OH Oh

OH oh

JusT GONNA ASK DI YOU WRITE FOR DEMON STRADE???

SURE ANON :D that'd be sooo fun

VOULD I ASK ABOUT A COP READER AND STRADE???

Like the readers older sibling was missing and they were looking for them, who also got kidnapped (and possibly killed by strade) he meets them at the bar, reader is like REALLYY drunk, she whines about not being able to find their older sibling, and Strade knows. He knows what he did.

a/n: what a fun idea!! strade would definitely be extra horrible if he knew his victim was a cop. hope you enjoy, anon!

PIGGY

{ strade x gn! reader }

word count: 1.3k

warnings/tags: alcohol use, violence, kidnapping, psychological torture, forced voyeurism, implied sibling death.

The room spins and the edges of the world soften as you gulp down another shot, the sting of alcohol burning a path down your throat. The dim lights of the bar flicker, casting elongated shadows that dance mockingly around you. This place is a sanctuary of sorts— a shabby dive where lost souls come to drown memories and silence their demons with liquid oblivion.

Strade finds you there, at the edge of dissolution. His entrance is unremarkable, yet somehow you feel the atmosphere shift, a predatory chill seeping through the smoky haze.

His eyes catch yours across the crowded room, glinting with a dark curiosity as he takes the stool beside you. "Rough night, buddy?" he asks, his voice smooth, dangerously inviting.

You nod, swirling the ice in your nearly empty glass. "You could say that." The words spill out of you, heavy with bitterness.

His smile holds a semblance of warmth, perhaps a touch too studied, but under the weight of your despair, you don't notice. He leans in, the movement calculated, as if setting the stage for a confession. "Wanna talk about it? Sometimes airing it out is the only way to breathe again," he suggests, his voice a careful blend of intrigue and concern.

You hesitate, the words hanging precariously on the tip of your tongue. The presence of a stranger, oddly enough, feels like an opportunity to unload, to confide. "It's my older brother," you finally say, the words escaping in a rush. "He's missing, and I feel like I'm chasing shadows. It's like he just vanished into thin air."

Strade’s interest sharpens, his gaze locking onto yours, unblinking. "Disappeared? That’s heavy. How long has he been gone?"

"Three weeks," you reply, the number feeling more substantial with each passing day. "Three weeks of not knowing. It’s eating me up inside."

"And the police?" Strade probes, his voice a soft nudge pushing you deeper into your own turmoil.

"They're doing what they can, I guess. But I'm a cop too, and it feels like I should be able to do more. It's different when it's personal, you know?" You take another sip, the alcohol a poor salve for the ache of helplessness.

Strade nods, feigning empathy. "I can only imagine. Being so close to it, being expected to just wait and see. Must be tearing you apart."

"It is," you admit, your guard crumbling under the weight of your grief and the false security of his attentive gaze. "I keep thinking I'll miss something, or that I’ll get a call saying they've found him, but not... not in the way I hope."

He leans back slightly, giving you space to breathe, yet his presence envelops you, thick as the smoke in the bar. "Sounds like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders. Someone like you shouldn’t be alone with this."

You laugh, a hollow sound. "Feels like I don’t have much choice in the matter. Everyone else is just... moving on."

"But you can't," Strade concludes, his voice soft. "Not until you know."

"Yeah," you whisper, feeling the truth of his words like a punch to the gut. "Not until I know."

He watches you for a moment, a predator disguised as a confidante. "Let me do something for you tonight. Let's make sure you get home safe. It’s the least I can do."

Gratitude, misguided and dangerous, washes over you. "Thanks, I... I appreciate that, really."

"Don’t mention it," he replies, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he signals the bartender to settle your tab.

You lean heavily on him as he guides you outside, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the stuffy atmosphere of the bar. The alley beside the establishment is dimly lit, deserted, and as you stagger against the cold brick for support, Strade’s demeanour shifts imperceptibly.

"You really think I'd help a cop?" His voice is suddenly sharp, a serrated edge that cuts through your alcohol-fueled haze.

"What?" Confusion clouds your mind, struggling to keep up with the sudden change.

"I’m not calling you a cab," he sneers, his face inches from yours and his grip tightening painfully on your arm.

Before you can react, your head slams against the wall, a burst of pain radiating through your skull as stars explode in your vision. Strade’s mocking laugh is the last thing you hear before darkness claims you.

When your consciousness creeps back, it’s a cruel awakening. Your body aches, bound tightly to a cold, metal pole in a room that reeks of blood and decay. Panic claws at your chest as your eyes adjust to the dimness, the figure of Strade emerging from the shadows.

He's watching you intently, holding an expensive-looking laptop under his arm. "Awake already?" He asks, his voice mockingly gentle.

"Where the fuck am I?" Your voice is raw, fear sharpening each word.

"My little workshop," he replies nonchalantly, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. "You want to see your brother, don't you?" Strade smiles, sensing your fear. You quickly nod, hope and desperation surging through you.

"Then relax. You won't want to miss this."

He casually opens the laptop, types something on the keyboard, and turns it towards you. The flicker of the screen casts eerie shadows across his face as the video begins to play.

You squint, trying to make sense of the images flickering across the laptop as he holds it just out of reach. Your heart sinks as you recognize the figure in the video— it's your brother, bound and terrified. A cold dread washes over you as Strade walks into frame, your mouth dry, words failing.

"What is this you sick fuck?!" You manage to spit out, your voice laced with horror and revulsion.

The screen flashes with horrific scenes, your brother's pleas echoing in the cramped, dark space as Strade approaches with a knife.

He watches you, a perverse glee lighting up his eyes. "See, your brother... he's become quite the celebrity."

Despite the overwhelming urge to look away, to shut out this nightmarish reality, you can't. Your eyes remain glued to the screen, each image searing itself into your memory— your brother's fear, his pain, his futile attempts to plead for a life already doomed as Strade's knife slices through his skin.

Guilt surges through you—irrational and overwhelming—guilt for not being able to stop this, for not finding him sooner, for every moment you spent doubting the worst had happened.

Strade's face twists into a smirk as the video unfolds before you. "Touching, isn’t it? The bond between siblings..." His words hang in the air, a new kind of torment. "Y'know, he talked about you, even towards the end. Kept saying, 'My sister is a cop. She’ll find you. She'll stop you.'" He laughs, mocking your brother's voice with an exaggerated shrill.

Your response is visceral. A scream rips from your throat, raw and hoarse, as the full weight of the horror crashes down upon you. Hot tears stream down your face, mingling with the bile on your tongue. The bonds around your wrists chafe painfully as you struggle against them, the metal pole unforgiving and cold.

He stands over you, a dark silhouette against the dim light, watching your every reaction with an analyst's eye. As the final scenes play out, your brother's wet, gurgling screams fade into a haze of pain and terror. Strade closes the laptop with a slow, deliberate motion and leans in close, his breath foul against your ear. His voice, a venomous whisper, sends shivers down your spine. "Your cop friends are probably wondering how torn up you are about your brother... It wouldn't be too surprising if you just... disappeared too."

"Now, why don't we film a sequel, little piggy?" His words slither around you, tightening like a noose. "And find out if you squeal just like your brother."

hii could I get somnophilia with lawrence, maybe some stockholm syndrome too?

a/n: ooo sure!! i luv writing somno :3c

MYCELIAL

{ lawrence oleander x f! reader }

word count: 1.0k

warnings/tags: NSFW, noncon, somnophilia, stockholm syndrome, somewhat obsessive reader, touching, kissing, grinding, brief mention of necrophilia, violence, choking, ambiguous end.

There was something magnetic about the daylight—something that transformed the ordinary into the extraordinary, casting a golden hue over the mundane. It was during these hours that Lawrence found respite, his nocturnal nature demanding slumber while the sun soared high in the sky. His apartment, bathed in warm light filtering through the windows, seemed a world away from the darkness that usually enveloped him. And it was during these stolen moments that you found yourself drawn to him, unable to resist the pull of your twisted fascination. With his guard down and vulnerability laid bare, he became yours to touch and explore.

As he slept, the rise and fall of his chest had a slow, hypnotic rhythm. His face was serene, softened from the sharpness that defined his waking hours. You watched him, heart pounding, a mixture of fear and longing swirling within you. The morning light caressed his features, turning them into something softer, almost gentle. The blanket laid just below his ribs, revealing his bare chest, where the sun painted shadows across his skin. And his long, golden hair fanned out across the pillow, framing his face in a halo of gold. He was a beautiful, ethereal being, lying there and vulnerable—you couldn't help but reach out.

You started with his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands, marvelling at how different he seemed when he was asleep. The detachment and unpredictability melted away, leaving behind a man who was sensitive, reactive, and utterly receptive to your touch. It was intoxicating.

You traced the lines of his face, your touch feather-light, afraid to wake him but unable to stop yourself. His skin was lukewarm, the stubble on his jaw rough against your fingertips. You moved down to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. The sensation sent a thrill through you, a reminder that, despite everything, he was still human—tender and unknowing. Even in this state, you craved his touch, his attention; just as much as you feared the consequences.

Pressing your lips against his neck, you kissed him softly, his sweat lingering on your tongue. His scent, earthy and sickly sweet, grounded you; tethered you to this strange, dark reality that you had come to accept—even crave. You were like mould, thriving in the shadows of his world, clinging to him, and feeding off the dark corners of his existence.

Lawrence stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping him. You froze, your heart hammering, but he did not wake. Emboldened, your hand wandered beneath the blanket, trailing down his torso, fingers ghosting over the taut muscles. He was so responsive in sleep, so different from the aloof man who held you captive. His gentle breaths sent heat pooling in your core.

You slid closer, your body moulding to his contours. His warmth seeped into you like a silent invitation, enticing you to nestle along his side. Carefully, you pried the thin blanket from him, exposing the smooth expanse of his skin and the subtle rise and fall of his chest. You then draped a leg over his, your thigh brushing against his hip. Slowly, you straddled him, positioning yourself above his crotch, your heart pounding with a dangerous thrill.

As you settled your weight onto him, your breath caught in your throat at the sensation of his bulge against the thin fabric of your underwear. You began to move, your hips undulating in slow, deliberate circles, feeling the heat of him beneath you. His breath hitched, blending reality with whatever dreams he was lost in. His pelvis then bucked softly, a subconscious response to the friction.

A flush spread across your skin as you bit your lip, stifling a moan. The sensation was almost overwhelming as you ground harder against him, your underwear damp with arousal. Your palms found his chest, resting gently on his muscles for support. The softness of his skin, the gentle rhythm of his breathing, and the intimacy of the moment created a heady mix that left you dizzy with desire. You leaned forward, your breaths mingling with his own, as if this closeness breathed life into you.

Lawrence's face twisted in pleasure and confusion, his brows furrowing as his subconscious grappled with the unfamiliar weight of your body. He was accustomed to partners who were cold, unresponsive; but you were so warm and wet—a cadaver in waiting.

You flinched at the thought, a gentle pressure building in your core with each, desperate roll of your hips. You could feel him hardening beneath you, his soft moans and gasps spurring you on as you rubbed needily against him. With one final grind, you felt the wave of release wash over you, your body shuddering as you came. A strangled moan escaped your lips, the sound raw and desperate, waking Lawrence from his slumber.

With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, his eyes flew open, confusion clouding his gaze. A deep crimson heat flushed his cheeks as his expression shifted to shock, then anger. His hands shot up, gripping your hips with a painful intensity before jerking your pliant body off his own. You hit the floor with a sharp thud, the impact knocking the air from your lungs.

As you lay there, dazed and disoriented, Lawrence loomed over you, his features contorted with disgust and embarrassment. His chest heaved as he glared down at you, his grip on your hips now replaced by the cold, suffocating pressure of his hands around your throat.

"W-What the hell were you doing!?" his voice was low, trembling, as his fingers tightened behind your nape. The edges of your vision blurred, but amidst the fear, there was an undeniable thrill—a twisted fulfillment. With a weak, shaky breath, you managed to smile up at him, your lips curling in a fragile, almost serene grin.

You couldn't help but notice how he was still hard, his erection straining against the fabric of his sweatpants, creating an unmistakable outline. The sight only intensified your delirious contentment, as if his body's betrayal filled the void left by your captivity. Despite the constriction, you felt euphoric, basking with Lawrence in the sun's warm, golden embrace.

i love your headcanons and fics sm 🥹🥹🥹 thank you for your work!!!! I rarely meet comfort n nice people with such interesting tastes at the same time😌😌😌

btw don’t listen to whose people who blame u for things you write, they just don’t get it 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

oh wow thank you <3 i really appreciate this message. i am so happy you enjoy my work! thank you for reading :3

and don't worry, those people don't get to me. i know and appreciate the audience i write for :)

Can i request Derek taking his anger out on fem!reader after the "he took you home" ending? You can make it as nasty as you want 👀

a/n: sure! i luv that sleazy, bleach-blonde bastard. hope you like it! :3

PLAYING WITH FIRE

{ derek goffard x f! reader }

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: NON-CON, painal, fire torture, burning, stomping, mutilation (?), degradation, name-calling, humiliation.

As you blink away the haze of sleep, the painful wound in your back throbs dully amidst newer aches. With a shuddering breath, you try to push yourself upright, only to be met with the uncomfortable resistance of chains binding your wrists. The cold, varnished floorboards press into your bare skin, making you acutely aware of your nakedness.

"Hello!? Where am I?" your voice cracks, echoing slightly in the vast, lavishly furnished room.

The door swings open as you struggle to make sense of your opulent, yet foreboding surroundings. Derek steps into the room, his presence immediately filling the space with a palpable tension. He's meticulously groomed and dressed in an expensive, tailored suit; a stark contrast to the dishevelled, agonising figure you remember from the desert.

“Ah, finally awake, are we?” His smooth voice cuts through the silence, his smirk widening as he hungrily scans over your body. It's then you realize this is the man who revelled in your torment under the brutal desert sun— the same man you had desperately stabbed, yet had been too terrified to finish off.

You try to speak, but your voice is strangled by the rising panic, words lost in the jumble of your frightened thoughts. Instinctively, you slide back as he approaches, the cold metal chains clinking as your throbbing back slams against the wall.

“You remember me, don't you?” His voice is smooth, almost casual, but you can hear the malice underlying each word. “You stabbed me.” He emphasizes the word, his eyes gleaming with a sinister delight.

“I-I'm sorry,” the words tumble out as a weak whimper.

“Oh, I know you’re sorry.” Derek’s tone is mockingly sympathetic as he crouches in front of you, his face inches from yours. “But an apology won’t quite cut it, will it? No,” he shakes his head slowly, his words sending a shiver of dread through your spine.

You press back against the wall, trying to disappear into its cold embrace. The chill from the varnished wood floors beneath you seeps deeper into your bones, mirroring the cold dread that fills you as he leans closer. His presence suffocates, looming over you, chained and vulnerable.

Without a word, he reaches for your ankles, pulling sharply to straighten your body along the cold floor. The chains at your wrists tighten as your arms twist and pull at your shoulders. The metal is cold and unforgiving against your bruised skin as your joints are stretched to their limits.

"You know... I've thought long and hard about what I wanted to do to you once I got you here." Derek says, towering over you. He reaches around in his suit pockets and then produces a small bottle filled with a clear liquid and a sleek silver lighter. "Here, we won't run out of time," he adds, his eyes gleaming as he holds up the items for your inspection.

"If you don't die too soon, at least." With a chilling smirk, he swiftly slams his foot down hard on your stomach, the polished dress shoe pressing cruelly into your flesh.

You gasp, air whooshing out of your lungs, pain splintering through your body like shattered glass. Your eyes water, a silent scream etching itself into the frozen air as you struggle futilely against the icy hold of the chains. The weight of his shoe pins you helplessly as he unscrews the bottle's cap.

"Wh—" Your breath catches in your throat as the acrid scent of alcohol permeates the air. He grinds his foot deeper into your soft stomach, eliciting a pained grunt from your lips.

"Let's see how long you last," he muses, his words slithering through the air and sending waves of panic crashing over you.

With a chilling calmness, he begins drizzling the alcohol over your breasts; trailing a cold, wet path across the marred skin. Some drops seep into your fresh wounds, making your muscles tense involuntarily.

"No, please— Wait!" you plead, your voice cracking as each breath is laced with the sharp tang of isopropyl alcohol.

As Derek lowers the lighter to your chest, his eyes alight with a perverse pleasure. With a flick of his thumb, a small flame dances to life and the liquid ignites a blazing inferno upon your writhing body. For a fleeting moment, there's a bizarre sensation of warmth that tickles your skin, almost deceivingly gentle. But this warmth rapidly morphs into a deep, searing pain.

Within seconds, the ticklish sensation escalates into an unbearable burning. Your skin reacts violently to the intense heat, the pain magnifying as the fire consumes the alcohol-soaked area. The room fills with the acrid smell of burning as you scream, raw and guttural.

The sound of his laughter mingles with your cries as the flames dance hungrily across your tender breasts. You instinctively try to recoil, but the chains and the weight of his foot, hold you mercilessly in place.

"Awww... I could listen to you squeal like that all day," Derek taunts, his voice dripping with amusement as he watches the flames. "But I want this to last."

Abruptly, he shifts his stance, lifting his foot from your stomach and bringing it down sharply onto the flames on your chest. The polished shoe crushes the fire against your skin, smothering the flames with a series of swift, brutal stomps. The heat retreats as quickly as it had erupted, leaving behind a suffocating smoke, the grotesque smell of charred skin, and the lingering scent of alcohol.

Derek observes the aftermath with a twisted satisfaction, his shoe leaving a grim imprint on your abused flesh. Leaning down, he grips your face harshly, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he forces you to meet his gaze. "You look good when you're crying," he murmurs, a malicious smirk twisting his lips.

Before you can respond, he presses his foot down on the side of your face, turning your head sharply to the side. His other hand uncaps the bottle once more, and he begins dousing the other side of your face and neck with alcohol.

Muffled cries escape your lips, distorted and desperate, as Derek's shoe presses firmly against your cheek, pinning you to the hard floor. You struggle to breathe, each gasp a laborious effort as panic claws at your throat. Your sounds of distress are smothered under his force, reduced to whimpering that barely breaks the tense air of the room.

Leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear, Derek taunts, "What was that, bitch? Did you say something?" He pauses, feigning a moment of thoughtful consideration before his voice hardens. "Ah, you want me to burn your pretty little face, is that it?" With a cruel smirk, he straightens slightly, the pressure momentarily easing from your face before he shifts his stance.

"You really shouldn’t ask for things you don’t want," he murmurs darkly as he once again produces the sleek silver lighter. His fingers play over the metal, teasing the flame to life with a swift flick.

Holding your gaze with his, he lowers the flame deliberately towards the alcohol-soaked side of your face. The fire catches instantly and the heat sears your skin as it ignites. The initial warmth is swiftly overwhelmed by a sharp, engulfing pain that races across your flesh. As the flames lick upwards, the tips of your hair catch fire, adding a horrifying, crackling sizzle to the dreadful orchestra of your shrieking. Your cries intensify; a visceral reaction to the unbearable sensation of your skin and hair burning.

With deliberate cruelty, Derek shifts again, his shoe coming down hard on the burning side of your face. The sudden pressure extinguishes the flames and the harsh grind of his sole against your charred cheek sends a new wave of pain through your body. As he steps back, the smell of burnt hair and skin lingers nauseatingly in the air.

The room falls silent for a moment, save for your heavy, ragged breathing and the occasional clink of chains. Derek eyes the damage with a perverse sense of accomplishment. "Look at you now. Not so pretty anymore, are you?" he sneers.

He suddenly grabs your ankles and pushes them uncomfortably over your body so your toes touch the floor behind your head. The harsh and sudden movement forces you into a vulnerable and painfully distorted position. "Mmm, but your cute noises got me all excited," He purrs, fumbling with the zipper of his dress pants. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as he peers down at you from between your thighs, his cock freed from the confines of his boxers.

"Now, beg for it," Derek demands, his voice low and commanding. "Beg for me to fuck you."

You swallow hard, your throat tight with fear and revulsion. You bite back a cry, clenching your eyes shut.

His hands, now gripping the backs of your thighs, push your knees even further towards your chest. The movement is so forceful that a sharp yelp escapes you despite your resolve.

"I said beg, slut" he repeats, his brows furrowing. "You were quick to beg for my cock out there in the desert; let's hear that desperation again, right here."

You turn your eyes away from his gaze, a small act of defiance against his demands. However, the cruel delight in his eyes intensifies as he reaches beside him, retrieving the sleek silver lighter once again. His fingers play over the metal deliberately as he watches your eyes widen with renewed fear. The small flame springs to life with a click, its glow reflecting ominously in his turquoise eyes.

"Or," he murmurs, the flame now hovering dangerously close to the sensitive skin between your legs. "I could burn you where it'll hurt most."

Panic claws at your chest, your heart hammering wildly as the heat from the flame prickles your inner thigh. The threat is clear and imminent, pushing you to the brink.

"Please, Derek," your voice trembles, the horror of the situation squeezing the air from your lungs. "Please fuck me... I'll do anything. Just don't burn me again... please."

The words tumble out of your mouth, broken and raw, the shame of hearing your own voice reduced to such desperation echoing within you. Derek's smirk widens in response, a twisted satisfaction lighting up his eyes.

The flame suddenly licks across the tender skin of your vulva, causing you to scream in pain. "Oops," he says nonchalantly, watching as the small burn mark forms.

"No, please, stop it!" you cry out shakily, tears welling in your eyes. "Please... anything but this,"

"Hah! I like really that pathetic look on your face," he sneers, the flame flickering dangerously close one last time before he snuffs it out.

With a cruel smirk, he deliberately spits on your clenched hole, the warm liquid landing with a sickening splatter. You recoil in disgust, waves of shame and humiliation crashing over you. "I knew you'd be begging for me to fuck you," Derek chuckles, leaning close as his hot breath brushes against your burned face.

He positions himself at your entrance, the smirk never leaving his face. he taunts, pushing forward without any gentleness. The discomfort is immediate, intensifying the mix of pain and humiliation already consuming you.

He curses under his breath as he slides into you, the ring of muscles gripping tight around him. His fingers squeeze into your hips, anchoring him as he moves with ruthless intent.

"That's it, cry," he whispers harshly in your ear, each word punctuated by another forceful movement. His laughter is low and dissonant, mixing with the sound of your choked sobs. He thrusts harder, his body pressing down on yours with a cruel weight.

"I love hearing you like this," Derek hisses, his breath hot against your neck. The pain from the burns and his brutal handling makes each moment excruciating. Your vision blurs with tears, the room spinning as you struggle to find any semblance of control over the situation.

Suddenly, Derek stops, pulling back slightly to look down at you with a twisted grin. "You know, I think you enjoy this. All this pain, the humiliation. It's what you deserve, isn't it?" His words cut deeper than any physical wound, his voice dripping with cruelty.

You gasp for breath, trying to form words, to deny his accusations, but the pain overwhelms you, stealing your voice.

Without warning, his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are cold, devoid of any humanity as he scrutinizes your tear-streaked face. "Look at me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "I want to see your pain."

You stare back at him, your eyes wide with fear. Derek’s face inches is from yours as he resumes his movements; slow and deliberate now, watching your reactions with sick satisfaction.

The room fades around you, your senses dulled by the overwhelming pain and fear. You feel disconnected, as if watching the horror unfold from outside your own body. Derek's voice, his harsh breaths, and the cold chains become distant sounds, muffled by the roaring in your ears.

As he continues, his grip on you tightens, his body pressing down with oppressive weight. "You’re mine, my property," he whispers, each word a venomous promise. "No one can hear you here. No one will save you."

You struggle to focus on anything but the pain, the burning sensation that seems to consume every inch of your being. Your thoughts spiral out of control and your body feels like it's being torn apart. Derek leans forward, bracing himself on one arm as he thrusts deeper, harder.

Finally, his movements grow erratic, his breaths coming faster as he nears his release. His lips nearly touch your ear as he delivers a final, chilling message. "Remember this pain," he murmurs. "It’s only the beginning."

With those words, Derek finishes inside, his body shuddering above you. You feel his warmth fill you as he slowly pulls out, sliding free with a wet, sucking sound.

He stands, fixing his clothing with quick, efficient movements, never looking back at you. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room.

You lie there, aching and broken, the tears drying on your cheeks. The chains rattle faintly as you shift, the cold metal a harsh reminder of your captivity. In the silence, your mind whispers a vow, a flicker of defiance in the darkness: somehow, you will survive this. You must.

does mason even kno what eating pussy is </3 🥺