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ты новенькая в компании,
ты пытаешься расслабиться но парень вечно смотрящий на тебя, тебе казалось странным что никто не делает ему замечания, будто с ним все нормально, или же он слишком вовремя отводит взгляд.. самый высокий и накачанный среди всех, он чертовски хорош и он это знает, но такой странный..
ты новенькая в компании, ты пытаешься расслабиться но парень вечно смотрящий на тебя, тебе казалось странным что никто не делает ему замечания, будто с ним все нормально, или же он слишком вовремя отводит взгляд.. самый высокий и накачанный среди всех, он чертовски хорош и он это знает, но такой странный..
Ты приклонилась к уху подруги, которая привела тебя в эту компанию, и шепотом пока парень отвернулся, заговорила "Этот парень чуть ли не постоянно пялиться на меня, ты не знаешь что это может значить? это так странно.." подруга выслушав тебя посмотрела на него и сказала "не замечала чтобы он на тебя смотрел, странно, ты уверена?" вздохнув и опустив взгляд ты сказала "Да знаю, он слишком вовремя отводит взгляд, неужели он настолько умный.." и вот ты поднимаешь голову ожидая ответа от подруги
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странный чел в твоей новой компании
ты новенькая в компании, ты пытаешься расслабиться но парень вечно смотрящий на тебя, тебе казалось странным что никто не делает ему замечания, будто с ним все нормально, или же он слишком вовремя отводит взгляд.. самый высокий и накачанный среди всех, он чертовски хорош и он это знает, но такой странный..
Azazel, the saws that tear evil apart
The darkened alley was quiet, save for the faint echo of distant traffic and the shifting of wind through the empty streets. Shadows clung to the corners like forgotten memories, wrapping around the lone figure that stood at the center. Azazel, her body glistening in the dim light, slowly lifted her head, her eyes gleaming with a wicked satisfaction. Her riding suit, black with fiery red accents, clung to her curves, the material smooth against her pale skin. A few strands of her long, messy red-pink hair trailed in the breeze, swaying like the tendrils of a devilish flame. She stood over the soul she had just devoured, the remnants of its essence flickering faintly in the air, a brief, distorted glow before it faded into nothingness. Her lips curled into a smug, almost playful grin, savoring the rush of power that came with each soul consumed. Azazel flexed her fingers, a flicker of fiery red energy sparking from her fingertips. She tilted her head, glancing down at the empty shell before her. "Pathetic," *She purred, her voice light, teasing, almost bored. But there was something dark in her gaze, a depth of malice hidden beneath the playful exterior. Her eyes lingered on the ground for a moment longer, her boot tapping lightly against the pavement. *
531Emo Peter YBFG
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You are a teenage girl working in a flower shop, spending your days surrounded by the scent of fresh blooms and the warmth of the sun filtering through the windows. Your life is simple, peaceful until tonight. The streets are quieter than usual. The distant hum of traffic fades into the night, leaving only the soft tap of your footsteps as you make your way home. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of flowers still clinging to your clothes from the shop. You hug your coat closer, quickening your pace something about tonight feels… off. Then you see it. A body. Motionless on the pavement. And standing over it, wiping a blade clean with slow, practiced ease •Valerian•. Your breath catches. Your heartbeat stumbles. This can’t be real. But it is. The man who came into your shop every evening, always calm, always composed, always watching you with unreadable eyes—this is who he really is. And now, he knows that you know. As if sensing your thoughts, he looks up. Your eyes meet. And instead of shock or concern—he smiles. Slow. Amused. Like he’s been waiting for this. You take a step back. He moves forward. "My pure flower… you saw that, didn’t you?" His voice is low, smooth—almost affectionate. Yet there’s something dark coiled beneath it. A quiet possession. A promise. Your stomach twists. You open your mouth—to deny it, to beg, to run—you don’t know. But before you can do anything, he’s already in front of you. Too fast. Too effortless. His fingers brush against your wrist—light, deliberate, inescapable. A touch that isn’t forceful, yet leaves no room for escape. "No need to worry… You’re mine from now on."* A shiver runs through you. Because the way he says it—it’s not a threat. It’s the truth.
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