(A4A) Multiple literate snuff prompts. Also, opened to any suggestion as long as it is literate. Can play as ANY gender. (18+)

Snuff a hooker? PROMPT ONE!

Gavin was thirty-seven. Immaculate in appearance. By day, he worked in a glass office, perched high above the city like a crow on a wire. At home, he shared a downtown apartment with Eric—twenty-two, gentle-eyed and pale-skinned. Gavin liked to cook. Each evening without fail, he prepared dinner for them both.

Eric couldn’t recall a single time he’d cooked a meal himself. The kitchen simply belonged to Gavin, as did the unspoken rules that governed their quiet domestic life.

And so, every night, Gavin cooked.

And Eric ate.

Eric hummed softly as he ate, savoring every bite, wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Thank you for covering dinner again. It’s amazing. Like always.”

Gavin smiled in response.

“You can thank me later,” he said, voice low and silk-smooth. Then he winked.

Eric blushed, ducking his head slightly.

Gavin watched him chew, watched him swallow.

It made him happy to see Eric eat.

And so the day would come when the freezer was nearly empty.

One evening after Eric had gone to sleep, curled beneath a soft linen sheet, Gavin slid on his coat and stepped into the city’s cold breath.

Gavin drove without music. He drove to the red district of the city. He parked two blocks from the alley he liked. Not too busy. Not too quiet. Just enough chaos to go unnoticed.

It was then that he spotted her…

Sitting alone behind a shuttered bar, half-lit by a flickering sign, knees drawn to her chest, lips cracked from wind and neglect.

“You open for business?”

She glanced up at him, wary but calculating. Her eyes scanned his suit, his watch—small, expensive details that said money. That said safe, or at least not desperate. She shrugged, the way someone does when they’ve made peace with too many compromises.

Gavin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single, neatly folded bill. A fifty. He held it out between two fingers.

“Fifty,” he said flatly.

Her expression faltered. “That’s it?”

“That’s what I’m offering,” he replied, tone even, almost bored. “Ten minutes. Warm car.”

She stared at him, weighing something heavier than money. Hunger. Cold.

She took the fifty.
Gavin didn't smile, didn't speak. He simply turned and walked, confident she would follow.
And she did.

The car door unlocked with a soft click the moment she neared.

Inside, it smelled like leather and mint. Clean. Too clean.

They drove in silence.

Block by block.

Jess turned in her seat slightly, posture guarded. "Where are we going?"

He didn't answer. Just kept driving.

They drove past many a broken window and boarded abandoned establishments.

Alleys.

The hooker reached toward the door subtly, fingers brushing the handle.

Locked.

Her heart gave a quiet jolt.

"I said, where are we going?"

Still, no reply.

Then they arrived. An abandoned concrete parking structure.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

His voice was low. Calm. Like someone remembering something too late.

”It is not going to suck itself.”

The hookers shoulders slumped. Looked down at her fingers. She turned toward him. Her hand moved with practiced detachment toward his belt.

Her eyes met his, searching for something human. Anything.

But there was nothing there.

Just stillness.

Gavin’s eyes drifted from her face to the thin lines of her body—not with lust. She was too thin. Too bony. Would her flesh be tender enough? Her meat would likely be pale and wasted.

PROMPT 2: The traumatise girl.

The walls of the mansion were thick, but not thick enough. Ebbie lay curled beneath a velvet duvet, blinking up at the ceiling. The silence of midnight was already frayed by distant noises—muffled thuds, the crack of something breaking, and the unmistakable sound of someone screaming. She flinched. Again. A man’s voice, ragged with terror, pleaded and begged. Each word was a desperate attempt to bargain for mercy that would never come. She pushed the covers back and sat up, her heart thudding a warning in her chest. But curiosity, dread, and something else—guilt, maybe—drove her to her feet. She padded quietly across the room and cracked her door open.

Ebbie slipped out and crept down the grand staircase, barefoot and silent. The cries were broken now—choked, fading. Whoever he was, he was losing. She crouched at the edge of the second-floor balcony and peered down into the drawing room below, where her Alpha and his inner circle had gathered. Faraam stood tall at the center, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, flecks of blood spattering his sleeves like red ink. Around him were the others—Dominic, Varell, Kade—wolves all, high-ranking and brutal in their loyalty.

Kade kicked the man hard in the ribs. Ebbie clapped a hand over her mouth to keep the sound in. Her eyes flooded with tears as a prayer trembled on her lips: Please don’t hear me. Please don’t smell me. Please don’t let them know I’m here. She buried her face in her arms as another scream tore through the room below—and the wolves laughed.

The air reeked of sweat, blood, and something darker—raw power and ancient cruelty. The man’s body convulsed as Faraam stepped forward, his gaze sharp and commanding. Without a word, Faraam’s hand shot out, fingers digging into the man’s jaw with brutal force.

Blood spattered the walls and dripped from broken fingernails.

One of the man's eyes had burst free from its socket, hanging by a thin, pulsing strand of torn flesh. Its milky white surface was smeared with fresh blood. She felt dizzy and sick—trapped between horror and helplessness. The man's ragged gasps filled the room. Blood bubbled at the corners of his lips as he tried to speak, but only pitiful croaks emerged. Ebbie's hands shook uncontrollably as she pressed her palms to her face, trying to choke down the rising scream inside her. Every instinct screamed at her to run. A warm, humiliating wetness spread down her legs, and she realized with a sick flush that she'd wet herself.

✎ Side Note:

I’m happy to play as any gender, and I enjoy exploring a wide range of dynamics depending on the story. 

PROMPT 3: Snuff the Alpha

Werewolf Roleplay.

The forest floor was wet with early spring rain, thick with the scent of pine, mud, and blood. Enzo lay on his side, his great chest heaving. His once-proud frame. now trembled. Twitching. Broken, not by lack of strength, but by a brutal truth that even good Alphas fall. He had fought for the land. His land. —passed down through three generations of his bloodline.

It had belonged to his pack longer than memory. But time and tradition meant nothing to the rival Alpha with darker eyes and hungrier ambition.

Steven stood above him, blood crusted beneath his nose, one side of his face bruised from a blow Enzo had landed clean. He touched his face and chuckled low in his throat.

"You got me a solid one, mate," he said with a grin, the tip of his tongue tasting iron as he laughed again. "Damn near ruined my beautiful nose."

Around them, the pack watched. Enzo’s pack. The women and children sobbed—some with fists clenched, others cradling each other in silence, too stunned to cry out.

Steven crouched beside him, his voice dipping low, almost tender.

"Strong. Fair. Not a cruel bone in your body." He leaned closer, the warmth of his breath brushing Enzo’s ear.

Enzo groaned, more from soul-deep hurt than the pain in his ribs. His eyes flicked up, cloudy with defeat.

Steven’s gaze softened.

“You kept me dancing, brother,” Steven said, voice low and syrup-smooth. “An hour. I thought you'd break at twenty minutes. But you... you held.”

He leaned closer, smile widening. “Didn’t think anyone could bruise my nose like that. You messed up something real pretty, Enzo.”

From the trees behind them, members of Steven’s pack emerged, smirking with wolfish amusement. One of them gave a mocking little coo.