by your hair. 'You behave.' He shook your head forcefully. 'Have problems with making a choice, buddy? I'll show you how you make it.'

Strade kept his fist tugged in your hair and dragged you on the floor back to the basement. You were screaming and shouting, trying to break out his iron grip: for the first time ever scratching his hand with your nails, grabbing the edges of furniture to slow him down. After he pushed you through the stairs you got on your knees and jostled him to make it upstairs. Strade kicked your ankle making you fall on your knees and left a smack on your cheek. The dead girl was lying here, so you grabbed him by his waist, piled on him with your weight to make Strade go down to your level. Your gaze caught what was left from the girl: her head was deformed, there were her teeth and fragments of her skull bones laying on the ground; one of her eyes was leaking, her throat was sliced wide open. You were terrified that the same fate was waiting for you.

He wanted to press his boot to your head, but you managed to dodge it. Drove by adrenaline, you attempted to hit him in his face, but Strade caught your hand and wrung it behind your back so hard your bones cracked. The brawl had ended. Strade started laughing manic and mocking; a kick under your knees, and you fell down. He made you turn on your back and sat on your hips. You pressed your damaged hand to your chest, your face twisted in pain. You were whimpering. You opened your eyes to see him; Strade was looking right in your face, greening wide. He spat in your face, giggling at your humiliated state.

'Someone likes to play dangerous games,' Strade pressed the knife to your neck. 'Hey, Schatz. Look at your colleague. She was beautiful, wasn't she? My followers had so much fun with her today. Wanna take her place next time? Buddies are dying to see me destroying the holes of some bitch before pulling her guts out.'

You kept silent. 

'I'm sorry…' it was all you could say. You felt indifferent. Maybe it was some kind of psychological protection, but suddenly all your feelings had disappeared. There was only pain left.

'No, you aren't.' From Strade's lips it sounded like a sentence. 'What's wrong with you today? I don't even want to punish you physically when you are so fucking lifeless.'

Strade was upset with you, but there was something tricky in the intonation of his voice. 'Get up, Schatz. Go and do whatever you were doing.'

The flame of hope lit on your face and Strade had roughly broken it by stabbing your shoulder. For the next hour or two he was forcing you to choose the tool he would torment you with. The dead girl was watching everything with her open dry eyes, and at the end of the lesson Strade had left you with her in the basement for the night.

A week after Strade got your books. With it, he brought your cosmetic bag and your lotions. Strade told you he liked you better with black eyeshadow on your eyes and reddish lips, so you had to put makeup on every morning and keep it until night. Every time you opened your bag, Strade appeared near you and watched your every move, observing how your face was changing depending on the shape of eyeshadow and depths of the color. Right after you put your lipstick on, Strade took your face by your chin and lifted it, making you look in his eyes. Usually, you were sitting on a chair, and he was standing above you, biting his own lip. The deep red color on your mouth looked like blood and kept Strade excited. He pressed his thumb to your lower lip, pulling it down and revealing your teeth, then showed it into your mouth, pressing on your tongue and encouraging you to show it. Starting from sucking on his fingers, you were preparing yourself for another blow job that would leave your throat aching and bruised. Strade didn't like to be teased, and it killed all the intimate moods that you got sometimes. Instead of slow and sensual foreplay he preferred rough and fast, almost animalistic fucking without any care for your pleasure. You didn't even need to try to imitate interest in the process: Strade just grabbed your hair and started pounding inside your mouth, pulling his dick down your throat until your nose met the bush of his hard pubic hair. He let you go right after he came and seemed to forget easily about what had just happened.

It was a miracle to catch him in a mood for non violent sex. It turned out he had a normal sexual interest in women in addition to his routine fetishes, and he could offer you almost a healthy experience. You hated yourself in moments like this: you were clinging to him like a dog, asking for attention and caress, and he gave you them before turning back into a monster. 

You hated yourself for screaming from pleasure and squirming for him, when Strade's tongue slid inside your cunt, while he was eating you out from behind, just to come even further and tickle your virgin asshole. Strade got even harder himself when he was pressing his lips to your other hole in a lewd kiss, and your tight muscles clenched around the tip of his tongue. Vibrations of your voice and trembling in your lips and jaws around his length sent him shivers — sixty-nine was Strade's favorite pose in sex, because it let the both of you be busy with working for each other's pleasure at the same time. Before sucking him fully, you traced your tongue along his length, giving more attention to the tip, kissing it and sucking on it in a teasing manner with your rapid and heated breaths, wetness and softness of your mouth sliding around his dick gradually and sucking in extra foreskin, while pumping him with your warm palm. After sixty-nine followed missionary: nothing busted Strade's lecherous nature more, than your submission. Strade felt unlimited power and control over your body, eagerly letting you cum if you begged him enough. It felt so strange to release from his cock thrusting into you brutally, your soft flesh took him too well for you to be ashamed of. Your body needed him more than your soul, the sexual tension between the both of you was too strong to resist. Even when he was raping you, you managed to find the way to enjoy yourself. 

For a while, everything was peaceful. Strade and you became closer: you spent most of the day chatting, he seemed to be more affectionate and gentle, but with it he started to take his anger out on you easily, could throw something in you — you had already got a cup, a magazine and pliers in your head. It was funny for him to cut you with a knife out of blue just to see your scared face. Your body got numerous scars; every time you looked at it in the mirror, you started crying.

Strade liked to tell you stories. He told you he was working as a security chief in a mental hospital, but was fired for abuse of authority. He told you, how this hospital was performing experiment on patients, how staff was raping them and how them were raping, murdering and fighting each other. How innocent people were sent here and had never come back, how many powerful connections all the directors had. Strade told you how many criminals were sent here, how they shared with him their dirty thoughts and deeds, how much they enjoyed everything they had done. Strade told you about all the forums where disgusting videos of humiliation, cannibalism, murdering, sexual violence, drugs and weapon making were posted. Strade showed you all the information about you on the internet that you didn't even know existed, and it made you terrified at the thought that someone could actually stalk you through it. Strade loved telling you about freaks who were seeking for their victims online and how they made their way from searching for information to actually killing the person — and he enjoyed combining it with pounding into your cunt, as it tightened around him painfully every time he started this topic.

Strade trained you to be grateful. He made you think that he was the only one who could protect you, that without him someone would assault you immediately, because for perverts and madmen you were a tidbit. By some subtle process he managed to imbue you the idea of your exclusivity. Everyone would want to own you, that's why you should be extra careful. Strade shared with you how other kidnappers were treating their victims, and you actually believed that Strade was the best. 

Whenever Strade didn't talk to you, you were listening to the radio. It was much easier to cope with your thoughts and compulsions while listening to the calming voice of a narrator or to music. You were falling in love with him, and you didn't like it. It was hard to fight your own feelings: you wanted to hug him, kiss him every second of your miserable life. The fact that your existence depended on his mercy started to thrill you in a good way: he had everything he wanted because there were no rules and no morals for him. 

With the leftovers of your sanity, you tried to find the reason why no one was searching for you. Strade liked to watch news reports every evening while seeping a beer, and you were watching it with him, dreaming of seeing your face on a channel, but it was never shown. Your sudden disappearance wasn't a surprise for your circle, as you didn't have anyone who really cared about you. Everyone you had known was expecting you to disappear one day because of your mental distress, and they were sure you would show up later, so they didn't bother themselves with your problems. Everyone around you was so busy with themselves that they even ignored the fact that everything you had left in the rented apartment was sold and that you were dismissed from the college for absenteeism.

You didn't notice how you explained everything to Strade about the conflict in your family. You opened your heart for him: you told him that your mother mistreated you since childhood and made up for her attitude with money. She had a habit of giving inappropriate reactions to the simplest things: today she reacted to it calmly, but the week after the same situation made her furious. You had to be grateful to have clothes, food, water, and a roof above your head. You needed to be quiet, and she raised you as an obedient girl: she hated you for bringing her troubles of any sort, so since childhood, you had to solve everything yourself. When you became older, she was jealous of you to your father: she had seen you as a harlot and thought that you were seducing her husband. She was just seeking a reason to kick you out of the house — and she found it. As for your father, he was henpecked, so he didn't really care about what was happening. You told Strade how you were bouncing from one messed-up apartment to another, about your disappointing first love, your unhealthy obsession with book collecting, and everything else. You even shared with him how badly your heart ached because no one was searching for you, your disappearance went unnoticed by everyone, even the renter didn't do at least something to know what had happened to you. And Strade was the first one to comfort you.

How wrong it felt to get compassion from your tormentor, but you took it gladly and with gratitude. Even if it was fake, you were ready to believe his lie until he was treating you as his best victim. He was the only one who really cared about you. You liked to be unique for him: when he was hammering a nail in your arm, stabbing you with a screwdriver, burning a cigarette off of your skin, or breaking your legs, you felt loved. When Strade made a deep cut on your shoulder and pressed his lips to it, sucking your blood from a fresh wound, circling its edges and penetrating it with his tongue, you felt appreciated. When he locked the shock collar on your neck and pressed the button every time you misbehaved, you felt cherished. With your forearms looking like raw meat because of all the cuts you left while itching, you experienced a blessing.

In this house, you felt like home.

[the--blackdahlia]

The Girl With Golden Eyes (Michael Keaton x Reader)

Title: The Girl With Golden Eyes

Summary: Michael meets his muse while sitting in a booth at a bar.

Warnings: None really

Michael sat at a booth in the back of the bar, his open notebook mocking him as he stared at it. No matter how hard he tried, the words weren’t coming out. He groaned and laid his head against the back of the booth. How was he supposed to write songs for his band if he kept thinking about how nothing rhymes with orange? He sat back upright, about to return to work, when he saw you across the bar. Carrying your fruity drink and looking around for a place to see. You looked his way, locking eyes with him. He closed his notebook and motioned for you to join him.

“This seat taken?” You asked over noise of the jukebox. The band wasn’t scheduled to play for a bit.

“Only by you,” He smirked and you felt butterflies in your stomach as you sat down. “Come here often?” Smooth Mike, real smooth.

“Oh, just to see the band. Heard they were pretty good. Wanted to check them out myself.”

“Really now?” He leaned forward on his elbows, watching you. “You like music?” Jesus Christ Mike, no wonder you can’t get anything written down when you come up with winners like that.

“I like musicians,” You smirked and took a sip of your drink.

“Must be why you’ve found yourself at my table,” He offered his hand. “I’m Michael. I sing and play guitar.”

“Well Michael, I’m (Y/n). And I appreciate guys who sing and play guitar.” You took his hand and felt a bit of a spark between the two of you. “Are you working on anything?” You pulled your hand back quickly, much to his chagrin.

“Well, trying,” He showed you a beaten up old notebook, with Justic League logos printed all over the cover. “Haven’t had much luck yet though. Must be in a dry spell.”

“We can’t have that, now can we?” You leaned forward, looking at the notebook. “Write something about yoru girlfriend, or wife.”

“I would if I had one,” He shyly rubbed the back of his neck. “I was dating my drummer at one point, but she and I wanted completely different things.”

“Hmm, I see,” You drummed your fingers on the table. “Write a breakup song?”

“Well, it was over two years ago and she’s married with a kid now. So I don’t think a breakup song about her would really make sense,” He couldn’t stop staring at you, the way your eyes shined under the neon lights, highlighting flecks of gold. 

Golden eyes linger across the bar

Attached to a girl

To know who you are

Michael quickly grabbed his notebook and started scribbling down the words. You watched him with amazement.

“Well, I guess I’ll let you to it…” You started to get up, but his hand reached out and snagged you.

“I haven’t had this much energy to write in years. You’re now my muse. Please stay, or I might never get it out,” Michael stared at you with those deep blue eyes you had just seen a few minutes prior. How could you say no to him?

“Well sure, but buy me another drink?” You pushed forward your empty glass. Michael smiled and flagged down Rachael, the sweet waitress from Kansas City who always seemed to be working during his shows here. He put another one of your drinks on his tab before going back to scribbling in his notebook.

“Almost there,” His hand was aching from how much he was writing. This was it. This was going to be the hit that finally got them out of the clubs and into the big time. Before he the ink was even dry, he pushed it over to you to read.

“Golden eyes?” You looked at him. “Who’s this about?”

“My muse,” Michael purred, leaning in to kiss you. You leaned in too, about to let him.

“Hey babe! You made it!”

You and Michael jumped back from each other as a man made his way over to kiss you.

“Hey Jessie,” You smiled at your boyfriend before turning to look at Michael, who was staring with wide eyes.

“Oh hey Mike! I see you met my girl (Y/n). I was worried she wasn’t going to make it for our set,” Your boyfriend wasn’t just anyone. He was Michael’s guitarist Jessie.

“Uh…yeah,” Michael pulled the notebook away from you and held it close to his chest. “Guess we should head backstage to get ready. I’ll see you later.” He quickly got up and left, all too aware of Jessie loving on you before heading backstage as well.

He stared at the notebook in his hand for a little bit, debating on throwing the song away. But he just couldn’t. He just couldn’t throw that hard work away. 

Especially when all he wanted was Jessie’s girl.

[neopronouns]

colorgenders inspired by the results of a “What is your Aura” quiz ((https://)uquiz(.)com/quiz/pxTx2D/what-color-is-your-aura):

Sky: short poems, teacups, clear skies, diaries, dripping icicles, tears, tennis shoes.

Honeysuckle: succulents, key lime, glow-in-the-dark stars, blown glass, honeydew, garter snakes, notes in bottles.

Seafoam: clear water, milkshakes, crystals, agave, candy dishes, converse, seashells.

Yellow: daisies, road signs, bumblebees, lemon meringue, bicycles, polaroids, awnings.

Hickory: felled oak, brass, sunken ships, olive pits, graphic shirts, splinters, dark room.

Orange: guitars, fanta bottles, sunglasses, orange peels, butterflies, popsicles, paper lanterns.

Sage: herb clippings, matcha, bullet journals, mini backpacks, needle felts, pistachio, laptop stickers.

Teal: dyed hair, scales, doc martens, aurora borealis, stormy seas, kingfishers, agate. 

Royal (blue): crown jewels, portraits, satin chairs, masquerades, nebulas, betta fish, secrets.

Gold: lion statues, coins, gold leafing, bound books, goldfinches, crowns, heart lockets. 

Crimson: rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewellery.

Navy: brush strokes, suit jackets, midnight, comforters, star gazing, arctic waters, starlings.

Forest: fern leaves, greenhouses, cloaks, bookstores, pine trees, chokers, snake scales. 

honey: friendship bracelets, beehives, school buses, children's books, flower petals, honeyed toast, polaroids. 

Ashen: old newspapers, smoke, quiet cities, pale cheeks, pebbles, chalk, the clouded moon.

Garnet: Brooches, anthologies, stained glass, leaves, dining chairs, long robes, curtains.

Chiffon: stone walls, sweaters, moths, dusty lace, animal tracks, incense, throw pillows.

Red: leather jackets, cherries, bruised knuckles, roses, lipstick, fast cars, rose petals.

Magenta: splattered paint, glitter, childhood friends, neon, pleather, dance floors, crystals.

Amaranth: bundled flowers, ribbon, merlot, overcoats, gemstones, lipstick prints, red velvet.

Periwinkle: knit hats, candies, tiny flowers, beads, teacups, washi tape, clouds.

Jade: islands, sketchbooks, rainy windows, pendants, puzzle pieces, tree frogs, sea glass.

Pink: cupcakes, sunglasses, pink sands, starbursts, pinky promises, flower crowns, ice cream.

Rose: lace, blown kisses, milk tea, paper fans, pillows, ballet slippers, fairy wings.

Amethyst: earrings, violet corts, parades, gemstones, insect wings, grape bushels, outer space.

Noir: drops of ink, eyeliner, crows, spiders, charcoal, painted nails, the night.

Cream: dandelions, marble, bottled coffee, hair ties, banana cream, bedsheets, sketches. 

Beige: lattes, dry fields, footprints, easels, cat fur, pottery, fresh-baked cookies.

Pearl: abalone, perfume bottles, chandeliers, tulle, ball jointed dolls, satin, paint palettes. 

Bronze: leather books, cowboy hats, foxes, candle jars, sword hilts, cobblestone streets, hourglasses

Amber: autumn days, freckles, torches, cabins, fossils, unbrushed hair, enamel pins.

Fire: sunrises, woven blankets, campfires, tigers, whiskey, monarchs, road trips.

Purple: geodes, club lights, ferris wheels, sunglasses, hummingbirds, eyeshadow, outer space. 

Blush: lollipops, warm cheeks, lip gloss, flowers, flamingo feathers, painted nails, heart glasses.

finally done with all of these — they're queued!

[noisycowboyglitter]

"Why Every Grandma Needs a Groovy Momo Butterfly T-Shirt in Her Wardrobe"

Grandma Groovy Momo, with her vibrant spirit and love for butterflies, is a true character. Her home is a kaleidoscope of colors, much like the wings of her beloved lepidoptera. Visitors are greeted by a garden teeming with butterfly-friendly plants, a testament to her green thumb and passion for nature.

Buy now:19.954

Inside, Momo's walls are adorned with an eclectic mix of butterfly artwork - from vintage scientific illustrations to psychedelic 1960s-inspired prints. Her collection of butterfly brooches, accumulated over decades, sparkles from a display case, each with its own story.

Momo's fashion sense is as unique as she is. She often sports flowing, butterfly-print kaftans or tie-dye shirts paired with her signature oversized, butterfly-shaped sunglasses. Her silver hair is usually adorned with butterfly clips, adding to her whimsical appearance.

But it's not just about aesthetics for Grandma Groovy Momo. She's a fountain of butterfly knowledge, always ready to share fascinating facts about migration patterns or caterpillar diets. She volunteers at the local butterfly conservatory and holds workshops for children, passing on her love for these delicate creatures.

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Despite her age, Momo's energy seems boundless. She flits from one activity to another, much like her winged friends. Whether she's tending to her garden, creating butterfly-inspired art, or regaling her grandchildren with tales of her hippie days, Grandma Groovy Momo spreads joy wherever she goes, a human embodiment of the beauty and free spirit of butterflies.

Women's shirts from the 70s and 80s are a vibrant blast from the past, embodying the bold and expressive spirit of these decades. The 70s brought us flowing peasant blouses with puffed sleeves, often adorned with intricate embroidery or floral patterns. Disco-inspired satin shirts with dramatic collars were perfect for nights out.

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The 80s amped up the volume with oversized, off-the-shoulder sweatshirts in neon colors. Power dressing introduced crisp, padded-shoulder blouses for the workplace. Graphic tees featuring pop culture icons became popular casual wear.

Both decades embraced prints: psychedelic swirls, bold geometric shapes, and tropical motifs. Materials ranged from natural fabrics like cotton and silk to the emerging popularity of synthetic blends.

These retro styles continue to influence fashion, offering women playful and nostalgic wardrobe options.

A gift butterfly brings a touch of natural elegance to any occasion. This delightful present might take the form of a delicate piece of jewelry, such as a pendant or earrings, capturing the butterfly's graceful silhouette. It could be a colorful garden ornament, adding a

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whimsical flutter to outdoor spaces. For the nature enthusiast, a butterfly identification guide or a kit to grow butterfly-attracting plants makes a thoughtful choice. Decorative items like butterfly-themed throw pillows or wall art bring a sense of transformation and beauty into the home. Each butterfly gift symbolizes growth, change, and the wonder of nature.

[koral-has-entered-the-void]

Interlude (TW: death)

when I –

not if,

if got lost

with my

baby teeth and

nintendo ds games

at my

old home–

die.

when I die,

bury me in :

kids size 12 Comfycush Slip-Skool Vans, clear checkerboard with neon green laces and socks with black cats and pumpkins with hats.

girls 13/14 Target x Gwen Stefani Harajuku Mini Plaid Dress.

two cracked jade bracelets on my left wrist, once bright marbling now cloudy over a drop size ganglion cyst.

and two italian charm bracelets on the right; one with my name, and the other with gold embossed stars.

honors presents from my dad, two tiffany necklaces sandwiched between a tarnished, bootleg Clandestine Industries Bartskull necklace from Ebay.

my ma’s black Juicy heart earrings she gave me for my 6th grade formal before she yelled at me for losing them down the drain the morning after.

Nyx Epic Ink Eyeliner in black and their Vivid Matte Liquid Eyeliner in white, make sure they create a Nike swoosh cat wing and include two dots above.

Undone Beauty Lip to Cheek Palette in Dahlia for blush and Carmex for lips.

two fanned out buns, with a slightly to the right middle part and curtain bangs,

grown out roots and Good Dye Young, Toxicity mixed with Biz- 3:1 ratio.

and bury me with :

              my

Winnie the Pooh Baby Blanket.                       

Ma’s handmade stuffie, “Kangabear.”

Ma’s Nokia XpressMusic Sidekick.

Dad’s special occasion Kangol Baseball hat in plaid.

Dad’s Carhartt Navy Blue Hoodie.

Safire’s sparkly pink CHI straightener from 2013.

Scooby’s chain collar.

Loma’s Bowser collar.

Loma.

Nana’s Persian rug from the big house.

Papa’s hand-painted “Bear” 3XL T-shirt.

Princess and the Pauper singing Erica Barbie Doll.

i-Pod shuffle with the entirety of our shared i-Tunes library.

Skullcandy black gummy headphones.

a few

cans of coke.

box cutters.

miscellaneous music buttons; Green Day, Nirvana, MCR.

Littlest Pet Shop Figures.

heart-shaped rocks.

butterfly clips.

ticket stubs from October and November of 2022.

poems.

              and

daisies from Alyssia.

journals from Renee.

Silly Bandz from Tyler.

printed Twitter replies of Gerard Way and Dallon Weekes.

Yeezy slides from Jake.

trinkets and trolls from Lily.

and finally, don’t forget

a deluxe copy of Infinity on High.

so when I –

not if,

when I die                         

you can

remember my

materials        

or incinerate everything

and press me into Track 11 of the vinyl

I mentioned above.