#Vice's tent is probably like
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Been looking at everyone's tents at camp and how much they tell about characters' personalities, so had a thought
Anyone got headcanons about their Tav's tent? We gotta have a tent of our own too right
#baldur's gate 3#bg3#tav posting#still thinking about mine#Vice's tent is probably like#chaotic and full of hoarded things#but details... hmmm#this is an invitation to reblog and answer in tags or in the reblog itself by the way#...also. We all squealed about Karlach's teddy bear#but plants?! girl are you moving them every time we're backpacking to new location#adorable
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It’s uncharacteristically warm outside for late-winter in Hawkins, Indiana.
It’s 2004, and the whole entire Party is back in Hawkins to celebrate Jim and Joyce’s fifteenth wedding anniversary (it’s actually closer to their sixteenth by now, but they’ve all well and truly entered that phase of adulthood where planning things is next to impossible), and it’s the first time they’ve all been in one room since…honestly, Steve doesn’t even know when. Since Lucas’s wedding in ‘99, maybe.
Everyone is inside unwinding after dinner. Steve can hear them from where he’s sitting outside on the front deck gently rocking the porch swing Hop had installed years ago with one foot, a now-empty bottle resting on the unfinished pine floor by the other.
The front door of Jim and Joyce’s house quietly opens and Steve looks over as El steps onto the porch, closing the door behind her as soft as she’d opened it.
She pauses, her eyes turning wary as they slide off of him and onto the baby girl drifting asleep in his arms (his and Eddie’s littlest baby, Robbie – the older baby, Moe, who’s nearly three so not really a baby anymore, is inside still probably being doted on by all her aunts and uncles).
Even in her early thirties there are so many ways El is still just like the little kid Steve met back in 1984. At the same time though, she’s completely changed.
“Doin’ okay, Ellie?” he asks gently.
She nods.
“It’s getting loud,” El tells him, “Someone put on Jeopardy.”
Yeah, that’ll do it these days – older and wiser they may all be, but any kind of trivia is still a vice for pretty much the entire Party.
“Well, you’re welcome to join us out here for as long as you like,” Steve replies.
He knows El is a little apprehensive around babies still, same as she is with cats and puppies – really anything small and vulnerable that might have been used against her many years ago, so he half-expects her to go back inside.
But she comes over and sits down next to him on the porch swing anyway and for a while, both of them are quiet.
Robbie exhales a satisfied snuffling noise that tells Steve she’s well and truly asleep.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees El’s hand twitch, like she was going to raise it but then stopped herself.
“Can I?” she asks tentatively.
“‘Course,” Steve tells her, and he watches as El runs the tips of her fingers over the wisps of soft hair on Robbie’s head.
“How old is she now?”
“Three months,” he replies, “Four in a week or so.”
“And she’s…she’s doing…good?” she asks, and there’s something so El in her tone, the same tone she always uses when she’s tip-toeing her way through something that, to her, is foreign territory.
“Mm-hm. She’s good.”
El nods.
“Your daughters are lucky,” she says, her brown eyes trained wistfully on Robbie even as she pulls her hand away.
Steve thinks he knows what she’s getting at, but before he can ask, she keeps going.
“She’s gonna live her whole life never having to wonder if she’s loved or if she matters,” El says, “She won’t have to wonder because it’s always true. That’s special. I love Hop, and everything I have that is good is because of him, but…I still wish I could have had what you and Eddie are giving her too.”
And Steve knows exactly what she means because he feels the same way, because he thinks about it all the time, every time he thinks about his daughters and the way they are his entire world like he should have been to his own parents and yet never was, every time he thinks about himself and his father and his father’s father and knows it ends with him.
He’s not sure how to put any of that into words.
It’s El though, and he’s never really had to put those kinds of things into words with El, so he decides to just nod and settle back into the porch swing with his friend at his side and his daughter asleep in his arms and the faint noise of the people he loves most carried over them on the breeze of a warm winter evening.
#thinking about el on this fine thursday#steddie#liv’s steddie dads verse#steve harrington#el hopper#steddie dads#not sure who the target audience of this one is tbh#subtle dilf steve bc i couldn't help myself
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I would sell my liver for you to write inumaki x reader smut where the reader teaches inumaki how to drive (or vice versa) and they end up fugging in the back seat 😩
Don’t worry mousie, you can keep that liver! I would write this for free. I will write this for free!
You didn’t specify reader gender… So I’m picking AFAB reader, but if you wanted AMAB I will HAPPILY rewrite, just let me know!
YOU NEVER BEEN WITH NO ONE AS NASTY (as me!)
SPICE UP YOUR LIFE, COME GET A FREAK…
FT. Inumaki Toge
X F!READER
WARNINGS: 18+, AFAB reader, They/Them pronouns, non-curse AU, Inumaki can speak normally but is very quiet overall, established relationship.
An abandoned grocery store parking lot where was you had learned how to drive initially. It was a discreet location where no authority bothered to check, as it was a waste of time, so they typically wouldn’t say anything if someone without a license was taking a car out for a little test drive to pick up a few new tricks. This is why you had chosen to take Toge to that same empty parking lot so that he could understand what it was like behind the wheel.
For about a week now you had been teaching your boyfriend how to drive. He was way too old to still be asking for rides everywhere, and eventually it came to a point where you had to scold him a bit before coming to the agreement that you would teach him and he’d eventually take himself places without needing you to do it for him. Toge was an excellent learner; He picked up on things quickly, and seemed to be a natural at the whole driving thing. In fact, he probably would have been good enough to go get his license already…
If it weren’t for you distracting him every two seconds. You weren’t doing it on purpose, but you had to understand that the way your lips would curl up into that cute, innocent smile whenever he did something good and complimented him on his work that the tent in his pants was not just from the way he was sitting. Perhaps it was also just the risk-factor— Abandoned or not, having sex in a parking lot was still semi-public and the thought of someone hearing or seeing you two was a big turn on for him.
Every night, after your little lessons with him, he’d have to rut his hips up into the makeshift hole he created with his hands, gasping and whimpering out your name so quietly as to not disturb his roommates. The shame flooded his body whenever cum spurted all over stomach and palms, but at the same time he felt so much better after releasing all that pent up arousal. Of course Toge felt bad for turning such a wholesome act into something twisted and dirty, but what could he do about it? Stop thinking? Right.
Today was the final straw, though. The time where he had to genuinely question if you were doing all of this on purpose or not because the way you palmed the top of that stick shift couldn’t just be a coincidence. Your well manicured fingers drifted down towards the shaft, dancing along the surface before wrapping around its cylindrical form and pulling back to put the car in park. The entire display had Toge mentally groaning, burying his face in his hands with frustration.
His hand reached out to cover yours on the shift, muttering your name in a rather soft tone to get your attention. You turned your head with that same innocent smile, but it melted away as soon as you saw the genuine passion burning in his eyes, like he was undressing you in his mind. It made your heart hammer against your rib cage, your throat became suddenly very dry before eliciting a nervous laugh.
“Toge—?” You were cut off when he leaned forward to press his lips against yours. It wasn’t the hot, passionate kiss you had expected based on the way he was burning his gaze into you, but it was gentle and tender. His lips slowly moved against yours, grunting into your mouth while one hand trailed up to the hem of your shirt, tugging on it lightly. The other ran over your inner thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing against the crotch of your blue jeans that hugged your hips nicely.
You don’t know how, because you were so caught up in such a passionate moment, but eventually the pair of you had drifted to the back seat where he finally let his urges take over. Lanky, thin hands were eager to yank your shirt off like it was the last think they’d do; they fumbled around with your bra afterwards. He tried to unclasp it with one originally, but eventually he discarded the item of clothing after using both. Goes to show how being too desperate will get you nowhere.
He was quick to play with your pretty tits. Toge even pulled his mouth away from yours, letting his saliva-soaked lips leave a trail of sloppy kisses from your jaw to one of your nipples, latching on to nip and suck at it lightly. You gasped and threw your head back slightly, staring down at him through hazy eyes while your fingers clumsily tugging his shirt off over his head. He was a skinny twig of a man, but you didn’t mind. You loved running the pads of your fingers up and down his stomach, feeling every ridge and bump along the way from the dips in his skin to the hammering of his heart.
“I want to feel all of you,” He muttered in a daze, his voice almost coming out like a pathetic whine against your perfect skin. Toge’s mouth had now made its way to your neck and collarbone, sucking just hard enough to let a dark purple mark form that would definitely show the next day. You didn’t care in the slightest. “All of you… Around me so tightly.”
Your back arched when a shiver ran through it. Toge was a man of few words, but whenever he spoke it never failed to make you feel all giddy inside. Right now your stomach was full of butterflies begging to be released, and he had every intention to help let them out. “Toge, please…”
“Please what?” He answered without hesitation. He knew what you wanted, and he delivered with how he pulled you up onto his lap after desperately yanking your jeans off. Both of you wrestled with the simple pair of pants for a moment, but as soon as they were off his hands were grabbing you like his last meal. “Use your words.” He mumbled in your ear from behind, chest pressed against your back while his arms were wrapped around you to gently squeeze your breasts.
“Please fill me up…” Your cheeks had grown warm. Usually you were not quick to fluster, but this was a side of him you had never seen before and it, in turn, brought a new side out of yourself. He nipped at the lobe of your ear whilst his palms traveled down to your panties, rubbing you through the fabric just to feel how wet you were. Your cunt clenched around nothing and caused you to give a desperate whine. “Don’t tease me.”
“Don’t boss me around,” he rebuked almost immediately. Though, despite his disapproval of your bossy words, he did just as you said and quit with the teasing. Toge was eager to get what he wanted, so he wasted no time pushing those panties to the side and sliding the mushroom-like tip of his perfectly carved cock into your aching hole. He hissed, letting out what seemed to be like a mix of a gasp and a groan into your back, which his lips were pressed up against. His stomach contracted and his hands gripped your waist tighter. “F-… Fuck!”
Meanwhile, you were grabbing onto the headrests of the front seats for dear life while he sunk his dick into you at an unbearably slow pace. You could feel yourself stretching out to welcome him inside, but it was so blissful to be filled to the brim again. Once he bottomed out, he lingered for just long enough to let you fully adjust. He even allowed your hips to wiggle around on his lap.
It wasn’t long before, with the help of his hands on your hips, you were bouncing up and down on his lap. Mind you, you started at a snail’s pace as to not harm yourself, but with a bit of practice you were soon practically slamming yourself down onto him. Every upwards thrust of his hips made you cry out with ecstasy, eyes going cross at the sensation of his tip rubbing against every sensitive spot you had.
The lewd sounds of his balls slapping against your ass filled the car, and could probably be heard from the outside too. If anyone was passing by, they’d certainly know you were being treated well based on the hardcore shaking and intricate noises coming from within. “Toge,” you panted out. “I want to cum- Please…”
“Can’t deny my girl… Of her orgasm,” he grunted in between soft moans. Toge’s hands held onto you tighter, nails digging into your skin in order to lift you up and then pull you back down onto his length. “Cum for me, then.”
You clenched around him before your walls started to spasm. With one last thrust, you bottomed out again as a cry came from deep within your throat, climbing it’s way out just as your orgasm did. You were covered in sweat when you came down from your high, hands loosely holding on to the front seats now. Inumaki had lazily bucked his hips up into you a few more times before he pulled out, shooting his load all over your back rather than inside.
Pulling you tight to his chest, he slumped against the back seats. Both of you were panting, sweaty messes as you sat there silently trying to recover from that session.
“I learned a lot today,” he finally spoke, making you laugh weakly.
“I bet.”
Guys I. heheh. I felt good writing that.
Side note… I think I would NOT be opposed to people sending in requests for Genshin characters too? I don’t know, I saw this one Tartaglia cosplay that made me go absolutely feral, I’ve been reading and writing so much filth lately. HEHE!!
As always, requests are open. Find more information here…
#jjk#jjk smut#inumaki toge#toge inumaki#inumaki#toge#inumaki jjk#toge jjk#inumaki toge jjk#toge inumaki jjk#inumaki x reader#toge x reader#inumaki toge x reader#toge inumaki x reader#jjk x reader#toge smut#inumaki smut#toge inumaki smut#inumaki toge smut#smut#18+
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cw- smutty stuff, free use concept but very much consensual (Rick x reader mostly but all of the boys x reader mentioned too)
note- small blurb that’s totally not proofread, and will probably edit at another time. haven’t written in a few weeks so feeling rusty… feedback is apreciated or just general commentary ofc. have been in a really lovey, gentle, sweet smut mood lately so this is what ur getting sorry. don’t know why I’m so obsessed with reader being a form of escape but… ya. enjoy:)
Been having the filthiest thoughts about being the community free use slut. Everyone using you to relieve some stress. Yes, you read that right; everyone. You’re their perfect little plaything that will never say no. That just gets on her knees and takes it. No matter when or where.
It starts way at the beginning, with Shane and Daryl and Merle. Them taking turns dragging you to their tents, late at night when everyone else is asleep. Sometimes it’s just one of them, but other times they share. Take you at the same time and fill as many holes as they can. Leave you with the faintest blue and purple marks scattered all over your neck for the rest of the group to squint at in the morning. To gossip and whisper about over breakfast. Your berry stained lips and innocent eyes reminding them all of a pretty little doll they seem to treat you like.
And then you get to the prison, where things are tense, and discover that your… well, intimate service are needed more than ever. Acting as the only acceptable vice for the group to take their frustrations out on, in what you would describe as a relatively healthy way. At least considering the alternative. So while Rick is losing his mind and you’re already sharing a cell, he decides to try what a few of his friends have been doing right from the start. Using your pretty mouth as the escape they claim that works so well.
And he’s pleasantly surprised at the fact you’re more than willing. To let him urge you into the cell way before the sun has set. To let him drag you down to his bunk in the middle of the night where he doesn’t waste any time peeling your sleep shorts off in a mess of tangled sheets and blankets. And the whole time he’s with you, your lips burn hot as they trail down his neck and nip at newly sunburnt skin. You kiss him without thinking and your tongue tastes like toothpaste and bad decisions as it traces over his own and your hands seem to know the exact spots that have him pushing his jeans down to his ankles in almost shameful, record breaking time. But he doesn’t seem to mind because most importantly, having you right beneath him in the dim lit concrete cell, means that his mind, even just momentarily, is finally blank. For a few minutes, as long as you keep bringing your lips back to meet his, he has nothing to worry about. No crying newborn baby, no walkers, no fast spreading diseases or quarantines or mysterious unsolved murders. Nothing. Well, except the volume at which your pretty little moans are crawling their way up your chest and taunting your next door cell mates.
It’s when he finally has your legs wrapped around his waist and you’re so fucking warm and holy shit you’re wet, and your hands won’t leave his shoulders and your nails are scratching and raking down his back in the most pleasurable burn he could ever imagine… that, that is when it comes to him. When he finally fucking get’s it.
He understands exactly why every time it came to going on a run or splitting the group up, Daryl was always first to claim you as his partner. Why Shane was so obsessed with fixing some damn watch he found you so you could meet him out behind the barn or on the edge of the woods wearing nothing but a sundress and a smile, not a minute later then midnight. He even understood why Merle was acting uncharacteristically nicer to you than anyone else as he pouted and paced around his cell, begging for all kinds of attention but only really wanting the one. The one that was proving to be completely and irrationally addictive the more Rick thought about it. The more he focused on your skin under his hands and how sweet your voice sounded when you could no longer form a coherent sentence.
While he catches his breath, arms still wrapped around your waist, he can feel your legs trembling on either side of him as your hands continue to cup his face ever so gently. He doesn’t even open his eyes when you lean in to bite his lip and drag it out slowly before peppering sweet, meaningless kisses all down his jaw, neck and shoulders. It’s then, when your touch is making the back of his neck tingle and his breath hitch in his throat that he can’t help but feel like he’s been missing out. A whole year of this that the other guys have been experiencing? It doesn’t really seem fair. Not now that he’s had a taste. Now that he knows exactly why every man you’ve encountered since the world went to shit, has taken such an extreme and undeniable liking to you. Not now that he feels like he has to make up for lost time, pressing his forehead against yours and rocking himself back into you for the second time that night. You don’t object. You just spread your legs even further and pull at the damp curls at the base of his neck, silently urging him to keep on moving.
You don’t mind being used. Not really. It’s what you’re there for. To distract him from the horrors of the world and remind him that there’s still at least one thing worth living for. Even if it’s just a warm body in a shared bottom bunk. You’re there to ensure that the scowl lines on his face soften and his eyes close in pure, unfocused elation while he forces your hips even deeper into the mattress with involuntary moan that escapes your lips.
#finally writing something hehe#kinda doing something different sooooo#less smut more feelings#continues on to alexandria and so forth#Rick x reader#Rick grimes x reader#rick grimes x y/n#rick grimes x you#rick x you#rick x y/n#daryl x reader#Daryl Dixon x reader#daryl dixon x y/n#Daryl Dixon x you#Shane x reader#shane walsh x y/n#Shane Walsh X you#shane walsh x reader#Merle x reader#Merle x you#Merle Dixon x reader#merle dixon x y/n
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Cherished
Alpha!Halsin x Omega!afab!Reader
A/N: Had this horny thought in my brain. Wrote it. Here you go. Lol. First time writing for this universe (A/B/O) so i apologize if anything is off - I didn’t lean into it as heavily as I probably could have but I still think you all will enjoy! <3
Word Count: 7.5k
Warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY. Smut, PiV Sex, vaginal fingering, making out, semi-rough sex, marking, creampie, unprotected sex, cock warming, implied past abuse (not detailed), reader has trauma, but Halsin is there to help. Love confessions, after care, fluff, emotional hurt/comfort.
The medicinal smell sets a knot of panic bundling in your chest as soon as you open your pack.
With little grace, the contents are spilled onto the floor of your tent as you upend your bag hastily, shaking the fabric until every last item is before you, and the delicate tinkle of glass fills your ears.
No, no, no!
Your mind screams in panic and utter despair as you spot the broken vials peeking out from the green cloth they’re wrapped in, the fabric tinged a darker shade as the solution soaks it.
You quickly unwrap the precious items, fear ballooning in your throat as tears well up behind your eyes.
It’s gone. All of it. You’re entire supply of suppressing elixirs, soaking into the fabric that was supposed to protect them, rendering the solutions useless.
Fuck.
You should have been more careful. But then again, how were you supposed to know a simple tumble on the road would be enough to damage the goods in your pack? They’ve been through far worse with them on your person and it’s been fine.
Until now.
A sob breaks out of your chest as you stare at the shattered glass, and you search desperately through the carnage for just one unscathed vial, uncaring of the nicks the sharp shards leave on your finger tips.
You can make one vial stretch until you reach baldur's gate. It would be hard, it might not work but it would be something.
You won’t make it to the city on nothing. Not undetected. And you refused to let anyone find out the truth.
With palms pressed against your eyes in an effort to push away the tears you try to take deep steadying breaths. Between those and the blood roaring in your ears, you don’t hear someone approaching your tent until a fanilair shock of black hair pops through the entrance flap.
“There you are, we need help setting up-“
Shadowheart’s words die on her tongue just as her eyes fall onto you then the mess on the floor, her nose twitching almost imperceptibly.
It seems like slow motion as her eyes widen slightly, and she steps fully into the tent, closing the flap behind her before coming to crouch before you.
You hurriedly try to wrap the broken evidence and shove it in your bag despite knowing the action is futile.
Shadowheart reaches out, grabbing your arm gently. “What are you doing with suppressant elixirs?” She asks, voice lacking the accusing quality you expect.
Avoiding her eyes you shrink into yourself, readying yourself for the inevitable. “Why do you think?” You whisper, clutching the balled up cloth to your chest.
Shadowheart is silent as she thinks, and panic surges forward full force as you reach out to take her hand in yours in a vice grip.
“Please, you can’t tell anyone,” you beg, shocking the former sharr worshiper.
She shakes her head, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Was that all you had left? Do you have any more?”
You swallow thickly and shake your head no. “That was it. I don’t…I won’t make it to the city without it. And I… no one can know. I’ll…I can leave and travel ahead or try and find a secluded place to wait it out before meeting you all outside the city.”
The words fall from your lips before you really think about them but…it could work. You know the side effects of stopping suppressants, and despite wanting to keep this part of yourself hidden, you couldn’t risk being around this many alphas when the medicine left your system. No way.
Sequestering yourself is the best way.
Shadowheart looks at you, shock evident on her features.
“Are you mad? Do you know what happens when you quit usuing supressants? The effects are brutal when weaned off of them the correct way. Stopping like that-“ she snaps her fingers. “No. It’s going to be excruciating.”
You can’t help but bristle at her tone, that all to familiar alpha authority slipping through. The exact thing you knew would happen if they found out what you are.
An omega.
You pull away from the woman, frowning as you start to shove items into your pack once more.
“I don’t need you telling me what to do. I’m the one who has dealt with this my whole life, not you.”
The woman reels back at the venom on your words, eyes softening. “I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do, I just…I’ve seen it before. You won’t last, you need-“ she bites her tongue, as if afraid her next words will scare you, but continues after a beat of silence. “You’ll need someone to help you through this. You have to know that.”
“No, no!” You stand up abruptly, hands clenching at your sides. “I’ll be fine. I don’t need some - some alpha, to come and use me before casting me aside,” you spit, turning back to your pack again, desperate to busy yourself so you don’t lose yourself to panic.
Shadowheart doesn’t let up, concern evident in her voice. “What about Halsin, you two seem cozy enough and I know he’d probably be more than eager to help-“
You straighten up at this, turning to face her once more pack clutch tightly in your hands. “No! Shadowheart, please!”
Halsin…
She’s right. You two have been closer that usual, this journey to the city doing nothing but bringing you closer than you already were. You’ve both flirted and touched and danced around your feelings for weeks now but this…
No. The thought of him finding out, and it changing the way he looks at you. Changing his feelings or making him see you as this… thing - to be used and then tossed aside…
No, you can’t bear the thought.
With fists clenched tight, you stand your ground, trying to assert the title of defacto leader you’ve taken on.
“Just stay here. I’ll be…I’ll be fine, I promise,” you pause, thinking. “There’s an abandoned house we passed earlier today in our travels. It was back before the waterfall. I’ll be there. If you get to the city and more time has passed than normal then…you know where to find me.��
The woman’s lips settle into a thin line, arms crossing across her chest. “You’re denser than I thought if you think we’re traveling on without you. Tadpoles be damned,” she reaches out and takes your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’ll make up some excuse for us to make camp here for a while. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come find you myself.”
Relief floods through your veins, and before you can think better of it, you step forward and wrap her in a tight hug.
“Thank you. Truly I…I don’t deserve your kindness, not after keeping this from you.”
Shadowheart shakes her head as you pull away, her hands resting lightly on your arms. “I understand a thing or two about not being forthcoming about certain aspects of your past, but…” she trails off, eyes flirting away before coming back to yours. “I do not think those around us will treat you the way you expect. I wish you would give them a chance. Give him a chance.”
You sigh. “A chance to what? Take advantage?”
The woman smiles sadly.
“A chance to show you that they aren’t as terrible as you assume they will be.”
———
Shadowheart has helped you pack the rest of supplies you’d need. Food enough to last a week, some fresh water, although the old house looked to be by a stream so if you run out you can get more.
She was still reluctant to let you leave, but after one last assurance she eventually did.
Which leads you to where you are now, exhausted and weary as you try to set up a makeship living situation in the abandoned house. It was early evening when you left camp, having seen the structure earlier in the day of traveling.
It took you hours to back track and the sun has long set, your only light being from the few candles you have lit and the moon streaming in through the crumbling roof in the corner of the dilapidated home.
But you are making quick work of the space, having moved any broken furniture to the back corner of the room and pulling any spare blankets beneath your bedroll in an effort to make a more comfortable bed.
You can do this. Hopefully the effects will be minimal and pass in a few days. Shadowheart said she would work on trying to get more suppressants for you, and then you could return like nothing ever happened.
Right?
You scoff slightly, trying to shove away the reality that settles in your mind. This is going to suck. And when you do make it through, the likelihood of having suppressants available is slim.
The truth will come out one way or another. A thought you choose not to wrestle with tonight in favor of crawling into your bedroll.
Consequences can wait. Right now you just want to sleep, to hide from the torment that is to come.
———
Pain .
It’s the first thing that registers in your sleep-addled mind, ripping away the last tendrils of slumber as a crushing ache pulses in your stomach. It radiates outwards, making your very bones groan in protest as you curl in on yourself, the discomfort nearly blinding as you try to orient yourself.
The next thing you notice is the heat, like fire licking at your skin as you shove yourself out of the bedroll, moving to settle on top of it instead. The air, despite it being barely dawn, offers no cool reprieve against your sweat slick skin. Your clothes stick to you, plastered to your body as if you’d just jumped into the nearby river.
Another cramp seizes you, but this time another feeling accompanies it. A feeling that has become a stranger to you since taking the suppressants.
Need.
Bone deep, soul crushing, need floods through you, your core throbbing with it and calling out to the one thing that’s not here.
No. You don’t need him.
You don’t need an alpha to help you, you refuse to need him. You’ve done this your whole life by yourself. You can do it now.
But can you? That little voice in your head asks, that voice behind your baser instincts, the one you’ve kept hidden for so long.
It’s been years since your last heat. The suppressants effectively wiping away anything and everything that made you an omega. And now…it’s as if all of the things you’ve held at bay have come crashing down. Showing you what you are, as if saying ‘ here I am. You can’t run from me.’
You shake your head. Mouth dry, tongue thick as your mouth parts on a broken sob.
Gods, help me.
————
Time passes in flirting bouts of consciousness. Night gives way to dawn before you succumb to unconsciousness - only to wake again worse than before, but this time with sunlight streaming through the broken windows.
The fever never abates, and you manage to reach the meager few feet to wretch your water skin from your pack, downing the contents entirely in one go. But it does nothing to ease the ache or the heat beneath your skin.
So you give in. Naively hoping your own touch will help the need subside, will satiate something within you.
It take more effort than you expect to peel your pants from your legs, every touch to your feverish skin making arousal shoot through you, adding to the slick already coating your thighs. The fabric pulls way wetly from your damp skin until you finally toss them to the side, in favor of sliding desperate fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear.
As finger slide through your wetness, the relief is there. But barely. No matter what you do, no matter how many fingers you use it barely touches the ache in your core. Like a quick summer rain on a forest fire…it offers no relief.
But you keep trying, tears slipping down your cheeks as the first, the second, the third, orgasm rips through you, leaving you exhausted but no where near satiated.
Sleep claims you then, when the sun is starting to set once more.
You have no idea how much time has passed the next time you wake, the hours passing in a haze of lust and pain and tears.
You come and go from consciousness, feeling as if your body is both shutting down and just starting up at the same time.
Has it been hours? Minutes? Days?
Time doesn’t seem to exist in this small house in the woods. Until finally some semblance of lucidity comes to you at the same time as an all too familiar scent floats in on the breeze though the windows.
Halsin - no, you shake your head.
Alpha.
Fear shoots through you at the same time the primal instincts do. The baser part of you craves him - urges you to go to him. But the fear is stronger. The fear of the past - of those who used you.
The fear wins out.
You all but leap from your bedroll, your knees buckling beneath you as you do, your heat having taken most of your strength.
You struggle agaisnt it as you stand, hearing a faint call of your name just as you manage to grasp the edge of a nearby table and push in in front of the door.
He calls your name again, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep the moan from falling from your lips.
Go to him. He’s yours. He’ll help. Go to him. Go to him. GO-
“No!” You shout, pressing yourself against the table, “Halisn go . Away ! Please…”
The last word comes out on a sob, unable to contain everything roiling within you. Your need, your fear, your utter love for the man outside. It’s too much.
You hear a gentle thud on the door, as if he’s pressed his forehead to the other side, his hand pressing to the wood.
“I only wish to help. I promise, I did not come with any other intention.”
His words are muffled by the door separating you, and you push yourself harder against the table at your back, the edge digging into your spine.
“H-how did you find me?” You ask, fighting for every word agaisnt your foggy mind.
It’s quiet for a moment until he finally speaks. “Shadowheart came to me this morning asking if I had any knowledge of healing herbs or elixirs for…for heat.”
You let out a shaky breath. You want to be angry. Angry at your friend for betraying you. Angry at the situation. Angry at yourself for getting you here.
But you’re just tired. You’re tired and exhausted and in pain and you don’t know what to do.
“ Please,” Halsin begs, a sound you’ve never heard fall from his lips before. “I only wish to ease your pain. To help in any way I can. I will not touch you if you do not wish. I swear it on the life the Oak Father granted me.”
Clutching the edge of the table is the only thing keeping you upright, your nails digging into the wood.
“I don’t..you can’t control it. They never can. I know…I know what will happen.”
The words are quiet, so quiet you don’t know if he can hear you. But he does, and his voice is gentle and kind, and everything you've ever wanted to hear in a situation like this.
“You are wrong,” he says plainly. “I do not pretend to know what you have suffered at the hands of other alphas, but I know they can be cruel. I just…I hope you know me well enough - trust me enough to know I will not be the same.”
Fuck.. fuck!
You don’t give him a verbal answer, instead you just barely manage to move the table away from the door in order to open it. You watch with bated breath as the man on the other side visibly flinches, no doubt being assaulted with the scents and smells of your untamed heat.
You watch, fingers clutching the edge of the door as he stills, shoulders rising with a deep breath as that all too familiar golden sheen rolls over his body. You almost move to slam the door closed again, but stop short when the magic fades away and his eyes flutter open, showing you hazel instead of that druidic gold you’ve seen before.
He gives you a small smile, and the motion eases you somewhat, that fear slowly creeping away. You move aside to let him in, and he enters slowly, taking in the room before his eyes fall to you as you close the door.
He takes a step closer then, but slowly, giving you time to move away or ward him off if you so wish.
You don’t. You can’t.
That need inside you is still there and it’s stronger with him this close. Begging you to pull him closer, to have him touch you, to have him make it all go away. The effort required to refuse these needs is worse than the pain you’ve been feeling since you left camp, and you want nothing more than to give in.
So you stay still as he approaches you, holding one hand up to press gently against your forhead, eyes widening as he feels the heat coming off you in waves.
Gods… his touch is like a soothing balm against your skin, and you can’t stop the whimper that leaves your lips as you all but melt into him, gasping when he pulls away.
“You’re burning with fever,” he says, concern lacing each syllable as he reaches for you again, this time not touching you but letting his magic free as his eyes fall closed.
You wait with bated breath as the magic golden glow hovers in the air in front of you, lighting his palm as small yellow tendrils reach for you.
It’s over in just a few moments, and the room is cast in the dim glow of the dusk once more as Halsin looks over you worriedly.
“When was the last time you ate? Drank?”
You shake your head, trying to remember, but the only memories that fill your mind are muddy and confused.
“I don’t…I don’t know. When I left camp? I drank water not long ago..I think,” another cramp rocks you where you stand, and you would have crumpled to the ground if not for the two strong hands that catch you. “I don’t know, everything is hazy I can’t remember.”
Halsin inhales sharply, brows furrowed as he shakes his head. “That was days ago,” he looks around, gently leading you to your bedroll when he spots it, urging you to lay down. “You must eat. I will fetch more water from the stream close by and then I will see what I can do to ease your pain.”
With those simple instructions he’s gone as fast as he appeared. And the arousal is back as strong as ever. But you try, you try to do what he said. Managing to pull the rations from your pack and nibble at an apple and some dried meat. You almost finish by the time he’s back, a bucket filled with fresh water in his hands.
He approaches you once more, movements still slow and cautious until he’s kneeling at your side, refilling your waterskin before offering it to you.
You sit up moving to drain the contents like last time, but he stops you, tugging at the skin gently.
“Slow. You will make yourself sick if you take it all in one go. Take your time,” he says, tone gentle.
You try to listen, but between everything buzzing around inside you and the desperate thirst you just now notice, it’s a herculean task. But you do it, not only to avoid making your situation worse but because some part of you, that tiny voice in the back of your head…it wants to please him.
You push the skin away, arms curling around yourself as another wave of pleasure rolls through you at the thought. You double over, laying on your side as your knees come to your chest, desperate for the discomfort to stop.
“Halsin, please…” you beg, unashamed to finally admit you need help. “Do something, I can’t take it anymore.”
You can hear his breath hitch and are assaulted by a faintly sweet smell. A calmness washing over you, offering the only brief respite you’ve had in days.
He’s trying to calm you.
You can’t find it in you to care. Relishing in the only relief you’ve had since you’ve left camp. But you know it won’t last, and that thought alone is enough to make tears spill over once more.
Halsin shushes you quietly, voice soothing as he hovers a hand over your shoulder. “Don’t cry, my heart. I will do everything in my power to help you, I swear it.”
You nod, trying in vain to wipe away the tears.
“Please, hurry.”
As soon as the words leave your lips, you see the faint glow of magic once more, feel it reaching out for you as Halsin slowly moves his hand down over your body then up once more.
It takes him longer this time, and the relief you felt just moments earlier is already starting to fade away. You nearly cry out when Halsin withdraws from you, frustration costing his features as muttered curses fall from his lips.
“Those suppressants are a poison,” he finally says, his words venomous. “An affront to nature as it was designed.”
Shame fills you as he speaks, joining your already muddled emotions. “I’m sorry,” you manage to whisper, voice broken.
Hazel eyes snap to yours, lips set in a fine line as he shakes his head. “This is not your fault,” he assures you, voice firm. “Society has spread the lies that you, omegas, are something to be claimed and taken rather than cherished and treasured as the oak father intended. They made you afraid, fearful of who you are. Pushed these things upon you so you could hide-“ a low growl slips past his lips, as he cuts himself off.
He pauses, shoulders falling as he lets out a sigh before looking to you once more.
“These elixirs are beyond my comprehension. The medicine runs deep in your veins I…I know of no natural remedy or spell to counter its effects.”
Dread settles deep in your belly at the realization that you basically have two options at this point. You can either wait out the symptoms and hope the fever doesn’t harm you or…give in to the need. Something that doesn’t scare you as much as it did at first, but something you still don’t know if you can trust.
But you want to. You want him to touch you, to hold you, to do all of the things you’ve imagined him doing. But you want him to want it too. Not because of some biological drive but…because he desires you.
And maybe…maybe he does. Who else’s could come all the way out here? What other alpha would have resisted touching you this long? You can think of no one else. Anyone else would have given in by now, you know it’s as excruciating for him as it is for you.
So why is he here if not out of care for you…out of love ?
Another tremble runs through you as you sit up, eyes searching his own before you speak.
“Can you just…hold me? I just need, something, anything and I -“ you pause as another cramp takes your breath away. “I understand if you don’t want too - or think it would be-“
Gentle hands on your cheeks stop you in your tracks, and once again you practically melt into his palms, his touch the only thing providing any relief.
“It would be my pleasure, my heart.”
You sigh in relief, hands immediately falling to the hem of your shirt, the still damp material uncomfortable against your skin. You watch as Halsin reaches for his own vest before hesitating, eyes flitting to you in a silent question.
Once your shirt is discarded and you’re down to your small clothes you give him a small nod, reaching out to him instead this time, fingers tugging at the lacings of his clothing. You try to focus, try to push past the lust fogging your kind. But it’s harder the closer you are to him, noticing every minute detail of the man in front of you.
The way his breath hitches as you untie the laces and he helps you tug the article off his body. His scent assaults you as he does so. The way his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he reaches for you. The heat rivaling your own wafting off his skin in waves as he pulls you close to him before bringing you both to lay on your makeshift bed.
He completely surrounds you, the smell of pine and the earth and something so subtly sweet it could only ever remind you of him. His arms tighten around you as you press your cheek to his chest, the light dusting of hair tickling your skin in the best way as his chin rests atop your head.
The longer he holds you to him, the more relief seeps into your bones, that tormenting ache dissipating ever so slightly. But it never leaves completely, still tugging at the edges of your mind and making your fingers twitch from where your hands rest against his back.
You can’t take it anymore. The need too great, your desire finally winning out as you pull away just enough so you can look up at the druid. He gives you a pained smile, clearly holding back the same what you are, and that’s enough to finally make you take action.
Before the alpha can process your intentions you have a leg thrown over him, rolling until you sit astride his hips. Your hands brace against his chest as he looks up at you, brows drawn together in confusion.
“What are you-“
You cut him off with hands against his cheeks, thumbs brushing his lips as your eyes travel over his face.
“I want this,” you finally say, voice barely a whisper in the night. “I want you, but I-“ you have to bite back the tears that clog your throat. “ Promise me. Promise me you’ll be here when we’re done. Promise me you won’t leave when you’ve gotten what you want. I can’t…my heart can’t bear it.”
Shock crosses Halsins face, followed quickly by what you recognize as a firm resolve and finally…the softest look you've ever recieved. He reaches up, taking one of your hands in his own to press a gentle kiss to your palm, then to your wrist before finally tugging you down so you’re chest to chest, your nose brushing his.
Before you can blink, strong arms wrap around you, holding you to him as he flips you both over, your back now against the blankets as he hovers over you.
“You are not so easily cast aside, my heart.” He tells you, voice full of reverence. “You plague my thoughts both waking and sleeping. Your taste lingers on my tongue each time we kiss. You’ve captured my entire being, heart and soul,” he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips as tears slip from your eyes. “I will be here when you wake this day, and every day to come. I will cherish you as you deserve, as all those in the past have failed to do. If you will have me.”
Words fail you in light of the poetic ones he whispers to you. So you do the one thing you’ve been denying yourself for days. Leaning up your press your lips to his, nearling crying out at the utter relief that washes through your veins when he returns the action, lips meeting yours in frantic eagerness.
You pull away but his lips never leave your skin, trailing down as you reach up to thread shaking fingers through his bronze locks.
“ Please,” you beg, desperation hanging on the simple word. “Touch me, I can’t take another moment without it. Without you.”
Halsin is quick to oblige, his hands moving over you in a hurried rush. He rids you of your underthings before divesting himself of his own clothing and sinking to press fully against you. You can feel the hard length of him pressing against your hip, and your back arches instinctively into him, desperate to feel more of him.
Halsin groans, unable to stop the way his hips thrust against your own, one hand falling down to take your hip in a bruising grip.
“You do not know what you ask of me,” he warns you, voice low. “I have craved you for a long time, my heart. Once I start…I do not know that I will be able to stop until I know you are mine.”
You shake your head, reaching up to tangle your hands in his hair as your legs move to wrap around his waist. “I don’t want you to stop,” you beg, “make me yours, please.”
The need inside you is burning at an all time high, reaching a crescendo you didn’t even know possible as you lay beneath the powerful alpha above you. You know he could do whatever he wanted to you, with or without your permission. But you know he won’t, which just adds fuel to the fire in your veins.
You want him. You want him to claim you and make you his, a feeling you’ve never had before. You’ve been hiding your whole life, but now, laid bare before him…You're no longer afraid.
As if sensing any residual fear seep from you, Halsins lips crash against yours once more, wasting no more time. You feel his hand trail between you both, fingers touching you where you want him most.
You cry out against his lips as his fingers slip through your arousal, teasing your entrance before coming back up to rub rhythmic patterns against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“You’re so wet for me,” his voice is husky next to your ear, almost a growl as he senses your complete and utter need. “Are you…Do you think you are ready?”
It’s a genuine question, born both from actual concern but also impatience. You can sense he’s already holding back, willing to do whatever you need in order to not hurt you, but also wanting desperately to sink himself into you fully.
You nod your head, you’ve come so many times since you’ve been here, your legs are sticky with your slick. There’s no way you couldn’t take him.
Your hands scrabble at his back, pulling him closer to you, your thighs squeezing his hips firmly. “ Please , Halsin,” you beg, voice a pathetic whimper.
He needs no more encouragement. You feel the head of him slide through your wetness before he’s sinking into you at a pace that is both soothing the ache within you and also stoking the flames.
A keening sound rips itself form your chest as he settles against you, and you expect him to wait, to be ever the gentleman and hold still for much longer than you can take right now.
But to your shock and utter relief, Halsin does no such thing. He starts a firm and fast pace, his hips retreating before thrusting back into your own, filling you completely each time and driving the breath from your lungs.
Gods he feels so good. It feels right. There is no pain, no discomfort, just the feeling of being so full it somehow completes you, as if Halsin was made just for you.
My alpha.
Halsin growls, head dropping to the crook of your neck, nipping at the delicate skin as his fingers dig deeper into your thighs.
“Yes, I’m yours, little omega, and you are mine.”
His words nearly shock you from your pleasure, not realizing you had said your thoughts out loud. And he…He called you his omega. Usually being referred to by your biological designation would anger you, make your fists clench and that all too familiar black anger build in your chest - but now…
The way he said he is yours. Giving himself to you and simultaneously calling you his own…it made stars burst behind your eyes, your orgasm crashing over you so suddenly it steals your senses from you.
Blood rushes in your ears, your eyes clench shut, and you can feel the faint rawness in your throat as you cry Halsin’s name.
Halsin doesn’t still as you come, only slows his thrusts as he works you through your high, grunts of pleasure brushing against your skin as you clench around him, your nails dig into his skin so hard you’re sure there will be evidence of this encounter for days to come.
Warm lips press beneath your jaw, and you turn your head up willingly, silently begging him for more.
“Are you alright, my heart?”
His voice is soft, but strained, and it’s only then that you realize he’s still hard, thrusting haphazardly against you in an effort to satiate his own needs but not overwhelm you.
Warmth blooms in your chest at his words and actions. No one has ever asked you that in the past. They just took and took until they were stated and then left…
You give him a small nod, pushing back at the tears burning at the back of your eyes. “Yes I-“ your voice croaks weakly. “I’m fine, I - I’m more than fine.”
Yet even as you speak, you can feel that all to familiar burn spread through you once more. Your release had soothed the ache momentarily, but it’s back, slowly seeping back into every limb, your core churning with desire once more.
Another whimper escapes you, as you turn to nuzzles Halsin cheek. “ Gods, it’s still there,” you cry, frustration painting your words.
Halsin hums low in his chest, turning to press a gentle kiss to your temple, uncaring of the sweat beading there.
“It may take a while for your body to get rid of the suppressants,” he says softly. “It may be several days before it is completely out of your system.”
He must see the way your eyes widen, feel the way your breath hitches, because he soothes your worries with a kiss, pressing his weight into you in an effort to comfort you.
“Do not let that worry you,” he says, hands sliding up your thighs until they rest on your waist. “The need will lessen with each passing hour, especially if spent with someone else.”
You hear his unsaid meaning. The need will pass with each release, like an overflowing bucket being emptied a spoonful at a time. Shakily, you nod, accepting his answer before letting out a whine when he pulls away from you.
A momentary stab of panic shoots through you, as he separates himself from your sweat slick skin, leaving you achingly empty as he pulls from you with a hiss.
You reach for him blindly, only just now realizing how dark it is. Halsin arrived as the sun was already dipping below the horizon but now it’s nowhere to be seen, the last rays of light slipping away sometime earlier, leaving the small room lit with nothing but weak candle light.
Halsin is nothing but a large dark mass in the poorly lit room, but you reach for him all the same, practically melting into him when his hands meet your flesh once more.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures, lips pressing to your forehead as his hands settle on your hips.
He urges you into a new position slowly, lips never leaving your skin as you settle onto your hands and knees, fingers digging into the blanket below you as he kisses over your shoulder and down your spine.
His hands move in the opposite direction, moving from the crook of your hips, up your sides before brushing over the swells of your breasts, gentle teasing stiff peaks between his fingers as he finally leans over you.
Your head falls forward as his lips brush your ear, your need burning anew and more fiercely than before at this new position.
“Is this alright?” he asks again, and for the first time tonight his careful consideration makes a tiny flicker of frustration burn in your chest.
For the first time since you can remember you’ve never been more than alright. But now - needy and vulnerable and displayed for him…
You groan, pressing back into him as his hands slide back up to your waist.
“Yes, I’m fine just, please!” Desperate need and desire flair up in you so violently it nearly makes your hips buckle, the only thing keeping you upright being Halsin’s firm grip.
“Please, alpha, take me.”
Calling him alpha, you presented before him, the sent of sex and sweat and heat, in the air…It’s all too much for the both of you.
The man behind you lets out a feral growl, and if this were any other man you’d be slightly afraid of what he’d do. But now…Utter excitement and arousal spread through your veins like liquid fire as he enters you in one swift thrust.
He was deep before, touching you in places you’d never felt before, but like this… You nearly choke on the scream of pleasure that tears from your throat. You drop your face into the blankets beneath you, stifling your sounds as Halsin continues his brutal pace.
A hand leaves your hips as calloused fingers slide beneath your jaw, pulling you up from the blankets just enough to turn your head to the side. His grip is firm but not ungentle as he leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss.
“Do not hide from me,” he says, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before he pulls away to nose at your cheek. “I wish to hear every sound you make. I want to hear my name fall from your lips, I want the Oak Father himself to know who you cry out for.”
A particularly hard thrust, the harsh grip on your hips, and his unusually filthy words make you come for a second time, obeying his demand to not hide your noises.
Your fingers dig into the soft fabric beneath you, and as Halsin continues his movement within you, you’re afraid you might tear it to shreds.
Gods… you can feel everything. Every vein, every ridge, every inch of him inside you. All of your nerve endings are on fire and you’re so sensitive you don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain pulsing in your core.
And for a moment it seems like Halsin isn’t even close to reaching his end despite him already driving you to your third release.
He presses down into you, one arm wrapping around your hips to keep your semi-limp form pressed to him as his other hand slides up to tangle into the hair at the base of your neck. He doesn’t pull harshly, instead he presses you further into the bedroll and covers beneath you, arching your back in a way that makes him hit impossibly deeper, reaching the end of you.
“Oh, fuck, Halsin!” you cry his name in pure ecstasy, as he fucks down into you, taking you and claiming you just like you wanted.
You feel it when his hips start to stutter, can hear his breathing grow even more ragged than it already was, his grip on your hips tightening as his thrusts turn more shallow.
It’s like you can sense his hesitance, and before he can ask the question you know he wants to ask you find yourself answering.
“In me,” you practically sob, pressing your hips back into him. “Come in me, please…”
He lets out a sound you can’t even identify, something close to a sigh and a cry of relief as he falls over you. His chest pressed flush against your back as he braces himself on one arm beside your head.
His head falls next to your own, lips pressing against you as his teeth tease the skin at the crook of of your neck.
You can feel him hesitate, pulling away until you reach up to tug him back down.
“No I- do it,” you beg. “Please I…I love you - please, do it.”
Part of you is panicked when he hesitates at your words, but it’s fleeting as Halsin’s teeth dig into your flesh. You cry out as he breaks skin and your third release washes over you, bringing Halsin over the edge with you.
His breath is hot against your skin as he moans, hips snapping into yours as he spills into, stilling as he slowly brings both your bodies to the ground.
His entire weight is settled on top of you, and you can't find it in you to care. In fact, you crave it. The feeling of him caging you in, his sweat slick skin against your own as he laps lazily at the new mark on your neck.
Eventually he turns, nuzzling at your cheek until you manage to turn to let him capture your lips in a kiss. It’s a slow, sensual thing. His tongue reaches to slide against your own as his arms move to slide beneath your body. He rolls you both onto your side, keeping you connected as he curls himself slightly around you, holding you against his chest.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down, back to your neck hovering over the mark of his bite before placing one last kiss there.
For the first time in days you don’t feel the creeping burn anywhere. The first true relief you’ve felt truly settling over you as you relax back into the body behind you.
His arm sits snugly around your waist, his fingers tracing gentle patterns into your skin and up under your breasts before repeating.
“Are you…” He trails off for a moment. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, turning to try and catch his eye over your shoulder, chest swelling with adoration when you see the concern flickering in his gaze. Your hand falls down to cover his own, giving it a firm squeeze.
“I’m perfect,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his lips before settling into him again, fingers tracing absently over his arm around you.
“I…” Now it’s your turn to think about your words. “I’m sorry. If…what I said was - uncalled for.” Your words are stuttered and unsure.
You don’t want to apologize for what you said, because it was the truth. But you also don’t want him to feel obligated to return your affections just because of what transpired.
Sensing your inner turmoil, gentle fingers settle beneath your jaw, turning you to look at him once more. His brows are furrowed as he gazes down at you.
“Does it hold truth?” he asks simply, no accusation or frustration present.
You nod, reaching up to card a hand through his hair. “Yes I - they were true. I do…I think I’ve loved you for some time now but…”
His eyes soften. “You were afraid.”
You nod, eyes falling away from him in shame. But Halsin doesn’t let your feeling last long, he presses a gentle kiss to your cheek before resting his forehead against your own.
“I must admit that I feel the same,” he says, voice a mere whisper. “You have taken my heart in your hands and held it captive in a way I haven’t experienced in my long life. I do not wish to let you go easily.”
You smile, lips brushing his own as you speak. “Then don’t,” you say, reaching down to tug his arm tighter around you, “I’m yours. I meant that too.”
Halsin sighs in what you assume is relief, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder as he adjusts to hold you closer to him as you relax in his arms.
“And I am yours,” he tells you. “Now, sleep. This is far from over, but I will be here when you wake.”
Earlier, the thought of it taking days for the suppressant to work from your system made fear grip your heart. But now…
Now there’s just a warm syrupy feeling that settles deep in your belly as you take his advice and let your eyes fall closed.
Because with Halsin…you know you have nothing to fear.
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Hiii!!! first, before I start I'm very socially awkward and my English sucks so this might be a bit cringe to read... but I just have to say, I LOVE your writing!!! you have such a cool writing style and your way of writing characters is always in character you're just AWESOME!!!! if it's not too much to ask, can I request a fight between all the dorm and vice-dorm heads (just dorm heads is cool too) when they overhear that the reader/MC has a crush (i simp for all of them)? again, love your writing so much!
Battle Royale
A/N: you have no idea how surprised I was that this wasn't the one voted for the last day. 😂 it's fine though, and I hope you enjoy!
3k follower Masterlist
Trein had held you after class today, and you were a little scared, to say the least. You didn't think you or Grim had done anything wrong today, but you could never be too sure.
Once the last student had left, he looked up at you.
"You've been acting odd lately. I've raised two children, and taught thousands of students, so I know why."
You didn't think you'd been acting odd. But you weren't the most self aware out there, if the numerous overblots you'd nearly missed were anything to go by.
"Oh?" You asked.
He sighed heavily, and gently took your hand.
"You've ingratiated yourself into my heart, like one of my own kids. So I'm going to tell you this; none of the boys at this school is worth the trouble."
"Huh?"
"I don't know which one you have a crush on, but there are less than a handful that deserve the attention."
Your cheeks began to warm, and you gasped. You hadn't thought too deeply about it, but there was definitely someone you'd had your eye on, maybe a bit too much, recently. If Trein had noticed…had he noticed as well?
"I'll uh, I'll keep that in mind."
"Please do," he gave you a firm stare, then turned back to his papers.
You were so out of it, that you didn't notice your two friends who had stayed behind for emotional support.
….
"It's definitely me."
"In what world would it ever be you!"
Trey entered the kitchen to check on the bread in the oven, and sighed to himself as he watched the freshmen fight with each other.
"What are you up to?" He asked.
"Nothin-" Deuce muttered, but was cut off by Ace.
"If Y/N had a crush on someone, it'd be me, right?"
Trey stared at the two, then slowly turned to the oven.
"Where is this coming from?" He asked.
"Trein kept Y/N behind today, and told them whoever they have a crush on isn't worth it."
"Hm. And you both think it's you, because?"
Both of them froze. They could hear the challenge in Trey's voice, and neither of them knew how to approach it.
"Well, why wouldn't it be?" Ace snapped. "We hang out with them more than anyone. If it's anybody, it's me or Deucey."
Trey smiled at the temporary unification of his freshmen, and calmly asked, "Wouldn't it make sense if they went for someone with more life experience? Someone more mature?"
The freshmen were silent again, before Deuce asked, tentatively, "Has…has Y/N said something to you?"
Trey hummed, putting together Riddle's dinner tray.
"No. At least, not verbally."
And then he left the kitchen. He couldn't wipe the soft smile from his face. Riddle noticed it as Trey poured his tea.
"Did something good happen?"
"Hm? Oh, the freshmen found out Y/N had a crush on someone, and assumed it was one of them. I told them it would probably be someone more mature."
Riddle hummed thoughtfully. "True," he sipped his tea, "Y/N would go for someone more mature, who is someone who was also not that much older than them."
"Oh, you think so?" A challenge.
"Yes." A retort.
….
From there, Riddle took his information to the housewardens meeting, who took it to their vicehousewardens, who in turn spread it to the rest of the school.
In less than a couple hours, Malleus and Leona were literally at each other's throats, as the rest of the school egged them on.
"Y/N has more class than to fall for a mangy housecat!" A bolt of green lightning nearly hit Leona, who dodged at the last second.
"They certainly would never fall for a scaly lizard!" The air around Malleus filled with sand.
"Shouldn't we put a stop to this?" Silver asked Lilia, who was busy restraining Sebek.
"Kids will be kids," Lilia laughed in response.
Ruggie tapped Azul on the shoulder, holding out his open hand. "Five thaumarks to join the pot. Who do you think will win?"
Azul smirked, "Neither, because Y/N is surely in love with me. They've all but said so."
"Sure, sure," Ruggie rolled his eyes. "Because out of everyone they could choose, it would be the person who takes 20% of their tips, and not the person who shares home cooked meals with them."
"I couldn't help but overhear your discussion, boys, but don't fool yourselves. The only person Y/N could possibly fall for would be the embodiment of the fairest Queen," Vil hummed as he passed them, fully intent on stopping the fight which was already well out of hand.
But he was halted by a hand on his wrist.
"Schoenheit, don't be a silly boy and embarrass yourself," Lilia hummed, his eyes turning more crimson than fuschia. "Besides," he laughed lightly, going back to playful, "rumor has it, Y/N is in love with someone with life experience, something I have more of than anyone else here."
"Sure," Vil muttered at his peer. He was quickly pulled into the fight when he reached them, purple magic joining the sand and emerald lightning.
Rook was watching the fight with wide eyed enthusiasm. His emerald eyes were taking in everything they did, studying their moves for use at…well…a later date.
Idia's tablet, meanwhile, was focused solely on Rook, the terror practically radiating from it. It was muted, but if it wasn't, people would have heard Ortho hyping him up. But Idia did not want to fight the hunter. Not with the way his eyes were glittering with blood lust.
Jade was about to prevent Floyd from elbow slamming his way into the fight, when all the boys were forcibly separated by an unknown force. All eyes traveled to Trein, who was staring at them all in disgust.
"Animals. The lot of you," he snarled, staring everyone down. "Anyone involved in any way will be punished accordingly."
….
"Why did Professor Trein keep you behind today?" Asked Jack, who was blissfully unaware of the war going on. He had offered to help you study after class, and had been curious as to why he'd beat you to Ramshackle.
"Oh," you hesitated. "Well, he noticed I'd been behaving odd lately, and told me to be careful."
"Y/N's in love, and teach said no one was good enough!"
"Grim!" You cried, burying your face in your hands.
"Oh," Jack said, trying to be as cool as possible. "Who is it?"
You peaked through your fingers, opening and shutting your mouth a few times.
"If you don't tell him, I will," Grim snickered.
"Don't," you whined. You took a steadying breath, and began, "Okay. It's…"
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js read niecesitting and it was the cutest thing ever omfg but like i was thinking maybe u could write something similar but vice versa ? like when r introduces matt to her niece and matt sees how reader is js so protective and motherly over her, he’s like oh my god i’m in love
a/n ┆.ᐟ ᰍ ︵ got a lil carried away perhaps + daily sturniolo triplets taglist plug as per usual ۫ .
you really fucking wanted to go to the party, but here you were, with your niece. it's not like you didn't want to take care of her, no, but you did want to have a social life. it was one night but.. you and matt were gonna go out and have fun. pushing these thoughts away, you watched as the little girl sat beside you at the kitchen island mixed up her little concoction of makeup from her baby makeup set.
“wait, come closer,” rue taps your hand with her chubby fingers, trying to drag you closer. you shuffle your body near her, having put down your phone before letting out a soft laugh of your own.
“okay, we have a makeup guru here,” she pats your cheek for you to shut your eyes so she can apply the eyeshadow. her big, cute eyes light up when she sees her masterpiece come to formation. a flurry of giggles slip past her lips and she claps her hands excitedly. there's a childlike, mysterious wonder filling her brown eyes, which soon turns to curiosity when she hears the sound of the door bell.
“i'll get it, auntie!” rue practically runs to the door, despite the fact that maybe the adult should go get it. you're typing on your phone, snorting out a laugh at something stupid you'd read when you hear rue make a little scared sound, and you quickly rise from where you are to check out what's happening at the door.
“rue rue, hey, who's—” your hands slide over to hold onto rue's shoulders as your brow furrows, but your expression softens almost instantly when you realise it's matt. rue clings to your leg as you hold her, and you watch as matt eyes the two of you with total confusion. you can almost laugh at his expression.
“am—am i interrupting?” his blue eyes flicker down to rue's, watching the confused expression on her face.
“auntie? who's that?” she asks, tugging on your oversized shirt. matt tilts his head, probably thinking the exact same thing as the child.
“hi, matt,” you say gently, smiling softly. guiding the child to the side gently, you tilt your head for him to come in, which confuses the little girl. “rue, meet matt, matt, meet rue,” they just stare at each other, kind of like two animals trying to defend their territory. in which their territory is you. rue notices how nice you are to matt, and matt notices how protective you are of her.
“hey, kid,” matt runs a hand through his hair, shutting the door behind him and locking it with the key on the door before he follows beside you a little tentatively.
“uhm..” she seems nervous to say high, to which you gently nudge her to do so, but not forcing her to. “hi, matt,” she says finally, clinging to your side quite a bit. “are you my auntie's friend?”
oh, so you're her aunt, matt thinks to himself. so she's your niece. that makes a lot more sense to him, and he relaxes a bit. he didn't know what he was thinking, but he's glad to know who she is to you. and why you're so protective of the little girl. it makes a little warmth grow in his stomach, which he can't quite put his finger on.
“uh, yeah, yeah,” he nods, arms crossed across his chest as you guys made it to the kitchen where you'd been sat up prior. your eyes flicker to his and an apologetic glint shimmers in them as you gesture for him to sit with you guys. “yeah, your auntie’s friend.”
“mhm,” you glance at him as he sits beside you and rue seems to be deciding something, her little fingers drumming against the table before she spoke up, tone gentle. she looks to you, and attempts to whisper, but it comes out as a quiet shout more than anything.
“do you think he wants his makeup done too, auntie?” she tries to cover her mouth with her hand, and this makes matt smile. matt smiles even more at the way you indulge rue, by doing the same in covering your mouth and whispering just as loud—
“i think so. should we ask?” the way you play with her makes his heart ache. he doesn't know what the feeling is, doesn't know whether he wants to know. but he doesn't hate it. doesn't mind it. might even like it.
“you ask, he's your friend, auntie,” rue decides, glancing at matt in a way she thinks is sneaky, but she just full on stares at him, before looking back at you.
“matt?” he pretends he was checking his phone, just to indulge the two of you in the same way you'd done for rue.
“hm? yeah?” matt leans against the counter, his expression a feigned innocence and obliviousness.
“you think, the lovely rue here, could do your makeup?” you bite back a soft smile as your gaze meets his and especially as matt pretends to not really know whether she could. he leans back, stretching, with a shrug.
“hmmmm, i dunno..”
“please! you'll look so fab,” rue promises, holding up her little pinky to which matt finds himself interlocking his with hers in a pinky promise as he sighs dramatically. a laugh slips past your lips, and soon, you find yourself watching your boyfriend get his makeup done by your niece.
matt is the perfect client, staying perfectly still for rue as she does his blush, his eyeshadow, etectera. you watch in amusement, but also fondness. “are we all done?” he asks after a moment, his eyes still shut. he probably looks ridiculous, he knows that, but he wants to see the happiness on both of your faces.
“mmmh, auntie, what d'you think?” matt opens his eyes and allows both you and rue to see the new look. you hum, letting the little girl lean against your shoulder are the two of you inspect him. the way you treat rue makes him want to cry, tears of literal joy. he bites his bottom lip, but releases it as soon as he senses rue about to protest so he doesn't mess up his beautiful red lipstick.
“he looks perfect, honey,” you smile softly, and rue claps her hands excitedly. you too have your makeup done, and rue had somehow managed to grasp a basic form of colour theory and made your makeup match. as your niece bounds off to grab a mirror so you two can see your makeup, both you and matt make eye contact and burst out laughing instantly. “you do look perfect!”
“y’look even better, sweetheart,” he crosses his arms once more and leans against the table. he admires you silently, for a moment, before he speaks up, “you're good with her.”
“huh?” your brow furrows, and matt notices, so he continues, having now reached out to hold your hand gently.
“with rue. you treat her like your own kid, y'know?” his thumb traces a heart on your palm before he lets go, feeling a little too sappy for a simple moment like this. however, you nod, leaning against the table too as your head tilts to the side a little.
“that kid's my life,” you admit as you look up at him, squeezing his hand for a moment after you'd taken it back into yours. a soft smile plays on your lips, and you continue, “i adore her.”
“yeah?” it's like matt's taking a mental note of this. as he watches you, he nods. he leans over and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark on your skin. god, he loves you. you are quite literally, unequivocally, perfect. and that realisation slowly dawns upon him as he searches your gaze for a second before he glances back over at rue's bounding footsteps with a little mirror in her hands.
“okay, line up!” she gestures the two of you over, and you both shuffle over with your fingers intertwined. rue has clearly very much noticed something as she flickers her eyes over the two of you. first of all, the interlaced fingers make her brows raise. then the red kiss mark on your cheek which is suspiciously similar to the tone of red on matt's lips.
you and matt glance at eachother for a moment, stifiling your laughter before you pose with eachother in the mirror, which then gives rue an idea. “auntie, can i use your phone?”
“go ahead, babe,” you smile, pressed against matt's side. rue hops up onto the chair to grab your phone, fiddling with it before she hands you it so you can turn it on. unlocking it, you hand it back to the girl so she can take the photos she wants to of you two.
“say… cheese!” she beams, smiling happily as she snaps a few photos of the two of you. she quickly turns and shows them to you, his eyes searching yours for a moment as you're looking at the photos. a glimmer of pure adoration gleams in his eyes and he glances at rue for a moment, who's looking back at him with a look that's way too knowing for a little girl her age.
“thank you for the makeup, kid,” matt gives her a smile, to which rue beams and nods, giggling.
“anytime!” she shrugs, as if it's nothing, glancing back at you. you look back up at her and you let out a little hum under your breath when you see the time.
“i think it's someone's bed time,” rue whines, and she looks at matt as if he's gonna agree, but he shrugs his shoulders with a little laugh.
“your aunt's right, kid, c'mon,” she pouts, but she hands the phone back over as she glances dramatically at the stairs. her eyes roll and she glances back at you once more.
“can you get my bedtime story ready?”
“you got it, missy, stay right here you two,” you agree to do your niece's bidding, and you head on upstairs to sort out her pajamas and stuff, which leaves matt and rue together. a comfortable silence settles over the two of them.
“so when are you getting married?”
“i don't.. we aren't—what? who.. hey, woah, no—what colour ring would she like?”
tags ┆.ᐟ ᰍ ︵ @junnniiieee07 , @st7rnioioss , @mimi-luvzyu , @freshloveee , @onlynextdoor ۫ .
#✿ ꒰ drabbles ) ₊˚੭#matt sturniolo x reader#matt sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo drabble#matt sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#chris sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo smut#chris sturniolo drabble#chris sturniolo#christopher sturniolo#nick sturniolo#nick sturniolo drabble#nicolas sturniolo#sturniolo triplets#sturniolo triplets x reader#sturniolo triplets smut#girl dad matt
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Fool For Love
part 2
~~~
part 1
~~~
Author’ Note: For one, I’m still on my first play-through and this will definitely stray from canon, but hopefully some things will give a nod to some of the actual events in the game. (Also there will be no Wyll or Minthara because I haven’t gotten to know them for…reasons 👀)
(As for when this takes place, I’m thinking around late act 1, early act 2-ish)
~~~
Astarion x reader/Tav
Tags: (mild?) angst, pining, pining while fucking, jealousy, eventual happy ending
Summary: You thought knew what you were doing when you let Astarion into your bed. He doesn’t have feelings for you, and vice versa. Only… Now you do. And the question is, how will you deal with it?
~~~
“Have you been crying, Tav?”
Fuck. You should’ve known Karlach would notice. “Yes,” you admit, knowing it’s no use lying. “Nightmare,” you add, because it’s not entirely untrue.
“Ah, yeah, that’ll do it.” The hand Karlach places on your shoulder feels reassuring. Supportive without a speck of judgement. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about it, you know.”
You smile, because you don’t know what you have done to deserve such a great friend like her. “Be careful,” you laugh, “otherwise I might take you up on that offer.” Gods knows you’re in need of someone to confide in. It’s just that you’re not a hundred percent sure she’s not one of Astarion’s other conquests.
“My tent is always open for you, Tav. I hope you know that.” Karlach’s soft smile quirks into a grin as her eyes shift to look at something over your shoulder. “Oh, hi, Fangs. Trying to sneak up on Tav, are you?”
“And a good morning to you too, Karlach.” You don’t need to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Of course not, I just did not want to break up what looked like an intimate moment.”
Strange. Underneath the snark, Astarion almost sounds… jealous. That doesn’t make the least bit sense, so you brush the notion away.
“Nothing intimate about it,” you press out. “Just Karlach being a good friend.” One deep breath, and then you turn around to face him. It takes all of your determination, but you make sure to keep a neutral expression. Except you catch his eyes narrowing, and too late you realise that he, too, notices the small but telling signs of the tears you shed not even an hour ago. Unlike Karlach, he keeps his thoughts to himself, because of course he does. You’re not even sure why you’re not surprised, but deep down you knew he wouldn’t acknowledge it.
You momentarily stop breathing when the truth slams into you like a blow to the gut: he doesn’t care enough to ask. Or if he does, asking could mean complicating things he wants to keep simple.
“Tav?”
You hear Astarion addressing you, but you’re stuck inside your own head now. Of course he doesn’t want to know. Freedom and survival are the key factors driving Astarion in everything he does, and getting entangled with you beyond pleasure and safety — and feeding — could compromise both of those things. While he probably does consider you a friend at this point, it’s only surface-level. In all honesty you can’t blame him. After all he’s been through, trust doesn’t come easy to him.
You could hold a grudge for the lies he told you, but the truth is, you went into this with your eyes wide open. You could’ve called him out on it, but you were so curious about what it would lead to that you let him believe that you were fooled.
“Tav?”
A cool hand on your arm snaps you back to the here and now.
“Sorry, did you say something?” He’s eyeing you warily, and you wonder fleetingly how he would react if you told him the half-lie about the nightmares.
Astarion’s brow twitches as he opens his mouth to speak. “Tav–”
“Gooood morning, everyone!”
Gale. Of course. “Good morning, Gale.” Not letting yourself ponder what Astarion might’ve been meaning to say, you fling yourself at the opportunity of a new topic of conversation as if it was the last potion of healing in an otherwise empty pouch. “Aren’t you chipper this morning?”
“I saw a falling star just before going to bed last night, and it felt like a sign that this day would be an exceptionally good one.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Speaking of.” Lowering his voice, Gale slides closer to your side. “I was thinking of doing some stargazing tonight. Want to join me? The sky should be clear enough for it.”
You can feel Astarion’s eyes on you. “Sure,” you hear yourself say, immediately regretting it.
“Perfect!”
“What’s perfect?”
Saved by the Tiefling. “Gale says tonight should be perfect for stargazing.” When you turn around to face her, there’s no Astarion in sight. That should feel like a relief, and yet, you can help but worry. Why that is is beyond you, but the guilt is still there, confusing you even more.
“That’s not–”
“Why don’t you join us? We can ask the rest of the group too.”
“Excellent idea, Tav!”
“Mm, yes. Excellent.”
Gale sounds disappointed, but it’s better this way. If you were more callous you would use Gale to try to get Astarion out of your system and out of your heart, but that is out of the question now. During your weeks together, he has become a friend. They all have.
Perhaps you can find yourself a handsome druid when you all go back to the Grove to trade with the merchant Arron later today. If for nothing else, you desperately need to work on your flirting game because it has never been your strong suit to begin with.
“Tav?”
“Yes, Halsin?” You don’t know it, but the druid can tell that something is troubling you.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, never been better.” If you keep saying it out loud you might perhaps believe it at some point.
“Right.” His seemingly all-knowing eyes scan you up and down, making you feel like he can see into the deepest parts of your heart and mind. You’re not entirely sure that he can’t. “I heard from Karlach that you’re going to the Grove,” he continues after a moment of heavy silence. “I have other business to attend to today, but I wanted to ask if you could do me a favour while you’re there.”
Your body relaxes with relief. “Yes, we are. What do you want me to do?”
The fictitious druid can wait for another time.
~~~
#astarion ancunin#astarion x reader#astarion#astarion x tav#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 fic#bg3 spoilers#bg3 tav#bg3 astarion#fic wip
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Rollo Flamm x Reader || Rhythm
Warnings: Understated jealousy (?), Reader can’t dance (wants to, though), provisioning of unrequired love, female reader.
The girl that dances atop the stage is really pretty.
It’s not you, and with some kind of regret, you concede you’ve never properly learned to dance.
The girl is more beautiful than the starry night above the City of Flowers because she feels like a dream. Stars will be tomorrow too, but her? No one knows, so all eyes are on her, to balm each’s heart with her sight.
Her steps are graceful and the way she moves is enchanting. It’s not an easy choreography either - with so many jumps and twirls and turns - but she makes it seem so because a smile never leaves her face. The fabric of her dress follows her faithfully, and you imagine she will look incredible in every photo taken of her.
“She’s so… beautiful,” someone next to you breathes with awe.
You believe Rollo thinks so too.
Even if the thought of never being looked on like that stings, you can only blame yourself as he didn’t want to come here at all. When you suggested checking out the show that is being held in a Topsy-Turvy Event Hall, Rollo scolded you for distracting yourself. It might be a Friday evening when most of the students are already headed to the dormitory, but the work of student council members is never done. Before the weekend, at least.
Your whingeing has been guerdoned: Rollo agreed on taking a break. He was hesitant while doing so, and almost annoyed at the cheery smiles that appeared instantly on three faces, yours, the vice president’s and a school treasurer’s. The papers and cups of cold tea were left instantly, and in the next few minutes, all four of you were heading down the staircase.
…
A square is crowded every season with tourists, so neither you nor Rollo is surprised that the two other students got separated from you before even reaching the main stage. You are thankful for their attentiveness because it allows you to be alone with Rollo.
“They are selling enchanted drinks again!” You exclaim, pointing to a stall with indigo macrame hung around a tent. Some attractions were opened at certain seasons a year, and you remember the elixirs being a hit last year.
“It looks like so,” Rollo states flatly. “I wonder why people are so fixated on this kind of never-lasting things.”
Knowing Rollo is a man of harsh words, you brush off his comment.
Blue potion with edible glitter — you are sure it’s edible glitter because most of the useful mixtures are rather lustreless — catches your eye. It looks like a piece of starry sky tucked into a glass bottle. It’s also supposed to help you with your studies if you drink it, so it’s even more magical.
“Would you like to try one? This one helps you focus… But, yeah, I guess you already can do that perfectly,” you pick up the next vial. “Oh, after drinking the yellow one, you should be able to sing more professionally! And the green one is for rhythm… I would need that one. Yet, the most interesting one here is-”
- a love potion.
Even the vial is heart-shaped. The mixture inside is either pink or purple, you can’t really define it because of the amount of bubbles that constantly stir the mixture. You might not be the best alchemy student ever, but even you know that that potion has some enchanting aroma that might bind your senses.
Maybe that potion is your only chance ever to get with Rollo. Your heart is heavy at the thought of enchanting him to love you.
“I have no intention of buying anything,” Rollo’s curt voice slings you from your thoughts. He takes vials from your hands and puts them back, any moment ready to push them out of his mind. “Anything but croissants. I can treat you to one of those.”
…And that’s how you get free food, dear students.
“Will you? Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You would love to hug him, Rollo is… Rollo probably wouldn’t appreciate this kind of gratitude in the middle of the street. Or wherever. It’s hard to imagine Rollo being happy about a hug as he seems unused to physical contact, yet that might be a reason why you should try to open him up.
For a last moment you think about the enchanted concoctions, but Rollo turns around and you need to catch up to not get separated from him.
Way to his favourite bakery Rollo knows by heart. He guides you through the crowd and it’s easy to follow him as he stands taller than most people, the distance being even larger when you count his hat. He glanced over his shoulder to check if you were still beside him after you get out of the most crowded area.
“We’re here,” Rollo announces as if you hadn’t been accompanying him to the bakery whenever you had a chance. He strides to the counter, where several types of croissants under a glass cover are creating a delicious exhibition. “Choose whatever you like.”
It's a very tempting offer, and you decide to take it once you glue yourself to the glass of a counter.
“I…” You start, pointing at two specific desserts. Two croissants with your favourite fillings are too delicious to pick between them. “Can I get two? I will treat you something in return, once I'll have money on me.”
“You’ll get a stomachache,” he says curtly but slides his card to a lady behind a counter that picks up another baking for himself, halfway dipped in chocolate and topped with cut-dried strawberries. “Be careful. They’ve been just taken out of the oven, so you’d better don’t burn yourself.
“Thanks.”
You let yourself bite into the device, as you take another turn, this time the way leading into the main square. There is a grand scene that is always used for music performances.
There is one being held, a solo.
You glance at the dancer, and they look around the crowd. You think there are your two missing clubmates, and beckon Rollo over.
“Hey, there are—”
…
Your surprise silences you.
Rollo stays planted on the ground, eyes on the dancing girl with something like awe. You know that look. You caught a glimpse of it many times on the surface of the glass in student consul’s showcases; your face, so desperately stretching in a soft smile, not to look suspicious.
For the first time, you didn't like the idea of love at first sight.
…
You know where it’s time to step out. Many negotiations you held with people on behalf of students of NBC sensitised you to their expectations and what you should do.
You smile weakly, before gently tapping Rollo on his arm. “I… will get going.”
But Rollo, amazingly, has already shaken off from mysterious enchantment. If you could only do so as easily, permanently. “Are you sick?” He asks, and when you avoid his eyes, his tone voice drops half a tone. “What happened?”
“Nothing, it’s… Can… I… just go?”
“What happened?” Rollo repeats. His eyes scan you, the first time quickly, and when he doesn’t find anything visible, he gets more alarmed, actually looking stiff. “Did you actually burn yourself? I told you to be careful.”
You don’t know what to tell him but start with a measurement that doesn’t bring him any relief.
“It’s not that, Rollo. I…”
“Do tell.” He insists, although if you said a word, you know he wouldn’t question you any more about this. But he would find out in some other way, and he might think you don’t trust him enough - and this implication you really want to avoid - and… “Tell me.”
…And you want to believe that he’s worried for you.
You stare at the ground, and clasp your hands behind your back once you notice their subtle shaking. Why are you reacting this way? Ahh… “I just don’t enjoy dancing. I think I will just return to school and finish organizing the documents…”
“You’ve always liked to see people dance though.”
So he has noticed.
“I don’t have a talent to dance myself.”
“You just need to learn,” he says, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard him. And as you’ve been listening to his voice o lot, you think you might’ve imagined it. Rollo glances at his watch and urges you to come with him. “It’s almost time to ring the bell. Let’s go. I will help you.”
…
You don’t like climbing the bell tower, and going up hundreds of steps isn’t something easy even with Rollo as your motivation. It’s the anxiety that keeps you going.
“I didn't buy the enchantment, though,” you break the silence, and Rollo looks over his shoulder. He is one step in front of you, and he probably slowed his pace to let you catch up to him easily. He’s a master of climbing stairs and ladders after all. “To dance. The bell won’t do anything if… I don’t have any magic on me, no?”
“Don't depend on these kinds of things,” he grumbles. “If you do, you will never achieve anything. For example, if you drank the potion, of course, you'd know how to dance. But just for tonight.”
You question his motivational quote. “But isn't the magic helpful sometimes?”
“It makes one fully depend on it.”
And the conversation ends here because you’ve reached the top platform. Rollo opens the trapdoor and holds it for you. As you step out, you’re immediately hit with a breeze of cold air, but it’s more kind of refreshing than freezing.
Once the trapdoor is closed, Rollo awaits, frozen for a clock-measured minute and three seconds.
And then he rings the bell. It takes much force to move it, and you are almost sure Rollo doesn’t even boost his strength with magic. But, what’s unexpected, this one time he uses magic to repeat the movements of the bell and have it ring on its own.
DING- DONG.
DING- DONG.
DING- DONG.
He leaves it to ring at the same tempo and turns to you. The magical earplugs in your ears only moderately muffle the sound of the bell. No music from the Topsy-Turvy Event Hall reaches you anymore. You can only hear the rings clearly, and wouldn't hear Rollo if he said anything.
He doesn't even try to, and without even a shred of a smile, he takes your hand in his.
DING- DONG.
His right hand wraps around your waist, and the fingers of the left one intertwine with yours. He stands taller than you, mighty, righteous. His gaze lingers on you as if he judges you.
It’s never a fair judgement, because the slightly offbeat of his heart drives his reason senseless.
He takes the first step to the back, and you follow along.
DING- DONG.
Rollo's movements are fluid and graceful, yet precise and purposeful. He leads you with ease, his body guiding yours. Waltz is a dance that emphasises the partnership, but with you not knowing the steps, it feels to you like some sort of majestic tango.
You’re overpowered within the first seconds of dance.
DING- DONG.
DING- DONG.
Step, step, DING, turn, step, turn, DONG.
You know your cheeks are flushed, and you blame the height and cold wind for it. Maybe it is a tiring dance, and you believe it’s acceptable to be this tired yet happy if you are dancing for all of eternity. It feels like the bell started to strike the omnipresent tempo a lifetime ago.
Rollo knows when your waltz-tango should end. He stops the chime with a fluid movement of his hand, magic stopping the well-kept rhythm from a bell.
BA-DUM, BA-DUM.
Your heart maintains the tempo. Even if each beat is strong and loud, you worry about how it will come to a halt at any second.
“I’m surprised,” he starts, sounding unsurprised but kind…-ish, “that you aren’t in a dance-related club yet.”
You cock your head to the side. “Is this a… sarcasm?”
“No. I think that musical-related things would suit you better. You could dance on that grand stage we approached earlier.”
“Like that girl?”
Rollo frowns. “What girl?”
…He doesn’t remember? How could anyone forget for a second about a person one has fallen for? You couldn’t. You can’t. You’re dumbfounded.
“A dancer. On a stage. Today.” Rollo looks more confused with each suggestion. “She was dancing to a… fast music in a flowy dress?”
“Ah,” finally, recognition sparkles in his eyes. A wave of relief is followed by anxiety, but Rollo shrugs your both overwhelms off, with a flick of his hand. “Yes, like her or… even better. The piece she danced to would fit you if you only embrace your passion. I think your performance would be more dreamy.”
You chuckle.
“If I would do that, what would you do without me in the student council club?” By this slight teasing, Rollo stiffens a little. You place your hand on your chest. “But as your right hand, you can’t get rid of me so easily.”
You swear you see him smiling subtly, and it’s no trick of light.
“As my right hand, you have the power to do whatever you want.”
“Then I want to stay.”
“Hm,” Rollo ponders. As you notice his gaze, you feel as if he’s contemplating which future holds the best fate for you. He lowers his eyelids, sighing slightly. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” you smile. “But if I hold any power like you say, I would like to use it to have you dance with me again.”
“Strange request,” he says curtly but doesn’t deny your request. His follow-up question makes your chest fill with warmth. “Do you know any dances? Except for waltz,” he says as if you could call your ‘waltz’ anything other than pretending to know how to dance.
“Macarena?” You suggest and he looks at you sceptically. In response, you flash him a bashful smile. “No?”
He sighs but takes your hands in his.
“Let me teach you, then,” he says, slowly. “Let’s start with a proper greeting,” but his greeting isn’t proper, because he doesn’t look at you. Because he avoids your gaze, you can have a shameless view on his red face, that must match the temperature with his quickly warming up hands. You always thought Rollo’s hands were cold, until this moment. “An elegant bow…”
He bows and you lift the brim of your skirt in response, trying to copy the fluidity of the curtsy.
He brings your hand up so carefully as if it is made from the thinnest glass, and presses his lips to your knuckles. So cliche, so old-fashioned, but chivalry isn’t dead as it fills you with energy, surprise and some embarrassment that makes you want to live this moment forever. “And a kiss.”
“Now I’m charmed,” You laugh softly, a smile on your face, yet you were mentally prepared to faint. You wonder if doctors would detect you lovesick if your heart actually stopped. “What’s after that?”
Rollo glances up at you, his eyes brighter than ever. He brings you closer to him.
“Let’s talk about rhythm.”
#I finished my last exam today!! They didn't go as well as I expected#but hey! now I will finally have time to write!! I've been dreaming about this for a long long time haha#twisted wonderland x reader#twisted wonderland#twst x reader#twst#rollo flamm#twst rollo#twst rollo x reader#rollo x reader#rollo flamm x reader#rollo flamme x reader#rollo flamme
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aloha, i was just at an animal shelter with my best friend playing with kittens and it got me thinking;
hotch and reader going to play with kittens (for fun or on a date or something) and reader just melting at how sweet and gentle hotch is with the little kitties and vice versa.
also there was this adorable kitty there that had Cerebellar Hypoplasia (wobbly cat syndrome) and i just know hotch would be extra gentle with the little special needs cats😭💕
You're afraid that if you look at any of the cats around you, they'll decide they don't like you. So for now you stare into Hotch's eyes, wide and biting back a smile when a wet nose nudges at your fingers.
"There's one behind you," You whisper, watching the black cat that sneaks up behind him with a careful glance. It bats a tiny paw at his watch band, that Aaron's eyes soften at.
"Hi," You croon, when the tentative sniffs at your fingers turn into soft fur rubbed against your skin. You bend over to look at the cat beside you, and it mewls for attention that you grant it in the swipe of your finger down its back. It decides that that's not enough, and hops into your lap to stand poised on your thigh.
"Oh," You gush, scratching between its ears, "Hello!"
"Cute," Aaron beams, reaching his hand out to offer the cat in your lap more attention. At the same time, he flips his palm upside down where the black cat is inspecting him, and the tiny thing has no problem deciding to snooze right then and there.
"Oh, look at that," You coo, whipping your phone out to take a picture of Aaron, petting one cat while holding another sleepy one, "They love you, Aaron."
"We're not getting one." He warns you, though he strokes a thumb over the kitten's forehead with such softness that you're surprised he's ever held a gun in his lifetime.
"I know," You gripe, "I'm just saying- Oh, Aaron, look!"
He turns his head to where you're pointing, and the cat on your lap sees the flash of a laser pointer from across the room, departing quickly. What you've spotted is a little calico kitten, movements disjointed and erratic as it makes its way across the room.
"It's a wobbly cat," You breathe, "I've seen them before, they have a- a condition that makes it hard for them to control their movements."
"Is it okay?" Aaron looks concernedly at the cat who notices your attention, meowing eagerly as it meanders over to you. You catch the little thing before it can tip over, soothing it with a gentle rub of the ears as you cradle it in your lap.
"He's fine," You nod, "It's just hard for him to keep still."
"He's cute," Aaron smiles, returning the favor of taking pictures of you with kittens, "I wonder if he was surrendered or if he was born here."
"Probably surrendered," You lament, "They have a really hard time finding homes."
Aaron's jaw shifts; he knows where you're going.
"You just need someone to love you," You croon, leaning in to offer your nose to the kitten who tries to nuzzle you sweetly, but ends up knocking his head into yours more forcefully than he'd intended. You laugh at the collision, scratching up his back, "I think I already do."
"Honey," Aaron tries, but you're more than prepared.
"Aaron, I'm home all the time! You're always working, and I could use a friend. And so could he," You beg, holding the kitten out towards him that trembles slightly in your hold, "Come on, you're really gonna say no to that face?"
"I said no before we came in here," He reminds you, voice stern but eyes weakening. To demolish his resolve you slowly lower the cat in your hands to his lap, and he watches as the little kitten clumsily curls up on his jeans.
"Honey," He repeats, but there's no going back, the kitten's face is settled against his stomach.
"I'll tell the employee," You grin at his defeated grimace, watching as he brings a gentle hand up to carefully pet the animal, extra cautious with his nails in case he accidentally scratches it.
"You're in trouble," Aaron warns, "I mean it, this was not supposed to happen."
"This is your fault," You scoff, hovering over him from behind so that he has to look indignantly up at you, "Why did you take me to a cat shelter if you didn't want me to come home with a cat?"
"My fault," He repeats, his signature grumpy frown on his face, "You promised me you wouldn't get attached."
"That's like when Jack promises not to ask for something in line at the grocery store," You level him with an unimpressed stare, "You should have known I'd fall through on that one."
His jaw clenches, but when the cat in his lap noses at his fingers, he sighs, "I should have seen this coming."
"We can go to the pet store after this," You lean down to press a gleeful kiss to his forehead, wrinkled with the frown over his lips, "Thanks, Aaron!"
#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotchner scenario#aaron hotchner oneshot#aaron hotchner one-shot#aaron hotchner one shot#aaron hotchner headcanon#aaron hotchner headcanons#aaron hotchner hc#aaron hotchner hcs#aaron hotchner fanfiction#aaron hotchner fanfic#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner blurb#aaron hotchner drabble#aaron hotchner dialogue#aaron hotchner fluff#aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction
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dark but just a game
raider!joel x reader
warnings: 18+ mdni! raider!joel, rough sex/smut, unprotected piv sex (wrap it before u tap it folks), fingering, choking, hair pulling, probably dubcon but it’s not really?, deep throating/face fucking, spanking, joel is mean, joel is a bad man (but such a hot one), pet names (baby, sweetheart), no use of y/n
word count: 2.4k
a/n: i am depraved. also I wrote this in like 1 sitting and had to post. omg. i’ve never posted smut before and of course when I do it has to be fucking nasty! enjoy
You knew you treaded on a thin tightrope. No net, no balancing pole, nothing but the ground a hundred feet below and a short landing thirty feet away. The only consolation was the lack of a crowd, empty stands around the circus tent, only yourself and the lone figure on the other side. Waiting for you. Faceless, nameless; but you knew in the back of your mind that wasn’t true. Maybe your subconscious wanted you to believe that when you had this dream. You knew better.
You knew better than to trust yourself not to fall.
You weren’t even around too long before the outbreak happened; never even been to a circus. Only read about it in books. But the metaphor seemed apt, and as you climbed and gripped every rung of the ladder to the starting spot, you cursed and cursed yourself for the inevitable fall. Like clockwork, though -- like a machine with no off button -- you made the climb again and again.
And again. Creeping around the decimated town, you closed your eyes. Imagined taking the first step onto the taut wire. Felt it lag under your weight. Inhaled slowly, bracing yourself for the second step. And just as you swung your other foot out, just as you tightened your core and prayed to any God that would listen, your arms pinwheeled wildly and you lost your balance.
He’d snuck up on you, pinned you face-first to the wall with his large, heavy hands. The sharp inhale, the gasp, that you sucked in, overshadowed by a dark, languid chuckle from behind and somewhere above your ears.
“Can’t get enough of me, huh, baby?” You almost forgot about the drawl. The hint of some origin from long ago. Shivering, you felt his words fan against the shell of your ear, breath hot and sending goosebumps down your arms. “‘Li’l pathetic, don’t’ya think?”
You barely heard yourself respond, some breathy denial, maybe a squeak. Something truly pathetic, just as he said.
Joel used one hand to grip your hair at the root, yanking your head backward. His nails dug into your scalp. It was painful -- your eyes filled, against your will, with tears -- but then again, you knew it would be. You expected it to be.
He peered down at you, scowling. He looked strange from this point, upside-down and blurry. His other hand wrapped around your body, no longer used to shove you against the sharp bricks of some building wall. It found its spot at your throat. You swallowed against it, eyes fluttering shut as he applied pressure.
“Haven’t seen you in a minute,” he whispered. He pressed his lips against your temple. “Been hidin’ from me, baby?”
You shook your head. It was difficult to do with his hand wrapped around your throat and his vice-like grip on your hair. Miniscule, almost, but he got the message. “No?” He nosed down your cheek until his lips found the junction between your chin and your neck, just above where his thumb squeezed. Joel sucked the skin in between his lips, rolled it in between his teeth.
You gasped. You squeezed your legs together against the sharp ache between them. You grit your teeth. You didn’t think to do each one of these actions, the only thought in your head the feeling of Joel sucking on your neck. And plummeting a hundred feet down.
“Joel-” you tried but only choked as he tightened his grip with both hands. “P-please-”
“Please, what?” He mumbled into your neck. He let go of it to slide his hand down the length of your body, grabbing roughly at your breasts first, before trailing it down your belly and between the waistband of your pants. “Use your words, baby. Been so long since I’ve gotten to hear your pretty voice.”
Against your better judgment, your stomach flipped at his words, his praise. God, you craved this. It was the only reason you’d snuck out of your QZ to go searching around the abandoned city around it, far enough away from the FEDRA soldiers that you didn’t worry about getting caught. Unless there were some other raiders around; not an impossibility, but unlikely enough that you weren’t worried. Joel kept to himself. Even if someone did manage to find you two, you knew Joel would take care of it. You’d watched him kill before. He was violent and scary. There must be something wrong with you if it turned you on so much.
Joel, in a rough motion, let go of you to spin you around to face him. You barely got a glimpse of his face before he had his hands on your shoulders, pushing you down. Your knees hit the pavement with a painful jolt. You watched him undo his belt, deft hands quickly unbuttoning and pushing down his jeans and boxers. And then there he was, his thick cock hard and weeping with precum.
“You gonna suck me, baby girl?” Joel said. He fisted his hand in your hair again, pulling you closer. “Or am I gonna make you?”
You swallowed, looking up at him through your lashes. “I will, Joel,” you murmured. You leaned forward to take the tip of him into your mouth. He tasted salty, the precum rubbing against your tongue. Joel stared down at you, eyes dark and bottom lip pulled between his teeth. He pressed his hips in further and you obeyed, opening wider to swallow him deep. As his cock hit the back of your throat, you gagged around it, eyes watering, but not missing the way his closed, nor the exhalation of pleasure that left his lips.
“Fuck,” he swore lowly. “Mouth feels so fucking good. Love the way those pretty lips look wrapped around my cock.”
Your stomach flipped again, even as you gagged once more. Still, Joel pressed in further, his long cock inching down your throat. Your breathing quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly. You didn’t know how you were going to keep taking him, not when you kept gagging.
“Relax, baby,” he cooed, free hand brushing against your cheek. You looked up at him, breathing heavily through your nose. “Relax your throat. Don’t panic, you can take it.”
You tried your best to listen to him. You relaxed your throat, eyes squeezing shut as he pulled your head down his length until you had taken everything. Every inch of him stuffed down your throat, nose pressed into the small mass of curls above the base of his cock. You knew you must be dripping, clenching agonizingly around nothing.
“Look at you, fuck,” Joel said. He let go of your hair to run his fingers through it. “Keep breathin’ through your nose, baby. Gonna keep my cock in that mouth.”
You moaned around his length. When you closed your eyes, tears fell down your cheeks; but you listened, nails digging into your palms painfully. You knew he would be angry if you raised them and grabbed his legs. You’d played this game before.
Joel slid out of your mouth almost all the way, enough that you could finally breathe around it. You swallowed in large gulps of air before he pressed in again, slowly, all the way down to the hilt. You only gagged once before you relaxed and let him fuck your mouth.
After that, his pace increased. It was almost too much, the in and out, your throat spasming around his thick cock. Your lips and throat and knees ached, strings of saliva hanging down your chin, but you sat there dutifully, tears streaming out of eyes that you kept trained on him. You watched his expression, dark and flushed, as he used your mouth for himself. Your core ached. You kept falling, down and down, not having yet hit the ground.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Joel panted, sliding all the way out of your mouth. Your throat felt empty at the loss. “So fuckin’ good. Little slut for me. You a slut for anybody else?”
You shook your head, turning to wipe your mouth on the shoulder of your shirt. “No, Joel,” you croaked out. Your voice was fucked. “Only a slut for your cock.”
Joel swore. Staring down at you, he thought for a moment, then dragged you standing by your hair. You winced at the crack of your knees, the strain of them straightening after being bent for so long. Joel pushed your cheek against the wall again, his hand slipping in between your waistband once more.
You gasped as he ran a thick finger across your folds; Joel swore again at the wetness, sinking two fingers in to the knuckle.
“Joel,” you begged, eyes fluttering. You groaned out something incoherent, your body twitching at the feel of his fingers curling inside of you. They were so much longer than yours and could reach so much deeper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Joel…”
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered into your neck. His thumb flicked your swollen clit roughly and you almost screamed at the feeling. Your knees could have buckled and he would’ve kept you upright just from the force of his body pressing you into the wall. “You like that? So wet from just sucking my cock. You really are a slut, huh?”
“Yes,” you sobbed. “Came looking for you. For this.”
Joel groaned, nipping at your neck. “I know, baby. So desperate for this cock.” When you nodded, he chuckled, extracting his fingers from your pussy. “So fuckin’ desperate… guess I’ll give you what you came for.”
Joel yanked your pants down to the knees. He grabbed your thighs and pulled you back against him, then pushed your torso forward so you were bent over. He pinned both of your hands behind your back with one hand and used the other to rub the tip of his cock against your soaked pussy.
Without another word, Joel thrust his full length into you in one swell move. You screamed, tears pricking your eyes at the burn, the fullness. He sighed from behind you, the hand not gripping your wrists moving to slap your naked ass. You yelped at the sting of it.
“Missed this pretty pussy,” Joel mumbled. “Who does this pussy belong to, baby?”
You shuddered throughout your entire body as you got used to the stretch. It’d been months since you had him inside of you, and it was something your body forgot. Too caught up in the feeling of his cock inside of you, you didn’t answer. He slapped your ass again, harder.
“I said, who does this pussy belong to?”
“You,” you cried out, clenching around him.
“Say it.” Joel dragged his cock out inch by inch, slowly, then sheathed himself back to the hilt with a grunt. “Who makes you this fuckin’ wet?”
“You, Joel.” You barely even registered speaking. “This pussy belongs to you… I’m this wet for you…” Heat bit at your cheeks, embarrassment, but you kept blubbering as he began to slide in and out of you slowly. You felt the drag of every inch, every centimeter. “Please, please, please fuck me-- harder, please--”
Joel laughed mockingly behind you. “Harder? If you say so.”
Your vision blurred as Joel fucked you, hard and deep and almost painfully. That familiar heat built up in your core. You wondered if it was even possible for you to come without him touching you, just from his cock alone. You never had before. But it’d been this long, and if you shut your eyes, you envisioned the ground steadily raising to meet your plummeting body. An acrobat you most definitely were not.
As if on cue, Joel shifted ever so slightly. His cock hit some spot inside of you, soft and spongy, and you unraveled with a start. Eyes rolling back into your head, you slumped, cheek scraping against the sharp edges of the brick wall. You barely noticed the pain and only distantly did you feel Joel pull you backward by your hair, your back arched, and heard him groan at the feeling of your pussy spasming around his cock.
“Shit, baby!” He bit down on your neck and used two fingers to rub your clit. “Didn’t even touch you. You gonna come for me again?”
Just as you started coming down, the quick circles he drew around your bundle of nerves sent painful overstimulation shuddering through your body.
“No,” you cried out, body jerking. “‘S too much, Joel-”
“Shut up,” he said, voice bland. “Take it, baby.” His hips jerked harder. You shrieked with each thrust into your sensitive core. His fingers didn’t let up, and in less than a minute, you felt your peak rising quickly again, this time muddled and almost feverish.
You came again. Harder. It felt like it lasted forever, like you were never going to come out of it, like you were stuck eternally in this high. Joel’s thrusts became erratic and off-kilter and then he was coming, too, with a grunt, filling you up. You didn’t even have the mind or energy to protest, just shook around his cock as he filled you with his come.
It took a minute, but you finally came down, bones sagging like jelly in your post-orgasmic state. Joel slid out of you. When he let you go to pull his pants up, you crumpled to the ground.
He squatted down to your level, rough hands lifting you at the hips and yanking your pants up. He set you back down and stood up, peering down at you with a blank expression.
“Keep telling you not to come back,” he said.
You stared back up at him, mind blank.
“Keep telling you ‘m not a good man, baby,” said Joel. “I ain’t gonna cuddle you after, just gonna take what I want. But you don’t listen.”
He bent down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Then he gripped your chin in between his fingers.
“I know you ain’t gonna listen if I say it again,” he said. “So I’ll see you next time.”
You watched him walk away, turning the corner and leaving you alone in the alleyway he’d found you in what seemed like forever ago.
After a few minutes, you managed to pick yourself up, wincing at the ache between your legs. You started on the way back to the QZ, wondering when the next time was you’d decide to make the climb again.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x you#joel miller#joel miller x y/n#joel miller fanfic#joel miller fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal as joel miller#the last of us#the last of us fanfiction#tlou fanfic#tlou fanfiction#tlou show#raider!joel#joel miller smut#smut#tlou smut#joelmillershole
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i'll do anything that you wanna
(hi! sweet @brownduck and a lovely anon sent in prompts to inspire this loooooong pre-relationship flatmate!matty moment. references to 10 Things I Hate About You (if you haven't seen it, go! watch it!). enjoy!)
flatmate!matty watching girlie wistfully sigh at some cute romantic thing in a show/film she's watching and now he's determined to do that for her. This could either be right before or right after they get together
Being super normal abt the idea of movie nights with flatmate matty, maybe this instance like riiight before you two get together 💔 cuddling up together bc that’s like, a totally normal thing that friends do, him nodding off onto your shoulder or vice versa……….
matty knocks softly on your-half open bedroom door, nudging it fully open with his foot when he hears your soft "come in!". he tries to ignore the little pang of tenderness that appears in his heart when you smile at him standing in your doorway; instead, he focuses on addressing the laptop open on your knee, its artificial light illuminating your pretty face. "sorry, darlin', didn't realise you were still working. i'll leave you be."
he makes to exit, but is stopped by your sudden protests. "no, no, i'm finished for today," you say, closing the lid and lifting the computer from your shorts-clad lap. you stretch languidly, and matty's brain shuts down for a second as your cropped t-shirt rides up and exposes the bare underside of your boob. "what's up?"
once he's regained control of his brain, matty shrugs. he swears he sees your eyes flick down to quickly gaze at his bare chest, brought to prominence by the movement, but he's probably just projecting. "just wondered if you wanted to hang out, s'all. haven't really seen you much this week. missed you."
your face lights up as you beam at him. you pat the space beside you on your bed, signalling for matty to sit next to you. at first, he's quite grateful for the seat, because his knees went weak at the radiance of your smile, but then it hits him when he plonks down next to you; he's half naked in your bed, breathing in the scent of your perfume and shampoo, next to an almost as half-naked you, lying on your side and smiling at him through your eyelashes.
fuck. he's so fucked.
you shift up to a sitting position and - almost tentatively - reach across to boop matty on the nose. he wrinkles it in response, trying his best to deflect how adorable he found it, which makes you giggle and reposition his glasses for him. "you know, healy," you begin, teasingly. "for a supercool edgy rockstar, you're very cute sometimes, wanting to hang out with little old me late on a friday night."
matty can feel his cheeks go crimson, and bites his lip to stop from - what? smiling? groaning at how cute you are? kissing you there and then? he's not sure. "oi, less of the teasing. i'm trying to be nice."
"sorry. you're very sweet," you say, snuggling into his side so naturally that matty thinks he might pass out. "and i missed you too. was gonna put a film on, if you want to watch it with me."
matty experimentally leans his head to rest on your own; when you don't protest, he speaks. "that sounds nice. what film? don't say fucking twilight, i can't sit through that shite again."
"shut up, it's a masterpiece," you say indignantly, peeling yourself away from matty to rifle through the pile of dvds in the corner of your room. as much as your closeness fucks matty up, another pang in his heart appears as soon as you move from him; loss, longing, loneliness. jesus christ, he needs to get a grip. "oh! here, surely you like this one."
matty crawls forward to read the title, not noticing the way your thighs clench together at his lithe movement. "10 things i hate about you? i don't think i've ever seen it."
"WHAT?!" you press the dvd to your chest in what matty thinks might actually be genuine shock. "how have you never seen it? you've had girlfriends."
"what's that got to do with anything?"
you sigh, climbing back onto the bed and sitting on your knees in front of matty, who moves to sit on his hands so he physically cannot rest them on your almost-bare thighs as he so badly wants to. "it's a rite of passage for any girl to watch this with her boyfriend in the first few weeks of dating."
"wh-"
"don't ask me why, it just is," you begin, sighing. "but seeing as you've gotten to your big age without being shown it by the multitudes of girls who've tried and failed to cuff you..."
matty raises his eyebrows at that, but he can't exactly deny it.
"... i guess i'll have to do it." you roll your eyes dramatically, but smile that radiant smile again afterwards. "you cool with that, healy? pretending i'm your girlfriend for the 90 minutes it takes to watch this film?"
matty thinks about what he could say here. why pretend? let's make it official. i probably imagine you're my girlfriend for at least triple the amount of time it would take to watch the film every day of my life, anyway. but he doesn't. he won't. matty's so in love with you that he'd marry you tomorrow, but the thought of telling you that and you not feeling the same (which is bloody likely) terrifies him. it hurts like fuck repressing his feelings for you all the time, especially when there's reminders of you all over the flat you share - your trainers lying haphazardly by the door, your books on every flat surface available, your shampoo next to his in the shower caddy, your perfume wafting through every room and getting him higher than any drug he's ever been on - but he'd rather keep both quiet and you in his life than fuck up the dynamic and lose you forever.
so matty plays it cool. nonchalant. he shrugs, keeps his tone light, neutral facial expression. "sounds alright to me."
your smile dims a little. fuck, was he too cool with it? did he lapse into disdain? maybe - your tone is cooler when you reply with an "okay". thankfully, though, it brightens. "but that's not an excuse for you to do the old putting-the-arm-around-me-to-squeeze-my-tit move," you say, with a look so mischievous it borders on flirty.
the panging in matty's heart is replaced by fluttering - god, what he wouldn't give to have you look at him like that all the time. desperate to keep it going, he retorts with an equally mischievous phrase, pointedly ignoring the slight agony of how easily flirting with you comes to him. "fuck's sake, what's even the point of me agreeing to this then?"
your cheeks tint pink. fuck. scratch what he said about the flirty look - that's what matty wants to make you look like all the time, flustered by his affection. before he can make a cheesy joke about him really taking the boyfriend role seriously in making you blush, you respond with a statement that genuinely leaves him dumbstruck. "fine, we'll compromise: you can sit between my legs and use my tits as a headrest, okay?"
there's not even a hint of humour or sarcasm or irony in your voice. matty blinks a few times before he regains the power of speech. "you being serious?"
an earnest nod. "what kind of girlfriend would i be if i didn't let you snuggle up to me like that?"
jesus h. fucking christ alive. this might genuinely kill matty off, but why wouldn't he take such a golden opportunity? if he dies, he dies with his head on your tits - arguably a perfect way to go. "fair point, babe. alright. get the film on, then."
you hop up from the bed and run to your tv (matty tries not to focus on the way your bum jiggles in those illegally-tiny shorts you're wearing, and fails miserably). as you faff around with the dvd player, you call back to him. "there's wine under your side of the bed if you want any."
smiling to himself at the way you said "your side of the bed" so casually, matty reaches down and grabs a slightly dusty bottle of red. "fuck me, this is good shit! no wonder you've been stashing it in here, babe. are you sure you want to drink it now?"
"might as well, if we're on a date," you say with a wink, walking back to the bed and settling onto it. after wiggling around to find the best sitting angle against the headboard, you gesture to the space between your open legs. "get in, then."
"dirty," matty quips, but does as he's told, climbing between your legs and leaning back against you. a flush of contentment passes through him as he does; the two of you seem to fit together seamlessly, laser cut puzzle pieces made with the sole purpose of connecting together. "ooh, they really are comfy!"
that earns him a flick to the stomach, but you don't berate him (unbeknownst to him, because you like the feeling of him resting his head there). "ready to start watching?"
"sure, babe."
you tap the remote to start the film, matty opens the wine, and fake date night begins. you both manage to watch the film in comfortable silence - albeit interspersed with the odd chuckle, and a melancholy "oh, heath" from matty when patrick first appears onscreen - until kat is shown intently reading the bell jar, at which point matty cackles. "oh my god, she's you!"
"can't even argue with you," you giggle, taking the wine from him and taking a swig. "but shush, babe, keep watching."
how can matty be expected focus on the film, though, when you're there right next to him, all sparkling eyes and smiling lips and cheeks flushed from the booze? he makes an effort to watch it, though, because it clearly makes you happy - that, and he's actually quite enjoying it. but his eyes continue to flick to you, too, heart fluttering slightly faster every time he does.
more of the film passes, the two of you sharing wine and chatting quietly and laughing throughout. suddenly, though, you gasp and put your arms around matty, who puts his hand on your thigh comfortingly as an immediate response. he screams internally when he realises he's probably crossed the acceptable intimacy line by several hundred miles in doing that, but keeps his hand there when you don't respond, too hooked on the onscreen action to bother. "okay, we have to actually shut up now - this is the best scene in the film."
matty squints at the frankie valli song playing in the background, then at heath ledger holding a mic. "surely he isn't-"
"oh, he is." you readjust matty's head on your chest to lean forward as best you can, eyes unblinkingly focused on the screen. matty turns his gaze sideways onto your face, which settles into a dreamy expression as you wistfully sigh at patrick serenading kat. the previously-unseen longing in your eyes is crystal clear, even in the dim lamplight of your bedroom.
oh. oh.
matty fights to suppress the grin spreading itself on his face as the realisation hits him.
you find being sung to romantic.
this is good. great, even. some would say perfect, ideal, serendipitous. the very thing matty does for a living is the thing - well, at least something - that you want to be wooed by. what a fucking wonderful turn of events.
the rest of the film passes by in a blur. matty watches it, oohing and ahhing a beat after you do, but doesn't really take anything in. his brain is too preoccupied with going through the (extensive) list of love songs he knows and could sing for you - ones he's written (about you), ones he loves (because they remind him of you), ones he knows you love. so preoccupied is matty, in fact, that he doesn't realise he's now resorted to tracing patterns into your thigh with his index finger, nor that you're actively enjoying him doing so. it's only when the credits begin to roll that matty snaps out of his daydreams about singing to you, and even then it's largely due to you (reluctantly) manoeuvering his body off of your own so you can get up to turn the tv off.
once the dvd is back in its case, you turn to matty, hands on hips, adorably blinking the tiredness from your eyes. he notices, with a flush of something like satisfaction, that your t-shirt is all crinkled over your chest where his head has been. "so," you start. "how'd you find it?"
"good, yeah. interesting," matty replies, watching you as you climb back onto your bed and burrow under the duvet. he isn't lying. "that scene where heath was singing to her... that was definitely my favourite." again, not a lie.
"get under the covers, you're freezing- yeah, that's my favourite scene, too," you say, lifting the duvet up so matty can awkwardly slide under it with you. his heart flutters again as you yawn cutely, a fluttering which increases to a rave-level bass thumping when you wriggle close to him and lay your head on his chest, draping an arm across his stomach. the agreed 90 minutes of pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend is definitely over, but there's no way matty's going to protest you cuddling him for longer, not when it feels so right. "s'romantic."
"d'you think you'd like it if someone sang to you, darlin?" matty asks - it's a bit of a loaded question, but your sleepiness means you'll give an honest answer that you probably won't remember giving at all.
"mhmm", you say, clutching matty tightly as you drift off to sleep. "maybe you could..."
you're fast asleep before you can finish the sentence. matty just looks at you tenderly, his love for you practically radiating off him, and gently sweeps a stray strand of hair from your cheek. emboldened by the wine and affection, he kisses your forehead - a feather-light brush of lips against skin - before settling down to sleep himself.
sharing a bed for a night crosses the acceptable intimacy line so far it's practically on another continent, but matty couldn't care less right now. "yeah, angel, i could. i can," he whispers into your hair. "and i will, soon. i promise."
#hehehe#flatmate!matty#mads does writing#matty healy fanfiction#matty healy x reader#matty healy fic#matty healy fluff#matty healy#the 1975#matty x reader#mads muses#matty asks#fluff asks
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Yautja x reader Drabble I guess?
Decided to take a bucket of my thoughts and splatter them on the wall here.
TW: NSFW, mentions of blood/gore? I mean it’s predator lol
• I head canon that these guys generally are not interested in humans in THAT way but I know that with as many humans on this planet that are self identified monster fuckers there’s gonna be monster fuckers with other species as well lmao
• that being said you have caught the eye of a fellow monster fucker my guy.
• his group probably gives him shit for it when they see you.
• I feel like this guy definitely has legoshi from beasties vibes in terms of like- predator prey relationship kink and a human fetish like how legoshi has an herbivore fetish.
• definitely had to take the L on being walked in on while looking at a provocative magazine of humans
• At first they didn’t say anything they just thought he was weird but then they found you and him in his tent or room on the ship or whatever
• if you were into hunting on earth that’s probably how he found you and became interested in you in the first place. That or you were hiking and he was just like 👀 eyo that things kinda hot doh-
• definitely has recordings of you in his mask.
• he teaches you how to fight. If you don’t know already.
• now if it’s a female? OH BOY
• she probably was hunting and you and a little human be it a little sibling, your own child, or someone you were babysitting/watching over stumbled across her path/vice versa. Instead of running you grabbed a sTICK
• she saw it as endearing and fuckin cooed at you
• head pats.
• her hand is bigger than your fuckin head
• regularly uses your melon as a hand rest
• the male uses your head as an arm rest since he’s a little closer to be able too.
• it’s just their little protective thing don’t think to hard about it.
• you eventually get armor. And they help you make it cause you want something kind of unique to you/plus being human it kind of needs to be custom sized.
• lots of play fighting especially between you and the male. Throw a rock at his head while he has his mask on. The sound it makes is probably hilarious *insert coconut sound effect*
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➷ Kinktober 2023
Day IV: Breath play || Nikto
Cross-posted on Ao3.
TW: breath play, unprotected p in v, established relationship, mention and use of safeword, fluff.
He turned, the sound of his boot almost echoing in the silent room. "You trust us that much?"
You nod, fidgeting with the empty glass of water as you watch him nervously through your lashes. He goes back to sitting in front of you at the table—the two of you had a normal dinner together in the comfort of his home, after chatting about various topics you ended up confessing your curiosity about some kinks in the bedroom.
"Why this one?" He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, eyes scanning your face, which was blushing furiously.
"It's just... I want to give up control, even if it's just for a few seconds..." you feel a grip on your chest, the weight of the truth hitting you harder after you've said it out loud.
He exhales, probably searching for something to say. "We need a safe word."
You noticed something in his eyes the moment he put his big hand around your neck while he was already deep inside you, feeling your hole flutter slightly as you tried to accommodate his girth, even if it wasn't your first time. His pupils were wide, almost completely covering the bright blue you loved so much: he was hungry—from the moment his bare fingers touched yours, you became more than he expected. He had not expected such a request from you, but the fact that he was in control gave him an adrenaline rush that caught him off guard.
As planned, your hands were free as he applied a certain amount of pressure to your neck, cutting off both airflow and blood, your lips parting instinctively—kissing them in a rush as he began to feel your body struggling under his own. He released your neck, feeling you regain some oxygen through the kiss, cheeks rosier than normal: he watched you breathe, moving his hips tentatively, eliciting a moan from you.
He repeated the process again, and you were almost frightened at how quickly the knot inside you threatened to break, the lack of oxygen making you dizzy—each thrust of his hips felt like a crushing wave, a tsunami in the shape of a human, bound to take you under.
But your heart demanded more, pounding almost painfully against your ribcage as your orgasm came so close to the surface, your hand tapping twice on his arm, which immediately moved away as you felt him slow down. He stared at you, looking for any discomfort or pain, thinking about how he hadn't been able to notice that he had hurt you—but you smiled.
"I'm sorry," you took his hand in yours and squeezed it. "I was already too close."
There was a moment of silence before he snorted—literally, the ghost of a smile adorning his lips. He relaxed his shoulder, closed the distance and kissed you fervently, waiting for your signal to continue, which didn't take long, and began to pound his cock into you, returning to restrain your neck, feeling every nerve in his body on fire at the beautiful sight he had beneath him.
Even if you tried, your orgasm came back much stronger, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip—the same one he had you in around your neck. Groaning, he pulls out as he came, painting your lower stomach white, holding himself upright with his hands at your sides, both of you out of breath. He's quick to clean his mess off your skin, forcing you to lie down to relax—actually ordering you to do it, so you look at him as he cleans you and himself, putting on some boxers and a clean pair of panties, along with a large shirt for comfort. He examines your neck after he lies down by your side, seeing some darker spots—you are quicker than he is to stop him and place a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips.
He freezes, then relaxes and circles your shoulders, holding you against him as if he wanted to imprint your shape in his body, skin against skin, feeling more happiness blossoming in his heart, and only because of you.
#nikto#mwii nikto#nikto mwii#nikto x reader#cod nikto#nikto cod#call of duty#cod#cod mwii#call of duty mw2#cod mw
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This little monster came out to 16.8K. Fair warming, it gets BDSM-y — but, c'est a BDSM love story ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Also, this is NOT Mega Scary Harry — this is tentative, experimental, first-scene-testing-the-waters-H, but he does show some teeth. I hope you enjoy, and if you do, I'd love a note!
PREVIOUS PARTS HERE
Under normal circumstances, when a stranger approaches you wearing a mask that looks like it's been curated as an exact replica of something straight out of The Purge, and it's not Halloween, you'd want to have one of those knife-knuckle things on you, or, at the very least, pepper spray.
It wouldn't matter if the pepper spray had little plant stickers all over its casing, or if the knife-knuckles had a Jonas Brothers decal, you'd still want to have it. The aim isn't to impress whoever's wearing the terrifying thing.
But this Purge imitation belongs to a staff member, because her name tag says staff (and probably a stage name), so when Isla's approached by the stranger two steps out of the lobby into the lounge, her fingers aren't quick to reach for her purse. Which has her plant-sticker-bedazzled pepper spray. Not that she has her purse on her, anyways. Personal belongings go in lockers in the lobby. Phones, for the sake of privacy and ultimate protection, a phone jail — it's juvenile, but it works.
"Hi. Peitho?"
Isla clears her throat and shows friendly teeth, "Hi. Hello."
"You have a particular admirer! Eros has expressed interest in setting up a negotiation with you tonight. I'm going to assume you've met?"
Isla doesn't suck in a breath. She doesn't balk. She's chill, cool, composed, nonchalant. She's Peitho.
She'd be lying to herself if she said she hadn't spent the prior week ruminating on their ...activities, hadn't thought of his words against her ear, his zippers, his purposeful touch. Hadn't clenched her thighs together beneath her desk as she'd pored through documents at work. She doesn't have a particular engagement calendared in the evening, but even if she did, Isla would be too eager to blow the whole thing off in lieu of pursuing a negotiation with Eros. He hadn't been the ring leader, but he'd become the star. He'd left an impression.
Apparently, she had as well.
It was unusual to be approached by a staff member for these kinds of things. The usual method entailed a dominant approaching a prospective submissive in the lounge for a negotiation, always post some sort of initial interaction and discussion, or vice versa. A staff member meant he'd mentioned her before she'd arrived — that, perhaps, he'd looked for her, but instead of settling for a different, familiar play partner, he'd had a conversation with a staff member to scope her out upon her entry. The thought makes Isla warm.
She clears her throat, "Yeah. We had a conversation. I think he participated in a scene last week out in the lounge with me, as well."
Before the staff member can question her wording, not that it's her business whether Isla knows or thinks, she motions to her face and clears her throat again, "Uh, blindfold. That's why ...think."
Okay. She was not quite in that suave Peitho headspace, yet. Well. She was, when she'd donned her mask in the privacy of a cubicle out in the lobby, but learning that a particular dominant she was particularly interested in playing with had beckoned a staff member to flag her down two steps into the lounge had knocked her off her game, a bit.
The employee smiles. Julia. That's what her tag reads.
"I'm interested, yes," Isla blows out a breath.
"Great! He's already looked over your paperwork and signed off. If you'd like, I can escort you over to the negotiation room and set you up with his consent forms?"
So Isla tails Julia to the negotiation room and sits one of the padded leather armchairs and stares at its parallel facsimile. Then, Julia leaves to grab his packet, and Isla digs her fingers into the arms of the chair and contemplates Eros sitting across from her in his own seat.
Negotiation. Discussion. Preemptive conversation for a scene. The thought excites her. And when she's faced with his paperwork on a clipboard, a pen, and a bid from Julia that she's to toggle the buzzer on the wall upon completion, her heart starts to hammer behind her ribcage, in a nice sort of way. As nice as nervous can get.
Limits. Soft limits, hard limits, likes, dislikes, interests. Her pupils wend and peruse and scope and she flips and flips and flips through the pages. Reading, research, grounding. This she can do. This she does every day.
Eros, she learns, is a sane man by her standards. If she were to quora aspects of his paperwork, maybe, and someone whose existence adhered to religious principles (possibly missionary intercourse with lights off post marriage, but she's not judging) stumbled upon the page, they'd both probably be deemed damned, but.
He's well rounded! Isla gauges that he's definitely open-minded from his short, albeit sane list of limits. Much of it coincides with her own; fire, needles, knives, blood, bathroom things... a cinch works between her brows at the irony of a soft limit - sharing. She makes notes where she must, signs, and by the time she stands to press the buzzer, the little white clock on the wall indicates that she's spent well over fifteen minutes in the chair. So then, she sits back down. She crosses her legs. She drums on the clipboard. She waits.
It all feels a bit like a doctor's appointment, that perceptual preamble where they call you up out of the waiting room, only to sit you in a room by yourself where you stare at the wall and contemplate your decisions and everything that's led up to this point. Like, was this annual check up really worth missing your nephew's birthday party? When you walk in, you're unsure if you should hop up on the exam table, but, ultimately, you opt for the chair in the corner so you don't botch the creped doctor roll. And then you stare at some picture of a painted foot or a wall of brochures on STDs or ogle a plant in the corner, wondering whether it's real or fake, restraining the urge to get up and touch the leaves, for roughly the next hour or so.
Isla doesn't have to wait long, though.
The door cracks open, and when she twists her neck back, she's met with the sight of Eros, zippers and gloves and business casual attire and all. She inhales.
He talks first, and just like the first time, his cadence catches her off guard, so pleasant and warm and friendly, "Hey."
Like they're old friends catching up over lunch and he didn't spend last Friday night toying her body into submission.
"Hii," Isla tells him, eyes following him as he makes his way from the doorway to the armchair across from her, his own respective clipboard in hand. It's her paperwork. The door clicks shut. It's a privacy that's appreciated, but it leaves her feeling jittery, in a pleasant sense. She clears her throat, "I'm inclined to believe that you were part of a scene with me last week, and I'm also inclined to tell you that I was really flattered to find that you were interested in a negotiation."
"Was I?" his gaze narrows playfully through the slit, and the leather of the chair creaks softly as he sits back in it. His tongue peeks out to glide over the plush of muted berry, "Part of a scene with you last week?"
Isla blinks and swallows. She doesn't have to think about it, despite his teasing, "Yes."
"The way I recall it, you had a blindfold, so you wouldn't know, really," Eros cocks his head at her, "would you?"
The corners of her mouth jolt, "Maybe if you didn't give away that you recall I had a blindfold."
"Maybe I recall from the audience," despite the obvious jest, his tone offers no inkling of it — deadpan in decibel. Sarcasm was a particular quality about him — that she'd already learned.
"You don't," Isla assures, certain in her suspicions, and she crumbles his stoic demeanor with flattery, "You recall because you were the star of the show."
There it goes — the stroking of his ego. Invisible feathers ruffle and emerge in a preen. Harry gives, and sits forward, forearms against splayed thighs, "I'm flattered, but I think you earned that title."
In the pause that follows, he imagines a ruddiness has teemed over the surface of Peitho's cheekbones. He can't exactly see through the dark lace, but the little cue of her lips parting and the inhale she takes certainly creates viable ground for his hypothesis.
Anyways.
"Yeah you," he clears his throat as he sits back, watching her through the unzipped slit over his eyes, "certainly had me interested for more after that taste."
She thinks of it, that taste last Friday; his hands, his voice, the way he'd willed her to tears before he'd given her the taste of his cock. And it was his, she knew.
His stretching her open, his gloved grasp on her thighs, his breathy grunts.
Isla swallows.
"And I'm inclined to tell you that I'm flattered you were interested in pursuing my request for a negotiation," the latex glistens beneath the buttery shone of the lamp beside him.
It's actually a cutesy little room for a negotiation; matching chairs, a rounded side table with a lamp, an overhanging light of gorgeous glass, a rug of mauve hues beneath their soles. If it weren't for the wall decor, the handcuffs hooked onto the drywall, in particular, she'd think she was in her therapist's office.
Tell me your deepest, darkest secrets. That's how it would go there, and she supposes that's how it always goes in here, too.
"I had to sign off on your form to play last week," Harry sets his clipboard onto the side table, "so I already had kind-of-sort-of, an idea going into your paperwork. But that was, like, bare bones kind of stuff. So, d'you have any questions for me?"
Her chair creaks as Peitho sits up a bit.
"Yes, actually. So — sharing, you indicated as a soft limit, but I was just a little confused because, well," she purses her lips, and then they melt into a soft simper, "The scene last week involved multiple parties."
"Right," He rubs over his mouth with a pleather clad forefinger, and now, in better lighting, she can make out that his lips are a ruddy pink, soft-looking. Harry levels with her then, sitting forward, shiny flecks of reflection dancing in his gaze like mischief, "I don't prefer to ...share my play partners, so I don't lead scenes with other doms involved. And I don't usually play in group-settings. If I'm being totally candid, you were the first in a while."
Peitho seems pleased by that, if the slight shift in her posture is any indication.
"Oh, well, I'm flattered."
Flattered seems to be the theme of the night.
"And," her features screw behind her disguise as she releases a laugh, "Sorry? To pull you out of your comfort zone?"
She wrests soft laughter from him at that, and across from her, he shakes his head down at his interlocked fingers, "Don't be. S'what we're here for, right? To consensually be pulled out of our comfort zones?"
"I guess you're right about that," she nods, grinning.
He tacks on, "makes it fun," and licks his lips, his gaze open for questioning and still somehow imposing in its upper hand.
Isla presses her lips together, "Yeah. Yes. I agree. I had another for you, if you don't mind."
"S'what I'm here for."
"You indicated that you enjoy, um, like, really powerplaying up the powerplay, I guess I could say," she notes, staring down at her papers, "Like you emphasized, here, brat taming. So, that's, like. You're not opposed to your partner bratting, then? That's the way I prefer to play, I'm sure you've noted."
"Y'know, now that you mention it," he pretends to ponder for a second, "I have noted that about you, yes," his grin showcases pearly, straight teeth, "And, yeah. I like obedience — obviously."
She watches his gloved palm move as he talks, pupils following the motion, "S'like, the whole point of submission. But, I prefer to get submission the hard way rather than the easy way."
"Rather than... so, how do you feel about struggling?"
"Depends," Eros teases, "Me or you."
"Me," she licks her lips, "struggling."
The smirk that plays over the ruddy plush is easy-going, "Kicking, screaming, crying," the eye contact he makes on the latter feels aimed. It probably is. "Feel free. I'll work with all of it."
Isla takes a deep breath and counts down from five; tries not to let it come out in a shudder to expose how wracked with want the statement's left her.
"Okay, cool, cool, ...cool, follow up question, this one is a little, um, ...just out of interest," she meets his eye through the lace, "Would you consider yourself a sadist?"
"Depends."
"On whether you're wielding the bullwhip or I am?" she simpers.
Harry digs his tongue against his cheek, and teases, "Bullwhip. Is that your implement of choice?" and then he tells her, in all seriousness, "Depends how far it goes."
"How far it goes?"
He pauses, and then splays his arms over the back of the armchair, "Do you enjoy stubbing your toe?"
The peculiar question wrings the corners of her mouth into buckling, "No."
"D'you get wet when you scrape your knee?"
"Can't say I do, no," Isla purses her lips to stifle her mirth.
"I don't like inflicting pain to inflict pain," he tells her, then, smiling like they're talking about their favorite movies, "the same way you don't enjoy the pain of pain. It has to be backed by something, right? And for a masochist, that's pleasure, whether it's derived from a combination of the pain and physical pleasure, or arousal from dirty talk, or, I dunno, endorphins. S'all stuff I'm sure you're very self aware of."
"Right," she tells him. He's right — the pain, the pleasure derived from pain, it's all a sort of graceful balance on a wire spindled from a concoction. "And for you?"
"For me?"
"What makes you enjoy inflicting the pain?"
"Your pleasure."
If Eros notices the minute shift in Isla's crossed thighs, the way they squeeze tighter at his words, he doesn't make it known.
"I mean, there's, like, more to it, obviously. S'the marks, the tears, the fear. But it's the trust, more than anything. The control of making my partner so simultaneously terrified and trusting to let me inflict that pain. But," the rasp to his cadence leaves her stomach coiling with familiar warmth, "to answer your question, I would consider myself a sadist, yeah."
If his explanation didn't leave her with a flurry of butterflies bouncing back and forth along the lining of her stomach, the look he gives her definitely would.
"Yeah, it's a beautiful thing," Isla concurs, "that kind of trust," she blinks down at her left leg. Her grip on it has become obnoxiously tight. His lips crook as his gaze follows her own. Isla swallows, "Okay, yeah, I mean," she unlatches the deathgrip of her fingertips to motion with her hand, "that's — great to hear, because I think that pairs really well with my interests."
Harry eyes the little crescents over her skin abaft her own touch, amused. "Good."
"Okay, yeah," she clears her throat then, as if to ground herself, and her chin dips a bit as if searching for more to ask. Evidently, she comes up short, because she looks up after a moment and says, with a sheepish note to her voice, "I think that's it for me, then. Your stuff was all pretty, like, self-explanatory."
"Sick. First half down," he seizes his own clipboard off the stand beside him as she chortles, and he flips through the print for his own handwritten scribbles of notes, "Second half," he grins and casts his gaze up at her to maintain what would be eye contact, "I had a few questions for you."
"Oh, goody."
The corners of his mouth jolt, and he peers down at the clipboard, "Any allergies not listed?"
"Nope," Peitho rocks forward slightly, and tells him, playfully, "Nothing but pineapple, so please do refrain."
"I'll keep that in mind," he eyes her through the slits in his disguise, wryly amused, and then purses his lips, "Any medical conditions I should be aware of?"
The young woman shakes her head, motioning from side to side, "Nothing."
"Brilliant," the papers rumple and ruffle a bit as he flips through, gaze downcast, and then he glances back up to her, "This is all very fun stuff, I know."
"So much."
"But now," Harry looks through to the next page, "We get to the actual fun stuff. I had a question, here," his pupils skim, and Peitho watches him, seemingly curious and open, "Yes, so," his brows twitch, "Caning is a soft limit, but it's underlined here and linked with fear play, which is listed as a particular interest. Can you expand on what that means to you?"
The actual fun stuff.
"Sure," Isla squeezes her knees with her palms, "It's closer to a hard limit, honestly, but I do really enjoy fear play. It's the only implement that's a hard limit, and introducing it into a scene as, like, a threat turns me on."
Harry purses his lips, the corners of his mouth buckling, "Not spiders, not snakes? Insects?"
"Well," Peitho laughs, "Yes — I'm not a fan of those either, but I'm not particularly keen on you introducing a jar of fire ants while I'm tied up."
Harry tuts, and tells her, tone void of humor, "Shame," and then he digs his tongue against his cheek and tells her, "Kidding."
His eyes scope over the paper again, and he clears his throat, "So, for clarification, it's a hard limit that you would not like to be used, you're simply interested in the threat of it."
"Yes. Exactly. I mean, if you wanted to hit me with it once, as, like, a follow-up to the fear play thing, just to take it a little further, I wouldn't be opposed. But," she lifts a finger for symbolism, "just once, please."
Please. He does quite like the way that syllable rolls off her tongue.
"I do have to warn you, it does really freak me out, and I know it's irrational," Isla waves with her arm, laughing a little, "but if you even, like, bring it over to me during a scene, I'm gonna cry."
"Good," Eros tells her, simply, and then blows out a huff that resembles a short laugh. Whether he means that the information is good to know, or that it's good that she cries at the threat of a big stick, or both, Isla's unsure. Possibly the latter — Probably the latter, and that leaves her nearly squirming in her seat.
She adds, "So, just don't be alarmed if I start, like, hysterically crying at the sight of it, it's just, like, reflex. I'm ...enjoying."
"You're enjoying," Eros parrots, dialect smooth and syrupy and tantalizing, and he teases, "Alright, crying," he cocks his head to embody a link between the two, "Enjoying. Got it."
"On the topic, actually, um," Isla sits up a little, "I really enjoy to cry. So, a lot of times, for me, it's the goal of the scene. And I'll cry from just about anything; pain, pleasure, I don't know. If I'm in the headspace, it's easy to get me there. I," she pauses, her smile teetering on abashed, "love endorphins."
Slowly, Eros cocks his head and then nods, pupils flitting back to the paperwork. There's hints of mirth in his cadence, "I'll keep that in mind." He casts his gaze back up to her,
"You've also got kissing as a limit."
"Yeah, um, just not on the mouth, it's too personal," Isla shifts in her seat, "Elsewhere is," she breathes, her shoulders rising and falling, "...fine."
He doesn't provide any sort of inkling of protest, just nodding and fixing his sight back onto the papers, "Got it."
A pause, then.
"Anal, here, is listed as a soft limit, as well," the man blinks at her, "I'm assuming that means you're open to toys, but not anal sex."
"Correct," Isla nods, pleased and enthused with not only his attention to detail, but his thorough understanding and imbibing of her needs, "Plugs, fingers, stuff like that is all good with me, but I'm kind of a virgin with that region, so. I don't really wanna lose it during play, ...if that makes sense."
"Perfect sense," Eros tells her, "Crystal."
For a moment, his eyes seem to search over the papers in hopes of tying any other loose end, but he seems to come up short, satisfied, as he flips the packet back to its title page.
"Any particular interests beyond the," he lifts the paperwork wedged in his colossal palm, "formalities?"
"I think," Isla licks her lips and tells him with a small voice, "Everything should be in there. Um," she swallows, "I like pain, spanking, spitting, praise, degradation, hair pulling, face slapping, um, oral — receiving and performing."
She nods a little, "I like that a lot. Ropes, gags, cuffs, toys. Like," the young woman motions, "you mentioned with the powerplay, I like that stuff. Putting up a fight and losing. And," her shoulders rise in a shrug. She giggles, "Just really hoping you'll make me cry."
"I will," Harry gives the packet one last flip through, searching for any notes he may have missed, and grins as he casts his gaze up to her, "definitely do that."
Her smile is quite pretty and she shows it, laughing softly with a jerky nod, "Awesome, cool," she motions with her hand and swallows before she speaks, "Some doms are so ...like. I don't know, some aren't into that stuff, which is fine, and some are but get scared that I'm, like, this fragile piece of china, or something. So it's always fun to play with someone that is into it and isn't scared about pushing limits."
"Safe, sane, and consensual, right?" his grin is wolfish, "S'what safewords are for."
"Right."
"While we're on the topic, this kind of goes without saying," Harry's brows pinch, "but you can never be too thorough, you know? Since the aim is to push limits, please don't refrain from using your safeword if anything becomes too much, if anything becomes uncomfortable, if anything goes too far, or if you'd like to take a pause."
"Because," he sits forward a bit, "I have played with you once before, but that was in a fairly controlled setting with another dom that knew you well and understood where that optimal line was right before your limits. I obviously got a taste, and I've been pretty thorough with the paperwork. I have guesses for how far I can push with certain things, but there's a lot that you'd like to do, that I'd like to do," he motions with his free hand, "that we didn't introduce during that scene. Like."
He waves his hand, signifying that he's culling an example, "With making you cry — if that's the goal of the scene, and it's particularly difficult to make you cry, if I'm spanking you with a paddle, I don't want to keep spanking you with the goal of making you cry just for you to be unable to and I'm just, like, genuinely hurting you the entire time."
"I don't want my guesses to become overestimations of how much you can take," Harry pauses and licks his lips behind his mask, "My interests are keeping your enjoyment, your safety, your comfort, and my own in mind, first and foremost, so it's very important that we're careful as we learn to, like, toe the line of each other's boundaries."
Something swoons in Isla's chest. She's in love. Yes. Definitely, she's definitely in love.
It's a crying shame that the man of her affections is wearing a latex hood and that she doesn't know him beyond the fictional details he's spun into his plot. She certainly appreciates his care, concern, and meticulousness. Yes, she's in love with that, Isla decides.
"Of course," she reminds him, "I'm not new to the whole pushing boundaries thing, since a lot of my kinks involve pain and that kind of stuff, so. I really appreciate that you're so thorough with everything, though," she sits back and tells him softly, with a little smile, "Makes me feel very safe and comfortable."
"Wonderful. Trust and safety are the most important aspects with this kind of play, so. Sick. I think we've," he sets the packet down onto the table beside him and claps his hands together, "covered all the bases."
"Yes, it looks like it," she exhales, smiley and buzzing.
There's a lewd foreboding to his words, "We're going to have a lot of fun, I think."
"Definitely," she laughs.
Again, his delicious arms splay over the back of the armchair, and her irises flit from those to his splayed thighs, all hugged by his fancy work attire. She wishes some expanse of skin and muscle was nude enough for her to bite into.
"I hope the formalities didn't take you out of your headspace, too much, because," Eros licks his lips, gold light flickering in his gaze like a dance around a fire, "I'd like to do a scene with you tonight."
Isla doesn't need convincing. The young woman takes only a second, half for composure and half to string him along, before she tells him, giggly and eager, "I'm so down."
His own chuckle is like sweet music to her eardrums, "Yeah? Anything in particular you'd like to avoid for tonight?"
Isla ruminates, "Hm... um, I'm not sure."
"Anything sore, anything you don't want me to touch, any toys you don't want me to use?" Eros prods, coaxing, and after another moment of lull, he half-jests, culling laughter from her, "You're opening dangerous doors, otherwise."
"Okay, okay, okay, um, don't tie me up upside down," she lifts her fingers as she counts off, "actually — no suspension, tonight. No anal play," Peitho squeezes her eyes shut behind the lace and bares her teeth as if pressured under a timer. She's not. Harry listens patiently.
"I think that's it," she tells him, finally.
"Still a lot of very dangerous doors," Harry teases, and when she huffs, like he's prompted her to wrack her brain, the corners of his mouth jolt, "Relax. M'playing. If you think of anything else, do feel free to make it known, or if I do something during the scene and that inspires you to remember, bring it up then. Otherwise, everything I've got planned should feel good," and then he tacks on, half facetious and half not, "If you're good."
Isla huffs, "Ohh, God."
He laughs, and then, for a moment, Eros just seems to watch her, eyes twinkling deviously. Then he asks, entirely nonchalant, "How d'you feel about deepthroating?"
Fuck. Her knees press together. How does she feel about deepthroating? What a casual, conversational topic. Isla swallows, and responds, totally cool, with her vocal chords totally unwavering, "I can do it. I like it. I like it more when the other person takes a little more ...control."
"What about having your mouth fucked?"
FUCK. She does her best to curb the aroused note in her voice when she replies, bordering on nervous laughter, "That's — yeah," she blows out a breath, "Definitely one way to get me wet."
"Good to know."
Isla follows him to the door, paperwork in hand. He opens the door and tells her, smirk dancing over his mouth, "Ladies first."
She looks up at him, and the hedonistic urge that slithers through him, the excitement of watching the upturned corners of her smiley mouth morph into a sobbing pout, much like it was last Friday, is beyond debauched, "Such a gentleman."
Dimples rise awake, concealed from her, as he holds the door for her, "Mm. M'happy to remind you that chivalry's not dead."
"A man who's willing to beat me into submission and holds the door?"
Harry bites into his cheek, "When's the wedding?"
Isla cranes her neck back with laughter. This man is willing, more than willing to beat her into submission. Her parents haven't had access to her finances since graduation. Thank God.
Harry tails her, the curl of his strawberry mouth somewhat self-assured. "Wedding bells aside," Peitho is still laughing, a little, "I'll go see about a room, if you'd like to mentally prepare in the lounge?"
Mentally prepare. Headspace, headspace, headspace. Yes, she definitely needs to do that. Yes.
"Yes, okay," Isla tells him, still smiley.
And when their paths divide into opposite prongs at the end of the hallway, Harry heads to see about a room, still hungry to sculpt that smiley mouth into sobs.
The White Room is called The White Room because it's white. But Isla kind of thinks that a more fitting sobriquet would be The Green Room.
Isla's played in it before. It's a pretty room, in an insane-asylum-eerie sort of way upon wall-to-floor first impressions, and she's sure that if the room weren't stuffed with verdant hues, she'd feel inclined to wear a straight jacket. The young woman kneels in the center of the room, commonplace practice, joints pressed to chilled linoleum in an uncomfortable way that has her buzzing.
The chair against the wall is hugged by vibrant, forest green faux leather. The bed is not white, either. It matches the chair. In the corner of the room behind her stands a jet X-cross, and the wall beside it has rows of hooks of bondage equipment. The chest beside the chair, she knows all too well, harbors toys. It shouldn't be The White Room, it just shouldn't. Her pupils flit over the textured patterns in the tile beneath her, explorative in her prolonged wait for Eros. Perhaps the whitest thing about the room is the set of LED light bulbs screwed into the ceiling, which cast milky light that bounces off marbled walls to marbled floors and back.
The door clicks open. She's facing the chair, which stands paralleled, and this time, Isla can't twist back to see, because that's impolite. It clicks shut. Then, a slow, purposeful pad of shoes against the tile.
"Look at you, already kneeling like a good girl."
She half expects Eros to ruffle her hair as he walks past her, but he doesn't. He winds around, hands to himself, and she hears him sit down before she sees it. If her gaze travels as far forward as it's able to, face downcast, she can make out his fancy dress shoes and the hems of his tailored trousers through swirling lace.
"You can look at me."
So she does. His thighs, again, splay in resolute assertion of power.
"My name is Eros," the masked male cocks his head a smidge at her, and, if only slightly through the shadow casts between the parted zipper, Isla catches sight of a smile tugging at his lips on the latter fragment of his statement, "But you already know that. I'd hope, anyways. We've had a chat. Or two."
His lips — his mouth. Isla ogles the latex through the peepholes of her own and wonders what shape the rest of his features take, what carves and forges his face, how his nose slopes, the assemblage of it all.
"I think I recall, vaguely," she teases.
"Mm. Vaguely. I'll take note of that. Well, although we are acquainted," Eros smooths his fingertips over the arm of the chair, a lavish facade of plastic masquerading. The latter fragment of his statement prompts the steady bump of her heart to spur behind her ribcage. "You will address me as Master."
Isla swallows. Despite her prior train of thought looping so intently on the tracks to decipher what she believes he'd look like beneath his mask, it's entirely derailed by the serious note in his previously light cadence. She wonders how a mere introduction manages to send such a thrilling rush rolling down her spine. Eros leans forward, forearms braced to his splayed thighs, almost as if to bend to her level.
"Or Sir. Master, Sir, it's all the same to me. Your preference."
Master, Sir. Her knees ache.
Isla inhales and tells him, on the exhale, "Alright."
His head tilts just a bit. "Pardon?"
Isla lifts her chin, her hands still obediently pressed to the tops of her thighs, "Yes, Sir."
If the small instance of insubordination rubs him the wrong way, as intended, he doesn't comment on it. He just sits back, seemingly satisfied.
"I'm Peitho. But you already know this," Isla meets his twinkling gaze, her own shimmery with the inside joke of sorts. The silence in which his eyes rove over her, calculating, nearly sends a shiver down her spine.
"Vaguely," he finally says, lobbing her own sass back at her, teasing, and his mouth quirks, "What's your safeword?"
"Red."
There's only a beat of lull before Harry motions at her with his chin and instructs, "Take your top off."
Her hands don't immediately reach for the clasps behind her back. When she speaks, rather than just complying, there's a challenging degree to her voice, "I want you to take it off, Sir."
For a second, Harry doesn't say anything. His gaze narrows and his tongue sticks to the inside of his cheek. He sees her mouth twitch, is the thing. She's playing a game.
He'll play it too.
His voice is deceivingly soft, but it still carries that note of control, "Take it off."
Peitho stays still for a moment, like she's mulling over her options, like she's deciding whether she'd like to keep pushing him, but eventually, her hands raise from her thighs and wind behind her to work on the clasps. He hears the click as the fabric falls open and and as her arms come back forward the cups slip off her tits. She removes the piece, entirely unabashed by her own nudity, and casts her gaze up to him in question.
"Just set it down next to you. Nicely," Eros supplies. So Isla does that, folding one cup into the opposite and laying it onto the marble. She watches the man watch her for a moment, and then her pupils chase his figure as he stands to amble over, slowly.
"D'you know," his cadence is soft and sultry and low as he looms over her, tracing a cheekbone over the lace with the back of a gloved fingertip, "I've been wanting to play with you for weeks."
Weeks? The sentiment has her pressing her thighs together as she stares up, neck craned back. He cranes it further when his fingers rake through from her temple and wring into her roots. Her mouth parts as she breathes.
"And you," he starts, tone nonchalant, his vision flitting to his other hand as he makes work of his zipper, "Only recall my name vaguely. That's a bit disheartening to hear, innit, pet?"
Pet. She casts her gaze to his pants, where deft fingers tug and open and free. His belt, first, with clinks of metal on metal, and then his button and zipper. Her eyes get kind of ache-y from the strain, but it's worth it, because when he draws his cock through the opening of the zipper, girthy and long, an angry blush painting the tip ruddy, she thinks the scenic view merits the ache.
There's a specific sort of power dynamic that is set by one party kneeling in knickers and the other staying fully clothed. It's undeniable; it's power. Every dominant Isla had ever played with was all too eager to remove articles and leave them pooled in a trail to the bed. Which was fine, Isla liked that. She liked the expanse of skin to scratch, the muscles to bite into. But unlike her prior scenes, Eros doesn't seem keen to remove his clothing. He doesn't finger at the buttons of his dress shirt, drawing them through as he makes his way over to her, doesn't tug his belt out and off through the loops in a swift movement. He keeps his shoes on, and his tailored slacks, and his fancy work shirt. And Eros, with his dick sticking through his zipper, looks like a business-casual sexual deviant. He looks like power.
"Isn't it?"
Isla doesn't have time to feel embarrassed over the strangled little sound that falls from her mouth on its own accord as he yanks at her hair with his fist in emphasis. In contrast to the harsh motion, his tone lacks hardness; it's almost impassive, contemplating, "Sad that you can only vaguely recall me when you were wailing my name last week."
She bites into her cheek as he tips over her a bit, casting his tone into one that drips of mockery, "Eros, Eros, please, Eros, please fuck me, Eros! Please, please, please!"
Her nostrils flare as she inhales, the taunts sending fiery warmth pulsing between her trembling thighs.
"Does that jog your memory a bit?" his teeth show as his lips curl, condescension slithering over each word, and he incites her to respond with another little jerk, "Hm?"
"Yes," Isla grits out, humiliation coiling within her and intermingling with desire when he really leans over her, his grip on her tight and his tone hard.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir," the young woman breathes out, a fusion of relief and arousal spiking when he releases her roughly, nearly shoving her head away as his touch retracts. She tacks on, almost under her breath, loud enough for him to hear for blatant reasons, "It vaguely jogs my memory."
His mouth warps sardonically, all smiles, like the calm before the storm. When he reaches around and coaxes her forward by the back of her neck, triggers a gasp out of her, he's certain it's more out of surprise than anything else. He doesn't tug on her hair, just guides her, although not too gently. And when he steers his tip towards her mouth, that same mouth falls open, eager. Harry watches her tongue twitch, not quite emerging, amused. It's a pretty sight to witness; what had just been such a bold display of cheek melt in order to encompass ardor to feel his dick on her tongue. Despite the way his shaft pulses in his grip, he tuts, sliding his opposite palm around and tangling his fingers into the roots of her hairline.
"So eager," Harry croons, drawing the head against her bottom lip and leaving it slick in his wake, "Aren't you? Just for a taste?"
She doesn't reply, impudent in true fashion, just breathing wetly against him, and that's fine, he'll let that slide. He's let it all slide, actually, because he knows that, despite her seemingly unwavering lip, his leverage and authority is boundless. It's all sort of a game, right? She pushes, he pulls, and eventually, she'll topple. It's an unsaid hierarchy they're both well aware of. But not now, because the game would be no fun if he didn't grant his opponent the opportunity to put up a fight.
When she pokes her tongue against the flushed crown, Harry tuts again and pulls back, "Ah-ah-ah. Put that tongue away. As a matter of fact, go ahead and close your mouth for me."
Peitho obeys, at least for now, despite the initial squaring of her shoulders and the hesitancy behind the submission, the whine of protest he's certain she'll release (but doesn't), and he traces her lips with his tip, somewhat pleased. It's delicate footing, for now.
"Good girl," he can sense she glows beneath the praise, but she falters on the tailing words that wear a smirk, "M'beginning to learn I like you best when you're nice and quiet."
If she's glaring through the lace, the male can't see it, but the thought amuses him.
"Right? Mouth closed makes you nice and easy. S'a shame you'll have to open up, eventually," he sighs, feigning pity.
When her fingers twitch and reach out to latch onto the legs of his pants, gently, he discourages it, tone not so gentle, "Hands behind your back. Let's find a better use for that smart mouth."
And she obeys that, too, drawing the handsy limbs back and opting to cuff her touch palm to elbow, instead. The compliance, Harry learns, just as he'd suspected and expected, is short-lived. Because when he nudges at her strawberry mouth in finality, drawing her bottom lip down for a peep of teeth, and beckons, "open," Peitho doesn't instantly oblige. She just sits there for a minute, with her tongue quiet in docility, and her hands behind her back in submission, but her procrastination serves as symbolism that she's goading.
And he lets her do it, for a second, before he taps at her mouth with his tip, his words firm, "Open. If I have to ask a third time, you won't like it. I can promise you that."
The young woman does open, technically, but it's to spew cheeky retorts, and the whole notion doesn't exactly adhere to Harry's intentions.
"You told me to close my mouth, so I closed it."
She sounds so innocuous, too. Like a perfect little angel, flying through loopholes.
"Yeah? Did I ask for the backchat, too?" Harry entertains it, cocking his head down at her. He'll let this slide, too, he decides. His cock twitches in his clasp.
"I'm not talking back, Sir, you told me to keep my mouth closed," Peitho feigns innocence, her cadence deceptively sweet.
"Maybe," he sighs, narrowing his gaze down at her, "the miscommunication is my fault."
Isla's heartbeat thunders in the surreal, eerie calmness of his tone.
"You think I'm asking. So, how about we clarify this. M'not asking you to do anything. I'm telling you."
In response to his words, the young woman feels a shuddery thrill wrack down the knobs of her spine, and she nearly melts onto the marble then and there.
"And now," the fingers that'd loosened considerably on her hairline tighten into a fist again, inducing her heart to stutter at the flicker of pain, "I'm going to tell you to stick your tongue out, and you will do it, because you are told to do it. Let's try that. Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue."
His dialogue seems to make some footing, because she does it with ease post his little simplification. Harry tacks on, "As far as it will go."
At that, Peitho stretches the muscle and it slinks out a little further, pressing over her chin. Satisfied, he doesn't waste any time before he tucks his cock into her mouth and nudges in, nearly to the hilt. And instantly, she's sputtering around him in surprise. It's not nearly as rough as it can be, but he's not soft and slow about it either. It's a trial run, though. A hint, a preparation lacking preparation. Harry slides out, letting her cough over him in a desperation for air. As soon as he hears her siphon an inhale, he slips back in, a little further this time, and holds himself there for a moment. He feels her tongue flex against the underside of his shaft and her throat spasm around him, her posture lurching.
"S'alright if you gag," the male bites back a hiss, straining to keep his cadence even as warmth and wetness constricts over his tip, "I don't mind. I'll just go deeper."
And Isla does gag, but not by her own volition. It's reflexive, spurred by the combination of her own, stuck-out tongue and the way his cock twitches at the back of her throat. In turn, he follows through on his promise, and nudges further. It's only for another second before he pulls all the way out, but it's enough of a timespan for her lashes to flutter against the lace and for her irises to loll back. As he draws out, the young woman groans, panting, and the only thing that bars her face from turning towards the floor are his knuckles at her roots, seemingly insistent on keeping her head up.
"I'm going to fuck your mouth, and you're going to be beg me to breathe," Harry tells her, eyes half-lidded, and adds, nonchalantly, "and then I'll decide if you've deserved it."
"But how can I beg you when your dick is stuffed down my throat," Peitho questions, slumping a bit as his grip loosens, "Sir."
There's enough cheek behind her tone to indicate that the question has more motives in bratting than actually seeking suggestion, though. There's no inquiry to her words.
Harry digs his tongue against his cheek, and only allows her a moment of satisfaction at his silence before his mouth curls with traces of sadism, "You'll figure it out. Or," he shrugs, and then hauls her to sit up straight by her hair, culling a soft, pained sound he could certainly get used to hearing from that sweet, puffy mouth, "You won't. But then you won't breathe, I suppose," Harry motions with his chin, leaving no window for protest, "Tongue out."
As soon as her mouth falls open he thrusts forward, just halfway, pulls back, and stuffs himself to the brim. Isla screws her eyes shut behind the lace, her fingers trembling and jolting behind her back through the fight against gagging. Above her, Eros groans, and his verbal indication of satisfaction spawns warm wetness between her clasped thighs. The male pulls out all the way, once more, and propels forwards until Isla feels her nose dig against his trousers.
"Fuck, baby, just like that. Take it — just like that."
The praise incites fiery pride to coil within her, snaking through her system and settling in the trench of her tummy, and she squirms with her own arousal.
"Christ, wish I could see those pretty, little eyes looking up at me," he traces a fingertip at the lower seam of her mask, touch uncharacteristically sweet.
The young woman hums around him. Harry ogles the stretch of her mouth over his shaft, revels in the slither and slip of her tongue on the underside, waves of hunger rolling through him. Prompts her hum of agreement to morph into a little cut-off sound as he pumps forward, harder.
His jaw settles into a sturdy line as he bites back a moan, "But I'll have to settle on staring at that filthy, little mouth wrapped around my cock and that snug, little throat taking me down."
Isla's fingers twitch for a different reason, then.
"S'quite pretty, you know," The man grunts, utilizing both hands as his fingers slither and settle on either side of her head, weaving into loose strands, "F'only you could see what a wrecked slut you look, sweetheart."
Peitho moans over him as he plunges forward, and Harry presses his tongue against the back of his top front teeth, chasing the contraction of her throat and the subsequent slew of wordless pleas, "Show me. Show me how that pretty mouth takes cock. Show me how you beg for air."
And she does beg. After a while, despite the steady arousal that spikes and just keeps spiking with the funishment, eventually, it does get hard to breathe. When he really starts to pick up the pace, starts to ram against the back of her throat, clogging her airway, she can't help but to beg. It's wordless, muffled, incoherent hums and moans that strum and vibrate over his shaft, sending shuddery ignitions of pleasure through his being, but it's the best she can manage.
After the first few, wet and choke-y and increasing in desperation, his hips slow, and Harry muses, condescension dripping off his words, "What was that? I can't quite make out," his mouth quirks at an interruption, a frantic whine that melts off into whimpers that increase in decibel as he nudges forward, slowly, just resting at the back of her throat. "Are you trying to tell me something, darling?"
He lets her chest heave for a millisecond before he withdraws quickly, almost ripping a gag from her in the process. Peitho nearly falls forward then and there, bracing her palms against his thighs as she coughs and wheezes. Harry waits a good, long, patient moment, cautious of her state, and he lets her get close enough to composure before he guides her face up and nudges back in. This time, though, her palms stay planted to his thighs, not quite twisting at the fabric, but stationary.
After a little more of those harsh plunges forward, she's back to begging, throat bulging as she chokes around him. This time, though, he wrings it out a little longer, tutting and crooning, "I don't know what that means, pet, you're going to have to be a big girl and use your words."
Seeing beyond the lace detailing is complicated enough with an untainted gaze, but all hope is lost trying to decipher through the gloss of tears that coats her eyes. She feels them slip and trail, wetting the shrouding, and when Eros pummels forward, she taps against the sturdy muscle of his thighs wildly. Quickly, then, Eros pulls back, and his pleather-clad fingers slacken considerably, with one hand unwinding altogether. Isla coughs and sputters, leaning to brace her forehead against the back of one of the palms fixed to his legs. The pads of his digits transform into a comforting caress against her scalp rather than a cruel tug.
"Too much?" Isla hears overhead, but she focuses on gasping and panting for composure, blinking tears away and feeling them soak the fabric of her mask.
When she doesn't answer right away, a seed of worry buds in his chest. He lets her breathe against his thigh a little longer before he pats her cheek with his free hand, gentle, leaning over her a bit.
"Darling, I need you to tell me if you're alright."
Finally, she abides and sits up, reveling in the petting over her cheek and the scratching at her sore scalp, "S'too much? Do you need to safe?"
He's tempted to suggest they take a break from this particular activity altogether for the night, then. And when she tilts her head into his touch and says her derisive words in a tone dripping with such sugar, he nearly grits his teeth and bends her over the bed to whip her then and there.
She clears her throat, and the statement plucks from raspy, strained vocal chords, but it's just as out of line as it would be without her throat bruised, "Don't worry. I don't safeword for mediocre performances."
Harry's mouth sets into a hard line. He'd be lying if her defiance, albeit entirely jesting, doesn't catch him off guard. And quickly, caution and intent to nurture mutates into something much darker.
"I think you're forgetting," he tells her, cadence chillingly calm, and despite his intentions, his touch stays deceivingly gentle; he even caresses her cheek a little while longer, "Which of us has the degradation kink, love."
For a moment, something squeezes in her chest, a worry that she's genuinely offended him, and Isla backtracks, "Wait — I'm sorry." Her voice cracks and his eyes flash dangerously, "I didn't mean to," she chews on her lip, "I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings, I didn't mean it like that. I was just playing."
She hasn't — hurt his feelings, that is. But Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't rightfully irate that she'd prolonged telling him that she wasn't aching for an oxygen tank and played it off with snide backchat. Especially in their first scene.
"Just playing," Eros laughs, void of humor, and suddenly that worry in Isla's chest grows tri-fold into a different direction. He states, deadpan, "So you're fine. You don't need to safe."
"No," she bites into her cheek, the pang flesh between her teeth grounding as shame sprouts, "I'm okay. Sorry. I'm sorry."
Sorry. Yes. That, she certainly will be, Harry decides.
Eros cocks his head down at her, and as his touch falls away and he makes work of tucking his cock, still hard and straining, back into his pants, Isla bites into her cheek harder with a fresh layer of tears glazing her sight. She hadn't meant to, like, insult his manhood. Isla eyes him through the mask, bridling her pout. At least she hadn't made him soft. Her gaze flits to the floor in discomfort.
"S'funny," Harry starts over her, forcing her face up with his hand on her chin, "How such a sweet, pretty girl spews such filth."
Isla's mouth twitches and the corners turn down a bit.
"Stand up," he orders, tone biting. Isla blinks the wetness away, stupefied for only a second before he reaches for her elbow and lugs at it harshly, "Stand up, I said."
So she does, her joints aching from the prior, drawn-out kneel. And she doesn't have time to stretch her limbs before the male guides her towards the bed with a firm grip on her forearm.
"I have put up with a lot from you tonight, darling," the way his mouth curls over the pet name with a sharp edge rather than with praise leaves Isla doused in shame for all the wrong reasons. It sends hunger flooding through her. "But I think it's quite time you learn what proper discipline really is, right?"
"Not just," Harry tells her as the mattress dips beneath his weight, as he yanks her forward over his lap, "fun and games, choking on cock."
He jerks her lacy underwear down over the curve of her backside unceremoniously, pleased with the glinting remnants of arousal on the fabric, "Though I'd be pleased to bruise your throat enough for you to lose your voice," he huffs in wry mirth, "Maybe then you'd finally shut the fuck up."
Isla stares ahead, a furious blush working over her face and warming her cheekbones. Her fingertips burrow into the comforter, but it's tucked and tight and neat, so there's not much give for her digits to twist into it.
"For a first scene," her ankles cross as she feels his hand stroke over the globe of one cheek, "pushing boundaries can be tricky, right? S'like, you want to satisfy, but you don't want to push too much. And when I'm asking you," the young woman gasps when his hand suddenly comes down, hard — harder than she'd expect for a first strike, "If you're okay after I've not let you breathe," she jolts forward when another blow is delivered, right on top of the first, "and you decide to lob some cutesy, little comment at me, it's careless and beyond insufferable."
She blinks down at the mossy green, pointing her toes and releasing a high, little unph when he smacks her again.
"If you're going to be a little brat, that's fine by me," another strike, a loud one that bounces off the walls, "because I will show you how I treat brats." Isla bites into her lip as two land in rapid succession and she squirms a bit. The young woman inhales sharply through her nose when, as she braces for another impact, instead she finds him digging his fingers into the reddened skin, pinching harshly.
"I get it," Harry watches her, the sadistic streak within him thriving, beaming, glowing at the squeak he incites as he squeezes over her curves sharply. He clears his throat, "You play with a new dom, you wanna push the limits, right? You wanna see how much you can get away with, what slides. Unfortunately," he bites back a smirk as he smacks her and coaxes a loud cry in the process, "You will quickly learn that my limits don't have much give."
His voice is suddenly dark and serious, no traces of play to his warning, and Isla wonders how can shift so seamlessly from easygoing rumination to stern disciplinarian, "Because I think, typically, you get spanked, you stomp your little foot, you whine, and then you go right back to being cheeky because the lesson didn't stick. I will assure you, this will stick."
Isla gnaws on her cheek.
"But I suppose actions speak louder than words, right, sweetheart?" he punctuates the rhetorical question with another blow that culls a breathy, girlish grunt from her, "So, I'm going to give you a taste of what it will be like if you keep pulling little stunts like that."
He can feel her shudder over his lap, and Harry pets over her curves, satisfaction flourishing at the ruby hues that bloom post his touch. For the first time tonight, she doesn't protest with a slick, unwarranted opinion. She's not impish, or playful, doesn't poke at him. For the first time, she's proper docile.
"You will absolutely not make snide little jabs when I'm concerned over the safety of our play, and if we are going to play," three more hits have her stretching forward, "this is going to be nipped," he punctuates, "in the bud," each word, "now," with a smack.
Isla presses her cheek to her arm, chills spreading over the expanse of her skin at his words almost as rapidly as an uncomfortable shame spreads through her chest.
"And later, if you are just aching for a reminder, I'm always happy to oblige. Perhaps next time I'll put pretty stripes all across the backs of your thighs with the cane that you've expressed you love oh-so-much," his blow is tailed by Isla's squeak, "How's that sound? I think marks would be a pretty solid reminder."
When she doesn't respond, he can tell that she's sensed there's genuine disappointment there, despite his cruel teasing. He digs his touch into her flesh, culling sweet little sounds from her mouth and siphoning warmth to her skin with each harsh fondle.
"This will serve as your warm up," Harry clears his throat after a little while. "I've learned that you apparently don't need me to check in with you. So I won't be."
Isla shifts over his thighs, and holds her breath when she feels the fabric of his pants brush against her calves as he throws his leg over the both of her own.
"Kick, scream, cry," her face burns as he talks, "I don't particularly give a fuck. Your safe word is there. Safe out if you need to. Otherwise, you can shut the fuck up and take it. If you behave like a brat, you will take the consequences that brats get from me."
When he starts really spanking her, Isla learns the blows she'd received during his scolding had truly served only as a warm up. A handful of smacks, dispersed by his words, solely for the purpose of drawing heat to the skin, as loud and as hard as they had been, don't even come close to her actual consequences. Because the warm-ups had breaks, they were distributed, he hadn't honed his focus on one particular spot and smacked her there over and over and over and over with no hint of give, like he does now. Hadn't propped up her hips to fixate on her sit spots again and again and again. And the thing with pain play and masochism was that, in spite of the eventual release of endorphins, there was always that initial little window of fuck, this sucks, why did I ever sign up for this?
It's sort of like getting into a cold pool, right? You tread from dry land to ankle, to shin, to knee, to hip (where you lungs lock up and lose function for a moment at the chill), and at first, it fucking sucks a little. But eventually, you adapt. Of course, a cold pool doesn't necessarily equate to a release of endorphins that leave you floaty and agreeable, nor does it entail screwing your eyes shut and digging your teeth into the back of your hand as someone hits you over and over, but. Same sort of difference.
Isla finds herself stuck in that fuck, this sucks purgatory period a bit longer than usual, twisting and writhing over him. And she knows that ultimately, she'll succumb to a haywire release, like she always does, hormones and chemical reactions that override her response to the pain entirely, but for now, God, it fucking sucks.
True to his word, Harry doesn't check in.
He doesn't even make any sarcastic digs at her, despite any urges to do so, muzzling the "having fun?" that sits on the tip of his tongue as Peitho squirms over his lap. He doesn't want to give her any clearance to make digs of her own. Though, Harry's sure that she's not exactly keen to do so in her vulnerable predicament. And even though the punishment is meant to correct behavior, the goal isn't to make her safeword, so he does take special care to differentiate her whines and the genuine sounds of pain, listening in and focusing on particular spots testingly. He doesn't exactly ease up when he strums a sound of discomfort from her, but he only directs his attention there for a short while before his concentration shifts towards other areas. He's a sadist, but that doesn't mean he isn't considerate. And he's still painfully hard beneath her, is the thing; every time a pretty cry spills from her mouth, every time she squirms, every time she kicks out with her foot, he can feel his cock pulse against its constraints. Despite this, he doesn't directly chase a note of pain once he's harvested it.
She stretches one of her arms out, kicking her feet up off the floor when he centers his palm over her backside and fixes a smattering of blows over the same area again and again and again. It leaves her skin burning, sparks of pain zapping like fireworks over the surface of her flesh with each strike, and each strike, driven with purpose, comes down like the aim is to tattoo the sparks into her. He's making it stick, true to his word.
Isla reaches her hand back in a half-hearted attempt, crying out, a sheen of familiar tears over her eyes, "Sorry, I'm sorry, please, please."
When he grapples for her wrist, interlocking their fingers and binding the stray limb to her back with his grip, she feels that shift. The teeter of pain into pleasure. It's slight, it still hurts, she's still sort in that fuck, this sucks headspace, but she feels herself starting to roll into it. It's kind of a snowball process. Everything gets fuzzy, tinges of pleasure intermingling with the pain, and then her body starts to buzz and her brain sort of resets and circumvents.
Harry tuts, tongue clicking against his teeth, and tells her, with no signs of give, "I don't know what that means. Are you asking for more?"
She just sort of groans for a moment, burying her forehead against her hand, nipping at the blanket with her teeth, and then he draws a squeal out of her and she lurches forward, "No, please, no more, I'll behave."
"I don't think you've quite gotten the message," the male shakes his head, her whines and whimpers satiating something wicked and vicious in him.
"I have! Yes I have," Peitho gripes, "I'll behave!"
He gives her five more before he turns his head around towards her, gaze cast against the back of her head, "Will you? Behave yourself?"
"Yes," Peitho tells him, but he can see that she's started picking at her nails and that there's an unsavory note of defiance latched onto her cadence.
"Yes, what?" he prompts, but his tone is neither hard nor gentle. It's apathetic with testing.
She takes a moment too long to respond, shifting on her tiptoes, and Harry sighs and smacks her again. The young woman squeaks, going lax and planting her face into her arms. Her next statement is muffled, "Yes, I'll behave."
"That's not what I'm looking for," he trails pleather sheathed pads over her heated skin for a second, wallowing in her hum and the white tracks that accompany his touch.
When she doesn't eagerly correct herself and take advantage of the opportunity, Harry gives her the benefit of the doubt and tells her, hinting firmly, "Yes, Sir. Say it."
He watches her back move as she inhales and huffs into the mattress, sighing, "Yes..." and then her voice just trails off, like paint off a brush dragged down the expanse of a canvas. Dot, dot, dot. Just like that. Harry waits. Peitho wriggles. He sighs. She sighs, too.
O-kay.
Learning limits, that's what tonight is about — for the both of them, apparently.
"I had higher hopes," the man practically snorts before he manhandles her hips back over his lap and starts striking over the peachy flesh. The protests, unlike her willingness to obey, come instantly. And first they come in whiney wails and stray hands, and then they come in shattered whimpers.
"I'll behave, Sir! I'll behave, please, please —" he shakes his head as he locks that wandering hand back over her back, just as he'd done before. It's appalling, honestly, how pliant and agreeable she gets under his palm and how quickly she snaps back into her prior tactics when he takes any sort of pause.
"You won't behave, and now that I know you won't behave I'm not going to be so generous."
"Yes I will, I promise I will — ouch! Please—"
"Your promises don't mean much to me, unfortunately. We can spend the whole scene like this, if that's what you'd like. S'shame, I had so much planned, too."
Despite the pain from his hand, her body betrays her, as it always does, fiery want licking along her nervous system and pulsing off her nerve endings each time he strikes. Isla knows she's gushing, knows he'll see, because she aches with need between her legs. And despite all of this, it still fucking hurts.
"And y'know," he tells her, his scoff incredulous over her sharp cry, "the saddest part is that I'm being so nice to you right now. Because I'm accommodating and reasonable. And what are you? Hm? An ungrateful, little slut."
The coarseness of his words, his tone, that does something. It sends an erotic wave of hunger rolling through her, and Isla groans before melting off into practically incoherent thank you's that mesh with shrill, breathy moans and gasps and pleads and Sir's. And then ...something just clicks. Something magnificent clicks, like two gears that wedge together just right, and her moans and gasps and pleads morph into sobs.
And that's where Harry wants her, he learns. That's the breaking point, the sweet spot. Because then, she gets pliant, and sniffle-y, and docile, and she just sort of takes what he gives her with the occasional, soft "please." He learns it when he pauses to shake out his cramping hand, fully intent on going right back to it, when he picks up on her whimpers, even as he's withdrawn, and his face pivots to drink in the sight of her, sprawled and docious. His gaze is curiously calculating for a moment, and he smooths his hand over her backside in lieu of smacking deeper hues out. Peitho sniffles in response.
His voice carries a purposeful degree of firmness when he asks, again, "Are you going to behave yourself?"
There's a soft breath, a sluggish shift in her muscles, another sniffle. And then, a small, unmistakable, "Yes, Sir."
This is the push and pull — this is the topple. Harry draws his hand over her bare back, palm drifting gently, and he takes his leg off the both of her own. Her calves twitch and tendons protrude as she stretches.
"There's a good girl."
He lets her bask in his touch for a moment, using his opposite palm to stroke over her backside, and he eyes the pretty artwork he's left inscribed over her skin with a cruel sense of pride coiling at the colors left behind. His fingers drift lower, prodding, and she stiffens upon the explorational touch. The corners of his mouth crook when his hand withdraws and arousal glints and emphasizes the jet tips of his gloves.
"Poor baby," he coos, the softness in his tone contrary to the harsh edge it'd previously exhibited. The man leans over her a bit, using his other hand to tug up on one of her bruised cheeks, and he pries a subdued little hngh from her in the process, "S'it hurting?"
Isla's unsure whether he's referring to her backside or her cunt. It's all starting to get a little foggy, if she's being honest. But, yes, she decides. Yes, to both. So she answers, minding her manners with no hesitation (for the first time in the night), "Yes, Sir."
Eros tuts.
"Poor, little, soppy cunt," — her cunt, she deduces, he'd meant — and her digits scrabble for purchase at the sheets when she feels him spread her and spit. It's sacrilegious, he's — he's a sex demon, Isla decides, then and there. The mirthy, devious, little hum Eros releases over her as his gloved fingers brush between her legs, parting her to spread the saliva has her simultaneously rocking back into it and spreading her legs.
And he obliges, middle and index running along either side of her clit in a delicious 'V' that pointedly avoids exactly where she needs him most. Sex! Demon! He's self-aware, too, is the thing, laughter soft as her hips shift and grind against his lap, against his fingers, and then his touch retracts altogether, only to come prodding into her, and that's, just. That's — Christ.
"Christ, you're a snug little thing," has her writhing as his digit sinks in, to the hilt, "Gonna squeeze over my cock like that?" his head twists to find that her cheek is pressed to the comforter and her mouth has fallen open, "Hm?"
Harry indulges in those sweet noises she makes as he slides his finger out to the first knuckle and stuffs it back in, revels in the tremble of her thighs. A sly smirk stretches over pillowy rose as he thumbs at the bundle of nerves and a shiver tumbles over Peitho's shoulders. Then, in true, evil fashion, he slips the finger out and removes his palms altogether, fixing his touch onto her hips and squeezing as a cue that he'd like her to move. The young woman shuffles her feet, the beginnings of a whine working its way through her vocal chords, but Harry stifles that with another smack, and that seems to do the trick. With no lingering objection this time, Peitho lifts her head and cards a hand through her hair before she plants her palms against the mattress and pushes herself up.
It's not her mewls that remind Harry of his own arousal. It's not her squirmy hips, her taut muscles, her cunt spasming around his finger — though, those certainly add to it. It's her face as she stands and slots, body language abashed, between his splayed thighs. Her skin is flushed, and tracks of her tears shimmer in the light, no doubt from the movement of the lace as she'd burrowed into the sheets. It's her mouth, swollen from nippy teeth, wet with the sobs she'd expelled over his knee. He can't see her nose or her eyes, but he yearns to, more than anything in that moment, certain that her lashes are clumped and that the whites around her irises are bloodshot. It's that thought that reminds him that he's still so painfully hard.
He reaches out to thumb at her mouth, pleased in the way she just lets him smush over her lips, lets him draw her bottom lip down. The opposite hand rests on the small of her back. He takes a slow controlled inhale, slinking his palm to her tender backside and squeezing. Harry's cock jolts at the pained sound that escapes her, and after a moment, he taps on Peitho's hip in decisive finality, coaxing her to take a step back and allow him room to stand.
"On your back."
He doesn't watch her to make sure she follows his instructions before he winds around her to the wall with hooks of ropes and ties and cuffs, but Harry does hear the bed sink, so he assumes she's wise enough to comply. A braided black cable runs over his palm as he examines, contemplatively.
Isla's heartbeat had managed to slow considerably post his rough touch, but watching him muse over the plethora of bondage equipment through the lace causes the muscle to hammer away, just a smidge faster. She's flat on her back in the center of the mattress, just as Eros had directed, and her desire spikes as he seems to settle on his choice, starting to work on unwinding a series of thick, dark cords. These are shorter in length, an indication that he's interested in fastening numerous body parts down rather than weaving shibari patterns over her skin, and the notion has her squeezing her thighs together.
When he makes his way to the foot of the bed, binds in hand and gaze dark, he really does look the part of The Executioner. And when he sets the ropes down and his eyes rove over her, her heartbeat spikes in worry that she's done something more to displease him. Instead, his pleather clasp hooks onto her ankles, gently. The shift from the gentle grasp to the rough drag as he jostles her towards him has Isla gasping sharply. Eros yanks her to the foot of the bed, forcing her knees up, and standing between her parted legs. The way his pants brush against her tender thighs leave her aching with another flood of craving. Wordlessly, he takes one of the ropes and winds it about one of her ankles, working to secure knots with deft fingers that she's sure have done this time and time again. Her evidence is the length of the process, the strength of the bonds, the way, after he's bound one taut to a column on the four-poster bed, she tugs with her leg experimentally and there's absolutely no give. The dominant makes quick work of the other, pausing before moving on to her hands to drink in the view. Isla squirms under his gaze, and when her knees fruitlessly attempt to clasp, suspended and fastened, his mouth crooks.
Harry tilts his head a bit, "Thought you liked being ogled."
She doesn't respond, biting into her lip, and her cheek turns away against the mattress. Harry huffs, amused. He makes quick work of her hands, kneeing his way onto the mattress at her side. Binding those together, he loops the cord through the vale in between the two with consideration before he sets her arms up over her head, providing just enough give for her elbows to bend a smidge and making sure that her circulation isn't being cut off. He's intent on hurting her, but not like that. Once the other end of the rope is secured to a bar in the headboard (he's never been more pleased that a bed offers so many points to secure a rope), he sits back, satisfied.
"Try to get out," he demands, voice hard.
Peitho tugs at the restraints, and the half-hearted attempt has him narrowing his eyes.
"Really try," his mouth purses as she wriggles, "Come on, darling. Should I get the cane? Really make you kick and scream to see if these are," he grapples onto the tensed cord secured to her arms, inducing a gasp as he jostles over it roughly, "suitable?"
The implication sends a shudder through her, and Eros seems to be content as her limbs thrash to no avail.
"Lovely," he exhales, standing and palming over his bulge. For a moment, a spark of terror ignites within Isla as she watches him head off towards the wall of implements, but he simply squats in front of the chest and rummages through it.
When he withdraws a set of nipple clamps linked by a chain and a corded vibrating wand, she swallows. The dominant blows out a breath before standing back up with his collected items, and he swings the chain around his finger as he makes his way over, lackadaisical. He pauses as he passes over a bowl of condoms standing on a (probably) decorative dresser (Isla's unsure, she's never actually perused through the drawers of those things), and he backtracks, literally taking a few, slow steps backwards to retrieve a couple of condoms.
"It's only fair, right?" Eros tells her as he slots between her thighs and sets the clamps, the wand, and the condoms beside her on the bed, "I've made your throat sore, your arse, I'm about to make your cunt sore."
Isla's hands tighten into fists.
His mouth quirks and he motions with his chin, his touch on her thighs deceptively soft, "Last piece of the puzzle is those pretty tits."
One of his hands stretches over her to tweak a nipple, and she stays impressively still. Then, he pulls back and leans over to retrieve (she assumes) an extension cord for the wand from just beneath the foot of the bed. Her hunch is proven correct when he unravels the cord of the toy and slips the plug into one of the sockets. Then, he plucks one of the condom packets and tears it open with his teeth, extracting lube-y latex with his digits.
"Hm. Banana," he says thoughtfully, sight flicking over the label, and he casts his gaze up to her face, somewhat teasing, "Want a taste?"
It's mercurial, the way he switches from discussing his agenda to abuse her tits to jesting whether she'd like to sample a banana flavored condom.
"What's the other one, Sir?" her voice is small.
"S'plain."
He stretches the condom over the bulbous head of the wand, rolling it over the silicone, and once that's done, he picks up the clamps. Isla takes a deep inhale for courage. Eros pinches at one of her nipples, rolling the bud between his fingers, and the other hand opens a clamp. She blows the breath out.
"Deep breath," Harry encourages, waiting to hear her comply before closing one of the clasps over the same nipple he'd caressed into hardness. As Peitho throws her head back, wincing, he opens the opposite clamp, brows pinched and tone concentrated, "Very good."
"Fuck," Isla groans, the pain that radiates from the sensitive bud sending her endorphins into overdrive. She'll never quite get used to that sensation, and before Isla has time to gather her composure over the one, the man is already focused on the opposite, rolling it between his index and thumb.
"One more for me," Eros instructs, and when the second clamp closes over the opposite nipple, Isla's grunt slips through cracks of gritted teeth. Her exhale is choppy.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"S'hurting?" the male runs his palm over her stomach, aimed to be comforting and somehow falling into the category of anything but soothing. Isla nods jerkily in response.
"Yes, fuck."
When he toys with the chain — the chain, she'd forgotten all about that God awful chain — tugging lightly, Isla arches into it just to curb the pain the motion incites.
"Wonderful."
At least when he focuses on his zipper he redirects his attention from that horrid chain. He tugs himself free, then, through the zipper, and strokes over his cock with one hand while the other recovers the second condom — the plain one. Again, he tears the packet open with his teeth, and proceeds to roll it over himself.
"Still hurting?" he questions after a moment, and it is, Isla thinks, but not in the same, biting way the initial pinprick of metal pinching had been. Now, the sensation's dulled into an irritating ache.
"It's — tolerable, kind of," she grits her teeth as he uses one hand to guide his cock towards her entrance and the other to wring the goddamn chain.
"Yeah?" The man's previously stable cadence wavers as he dips himself in, just the tip, and whether her mouth falls open at the intrusion or the subtle, upwards tug on the clamps, he's unsure. Once Harry's able to free the hand that'd guided his cock, he picks up the wand and tells her, "Let's see if this makes it a little more tolerable."
When the vibrator presses to her clit, even flicked onto the lowest setting, all apprehensions regarding the unpleasant twinges that bloom from her chest are out the window. The young woman throws her head back, mewling as Eros rocks forward shallowly.
"Is that better?" Harry's jaw clenches, and Peitho's nodding frantically, even as he tugs on the chain. He slides forward slowly and pulls back out in an impressive feat of self control, bit by bit, rewarding her and himself more and more with each pump forward, until he's bottomed out and the chain is wrapped around gloved knuckles, tense in its pull. A groan slips from his strawberry mouth, accompanying her own as the clamps jerk in his grip and the toy vibrates where she's needed it most.
"Christ, baby. Missed this sweet, little pussy all week long."
His confession culls a moan from her and he grinds forward, spewing pornographic filth that sends her spiraling towards an impending climax, "Fuck — Thought about how tight and warm and wet it was. The way it pulsed around my dick, just like it is now, the way it milked my cum out so well."
His next statement has her whining as he picks up the pace and toggles the wand onto the next tier of intensity, "Thought about what a good girl you were, thought about those pretty little cries, the way you begged me to fuck you. To hurt you."
"All," he punctuates his words with his thrusts, "week," Isla keens, "long. Been aching to fuck you," his hips swivel, his voice smooth and slow as molasses, tantalizing to her ears, "just like this."
She writhes beneath his attention, his admissions, whining as he pummels forward, punching stuttered little breaths from her, and smut spills from him as his jaw clinches, "Give it to you nice and hard, sweetheart, just the way you need."
Harry revels in the tremble of her thighs, the view of her tits bouncing with each rock forward, his mouth fondling over a soundless moan at the sight before he goads, "Right? Nice and rough?"
"Yes," Isla gasps, crying out at he jerks the chain, and her pleasure pours out as a seamless mantra, "Yesyesyesyes, fuck! Fuck!"
As the tempo of his hips grows harsher, faster, and the toy buzzes incessantly at her core, she feels her stability chipping away, crumbling with the loom of imminent crest as pleasure weaves through the cracks.
"Sir!" Peitho moans helplessly, just Sir, for now, and then, "Please, I'm gonna, please—" As Harry retires the wand altogether and still within her, flush to her entrance, her pleads thaw off into a mewl.
"No, you're not," he tells her, somewhat breathlessly, twisting at one of the clamps and drawing a loud cry that leaves him with an open-mouthed grin.
She clenches over him, frantically, when he resorts back to the chain and tugs up, slowly, until she's forced to arch her back up into the torture, hissing, cadence pathetic and a smidge hysterical, "Please, please, I'm good, I'm good—"
"You are good," Harry underlines his words by jerking at one of the clamps, and the motion tears a sharp cry from her as a clamp detaches from one of the buds roughly. He praises over her wail, "Such a good girl for me. Such a good, willing, little whore."
"And you are, aren't you?" he leans over her to palm over her face, over her cheeks, over her mouth, and her spongy walls spasm around him deliciously, "Willing?"
He doesn't wait for a verbal indication of agreement before his voice dips into quieter territory, softer, gentler, a stark contrast to the cruel ministrations, "Willing to let me do anything I want to you, baby?"
He hears her moan whelmed against his hand, feels it, feels her core squeeze over him at the words. Yes, she is.
"Yes, please — Sir!" she grunts when he stands back and, with no warning, yanks the opposite clamp off. The pain is — it's indescribable. It's profound, it's fuck, this sucks, it's extraordinary. It sends all the wrong signals hurtling through her nervous system, as if misfiring, and ripples of pleasure coil over and enmesh with the bite. Her "oh, God," spills as a sob.
Harry eases his palm down the center of her sternum comfortingly, just below her tender breasts, and pulls out just a smidge to rock back into her, the left corner of his mouth twitching wickedly, "Still gonna cum?"
The way Peitho's response comes with no hesitation wrests laughter from him, "Yes."
And the way he reattaches one of the clamps has Peitho's own laughter faltering into a whine. That whine grows in decibel as he reaffixes the second, and that same whine pares down into a high, pretty moan when he replaces the vibrator back to her core on the highest course of intensity. It buzzes alive, buzzes something through her, makes her buzz. Her head falls back as he starts fucking her with a fervor.
"Feels good? You feel good, all tied up, just bouncing helplessly on my cock?" Harry grits out, opting to surprise her by redirecting his attention to her breast rather than the clamps, fondling over one harshly. Her response is a garbled concurrence and he curses, relishing the tight squeeze over his shaft as he plows into her.
Isla feels the tears glazing over her eyes, a sought-after, welcomed twinge of burning, and she feels herself slipping off into that coveted headspace of worriless enjoyment, the kind she gets from a really good scene that just hits something right, the kind that she gets from being fucked well. The kind where her inhibitions spill over and leave her an unrestrained vessel. The kind where she just sort of lays moonily over sheets post the scene, savoring soft touches and soft words. The kind that typically leaves her body racking with sobs. Eros slows in his pace, but he keeps fucking into her.
"Smile!" he digs his thumbs into the corners of her mouth and tugs up, "There you go! You're happy."
Isla is going to die, she decides. She's simply going to combust.
He withdraws the digits and when the corners of her mouth dip he tugs on the chain slowly, still fixed to one of the buds, his tone hard, and nearly slows to an entire stall, "Smile."
And she does, teary-eyed behind the lace, her lips trembling. The toy rumbles loudly.
"Pretty girl with a pretty smile. So happy to have those gorgeous tits played with, aren't you?" He yanks on her hair, "Aren't you?"
"Yes," she chirps, all smiley, her lips shuddering and fighting against curving down into a reflexive sob, and he rewards her by picking the pace back up with a hiss.
When Eros jerks the opposite clamp off, that — well, that. It does something, triggers something, and she feels herself absolutely overflow. Her whimper is cut off by a jagged inhale and she squeezes her eyes shut, the tears flowing freely and leaking against the lace.
She's crying now, definitely, Harry thinks, if the tremble of her pillowy lips is an indication, the shudder that falls over her shoulders as she coils in on herself as best she can with the bindings. But Harry doesn't have many thoughts, right now, there's sort of no room for them behind his skull, because the tissue is all kind of a haze of need, need, need. Need to chase his looming orgasm, need to forge her own. It's all a blur of basic, biological urges and Peitho keening beneath him, Peitho squirming in the binds, Peitho clenching over his dick.
But the crying, that definitely helps.
"Fuck — fucking, Christ," he groans, driving himself into her over and over and over.
Her hands just open and close, open and close, and she breathes through it all, whimpering pathetically, until she's —
"Oh, oh, please, can I — please —"
"May I," Harry grits out in correction, tone hard, "May I."
Her toes curl in futile attempts of restraint, "May I, Sir, may I cum? Fuck — I'm gonna — please!"
Harry digs his fingers into the back of her thigh, a growl emanating from his chest, absolutely primal, and his other hand holds the vibrator to her cunt when he coaxes, loudly, "Cum, cum — fuck. Gush all over that cock, baby, go on."
So she does. She lets herself topple over the precipice, and warmth envelops her as she spirals, spasming over him the entire way as he pounds into her. A shudder works its way from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes as the crest abates and dwindles.
Harry follows, tailing close by and tumbling along only shortly after, his heart hammering, his muscles rippling and clenching with nearly incoherent grunts and curses streaming from his mouth as he spurts ribbon after ribbon into the condom. He takes a few, lazy, drawling pumps as the wave of his climax ebbs and then stretches over her, his touch on her a stark divergence from what it had been only moments prior. Her breaths are hiccupy beneath him, and she's still crying softly.
His hand is soft, kind, nurturing, now. It cascades over her cheek and palms at the flesh gently, and the other tucks frizzed, haywire strands behind her ear. He coos, cadence prideful, "Such a good girl, Peitho. Such a sweet girl."
He stays over her like that, whispering and stroking until the jerk of her shoulders settles and all that's left behind are soft sniffles.
"Made me very happy tonight, darling," Eros tells her, and there's a genuine quality to his cadence that leaves her basking in bliss
Her exhale, despite its shaky quality, is satisfied, especially as she feels his thumb drift along her puffy mouth. There's a comfort to his warm weight against her, a comfort to the pads of pleather clad digits scratching at her scalp.
"M'going to undo the knots, and then we can have a cuddle, alright?"
She's in that fuzzy, warm limbo as his praises spill over her, and it gets chilly once she feels his body heat escape her, once that soft touch retracts as he withdraws to ease out. Isla bites into her bottom lip, shifting in the binds and searching ahead of her, only to discover him discarding the condom he'd worn and tucking it into its mangled wrapper.
She feels a pout tugging at her mouth, but then he turns and tells her, softly, "Put that lip away."
And then his touch is at her side. He works on her wrists first, the order backwards from the initial pattern, and once those are freed from the binds he tosses the rope off and towards the headboard and rubs the joints in his palms.
"Are these sore?" he ponders, thumbing along from her wrist to her palm and following through with the opposite, as well.
They are, Isla decides, but in the same pleasant ache-y sort of way they always are when she's bound. It's the type of ache she relishes in the next day, spotty, euphoric reminders as she goes about errands and responsibilities.
"In — in a nice way, Sir."
His hum is somewhat amused, and Eros sets those down as he winds around to work on her ankles. He undoes the right first, briefly massaging over the joint just as he'd done to her wrists before setting it down and directing his attention on the opposite. Once both are freed, he picks one of her legs up and kneads and strokes from her ankle to her thigh for a while longer than he'd done in the ongoing process of unbinding her. He mirrors the action on the other, taking special care with his hands over her muscles.
Harry pauses his ministrations as her teeth chatter, and his mouth twitches. "Cold?"
Her hands have pasted themselves onto either side of her, glued to the bed, which is silly, she thinks, all things considered, and once he verbally reminds her that she's cold, it's like the trance snaps. She wraps her arms about herself, shivering. She's not too floaty, anymore, she realizes, because she's able to make out a jab.
"Maybe a little. God, what do they keep the AC at in here?"
Wordlessly, Eros sets the leg he'd been tenderly caressing onto the mattress softly, and he winds around her. She's not sure of what exactly he's doing until she feels herself jerk, and then she realizes that he's untucking the corners of the blanket that'd been folded in so tightly.
"Comfortably frost-bound," the male snorts, and the way the blanket unceremoniously falls over her, at first, has her brows pinching in mock indignation.
"Hey, keep TLC-ing me," Isla pouts.
"Keep TLC-ing you?" There's an amused note to his cadence as he makes his way to the conveniently situated, electric water dispenser. He discards the wrapper with the condom tucked away into the bin beside the dispenser first, and then he takes a couple cups off the top of the broad, plastic container. The man grins down at the slow pour as the bubbling of the jug infiltrates his hearing. When the first little plastic cup is filled to the brim, he sets it aside and reaches for the second.
She groans over the electric grinding, in true incorrigible fashion, and tells him, jesting, "Well, yes, after I've been manhandled and beat up, I prefer to be TLC-ed."
"I will TLC you to your heart's content," Harry promises, turning to make his way over with that exact purpose in mind.
She's rolled onto her side and rests in the fetal position with one end of the blanket haphazardly tucked over the upper portion of her body. As he takes a slow sip from his cup, the other (intended for her) in hand, Harry catches an eyeful of her bruised backside, painted in pleasant tints of pinky reds. When he makes his way over, setting the cups onto a side table first and foremost, he knees his way onto the bed and runs his palm over the skin softly, wincing. He can feel her stiffen up at the touch.
"Ouch — what arsehole did that to you?"
When she meets his eyes, peeking up with her own from under the makeshift comforter cocoon, they're soft and playful.
She sighs, feigning woe, and shifts beneath the fluffy sheet, "A very mean man."
"Mm. Well," Isla feels herself being jostled, and lets him manhandle her again into being TLC-ed — it's gentle, this time, "I'm sure he had his reasons."
She slots between his parted thighs as he settles against the headboard and cradles her, still in the blanket cocoon, with her legs lifting to lay over one of his thighs. The young woman lays her cheek against his shoulder and huffs as he tucks the blanket tighter around her, "Maybe something like that."
Again, she's jostled when he reaches over to the stand and brings a cup to her mouth. "Drink, please."
"'Please,' look at that," Isla jokes, raising her eyebrows behind the lace, "Look at how the tables turn..."
Harry just tuts and smushes the lip of the cup to her smiley mouth, pleased she's got it in her to joke around. She complies, taking a few sips, until her hands untuck for the blanket to hold onto the cup.
"I reckon the mean man's a pretty decent guy, otherwise," He grins lewdly after he's handed the refreshment off, "He did reward you for your trials and tribulations with a pretty earth-shattering orgasm, I think."
"Earth-shattering, was it?" a smile tugs at Isla's mouth at the haughtiness of his statement, and she presses back to his shoulder.
"Well," he smooths a hand over her cheek softly, teasing, "by the way you were crying, as I recall, I think it certainly did something for you."
"Oh, you recall?"
"I do, you don't?"
"Mm," she hums, and then her voice succumbs to a peal of giggles, "Vaguely." They only increase as he sighs.
Once her laughters settled, he thumbs at her cheek as cue that he'd like her to lift her head. And when she does, despite the view of his obnoxiously terrifying, hardcore-BDSM latex hood, she can tell that his expression is soft behind it, "Tell me more about the crying."
He'd been with criers before — they were his favorite, in a way (for unsavory purposes the average bystander would probably frown at him for), and he understood the general basis. The endorphins, the release. Some girls just cried during sex, whether in moments of rapturous pleasure or as a receptivity to pain. Some girls didn't cry at all. But the thing with criers like Isla — the ones who specifically craved to cry, there was a dangerous sort of precipice to dance along. Because, even with safewords, that kind of stuff could get a little ...murky. There's an aspect of assessment that comes with experience, and he's pleased she's trusted him to test those boundaries, but there's also a specific aspect of divergence between experience with kink and experience with a specific partner. Where the shift is. How it goes. When play treks into dangerous territory. When to turn around.
He supposes that kind of stuff just comes with time.
Isla shrugs, her mouth settling into a wordless line and breaking as she expels an abashed breath, "I don't know. I've always — it's always been kind of a thing for me. Like, it's cathartic, and it," her brows furrow, "It happens when I'm overwhelmed with anything."
"It's intense," he tells her in a smile, nodding, but there's no judgment to his tone, no mockery, "And, for me, too. Because that kind of play can be tricky. Honestly, I just want to make sure I didn't break you too bad."
Isla curbs her snort.
He licks his lips, "That everything was all good, in the scene."
She simpers a little, burrowing back against his button-up, and hums. "Yes, yeah. Everything was good. Splendid, in fact."
She can hear that his exhale wears a grin, "Good."
"Mm," her voice is soft, "I'd do it all over again, if I could."
"Would you?" He tucks her hair behind her ear, rubbing along her scalp with the pads of his digits in a way that has her eyes slipping shut and her leg nearly kicking like a well-scratched dog, "What about next Friday?"
Isla blinks her eyes open, a note of delighted surprise plucking at her vocal chords, "With —with you?"
"Mm. With the very horrible, mean man," his mouth sets into a line that breaks as soon she lifts her head and he imagines the indignant look behind her mask.
"O-kay, now you're just putting words in my mouth, I said mean man, I never used the word horrible."
He hums in mock-understanding, rubbing against her arm over the blanket.
"Yes," he squeezes at her tricep, the sensation muffled by the comforter, "With me. Next Friday."
Isla pretends to contemplate.
"Let me smack you around a bit more next week," he teases softly, his tongue peeking out to graze over his pillowy, pink lips, but there's a dirty, familiar connotation to his words that sends a shudder down the knobs of her spine, "I'll make it worth your while."
"I'll have to check my schedule," the young woman feigns indifference, lifting her shoulders in a shrug that's somewhat restrained (how familiar, truly) by his arm cradling her, "You know, there's lots of people interested in smacking me around."
Harry's brows furrow behind the latex and his mouth parts as he looks to the side contemplatively, "Y'know," he bridles a laugh, "I can't say that surprises me, darling."
"Hey," she whines after a moment of introspective lull, and his chest rumbles with laughter. The corners of her mouth buckle, and after a while she tells him, "Yeah. Smack me around again next Friday."
"Yeah? You want that?" the hand that'd been glued to her hair slips to the bare side of her calf that peeks from the blanket cocoon.
"Yes," she exhales, and when he prods, after a second, "Yes, what?" a devious glint to his eyes, she feels warmth coiling in her tummy.
"Yes, Sir."
Yeah. He likes the prospect of hearing more of that.
"Let me know when you're proper TLC-ed," Harry tells her after a beat, his mouth slipping into a soft smirk, "Need you to flip over, after. Wanna see that gorgeous color a little longer."
TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE
#dom harry styles#harry styles#harry styles dirty fanfiction#harry styles dirty one shot#harry styles edit#harry styles edits#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles one shot#harry styles smut#harry styles wattpad#harry styles x oc#harry styles writing#domharry#dom!harry#harry styles angst#TDIAG#1800titz#1-800-tits
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left behind
Pairing: Gurney Halleck x Reader
Rating: T
Notes: Still simping for Gurney Halleck. Shocker. Set during Dune Part II.
No physical descriptions, no use of y/n. Not beta-read, so probably riddled with typos that I won’t find until I hit ‘post’.
Warnings: Angst; fluff; yearning; pining; they're in love, they're just idiots.
Summary: You’ve spent months fighting to honor all of your ghosts, but there’s no one whose memory you've tended to more than Gurney’s. On the evenings when your nightmares played keepaway with your peace, you reached for his memories first and held them the tightest.
He’s a far cry from the man that you once knew. You don’t recognize him for a moment—but as he grows closer, and the flash of his smile becomes apparent, your insides curdle and twist as if you've sipped the Water of Life.
And when Paul points you out—when his mouth forms your name, his gloved finger jabbed in your direction—you see the man's expression fall and muddle. You’re not sure what with: shock, disgust, confusion?
But before you can decipher it—before the man can take another step toward you or away from you, Chani is taking hold of your shoulder and guiding you away from the wreckage of the destroyed spice freighter. You don’t fuss or fight, or insist that you have someone to see, something to say. You still hardly believe your eyes. You don’t trust that what you've seen isn’t an effect of the spice, or a hallucination—one of those jinn that Stilgar warns you about when you go for walks alone at night.
It wouldn’t be the first time that your tired eyes have carved the likeness of the man you once loved out of dust and heat.
--
“If I’d known,” He tries, “I could’ve gotten you off of the planet. I would’ve—”
“I wouldn’t have left.”
“You still can, and should. You’d be safer on Caladan.”
“My place is with Paul.”
His grip is a vice as he grabs your wrist and roughly tugs you to face him. Your feet stutter and stall in the sand, annoyance rising in your belly. It’s only stoked by the righteous fury waiting for you in his eyes. He seems unaware or uncaring of the testy audience that his antic draws, the slowed steps of the Fremen around you; their shushes and tuts; their low, murmured chittering warnings in Chakobsa, filling the canyon with whispered threats.
“And mine is not?” He hisses. You study his face for a few testy, silent moments before you finally wrestle from his grip.
“I couldn’t say where your place is, Gurney Halleck.”
--
Sleep is uneasy. The stillness and silence of the dessert makes you fidget and squirm in your tent. You can only keep your eyes closed for a moment or two before they open again. You map the ceiling of the tent, mark its occasional fluttering in the odd breeze. You try not to think of the little centipedes, or the trapdoor spiders.
You fight not to think of the man just feet from you.
You’ve spent months fighting to honor all of your ghosts, but there’s no one whose memory you've tended to more than Gurney’s. On the evenings when your nightmares played keepaway with your peace, you reached for his memories first and held them the tightest.
You’ve struggled to keep every little bit etched into your mind: his voice, his smile, his laugh, the murmur of his balliset. You’ve remembered the slip of his hand over your arm, your back, your side as he corrected a movement in training. You've remembered the call of his voice over the battlefield, roaring over your pounding heart as you ran into hell together. You’ve fought to hold the last look of him in Arrakeen—the blend of passion and sorrow in his eyes as he charged the Harkonnens.
But you’d lost sight of him in the skirmish, and found your way to Paul. You’d been certain that so few of your fellow soldiers had survived, positive that any who had would have fallen into Harkonnen clutches.
Some nightmares draw up images of Gurney in their chains once more, fighting against his bondage without Leto there to free him again. Others have him limping from the shadows, bleeding, imploring and begging you to tell him where you had gone when he needed you most.
Is he awake over there? Or has he learned to doze peacefully, to drift off to the shush of spice over the sands of Arrakis? Does he dream of Caladan, of her deep oceans and grey skies?
Does he think of you? Of your nights together in the barracks? Of sharing a drink?
You push yourself to sit up now, drawing a deep breath in through your nose as you fight to slow your pounding heart, to unpick the knot forming in your belly.
--
You try to hide from him in the company of others. Your place with the Fremen is far less precarious than it used to be, and they happily draw you into their conversations, keep pace with you as you walk. Whenever Gurney gets too close, they cast him a wary look and bunch in closer to you. It warms you as much as it makes you uneasy.
You’ve no reason to be protected from Gurney. He would never harm you, despite what his grabbing your wrist may have made them think. But you’re not rushing to correct them, either. And when you’re certain that you feel him watching you, you force yourself to refocus on the company of your friends.
The worn, high walls of Sietch Tabr are an unexpected respite. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’ll be able to slip into the crowd and elude the former Warmaster for just a little while longer. Hands pat you on the shoulder as you pass, murmurs of greeting washing over you as you venture deeper underground.
You want as much rest and quiet that this brief break will afford you. You’re certain that Gurney will keep close now that he and Paul have been reunited, and you can’t blame him—in his shoes, you would do the same. You have no intention of letting yourself be kept away from Paul, or away from the action, so you’ll have to brace.
--
“Did he hurt you?”
If the question had come from anyone else, you may deflect—turn away, start toward the next windtrap. But Chani’s question isn’t abrasive, despite its bluntness. You keep your eyes set resolutely on the filter that you’re removing, twisting it from its position and lowering it to your rucksack with the others that you’ve collected.
“A long time ago,” You finally admit.
“Does he know?”
“No.”
Chani’s silence is as heavy as her gaze. You just shrug, chasing her quiet curiosity: “It isn’t that easy.”
“Why not?”
“He wouldn’t understand.” Or care.
You hold your hand out for a fresh filter, and fit it once she’s passed it over.
“He’s a good man,” You add. “Smart, and strong.”
“The others think he’s a spy.”
“They thought the same of me.”
“...That’s true.”
“And the same of Paul.”
Chani falls quiet at the reminder, and the mention of Paul’s name. The two of you collect the remainder of the full filters, each stewing in your thoughts. You finally speak again as you make your way back to the sietch.
“Will you tell the others to lighten up on Gurney?” You cast her a sidelong glance just in time to see her lips purse contemplatively.
“They won’t take to him easily,” She argues.
“They should try.”
“You should lead by example.”
It’s your turn to purse your lips. You know that she’s right, and it irritates you. But you nod grudgingly. It shouldn’t be too hard to crack your own shell. For all of your pain and heartache, you have missed him. Your mind has been racing with memories since you first saw him again.
When you return to the sietch, he isn’t hard to find. Stilgar points you in his direction, and warns you not to waste your time or water on such an unclever man. The words, accompanied with a wink and a light pat on the shoulder, offer a much-needed lightness as you wind through the cool, quiet halls.
You don’t bother to try and sneak up on Gurney—there’s no point. He always was a vigilant tactician, as wise in the ways of his soldiers as of his enemies. His head tips toward you a touch as your footsteps grow nearer, but he doesn’t take his attention away from the mural on the wall.
“How do they get off?” He asks. The question makes you balk, briefly stalling your brain before you manage—”What?”
“Of the worm.” He gestures toward the wall, at the illustration of a small figure riding a sandworm. Ah.
“They slide off,”You tell him, “Or run the worm until it tires and slows.”
He grunts, nodding slowly. “You’ve learned a lot these last few months.”
“I’ve had to,” You admit, then amend: “We all have.”
Gurney nods again. “You seek me out for a reason, or were you just going for a walk?”
You’re tempted to lie. Gurney is no truthsayer and you were adept at concealing your true feelings from him once.
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For what.”
By the way that he says it, you know that he’s leaning digging the knife in, just a little. You can’t blame him; if you were in his place, you’d do the same. You draw in a deep breath, curling your nails into your palms.
“I…Should not have received you as I did when we found you in the desert.”
“You didn’t receive me at all.”
“And that is what I mean.”
You eye the floor as you feel Gurney turning to look at you, hold carefully still as you feel him approach you, your fingers still curled tightly into fists.
“If I had been able,” He says softly, “If I had known about you and Lady Jessica and Paul—”
“I know,” You whisper.
It’s a moment before he reaches out, taking hold of your hands. You pull in a soft, stunned breath at the touch; his hands are warm, and rougher than you remember. He turns your hands over, thumbs sweeping across the half-moons that your nails have dug in.
“There’s still time,” He offers, and before you have a chance to misunderstand his meaning, he presses: “To return to Caladan.”
You try not to let it sting you—the thought that this man has had you back for just a few days and is already chomping at the bit to be rid of you. Your fingers involuntarily flex, brushing against his where he holds you, still.
“There is,” You agree, “But as I said, my place is here, with Paul. Yours is, too.”
“Yes.”
You give one last, small nod before you draw your hands back from his. You take a step back, too, desperate to create space between yourself and Gurney. You clear your throat, tucking your hands into your pockets, out of reasonable reach.
“You should rest,” You offer. “Whenever we—Paul will want to get back out there as quickly as possible.”
You don’t give him a chance to respond. You turn away and stride back to where you sleep, forcing yourself to be secure in the knowledge that you’ve spoken, reconciled, and will move on.
Gurney is a good fighter, and a smart man. Your countenance has surely bounced off of him like sound from a wall. He’ll conduct himself in an appropriate manner, fight well, make his worth known to the others. You’ll approve of him publicly, encourage his company and conversation where you must, and hide from it where you’re able. You’ll still shield your discomfort, the embers of your misguided love in the sands of Arrakis, and burn your passion out in leveling and destroying Harkonnen soldiers and spice freighters.
Gurney always taught you to turn your feelings, your passion—any strong emotion—to guiding your fight, regardless of whether or not you felt in the mood for it when the need arose. You can do so now. You’ve always been a good soldier—and for him and his sake, you know that you will be the best.
--
Acceptance is slow. Gurney and Stilgar do not mesh quickly, but their shared belief and care for Paul keeps them on as even a footing as they can be. They still butt heads, still insist that they know better, but concede that Paul knows best. It makes for amusing conversation, watching the two bat their causes back and forth before ultimately yielding to your former trainee, Maud’dib, the Lisan Al-Ghaib. You try not to love it as you watch your wise Warmaster bite his tongue for Paul’s sake. You know that Paul appreciates his guidance, and, where it’s necessary, his compliance.
But when Gurney turns to meet your eye—to level an all-knowing look of ‘Can you believe this?’ or his imploration for back-up—you force your expression to a neutral set, merely arching a brow, as if to ask what he’ll do next.
You can see his frustration grow as you remain neutral, but you can’t bring yourself to side against the people that have accepted you and given you shelter for months. You’re certain that as much as it frustrates him, he understands, even if he doesn’t agree with you.
It doesn’t stop him from sitting beside you during meals. It doesn’t stop him from covering your back when you work with the others to take down Harkonnens, to level a freighter. It doesn’t stop the two of you from being near one another during briefings, or sharing knowing looks when you watch Paul and Stilgar disagree. Paul always was an ornery child, and it’s neither a surprise, nor an affront when he argues with authority. Hell—you wear it as a badge of honor, and you’re certain Stilgar does, too.
--
When you lose your pack in the midst of battle and your tent is destroyed, you know that you have other options. At worst, you could take an early watch, use the tent of someone that takes it on later. But Gurney’s hand pats against your lower back as he passes you, the words, “Come on,” Push out of his gruff mouth before you can even think to ask or argue.
You watch him go for a moment before you force yourself to follow. It’s been a long day of fighting, and you’re not willing to make it longer by nit-picking with him. You just follow him to his tent and duck inside. The two of you undo the clasps and fastenings on your stillsuits in silence. You take a little longer, hesitating and glancing back every few moments as you undo the suit. It’s been long since you’ve undressed near him, and even then you’re certain that he didn’t take notice. Now, the space is nearly cramped with the two of you, filled with the sounds of zips and pops. Once you’ve disrobed, you hurriedly change into your nightclothes—a flimsy, thin top and a pair of loose fitting pants.
By the time you turn to face him, Gurney has laid out the pad that you’ll both sleep on, cushioning you from the sand as you rest. He hasn’t taken up his place yet, and while you’d like to linger until he’s made himself comfortable, you force yourself to lie down and curl up on your side. You feel more than hear him settle beside you, the pad shifting slightly as he sinks down onto it. The two of you lay in the dark, still silence for a little while.
“...What happened to your balliset?” You can’t stand the quiet, and can’t bring yourself to ask about anything else.
“...It blew up.”
“Paul?”
“Mhm.”
“Damn.”
He huffs a soft laugh that warms you, and you smile.
“We’ll get you new one,” You promise before you can stop yourself.
“The Fremen don’t have one?”
“They have something like it. I’m sure you could learn.”
You hear him shift beside you, and squeeze your eyes shut as his warm breath brushes against your neck.
“Would you want me to?”
“...I want you to do anything that you like, Gurney Halleck.”
“Anything?”
“Mhm.”
You think that he’ll let it end there, and that he’ll let you both drift off into a peaceful sleep. Bu when his arm curls around your waist, you know that you won’t be able to sustain as you like.
You try to fight it. You want to be a rock in his arms, cold and unmovable—but when his arm winds around you, you melt into him like butter on warm bread.
--
Waking is slow. It’s accompanied by murmurs of Chakobsa around your tent, and the shushing of sand and spice around the tent. You sigh softly, shifting between the softness of the mat, and the hard body against yours.
You don’t dare open your eyes.
You can feel his lips and beard brushing tenderly against the curve of your jaw, his fingers flexing against your skin and curling in the hiked-up fabric of your top. You hum softly, tipping your head to the side and letting your forehead knock gently against his. You don’t know if he’s awake, but you’re not willing to open your eyes and find out. You expect him to draw back, to extricate his body from yours. And you wait to pull yourself fully from sleep, to draw your stillsuit back on and push away the sensation of being wrapped in his arms.
Neither of you make any such move.
His lips drift up a touch, pressing tenderly against the crest of your cheekbone. Your hand lifts as if on its own, smoothing against his rough cheek as a heady hum leaves your lips. Gurney’s grip tightens on your hip, pulling your body flush against his as his kiss brushes down to the upturned corner of your mouth. Your breath catches in your throat, fingers smoothing higher to curl in his hair as his hips roll gently against your side.
“Gurney.”
His name leaves you wrapped in a breath, wary that anything louder will wake him, truly wake him before you’ve had a chance to savor his touch. But he just groans, his nose brushing nuzzling as his lips sleepily find yours. You part your lips unthinkingly, tongues tangling as you trade syrupy-slow kisses.
It must be a dream—you've gone sleeping walking and been taken by a jinn. This has to be a trick or a trap—but as Gurney presses cloesr, covering his body with yours and spreading your legs wide to make room for him, you can't bring yourself to care, even if it is. You blink sleepily up at him as he draws away, holding your gaze as you gently comb your nails over his scalp. Your focus is only broken when someone taps on the top on the top of the tent, and Chani's warning of, "Breakfast," Breaks through.
Gurney glances up before his gaze flits to yours, awaiting your approval. You smile, giving a small shake of your head.
"I'm not very hungry."
Gurney's smile widens, eyes brightening with mischief as he lowers himself closer.
"Neither am I."
Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @amneris21
@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity
@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;
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@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989
#Gurney Halleck x Reader#Gurney Halleck x You#Gurney Halleck/Reader#Gurney Halleck/You#Gurney Halleck fic#Gurney Halleck imagine#left behind
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