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volturicangetit · 4 years

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F.V- Mates with the guard

Summary: You bring the Volturi a visit after which you find out that you are mates with Felix. Only problem is, you almost killed him a week ago.

Request: YES/no Anon: I love your work! Can you do Random prompts 15, 21, 22, and 24 with Felix and his newly found mate who doesn't know she's his mate that'll end with fluff? 15 " I'm too sober for this " " you don't even drink " " maybe I should start " 21 " what do you mean she's my new partner? She tried to kill me last week! " " Sounds like your problem " 22 " Good thing I didn't ask for your opinion " 24 " Did you just hiss at me? “

Warnings: swearing

Wordcount: 1590

You knew this day would come. The moment you found out that your friend was a vampire was the moment you knew that you were in deep shit. First, you thought that they were going to kill you. Sink their teeth into your neck and use you as a blood bag. They were kinder than that though, you are their friend. They didn't kill you, instead, they calmly explained everything. They also told you that the Volturi was going to want to meet you the moment they knew you found out about their secret. That's how you found yourself here, in an ancient castle being escorted to the supposed ' kings ' by a vampire. Your friend had to wait outside, sadly. You are hyperaware of how the vampire guiding you could sense everything going on in your body. Every heartbeat and breath, none of them went unnoticed by the vampire. "Felt like a snack?" a deep voice says as a two-man appear next to you. The tallest of the two grips into your arm, inhaling the scent around you. "A tasty one as well," he smirks. He is down-right frightening. His form towers over you, making you feel impossibly small. You know him. He tried to attack your friend last week after which you almost set him on fire. He smirks at you, clearly, he has remembered your little encounter last week as well. He tightens his grip on your arm. Everything in you feel revolted by his touch. But you can't get yourself to get out of his grasp. "They're here for the masters," you initial guide says.

"Come on, Alec, sharing is caring," Felix says. Great, so the guide has a name. Alec pulls the tall man's hand off your arm. "Behave yourself, Felix.". You step away from Felix the moment his hand leaves your arm. You wrap your arms around yourself for comfort. Alec lays a hand on your shoulder and pushes you out in front of him, guiding you away from the two men. He clearly forgets about his inhuman strength as his hand comes harshly into contact with your skin. You keep the whine threatening to escape inside as you ignore the feeling of the bruise starting to bloom up onto your skin. "He's no fun," you here Felix call from behind you.

Alec stays quiet as he guides you to the throne room. The moment that the dark doors are opened before you, an eerie feeling falls over you. To your surprise you see the man from before, Felix, talking to the three so-called masters. Felix turns around to look at you. You keep walking into the room even though every cell in your body is telling you to run away. "Young Y/n, what a surprise," a man with raven hair, who your friend told you is named Aro, says. A creepy smile is plastered into his lips. He stands up from his throne. Felix quickly takes some steps to the side to make room for Aro. Aro mentions for you to come over to him. You take slow steps towards him, afraid that your buckling knees might give out. You can't help but imagine how old they might all be. Hundreds if not thousands of years old. The moment that you are in arms reach of Aro he grabs your hand and wraps his own around him.

The moment his skin touches yours, a wave of nausea hits you. You can feel him scanning through your thoughts, reading and seeing every single one of them. You clench your teeth to keep your gag reflex at bay. Something about his presence made you feel like turning your stomach inside out. " How remarkable, " he says before letting go of your hand. You quickly pull your hand towards your self, as if he had burned you. Aro looks over to the brunet sitting on the throne who gives him a small nod. Aro then looks over at Felix and lets out a hysterical giggle. "They are mates," the brunet groans out as he continues to stare at the wall, clearly uninterested. Felix immediately snaps his head towards you. Sure, he noticed that something was wrong when he first mate you but he didn't think that you'd be his mate. " Mate? " you ask.

"You are partners of a sort. Bound together by your soul." Aro explains as he keeps glancing between you and Felix. The blond ' master ' lets out a groan as he rolls his eyes. Not everyone is happy with this new partnership. "What do you mean she's my new partner? She tried to kill me last week!" Felix says as he takes a step closer to Aro. Anger is written all over his face which in result makes him look even more imitating. You take a step back as you flinch slightly at his sudden outburst.

"Well, that surely was not very kind of Y/n but mates bonds cannot be broken," Aro says. "So it sounds like your problem." Felix shakes his head and takes a moment to collect himself, not wanting to get too angry with the masters. His fists clench and unclench by his side. He walks over to you with quick strides. He lays a hand on your shoulder and pulls you along with him and out of the throne room, leaving the masters and guards baffled behind. You don't even try to fight him, knowing that it's useless.

He doesn't stop walking and pulling you along until he is in a quiet part of the halls. He quickly lets go of you and starts pacing around you. You stand there still confused and looking at the angry vampire before you. "So mates, huh?" you say as you try to break the uncomfortable silence. Felix quickly wipes around, looking you up and down. He shakes his head before running his hands through his short hair. "I am too sober for this," he says.

"You don't even drink," you say softly. You still aren't comfortable around him. The fact that he can easily kill you, and probably wants to, is way too obvious to you to forget. He shrugs, removing his hands from his hands and crossing them over his chest instead. He looks, even more, imitating now. "Maybe I should start," he says.

You look around you in the hallway. You spot a stone bench a couple of feet away. You walk over to it and sit down on it, resting your elbows on your knees so that you can prop your head up on your hands. "Would that even work?" you ask. "Do you get drunk if you drink blood from someones who's drunk?". Felix doesn't even answer you. He just stands there and looks at you, questioning what he did in life to deserve a human as his mate.

Neither of you say anything for the next ten minutes, both stuck in your own thoughts. Sure, Felix is hot. Extremely fucking hot. But he also an asshole who you almost killed a week ago and who probably has you on top of his kill list now. "I'm gonna go home now," you say before standing up. Felix turns to you and shakes his head. "You cannot leave, you are my mate. You need to stay here,"

"Good thing that I didn't ask for your opinion," you say as you start walking into a random direction. To be honest, you have no idea how to get out of this maze of a castle, but Felix doesn't need to know that. "I'm going to go home whenever I please," you call out to him. Felix quickly catches up to you. He lays a hand on your arm to try and keep you to stay. You quickly shrug his hand of you, turn to him and hiss at him.

"Did...Did you just hiss at me?" he laughs. You give his arm a small punch, which hurts you more than him. Stupid vampires. You cross your arms over your chest and stop walking. "Yeah, I did.". Felix shakes his head. Every bit of anger that he had in him has now left him. Clearly, that thinking session you had did him good. "Are you actually going to leave?" he asks. Something in his voice almost sounds disappointed. You nod.

Felix lets out a sigh before quickly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder in a fireman-carry sort of manner. "Hey! Let me down!" you yell as you start punching his back. It doesn't do anything to him, though. He shakes his head and starts walking towards his room. "You can't do this!".

"Keep fighting human, maybe you will tire yourself out," he says. You stop your attack on his back, realizing that it's useless. You let yourself go limp in his arms. He readjusts you ever so slightly on his shoulder so that you laying a bit more comfortable. You let out a sigh. "Would you like me to get you some food? Or perhaps a movie to watch?" Felix asks. You don't want to give into him, but your stomach is rumbling and you do want to watch a movie. " Yeah, " you sigh.

He lets a laugh rumble through his chest. You feel the vibrations through his shoulders. "Alright, I will get that all sorted out," he says. Maybe he isn't so bad. Maybe you can actually like him. "If you promise that you will not try to kill me again,". Asshole.

TWILIGHT TAGLIST:

@scuzmunkie @thanossexual @kpopgirlbtssvt @cullens-stuff @rexburn12 @prettyinblack231 @ravenmoore14

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trylonandperisphere · 4 years

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ASK POLLY APR. 1, 2020

‘I Don’t Think I Can Handle 18 Months of Isolation’

By Heather Havrilesky

Hi Polly.

So the world’s falling apart. I’m seeing quotes from experts that predict this will go on for 18 months or more. I don’t think I can stand the stress and isolation all that time. I have mental-health challenges, so I think I might crack. And I’m not sure our infrastructure can endure it either. I have a medical condition that’s stable and doesn’t put me in danger of COVID-19. However, I worry the strain on the health-care system will take away my treatment, leading to a slow death. And then there are the usual worries about things like food. Will the supply chains hold up six months or a year from now? How do you see all this happening and not start looking for an exit? I’m willing to admit that I’m weak or entitled. People around the world deal with this all the time. I don’t think I have it in me. How do I find some strength and hope?

Feeling Weak

Dear Feeling Weak,

On any day of your life, a million terrible things could happen. Every morning, you have to force all of the awful possibilities out of your mind. You do this because there is no alternative.

I’ve always been a very fearful person. I’ve always been sensitive to the fragility of the human body and the myriad ways lives can be ripped apart. My dad died when I was 25 years old, and it made me even more fearful. Then I had a baby.

Imagining all of the bad things that could happen to the baby almost sent me over the edge. I felt like someone had removed my liver and now I had to hand my liver over to other people, and ask them not to drop it or neglect it.

One day I came home, and my husband was holding my liver in one hand while stirring a boiling pot with his other hand, all the while talking to my stepson in an animated, cheerful fashion.

I freaked out. “You are going to kill me,” I said. “Calm down,” he said. “Stop being so overdramatic.”

My heart started racing even more (Pro tip: The words “calm down” are never calming!), but I washed my hands and then took the baby away from my husband. And then through gritted teeth, I said something like this: “You are going to listen to me very closely. Don’t talk. Just listen. I am in a very, very particular, unfamiliar, fragile place. I have never felt this way before. I’m going to have to describe it to you. You are going to have to listen. You do not have to understand or believe that I am remotely sane. You can continue to believe that I am irrational. But if you do not listen closely and respect and honor my needs around this fragile feeling, this marriage will end. Period. This is not negotiable.”

I wasn’t someone who threatened to end my marriage, ever, just to be clear about that. I needed to communicate clearly that we were on perilous terrain.

We retreated to the bedroom and talked for a long time. I told him what I needed in order to raise a baby with him. He told me the reasons he thought I was nuts. I told him that I was fine with him thinking I was nuts. He could continue to do that. Of course my views were not utterly rational. Rational was not the point. Calming down was not the point. He needed to understand how high the stakes were for me. Even if there was a .0001 chance that my baby would drop into the boiling water, the stakes were too high for me to endure those odds. He didn’t have to understand my feelings, he just had to operate as if he had the same feelings, for my sake.

It took a lot of persuasive talk, and tears, to get my husband on my side. It was exhausting. But by the end of our talk, my husband got it. He agreed to behave in ways that were guided by high stakes and my irrational feelings and to never say the words “Calm down” to a woman whose liver you’re holding. And if ALL OF THAT sounds nuts to you, that’s okay. These were the conditions I knew I required in order to raise a baby with someone who was more careless than I was in every way. These were the things I needed in order to share a house with this man and trust him to raise a family with me.

After that, I felt better. And my husband never told me to calm down when I described the toddlers who get left in the car or run over by a clueless grandparent backing out of the driveway. He took on the low-odds possibilities until he was worrying about them himself. I turned him into a slightly neurotic, hyperaware parent. I formed him into a seismograph, in my image. Call it twisted, I don’t give a fuck. It worked. We were aligned. We fought less. We kept our kids relatively safe from harm. Maybe we became obnoxious. Maybe we were paranoid. I still don’t care. I didn’t feel alienated and alone in my marriage, because I dared to get very, very specific about my needs.

And once I knew I had someone on my side, I started to calm the fuck down. I made a resolution to keep all of the looming threats in mind without INTERNALIZING and VISUALIZING and LOSING SLEEP OVER the millions of ways a baby could die or become injured. Any time I went from safeguarding my kids to picturing something awful happening to them, I learned to stop myself.

Doing your best to avoid disaster is practical. Repeatedly imagining disaster, on the other hand, is wildly impractical. Once I realized how jittery and anxious I was feeling, I steadfastly refused to indulge my imagination when it came to my baby. I resolved not to become a pile of nerves quivering on the floor. I wanted to breathe and feel happiness and survive parenting without being transformed into a shadow of my former self. I wanted my kids to be aware of danger but not paralyzed by fear at all times.

Mistakes have been made, that goes without saying. But the decision to never fixate on terrifying outcomes when it came to my kids was very important. I could still fixate on bad outcomes FOR ME. But that was (and is) a world apart from doing it about my kids. Eventually I didn’t have to try anymore. The second I pictured something terrible, it was just: NO. CAN’T.

Everyone is different. Everyone experiences different conditions as threatening or scary or paralyzingly awful. We all have to respect these differences while relentlessly standing up for our own needs and asking for exactly what we want from the people who are closest to us. That means becoming a tiny bit shameless, I should add. It took a shameless amount of assertiveness and belief in my own particular sensitivities as a seismograph to ask my husband to behave as if he, too, were a seismograph. I had to get very specific. I also had to let go of the need to be right and seem rational. I had to own my role as the Chicken Little of the family.

“Pretend the sky is falling with me,” I told my husband, and he did. It was an act of love and solidarity. I was so grateful for it. It kept us glued together at a vulnerable time, when we could’ve fallen apart for good. I didn’t have to hate myself for being a chickenshit or a seismograph. I could relax because someone was on my side.

That story probably feels pretty divorced from your circumstances, but it’s not. For you to feel comfortable safeguarding yourself while also refusing to fixate on the millions of horrible outcomes that could befall you specifically and all of us generally, you need to stand up for the particulars of your mental health. You need to look closely at your specific emotional challenges as a human being, and you need to say: This is how it feels for me. I feel like I want to find an exit. I feel like I can’t survive this. I feel like I am not strong enough.

Here’s the suicide hotline for anyone who’s been feeling that way: 1-800-273-8255. Commit to reaching out to someone when you’re feeling bad. Everyone is struggling right now. We’re all in the same boat at some level. It’s important to understand that moments of extreme darkness will come and go, and things could get a million times worse and still be survivable. Put your faith in human connection: It makes all the difference.

If you have close friends or a partner or a family member who can listen to you describe your very specific Chicken Little–flavored needs and desires and align themselves with you, and show solidarity for your (sometimes irrational!) experiences of what this moment means, then call that person or those people. Open up to them, and explain your needs, and get them to understand.

But let’s be clear: Finding people who will join you where you are is very, very hard. It’s hard for all of us, always. If it feels impossible? Guess what? You’re not alone. Try your best. And if/when that fails, I want you to write everything down for you, until you clearly comprehend who you are and where you are and how you’re feeling right now.

This is not about descending into darkness in any permanent way, mind you. This is simply about painting a picture that someone else might understand, a persuasive portrait of how you’re experiencing this moment. This is you saying to yourself: YOU ARE HOLDING MY LIVER OVER A BOILING POT OF WATER. This is you crying and telling yourself: I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN DO THIS. DO YOU FUCKING GET THAT?

This is you making your needs crystal clear. This is you standing up for who you are, without shame. Does that really matter, all alone in your apartment as the world crumbles around you? YES, IT DOES.

This is you saying: I deserve to have my needs met. Think about all of the times you were treated like your needs were irrational, like you needed to calm down and shut the fuck up, like you needed to stop being so in the way, so inconvenient, so absurd, so laughable, such a wreck. I’ll bet you can think of a lot of examples.

Use this moment to get your own back. Take this opportunity to say to yourself: I don’t fucking care if I’m fragile and irrational. I’m going to honor my needs without shame.

Don’t skip this step, even if it seems beside the point. Honor your needs, without shame. That’s number one.

Number two is: Protect yourself. Take very good care of yourself. Feed yourself well, exercise, get plenty of rest. Stay aware of the threats so you can do your best to avoid those threats. Put energy into making yourself feel as healthy and resilient as possible.

Number three is: Resolve not to fixate on the millions of terrifying possibilities you cannot control. You can make this choice now because your peculiar needs matter. Remember? You’re honoring your needs without shame now. One of your needs is this: Avoiding the terror here. You said it to me for a reason: You aren’t strong enough to hold these terrors inside your head for 18 months. So don’t do it.

Are you strong enough to survive for 18 months in isolation? Yes, you are. You’re strong enough as long as you’re honoring even your most irrational needs without shame, being very safe and careful in areas that are within your control, and letting go of all of the circumstances beyond your control, as in banishing them from your fucking head permanently.

Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (Read it if bleakness makes you feel stronger. If not? DO NOT READ.) is about a man who’s struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. As the man and his son travel south toward the ocean, looking for food and shelter, the man tries hard to avoid big questions and unknowns that might threaten his ability to survive. Because he has a boy to take care of, he becomes extremely practical. He protects his boy and he keeps moving forward, no matter what. There’s a sense of calm beauty underneath the horror of every word McCarthy writes. Showing up for whatever comes next is beautiful. You don’t have to be a hero. You just keep moving.

I probably wouldn’t have sat my husband down and insisted that my irrational view was going to need to be honored, back when we first had a baby together, if I weren’t convinced that our ability to raise a baby and stay together depended on it. It took something bigger than myself to force me to finally stand up for my very specific needs and persuade another, very skeptical human being to hear me out and get my back.

Today, you’ve been faced with a challenge that’s much bigger than any challenge you’ve faced before. The stakes are high. This enormous calamity dwarfs you and exists outside your thoughts and feelings completely. You have to treat yourself with extreme care under these conditions. This is an opportunity for you to finally stand up for what you need at every level, in a very concentrated and intense way that is fully justifiable and concrete. This is a chance for you to design a map that you can use to navigate this disaster and every other disaster to follow this one, guided by your very irrational, specific desires. This is your time to learn to blot out the parts of the world that are just too gigantic and out of your control for you to metabolize, and focus on what you can actually control and have influence over instead. You have to avoid big questions and keep moving forward. You’re about to achieve a sense of mastery over your life and your understanding of yourself, while letting go of what you can’t control in a permanent way. These high stakes are a blessing disguised as a curse. Take this blessing.

What sustains you? What can you create, every day, to bring you life, to build up your strength? What beauty is lurking underneath these terrors? As Ranier Maria Rilke wrote, “No feeling is final.��

The path before you is simple. You wake up in the morning and you put Chopin: Nocturnes in your headphones and you look for joy. You embrace every tiny glint of beauty and every scrap of hope hiding in this small, enclosed life. You surrender to the reality of this “borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it,” as Cormac McCarthy put it. You eat this divine silence, this dark longing, this lonely sweetness, this solitary dread. You sit in your quiet garden and welcome the weather, good or bad. No feeling is final. You are strong enough.

Polly

#ask polly #heather havrilesky #advice #mental health #self care #personal essays #corona virus #coronavirus #covid-19 #isolation #sars-cov-2 #pandemic #this is deep y'all

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champiowned · 4 years

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[[stats]]

my leon is canon-divergent and has established relationships with a few other muses from the same universe. [no, i don’t play exclusives.] main differences between him and canon include: he was endorsed by kabu, met rose after he became champion, never took the position of league chairman, and has since sold the battle tower.

stats:

full name: leon tarak malik [middle name is not public knowledge] official title: Himbo Twunk Supreme duplicates nickname: pecha parents: tarak [father, deceased] and laleh [mum... she’s doing her best] race: pakistani, persian gender: cis male orientation: openly gay. queer kids need good role models. age: 24 birthday | sign: dec 4 | sagittarius height: 6’ weight: ~200lbs / ~90kg build: dorito with tiddy the man works out and has good muscle mass but he’s not exactly a bodybuilder. these guns are made for hugging. voice claim: here nature | characteristic: naive | likes to fight

personality n behavior stuff:

- full of himself, but not in an “i’m better than you” way. unless you’re raihan

- ALTERNATIVELY: he does experience self doubt, pretty frequently these days, he just tends not to show it.

- hyperaware of his public image. always well behaved, positive, and poised in the public eye.

- epitome of “how do i adult.” growing up a child celebrity, pretty much everything was done for him and his life was controlled by the league and later, rose.

--- he knows how to behave in public and on TV, how to entertain crowds, etc, but has almost no interpersonal social skills and knows next to nothing about how to take care of himself. can't cook. doesn't know how to file taxes or fucking dress himself. etc etc

- he knows his weaknesses. and he’s kind of jealous of people who have their shit together.

- still largely a kid at heart. he’s optimistic to the point of being rather gullible.

--- he genuinely believes that people have good intentions and that anyone can become strong if they try.

--- he’s also easily swayed, especially if someone is trying to convince him of the "right" thing to do. he’s a people pleaser with a heart of gold, so he’ll do the thing that sounds the most helpful!

- he’s taking his loss a lot harder than he lets on. but still acknowledges that it was one of the best things to ever happen to him. feelings are hard, man.

- in person, privately [as opposed to public appearances] he’s a little on the quiet side. comes across as an idiot often but really is just stuck in his head a lot.

--- he’s also the definition of a clown. acts dumber than he really is just to make people laugh. arceus, does he love to make people happy.

health:

- physically fit. physically fit. physically physically ph --

--- he has a weakened immune system. doesn’t really know it yet.

--- his body also heals at about half the pace it should, be it from injury, working out, etc... he has started noticing this but doesn’t understand why it’s happening.

--- he’s physically sensitive to poison types. he gets weak and sickly the longer he spends around them -- which he doesn’t usually, because he’s developing a phobia of them and tends to avoid them.

- diagnosed adhd

--- blame his lack of directional awareness on that shiny thing over there

--- ... and on his inability to tell left from right:

- diagnosed dyslexia

--- the advent of rotom phones was a godsend. speech to text is his best friend. so are audiobooks.

--- but he would rather die than read, write, or do physical paperwork.

- diagnosed depression

--- has tried to seek counseling at the request of his loved ones. tried and couldn’t go in galar, but he’s been talking to someone on call from another region.

- still mentally working out that he was manipulated by rose. doesn’t know how to feel about it. he has a lot of thoughts.

- has caffeine sensitivity. the best he can do is 1 cup of black tea a day, which is tragic, really.

important history bits:

age 7: hop was born! he’s baby!!!!!

10: gym challenge!! champion time, babey!!!!

--- he was endorsed by kabu and u can pry that out of my cold dead hands

--- also peony was the champion he dethroned

11-12: trained under mustard.

14: father died in an accident.

--- mother fell into a deep depression. hop came to live with leon in wyndon for a few months and their (paternal) grandparents moved into postwick.

16: came out as gay in a live interview. fired his manager for being pissed about it. hasn’t had one since.

17: a certain macro cosmos president started sponsoring him.

19: said president became chairman of the league.

20: rose brought him into the energy crisis plan.

--- with limited knowledge, leon started helping him gather wishing stars for the sake of clean energy.

22: game events!

23: post game.

current: raihan is the new champion after the protag forfeited. also leon is gay married to raihan and claude von riegan. no i do not accept criticism.

misc:

- he no likey poison types. poison Bad. no reason in particular! it’s fine!! hahahahaha!!!!

- despite being so confident, he’s easily flustered around crushes. lastbraincell.exe has stopped working

- he and sonia kissed once. and that was how they learned leon didn’t like kissing girls and sonia didn’t like kissing boys.

- had a postwick accent as a kid. spent so long in wyndon he adopted that accent. but some old dialect pokes through every so often.

- his verse’s champion is named wynne! they’re nonbinary and he loves and supports them very much!

- he’s big on charity, and not in a fake way. looking at rose. he donates money directly to those in need and regularly volunteers at or hosts things like food drives, pokemon foster care, children’s hospital visits, etc etc. he’ll buy groceries for everyone else at the store, tip 300% of his dinner bill, and help you move that couch.

- if you don’t drink your respect hop juice he will snap you over his knee.

#navi;#n;#s;#stats;#h;#headcanon;#hc;

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h-sleepingirl · 5 years

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Scenes from a (Hypnotic) Charmed 2019

This hotel is different than all the other hotels we’ve been to for the last almost-year.

I knew Charmed was going to be different with him. Last year was when we really started heating up. It’s sort of an anniversary, one that we’re talking about and around, about how we had our first real alone time, and I remember the feelings I had when we were in that room together. I remember coming out, still in trance, feeling like that was the best thing I’d ever done, 5 years in, the shock of feeling the depth of things I still didn’t understand with him.

Cons, for a while, were how I got my fix, a couple times a year. It was always an unheard amount of hypnosis for me, barely being able to walk from one place to another without a partner interrupting me and dropping me down. Heavenly. Still wonderful, but now…

I think about the hotel dates I have with him, the hours of leisurely and uninterrupted play that we get every month or so, and I realize that I am solidly, solidly spoiled. I feel guilty. I feel possessive.

It is still so wonderful to finally get to the hotel and see him and spend the time we get to spend with each other and with our partners. It’s not hard to make space. We all share it really well.

Still, there’s an itch, this nagging sense that I haven’t fully connected with him; I’m still feeling out what it’s like to be around him, what it’s like to get to the level of suggestibility that we both know exists. I always have some of that, no matter where we are, but here, it’s not as simple as monopolizing his space and looking up at him with the eyes.

It doesn’t stop us from having those moments, though, even while we’re being social around everyone. It is uncanny how I’m so hyperaware of if he’s looking at me, and I know it’s the same for him. My gaze distracts him and it’s very tempting to play with; I know I could get the attention I want, but I have to behave.

It is sort of a crazy dance with how much focus is too much, and it’s so stupid, and it’s a dangerous game; my tiniest observations are enough to get his eyes to do the focus-unfocus thing which will catch me if I look too long and all the while our little circle of people on the floor is becoming a big circle of people and we are taking turns cracking jokes and entertaining.

Eventually I indulge and sit on the floor in front of him, leaning back into him a little bit as we continue the conversation.

I feel, with maddening vividness, the tip of his finger touching the skin on my back, revealed by the dip of my dress, and the way that he slowly drags it down, just an inch. The quality of that touch is one I know intimately, dripping with intent, and before I realize it I’m fuzzing out and dropping into trance right there, only catching myself enough to stay frozen upright, eyes still open, heart pounding with the sort of taboo of it: “Don’t let them see.” There’s no actual risk in trancing out; we’re at a hypnosis conference and he’s already tranced his other partners in front of everyone, but while we’re still getting our bearings, there’s something alluring about the thrill of hiding it, the danger of being caught.

He lifts his touch and I wrench myself out of trance and turn to look at him.

He knew. I knew he knew.

Better look away.

In the middle of the weekend, we're in an packed room on Saturday night, and he's trancing the fuck out of me in front of all these bustling people, all doing their own things and having their own play.

Deep down, I dimly notice that they've all slowly gone silent as he moves my body, like dancing, but more manipulative.

When he wakes me up, my eyes open to see them all staring at me, amazed, and then they fucking clap.

We keep going.

He tells me that I become fey-like, and I look down at my hands and see that the skin on them has become translucent, purplish, iridescent -- I can see the veins through the fairy-skin, and a part of me sighs in relief, like the human glamour was an effort to keep up.

Then, already at Sunday night, when we've asked for some time alone. In between trances on the bed, breathless, my head buried in his chest and his head resting on mine.

I am right where I'm supposed to be in this moment.

I draw back to face him, overtaken by it.

“I want to write you ten thousand songs,” I say, helplessly. “I want to make a million pieces of art. I want to whisper poems to you.”

I can't even be that embarrassed by it, I feel it so earnestly.

His face is tender and young-looking, this open sort of joy and wonder all over it.

“OK,” he says.

I was a cat; not exactly a cat, but a cat on the inside. A fey cat, the same sort of opalescent purple-blue that my hand was when I looked at it on Friday. We’re winding down, and his intuition brought me back to being a fairy again before we end our time together. There is languid murmuring, petting, and me just so in a space where I am held by him, body and mind.

When he wakes me, my heart is racing, and I know we need to leave soon, go back and get our partners and get ready for the evening parties.

It pounds against my chest, not slowing, spurred on now by just his proximity, by the last wonderful thing he did to me, by everything else…

I take his hand.

“I'm not trying to make you touch my boob,” I say, bringing it towards my chest and placing it down. “Just… feel.”

I feel the warmth of his palm through my dress, somehow making the beating seem more pronounced. I see a different face now, something a little darker, a little less surprised, but still wild.

“Is that a poem?” he asks, seriously, without even pausing a full moment. “Is that a song?”

Faced with his unflinching, shameless words, I can’t answer, but of course, it is.

@hypnokinkwithmrdream

#my writing #hypnosis #hypnokink #I am finishing this writing and then probably the last date writing and then this fucking NEEHU writing #They are all really good #I am really lucky #whispered poems

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katsitting · 6 years

Note

Hiii, what about 70 and 86 for tomarry? If you’re in the mood for that haha

“Locked in a Room + I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On

I see what you’re trying to do here. I hope you enjoy what I cooked up randomly. It’s just haphazard stuff, as usual. Enjoy yourself this AU.

Warning: Sexual content between two men.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit–” Harry ducked through the first door he saw, dreading another interaction with the newest addition to the business.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Tom. The man was nice and quiet. He was polite, and for the past few months, he’d done his best to acquaint himself with everyone in the sales department. He was likable, the perfect subordinate.

But at the same time, there was just something about him that made Harry’s brain itch. He didn’t know if it was Tom’s perfectly combed hair or the way he dressed to work: crisp button-down shirt, black slacks, and shiny dress shoes all firmly pressed without a single smear along the crease of his collar. It made Harry self-conscious, the way he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes away from Tom no matter what he did.

Being in the same room as him, interacting with him for more than fifteen minutes about things that had nothing to do with work, was painful. He couldn’t keep his attention firmly on the subject, his mind always straying to the light flush on the man’s pale cheeks or the way Tom’s hands splayed over Harry’s mahogany desk in his office.

It set Harry on edge in more ways than he wished to admit.

Tom was too perfect. His laughter was warm and inviting when it shouldn’t be. His eyes were deep and engaging, stretching on and on. An abyss that, Harry dreaded, would one day consume him.

If it hasn’t done so already, a traitorous thought whispered in the back of his head. A shudder rippled through him, his hand clenching into tight fists to stop himself from storming out of the small closet.

Fuck.

Harry couldn’t help the way his thoughts inevitably turned to Tom. Tom was just so damn pretty, and the way his eyelashes just–

His inappropriate trail of thought was blessedly cut off by the sound of footsteps passing the door. Relief curled over him, soothing the anxiousness thrumming through his veins.

The company had a strict policy against dating one’s subordinates. He couldn’t entertain that thought. It was wrong–Harry had heard enough horror stories of bosses taking advantage of their female and male employees to even contemplate a fling with Tom.

Harry wouldn’t do that, couldn’t abuse his power in that way. But still. This attraction, this hyperawareness of Tom needed to stop.

And if that meant avoiding the man like he were a walking infestation, then so be it. Until he managed to reign these strange emotions, he wouldn’t trust himself to be alone with Tom, or place himself in a room with the man, until that was taken care of.

Harry heaved a relieved sigh when no other sound emanated from beyond the door. He waited a few more minutes, making certain that no one was anywhere near the vicinity before opening the door and sticking his head out.

The hall was empty.

With that, Harry stepped out of the tiny broom, feeling as though he’d just run a marathon. The rush of adrenaline had come and gone, and all that remained now was pure exhaustion.

“Harry!”

Harry felt all the color drain from his face. He knew that voice. No one at the office called him that. People in the sales department called him Potter, a request he had made immediately after his promotion in the company to maintain some semblance of professionalism. It was what was expected–an aspect he didn’t necessarily like but had to adopt now that he was under the persnickety eye of other supervisors. The fact that Tom continued to ignore his requests, calling him Harry after he’d made this point clear, another reason he avoided the man. His name sounded too good coming from Tom’s lips. It was a fucking crime.

Harry plastered a fake smile and turned in the direction Tom’s voice had come from.

Just my bloody luck. Please let this be quick.

Tom was at the far end of the hall, adjacent to a wall of glass that separated the conference room from the main hallway. It wasn’t too far from where all of the offices for the sales department was. They were just around the corner, really.

The fact that Harry’s office was the exception didn’t change much, but still. After his promotion just last year–he was on the opposite end of the hall where the marketing team typically dwelled in the building. It had been a pain in the arse at first, but he had quickly come to appreciate it.

It was a nice lull in the anxiety-inducing work felt collectively by the sales department. Especially when this separation gave him a much-needed reprieve from the inappropriate thoughts he had of his subordinate.

After months of uncomfortable wet dreams and vivid scenarios where Harry wasn’t just a name said from across the hallway, but said elsewhere–at a private and secluded elsewhere–Harry was grateful for the space.

“Do you have a moment? There is something I would like to discuss.”

Harry couldn’t begin to guess what Tom wanted, but whatever it was, guessing by the sheepish look on Tom’s face, it had to be serious.

Swallowing his nerves, Harry gestured to Tom with his head before saying “Of course. Let’s talk in my office.”

Tom smiled at him, his eyes sparkling with something Harry couldn’t describe, before breaking into a short jog. Tom eclipsed the short distance between them in moments, and Harry both mourned and delighted in the lost space.

“Thank you, Harry. I’m glad you’re willing to meet with me beyond your standard working hours.”

Keep it together, Harry. You’re just going to talk business and then you can ask him to get out of your office.

“I am grateful for your time.”

Harry started to move before Tom finished speaking, his feet shuffling along the carpet with barely repressed anxiousness.

“Yeah, it’s no trouble. Just make it quick since it’s unfortunately still the middle of the week.”

Harry could feel Tom’s eyes boring into the back of his head, the weight of them enough to crush his bones. He didn’t know how something as innocuous as a stare could do that–how a man–Harry barely knew could make his stomach flip and twist like it was speeding through an empty street.

It was insane.

Harry ignored these strange emotions, passing through various closed doors until he finally reached his locked door at the furthest end of the hall. Ignoring the silence that had settled around them and the way his insides were screaming at him, Harry grasped the handle and stuffed his fingers into his pocket to fish for his office key.

He had been at a long and unnecessary conference earlier, and there had simply been no telling how long he would be in there. It had been scheduled for four in the fucking afternoon, and so, he’d locked his door, anticipating that he might leave straight from the meeting to his apartment rather than back to his office.

The fact he was back at his office past six in the afternoon with Tom, who had stayed beyond his usual to speak to him. Harry had all the reason to be nervous.

God, if only I’d have stayed in the supply closet for fifteen more minutes.

“Alright, just take a seat and we can–”

Everything happened too quickly.

One moment, his key was stuffed into the lock, his wrist twisting the handle, and then the next, he was being shoved into his office, the door slamming shut behind him.

“What the fuck–” Harry started, arms flailing out to prevent himself from smashing headfirst into his desk. A photo frame he had placed at the corner toppled to the ground when his arm knocked into it, his computer vibrating and the supply cup beside it falling over, spilling his pens and pencils all over its surface.

“What the hell, Tom?” Harry demanded, pushing himself back up to turn and level the arsehole with the most scathing look he could muster.

The sight that met him, however, was not what he’d expected. His glare faltered, a shudder crawling up his spine when Tom stood in front of the door, the key to Harry’s office dangling between his fingers.

Tom’s smile was gone.

Harry swallowed, fingers gripping onto the wood because in the short time Tom had been there, the man had never stopped smiling.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Tom said, matter-of-fact. There was no inflection, no question. It was a mere statement and it made the memory of all the reasons why he was avoiding Tom push against his skull.

Thoughts that Harry tried, in vain, to curb with a hand wrapped around his cock, his thumb curling over the head his cock to tease the underside just the way he liked. Imagining, despite his better conscience, that it wasn’t his hand, but Tom’s tongue, slithering over his head, tasting his essence–

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heat pooled low in his stomach, his breath catching when Tom cocked his head to one side, a gesture Harry had only ever seen in predatorial creatures. Shifting his weight, Harry tried to keep his hardening cock from view, knowing that his slacks would do nothing to mask it should it go at full mast. “I’ve been preoccupied. You know, working.”

Tom raised a brow, unconvinced. Harry tried not to groan aloud, irked that he had to deal with this shite.

Harry, for all his attraction, did not owe Tom anything. He was the boss, and what he did was none of Tom’s bloody business. If he wanted to come to work wearing a bloody tutu, then he would. Tom had no reason, no basis, to demand answers to questions Harry refused to answer.

“If we’re going to work together, I think it would be in the company’s best interest that we be honest with one another. You’ve been behaving oddly for some time now, and I’d like to know what it is that I have done wrong–”

“You haven’t done anything, Tom.” Harry interrupted, straightening up now that the excitement from earlier had dissipated, careful to keep his legs positioned in a way that did not reveal the true…direction of his thoughts. He’d die of mortification if this got out. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You have the best sales of the company.”

“Then what is it?” Tom pushed away from the door, and it took everything in Harry to not press himself against the desk, a bead of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck and sliding along his spine. A look of concern was etched on the man’s face, his brows furrowed in such concentration that Harry wondered if Tom’s brows scrunched in that same manner when–

Stop it, Harry.

“Harry, I know that I haven’t been here for long, but you can talk to me. I promise that whatever is said here shall remain private.” Tom’s voice had gone low, almost a whisper. It made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end and his stomach jolt in a way that was entirely inappropriate.

Harry clenched his fingers into fists, a swell of desire pulsing in time with the rapid beating of his heart. Tom was driving him mad, over the fucking edge.

Harry was hot and sticky all over, sweating profusely at the way Tom looked at him. It was as if he was the only person in the room--and though this was true--that point did nothing to curb his less than pure thoughts. His self-control was being chipped away, bit by bit

And it made him want to laugh, to weep, because Tom had no bloody idea what he was doing to him. How someone so observant, a man that was capable of charm buyers into buying their shite products, was miraculous. Harry was seconds from snapping and Tom--god, Tom--was none the wiser.

“Harry? Are you okay? You’re looking a bit flushed.”

Tom’s hand smoothed over Harry’s shoulder, unexpected. A gasp tore from his lips, the shock of electricity shooting up his spine at such an innocuous gesture flinging him past the point of no return.

Fuck it.

Harry’s hand shot and grabbed Tom by the shoulder, the other curling around his waist, a gratified moan rumbling down his chest at finally touching, experiencing the warmth of that body after so many nights of imagining.

Then his mouth was on Tom’s, pushing himself to the tips of his toes to close the distance their height difference created.

Harry moaned into the kiss, thrilled by the taste in his mouth, by the gasp of shock that fled Tom’s mouth when his teeth caught Tom’s bottom lip and nipped it. It tasted like coffee and mint, a predictable taste that an office man, of course, would have.

It didn’t matter that in another life, this combination would taste awful. None of that did. At that moment, this was singlehandedly the best thing he had ever experienced–better than the fantasies he’d had of Tom’s mouth against his, of imagining his tongue curled against his, teeth catching on his skin and biting him raw.

Even if Tom had yet to respond, with the exception of his surprised gasp when Harry had practically mauled the man, his cock was rock hard in his slacks.

Harry pulled him closer, and that seemed to spark Tom into action. The once one-sided kiss quickly became mutual, Tom’s lips brushing against his, coaxing his mouth open with his tongue. Harry allowed it, mouth parting to taste more of Tom’s mouth.

Tom’s tongue pressed against his tongue, curled over the gums of his mouth. There was a hint of teeth along his bottom lip, the threat of them biting him enough to make his back arch, to yank Tom closer and into the heat pulsing between his thighs.

A groan from Tom’s mouth coaxed him into opening his eyes, desperate to see Tom undone--to burn into his mind the image until it was all he could fantasize of.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, unsure of when he’d closed them in the first place, and gasped, pulling away when he caught Tom watching him, his dark eyes stripping him bare and missing nothing. It was like a shock of ice water.

Harry’s mouth hung open, unable to close. It stung from where Tom’s mouth had sucked his, but still, he didn’t move. Didn’t think. His trousers were uncomfortably tight, his cock straining against the material.

Oh god, oh god–

There was no telling just how long they remained looking at one another.

Tom’s eyes were taking him in as if he was seeing Harry for the first time and Harry…well, Harry didn’t know what else to do, what to think.

He couldn’t look away from this, couldn’t curb the hot wave of desire and shame that rocked through him, when Tom’s eyes flickered away from his face for the first time since Tom had locked them in his office to eye the tent between his legs.

When Tom finally rippled his gaze away to look at him with a raised brow, a devious glint within his gaze, Harry couldn’t prevent the blush creeping over his cheeks down to his neck.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

This wasn’t happening, Harry thought, mouth still tingling from the kiss he’d just shared with Tom Riddle, his bloody subordinate. The same man that he had kissed with wild abandon, and the same man that had, to Harry’s shock, returned Harry’s kiss with just as much gusto.

Fuck, fuck, fuck–

“You should have mentioned this earlier.”

Tom was smiling, a delighted grin that made Harry both ill and excited.

“There was no need to hide your attraction. I assure you that the feeling is entirely mutual.”

#Anonymous #fanfiction tropes mashup #tomarry #harrymort #I did a thing

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