#we are creating something ungodly

[yenqa]

angel

synopsis — sunghoon can’t seem to figure out if you’re human or an angel.

warnings — sunghoon is a lil tipsy but sobers up quickly (also idk how tipsy people act so sorry), mentions of drinking, reader is called pretty and has a purse

pairing — sunghoon x (implied) fem!reader

wordcount — 1197

a/n — happy late bday sunghoon! hope he had the best birthday ever

inspired by the song “angel” by keshi! also not proofread sorry

Sunghoon wasn’t having the greatest birthday of all time. After 21 years of his life he decides he likes this one the least.

It’s weird, he was supposed to be drunk and having fun at Jake’s apartment until the clock hit ungodly hours of the day, but instead it’s 9pm, and he’s more tipsy than he would like to be at a random bench in a park.

It’s not like he was kicked out or anything, but Jake’s apartment had become too stuffy for him and the smell of alcohol overwhelmed him and they had invited way too many people for his liking, so he decided it was best to go on a walk alone. He had no idea how or why he was now sitting on the bench.

Sunghoon has always been a people watcher, he enjoyed seeing others smile over news he had no idea about, or watching someone quickly walk to their destination, creating make-believe stories of where they’re going and why they’re going so fast.

There’s not many people around—scratch that, Sunghoon can’t spot anyone, but his vision is too disoriented to be trusted.

That’s when his eye catches you, strolling down the stone pathway—Wait were those angel wings?

His eyes squint towards you, unable to differentiate if you were wearing a scarf or were an actual angel from heaven, but he saw the grin on your face and figured you could easily pass for one.

You happily plop down on the other side of the bench, eyes scanning the scenery around you.

This immediately sobers him up, and he fixes his posture. Glancing over to him, you give him a smile, asking “What are you doing here so late at night?”

He’s unable to comprehend that you’re talking to him, as if the alcohol had come rushing back to his head and made him unable to think or even say anything to pretty people like you.

He finally finds his voice, replying, “It’s my birthday, and I’ve been out with my friends all day, but I needed some space for a little.”

Gasping at the mention of his birthday, you rummage through your purse, also saying “Why didn’t you say so! I don’t have a gift for you.”

He chuckled, shaking his hands, “You don’t have to give me a gift, we don’t even know each other's name yet, angel girl.” Looking up, you can feel warmth fill your cheeks at the name, quickly snapping out of it to search for something you can do.

“My name’s Y/n, what’s your name, birthday boy?”

Letting out an Ah-hah! You showcase a small lighter proudly in your hands, he mumbles your name to himself a couple of times, forcing it to go to his sober mind so he remembers everything.

You push the lighter, letting a flame fill the metal part, scooting next to him, you gesture for him to blow the fire out.

He smiles, blowing it out in one go, you clap your hands singing the words happy birthday over and over again. Maybe this birthday isn’t so bad.

“Sunghoon.”

“What?” You tilt your head slightly.

“My name, it’s Sunghoon.”

Nodding, you place the match carefully into your bag, “Well, Sunghoon, how does it feel to be—wait how old are you?”

You silently pray that you aren’t talking to anyone over the age of 24, crossing your fingers in your pocket and anxiously wait for his reply.

“I’m 21 today, got my first sip of alcohol!” He jokes.

Mentally letting out a sigh of relief, you make sure he isn’t left curious, “I’m 20! But anyways—how does it feel to be officially 21?”

He takes a breath, unsure where to start.

The truth is he’s terrified of growing old, having more responsibilities than he could ever imagine. Every year he’s inching closer to a time where he’s supposed to be successful, but all he feels is that he’s failed to do anything.

“Can I say something kind of personal?” Sunghoon decides it’s much better to be safe than sorry.

You nod, a soft smile grows on your face, “Tell me anything! I’m here to listen.”

“I feel kind of scared? I don’t think I’m ready for those kinds of responsibilities.”

Feeling bold, you gently take one of his hands, cupping it with your hands. His cold hands contrasts your warms ones, but you don’t mind.

“I think you’re underestimating yourself, Sunghoon. As you grow older—yes you’ll have more responsibilities but it’ll join your routine, then when you find that you have lots of responsibilities you’ll be so used to it that you won’t even notice a thing!”

He nods, taking in your advice word by word, “I guess I never really thought of it that way, thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”

You hum in reply, and a wave of silence washes over you two.

Turning your face up, you relish at the sight of the sky. Though the city won’t ever let the stars shine, you can still admire the moon, glimmering in the dark sky.

It's almost a full moon, and you swear you’ve never seen a sight prettier.

“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” You ask.

Sunghoon’s eyes widen slightly, but you don’t look over at him. He’s not sure that you understand the true meaning of it, considering you just met. So he brushed it off, agreeing with your question.

Though it’s hard to focus on the moon when there's a person right next to him, emulating a warm aura that he can’t help but mistake for something mystical.

You two sit in silence, both admiring the surreal sight ahead of you.

You finally look back at him, warmth filling your cheeks when you catch that he wasn’t even facing the moon the whole time. Looking away, he raises a hand to cover his face, you giggle, looking away just as flustered as him.

A sound of your cell phone rings through your ears, you begrudgingly pick it up, muttering an apology to him before answering the call. He doesn’t eavesdrop but he can tell it’s something important.

He’s proven right when you put the phone down, a frown on your face when you explain, “I gotta go—I’m so sorry! My sister needs urgent help with something, but have an amazing birthday Sunghoon.” You wave goodbye standing up and taking a few steps away.

He grabs your arm before you can go, turning you around so you’ll face him.

“Will I ever see you again?”

You chuckle, opening your bag to pull out a pen and an old napkin. Writing your number, you hand the napkin to him, leaving with the same grin that you had when he first spotted you.

He watches as you walk away, calling back your—what he assumes—sister to address the situation. He slouches back down when you’re out of view, checking the time he’s realized he’s been out for too long, so he races back to Jake’s house.

Walking back in he spots Jake, the boy hastily walks over to him, asking “Bro—where were you? We were looking for you.”

Sunghoon lets out five words, “I just met an angel.”

perm taglist — @jwnghyuns @ja4hyvn @trsrina @redm4ri-deactivated20231209 @badmuni @yeokii @enhastolemyheart @softpia @s00buwu @ox1-lovesick @boyfhee @hanniluvi @teddywonss

yenqa © please do not copy, steal or translate.

#k-films #k-labels #enhablr #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon fics #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon scenarios #sunghoon texts #sunghoon fic #sunghoon fanfiction #sunghoon angst #sunghoon fanfic #park sunghoon angst #sunghoon au #enhypen x reader #enhypen au #enhypen x engene #enhypen x yn #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst #enhypen fanfic #enhypen reactions #enhypen drabbles #enhypen imagines #enhypen social media au #enhypen fake texts #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen headcanons

[lizardaggro]

on the flip side

part 2 is out! part 3! part 4!

whaddya know, i already have my first piece of writing that's not for an rp. it's a mess, but that's okay, because i admit i have no clue what i'm doing! i welcome all feedback as long as it's not just plain mean. when i asked for writing ideas, i was suggested to try my spin on the twst bully!au, and so i present: reader/yuu is done with their bs. no beta we die like my sleep schedule. genre: gn reader, angst trigger warnings: bullying, slight yandere that hasn't escalated yet word count:896

You’d had enough, thank you very much. The constant jeers, “misplaced” textbooks, and shoves in the hallway were only the beginning. Before long, you were beaten and bruised, and all for what? Just because you didn’t have magic? According to your research, the majority of the population here didn’t either! But alas, such was your plight. The professors turned a blind eye, and Crowley couldn’t care less.

So, when someone “accidentally” dislocated your shoulder during PE, you decided enough was enough. The students you’d never bothered to learn the names of were one thing; you were going to call your former friends out on their bullshit. Despite Grim’s protests, you dragged him all the way back to Ramshackle the moment you had a break in between classes. Why that timing? Because the model student prefect would never cut class, of course!

You locked the door not once, not twice, but three times, thanks to the padlocks you’d had placed on your stuff in the past. Then you took your time creating the Junk Tower. Your materials were all the scraps people had thrown in your yard in the past. You had quite the collection. The windows? They’d been boarded for years, according to the ghosts. Back door? Kalim had it removed. Something about first years sneaking in. You figure it’s better not to ask how he managed to have a door seamlessly replaced with walls in one afternoon.

About twenty minutes after the last class of the day ended, you had your first knock on the door. “Oi, prefect, open up!” Ace demanded. Because of course it was Ace. He was the first student you met here, so it was only fitting that he’d be the first to know you weren’t fucking around anymore. You ignored him.

The knocking stopped “Oi Ace, maybe they’re not home?” Deuce, ever the voice of reason, pondered. You weren’t sure whether to love or hate him. He’d stop others from picking on you, sure, but the moment you disobeyed him, he went back to his old delinquent ways.

“Well, they weren’t in class, and there’s no way my prefect’s with someone else, so they’ve gotta be inside!” Ace insisted. His prefect? Since when were you his? Did Ace eat something funny while you were gone? Because the last you checked, he couldn’t stand the sight of you.

Deuce’s voice dropped an octave, or maybe two. You weren’t too sure how that applied to speaking voices. “Oi, Ace, what the fuck do you mean your prefect? They don’t belong to you!” Yes, thank you for the reality check. Deuce must’ve had the brain cell today. “Obviously I’m way closer to them than you are!”

Scratch that. Deuce did not have the brain cell today. Really though, what was with them? Why in the world were they fighting over who was closer to you when all they’d done lately was make it clear how much they hated you? Oh, wait. They thought you could hear them. This must be some sort of trick. Trey and Cater must’ve put them up to it, since they were far too dumb to think of anything this elaborate on their own. You decided to ignore everything they said from here on out.

All was well, until Adeuce simultaneously let out an ungodly screech. Now that was troublesome. What could possibly scare those two like that? Surely nothing good for you. With luck, it’d be Riddle come to behead them for not wearing fluorescent pink or some other dumb rule, but you wouldn’t bet on it.

You soon had your answer. “Ne, where’s Shrimpy? I wanna squeeze ‘em!” Suddenly you didn’t blame those two for being scared. Floyd Leech in a bad mood was always a force to be reckoned with. You could never tell if he was in a good or bad mood when he was “squeezing” you, and quite frankly, you’d rather not know. The sick fucker probably took pleasure in hearing your bones pop and crack under the extreme pressure.

“Floyd-senpai! The prefect is, uh, we’re not actually sure where they are,” Ace volunteered. You almost pitied him, having to put up with the more rambunctious Leech during basketball practice. Almost.

“Hah? What do you mean you don’t know? Crabby is always crowding around Shrimpy like a little parasite,” Floyd whined. Um, what? Is Floyd in on the joke too? Is the whole school conspiring against you? You wouldn’t put it past them.

A cloud of dust blew up from the floor where you swung your foot back and forth, making you sneeze. You froze. Did they hear that? Wait, what were you acting so scared for? What were they gonna do anyway, break the door down and hit you? All within your expectations when you’d formed this plan. The point was to prove that you wouldn’t just sit and take it anymore. You’d seen all their dirty little secrets, especially during the Overblots; you could hit them where it hurt if you felt like it. No one would ever think the perfect little prefect would tell someone else what they’d confided in them! So when Floyd broke the door down with a display of monstrous strength, you were prepared. You greeted them with a smile. “Ne, you guys,” you began, “would you believe me if I told you I’m done with your bullshit?”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst bully au #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #floyd leech #ace trappola #deuce spade

[suguruplsr]

you made mars as his stars.. now orange doesn’t sounded so foreign.

divider @/enchanthings

“painting?” toji cocks a brow, welcoming himself into the cozy area of your basement. all decorated with strings of lights, previous art hung up, stars attached to the ceiling, and even stations of your supplies. like your sets or the drying area, your brushes sitting in water..

it’s all so mundane. modern.

normal, in toji’s eyes.

you walk up to him with a smile, your blue jumper is abused with colors of life, and a small mark of yellow paint is decorating your beautiful face. “yeah, i wanna paint with you.” you leave no room for argument, grabbing his hand and bringing him to a blank canvas.

he doesn’t have a image in mind. he’s no artist either. his hands were trained with the goal of ruining the art of lives. lives that may’ve consisted of something just like yours. a normal mundane life.

but in the world of sorcery, (or killing—), it’s not common for people like him to experience such. so he never sought out for it. what’s done is done.

but you, you train his hands to love. dipping them in paint and exclaiming it doesn’t matter. “art can be anything, you even make art out of splatters of red. by using a color that compliments it, like yellow,” your red hand holds his yellowed one, holding out his finger and dragging yellow stripes that undertone the red. “now, we just form it into what we can see.. like uh..,” toji stifles a laugh at your stumped thoughts. even so, he believes your words. grabbing your hand that lets go of his, he intertwines them briefly, looking at the new color mixed.

“orange?”

“mars!”

toji ponders as you get to work, forming the once messy canvas into the random inspiration gained from a mere color.

red. yellow. orange.

he’d consider you as red. bright and vibrant, always so stubborn and standing your ground. whether it was making him come home no later than 7pm, or cursing out shiu so you can have your husband home for dinner. your vibrancy affects his life like no tomorrow. a tomorrow he now wishes to spend with you until he doesn’t have one.

but toji doesn’t know how to speak of himself in such a way, or to even think of himself in a more.. poetic manner. he just knows he’d be yellow, hoping to be your mixture, your compliment.. to create a life as beautiful as orange.

and mars, the way you’ve changed his life reminds him of mars. sudden and impulsive. one day he’s chugging down ramen at some chummy joint, and the next he’s in your bed, stars drawn along his neck and your body in his arms.

if art can be anything, then love can be anything. like the way his heart stops when he gets a glimpse of your not-so-well-hidden canvas in the back. him. a painting of him in colors, life. has it been so long that you’ve created that just from memory. toji’s sure he’d remember posing for some ungodly amount of time for such a masterpiece to be created. there’s it is, yet another grain of mars you’ve brought into his life.

orange.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujustu kaisen #jjk x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk x #jjk x black reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fluff #toji x you #jujutsu toji #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader

[soft3spresso]

Love recipe

Sanji x gardener!reader

fluff!!!!!!!! Stablished relationship, gn reader, from my gardener!reader series but can be read as a stand alone, I recommend this

Word count: 1.2k

Summary: In which you find Sanji’s cook notebook

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

An endless sea of boxes filled your room in the Sunny, when had you accumulated so much stuff in your time with the strawhats? You didn’t know

You were the kind to keep everything, even the tiniest things held so much memories and meaning that you just couldn’t leave them behind

But you were starting to regret it

A week ago you and Sanji had finally decided to tell the crew that you were dating

After being met with all of your crewmates groans of defeat as they handed a couple berries to Nami you realized maybe you were a little more obvious than you thought

Regardless they were happy and a little relieved that you two had finally settled down

“So is the dumb cook finally moving out? We are tired of you leaving every night to our quarters,” Zoro was quick to ask you looking dead in your bashful eyes, red blush rushing to your face

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” Sanji screamed at the swordsman in your defense

As much as you tried to brush the matter off or deny the accusations everyone had witnessed how at very ungodly hours of the night you’d slip into Sanjis bed to sleep soundly and turning back to your own at sunrise thinking no one noticed

“OR you can move in with us!” Your Captain chimed in but his idea was immediately shot down by your boyfriend

So he moved in your room, something you were happy about but right now, as you choose what to keep, throw away or store in boxes to make space for Sanji, was giving you a huge headache.

You sat cross legged in the middle of your floor between boxes looking like cat in hiding as Sanji walked in with a couple of more boxes in hand, settling them on the ground glancing at your form and smiling in endearment

“Almost done my love” he spoke up making you bend backwards and smiling at him

“Let me get up and help you with the rest”

“Absolutely not” something about you even lifting a finger in his presence always made him shiver, there was no way he was gonna allow you carry his heavy boxes, he knew you were capable, he just didn’t wanted you to

It was the third time you had offered to help him so you just gave up and giggled before returning to your task as the blonde went back to make yet another trip from the boys quarters to your room

You let out a defeated sigh as you finally finished up choosing everything that you decided to get rid off. As you got up with the box you tripped over the others that surrounded you making you lose balance, in an attempt to save yourself from a nasty fall, one of Sanjis boxes opened and some of his belongings scattered across the floor

“Dammit” carefully you place your box aside as you hastily take your boyfriend’s personal stuff and return them into the box, not wanting Sanji to think you were snooping round his personal belongings

As you delicately put his box aside, a notebook lays on the ground that you seemed to have missed to put away, you take it but instead of storing it, your hands explore the markings on the cover

‘Sanjis cookbook’ it read in his neat handwriting, you smile to yourself before slowly opening it, the notebook was well loved and you didn’t wanted it to break apart at your touch. The pages were filled with different recipes the cook had came up with during the years, it was sweet how noticeable was the change in his notes when he joined the strawhats, suddenly more intricate and lively dishes appearing on its pages. It was obvious how much he enjoyed being the crews cook, this was a trait of him you always had loved and admired. The cook had created dishes, drinks and pastries inspired by every crew member, some just being fun experimental ones, while others attended to their nutritional needs

Some really tasty meat recipes made for Luffy

An orangy strong drink for Nami

Boring rice-balls with a hint of sake for Zoro

Coffee infused pastries for Robin

Chicken a lá Soda for Franky

Taroyaki for Usopp

Sweet cotton candy for Chopper

Curry for Brook

Some of them with your name on it eventually show up but were all about either your diet or changing some ingredients up in meals you didn’t quite like or would upset your stomach, even your favorite vegetable soup was in there with a marking on it with your name. Expectancy bubbled in your stomach as you waited for dishes made not for you, but inspired by you to appear, but as you kept on reading the pages of everyone’s meals except yours a frown plastered on your lips

“Oh” you thought, maybe you weren’t good enough to be Sanji’s muse. Of course you knew he loved you endlessly, he would assure you everyday and you’ll see it in different ways he had to tell you ‘I love you’ without even speaking it.

The way he would patiently show you how to cut ingredients in the kitchen so you could help him and spend quality time, or the names he’d call you that sweetened your days, how he would always be on your call and foot for whatever you wished or needed, the dreamy look you’d spark on his eyes and even just the full on attention he’d offer you, as if you were the only thing in the world

But still, one would think you’ll at least have one dish dedicated to you after all the love he exuded in your presence

As you gave up and started to close the notebook, you saw a page near the end with your name on it, making your eyes grow wide in joy. You open it to find not a dish, but a whole different section of the notebook just for you, the cook had even drawn tiny hearts after your name

Pink dusted your face and a bright smile grew on your lips as you admired the dishes Sanji had crafted with such love and dedication, recognizing some of them and even remembering how he had asked you to taste test them in the past. You were moved, over the moon wasn’t enough of an expression to understand how you were feeling, no one had ever shown this much appreciation for you, small tears peaked at the corner of your eyes of the fullness you felt. How could you ever return such a gesture? Such love declaration that you didn’t even were supposed to know about?

You return the notebook to its rightful place before standing back on your feet and taking your box towards the door that slowly opened revealing your tall blonde handsome of a boyfriend with the last box

“Sorry it took so long sunlight, Luffy asked me for another snack and I ha-“ he was cut off by the biggest warmest hug he had ever received in his life, dropping the box as your hands found a spot on his neck and your lips pecked his before hiding your face in his neck, your feet tip toeing so you could reach

The action took Sanji by surprise, making him blush and stand frozen in place at your sudden affection that he still found difficult to come around, always being used to be the more affectionate one until you showed up and made him know how much loved he deserved back

“Is everything alright my love?”

“Yes darling, everything’s amazing”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Omg they’re back I’m so happy!!!! Hope you enjoy and remember you can request anything you wanna see about these two or just anything One Piece related technically

#sanji oneshot #sanji fluff #sanji imagine #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji x y/n #vinsmoke sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #sanji x you #op sanji #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #sanji #x reader #one piece #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #fanfic #writing #fluff #one piece fluff #vinsmoke sanji

[ningningsdream]

[4:28AM] "i still love you, y/n. it was dumb of me to let you go.", ex! jeno pleaded as he stood on your doorstep at an ungodly hour in the night, "everything i see reminds me of you. i've tried to move on but i can't help myself comparing everyone with you. i miss you even when i'm in a room full of people to distract me.", jeno rambled, his rosy cheeks hinting that he was probably a little tipsy.

today would've been your fifth-year anniversary if you stayed together.

"i thought of you every single day for almost a whole year after we broke up.", you said, looking at him.

"me-"

"let me finish.", you interrupted him, holding your index up, "i tried so hard not to, but it felt like the more i was trying to not think of you, the more i did. you were the first and last person i talked to every single day. some mornings, when i was still in a sleepy haze, i found myself looking at my phone to see if you had texted me and when reality hit me, it was another kind of pain. you were part of my everyday, you became a habit. it's hard getting rid of habits. i had to get used to say that i didn't have a boyfriend when asked about relationships, and i couldn't use 'my boyfriend and i already planned something' when i wanted to get out of things. i was wondering if i was the only one that had to hold myself back from sending you a text. i was wondering if you too, struggled with not having me in your life anymore."

"i did. i do. so much, y/n. you don't know how much i want to go back to slap some sense into myself and not break up with you. i was so overwhelmed with graduation, work and keeping up with family and friends that i thought i needed to get rid of something."

"so you got rid of me..."

"and i regret it so fucking much. the minute i saw the tears in your eyes i regretted it. i thought it was for the better, i was so busy i couldn't even be a proper boyfriend to you, and you deserved better than that. i thought letting you go was the best for the both of us."

"the best? i cried every single night for three months straight. not only because i missed you, but because as you said i deserved better. i knew that... i knew it but i also knew that if you showed up like this at my door back then i would've taken you back in a heartbeat. and it made me hate myself, because i loved you more than i loved myself."

"i'm so sorry, y/n. i really am-"

"babe! where are you?", you heard bf!renjun screaming from your room, with his sleepy and worried voice.

"i'll be right back, junnie.", you answered with a little smile on your face, imagining your boyfriend with his eyes closed and a pout on his face as his arm was lying on your empty side of the bed. you turned back to face jeno, whose face seemed like he saw a ghost, "jeno, i appreciate the apology... but you're a little too late. i've stopped waiting for you a long time ago.", you gave him a small apologetic smile.

jeno looked at you and realized how much he fucked up. you've rightfully moved on and he was the only one being stuck in something he created. when you replied to your boyfriend, that was when he noticed the smile on your face, the same smile that used to be directed to him, and that was the only time he saw you express happiness since he appeared on your doorstep.

"fuck, you're really here.", a familiar voice said right after you heard the elevator doors open.

"i really wished i was wrong.", another familiar voice said.

you turned your head and saw two people, you thought you wouldn't see again, walking towards your apartment.

"time to go home, samoyed."

"haechan. jaemin.", you greeted your ex's bestfriends.

"sorry for the disruption.", ex's bestfriend!haechan told you before grabbing jeno's arm and putting it around his shoulders, helping his friend walk away from your apartment and your life.

"how have you been ?", your old childhood bestfriend!jaemin said, letting jeno and haechan walk away first.

"great...you?"

"same."

the feeling of awkwardness and nostalgia could be sensed in the air. you looked at each other a few more seconds as all the memories of your friendship, from when you met in kindergarten to when he stayed by jeno's side when you two broke up, flashed through your eyes.

"baaaabeee!!", your boyfriend whined from far away, "come baaaack!"

"well, it's late. we're going to let you go back to your night. sorry about that.", jaemin nodded towards your ex, "and everything else...", hinting at his own mistakes.

you nodded, acknowledging his apology, "bye, jaem.", you gave him one last smile. it had been a while since he heard his nickname coming out of your mouth.

"bye, y/n.", jaemin returned your smile.

you watched him walk away with his two other friends, knowing that your byes stood as an official farewell to your friendship and his presence in your life.

#nct dream scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct angst #lee jeno scenarios #lee jeno imagines #lee jeno timestamps #lee jeno fluff #lee jeno angst #jeno scenarios #jeno imagines #jeno timestamps #jeno fluff #jeno angst

[slavonicrhapsody]

a closer look at the weapons of Mt. Gelmir

Do you ever get possessed by the uncontrollable urge to catalogue every weapon related to Mt. Gelmir, overanalyze both their visual design and their purpose, and then arrange them in a rough timeline reflecting Mt. Gelmir’s history? Because I do! There might be something wrong with me. Anyway, I ended up grouping the weapons into three main eras: the ancient cult of the great serpent, the Inquisition era under Praetor Rykard, and Rykard’s war of blasphemy against the Erdtree. This analysis became ungodly long, so I’ve put everything under a read more:

CULT OF THE GREAT SERPENT

Long before Rykard took up residence on Mt. Gelmir, the volcano was inhabited by a civilization who worshipped the Great Serpent: they practiced pagan hexes of poison and magma, and offered up blood sacrifices to their Serpent God. The weapons associated with this civilization can be identified by the following characteristics: an association with pagan magic and ritual sacrifice, dull-colored metal or wood material, and serpent imagery.

Serpent God’s Curved Sword

“Curved sword fashioned in the image of an ancient serpent deity and tool of a forgotten religion practiced on Mt. Gelmir. Formerly used to offer up sacrifices, this sword restores HP upon slaying an enemy.”

This weapon helps establish the distinct visual style of the serpent cult, since the cult is specifically referenced in the description.

Serpent Bow and Arrows

“Malformed bow in the shape of a pair of poisonous snakes. Imbues arrows with poison through pagan magic, revealing its true worth when used with poison-infused arrows. Used by assassins known as the Formless Serpents.”

“Arrow carved to resemble a flying snake. Used in tandem with the Serpent Bow. Loyal minions of the Formless Serpents, their fangs are daubed with deadly poison.”

Who are the formless serpents? Who the hell knows. But what tells me that these weapons are from the same era as the serpent cult is both the style and the mention of “pagan magic,” which brings to mind the ancient magma “hexes” that Rykard eventually rediscovered. We find the bow in the Caelid Abandoned Cave, among a hoard of ruined abductor virgins… this seems to be a case of Rykard utilizing the weapons of the serpent cult in tandem with his own modern inventions.

Serpentbone Blade

“Sinister katana modeled after a serpent bone. The densely packed row of spines that jut away from the cutting edge are coated in a lethal poison.”

A quest reward from Tanith, which implies that Volcano Manor has many of these serpent cult weapons stashed away somewhere. This weapon is likely infused with the same poison-imbuing pagan magic as the serpent bow. Notice how the hilt is decorated with coiling serpents in a dull metal color.

Devourer’s Scepter

“Scepter in the shape of a serpent devouring the world. This weapon will one day become the very symbol of the Lord of Blasphemy. A vision of the future briefly seen by Rykard in his final moments before being devoured by the great serpent.”

I believe this weapon was crafted by the serpent cult as a premonition or a prophecy of their god that they had glimpsed, which Rykard himself glimpsed in his final moments. The description says the weapon “will one day become” his symbol, implying that it had existed long before him. We also know that this weapon can’t have been made after Rykard was devoured because, since we know that Tanith was “the only human to remain by his side when he became the serpent of blasphemy,” the only ones who could’ve created the weapon are the man-serpents — and as we’ll later see, the three weapons we know they created have a uniform design that’s entirely different from the Devourer’s Scepter. Lastly, the serpent depicted on the weapon does not have Rykard’s face, while his personal sigil does depict both his and the serpent’s head.

INQUISITION ERA

Now, we skip forward in time to the weapons created under Rykard’s tenure as Praetor, during which he enforced a brutal inquisition involving the imprisonment and torture of people most likely presumed to be heretics (ironically, this inquisition in the name of the Golden Order was itself physically built upon a hotbed of ancient heresy). We can distinguish the newer weapons from the ones of the serpent cult based on a few factors: they were made to be instruments of torture, they are decorated with loopy flourishes, and there should be no serpent imagery — I don’t believe that an Inquisition of the Golden Order would be using weapons decorated with snake imagery due to their society’s view of the serpent as a “traitor to the Erdtree,” especially because the previous heretical denizens of the volcano had been crafting weapons in the serpent’s image.

Inquisitor’s Girandole

“Instrument of torture used on nobles behind the curtain at the Volcano Manor of Mt. Gelmir. Its numerous spikes pierce the flesh, then singe the wounds with flame. The smell of burnt blood induces despair in the victim. A candlestick conceived by a thorough mind.”

Unfortunately, this is really the only example of a purely inquisition-era weapon in the game, but it is immediately noteworthy that there is no snake imagery here whatsoever. The loops and flourishes are consistent with other design work we see throughout Volcano Manor, such as on the mechanized metal bridge:

Ghiza’s Wheel

“Great iron wheel lined with flesh-flaying blades. Device of torture used by Inquisitor Ghiza. As the wheel spins it causes severe pain and blood loss. The design was adopted for use as the iconic weapon wielded by Iron Virgins.”

We know that Ghiza’s Wheel was created as a weapon of the inquisition. The wheel itself is also decorated with a loopy design, but the handle is interestingly covered in golden snakes. However, the description also reads that the design of the wheel was “adopted for use” on the iron virgins: the handle of the wheel matches the gold coiling snakes of the abductor virgins, so I propose that the special handle was added later on, when the iron virgins were likely created as machines of war for Rykard’s blasphemous crusade. Perhaps Ghiza worked on them too, and made adjustments to his wheel’s design himself?

WAR OF BLASPHEMY 

When Rykard declared his treason against the Golden Order and the Erdtree, it’s likely he embraced the serpent as a symbol of his blasphemous intentions. For this reason, I theorize that Rykard only started actively using serpent imagery after his treason, which is also why we don’t see serpent imagery in the architecture and design of Volcano Manor itself. 

Abductor Virgins

Looking at the abductor virgins, we see serpents throughout the design mixed with intricate swirls and flourishes, which in my opinion places their creation after Rykard's treason. We also don’t know for sure if they were created before or after Rykard fed himself to the great serpent, but I’m inclined to believe it was before: The iron maiden is a notorious real-world torture device, so it would make the most sense if Rykard’s own torturers had a hand in its creation, and we know that they had abandoned him after his devouring. It's also possible that they were altered after the fact by the man-serpents, however.

Magma Weapons of the Man-Serpents

After Rykard’s devouring and the subsequent birth of the man-serpents, we have a new subset of weapons that appear — all of these weapons make use of Rykard’s innovations in magma sorcery based on the old hexes of Mt. Gelmir. They are all made of filigreed gold and embedded with glintstone, and are created and wielded by the man-serpents. 

Magma Blade

“Curved sword with a blade fashioned from the lava of Mt. Gelmir. An armament of the man-serpents, impossible for a human to have made.”

This description implies that this trio of magic weapons must have been created by the man-serpents, which makes sense as we know that Tanith was the only human left on the Volcano Manor’s staff. The man-serpents are clearly capable of forging complicated weapons.

Gelmir Glintstone Staff

“Staff with a forked tip, embedded with red glintstones. Enhances lava sorceries. The Man-Serpents of Mt. Gelmir draw from faith in addition to intelligence to enhance the potency of their sorcery.”

Again, this description identifies this as a weapon of the man-serpents, and tells us that they are adept sorcerers who have followed in Rykard’s footsteps. The design references a serpent’s forked tongue.

Magma Whip Candlestick

“This ritual implement is a three pronged candlestick with solid flames formed of the magma of Mt. Gelmir.”

Volcano Manor sure loves its candles!

Man-Serpent’s Shield

“Small copper dome-shaped roundshield carried by the man-serpents of Mt. Gelmir. Said to have been tempered in lava, it boasts great resistance to fire.”

This one isn’t technically a weapon, but it’s still worth examining. Notice the embedded gems and the bright gold snake imagery, consistent with other weapon designs of this era.

CONCLUSION

The art in this game is extremely deliberately designed, and it can tell the story beyond what just the words on the screen say. Many of the specific details are my own conjecture, but I think it’s quite clear that these weapons are consciously designed with similar features in order to place them within the game’s world and history.

#elden ring #elden ring lore #rykard #rykard lord of blasphemy #btw I didn’t include the blasphemous blade because I think it’s possible that rykard brought it with him to mt. gelmir #as opposed to creating it there #also let me know if I missed any weapons! there are so many

[mustachrryluvr]

Broccoli

Jack Chambers one shot 

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: smut, spanking, slight degradation, roughness

-

“Don’t worry, darling,” Jack responded while popping open the microwave and pulling out the package he had placed in it earlier to cook, “We still have broccoli.”

-

- 

“Darling?” 

Jack’s voice ringed through their home as he entered through the front door, coming home from a long day at work. 

Jack had been working a lot lately. He had just been promoted at work and wanted to prove to his boss that he was worthy of the higher ranking, so he had been spending an ungodly amount of hours at the office. 

Y/N was currently in between jobs after coming to the realization that her job was ruining her. She was a shell of a person whenever she would come home from her receptionist job at a local law firm and Jack couldn’t stand to see her that way. So, with him getting promoted, they knew they would still be financially stable if Y/N took a step away from working for a bit to get her mental health under control. 

With having all this time on her hands now, Y/N had gotten back into some old hobbies to fill up her days. Drawing and painting had always been a love of Y/N’s. That was one of the things Jack had initially fell in love with, her passion for the things she loved. The day he came home from work to her in their spare room to find that she had filled it with brand new canvases and a multitude of paints, he knew that she was settling back into herself again. That evening, Jack ordered her a desk and easel to add to the room, and even spent the next day moving out the spare bed in the room so she could create an “art studio” for herself. 

Usually at this time of night, Jack would come home to find Y/N about done with dinner for the two of them. When she didn’t answer him when he called out for her as he walked in the door, he knew exactly where she must be. 

Jack made his way to Y/N’s art studio and could hear her humming along to the music she had playing that was leaking out through the cracked door. 

Carefully, he peaked in the crack of the door, trying not to disturb her. 

“With you all the time…” Y/N sung to herself as she kept her focus on the brush strokes she was creating across the canvas she had infront of her on the floor. 

With a small smile on his face, Jack backed away from the door and walked towards their kitchen, on a mission to make dinner for the two of them while Y/N finished up her painting. 

Jack didn’t have much experience in the kitchen as he was often working late and Y/N would make something before he got home, but surely he could figure something out. 

Shifting through the contents of the fridge, Jack came across some chicken breasts that Y/N must’ve been planning on cooking tonight as they had already been taken out of the package and prepped. He figured it would be easy enough to do something with that. After he preheated the oven, he found himself a baking pan, placed the chicken in it, and then hunted the cabinets for some type of seasoning. After seasoning the chicken to the best of his ability, Jack placed the chicken in the oven before moving on to find something else to prepare to have with the chicken. 

Jack found a bag of potatoes in the lazy susan and decided that mashed potatoes must be a dish he could easily conquer. Before beginning on those, he found himself looking in the freezer to see if they had any of Y/N’s favorite vegetable, broccoli,  to also go with their meal. Jack always found it weird that out of all the choices out there, broccoli was her favorite. But, he wanted to make her a good meal and he knew that would make her happy. 

They had some microwavable packages of broccoli, so, after he found one, he placed it in the microwave to cook for a few minutes before working on the mashed potatoes again. 

Taking the potatoes out of the bag and sitting them on the table, Jack quickly realized he had no idea out to make mashed potatoes and that maybe he couldn’t easily conquer them. 

He leaned his hands on the table and looked down at the potatoes with his eyebrows pulled together. 

“Well…I at least need to mash them,” he said to himself, pushing off the table to find something to mash them with. 

He turned around with his hands on his hips and his lips pulled in his mouth as he glanced around the room. His eyes spotted a bottle of bourbon on the bar cart placed in the corner of the kitchen, “I guess this will do.” 

Jack placed the potatoes in a large bowl, glanced at the bottle of bourbon in his hand, shrugged, and the proceeded to *try* to mash the potatoes with the bottom of the bottle. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jack paused with the bourbon bottle mid air as he heard Y/N speak behind him. He quickly placed the bottle down and turned to smile at her.

“Don’t look at that, but I’m making dinner! Baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and your favorite,” he said to her as he walked up to her and placed his hands on her hips, pulling her in to him. 

Jack smiled down at her and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I missed you today, darling.” 

Y/N hummed and relaxed into him as she looked up at him, “I missed you, too. Didn’t realize you were home or what time it was. I would’ve made you dinner, love.” 

“You always make me dinner, let me take care of my wife for the evening, okay?” 

“Okay, but I don’t think you’re gonna get very far with those mashed potatoes if you keep that method up,” Y/N giggled looking around him at the bourbon bottle placed next to the bowl of raw potatoes. 

“I don’t think I’m gonna get very far if you keep that up,” he responded, voice an octave lower and his eyes growing heavy. 

Y/N looked back up at him, surprised by his switch in behavior. “If I keep what up?” she questioned as her heart started to beat a little faster. 

“If you keep looking so beautiful. Crazy how fast you turn me on just by existing,” Jack murmured against the side of her face, gently bringing his lips down until they graze across her lips. 

They stay like that for a beat, just grazing their lips against one another waiting for the other to make the move to connect their lips. 

Not being able to take it any more, Y/N reached up and grabbed the side of Jack’s head, bringing his lips roughly into hers. This told him everything he needed to know about how their night would go. 

Rough and rushed. 

They were devouring each other as if they had been starved of one another for a lifetime. 

Jack held on to Y/N as he moved her backwards into the living room before pushing her down onto the couch and crawling on top of her. 

He breaks the kiss and looks down at her, “Oh look at my precious little wife. I spend my evening preparing a whole dinner for her, but shes desperately hungry for something else. Hm? Isn’t that right, Darling?” 

“Always hungry for you,” Y/N quietly, breathily responds as she looks up with him with those big eyes that make him unable to restrain himself. 

Without hesitation, Jack lifts himself up to rip Y/N’s sweatpants off her body while proceeding to toss her body around until she laying on her stomach. 

He goes to land a slap against her ass when something catches his eye and he can’t help to lower his hand and let out a laugh instead, his dominant demeanor immediately dissolving. 

“What?” Y/N asks, looking back at him worried and confused as to why he was laughing at her. 

“I don’t even want to know what you have been doing in that studio to get paint all over your bum,” he said through a smile and chuckled as he lightly tapped the few splotches of paint. 

Y/N craned her neck over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the paint he was referring to before responding, “I honestly don’t either, but if you don’t stop laughing at me and just fuck me soon then I’m g-FUCK!” 

She yelped as he brought his hand roughly down on her ass, a loud smack sounding through the room. 

“I’d shut that dumb little mouth of yours if you expect me to give you anything tonight,” Jack said, rubbing the place on her ass that he had just hit. 

Y/N sighed, closing her eyes, “Yes, sir.” She relaxed into the couch knowing that if Jack was in his dominant state that she would be getting exactly what she wanted no matter what. 

He was so pussy-whipped. 

“There she is, been waiting for my good girl to come out.” 

Jack leaned back and brought his hand to the zipper of his dress pants. He undid them and pulled his pants and underwear down just enough to let his cock spring free. He reached down and pushed Y/N’s underwear to the side, feeling how wet she already was. 

“Hmmmm, barely even touched you. What? Does seeing me in the kitchen turn you into a whore for me?” 

“Always a whore for you,” she hummed back as she wiggled her ass aganst his hands rubbing her up and down. 

He removed a hand at the action and brought his hand down in a spank against her ass. “Cmon, don’t be greedy, darling.” 

While Y/N squirmed from the spank she just received, Jack to line his shaft up with her entrance brushing himself lightly against her. 

“Not greedy, just missed you.”

“Missed me? You had me last night,” Jack said as he roughly pushed himself into her. “But I guess I missed you too fuck.” 

Jack began fucking into her so roughly that Y/N couldn’t even catch her breath to moan out. 

He kept his quick pace for a minute before reaching around Y/N’s throat and bringing her up on her knees against his chest. He slowed down, giving her harder thrusts. 

She threw her head back in a moan as he slightly tightened his grip around her throat and began whispering in her ear, “There ya go, darling, there ya go. Let yourself feel it all.” 

“Mmmm, I love you so much, Jack,” she lazily spoke out with her eyes softly shut. 

“Love you forever, always want you to feel good,” Jack responded as he began kissing and sucking on her exposed neck. 

No matter how rough they were with each other, their love was always the number one thing fueling the passion. Expressing their love for one another no matter the intensity of the moment was extremely important to them. 

Feeling he was close, Jack reached around Y/N’s body with the hand that wasn’t around her neck to press his fingers against her clit. 

A whine escaped the back of her throat, her face scrunching up, and her body wiggling in his hold as he began to move his fingers to bring her to the edge with him. 

“Cmon darling, I’ve got you. Just gotta let go for me, yeah?” he said into her ear. 

Immediately following his words, Y/N’s entire body clenched up and she gripped onto Jack’s arms has tight as she could, feeling her orgasm tack control of her body. 

Shortly following, Jack halted his thrusts and released inside of her, his body shuddering has she continued to clench around him. 

They slowly caught their breath and relaxed into one another. They sat peacfully recovering in each others arms when Y/N spoke up, “Jack…” 

“Hm, darling. I got you,” he responded tightening his arms around her to keep her grounded after her orgasm. 

“No, I-is…” she stammered out, “Is something burning? Smells funny?”

Jack’s eyes shot open as he jumped up heading for the kicthen while shoving himself back into his pants. 

He forgot the chicken in the oven. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he chanted as he ran into the kitchen. 

Y/N got up and followed him into the kitchen to see him open the oven as smoke billowed out of it. 

Jack waved the smoke out of his face and quickly grabbed a pair of oven mits to get the chicken out of the oven. 

He threw the pan and burnt chicken onto the counter before slamming the oven closed. “

“Don’t look at that, either,” he let out a breath before looking back up to Y/N whose had was covering her mouth as she tried to keep herself from laughing at him. 

“Burnt chicken and raw mashed potatoes. Not sure if this is much of a dinner love,” Y/N teased with a smile on her face. 

“Don’t worry, darling,” Jack responded while popping open the microwave and pulling out the package he had placed in it earlier to cook, “We still have broccoli.” 

-

a/n

only the second one shot i’ve written and writing smut is still kinda weird for me but i’m enjoying it! omg but jack deserves it bc he’s hot !!! that’s all !!!!

lmk what you think ab it!!

#harry styles #harry #harry styles love on tour #harry styles tpwk #styles #as it was #harry tpwk #love on tour #lot #harry styles blurb #harry smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #don’t worry darling #jack chambers #jack chambers x reader #jack chambers imagine #jack chambers x y/n #harry styles au #don’t worry darling x reader #dwd

[leohamatoblog]

As a Dad: Raph Edition

Authoritative

• we can all agree that as burly and as hard headed and as gruff and as *violent* as this man can be, this man adores kids

• yes as he matures he becomes more level headed but nothin knocked his head on straighter than having children (again biologically by a miracle or adoption)

• screw the books, he's gonna watch movies and wing it

• very patient for the 0-8 month stage with the crying and getting up at ungodly hours because hey, not the kids fault they can't talk

• loves naptime and tummy time the most because he loves baby noises...and yes, they do carry on a conversation

• definitely tries to get the kids to walk and talk as early as possible because they "need to learn quick to keep up with me"

• very hands on dad with bathtime, bedtime, and feeding time. he can't operate a diaper to save his life

• once the kid is walking and able to say some words, oh this man becomes prideful real fast

• ages 2-7 were definitely something else because he learned quickly silence was no bueno

• not a yeller but his voice does elevate to some degree, especially if his kids back talk

• that being said, while he doesn't have schedules for the kids (he leaves that to his partner), they do have to have some sort of a routine to keep them in line

• not a big stickler for bad grades but like leo, if the kids are genuinely trying their best and still get a C, he's fine with it...they better have a good reason for below a C tho

• his father was strict but still allowed him to be a kid, so he does the same thing with his own

• thus comes the 13-17 ages. oh boy.

• tries to channel his kids anger into ninjitsu, which works, but then it very quickly back fired cause now the kids are trying to kill each other

• his temper is definitely inherited by his kids and now he knows how his father felt, so he often goes to him for advice

• now his kids have to clean the house top to bottom and they can't go out for a week when they act up

• doesn't believe in physical punishments, rather he prefers to make the kids do things he doesn't like to do (example, clean).

• he teaches his kids how to be polite and respectful, especially around splinter

• don't let him anywhere near their homework.

• always asks the kids what they're up to and stays very involved with everything they do

• like leo, he's nonbiased when it comes to gender, but he's secretly dad girl coded

• has no problem getting on the floor and playing with his kids

• he definitely calls it babysitting

• he's the more fun parent but the kids also know not to give him attitude

• little girl wants dad to be a princess for halloween? no problem

• son wants dad to teach him how to kill a man? no problem

• will not remember school schedules...like at all

• makes sure his kids know how to sew/knit

• makes sure his kids know how to cook

• creates a space where they can always talk to him about anything

• obviously kids make mistakes, he just doesn't want them trying to lie or cover it up. honesty is key

• number one fan of the kids sports teams and never misses an event from the shadows

• definitely the parent that gets mad at the coaches

• calls the kids nicknames based on their height or distinct personality trait

• dad yawns and dad sneezes

• if his kid has friends, he needs to know everything about them for...science reasons

• definitely the "well i guess you wont do that again, will you?" dad

• he totally tells his kids their limb needs cut off if it's bleeding

#rise of the tmnt #tmnt 2012 #tmnt ask blog #tmnt bayverse #tmnt donatello #tmnt leonardo #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt raphael #ask blog #tmnt 2003 #tmnt headcanons #tmnt imagine

[tadpolesonalgae]

The Dregs of Tragedy - Part 5

Mer!Azriel x reader

a/n: took a minute, thanks to the ungodly amount of italicising I had to do, but enjoy mer!az 🧡💛

Word count: 5,969

-Part 4-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Seaweed flutters gently against your skin, feather-light as it pulls you back to consciousness.

Small, shimmering creatures dart about in between the barnacle-covered rocks and pleasantly-coloured coral, sparkling light reflecting off their tiny scales with easy, hastened movement. Out from a crevice unfurls a purple tentacle, spotted with blue and red dots that glow faintly as it emerges from its cozy home, and you watch as it politely ambles along the cave floor.

The drift of a current eases your hair out from under you, and you push up from the sandy patch you’d chosen for sleeping, set in the top of a particularly large rock, hollowed out to create a dip you can comfortably settle in. Seaweed brushes your upper arms as you peer about the luminescent cave, cast in mellow blue-green light as unknown flora sprouts from the cavern’s walls, lighting it up. Up on the other side of the cave, you spot his long, powerful tail lolling over the ledge, the rest seemingly tucked away into an alcove that he’s chosen to be his sleeping quarters.

With some effort, you manage to leverage yourself into open water, pulling yourself along until you reach the wall, where you attempt to shift your tail to propel forward. It’s a little tricky, but not an unpleasant journey—getting to haul yourself clumsily up the sides, passing other nooks in the stone that house all sorts of fauna.

You reach his ledge, folding your arms over the smooth rock, tail swishing idly beneath you.

Dark, charcoal eyes flit over, and he pauses, before lethargically rolling onto his front, copying your position in folding his arms, cheek propped upon his forearm as he gazes at you intently.

You’re awake, he thinks, and your stomach flutters with surprise, still not entirely accustomed to the way his voice resonates so deeply within your mind. Do you usually sleep up here, or was this a ploy to have me swim some more? You ask quietly, watching as amusement glows in his eyes. Swimming more certainly won’t hurt you, he replies, tail shifting slightly. But no. This is where I like to sleep.

The stone is so smooth, you wonder, glancing down to where the rock looks to have been lathed flat. Centuries of being worn down, he replies, shifting again, and you can see this time how well the slight hollows and curves fit to the shape of his body. Almost making the rock appear soft.

I forget you’re old, you think, a hint of amusement in your tone, the edges of your mouth curving, gaze twinkling. He rolls his eyes, before his features settle into something more serious, watching you quietly. You peer back at him, wondering what’s passing through his mind.

You mentioned a connection to the moon… You hedge slowly, tail swishing a little. That a new moon is when you’re closer to humans, and a full moon is when you…get stronger?

He doesn’t reply, just continues regarding you neutrally, unable to tell what he’s thinking. Your brows twitch. Is that not right? You push, peering at him. I remember you saying we were nearing a new moon. What does that mean?

Azriel’s quiet for a bit, before readjusting himself, pulling his long tail up into the alcove. You understand we are creatures of magic, don’t you? He asks, and you nod in clarification. Quite simply, upon a new moon is when we can become more humanlike. Becoming more distanced from how we are now.

How so? You push, something about the way he’s speaking sounding…slower than usual. Slightly reluctant. Wary.

Again he pauses, and you wait, tension coiling in your arms with apprehension. But then he pushes up from the rock, easily swimming past with effortless grace, so close you feel the sea move with his motion. We can rise from the water, he answers, swimming down toward the seafloor, glancing over his shoulder as he pauses, waiting for you to follow. We can walk among humans.

What do you mean? You ask sharply, scrambling away from the rock as you try to swim downward, using your hands to almost pull the water apart. I can become human again? You push, a spark of something in your chest. You don’t have to remain a mer forever. You aren’t shackled to eternity below the sea.

His brow narrows slightly, and then he’s cutting through the water, smoothly swimming upward. You blink when he moves around you, too unfamiliar with their motion to keep up as he settles in the water above you, hands gently but firmly pulling your arms back, keeping them from pulling you forward. You aren’t going to learn if you keep relying on your hands like that, he reminds, and you reluctantly ease beneath his touch, a look of disgruntlement on your mouth. Just try using your tail more, or you’ll ingrain bad habits into your body during your developing.

There’s more? You ask, aghast, trying to turn to look at him over your shoulder. Aren’t I fully mer already?

You are. But your muscles are still growing, and becoming familiar with your new form. Not to mention your mind will also need time to catch up. He answers succinctly, with surprising coherency. Just try swimming to the floor, he suggests, easing his grip on your forearms, putting a little distance between your bodies, though you can still feel his hands poised to guide your palms away from motion.

But, tell me more about it, you push, trying to figure how to turn yourself over, to see him better. You’re able to catch the way his chest expands in what you think is probably a sigh. Frustration simmers in your chest, brows narrowing as you swiftly pull your arms away, using them to turn, much to his obvious disapproval. I still have people—…I still have someone up there, you think, gazing into his glittering, coal black eyes. Azriel blinks, features flattening to careful neutrality. Who?

I don’t— …I’m not telling you. You answer, head dipped but managing to hold his intense gaze. Tension simmers in your chest, so close to this new information.

You barely know how to swim from one place to another. You aren’t undergoing a shift.

So you’re just going to keep me here? You think sharply, brows narrowing. No, he replies, voice a little softer, you’re free to go where you like. But I’ll keep an eye on you.

I want to go back to being human, you snap, anger forming as your hands tighten into fists. I didn’t even get a choice in becoming like you in the first place, and now I don’t get a choice in returning?

A new moon will come again. We have one each month. Missing this one won’t mean you’ll never have the chance again.

I’m not wasting my time, Azriel, you think, a hint of panic rising to your tone. You may be accustomed to immortality—having enough time for everything—but we…humans don’t live forever! I have no guarantee that he…that my person will be there at the next new moon.

Azriel pauses, something passing behind his eyes.

Tell me who it is, he says, slightly tighter than usual. Maybe you’re waring at his temper.

Someone important, you yield, lips pressing together, someone dear to me.

Who?

Why does it matter? You grit out. He might not be alive by next month. Isn’t that a good enough reason to let me go? Or is the life of a human simply not worth it to you?

You’re putting words in my mouth, he thinks back, tail swishing as he calmly floats down toward the floor, and you’re forced to follow after him. Besides, becoming human and returning to that village… Someone will recognise you.

The transformation would happen overnight, wouldn’t it? Surely I could get back by morning? You push, slowly managing to shift to where he’s come to a halt, coincidentally by the rock you chose to sleep in.

You’re not going. He thinks quietly, though his attention is on the hollow of the stone, able to mark the indentation of the sand—how it dips down and curls in line with how you’d slept.

You stare at him silently, something a little too similar to hurt twinging across your chest. You’d apparently been hoping he was different. But it’s the same story.

Maybe it’ll take the same solutions.

Carefully steering a conversation, gently turning it to the right direction, without a soul knowing.

So you swim forward a little, coming to the lip of the hollow that he’s hovering above. Moving to be at his side, keeping your attention ahead. Would you not be able to change him into a mer, too? You think, careful to keep on topic without a sharp turn. Smoothly bending the flow.

Azriel shakes his head. There are…requirements, that need to be met in order for a transition to occur. We can’t just take humans here and there.

And you need humans because…?

We’re a dwindling species, he thinks quietly. Almost sadly. When an opportunity presents itself, we take it.

I was an opportunity?

Dark, glittering eyes flit to yours, taking in the tension of your jaw, the resentment tucked between your brows. I didn’t mean it like that, he tries, a glimmer of guilt working its way to his surface. It’s fine, you think back with obvious bitterness, we’re treated as objects above water, too. You move to pull yourself away, hands pressing down on barnacle-covered rock, when his palm settles around your wrist. Firm enough to be noticeable, but light enough for you to pull away.

You’re precious, he thinks quietly, features mostly neutral save for the softness at the edge of his irises. Because of what I stand for, right? Not because of who I am? You return, though you don’t pull away—allowing him to feel that control. It’s always about control.

His lips press into a thin line, and you nod slightly. That’s fine, you think quietly, holding his gaze, I’ll try not to let it go to my head.

I’m treating you as I would another mer who had never undergone a shift, he returns, his grip loosening further as you drift a little closer, enough to appear subconscious or accidental. It’s all about having power over people. Let him think he can draw you in.

As I said before, you can hardly swim in a straight line, and you will be recognised if you’re spotted above sea. You can imagine what might happen, he reasons gently.

And it would be a waste if I died, too, you return, resentment becoming more apparent. After all the work you put in to finding someone suitable. Wouldn’t that be a shame.

It’s for your safety. Don’t pretend like you can’t understand that.

No, I don’t understand it, you hiss, moving forward, brows narrowing, because above there is the only person left in this world that I care about, and you are coming between us. All because your fucked up species is too selfish to care for anything else. You drift closer, pulling your hand away to grip his wrist instead, tightly. And just maybe, if your kind weren’t snatching, stealing, and murdering sailors, there’d be more of you left.

His pupils contract, tension shifting beneath his pale blue skin, before he’s firmly withdrawing his wrist, putting a clear distance between you.

I understand you’re upset, he begins.

No, you don’t, you hiss, moving after him, you say you do, but—

I understand you’re distraught, and confused, he states again, sterner than before, though this time he doesn’t retreat at your approach. But that does not mean you can speak so disgracefully. To me, or about our kind. Something inside you flinches at the tone, tension coiling as you wait for the impact, bracing for pain.

You have only seen the end result of their process. You do not understand the pain they will subject us to, nor the degradation of being strung up along the shore for the rest of us to watch as our folk slowly bleed out, so close to their home.

You could swear you hear his voice lilt with emotion before it’s swiftly shut down, as if blocking out the building pressure of what having to witness that slow death does to a creature.

You are not undergoing a shift, he repeats firmly; finally. Not this time around.

He makes to turn, likely to leave, to give time for both of you to cool off, but your hand darts forward, gripping him until your nails are squeezing his skin, and he whirls back to you.

You’re just like him, you think lowly, close enough that—had you been human—you would be sharing breath. Close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the flecks of glittering black and storm cloud grey in his eyes. To number every tiny, shredding tooth that’s concealed by a deceptively soft-looking mouth.

At least Alaric wasn’t aware of how awful he was, you hiss lowly, moving closer still, free palm settling over his other hand, like you’re able to hold him to the ground. But you think you’re so much better. You condemn him, and pretend like you’re anything better and it’s despicable. I’ve just been taken from one cage to another, except in this one, the only beast I have to fear is you.

His eyes shutter, then he’s forcefully ripping his hands away from your hold, and there isn’t a single muscle in your body that amplifies the shockwave of fear that strikes through your body. As you recoil into yourself, eyes squeezing shut as you duck your head, bracing for the staging slap of his palm or the piercing bite of teeth.

Instead, all you feel is the slightly cooler swish of water against your front, the gentle brush of a shift in current.

You open your eyes in time to see his tail disappearing into one of the tunnels.

A shimmer of iridescent blue, and pearly white, vanished in a blink.

———

You find yourself slowly trailing after an octopus, pulling yourself along the sea bed at a similar speed to its friendly amble, tentacles stretching ahead as it swims idly through the coral.

Maybe it’s because you have no one else, but you feel a connection with the creature. One that arises from being granted the wonder to freely follow something through its life, to observe as it goes about satisfying its more common interests: how it peers beneath a rock (maybe looking to move house?), bringing a fragment from the floor (as if to appreciate it!), shifting its movements so it looks as though it’s skipping between the stones after having eaten something.

It’s been still for a while now, though, as if resting, and you’ve found a comfortable section of flattened rock to settle on, shimmering fishes occasionally swimming closer, as if to admire your own scales.

As much as you’d like to return to being human, you can appreciate the difference. Animals and other sea creatures almost seem to like you, no longer flitting away as soon as the water’s disturbed, but rather swishing to float along the currents. They seem to recognise you as one of them, rather than something that will hunt them. Playing nearer, until you’re worried some might get tangled in your hair. But they seem to have fun, darting between and through the floating strands.

You’ve no idea how long he’s gone for, and frankly, you’ve been trying not to think about it. When you think about it, you find a temper beginning to bubble, simmering in your cold blood. You don’t know enough about him to guess at why he refused so adamantly. Can’t understand the deep-rooted desire to keep his species alive, when humanity seems to be existing in every corner, like an infestation of some kind.

Still, it hurts a little to remind yourself his only interest was in changing you to become like him. It’s hard to admit, but you’d felt appreciated. Comforted. But you suppose, by nature, nothing will be that simple. You’ll never be able to truly become something animate in their minds. They seem to have more compassion for fish that for women.

At least a fish’s effort to escape is acknowledged. A woman’s is just beaten out of her until she’s fixed.

Are you enjoying following him?

You startle from your rock, peering about to try and locate him. It’s one drawback to being able to speak mind-to-mind: you have no way of telling direction.

He’s swimming down from another tunnel opening—separate from the one he disappeared into—coming to a pause a more than healthy distance away from you. Really more than heathy.

There’s not much else to do down here, save for looking at things, you reply, not quite able to bring yourself to remove your attention from him. Too wary to do so after your last conversation.

He’ll sleep for another hour or so, Azriel thinks to you, nodding back to the quiet octopus who’s tucked himself up. You might want to find something else to look at.

I think I already have, you reply warily, keeping your gaze on him as you shift atop the smooth rock, not taking your eyes away from where he’s floating.

Why are you here? You ask, tail stretching out to hang off the ledge. Am I not allowed to be here? He replies, glancing throughout the cave. You don’t feel his attention leave you, though.

You left rather abruptly. I’m assuming you had a reason to come back. You counter, regarding him neutrally. Cautiously.

He waits for a few moments, before tentatively swimming forward, delicate swishes of his tail having him drift through the sea, and you shift yourself up and away a bit when he makes to settle on your rock.

Do you still want to go above? He asks quietly. Eyes on you.

Your brows furrow, narrowing as you pin him with a resentful look. I suppose you weren’t listening, earlier? You remark, subtly moving closer to the edge of the rock.

I suppose you have no manners, either? He replies, though it’s without any bite. I have nothing to say to you.

Do you still want to go above?

You remain pointedly quiet. He’s already said he won’t allow you to go, so there’s no point in answering. It’ll likely only boost his ego, knowing you want to leave, but that he’s keeping you here.

Do you still want to leave? He repeats, I won’t know unless you tell me.

Your brow narrows, hands curling as nails press into your palms, trying to find something else to observe. To direct your attention to.

Something brushes against your tail, firm but smooth as it drags lightly over the scales. Deliberately, and you swiftly glance over your shoulder, to see what it is.

The large fins at the base of his tail are gliding over your own, stroking up the spine of the long limb, brushing against it in gentle motions. Your throat rolls, but you don’t make the effort to move away. Instead you meet his gaze, remembering how his eyes had gleamed with an array of hidden colours, suitable for under sea.

I do, you reply tersely. Quietly.

He nods, holding your gaze. Then we’ll go.

We? You ask, slightly skeptical.

We. He repeats, his tail coming to a rest from its soothing motions, settling over your own.

Your lips press together, briefly glancing away, thinking, before you turn back to him, nodding. Okay.

————

So…how does it actually work? You think, awkwardly holding him as you attempt to move in time with his instructions.

We don’t know exactly why these points exist, or what caused them to, but there are certain places that seem to exist with more magic than others, he explains quietly, holding you steady. Some folk think it’s best not to wonder, while others theorise it’s to do with ley lines overlapping, creating an energy strong enough to fuel a transformation.

Azriel had told you he would take you to one of their moon pools, supposedly the only pool near Blackwater you’d be able to reach in time—and also the only pool that would allow you to return to something resembling human. With no other method of transportation, and Azriel deeming your strange half-crawl, half-swim method of movement to be too slow, you’d ended up in this position: your palms settled at the tops of his forearms, while he holds your elbows, theoretically helping to keep you streamlined while making sure you won’t resort to using your arms for swimming. He’s able to hasten your speed, while also helping you become more familiar with the muscles and tendons in your tail.

Though the pace is still slow, both by human and mer standards.

Ley lines? You ask, peering up at him, but his eyes flick down to where you’ve stopped moving, and you restart into motion. It would be easier to show you, but essentially lines drawn to connect significant structures from our history. Throughout the centuries—even millennia—different civilisations have risen and faded, each leaving their marks on the sea bed. There are still mysteries surrounding their collapse, but from some fragments that remain, questions have cropped up relating to certain consistencies. Architecture that should be impossible, long-lost tunnel systems that seem designed to confuse and trap, cave engravings that line up suspiciously with our own history—history that would have been their future.

Moon pools seem to exist where these lines overlap, which some consider to be signs. Others think the world is founded in patterns, and detail—were it not, none of us would exist. We are all fleetingly complex systems of chance and evolution.

That sounds…fascinating, you concede, watching him with interest. To think the mer had the awareness to document their existence, as if understanding it’s not a guarantee they will live on… Acknowledging their gradual disintegration, while remaining free of its fear. It’s admirable.

Moon pools bring out an ancient magic from the surrounding earth, though they can be dangerous. As creatures of the sea, the moon is at the centre of our world, the foundation of many prayers and fables passed down through mind. A new moon is the absence of that stability, hence it turns us into something not. Bringing us up from the waters and onto land, splitting our tails into legs. That sort of change can damage our anatomy, and has in the past, when used incorrectly.

You know how to use it right, right? You ask, peering up at him as you try to remember your motion, attempting to keep up with him as he holds you steady. He nods in answer, nothing bad will happen to you.

So what happens after I…after we go back…I mean, when we change into humans?

Clothes are left for use by the pool, so you have no need for worry. But once we’re above ground, the task will be returning to your village. You will have to guide the way to your… He trails off, watching you silently, waiting for an answer.

You miss the signal, and nod. Okay, you think, gills fluttering with a deeper breath, I can do that. Will you wait on the outskirts?

His hold temporarily tightens on you, the roughened pads of his fingers pressing against your skin before loosening again. I will be coming with you.

But you’re so noticeable, you think back. You’ll draw attention. It’ll be better and quicker if I go by myself.

I will either be there with you, or we will not go at all. It would be irresponsible to let you return on your own, he reasons firmly.

I can manage myself, you return, I understand your point, but I know my village. Having you there might scare someone away.

I can keep to the shadows, he replies.

You peer at him doubtfully. He seems quite big compared to you…Will that be reflected in a human form? You have no idea what the scale would be like.

Okay. But I want privacy, when we get there, you push, following his motions as he guides you through another tunnel, the pale blue lights beginning to fade, replaced by an iridescent shimmer along the walls, like powdered stars. I don’t want to have you looming in a corner the entire time. Please allow me to speak with him alone.

Azriel is about to reply, to think that he won’t be leaving you for a single moment while in such dangerous territory, but you continue, pupils shuttering a little.

…Especially if I might have to be saying goodbye.

His jaw tightens at the obvious sadness in your thoughts. The deep-soaked pain, and loss. He doesn’t want to be listening to this.

You can go into a separate room, he relents, but you will have to be able to leave quickly if something happens. In other words, he doesn’t want you to use this last chance to physically take this man into your body. His teeth grind at the thought alone. Don’t do anything stupid.

I won’t, you reply, unaware of those un-communicated thoughts, just trying to figure out what you’ll tell him. How to ever explain your situation. You hope he won’t be scared.

Your eyes seem to wander of their own accord, moving from the iridescent walls, powdered with shimmer light, to plants perking from the rock, their ends glowing faintly as if to guide the way. The thought starts with a question, curious if he curated these tunnels too, perfectly placing these lovely fascinations at well-timed intervals to keep the caves light and in-oppressive, to transforming itself into a visual wonder of, perhaps, slightly morbid appreciation.

The tales you’d been raised on still have a place in your mind—they’d been true about the shredding teeth, their affinity for dexterity and agility beneath the deceptively calm surface of water. And yet they’d spoken nothing about the unearthly beauty.

Perhaps it’s just him though.

After all, he’s the only one you’ve encountered. Are there many others? He’d mentioned they were a dwindling species, but…

Something on your mind? He thinks, eyes glittering, and you realise you’ve been staring. How long had you been zoned out for?

Why have you been looking after me? You ask, holding his steady gaze, taking in the softness to the edge of his mouth. How his ears flutter slightly as something brushes by, but his attention remains on you.

As opposed to…? He returns, shifting your course once again, directing you toward a tunnel that has a slight upward tilt to it. There are more of you aren’t there? You push cautiously. You said that cave was fashioned after a Rainbow, so there must be more of you somewhere. And earlier you spoke like groups of mer existed to examine past events, and remnants of their buildings. Why not bring me to wherever the rest of your kind are?

Azriel is quiet for a pause, and you wait curiously, watching him steadily. It almost feels like hesitance.

You need time to become accustomed to your surroundings, he replies at last. Your mind needs to adjust to this new life, so it would be unwise to bring you to the centre of our civilisation, where you would likely be overwhelmed.

Your brows narrow as you watch him. It feels like the truth but…not all of it. Like he’s leaving something out. But maybe that’s just you reading into the infection of his thoughts too much. You don’t even know if they have a different method of intonation beneath the sea, or if thought suffices for intention.

No other reason? You push, regarding him cautiously.

He raises a brow, what other reason would I have?

Well that’s why I’m asking, you think, because I don’t know.

A noise enters your mind that sounds similar to a hum, and your spine prickles, making you shudder, ears fluttering. His pupils mark the reaction with a strange intensity, before increasing the pace a little, tail brushing lightly against your own, as if encouraging you to put in more effort. I suppose I might have wanted to see what sort of person you were, he thinks, and you wonder if you’ve subconsciously drifted closer to him.

What’s that supposed to mean? You ask skeptically, peering at him. Is there something I could have done to make you leave me?

Perhaps.

Like what?

Now why would you need to know that? He asks, amusement clear, eyes twinkling as his mouth curves at the edges, thumbs lightly grazing the bone of your elbow as his tail again flicks against you own.

Your expression shifts into one of displeasure, brows pulling together in distaste. Please just answer.

He seems to be thinking in his own mind for a bit, and you watch carefully, wondering if you’ll catch any hints to what’s passing through his head.

Perhaps if you hated us so viscerally… he answers slowly, quietly. That would have complicated things…would have muddied the choices, a little.

Choices?

With what to do with you. How to progress.

You couldn’t have just turned me back into a human using the moon pool?

We only look like humans, he thinks quietly, watching you. You can never return to one.

You blink, lips parting a little before remembering to keep them closed, keeping your mouth filled with air to prevent water rushing in. You said… but you trail off, letting it dawn on you all over again. Then why are there clothes ready? You ask. What happens if you don’t return to the moon pool in time?

The you’re simply stranded until the next new moon. The clothes are there for when folk might wish to be above ground for…longer.

But not as something entirely human.

That’s right, he replies softly, thumbs brushing your skin.

A quiet settles between you, but you try not to let it lower your spirits. You’ll be on two legs again regardless, and you’ll get to say goodbye to him. Though you hate that he’ll be the one to see you go first.

It should never have to be that way.

So what were the choices you mentioned? You ask a touch quietly, easing in a calming breath.

Those don’t matter anymore, he thinks gently, you’re adjusting well.

I want to know. You push, wanting something to focus on. There’s still so much you don’t know about his kind. About mer folk.

Azriel goes silent, his eyes taking on that strange intensity again that at one point had made your insides squirm with discomfort. Now you just hold it, levelling him with your own gaze. Eventually though, he blinks, glancing elsewhere, chest deflating in what you can guess is a sigh.

A strange tension seems to shift beneath his features, carving his expression into one of seriousness.

When you made the choice to cut me free… he begins slowly. Softly.

Do you remember what you had been thinking, when you did it?

Your throat rolls, casting your mind back to that day. Those hours where everything changed. Those few minutes, where a choice had been made. One that had arguably altered the course of your life.

I was thinking what they’d do to you, if your were found, you manage quietly. About how I’d thought it was an unnecessary act of violence, one routed in hatred and revenge, and that a conflict that continuously took lives would never be resolved.

Something flits past behind his gaze, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even catch its trail.

I thought it would be hypercritical of me to leave you. That not helping would be as good as condemning you myself. You manage, grip loosening as you’re called back to the thundering shudder of wooden boards, groaning and creaking as Alaric had approached.

I thought it would be better to save you.

Despite all the stories you’d been fed, Azriel thinks quietly, pace slowing a little, drifting unnoticeably closer. You decided to save a monster.

I don’t think you’re a monster.

But that’s what I was in that moment. Wasn’t I? You didn’t know any different.

You didn’t feel like a monster, you return.

The lowest part of your tail makes a small movement, brushing against him.

Exteriors can be deceiving, he warns softly.

Sometimes they can, you reply, quieter. Not always. But what does that have to do with it all?

Your intention, he almost whispers, so close now. Close enough to again catch a glimpse of the spectrum contained within his irises, glowing with a smattering of stars from the powdery cave light. Close enough to fully see the soft sections of his features, hidden beneath the unforgiving exteriors that you’d almost been fooled by. Close enough to pick out the hint of emotion he’s unable to conceal, raw, and blinding, and—

You recoil in a blink, jerking away as your hands frantically cross over your chest, your breasts having grazed the bare skin of his torso.

You blink with shock, having become so accustomed to your own nakedness, but now overwhelmingly aware of how bare you are. Your skin hasn’t become any less sensitive from shifting to a mer—everything is just as responsive—and your heart pounds with a drive so intense you can feel it in your stomach.

The breath puffs from your gills heavily, caught off guard by the force of your own reaction, arms still covering your breasts as you shift backward. Something brushes just shy of the nape of your neck, a mere finger’s-width from the height of your spine, and something tingling and exhilarating bursts through your blood, flinching away from the wall, hand now slapping over the spot.

Gods above, you think, heart still pounding wildly in your chest, using your hands and tail to shift to see what it was that had brushed so tantalisingly against your skin.

A small plant stares back at you, and you sigh again, returning your attention to him.

Sorry about that, you think, I was startled. You force your arms to remain at your sides as you make to shift closer, hands gliding up to settle at the tops of his powerful forearms.

It’s fine, he replies, though his movements seem a little stiff, his tail less flexible than before. You might find your spine and sternum to be more acute to touch, than before.

My sternum? You ask, peering up at him. Where’s that?

Muscle flexes beneath your fingertips, before calming, and he gestures to the bone down his chest, joining his ribs. Careful not to touch.

You blink, before nodding, looking down at yourself, raising your hand to your chest.

Azriel visibly stiffens, but remains silent as your fingers brush against the bone—between your breasts. Sure enough, that tingling feeling returns, pulse spiking, tiny muscles fluttering beneath your touch, and you hum, the edges of your mouth curving faintly.

I didn’t know you had such obvious weak spots, you think, at last returning your palms to his forearms. Good to know.

He doesn’t reply. Just holds you lightly as he begins moving again, tail shifting with less fluidity than before.

Your brows furrow, wondering at his silence. Did you say something wrong?

Anyway… you think, attention flitting about before settling on him. What were you going to say?

But he shakes his head, eyes flicking to a light at the end of the tunnel. Moonlight spilling into the water.

We’re here.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

tdot taglist: @mika-no-sekai-blog @blueeclipsepaperstudent @lalalucha @v3lv3tf0x @acourtofbatboydreams @coureurs-de-bois9 @sidthedollface2 @lees-chaotic-brain @vickykazuya

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fic #mermaid au #mer!azriel #tdot #the dregs of tragedy

[somekindofpoet]

Like A Movie Part VI

Summary: The premiere is here! Reader goes shopping, gets all dressed up and rubs elbows with Hollywood

Word Count: 4.6K

A/N: This one is loooong! Send me your ideas, let me know what you want to see, give me fuel! Also judge me for using Italics too often.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V

It’s 5 AM on a Friday and your phone buzzing next to your head tears you out of the very, very sweet dream you were having. It involved a dark set of eyes, full lips, and roaming hands. To say you were upset to be awake was an understatement. 

Ironically, it’s Jenna calling you. You decide you can’t be that upset, even if real Jenna just stole you from dream Jenna’s make-out session. 

You answer the phone, putting it on speaker. “Hello?” You croak, your voice thick from sleep. 

“Are you sleeping?”

“Jenna, it’s 5 AM and I’m a writer.” You rub your half open eyes with your knuckles, “I’m sleeping.”

You lay your head back down without hanging up, almost drifting back to sleep.

“Well I’ll be over in 15 to pick you up, so get out of bed.”

You groan, “No. You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming. Or maybe snoring.” You don’t even bother to open your eyes.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. Come on, we have lots to do today!” 

She’s far too peppy for such an ungodly hour. You’re not dealing with it right now. You want to go back to kissing her in your dream. You don’t want to be dragged around Rodeo drive to go shopping. That sounded like a nightmare. You grumble something at the phone and hang up, hoping she gives up on you. You fall back to sleep splayed out on your stomach, your arms over your head. 

You don’t get the chance to fall deep enough into sleep to start dreaming again. There’s a shift on the side of the bed, and insistent hands shaking your shoulder.

“Good god you sleep like the dead. Get UP.”

You whine, rolling over and throwing your arm over your eyes.

“Ten more minutes mom, I’m so tired.”

Soft laughter filters through your sleep muddled brain and you peek out from under your arm. Jenna is sitting on your bedside, the light from the window behind her creating a halo effect over her head. It’s fitting, you think. 

“You look like an angel.” You mumble, and let your arm slide back over your face.

You’re too tired to be appalled at what you’d just said, honesty seeping out of you involuntarily.

“And you look like hell. Seriously, I’ve never seen someone sleep so hard.”

You flop your arm off your eyes and into the mattress. You glare at her sleepily. “How did you get in?”

“Door was unlocked.”

“Yeah, sounds about right.” 

The beers from the night before were creeping in on you. Your mouth was dry and your head ached. You groan again. Why had you let your friends convince you it’d be a good idea to drink on a Thursday night? You knew you had to meet Jenna and her stylist this morning. But the sweet call of cold IPAs and the congratulations from your friend group fooled you into thinking you could recover like you were 21 again.

“I think I’m dying.” You tell Jenna, hoping for sympathy. 

She pats your stomach, making you feel like you might actually die right then and there.

“Come on champ, I’ll make you coffee. Get up.”

You sit up on your elbows, your hair sticking up every which way. “Careful, she’s a spitter.”

Jenna cringed at your joke, “First of all, ew. Second, I learned my lesson the first time. Get up, or I’ll tell Enrique you want to wear my pink Valentino to the premiere tomorrow.”

“Oh god I might be sick.” You roll over to the other side of your bed, swinging your legs to the floor. You drop your head into your hands, trying to steady yourself.

“Hey! It’s not that bad. You’d look great in pink.”

You groan into your hands. “Okay, I’m up. I’m up.” You stand and stumble to the bathroom door. “Need. To. Shower.”

Jenna gets up and rounds the bed toward your door, laughing at you and shaking her head. “Make it snappy, we have a date with designer this morning!”

Once she’s out of the room you trudge into your bathroom, turning the shower on as cold as it will go. You strip off your t-shirt and boxers and climb in, the icy water making you gasp and shocking you awake. You stand under the stream for a while, letting the water run over your head while you lean against the wall. You wince as memories from last night resurfaced in your mind.

You went on and on about Jenna. Your friends were happy to listen, and would undoubtedly tease you until the end of time about it. Other than that embarrassing bit, the night was a good time. It felt good to be with your circle of friends who know you best. It was good for you to vent some of the feelings you kept shoving into the filing cabinets of your brain. You just wished you’d had one less beer, or maybe stood your ground on not taking the fireball shots. 

But you did drink that beer, and you caved to peer pressure with the shots, so now here you are, suffering for your weakness. You take a deep breath, making the conscious decision to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You had a full day with Jenna ahead of you. The thought alone made you feel better already. 

You had ruminated on your night out at the farmhouse, replayed it over and over in your head. You’d come to the conclusion that the tension was built up in your head, stemming from the jealousy you had felt earlier that day and clouded by your own feelings. Your friends strongly disagreed with you, but they didn’t know Jenna. She was friendly and empathetic to everyone around her, including you. 

“Are you done yet, let’s go!” 

Jenna’s voice from your bathroom door scared you senseless. You yelped and slipped around the shower, covering yourself even though the curtain was closed.

“I am EXPOSED here woman!” You shout back at her over her laughter from the doorway. 

“Well get dressed, your coffee is in the kitchen. We’ll get you some breakfast on the way.”

You peek your head out of the curtain to glare at her. “You think you can tempt me with coffee and baked goods?” You pause, staring her down. “You’re right you can, temptress. Now get out so I can clothe myself.”

“Temptress? What is this, the dark ages?”

“Out temptress woman!”

“I’m out, I’m gone, hurry up!” Jenna’s voice trailed away as she left your bedroom.

You get out of the freezing water and dry off, goosebumps covering your skin. After brushing your teeth, you shake out your hair, spray some sea salt conditioner in it and call it good enough. You pull on underwear and a bra, and hesitate at your closet. 

“Hey Jenna?” You yell.

“Just wear whatever you want y/n, you’ll be coming out of it soon anyway!” She yells from your living room.

You grit your teeth, half at the fact that again, she’s predicted you. The other half is stopping the lousy joke from coming out of your mouth. Luckily, you don’t have to make it because Jenna has predicted that too.

“You know that’s not what I mean I don’t even want to hear what’s going through your head!”

You decide playing the victim is your safest route. “I didn’t even say anything!” You yell back, sliding on a short sleeve, weaved cotton button-up and black linen pants. 

“You didn’t have to, I know you were thinking it.” 

You roll your eyes and mock her to yourself, not brave enough to do it out loud. You hop on one foot down your hallway as you pull on your Vans, holding the wall with one hand. You must look at least halfway presentable because Jenna raises her eyebrows in an approving look when she sees you. 

“You clean up nice.” She says, still appraising you. 

“Coffee?” Is all you can respond. 

“In the kitchen. Take it to go, we’re meeting Enrique in like 30 minutes.”

“Uuuughgh Rodeo is like ten minutes away why are we leaving so early?”

The stare Jenna levels you with shuts you right up. You’re on her schedule now, and you will close your mouth and follow orders. You know how to do that very well. Shut up and color is the motto of the military. The people giving you commands weren’t so pretty back then, though. Jenna had poured your coffee into a travel mug and left it on the counter for you. You try hard not to overthink the gesture. 

You hold the cup up to her, “Thank you.”

“Anything to get you moving.” She says, brushing it off. 

You follow her like a puppy out your door and down the stairs to her car. You don’t say anything when she has to remind you to lock your door when you step outside. Another file for the feelings cabinet. Shut up and color. 

You convince her to go through the drive through of a donut shop and inhale two maple bars on your way to the shopping center. Your coffee is long gone minutes into the drive, and you actually feel like a normal human again, your hangover thwarted. 

Jenna parks her car on the street, Bentleys, Ferraris, Mercedes and BMWs accompany her Volvo. You feel out of place and small. Being around super wealthy people always made you feel that way. You’d never seen real money before, growing up lower middle class in central California and being blue-collar military for most of your life. It was easy to forget Jenna belonged there until you saw her there. Then she looked as if she couldn’t belong anywhere else. 

She sensed your discomfort and took your arm, smiling up at you. “Come on James Dean, let’s get you a pair of nice heels.”

You drag your feet a little, making her misstep on purpose, “In your dreams Ms. Ortega.”

“Okay you keep that up and I’ll see to it that Enrique makes you a meat dress like Lady Gaga.”

You gasp in mock horror, “You wouldn’t! The cruelty!”

You can feel your anxiety washing away, and you realize she’s distracted you on purpose. It makes your insides feel gooey and warm. This was not going to be an easy day. Jenna was already making sure of that. 

Enrique greets the two of you in front of a tailor, all smiles and giggles as he hugs Jenna, kissing both of her cheeks. He introduces himself to you and you’re immediately comfortable with him. You can see why Jenna has stuck with him all this time. They bring you through the kind of boutiques that offer you whiskey or champagne upon entering, but the thought makes your stomach clench. 

Enrique finds the perfect suit, black on white, and pulls you into the fitting room. Once you have it on, he speaks to the tailor taking your measurements, ensuring they get it exactly right. The suit gets pinned and you go to take it off, but he stops you.

“You have to show her.”

“Show who?” You frown, confused. 

He tuts at you, “Jenna dummy. Work your magic hombre, quench her thirst.”

You feel as if this man is one of your best friends already, his calling you a dummy endearing him to you even more. Even if he’s making you blush.

“Why would she care?” 

He stares blankly at you, “She said you were out there, but I didn’t think you were dumb.”

“Wait, she said I was out there?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Like what?”

“Girl talk is sacred. I would never tell.” He says, shaking his head at you.

“But you just-“ 

He puts his hands on your shoulders, not letting you finish and steering you out of the fitting room. Jenna is sitting in a chair, waiting for the two of you to come out. Her eyes widen when she sees you, her mouth dropping open. You’re suddenly feeling timid under her gaze, an uncharacteristic feeling for you. It’s unfamiliar, and you’re not sure how to act. 

“Told you.” Enrique whispers from the side of his mouth so only you can hear. 

You roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders.

“Good yeah?” You ask her.

She blinks quickly, “You look amazing.”

You reach up to grab the back of your neck and look down, scuffing your shoe. “Thanks.”

Enrique looks over to the tailor, “We’ll take it!”

Finding Jenna’s dress takes much, much longer. She’s particular and will settle for nothing less than perfect. Enrique happily keeps dressing her, never seeming to run out of steam. The three of you take a lunch break and get right back to it. You’re just being tagged along at this point, your input not needed or even really valuable. If she were going to a punk show or a dive bar, you’d be her girl. But a movie premiere in designer? Millions of leagues out of your league. You just smile and support, oohing and aaahing on cue. 

When she finally does find the one, she refuses to show you, telling you you’ll see it tomorrow on the red carpet. You protest, telling her it’s unfair she’s already seen yours. She does not give in to your attempted guilt trip.

When she takes you home, she doesn’t stay, to your disappointment. But she needs her beauty sleep, and you need a chill pill. You’d see her tomorrow. When you get inside and flop onto your couch, you open your phone for the first time in hours. You had an unread message from Olivia. She was asking if you were still on for tomorrow. You’d asked her to come with you to the premiere a few days prior, and she’d happily accepted. You made it clear it was just an ask as a friend, and she was more than okay with that. 

You hadn’t told Jenna about your plus one, though, and couldn’t justify why. She’d find out tomorrow when you both rolled out onto the red carpet. The thought made your nerves feel frayed, and again you couldn’t quite put your finger on why. You liked Olivia, she was easy to be around, plus it helped with movie advertisement. Two birds, one premiere. You texted her back to let her know you’d pick her up at six. 

Your sleep was restless that night. Anxiety about the premiere filled your mind, making it impossible to feel well rested. The next morning you were up far too early, with too many hours ahead of you. You stress cleaned your entire apartment. Tried and failed to write. Watched a movie but kept glancing at your phone, but what you were hoping for, you weren’t quite sure. ( A text from Jenna, be real with yourself y/n). You got ready early and spent more time than necessary on taming your hair. You sighed and checked your phone. It was only four. You decided to text Olivia, to see if she was freaking out too.

Y/n

You anxious enough to die too?

Olivia

Nah cool as a cucumber my friend

Y/n

You’re a bad person 

Olivia

To the bone! Wanna pregame and take the edge off?

Thirty minutes later, you’re sitting at Olivia’s kitchen counter, your head in your hands. She slides a gin and tonic over to you and leans on the counter across from you.

“So you’re freaking the fuck out.”

“I’m trying very hard not to.” You say, gulping down the drink.

She takes the glass and refills it, sliding it back to you. 

“Do these nerves have to do with the premiere or a certain brunette?”

You squint at her over your glass, sipping it this time. “Am I that transparent?”

“Oh like fucking Saran Wrap dude.”

“Fuuuuuuck.” You sip the drink again.

“Hey, I don’t blame you. I’d be flipping out if she looked at me like that too.” She says, picking up her glass to drink. 

You frown, “Look at me like what?”

“Oh boy.” She says and gulps her drink. 

Irritation blooms in your chest, “What?!” There’s no reason for you to be so volatile, and it makes you even more irritated. 

She sighs and shakes her head, unphased by your mood “You seriously can’t see it? She looks at you like the sun shines out your ass. It’s almost too much to bear.”

You shake your head, “She looks at everyone like that.”

Olivia raises her eyebrows at you and sips her drink again. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

“Mhm,” you say back, the drink settling in your stomach and calming you a bit. 

She’s looking at you like she feels sorry for you. The filing cabinet in your brain is bursting with all your repressed emotions. You take a drink and shrug at her.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Oh I don’t know, sweep her off her feet and kiss her? Tell her you’re a fool and you’re crazy about her?”

“I don’t know about all of that.” You’re being stubborn again, you know it. 

“Okay Casanova. I believe in you.” She laughs.

“That makes one of us.” You grumble.

——

The Uber drops the two of you off right at the mouth of the red carpet. Your show time was early, not many photographers were out yet, since the smaller names showed up first. They would be there when Jenna arrived, yelling her name and snapping her picture. You and Olivia take a few pictures, smiling arm in arm with the branded backdrop behind you. A reporter asks you who you’re wearing and you tell them. You name drop Enrique and they go nuts. They want to ask you questions about Jenna, but you skirt around them, not wanting to violate her privacy. They ask you about Secessus, and you’re shocked they already know about it. You give them a little detail about your writing process and a tidbit about the story, but you mostly keep it under wraps. The studio wants you to build excitement, not spoil the movie. 

A while later, you’re lingering around the entryway, laughing and joking with a few other writers and actors there with Olivia at your side. She’s charming and funny, and you’re both having a great time. Then the shouting starts. Flashes of light fill the dark sky, cameras going off like mortars around you. The stars have arrived. A few cars pull up with celebrities getting out and doing their red carpet waltz, smiling and waving and posing. And then the one you’d been waiting for steps out on the arm of her incredibly handsome date. 

She looks amazing. Beyond words. She’s in an earthy toned pinkish brown dress, her neck dripping in diamonds. You can see her skin between the delicate wrap around her body, and you may or may not be drooling. Olivia laughs at you and uses her finger to press under your jaw, closing it as it hung open. You blush and glance at her, seeing her grin at you. 

“There’s your girl Casanova.” She says, slapping your back. 

You can’t even come up with a witty response. You’re rooted to your spot, staring in awe. You’re taken back to the months before you knew her. When she was a celebrity you’d fawned over, before you knew what she’d looked like when she was anxious, or covered in coffee, or sitting in your passenger seat. Right now, she looked every bit like the star. 

You tamp down the jealousy that rears up inside of you when her date wraps his arm around her waist. You know it’s just for show. But still, it makes your skin crawl. When they’re done with their photo op they head toward the entrance, toward you. Jenna catches sight of you and smiles, but it falters when she sees Olivia at your side. The smallest frown is on her face for a split second before she averts her eyes and smiles up at her date. They walk right past you, nodding courteously, but Jenna doesn’t say a word to you. You feel like you’ve just taken a spear to the gut.

“Oof, tough break buddy.” Olivia says, patting your back. 

You shrug at her, “She’s a star. She doesn’t have time for us tonight.”

“Uh huh.” She says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s go find our seats lover boy.”

The movie is good, great even, but you can’t focus. All you can see is Jenna toward the front row, laughing and smiling and eating popcorn, piece by piece. When it’s over, the crowd moves from the theater into a large open room for the after-party. Olivia has disappeared into the crowd, wanting to mingle with other actors. You head to the bar and lean up against it taking in the absurdity that you’re even here.

Platters with champagne glasses pass by, and you wonder how they keep them from toppling over. One passes close enough to you, so you grab two glasses, thanking the waiter. You feel pretty good about being in the room with all the famous faces. It may be the alcohol, or you may actually feel like you deserve to be there. The only thing keeping you from having a great time is the nagging thought at the back of your mind that Jenna was upset with you. You didn’t have the slightest clue as to why, but you had this feeling.

You’d been searching for her casually as you took the room in, but she was nowhere to be found. You figure she’s probably caught up somewhere socializing with people that were more her caliber. You sip at your champagne and engage in friendly conversation with the people who approach you. They all seem to know who you are, A24 had done an excellent job at getting the word out about Secessus. People were talking, and they were excited about it.

You’d finished both of your drinks and set about finding a bathroom. It wasn’t easy in a venue that big, but you found a winding hallway that led you to it eventually. It was blissfully quiet, the noise from the other room muted. You wash your hands and head back out, stopping in your tracks when you see Jenna making her way down the hall.

“Hey yooo-“ you start, but she breezes right past you into the bathroom.

“Okay,” you say, “rude.”

You decide to wait for her to come out, leaning back against the wall. Whatever this was, it needed to be settled, or you’d probably never sleep again. She was definitely upset with you, that much was clear. A few minutes later, she comes out, and you catch her arm as she tries to pass you again.

“We just not speaking now?” You ask her sharply. Your feelings are hurt, and you’re confused.

She frowns at you, her expression softening just slightly. “Where’s your date?” She asks.

You don’t drop her arm for fear she will walk away from you again. “Where’s yours?” You bite back and immediately feel bad about it. 

Her face is stoic, but her eyes are telling you everything you need to know. She’s unsure about how to respond to you, fighting a battle in her head that you can’t see. She sighs and pulls you around the corner. You lean back into the wall, and she stands in front of you, spinning her diamond rings.

“I’m sorry. For ignoring you.”

“Aha, so you were ignoring me. Here I was worried you’d finally figured out you’re too good for me.”

Her nostrils flare as she fights from smiling at you. She’s losing the battle. “I wish you would have told me you were bringing Olivia.”

“Why?” You ask, shrugging.

“I don’t know, I guess I thought we were close enough that you’d tell me stuff like that by now. It’s great, I’m happy for you.” She sounds hurt, and her voice tells you she is not happy for you. She’s disappointed. 

Realization is dawning on you rapidly. You feel like a total idiot. Your friends were right. Enrique was right. Olivia was right. You’re a dumbass.

“Woah woah woah, wait, we’re not together.”

Relief floods Jenna’s face immediately, though she tries valiantly to hide it. “You’re not?”

You laugh, “No. We’re friends. I figured it would be good for the movie for us to come together.”

A soft “oh” falls from her lips. Her expression is a mixed one, pulling back and forth between relief and embarrassment. 

You stare at each other, trying to make sense of everything. Voices ricochet down the hall, approaching the bathroom. You hear a man and a woman talking to each other, heading your way. 

“Probably around here somewhere,” you hear, recognizing Olivia’s voice. 

Jenna’s spine stiffens at the sound. You reach out and run your hand down her arm, trying to soothe her. She lets you take her hand, and you’re willing yours not to get sweaty. Olivia and Jenna’s date round the corner, stopping quickly when they see the two of you. This would be awkward, if it weren’t already known your dates were for show. 

Olivia flashes Jenna a wide smile, “Hey Jenna, I wanted to ask if you mind if I steal your date? He says he’s single.”

The man next to her gives you a goofy grin, he’s adorable, you can’t help but think. Jenna’s body relaxes, and she gives them a genuine smile. It makes you feel weak in the knees.

“You can have the mongrel. Just be gentle with him, he’s sweet.” She tells them. 

Olivia laughs and wraps her arm around his waist, eyeing you. She’s silently willing you to make your move.

 Just before she turns away she says, “Later Casanova, remember our talk!” And the two disappear back down the hall.

Jenna turns back to you, raising an eyebrow at you. “Casanova?”

“Long story, very boring.” You rush to say.

She smiles, “What was that talk about?”

You frantically try to come up with a lie, a story to tell her. You’re a writer for god's sake, you should be able to weave a web of intricate half-truths on the spot. But nothing comes to you. She squeezes your hand. 

“You.” You finally mumble, giving in to honesty being the best policy.

Jenna’s eyes light up, and you know she’s going to give you hell. “What was that? I have terrible hearing. Have I ever told you that?”

“Probably from listening to nothing in your headphones all the time.”

“You’re an idiot.” She replies, laughing softly.

Jenna steps in closer to you, looking up into your eyes. She glances down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It’s textbook. Your heart races. You feel your breathing grow heavy as she leans closer to you. 

You are, without a doubt, Icarus in this scenario. Your wax wings melt in the sun that is Jenna, and you fall hard. You don’t even have it in you to try to save yourself. It’s a sweet death to die for love. 

Her lips are soft. Softer than you dreamed. She kisses you hesitantly as if she’s waiting for you to pull away. But you know you’d rather run into speeding traffic than stop kissing her at this point. Your hands find her waist and you pull her into your body, kissing her back. It’s gentle and sweet and innocent, neither of you bold enough to make it anything more than it is right now. 

Her hands loop around your neck, and she’s pulling you into her, her lips moving against yours. You keep your hands on her waist, not wanting to push her too far too fast. It feels like seconds and hours all at once before she leans back, breaking your lips apart. She’s staring up at you through her lashes and you’ve never felt so light in your life. You wonder if maybe you’ve died and this is your version of what comes after. Either way, you’re not complaining.

“Do you want to get out of here?” She asks you.

“Abso-fucking-lutley.” 

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday #vada cavell #tara carpenter

[archivalofsins]

Let's talk about Mikoto's first two interrogation questions and why I'm super not interested or surprised by any of his answers. For the record so I don't have to go over all this again here is a post that links to a good chunk of what I've written discussing Mikoto already that I worked on with @apatchworkstar.

At least the big stuff. So, people can look back and see how my logic has developed over time when it comes to him specifically. Because I'm about to throw out some hard to swallow truths.

One being

Just because someone keeps claiming they were "Trying so hard." doesn't mean it's fucking true. Secondly, even if it is true that doesn't excuse or give them the right to murder anyone.

So, let's get libelous real quick and drag this drama kings name through the fucking mud.

Sorry, my liege you're getting a bit carried away~

Okay whoa, whoa- Wait, wait! I thought you liked Mikoto. Shouldn't you be happy people are taking his problems seriously and treating these issues with respect. I mean work abuse like any sort of abuse is bad.

Okay, point created to simply allow me to further elaborate on my own train of thought and where I'm at. Yes, I do care about and like Mikoto as a character. That does not mean I just accept when someone is feeding me bullshit.

Literally we've seen everyone else going to the places or doing the jobs that triggered the incident they were involved in. Mu has been at her school since Milgram started. Yuno has been shown working with her clients since Milgram started.

Kazui has been shown at the bar since Milgram started. Hell we've even seen Futa at his college.

Mikoto Kayano has not been shown at work or doing his job since Milgram started. There have only been allusions made to his work. The one image we have in Undercover isn't even confirmed to be his actual fucking office and could be a desk in his home that the chair in his mental space and home goes to. So, what evidence do we have that his job was difficult outside of texts he actively ignored that states he left without notice to go home and attempted to call him back in something he actively decided not to do or even respond to as is his right as a working adult?

We would actually have to make multiple assumptions in order to frame the instance we see there as abusive outside of damn that's an ungodly hour. Yet this man isn't fucking special some people work nights and he's stated he's meant to work nights since the beginning of fucking Milgram. That's a part of the company he decided he wanted to be in, chose to enter, and refused to leave.

Trial one written interrogation question six.

Q.06  What do you hate? Mikoto: working overnight / reptiles / violence

He's worked overnight enough to fucking know he hates it but-

Trial two written interrogation question two.

Q.02 Haven't you considered changing your job? Mikoto: No way; I went through a lot to get into such a big company. Even if it's draining, if I work hard my efforts will pay off.

Something he's had no issue stating from the beginning. From the start of Milgram Mikoto's concern has been I better not get fired because of you and if I do you better take responsibility for it. One of his voice lines from the beginning of this literally being-

Mikoto first voice drama 3:46

"I have my own life, you know? And I just got accepted into the company that I was aiming for… If I get fired, you’ll have to take responsibility for that."

From the beginning, through everything he's done and said Mikoto has shown where his priorities lie. It's not with getting home or seeing his family like the rest of the prisoners. No, his priority has always been getting the hell out of here and back to his job because his life plans have been derailed enough. Because his life wasn't meant to be this way and he has things he needs to do to get the life he believes he's entitled to.

Going to his job regardless of how draining or terrible it looks from an outsider's perspective is and always has been a part of and the biggest part of his life plan. He never trash talks his company for how it treats him despite bringing it up in both his written interrogations.

In fact, it's the exact opposite.

Written interrogation one question eight.

Q.08  What’s the most rewarding part of your current job? Mikoto: I mean, it’s the top advertising agency in the industry?Anyone would be proud to be a part of it. I put a lot of work in just to get here, too.

Even framing it like a question like are you stupid- Do you live under a fucking rock??? Is that it? it's the top advertising agency in the fucking industry.

Are you daft warden-

What's more important than the status and recognition one implicitly gets from being able to work in a company like that? If this place is in my work history and I manage to go freelance later on, in good standing with this company, do you know how liberating that would be. Do you know how quickly people would have faith in me to do what they were hiring me for with this place as a reference-

I mean.

Q.04  Are you picky when it comes to fashion? Mikoto: Of course I am. Nobody would want to ask for anything from an unfashionable designer, right?

I'm fucking tailor-made for business. I live breath and eat this shit because I fucking need to. Because it's a stepping stone for my dream. You wouldn't want to get in the way of that, right~ Oh, that's unlikable I don't fucking care if there's a corporate ladder I'm going to fucking climb it. Survival of the fittest and all that. Though it's improper to admit that as a working adult, you know? If you can't communicate properly that's bad for business.

You can't, for example, go around being angry all the time even if you want to. You've gotta be able to play ball and take a few punches to get anywhere in this world. How do you expect people to want to work with you otherwise?

20/06/15 Mikoto: Hey, it’s kinda a bother having you be so angry and tense all the time. You should stop trying get everyone to pay attention to you. You’re a uni student, right? You can’t act like that once you start working properly. Futa: Huh!? Shut up. Not like I care what you say. Even though we’re in this shitty situation, you’re just chatting away, it’s stupid. Aren’t you the one who’s acting out of place here? ……also the fact you give everyone nicknames is just gross. Mikoto: *sigh* It’s more stupid to be taking this all so seriously. I mean, it’s definitely just a reality TV program. There’s no way a real prison exists that’s this lax. Also, I don’t give nicknames to everyone. I don’t give them to young kids like Amane, or to the hard-to-approach types like Shidou-san. I mean, I’m not giving you one, right? Futa: ……oi, which group are you trying to say I am?

It doesn't matter if your kindness is genuine or not. As long as you're able to close that gap and make people like you then you can sell them anything. It'll pay off eventually you know. Though it's better to do anything you can to make that eventually sooner rather than later~

20/05/25 Mikoto: ……I’ve really got caught up in some trouble, huh. What even is this place? It’s probably a TV reality show or something. ……but to think someone in this day and age would try to do a project that could land them in so much trouble. Uh…… Mahiru: Ah…… I’m Shina Mahiru! You can just call me Mahiru. And you are……? Mikoto: Kayano Mikoto. I’m fine with just Mikoto too. Ahh, I’m glad there’s someone here who’s easy to talk to…… It’s nice to meet you, Mappy. Mahiru: ………… ……Mappy???

Mikoto trial one written interrogation question nine.

Q.09 Why do you give everyone nicknames? Mikoto: I guess it became a habit when I was at university. Having a nickname for someone that only you call them comes with a lot of advantages, do recommend.

As long as you can sell it with a smile they'll warm up eventually. Yet, being disliked by certain people can be social and career suicide you know~

20/07/08 Yuno: Hey, Mikoto-san. Don’t you get tired being so conscious of others all the time? I mean, you’re free to do what you want though. Mikoto: Eh…… Aha, what are you talking about? I’m not being conscious or anything. It’s normal to make sure to get along with everyone, right? I mean, when you put it like that, aren’t you the same, Yun-chan? You’re always smiling and getting on with everyone too. Yuno: I don’t smile unless I actually want to. But with you, when you’re talking with other people it’s more like you only smile deliberately. So I kept thinking, don’t your cheeks get tired? Ah, is this just what happens when you become a working adult? ……you see people like that sometimes. Mikoto: Haha, you don’t mince your words do you. …….that was never my intention, but now that you mention it, yeah, I guess I do. This might’ve been since I started my job too…… But like- If I was rude to everyone I met, all my efforts would come to nothing, right?

Yuno trial one voice drama 7:59

"Hm, what this? A lecture. Are you a believer in seishinron? I hate them more than anything else, you know?"

Basically, someone who believes that any problem can be worked through by just putting in a bit more effort.

"If I work hard my efforts will pay off."

Ha, ha- Not everyone has the privilege to smile whenever they feel like it. Some people's entire futures are riding on if the people around them decide to play nice or not and it all rides on them to play nice first- You know? Maybe that is what they call being a working adult. Maybe people like this just don't understand. Is it difficult to comprehend~ Huh, is this hard for you warden?

Well, you were given a pretty cushiony job out of the blue. It must be oddly comfortable for you. Judging others from your position and then sleeping for several months. They even provide you three meals a day while I can barely get a lunch break- Ah, jealous~

Guards, just-

"Come to know me as an honest man."

See me as someone hardworking and family oriented. See me as someone trying to show those he cares about that they can do these things too-

Q.01 Do you have a good relationship with your little sister? Mikoto: Absolutely. I want to show her how her big brother is working hard in the city.

See me as a man that believes in the myth of meritocracy. Someone who believes if they just work hard enough, if I push myself a little more regardless of how I'm treated it'll work out eventually. All of my efforts will be rewarded because they deserve to be. That's how these things should go. So, society should recognize and reward those who do good work consistently.

Not just people they find likable or easy to talk to. My work should be able to speak for itself. So, if I just keep working it'll all come together but I can't do that while being held here. How can I achieve my dreams if I can't even get to work huh? What happens if i get fired while here I have a life to you know-

I've been working so much- I had such a hard time. I've even played along with this silly joke- I've been such a good sport, right? Right? So- why tell me why can't you just be a good sport back? Aren't I entitled to a little bit of leniency? I'm a victim here too, ya know! So, why?

Tell me WHY-

It’s the same anywhere I go! It’s like what’s WRONG isn’t WRONG!/ "Why, why-"

"If only I were never born, if only..."/ "If I was gone, If I had just disappeared..."

20/05/31 Mu: Hey, Mikoto-kun, aren’t you scared of this place……? You can’t think of any reason you ended up here, right……? Mikoto: Ahh, yeah. Of course, it’s not like I’m not scared at all. But just between you and me…… I still haven’t dropped the thought that this could all just be a TV show. I mean, I really haven’t ever murdered anyone. ……and if that is the case, we’re definitely being monitored. For like a prank setup or something. Wouldn’t it be super uncool and embarrassing to get angry or lash and have it shown on prime time? Mu: Is that what you think……? A prank, huh…… I hope that’s all it is…… Mikoto: Ah! If that is the case, then you’ll probably be super popular since you’re so cute, Mucchan! There’s a lot of girls out there who make their big break coming off reality shows like that!

Mikoto trial one written interrogation question 3.

Q.03 Have you ever had a romantic partner? Mikoto: Of course I have. Do I really look like I’d be that unpopular?

"Hey now, I saved you, right? So why in the hell are you crying?"/ "Why won’t you stop hurting me? My heart is all dried up. My sorry spells must be wearing off."

"I can't take it anymore..."/ "Why?"

"Why, why, I’m so sorry."/ " “I’m sorry” won’t reach anyone."

Just-

"If I am a bad girl don’t hate me."/"Come to know me as an honest man, eat your words, gulp them down."

It must be a tad embarrassing to fall for the same trick twice in the same series.

Hold on. It’s not my fault- You knew it, right?

Guards, you must be working really hard. It's difficult to figure out under so much pressure with so little time. I mean you only had all of trial one and the three months after Double.

"Hurting it, holding it down, it doesn’t change anything, does it- Ahhh!"

"I was miserable, someone please help me."/ "I was having such a hard time."

"I want to feel “alive”, is it ok if I breathe?"/ "All I did was dream, and that’s what you found GUILTY?"

“I” will save “me”.

It's no one fault really~

So, why don't we just all get along for now? Like working adults. No one has to judge anyone here. Let's all just get along!

Mikoto first voice drama 3:10

Milgram tells me that you killed someone. That's enough for me. "Why are you just blindly believing that? There's no getting through to you...!"

Muu's second voice drama 14:56

"Anyway… I think you would do good to forgive me. Then Haruka-kun will be safe too. Ah, actually, couldn’t you just forgive everyone? Then Kotoko-san won’t run amok, and you won’t have to think about all the difficult stuff."

But I guess some of it is my fault. Maybe it’s ok as it is./I'm probably not to blame. It's probably nothing. I'm probably just having a bad dream, I need to wake up soon.

The interesting thing about both Mikoto and Es' behavior is that they both blindly believe in systems that leave them very little to no protection or are actively exploiting them. They both believe their jobs to be their salvation. That if they just keep working it'll all turn out right.

That if they just do their jobs without question everything will work itself out. That the only way out is through. Es all of trial two has rationalized the results of trial one by saying they were just doing their job. Following what they were told. How is that any different from Mikoto. How is that any different from Amane?

Everyone needs something to believe in from day to day. Something that allows them to feel secure in their own position and feel as if they have some control over their lives even if in reality they have very little.

People need beliefs to tell them how to function in systems. Yet those beliefs can end up protecting systems from deserved scrutiny. In a way making people complacent in them or leading to them perpetuating these systems without question. Because when people are trying to keep themselves from going under they don't have time to question the powers that put them in the position to go under to beging with.

When you're drowning everything looks like a lifepreserver even the things that will make a person sink faster. People use the beliefs that they cultivate over the course of their lives to rationalize if the treatment they're receiving is correct or not-

It must be a mistake right?

To tell them if their own response to something was justified or not.

"Eat this! Don’t act like you have no idea! We won’t forgive you! You’re the crazy one! Ban-Ba-Bang!"/"If you’re going to break your vow- Here and now, it’s my turn to tear you apart. So there is no second time, I’ll give back the judgment that you gave to me."

Something that makes them feel like their decisions were the right ones,

"What am I supposed to do now? If you won’t tell me, I can’t be me."/ "Maybe, perhaps... or... could it come true... like- It’s for the sake of true love, who wouldn’t lie for that?"

Something that tells them-

It's not my fault.

#milgram #mikoto kayano

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

Okay so since there’s soooo much fucking transphobia rampant, here’s a post for those of you who either are Christian and/or surrounded by Christian queerphobes. Here’s a list of rebuttals to when they start talking about how being trans is ungodly.

Most of these rebuttals are religious as that is the base they will be arguing from; however I did include  bit of a science to make their heads spin.

“Genesis also says that God made morning and evening. Are morning and evening strictly binary? Is there nothing inbetween? Can you define 'morning'? How about the binary of darkness and light?”

“So if we're born the gender we are, what are intersex people?” [when they inevitably say there's just "so few of them"] “There are more intersex people than there are redheads. 1.7% of the population are Intersex, while roughly 1.5% are redheads. Does that mean that redheads do not 'count' when discussing hair color?”

[to “God doesn't make mistakes”] “Yes, of course. They just do impossible things. After all, if God could put a baby into a virgin, or could bring life to the dead, why could they not put a boy's soul into a girl's body, or vice versa?”

Feel free to also say “God literally made such a mistake with all humanity that they flooded the planet.”

This line is from a Jewish source, Something That May Shock and Discredit You by Daniel Mallory Ortberg: “As my friend Julian puts it, only half winkingly: 'God blessed me by making me transsexual for the same reason God made wheat but not bread and fruit but not wine, so that humanity might share in the act of creation.'”

Galatians 3:28: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.“

If they're using the Deuteronomy verse (22:5, about not crossdressing or w/e), know that line is mistranslated. Quoting https://hoperemainsonline.com/index.php/transgender/, “A more literal translation from Hebrew reads 'The weapon of a warrior shall not be on a woman, nor shall a warrior put on the robe of a woman, for all who do these things are a hateful thing to the LORD thy God.' The word “robe” is translated from the Hebrew word simlah, which was a garment worn by both sexes. Clearly, this cannot be referring to cross-dressing. What could it be referring to then? A much more likely answer to that question is that it is about ritual purity and the mixing of blood. Both warrior’s swords and women’s garments would get blood on them, one from battle and the other from menstruation. To have a man wear the robe of a woman, or vice versa, would mix blood, which was considered an abomination under the law.”

Similar mistranslations result in the homophobic verses they spew as well. just browse through hoperemains for some inspo

This last one is long, but it talks about how all humans, including women, were created in God's image; therefore, God is both male and female. If it's wrong for humans to be, why is God enby themself? 

From The Africana Bible, edited by Hugh R Page Jr:

“The term occasionally translated as 'human beings' in the NRSV and generally as "man" in most other English versions is  'adam or ha'adam. Now this is clearly not a personal name (that is, Adam) as the KJV ill-advisedly begins to indicate at about Gen. 2:19. A better translation of this term, however, would be “the earthling” since the term is derived from the term ‘adamah, meaning “land” or “earth.” Such a translation clarifies better than “man” or even “human being” that the original intent of the author is to emphasize that God made “earthlings” as a whole, not just males, in God’s image[...]”

[...]“Such a translation takes into consideration that the term ‘adam is meant to function as a collective term referring to both the male and the female. Thus, we should note that ‘adam here is not a name or an ascription of gender but a collective term for “earthlings” in general; this is emphasized by the author’s choice of the plural pronoun ‘otham, and the use of the plural verbs veyirddu and urdu, meaning in 1:26 and 1:28, 'let THEM have dominion,' further reiterates the inclusive nature of the term ‘adam. [...] In Genesis 1 and 2, both genders were created with equal expressions of God’s image, equal authority over the earth, and equal value as human beings.”

#transphobia / #transphobia m / #christianity #christian #mine

[politemenacephd]

Arachnophilia (Part Twenty-Five)

Drider!Miguel O'Hara x Reader (+18)

Chapter Masterlist 🕷️

Word count: 4770

Notes: Going into the Halloween arc now hehe <3

With Miguel gone, you were left to lounge away the last few days of the rut. There was no real time to ponder, no long moments to think. You didn’t get to consider what would happen in the world outside Mig’s embrace because in your mind it was all that existed.

You were left to your primal urges, fulfilling them over and over in the filthiest, most basal ways possible, until at long last your body had decided it’d gotten its fill. You took ungodly amounts of Mig inside you. More thick ropes than some men could create in a lifetime, more rutting thrusts than most humans could take.

He shaped you to him in that earthen nest. Bit by bit, you were settling into him. Bit by bit you were falling into each other.

But eventually, just like the first heat, it ended. You were free, and you slept in, blissfully and wilfully pushing to the back of your mind that you’d have to go back to the HQ now it was over, and you’d have to face Miguel again.

Autumn was on its way. It was time to wake up.

…

‘Mi tesoro?’

You stirred awake slowly, snuffling and stretching beneath the sheets. You were wrapped like a baby in a cocoon, surrounding by lavish silk, and by god you were sore. Even the slightest movement of your limbs felt like you were swimming through concrete. You could feel the little pinpricks on your thighs where you’d been held, similar to the bite marks on your neck and shoulders.

That delicious ache, it was painful but enjoyable. You squirmed in the sheets and yawned.

‘Mi tesoro?’

‘Mm… Mm?’

Something warm nudged your cheek, and at last you opened your eyes.

Your body was being nested on by Mig, with his spider half carefully cradling your body against his abdomen while his human half bent forward to plank over your head. His hands were on either side of your shoulders, and his nose was tenderly nuzzling your cheek.

As he watched your eyes open, his own eyes wrinkled up with joy. ‘Mi tesoro’ he whispered, for the third and final time. You gave him a sleepy smile.

‘Oh, Miggy—g’morning handsome.’

You leaned up and awkwardly nuzzled back. His response was endlessly sweet. The way his eyes instinctively closed upon feeling your touch, the way that huge, gruff man purred and vibrated with joy to feel you close. He pressed a few stray kisses to your cheek and nose before pulling back.

‘I, apologize for waking you’ he said gently. ‘But we are expected back at the HQ today, and I didn’t want you to get in trouble.’

You grumbled a little as you rubbed sleep from your eyes. Even that mundane activity seemed to have Mig fixated, as his wide red eyes darted over every little moment you made. He continued to rustle with joy.

‘Ah—shit, sorry, I forgot about that. Thanks for waking me up.’

‘No need to thank me, arañita. It’s the least I can do. It, does make me sad though. You look so content.’

‘You’re not watching me while I sleep, are you?’ you mumbled midway through wiping the left side of your face, fixing him with a one-eyed stare. Mig just rustled harder.

‘When, I am not sleeping? Yes. I watch you. Should I not?’

‘You just sit in bed and watch me sleep?’

‘Mhm.’ He nodded hard and bent closer, leaning his folded arms across your chest so he could address you properly. ‘Of course. You always look so peaceful, it is—nice, to see. Also, I want to be there when you wake. I, like when you do that little smile, when you see me.’

You unintentionally did just that, offering him a soft half smile in mild exasperation over his soppy romantic talk. He rustled harder in response. ‘Mm. Yes. Like that’ he murmured affectionately.

‘My god—you big, beautiful idiot—’ You leaned up and wrapped your arms around his upper torso, awkwardly hugging what you could grab. He quietly closed his eyes and relished in the touch.

‘Mmm… I will miss you today, mi am—mi tesoro’ he whispered, almost slipping out a ‘mi amor’ before catching himself. You chuckled.

‘I’ll miss you too, Mig. Mm—so, do we have time for anything? Breakfast, maybe, or—’

Mig pulled back from the hug to nod. ‘I’ll bring you something to eat before you leave, arañita. I have the fire going already.’

‘My god, so organised!’ As you slowly shifted up in the sheets Mig carefully withdrew his spider form, allowing you space to move. He noticed the way you were stretching out your sore limbs, his eyes fixed on the little bite marks covering your naked body. He felt the hair beginning to stand up on his abdomen and quickly tried to brush it down.

‘Aha—well, I need to make sure you’re cared for. It’s my pleasure’ he said, obviously speaking quickly to cover for his own arousal. You noticed his garbled manner of speech but decided not to tease him  on it. The poor man was smitten, and he knew it well. You knew he felt bad for just how sexually needy he was, and especially for how much he gawked at you.

‘You sure you don’t want me to go get it?’ you asked. He watched you swing your legs over the edge of the mattress as you stretched out your back and arms. ‘I can—’

‘No! No. You stay warm here, you—I can, see you’re still a bit sore’ Mig said, physically barrelling over to block your way off the bed. You giggled and fell back into the sheets, a sign of mercy.

‘Okay! Okay. I’ll stay here.’

He purred with approval as you sank into the white silk, admiring how it looked against your skin. ‘Mm. Thank you. I’ll be right back’ he promised, and with that he disappeared into the earthy tunnels.

He was quick, thankfully, as you’d barely pulled on your underwear by the time he returned. He lay down a clay wood fired mug and a plate of food twice the size of what you realistically needed to eat at your feet. It was your favourite breakfast, one that he’d tried his best to lay out neatly despite his huge hands and cumbersome claws. He must have noticed your eyes widening at the sight as he let out another soft chuckle.

‘You need to eat, mi tesoro’ he said as he sank into the mattress beside you.

‘This much?’

‘After what I put you through? Yes. That much. Eat, please.’

You felt a slight warmth in your face at the reminder of your state, covered in hand marks and claw marks and teeth marks with a body that was saturated with the scent of his rutting musk.

‘Okay’ you conceded as you grabbed the plate. ‘Okay, okay. Thanks, Mig.’

‘You’re most welcome’ he purred.

You settled down into a peaceful silence. He’d grabbed whatever dried venison was left as he peaceful tearing that to shreds while you ate against the comfort of his side, your head nestled into the soft, thick fur of his abdomen as you chewed.

He finished far quicker than you did and turned to blowing on your mug before handing it to you, ensuring you didn’t get burnt. It almost made you feel guilty, just how attentive he was. You ate through as much as you could until you physically couldn’t fit any more into your stomach.  

‘Urgh—Miggy I’m trying to finish this but I don’t think I can’ you groaned. He glanced from your face to the plate.

‘Mm… You are, full?’

‘Mhm. Very much so.’

‘Mm… Okay. I trust you.’ He bent to kiss your forehead before moving the plate out of the way.

‘Is this like a special occasion?’ you asked. ‘Is that why you’re feeding me so much?’

He shook his head as he leant back into you, relishing the little time he had left before you had to get ready. ‘No, no special occasion.’

‘Not uh—celebrating the ending of the rut?’ you teased.

‘Mm, that would be funny, but—no. I just wanted to make sure you were well fed.’

‘Have you got like a… like a, fetish, for it, or something? Is it like the hormone smelling?’ you teased.

He pondered what was meant to be a lightheaded joke quite seriously, as he always did, lightly tapping his spider feet as he mulled over his thoughts. ‘I… Don’t think so’ he eventually replied. ‘I certainly have instinctual desires to keep you will cared for, but, not in a sexual way. The guarding, the feeding. I’ve always wanted to take care of you. It makes me content, if not aroused.’

You smiled as he went through his deadpan explanation, his soft eyes darting over your face as he spoke.

‘Ooh, okay. Your brain’s tryna fatten me up for babies, huh?’

He let out a gruff chuckle as you nestled into his side.

‘Yes. I suppose so. If we ever try to, successfully breed I promise I will keep you as full as possible. I’ll let you eat while I mate if I have to’ he teased.

‘I mean that could be fun’ you teased back. You saw him pondering the idea.

‘There is, I suppose, something arousing about the idea of watching you, indulge while I’m at your back’ he said, his eyes dreamy and distant. You caught his abdomen rustling again. ‘It feeds into that, part of me that feels gratification from distracting you so that I may, finish.’

‘Freaky spider’ you whispered playfully. He smiled back.

‘Mm. You will not get me with that, tesoro. You are just as sexually unusual as I am.’

‘W—excuse me?!’

Your fake, dramatic shock drew him to chuckle again, and this time he went further. He suddenly dove at you on the mattress, knocking the plate and half empty mug to the floor.

‘H-HEY!’

He easily pinning you beneath his enormous spider form, pressing you down into the sheets as his human hands grabbed your wrists and held them above your head.

‘M-Mig?’ you stammered.

‘Mmm, you want to tell me this does not excite you?’ he teased. You squirmed beneath him as the great weight of his furry abdomen pressed on your body, rendering it totally immobile. As you panted he purred.

‘This, arachnid monster does not stir something inside you, hm? You wish to tell me that?’ he murmured, his voice husky and deep. You felt a soft pulsing in your stomach as he held you down.

‘M-Mig—’

‘You do like that, don’t you?’ he whispered. He bent until his lips hit your ear, and he continued to assault you with sweet, husky words. ‘You like this.’

You felt his spider legs at his side, gently probing at your waist and hips. He felt the thick fur and the strange, unknowable body beneath it moving over your own, crushing and grinding into it with feverish intent. You felt him rustling, vibrating. You felt his hot breath on your neck, stirring the hairs on your nape and the slowly healing bite marks on your shoulder.

You let out a soft, involuntary whine. He felt it run through you.

‘Mmm… You like this’ he whispered again.

‘I-I do’ you panted.

He pulled back and gently extended his foreleg towards your face, letting the fuzz brush your lips. You obediently kissed it.

‘Mm…’ The sigh that rattled through his chest was endlessly content. That sight was like heaven to him, and as he leant back towards you, he returned the favour. He kissed your jaw, your cheek, then your lips, before whispering into your ear once more.

‘I am… far, from the, scared little creature you met’ he said. ‘The, insecure beast. And I have you, to thank for that.’

Despite your excitement you felt a flush of warmth in your chest as he spoke. It was a kind reminder that your sexual escapades, while fun, had a very real emotional weight behind them. This poor man he’d convinced himself he was unlovable, and your body had shown him the opposite was true. He was so lovable. He was so wanted.

For all the breeding talk and messy rooms, for all the soaked sheets, it was almost beautiful.

‘Beautiful man’ you whispered back. He released your hands so that you could hug him tight, and as you gripped him you felt his back muscles heaving beneath your palms. That sweet, gentle giant. He nestled into your neck with a moan.

‘Mi tesoro’ he purred into your neck. ‘Tú eres perfecta. Mi cosita perfecta. Quiero comerte, arañita. ¿Quieres comerme?’

‘You—oh, okay, I got it. Yes’ you whispered, half joking. ‘Yes, I’d absolutely love to eat you.’

You emphasised your point with a little clack of your teeth.

Mig pulled back and showed you his half-narrowed eyes. They were deep, bloody, almost dangerously passionate. He moved his hand and used it to draw your own up to his lips, and with the most tender care he licked your index finger. His tongue was warm.

‘Que rico’ he purred, his eyes fixed on your face. You felt a full body shudder rise up through your spine.

‘Mig—’ you barely got his name out before your lips were locked. All that could escape the ravenous approach of his tongue into your mouth was a desperate moan, one that he eagerly ate up.

‘Mm—Mm—!’

You parted hard only when his watch started vibrating. Mig fought to quiet its deafening beeps with a string of saliva still hanging between your lips.

‘Ah—my apologies, arañita, that—’

‘We gotta get going, right?’

He somberly nodded. ‘Yes. Apologizes, again, I—’ Mig went silent as you abruptly kissed him again, leaving one tender peck on his lips.

‘You’re all good. I’ll see you later, okay?’ you whispered. His sweet skin darkened into an auburn red beneath your affection gaze. He had to swallow hard before speaking.

‘Ah, yes. Please. I would, like that.’

Without another word you both began to get ready. You dragged on your suit while Mig struggled into a shirt, having still not quite got the hang of this whole clothing thing. You ended up having to finish his buttons for him when he grew agitated with the fickleness of slipping these tiny little nubs through such tiny little holes.

‘So, you uh—you’re, meeting with him today, right?’ you said halfway through finishing his final button.

Mig’s patient smile faltered a little, and you felt that familiar tension in the air.

It was the first time that he had been brought up since the day he’d come to your den, since his apology and attempted reconciliation through helping to define whether your genes were at odds with each other. It was clear that certain things still remained unsaid about the whole situation.

After everything that’d happened with Miguel, including his apology, you’d all been stuck in a kind of limbo regarding how you felt about each other. This also hadn’t been helped by the fact that you hadn’t seen him since the incident. You’d agreed to not let your paths cross while still rutting to avoid ruining the good will you’d briefly built, and now everything felt a little strange and precarious.

‘Yes’ Mig said slowly as he watched you work. ‘Yes, he—requested today that we go over the early plans for this experiment. He, sent a message about it while you were sleeping.’

You mindlessly found yourself fiddling with his shirt as you pondered how to respond. ‘Okay. So—how, are you feeling about that?’

Mig shrugged. ‘It is… strange. But, I don’t really know how to describe it. I suppose I am, tentative. But I am not angry. How about you, arañita?’

You shrugged back. It was hard to put all of your feelings into words. ‘Ah… I mean, I trust him. I do. It feels weird but, I trust that he is being honest, I trust that he can’t lie, and… you know.’

You saw Mig’s lip curl, but you couldn’t tell why. Your hands went to his flank for comfort.

‘We’re okay, right?’ you said quietly. To your surprise Mig nodded immediately.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. This has nothing to do with you, Arañita. Just—my relationship with you, it is… a comfort. My relationship with him, it is… a burden. I just don’t know how to trust him anymore, but, I can’t turn down this opportunity. It is, too important for us.’

You squeezed his hand as silence fell, letting you both stew in your thoughts. You hoped it would bring some clarity but as the minutes passed you could feel Mig getting restless, as his fur began to bristle and his feet began to tap. You decided it would probably be best if you both just got to work.

‘Well… You wanna get going then?’ you asked.

Mig nodded and slowly rose from the mattress, his leg outstretched to help you up. You stumbled to your feet with his fur clutched in your fists.

‘Okay. Well… let’s get to it’ you said, and swung open a portal back to the HQ.

…

Despite your reservations you decided to accompany Mig up to Miguel’s office and lab.

It was nice to be back in the HQ in this state. You were no longer hobbling about in that awkward, slightly stilted stance, and Mig was no longer utterly fixed to your side like a guard dog.

He was certainly guarding you, to be fair, just not as aggressively. You still smelled like him though.

Outside it was clear and bright. As you ascended to the top of the building you got to enjoy the warmth of the sun beating through the huge glass walls, a nice departure from the misty solitude of the forest, and you caught Miguel basking in the warmth in the elevator once or twice.

It was ever so sweet. He seemed to really enjoy vicariously being part of society, even from behind the walls of the HQ, safely separated from the people. You knew he liked to take breaks on the big pillars where the sun came through and lounge like a cat, basking in the warmth until his fur was hot to the touch.

Sadly though, today he’d be descending into the dark. You both made your way in silence through the upper tunnels into Miguel’s office.

In here it was eerie and dark. The light was dim in these winding corridors, with the walls jagged and mismatched, seemingly unfinished, and the floor covered in half-finished poorly constructed tech. You had to hop over half of it to get through, and Mig struggled to not get his fur stuck on the junk attached to the walls.

You could sense Mig getting nervous. His paws kept tapping in ways that belied a prey animal warning off its enemy, trying to sound bigger than it was, and every time you brushed him, he seemed to flinch. You ended up taking his hand in yours as you ventured further.

You made your way through into the enormous, cavern-like space of his interior office, and there he was.

Miguel was standing atop his floating desk, his back turned towards you and his hands outstretched. He appeared to be filing through a hundred tabs at once. In the darkness the screens were the only light, and their orange hue gave fine definition to his sculpted torso.

He looked tense, you thought. Not as tense as before, but still tense. He must be focusing hard.

Your echoing footsteps were the only thing to stir him. Yours were normal, but with Mig at your back it must have sounded like a whole group of people had just entered. Miguel glared over his shoulder. You caught him preparing what kind of tone he’d adopt, depending on who’d just entered his domain.

When he saw it was you, he panicked. You saw his eyes widen, his shoulders hunching hard as he struggled to clear his desk.

‘You—Ay, ¡chingado!’ he hissed under his breath.

You blinked. It was surprising, to say the least, to be greeted in such a way. His concern was immediately odd; usually he met you both with hostility or avoidance.

You and Mig came to a stop as he abruptly leapt from his floating office, not bothering to wait until it’d landed safely. The sound his body made when it hit the floor was terrifying.

‘You didn’t think to knock?’ he said as he approached. You eyed him up as he brushed himself down. You could feel the tension in the air like a chokehold; nobody knew how the other was supposed to act, how you were all supposed to talk.

You opted to just act as you usually would.

‘There’s no door, Miguel’ you drawled. He watched as you turned and gestured with both arms to the entrance of his office.

In silence he darted his eyes from the door to you. Slowly, his hands came down to rest on his sharp, small hips.

‘Mm. Yeah. I uh—I forgot, about that’ he said slowly.

Again, another surprising response.

Already you could feel the difference. He still had a bit of that edge, that tinted veil of short-tempered aggravation, but he seemed calmer. You could sense something beneath it now. A man who was trying to be stoic while secretly juggling a lot of feelings. An insecure, conflicted man. A man who cared about being good, about seeming kind, even with a short temper.

When he turned to you again his face was a little less stern. You could see the old, tired lines beneath his eyes and around his forehead, but his eyes seemed wider.

‘You, uh—you, okay?’ you asked awkwardly. Miguel seemed to notice your hesitancy, but you couldn’t tell how he felt about it. Was he upset? He did seem a little sad you were still being so quiet, so professional.

‘I’m as good as I can be’ he said, noting the absolute mess around his office. ‘Are uh- are you, okay?’

‘Ah, y-yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. I’m, good’ you replied. You saw him raise an eyebrow.

‘Ahuh. So, can we stop making small talk now, please? It’s unnerving. I feel like I’m going crazy. Please just insult me and get us back on track.’

You baulked a little at his abruptness, though you quickly began to appreciate him for it. You were acting weird, much too weird, and you didn’t want to do that. You were weirdly grateful to hear him be both forward and nonchalant.

It said everything you needed it to say right now, just, quietly.

‘Okay. Sure. Your office is disgusting, and your know-it-all attitude is unbearable’ you replied with a shrug.

To your surprise you saw him bite down a smile, almost like he was ashamed of it. ‘Mhm. There we go. Better.’

He turned from you to Mig and coughed, straightening himself out before addressing his variant. Mig was staring him down.

‘So. You… came’ he said slowly.

Mig just stared back. For one horrible, awkward moment he refused to speak.

‘In… I—what, are you referring to? Do you mean in the, slang tense, or—my physical arrival?’ Mig asked.

Almost instantly Miguel returned to his usual aggravated expression. ‘Showing up, the—the physical arrival, of course I meant the physical arrival, you—ay cabrón—’

‘I’ve learned that came is a word with multiple meanings’ Mig argued back. ‘I didn’t want to reply under an assumption—’

‘WHY WOULD I BRING IT UP IN THAT CONTEXT—No, no, calm, calm—’ Miguel turned and forced himself to face the wall, whispering in a mantra that you could only barely hear. ‘Tranquilo, tranquilo, todo bien, todo bien—’

When he turned back around, he was pinching the space between his brows.

‘Okay. Okay.’ He lowered his hand and held it out in front of him, stiff and sharp. ‘I was saying, I am surprised you showed up here, but I am… glad.’

Mig let out a low clicking noise as his eyes darted across Miguel’s body. The tension was still there, yes, but it seemed to be slowly dissipating in the face of pure awkwardness. You watched as Mig then clumsily held out his own stiff hand in front of his variants, almost as if about to shake hands, though without any contact.

‘Yes. I am, here to help’ Mig proudly proclaimed.

You thought you saw a physical vein pop in Miguel’s head. He quickly retracted his hand.

‘Dios mio—Okay, well, I guess I should just, get right to it.’

Miguel turned and clicked his fingers. In response, a wide, holographic board materialized before you, one that already displayed numerous overlapping theoretical equations and multi-verse diagrams. Just the sight of it made your head spin, but Mig approached it without a shred of fear.

‘Mm. Is this your, current work?’ Mig asked.

‘Yes, well—it’s my old multiverse work’ Miguel noted. He waved his hand on the corner of the board, allowing the holographic notes to be smudged away. ‘I’ve added a few notes over the past few days, when they came to me, but its incredibly underdeveloped.’

‘Yes. I can see that’ Mig replied.

Again, you saw Miguel’s eye twitch with irritation. He wiped it aside and continued.

‘So.. I may, give input on this, to you?’ Mig asked, his claws gesturing to the work. Mig nodded again. He looked strained, clearly he wasn’t looking forward to receiving any kind of criticism or input, but he allowed it.

Mig nodded in response, and after a few minutes gawking at the board, they began their discussion.

As the two men began debating logistics you waddled awkwardly in the back. You didn’t exactly feel helpful here. This was all far above your paygrade, these two genetic engineers at the top of their respective field waving their enormous brains around like it was nothing.

You tended to forget Mig’s backstory when it was just you and him at home. You forgot that he was a scientist once, and that at heart he still was.

You could see it now though, and despite feeling a little left out, it was comforting. It was nice to see Mig looking so comfortable and at home, back in his element as he followed Miguel’s ramblings without delay or pause.

Miguel, too, looked a little more comfortable. It seemed that talking work was a bridge that eased all of his social awkwardness. If he could just talk business, especially with someone who understood, he could just about pass as normal for a bit.

After all, Mig didn’t demand jokes or take breaks to make snide comments. He was flat, calm, to the point. For the first time you saw why they were variants of each other. They were both massive, very attractive nerds.

You slowly began to back up as the two started raising their voices in tandem.

‘Hey, I uh—I, best get going, it—’

‘Oh, Arañita!’

Mig turned as you spoke, though he seemed to have not noticed that you were leaving. He rushed over and gently lay a foreleg against your chest.

‘Mi tesoro, I think we will be quite busy in here today. I know I promised to leave and visit for lunch, but, would you be okay coming here?’

You blinked in surprise. ‘Ah—ah, yeah, of course. I mean I can leave you two to just work on it if—’

‘No, please, come by later’ Miguel called over his shoulder. ‘Otherwise I won’t stop, and I don’t need Jess on my ass all over again about eating healthy or skipping meals.’

‘Oh! That is a good idea. Arañita, you could bring some food from the cafeteria? And we can eat here together. I’ll wire you the cost through your watch, I’ll make sure it’s enough that you can get your favourite’ Mig suggested.

You felt your chest flutter a little beneath his sincere expression. He was smiling at you without a care, his fluffy foreleg placed right over your heart so he could feel it thudding.

‘Aha, well—sure. Sure. I’ll, bring food up and make sure you guys get a break. Just ah—don’t kill each other in the mean time’ you said, and though you whispered the last part as a joke Miguel snorted in response.

‘I can’t kill him, unfortunately. If I want to do this atom test I’ll need his legs to hold it steady. Until then he’s collateral equipment’ he called back. You rolled your eyes.

‘My god, what a charmer. Okay, well, in that case… I’ll, see you soon, okay Mig?’

Mig purred and bent down to kiss your forehead. ‘Yes. I will see you soon, mi Arañita. Stay safe.’

‘You too big guy. Get out there and ah, well… I guess, figure out how we can combine our genetics. So romantic.’

You took one final moment with your foreheads pressed together, breathing in the moment, before reluctantly parting. You returned to the HQ to work on being a lower rank superhero, and the two Miguel’s convened over the plan to continue their work.

Perhaps this would work out. Perhaps, this would be okay.

Link to next part

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x you #spider man 2099 #miguel x reader #smut #arachnophilia #drider #miguel o'hara smut #drider miguel o'hara

[1800titz]

HI FRIENDS. 18K here!! This time we explore breaks, because sometimes they are necessary! Also, we see Jealousrry, and we see Isla being Isla. Hope you enjoy!! (Feedback always appreciated!) (✿◠‿◠)

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE - WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE HERE

Open houses, to Harry, are a stage, and the gift of his gab leaves him basking in the luster of the spotlight with no stage fright. 

First time home buyers, young couples waltzing through hallways with gazes bouncing over walls with demure decorum, families with young kids who run amuck, darting from one end of the house to the other as he guides their parents through empty rooms, his dialogue friendly and bright — he finds comfort in any audience. Divorced milfs whose heels click over tile, mimicking wood varnish, trailing behind as his silver tongue sells, and sells, and sells — some of those really find his dialogue of “sleek, floor to ceiling windows,” and the “flowing floor plan,” and “custom built additions,” charming enough for hungry fingers to creep against biceps by the end of the tour. 

Harry, never in his life, has had so many nerves over a tour. Maybe just his very first open house, where he’d taken the reins for the first time alone. 

It makes sense, theoretically, that he’d be nervous to become enclosed in a space with Isla Cleery — his masked, blissfully unaware submissive, in a setting where so much was prone to go awry. It makes sense that he’d be nervous to let something slip, that he’d be nervous he’d find himself fucking into her, pressing her face against a full length bathroom mirror mid-tour, like the climax (pun unintended) to a dirty storyline in a professionally produced porno. Young, Hot Slut Isla Cleery Bounces on Raunchy Realtor Cock, or maybe Adorable Brunette Gets Pussy Pounding for a Discount. Something like that. That last one is especially depraved, but — gotta add some form of sordid cliche to create a flashy title. Click bait, if you will.

It makes sense to be nervous when his nerves are all he can think about, sitting behind the wheel of his Range Rover, parked on the curb as he waits for her own vehicle to turn the corner and pull up to the property. It’s all sort of a vicious cycle. 

She’d called him two days prior. He’d been laying in bed, in the midst of his Candy Crush bedtime ritual — culling ice tiles and smashing colorful blocks with point-inducing combos of stripes and wrappers. He’d stared at his phone as the LED display sparked alive with a banner over the top of the screen — an incoming call from an unsaved phone number. A pinch had worked between his brows, and he’d tapped over the banner with the pad of his thumb, clearing his throat and pressing the phone to his ear as he answered. A business call was a business call. 

“Hello?” his voice was low with incoming sleep, his vocal cords supplying a rasp on account of the silence he’d priorly stalled in. 

The pace of the organ behind his rib cage had picked up considerably when Isla Cleery’s soft voice had come in response, her cadence tinny through the speaker, undeniably delectable. 

“Hey!” his ears had swallowed her chime, “Harry,” the man had shifted a bit over his linen sheets, “This is Isla Cleery.” 

Isla Cleery. Bright, and chipper, and …randomly dialing his number at a strange hour in the night.

“Isla! Hi,” he’d responded, clearing his throat to curtail tacking on a quip of how can I assist you at this ungodly hour?

The uneasy wavelength of her inflection had spurred a crease to work over his brow bone — rushed, and breathy, and almost frantic in its phrasing. 

“Hi,” a pause, a half-hearted apology, “Listen, I’m so sorry to be calling you so late but — ah,” a stifled, little sound that had caused his nostrils to flare and had sent an inopportune rush of excitement slithering through to the trench of his tummy and frothing, “So, you sent me this other property, and I wanted to — I wanted to see that one. The one on, Mul-Mulner, was it?”

“Mulnich,” he’d gnawed into his lip, sitting up a smidge, braced on his forearm as his curiosity piqued. 

“Yes, the, uh, the Mulnich property. I wanted to see that one. So,” another pause that had his face contorting in bemusement — (was she running on a fucking treadmill?), “Can we set that up?”

The man had pulled the receiver back and toggled his counterpart to leak through the speaker setting, rolling onto his side as he’d swiped through his virtual calendar. 

“Sure. Yeah. Let me just check,” Harry had supplied, pausing and pursing his lips as he’d just listened — background noise, like a TV, a rustle, a sigh, a laugh track, an inhale, “Does Wednesday at two work for you?” 

“Can’t — can’t. Wednesday, at two. Anything — can you do anything later? In the evening, maybe?”

Harry had paused. He’d paused, and just listened, his ears working on overdrive to attempt to decipher whatever was spurring her strange behavior, the note of apprehension of her cadence, the — was he going insane? — desperation to her dialogue. There’d been nothing but the familiarity of a common laugh track and shuffling. His pupils had perused as he’d ripped his attention off of the odd display and swiped to give her a proper appointment. 

“Yeah,” the man responded after a moment of lull, clearing his throat, “I can do …five? If that works for you.” 

“Yes! Yeah,” He’d picked up on Isla Cleery doing the same on the other end of the line, her speech giddy and garbled, “Five. Wednesday. Yes. So, I can — I can come?” 

His jaw had set at the choice of words — there was just no way, but the frenzy in her inflection so vividly resembled the way she’d begged him back in the White Room, days prior. There was no way, he’d told himself. She didn’t have the gall. She didn’t have the audacity. She was working him into a ludicrous frenzy — or rather, he was working himself into one with the lewd train of thought derailing his composure. 

There was no way Isla Cleery was calling him and touching herself. 

“To see the property?” the voice on the other end had tacked on, coaxing him from the zoned out thrill of a wild imagination. 

“Yeah, yes. Of course,” he’d said. 

There was just no fucking way. 

More shuffling. A garbled sound. Something that’d incited his teeth to dig into his bottom lip, to sit up as he was met with silence beyond the sounds of a TV. 

“Isla?” 

More shuffling. There was just—

No. Fucking. Way. 

He’d felt his own stomach clenching up then, muscles rippling as blood pumped and the familiarity of deluded arousal, at the prospect, suffusing through his veins like quick-acting alcohol. 

“Isla?” Harry had prodded again, louder. 

“Yes, sorry, I’m so sorry. God, I just saw the time — I’m sorry, it was so unprofessional of me to call so late. I hope I didn’t—“ his face twisted up at the breathless onslaught of her breakless cadence, like her speech was expelled all in one, rushed breath, “Thank you for taking my call. Wednesday at Five. Have a good night.” 

His mouth had parted to inquire, because what the fuck — but from there, a click. The green logo of an active phone call had vanished. She’d hung up, evidently in a rush. Harry had stared up at his ceiling for a solid twenty minutes, ruminating on the odd encounter. 

There was, simply, as previously emphasized, no fucking way. 

So yeah, now, with his bare fingertips drumming over the leather of his steering wheel, he’s a smidge nervous to see her. His innards are twisting into knots by the time he catches sight of her white Corolla slipping in against the curb behind him. Harry climbs out of the car. 

“Hi,” Isla Cleery talks first. 

There’s no dainty bell sleeves trapped in car doors today — a pencil skirt hugs her hips, and a long sleeve with a funnel neckline adorns her torso. Harry notes the way she nonchalantly tugs to further lower a sleeve on the arm where he knows the bangle is manacled. 

“You’ve renounced …your renouncement of heels,” is the first thing he says. He wants to smack himself square between the brows with the heel of his palm — what an inane start. 

“Oh,” Isla shoots a glance to her choice of footwear — smart (Harry thinks, spiffy), dark pumps, “Yeah,” she bends a knee back and lifts an ankle a smidge, “Sort of had to. Felt a little weird wearing a pencil skirt with flats.” 

“And,” the young woman casts a small simper his way, “No evil grates, as of yet. Fingers crossed,” she lifts her arm, the left, where the bracelet isn’t, and bares friendly teeth. 

Evil grates …what the fuck? Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, her inner voice coaxes frantically. 

Isla is dying inside. For good reason — it makes sense. Being enclosed in a space, casually, with her dominant un-dominant-clad, has this weird butterfly-eruption effect. They bounce against her insides aimlessly, like little crack-infused insects. She’s nervous to let something slip — anything, and it’s too easy considering she’s been cuffed by a bracelet that sort of gives it all away within a split-second flash of gold and secrets. 

She’s unsure of what succubus-like tendencies of the day had possessed her to abandon her panties — that had been a dirty, last-minute decision of thrill, and it had seemed filthily exciting and sort of dangerous in the best way. The idea of ambling through a house tour with Harry, and knowing that she was entirely bare beneath her skirt. But now, faced by him, obnoxiously aware of her nude thighs grazing together under the fabric and … only …more debauched nudeness higher, well. 

Isla just feels like a pervert.

It bears resemblance to the sensation she had encountered two days prior, once she’d hung up the phone (and the sex-haze had worn off). That was another thing she was nervous about. There’s no way the man had just glossed over the encounter as entirely unsuspicious. It was weird, she was weird for that, Isla thought, she was weird on the phone with a stuttery, breathy inflection that was obnoxious in give-away, and he definitely knew something was off, if not the entire background behind the lust-driven call.  

She clears her throat in an attempt to ward off the flurry of nervous apprehension coiling in her stomach (that she’s sure will find its way among her vocal cords), “But. Yeah.” 

Harry grins. He’s just so — Isla ogles, kind of dreamily — handsome. And she knows him on an intimate level, (a very intimate level), but these glimpses of his face, in person… she doesn’t get the pleasure of espying those often. His hair, coiled and placed in soft ringlets, his dimples burrowing as teeth showcase and his mouth lights alive with a smile. Last time he’d been clean-shaven and smooth, but today there’s a soft dusting of facial hair over his jaw. She wants to kiss him, she wants to feel it brush against her own face, wants to feel it graze over her inner thighs as he sucks kisses into her skin like affectionate bruises as proof of his presence, and—

“Please,” the man folds his palms together, like a prayer, and pillowy pink curves with his statement, “No …impromptu rope swing climbing—“

Isla’s mouth jolts.

“In heels,” Harry tacks on, raising his eyebrows and gesturing subtly with his palms. 

“Ooh,” she rocks forward a bit, a pinch in her own brows, “Can’t make any promises. The rope swing calls.” 

“Oh it does?” 

“Siren song,” Isla nods. 

Harry’s mouth quirks. And then he clears his throat. 

“Well. I’m pleased you’re interested in viewing another property with me, but I can’t lie and say I’m not a bit disappointed that Sweeger Avenue didn’t particularly catch your eye. I’ll have to buy it if you don’t,” the curly-headed brunette jests. 

“It did!” Isla assuages, motioning with her palm and following as he turns slowly — a gesture that indicates he’d like her to follow in the direction of the house, “It’s a beautiful house, I’m just keeping my options open.” 

Harry hums. The young woman’s heels sink softly into the lawn, bright, neatly trimmed tufts crinkling with each step.

“Watch your step, there, darling,” the realtor warns softly as they venture over a pattern of concrete stone that leads up to the porch. 

“Oh — thank you.” 

She adds, once they’re stood under the awning of the porch, “And, well, you gave such a good tour, I figured another property in my price range was worth a look, right?” 

“Right,” he sends a soft grin over his shoulder at her (that shrouds the nerves he feels teeming below the surface), “Sure. Of course.” 

Isla watches him unveil a little key from his pocket and stuff it into the notch in the knob, twisting. “I will say,” the man starts, gaze cast to his handiwork, “while this one isn’t as… maybe ritzy as the last — y’know, all the bells and whistles of the reno’s — there’s still a lot of potential with this one. Character.” 

The door creaks and clicks on its hinges as it swings open. Isla follows him in, greeted by the sight of what she imagines, once upon a time, had been pasted with warm hues of color and overbearing wallpaper patterns. The entryway, as the first showing had been, is no showstopper with elegant twin staircases. The wood beneath her feet is scuffed, and faint stains litter the walls near the baseboards — but it’s far from time forgotten and termite embraced, as she’d assumed would tail the realtor lingo of potential. 

“Three bed, two-and-a-half bath — little more space with 2,052 square feet. Little more out of pocket, too, if you wanted to amp it up to that sort of à la mode Sweeger had,” the realtor’s shoes click over the wood in a sound that just oozes power, power, power, and Isla tails him, vision walloping the walls to curb the hunger that grows within her at something as innocuous as the sound of his dress shoes on wooden floors, “but if not, there’s loads of character to enjoy and build upon.”

The young woman sneaks a glance — they’re no serpentine patched loafers, but they’re smooth and glossy and jet. Simple. 

She wonders what pair will greet her on Friday night. 

“This one’s a bit newer than the last — but a lot of this stuff is original. Really a step back in time. Very open concept — vaulted floor to ceiling floor plan,” her vision flits over the living area, his velvety cadence like a pre-rehearsed soundtrack to fit a virtual tour posted on the web.

Isla gazes over the expanse of the innards — replicas of the imagery she’d scrolled through online. Only now, the lines are larger, the shapes are prettier, the space is more vibrant. Personal. It’s lived in — furnishings remain of the sellers, but there are no personalized touches of family photos (a key factor, she’d learned, to bolster prospective buyer imaginations, to spur their mental imagery into forming their own space). A half wall breaks a living area off from the entry. Set upon a platform (where tile sweeps from lounge to kitchen; a drab shade of beige others would perhaps not find nearly as endearing as Isla does — it’s a nostalgia thing, she’s sure) — between the wooded entryway that flows into an empty expanse of doors — are armchairs and a sectional in neutral tones. Beyond this, a formal dining area, and on the end is a little kitchen, broken apart from a hallway with another wall. 

“We’ve got these sleek lines that come with open space like this,” Harry gestures towards the sculpt of plaster and drywall shaping lips over windows in the lounge, “but we’ve also got little touches, like a time capsule,” he twists, motioning towards the staircase — an interesting piece unforeseen, “like the spiral staircase. White wrought-iron with wood paneling — you’re not gonna find these being built very often, anymore.”

Upon the grin the realtor casts her way, Isla ambles towards it, and she runs her touch over the railing. 

“Really pretty. You’re right. I don’t see many of these anymore.” 

Her sight is torn between the man — his charismatic demeanor, his good looks — and the space as he continues, lucratively well-versed, “I’m sure you note there’s no overbearing pops of color, or wallpaper that’s wasting away, since I told you it wasn’t all that renovated. Carpet’s been ripped up,” he slides the toe of his shoe over the wooden floorboards, a dark, warm chocolate, and then his hand comes to rap softly over the short wall dividing the kitchen from an expanse of hallway with doors as jade reaffixes onto her, “and the walls were repainted by previous buyers. All original wood and tiling, though.”

As Isla steps onto the platform, she regards chips in laminate. Yes. Original. 

“Between you and me,” her head twists — a friendly simper plays over the realtor’s cushiony (intimately familiar) lips, “I think that was a good choice. Versatile. But the rest, like these gorgeous light fixtures — all original,” he nudges towards the dining area behind her, and Isla pivots to face the table, “‘83, I believe.”

A bundle of two lanterns, elongated like cylinders with tapered ends. They hang over the table, a darling focus point. 

Isla peers back over just as the man’s tongue peeks out to slick his mouth, “But my favorite’s in the kitchen.”

Eagerly, she makes her way forward, where the kitchen lays, open for her exploration. It’s no showstopper. She gets it now — his sugared warning of original pieces. And it’s not like the kitchen is this heinous sight, but it’s timeworn. An outdated shade of mustard hugs the countertops, and the cabinetry is stale and dinged. Scratches and blemishes stain almost plastic-y looking white. The appliances look to be about forty years old — which adds up, according to the timeline. But there’s an island. It’s beautiful, and broad, and even if Isla has no interest in piling it with culinary disasters, it’s still pleasant ken. She finds that on the opposite side of that wall is a pantry. 

“I don’t know what to do with a kitchen like this,” her pink (gloriously fuckable, Harry thinks) mouth jolts as a smile slithers over, “It’s so. Large.” 

“You don’t cook?” 

Her irises roll up to the ceiling with her soft smile, “I microwave. TV dinners, mostly. I can put frozen waffles in a toaster, too. Maybe scramble an egg, but there’s no guarantee there won’t be shell in the mix.” 

It’s sort of funny, Harry thinks — the way polar opposites attract. Like magnets, he supposes. Really, very horribly horny magnets. He can’t remember the last time he had a frozen waffle. 

“But I guess I’ll have to learn, with an island like this,” Isla sighs and gestures. 

Well, if you’re ever in need of a taste tester… Harry bridles his flirty quip. Instead, he shows her what lies behind the doors of the hallway, the rooms downstairs. A half bath, a bedroom scantily furnished — an office, for her, perhaps. 

“You said you were a paralegal last time, right?” he cocks his head back at her over his shoulder as he leads the way, and Isla tries not to feel the warmth the remembrance of the minute detail ignites. 

Of course he remembered. It was his job. She bites her tongue to curb the instinctive, “Yes, Sir.” 

“I am, yeah.” 

“Lot’s of research and a work-from-home, after-hours situation, you said, last time? I think the study on this property will be very suited to your needs.” 

A laundry room, the entrance to the garage, a slow amble back towards the staircase. Ah, the staircase. The young woman feels a burnishing blush suffuse over her cheekbones when the male gestures with an open palm — an invitation for her to go on ahead of him. But there’s that little …no panties …thing. Her legs shift. Her skirt brushes against the back of her knees. There’s no probable likelihood of a flash, she’s sure. Still, that ruddiness glows over her skin as she takes the cautious, first step. She feels ludicrously lewd. 

“Wouldn’t want you to get your heel caught,” the realtor states, strawberry mouth twitching. 

No, that would certainly cause far more than a glimpse of a flash. 

“Truly a gentleman,” Isla quips, and by the time she’s wound halfway up, Harry only a couple of steps behind, she tacks on, “God. It really is sort of a scary set of stairs.” 

“Climbing a rickety rope swing is scary,” Harry scoffs from behind, his cadence lighthearted. 

A hallway with a landing that allows for a gaze upon the first story. A wall of doors. A bathroom with an unsightly, pink tub. A cozy original with old-world-charm, according to the realtor; definitely creative wording, Isla thinks. 

“Master bedroom,” the man slips the final door open, and Isla’s irises bounce from window to window — they suffuse the room with what she imagines would be bright, refreshing daylight. Now, it comes in the form of a warm, yellow glow with the time of day. 

“Very roomy,” she comments. It is. The square footage of the space, she’s sure, has to be roomier than the master bedroom of the first showing, but perhaps the emphasis on the broadness of the space has to do with the sheer fact that the first showing had been bare, and this room holds furniture — even still, the space is bigger. Despite the queen sized bed, throned by the waxy, wooden headboard, the nightstands that mirror either side of the mattress, and the matching wooden dresser, the space is open. 

“S’no reno’d Sweeger Ave,” the realtor supplies, wandering a handful of steps behind her as she makes her way into the room, “But it’s roomy, like you said. Bright. Beautiful windows — lots of light. Can you imagine yourself here?” 

It’s a queen sized bed. Isla is not wearing panties, and she’s reminded of this particular fact as she stares at it and imagines Eros bending her over the edge of the mattress. She thinks of Harry’s chest pressing up behind her as his broad, ring-clad digits slide over her waist, settle on her stomach. She thinks of his mouth pasting to the crook of her neck, sponging kisses over the expanse of her skin as his soft breaths caress her nerve endings. She thinks of him walking her forward, his crotch glued to her hips. She thinks of fingers grappling for wrists and a firm grip as he manhandles the joints behind her back with ease. She thinks of him flipping her skirt up and discovering that she’s bare beneath it, thinks of a palm fondling, of croons in her ear on what a filthy, naughty girl she is, of his fingers slipping lower and his teeth grazing over her neck and—

“Great room, innit?” 

Her eyes flash to him at a dangerous speed, his words from the prior week hurtling through her mind as he tells her, tone entirely innocuous, “But I think there’s something missing.” 

An ottoman, the young woman thinks, her expression kept impressively neutral, all things considered. An ottoman.

“Accent wall there, long curtains with a sheer layering, different furniture set — contemporary, I’d go with, a rug,” the male taps his foot over a stark area of the floorboards, just ahead of the footboard of the bed, “Nice shag rug. Right here.” 

Shag rug. 

Shag rug — textile characterized by longer, heavier pile, so as to have the appearance of being shaggy. Isla imagines a white rug in tufts, warding her brain from mental images of the man physically shagging her on said rug. Yes. These are all very …compelling suggestions.

“Mhm,” Isla hums curtly. 

“And, y’know, all this light lets the room whisper sweet nothings about the beauties of the approaching day, but I think, the view,” he takes slow steps over chocolate wood to tug blinds open, “beckons sleepless nights.” 

Sleepless nights — Isla is going to wring her own neck. Despite the arousal that seeps through her at the dirty-fucking-twist of insinuation, she makes her way to his side for a peer. Beyond the horizon of plains and landscaping lies skyscrapers — the city a blip of scenery with the sky as its backdrop. 

“Oh.” 

“Mm. Really pretty at night, I’d think.”

“It’s a …good thing I have a strong constitution for sleepless nights,” Isla swallows, “I’m sure the view will keep me entertained.” 

Harry steals a soft glance, down at her side profile. He’s bridled his flirtish nature, he’s restrained his quips. He’s bent over backwards for sanctity. But—

“If you ever find yourself in need of a midnight conversation partner, you know who to call.” 

The young woman peers up at him through her lashes. It’s a blatant implication of her untimely phone call two days prior. He’s teasing. He has to be simply teasing. But the way his mouth twitches, the way his eyes fix on her — there’s something… something beyond innocent jest. 

“Offering your services as a nocturnal conversationalist?” she tries to keep the nervous note from her cadence as she takes a step away — he had to be flirting. “I’m a lucky girl.” 

“Real estate agent by day, midnight talk-show host by night. I’m a man of many talents,” the curly-headed brunette shrugs, digging ring-adorned fingers halfway into pockets of slacks. A soft smile plays over his soft mouth. It’s all sort of lascivious. Isla wants to clamber back onto a stranger's bed in a master bedroom that doesn’t belong to her, and she wants to ogle his reflection glint at her from the waxy headboard as his hips pump forward. As his cock pummels into her. A warmth pulses between her thighs, beneath her pencil skirt. 

The reminder of her arousal, left in a dried stain post her drive home, confronts her as she strips in the confines of her apartment, alone, nearly two hours later. 

Harry is not a green-eyed monster. 

Which is an irony, because in the realm of indulge, there’s more than a handful of people who would confidently deem him with that pretty title. 

Perhaps, better phrasing (that wouldn’t allow for the claim to be twisted by unruly, prior play partners), would be that Harry is not innately a jealous man. He’s a sure man, a man who knows his ambitions and aims — bluntly so. He’s a man that doesn’t like to share during scenes, but he’s upfront and honest about it. There’s no games, no teetering tugs and yanks on strings of emotions. He’s not a man that is known to ooze green at the sight of his partner fraternizing with someone else, and he’s definitely not the type of man to care about those things in any context outside of Indulge. 

A person is a person — their own person. That’s not his thing to fuck with. Harry is not a green-eyed monster that bleeds envy with begrudging glances. 

The sight of Isla Cleery, though, shrouded by her commonplace lace, leant up against the bar, in the midst of lively chatter with some shirtless dom adorned by an eye-cover with plastic-y tufts of horns — that culls an odd reaction from him. It’s strange — she’s early. He always shows before her to reserve the room of the night, and she arrives and waits in an obedient kneel until he opts to join her. But she’s early — she’s at the bar, and he’s just booked the room (The White Room, tonight). Harry nearly misses the sight of the interaction altogether. 

But he doesn’t — she catches his eye, clad in a set of dark, silky underthings and sheer stockings. He watches her toe back against the stem of one of the barstools. She’s got her cherry concoction in hand, a plethora of syrupy fruit upon a bed of ice and artificial sweeteners, and she’s laughing at something her counterpart says. In response, the man’s grin is vibrant over the visible expanse of his lower face. Harry doesn’t know who he is at first. But then he squints, and his vision roves. Faunus. He vaguely knows of the dominant, but the most prominent thought that floats to the forefront of his mind involves the jest Isla had made prior to the drafting of their contract. The one where she’d mentioned the alternation of rocking her shit, and the name Faunus had been introduced in the prospective party.  

And it’s not like Harry bleeds jade at the sight, but he kind of does. Because, the thing is, next week is their last scene, contractual obligations concerned — and. Well, it makes him feel ill. The thought of his submissive — of Isla Cleery, slipping to her knees for Faunus as their own contract comes to a close, the thought of Faunus manhandling her in the same way Harry does every Friday night, it all makes his jaw set from across the lounge. Because those are their Fridays. Something stirs in him when Faunus places his hand onto her arm — because, what the fuck? 

Slowly but surely, he makes his way over, slipping into the interaction from behind his submissive. He brushes a gloved palm against the small of her back, and upon the touch, Peitho stiffens and twists. And then she relaxes. Smiles all pretty at him, too. 

“You’re early,” the hand slides to the vale of her waist and squeezes softly as he presses close and speaks low. It’s obnoxious, Harry’s aware — opting not to initially acknowledge the other member of the conversation, but Faunus watches the two with a silent eye, anyhow, so. 

“I was late last week, so. Wanted to be early this time. Didn’t know you were here, Sir,” the submissive supplies, rocking forward onto her toes, and then lets the outside of her arm glue to his torso as he pastes to her side. 

Harry hums. And then he casts his gaze onto Faunus as the man speaks. “Eros, right?” the male’s mouth curls softly as he nudges towards Harry. 

“In the flesh,” Harry grins politely. Politely. Because he’s polite.

His counterpart, glistening with a sheen of sweat under the purple-ish tinges of the lights, takes a swig from his glass — water, Harry assumes it to be, but you never can really tell in the hue of the lounge, “You’re a little infamous around here.” 

Infamous. Sounds about right. 

“Am I?” 

“Mm. I’ve heard only good things from this one, though,” the horn-masked man gestures with his glass towards Isla. In turn, she shifts a little further against her dominant. 

“Yeah?” Harry’s chin dips toward the submissive, then, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “All good things, baby?” 

Isla nods and hums, melting with the side of her cheek against his chest. 

“But between you and me,” Faunus leans forward a smidge, elbow braced over the marbled bar countertop, “This one’s a bit of a handful.”

Harry grins politely. Yeah, the reminder that this man has manhandled his submissive in the same manner he has makes him go a bit neon green. What the fuck. And Isla — she just squirms against him. Harry’s well aware that the nonchalant small talk of her, with no acknowledgement, like she’s not stood in the midst of the conversation, riles her in a filthy way. And Faunus seems to know this tidbit of information, too — his irises, glinty under the lights overhead, slink from Harry to Isla and back again. It’s a subtle motion, but it shows Harry enough. The dominant’s mouth quirks, gaze subtly steely in the narrow of his lashes. 

“Mm. Well, between you and me,” the hand that’d previously settled on her waist slips up to her hair, cards through past the nape of her neck, digits entangling in the roots, “she knows her place with me,” Harry shoots her a look, and tugs firmly by slowly tightening his fist. It’s a subtle motion — but the pinpricks of pain that burst over her scalp, as a result, have her pulse quickening. 

And Harry knows. He knows and his lips nearly crook up, but he curbs his smirk. And Faunus can ogle all he wants — but he can’t touch. Can’t draw the same reaction from her. That thought has satisfaction blooming in his chest. 

“Don’t you, darling?” 

When the young woman returns in concurrence, her inflection is breathy and soft. “Yes, Sir.” 

He’s jealous, Isla thinks. She’s not sure why. But he’s jealous, and he tugs on her hair like a showcase of his dominion, like she’s simply a plaything for him and him only to lewdly siphon soft reactions from. It’s so blatant, the way he does it all in front of Faunus. He’s claiming his territory. It’s subtle, it’s obnoxious, it borders on impolite, but it lights a fire within her like no other. 

“The White Room,” Harry croons against her ear, low in decibel, “S’open. If you were up to play.” Jade slinks back up to dull blue, to the opposite dominant watching the display — a blank slate of curious interest. His gloved fingers untether gently and he speaks a bit louder, face turned back towards Faunus, “Wouldn’t want to tear you away and impose, though.” 

The White Room. With Eros. Yes. Isla wants to go to the White Room with her Eros. 

“Oh — no,” Isla assuages quickly, pivoting her head from Faunus to Eros and back, “Great — it’s been great, catching up, with you,” she motions with her palm towards the horn-masked dom. 

Faunus pauses, as if musing, and eventually the corners of his mouth curl up softly. 

“Likewise,” he tells her, gesturing with his glass, before his vision skids from Isla to Harry and back. His tongue peeks out to glide over his bare lips. Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes wander roguely over the submissive’s silhouette — a tad flirtily, if he’s not mistaken, before he tacks on what sounds uncomfortably ominous to him. “I’ll see you around, Peitho.” 

Harry’s jaw sets and he watches the other man all the way as he ambles off and disappears into the midst of the crowded lounge to mingle. It’s childish, he’s aware, to feel as though his turf is being invaded upon, like a personally deemed sector of a sandbox, and Isla his prized, shiny …bucket …or something (what do children play with in sandboxes? Harry can’t recall, at the moment). And he’s aware that Isla is not his possession, per se, but she sort of is. For the window of six weeks, she is his and his only, and the way he seems to recall it, they’re only on number five. His head snaps to her as the submissive clears her throat. She’s peering up at him, her mouth twitchy in giveaway. 

He’s jealous, Isla thinks, and obviously so, the envy in him visible like figurines through the glass of a snowglobe. 

“Had a nice time catching up with your friend?” Harry settles on. His inflection is smooth like molasses and low like a foreboding omen — a siren song. Isla contemplates getting him jealous more often.  

“Yeah,” the young woman blinks, “Faunus is always great.” 

Her lips twitch on the latter, and the word choice is made with such outright and overt intent to goad him — but she’s so harmless about it, too, afterwards nestling against him sweetly post the double entendre. Always great. Always a great fuck. Harry gives into her game shamelessly. He fingers at the strap on her brassiere as his mouth quirks wryly. 

“This is a pretty little piece. Wear it for Faunus?”

“No,” Isla’s cadence doesn’t offer nearly as much resolve, and she jolts minutely as he lets it snap back into place. “Wore it for you.” 

“For me?” the dominant raises his eyebrows, playing coy, and smooths the pad of his finger over an embellishment of lace over the edge of a cup as he tacks on, a little derisively, “How sweet.” 

Then, Eros juts with his chin towards her unfinished rocks glass of sugar and syrup and fruit with the barest bones of their original nutrients, “Are you gonna throw that up if I play rough tonight?”

The brazen insinuation causes Isla to swallow, her chest growing a little tighter and the valley between her thighs growing a little warmer. 

“Wouldn’t be a pretty sight. S’the White Room, after all,” his irises glimmer mischievously. 

“No,” Isla protests, her gaze jumping from the glass to the shiny latex disguising his stupid, perfect face. A beat. The sound of the glass grazing over the wood coaxes his eyes to her hand as she slides it away. Yes. 

“No, no. Feel free to finish it. I’ll wait.”

Despite this, her eyes jump between the half-empty glass and his face. His lack of tout — the empty, unspoken allurement of possibility — only lure her further. Take your time, I’ll patiently wait to do cruel and unusual things to you (that would’ve probably been deemed beyond illegal in the middle ages). It’s — yes. That is, no. No. Isla does not want to wait, her imagination running rampantly on the prospects of a mean Eros spurred by a jealous streak suddenly prevalent. 

That she’s wrenched from him. 

“No, I’m good,” Isla tells him, her cherries discarded. 

Harry blinks at her, and then responds, his mouth curling softly, “Really, love. S’no rush. Got all night to,” her fingers jump to her palm, as he stretches it and settles it against the countertop, pleather-coated digits splaying, “play.” 

Play. Her interest itches horribly to know what his agenda for the night entails. 

“No — no, I’m good. I’m good,” the submissive clears her throat, sliding the cup away just a smidge more with the flex of her fingers. Harry’s mouth quirks. 

“You’re awfully eager.” 

Good. He’s pleased to coax the reaction — he’s pleased that Faunus, evidently, doesn’t even have the ability to harvest her attention in the same manner. Good, good, good. 

“Well. White Room’s waiting for you, then. I’ll meet you in there,” Harry blinks at her, and then his eyes flash to his fingers as those come out to smooth over the bangle manacling her wrist, “Lemme just tie up some loose ends.”  

Isla looks at him then, for a second, speaking volumes through her expression despite the majority of it being clandestine by swirls of dark fabric. Loose ends. He can tell she’s bemused that he doesn’t personally walk her, hand-in-hand. 

“Okay,” the young woman settles on. 

“Okay?”

“Okay, …Sir.” 

He watches her walk off down a secluded hallway at the edge of the lounge, and then he blows out a breath and turns to the mocktail bartender on shift. Bliss — pretty corset, pretty, bedazzled mask, and a pretty mean dominatrix on the weekends when she’s not tending to the bar, he’s heard. 

“S’cuse me, could you just—“ he gestures with the glass once the bartender’s in earshot, and she lifts her face from the sink at his cadence, “switch this off her tab onto mine.”

He doesn’t have to specify — he knows Bliss well enough. They’ll engage in the occasional small talk. Mundane shit, usually; the weather, the housing market, reputable toy artisans. Or, they had. These days he spends much of his Indulge time playing rather than strung up at the bar. Anyways, it’s the least he could do for Peitho, considering… well. The agenda for the night. The least. His mouth nearly crooks at the thought. 

“Oh, it’s not on her tab, babes. Guy that was with her already tabbed it out.” 

Oh — Oh. Okay. O-kay. His head swivels back to the throng of Indulge, where Faunus has vanished into the midst of the mingling masses. So now Faunus was buying her mocktails. Sick.

“How …nice,” Harry turns back, a tick in his jaw. 

By the time the door clicks open from behind her, Isla’s knees are already shifting into their welcomed ache. It’s all sort of a routine she’s become beyond well accustomed to. The young woman listens to his dress shoes pad over the floor, and then she feels his hand brush through her hair from the back. 

“Come sit.” 

He says it in a way that doesn’t imply that he’s presently vexed — it’s easygoing enough, but his tone nearly carries the impending weight of the incoming scene. The submissive feels his palm withdraw, and then watches the backs of his dress shoes move, for a moment, as he winds past her towards the chair. And then she clambers up and follows. The mischievous jest Isla had basked in, priorly, starts its usual gear-shift into apprehension. Because being in a room, alone, with Eros, post whatever brazenly mouthy infringements Isla has managed, doesn’t leave her with …nearly as much pluck. Though, unfortunately for Eros and his ego, (or perhaps fortunately — she’s convinced he quite enjoys manually taming her into submission far more than he lets on), she’s still far from that state of mindless subservience he always manages to draw her into by the end of a session. The dominant sinks into the cushion and blows out a breath as if to discard the heft of a long workday, and his thighs splay a smidge as his eyes convey, expectantly through the slit of his mask, that he’d like her to sit. Isla slips into his lap, against the sturdy muscle of one of his parted thighs, and his leg shifts beneath her as his arm winds around her waist to cradle her close. 

“I didn’t fuck you last week, and you’re already looking elsewhere, darling?” are the first words out of his mouth. 

The statement is said as a jest — but it’s only half of that. His strawberry mouth is twitchy, and the pads of his digits are gentle on her thigh, and his tone is calm, and friendly, and traitorously sweet. 

But Isla knows better. 

Her mother had always said, behind every joke there’s some truth, sort of like a more wholesome version of drunk words are sober thoughts — far more kid friendly, but. The young woman couldn’t relate more to the wise piece of advice than she was, now, in this moment. Because her Eros is green, and obviously so. It radiates from his pores, the envy, no doubt a response to seeing Faunus’s palm pasted to her arm (she’s sure her innocuous, little comment played some part, as well), and the tidbits of his vulnerability make something oddly twist in her. Something like — feelings, beyond the playroom. It pleases her, in a red-flag-on-her-part sort of way, knowing that he cares. But more than that, the sentiment leaves her brimming with arousal. A jealous man was never a kind man, and a mean Eros, tucked away with her in a reserved playroom at Indulge, always left her simmering in welcomed anticipation. 

“Of course not,” she assuages, tracing the folds of fabric in his collar and fixing them up with a smoothing touch, her pupils fixed to her fingers as she tacks on, “I’d never look elsewhere when I’m contractually obligated to uphold monogamy.” 

It’s a tease that’s blatantly meant to rile him — the corners of her mouth buckle like an afterthought, and beneath her touch, the dominant’s chest heaves with a sigh. 

“Contractual obligation. S’that all my time is to you, then?” 

His tone is lighthearted, but the words have that undercurrent of brooding, like her words have wounded him, and Isla thumbs over a button and pops it through a loop — just for a bit of skin. 

“All my cock is to you?” the man shifts below her, his tone still playful, “A contractual obligation?” 

“No,” she protests, her fingers twitchy before his chin dips to ogle her handiwork, and a palm clasps over her wrist to bring the fingertips to his mouth and nip. 

“Hm?” he prods, teeth grazing over skin playfully, “Gonna go back to alternating having your shit rocked when my time is up?” 

Okay. Little less playful. His cadence is still light and good-natured but. Oddly heavy question. That little, unspoken slice of reality peeks through the facade of joking, traces streaking like dawn through cracks of blinds, if only for a moment. 

Isla swallows. Her pupils paste to his cushiony mouth, to the tips of her digits pressed lightly between his teeth. She settles for something safe, her breath held in her chest. Actually, maybe a little unsafe, given the trajectory of his emotions. 

“If you want me to, Sir.” 

Placate, placate, placate. The words are all that any dominant could want — submission in its ultimation. Whatever he wants of her. Despite this, the statement has something like …disappointment twisting in his chest. He doesn’t want that. He wants to elongate their contract, he wants to keep railing Isla over, and over, and over, he wants to spend the rest of timeless time with her as his in the realm of Indulge, and only his. And he doesn’t want it to be up to him. Tell me no, Harry wants to say. Tell me you want me and only me. Show me you care, the way I do. 

Instead, his mouth purses. 

If there’s any inkling of protest to her words, the dominant doesn’t showcase it. She’s curious to hear his response, but he doesn’t give one. Instead, he intertwines their fingers and shoots her a glance. The topic of conversation pivots. 

“Were you a good girl for me this week, sweetheart?” 

Oh, goodness gracious. She’d nearly forgotten all about Monday night’s debacle, so honed and amused by the envy the dominant was radiating. The mischievous streak in her really starts to fade, then. 

Was she a good girl for him this week? Vague recollections of a very satisfying vibrator pressed between clammy thighs in messy sheets at late hours flit through her mind. 

And her Eros on the other end of the line.

There’s a sudden heaviness to her tongue. It’d be easy to fib and pretend she hadn’t slipped up with hungry fingers between hungrily splayed thighs, just as he’d requested — commanded — her not to do. It’s not like he’d know.

Was she a good girl for him? No. Isla certainly wasn’t. 

She admits, after a moment of deliberative lull, “No, Sir.” 

Sir, she’s tacked on, politely — without coaxing, Harry notes. It’s the first thing he notes, in fact, besides her candid confession of misconduct. After that, it’s the way her body language has morphed from joking to tensed, to the way her fingers rub together in her lap, to the way her chest rolls lightly with her slow, bated breaths. 

“No?” he prods softly, pondering on her admission, “You weren’t a good girl?” 

Behind his ribcage, his heart kicks it up a notch from priorly peaceful equilibrium into a wild, racketing hammer. Because if she tells him what he thinks she’s going to tell him, if she confirms his suspicions and proves that he hadn’t spent Monday night driving himself mad, with hands raking restively through his tendrils in lieu of getting a good night’s rest post her late night call, then—

“I …touched myself, Sir.” 

And there it is. 

Isla bites into her cheek when faced with his hum of acknowledgement — of course the sound is coated with condescension, as if he’d expected her to fail. 

“And you came, I assume?” jade glimmers between lengthy lashes and shadows of an unnecessary disguise as he tacks on, “I mean, I’d hope disappointing me was worth it, at least.” 

It — what? Isla toes at the back of her opposite ankle, a crease working between her eyebrows. 

“I didn’t — I don’t know,” she blows out a breath, “how to answer this question.” 

“You don’t know if you came?” his own eyebrows rise in teasing, inflection jestingly incredulous. It’s a good sign, for now, the young woman thinks. She’d expected green to turn steely, but he seems keen on poking at her — which she’ll take rather than to be confronted by his demeanor of disdain. 

“No— I,” she sighs, craning her neck back and crossing her arms as the dominant’s pillowy mouth twitches, “I did,” upon the glint of warning to his expression, even mostly bridled by rubber, the submissive curbs the exasperation that’s leaked into her tone, backtracking softly, “I mean, I don’t — I wasn’t trying to disappoint you.” 

“Mm.” 

“And — well, anyways. I think you should be the opposite of disappointed, considering I came clean,” the twist she takes on the circumstances, to Harry, are a little appalling. 

He just sort of hums, entertained, and states, “S’that where the bar is, now?” and upon her vexed look, commences a slow clap, “Applause for the bare minimum.” 

“Amnesty,” she cocks her head, sitting up a bit, unperturbed by his derisive sarcasm, “is a thing, by the way, if you weren’t aware.” 

At that, he literally feels the dimples poke into place beside the curl of his smile. “You’re quite funny.” 

“I know,” Isla tells him after a moment, her shoulders sagging as she tips her chin to her hands and picks at her nails, her voice low, “I’m hilarious.” 

Harry brushes a pleather-clad palm over her thigh before he bats at her hands. He clears his throat. “How many times?” 

Her face tips up, like she’s confused by the question, and the man clarifies, “How many times did you touch yourself?” 

Rather than persisting with the jittery habit of nail picking, she mollifies by tracing down his chest, over his dress shirt, sort of hoping to smooth out the incoming tension of the scene in the same way her touch smooths the fabric, “Just once.” 

“Tell me,” she watches his tongue peek over before his swipes over his lips, and her vision only flits away for a mere moment when she feels his colossal palm squeezing at her hip, “how you did it.” 

She blinks up at him, like the request baffles her.

“S’not that difficult of a task. Well,” Harry pauses, and his eyes roll to the side with the patronizing dig, “The first one wasn’t either, but.” 

“I—“ the young woman’s jaw sets as she lifts her chin at the jab and she declares with resolve (plucky, Harry thinks, considering the circumstances), “with my vibrator.” 

Vibrator. Interesting. He hadn’t heard it on the other end of the phone — sneaky girl. The chatter from the television, obnoxiously loud, floats to the forefront of his mind, then.

“Okay,” he nudges with his chin, “Getting somewhere…”

“Third setting,” Isla states, deadpan in decibel, “and I came.” 

And then his palm locks, softly, over the back of her neck, and he physically guides her to lean forward against him. The dominant’s strawberry lips brush over Isla’s ear as he speaks, low and tantalizing, and then that same mouth pastes to an expanse of skin just below. 

“Details, little miss. And less attitude. Paint me a picture.” 

Oh — her pulse stutters. 

“Were you,” his mouth alternates between questioning and pressing open-mouthed kisses that incite chills to bloom over her flesh, “watching something? Thinking of something? Hm?” 

The young woman’s unsure of the cause behind the sudden, sensual twist in their discussion, but she tries to bare her neck a bit, quite literally the furthest from complaining. 

“I — the TV was on. But I was thinking about you,” she admits, and the dominant slides the opposite hand around the curvature of her hip, fondling over the side of her thigh. 

“What about?” 

“Your—“ the man’s mouth curls up lewdly against her skin in response to the stutter he coaxes as his hand ventures to her backside, squeezing — the way her throat bobs with a swallow, “your hands, touching me. Your mouth — on my, on my—“

“Your…?” Harry wheedles tauntingly, his hand tracing its way back onto her front and teasing at the hem of her underwear.

Isla’s confession comes breathy, and her legs splay apart a smidge when he dips his forefinger past the barrier just a tad, brushing over the smooth, sensitive crease between her pelvis and her thigh, “My pussy.” 

“Mm. S’that all?” 

“No,” her lashes flutter behind the lace, “I thought about — about your cock. Thought about you fucking my mouth, and,” her speech dies off as his fingers wriggle further beneath her panties and brush against her clit.

“And?” 

“and I thought about you,” Isla swallows, screwing her eyes shut, “…holding my nose, as you did it. So I couldn’t breathe.”

The pads of his fingers stutter in their caress. Shit. His nostrils flare at the filthy admission, and the way desire teems through his veins and arousal coils through his tummy at the thought is pure, hedonistic darkness. When Harry asks her, “What else?” his voice is considerably huskier against the crook of her neck. 

“I thought about you slapping me — my face,” her chest rolls as his fingers dip and gather sopping slick — she knows she’s ludicrously wet, reliving the fantasies that’d become tucked away in the dells of her mind, in combination with his soft touch, will sort of do that. It all has her feeling as if a fucking furnace glows angrily between her thighs. “I thought about—“ her jaw sets as she tips her head back, and he nips at her earlobe, “you spanking me for touching myself. How sore I would be over the next few days, having to sit at work.” 

“Spanking you with what?” Harry’s cadence comes muffled and heady against her skin. 

“Just — just your hand,” Isla’s heart races in her chest as he draws circles, like it beats in laps that trace the track of the motion. 

The dominant presses open-mouthed kisses to her skin, crooning, “Just my hand? Y’dont think you deserve the paddle or the strap for disobeying me?”

Isla doesn’t think much of anything when his tongue pokes out and glides over straining muscle.  

“Whatever,” she swallows, his fingers fisting desperately at the sturdy muscle of his thigh, “Whatever you want, Sir.” 

“S’not whatever I want, though,” he hums, “It’s about what you deserve. So what,” his fingers press a little harder, his cadence grows a little hungrier, “do you think you deserve?”

“I — I deserve whatever you decide I deserve, Sir.” 

“Mm. Well. I think,” Isla gasps and jolts, her breath morphing into a soft whimper when he pinches her clit between his digits, “You don’t deserve to entertain any of those little fantasies. Not after you couldn’t follow one simple rule.” 

She sags as his fingers withdraw and the elastic snaps back into place. 

“Don’t deserve to have your mouth fucked,” Harry sighs, shaking his head as if disappointed by the statement, himself (good, he’d be missing out, Isla thinks petulantly), “Don’t deserve to have my hands, or my mouth. I suppose spanking wouldn’t even serve as a punishment for you, would it?”

“Because,” he motions with a hand, “we’ve done loads of that, and you’re still what, darling?” 

Isla gnaws on her bottom lip, chin tilted to her hands. 

“I’m talking to you,” she’s caught off guard and has to bridle a gasp when he grips onto her jaw with a gloved palm and roughly guides her face in the direction of his own. The sudden emergence of his stern streak leaves her doused in want, “You’re still what?”

It’s appalling, honestly, the way a mercurial flip of a switch in his character could affect her so deeply, but there’s nothing Isla finds more arousing than when her Eros gets like …this. 

“…Disobedient,” Isla tells him softly, after a moment, not entirely sure of the answer he’s looking for. 

“A disobedient, little whore—“

Isla swallows dryly, his words — his irritated tone, sinking straight to her core. 

“—that just doesn’t seem to learn.” 

“I’m sorry,” the submissive starts after a moment, but her cautious apology is hindered by his scoff, a shake of his head that leaves light bouncing off the glossy hood, a sound of sardonic amusement. Her pupils, through the lace, bound to meet his narrowed gaze. 

“No, you’re not.”

Isla swallows. He’s right. She’s not exactly this virtuous angel who’s lurched into a pit of misdeed because of a careless accident. And she’s not exactly regretful of it, either. 

The way the dominant squeezes over her hip then, the fondle of his hand gentle in contrast to the foreboding words he tacks on — the way his irises sweep over her like he’s nonchalantly deliberating her fate, has an eager thrill of the looming danger wracking down the knobs of her spine. “But you will be.” 

Loads of people are adrenaline junkies — the bungee jumpers, the skydivers, the bull riders, the mountain bikers, the people who like to watch scary movies in theaters with 3D glasses, melted back against their seats as the volume of the music dims and a pregnant pause of impending doom stalls. The ones who stand in lines, veins teeming with anticipation as they edge closer and closer, zig-zagging through dividers in slow, stalling steps, all to become seated in a rollercoaster with a 90 degree drop. That excitement on the drop billows through their arteries like a chaser. It’s all sort of the same thing. Isla just has …unorthodox penchants. Methods. She happens to enjoy having the shit beat out of her, maybe, or being terrorized by something rooted in fear. Because when you mix adrenaline and sex, it’s just. Unfathomable. Truly a top-tier recommendation, if Isla were ever coaxed to recommend it. But it’s all the same thing. All a similar outcome. 

Isla’s absolutely aching for that enslaving rush, and then Eros nearly gives her whiplash as he just …looks at her and says, “Maybe we shouldn’t play at all tonight.”

She can’t manage to muzzle the bloom of bemused disappointment that seeps into her tone, “I — what?” 

“I mean,” Harry retracts his palm, and Isla’s suddenly left oddly cold, perched on his lap as his arms cross laxly over his chest, “you’re a disobedient, little whore. We’re on the same page about that, aren’t we, pet? Doesn’t matter if I punish you for it. And you certainly don’t deserve to be rewarded. Could just call it a night, hang out in the lounge—” his eyes convey volumes as he peers at her through lashes with insinuation, “Could mingle a bit. Sit around with your great, little friend.” 

Faunus. Back to Faunus.

“I—“ Harry watches her pillowy mouth part, and settle into a line as words fail her, and then part again, “Please.” 

“Please?” his eyebrows jolt, mouth pursing as a huff of wry amusement is expelled from his nostrils, and he’s about to say more, but then she interjects—

“Please, Sir. Please, I need—“

“Shut—“ Isla freezes when his hand comes back to her face, this time with the pads of his digits squeezing into her cheeks harshly, “—the fuck up.” And all Isla can really manage, from there, is a wordless mouthing against his digit, like a fish out of water. Harry watches her lips move a bit over a silent please, sort of amused by the persistive spectacle (but he definitely doesn’t let it show). 

“Stand up,” he tells her, after a moment, unlatching his grip and shifting his thigh beneath her, “Stand up, and strip.” 

As the young woman stands, he nudges himself off the armchair as well, making a beeline straight for the wall of toys, but not before aiming his forefinger her way and adding, (a bit cheekily, if Isla’s not mistaken, though that note is drowned out by the sternness that brims his tone), “Leave the stockings on.” 

The pads of her thumbs hesitate, just past the hem of her left, sheer stocking. Slowly, she straightens back out and fixes the digits into her bra straps, shimmying those off of her shoulders first, then winding her arms behind her back to unsnap the hooks with a deft enough motion (her hands are sort of trembling). Her fingertips dip into her underwear — soaked, of course, post the ministrations of the man who mills about the room all the while, gleaning objects. Isla watches him gather and deliver the objects to the mattress before going back for more — almost like an animal stockpiling in preparation for a lengthy winter. She works the pair of underwear down her thighs, stepping out of them, and throwing them alongside her brassiere on the armchair. 

The young woman feels, for the first time in a long time, a bit awkward, just standing on the linoleum, bare of all but her stockings, as she waits for further instruction from a dominant who doesn’t look as if he cares to bask in her nudity for even a split second. Because Harry always has this way of making her feel worshiped — even when he feigns that his attention is entirely torn away. Because in those split seconds where his pupils train back onto her, that facade breaks, and she sees the hunger seeping through. Her pulse stays impressively even when she watches him set a long, metallic spreader bar with cuffs — like shackles — onto the comforter beside a large wand. Finally, the rubber-hooded male shoots her a blank gaze — it lasts, as expected, a minute timespan before he fixes his attention back onto the objects. He doesn’t look even a smidge interested in her denuded state — it’s an offhand glance to make a point. 

“Are you just going to stand there all night?” 

“If you’d like me to, Sir,” Isla tells him — he couldn’t possibly get upset at an open offer of subservience (despite the underlying aim of innocuously-feigned backchat), and that fact seems to register with him. 

Harry gives her a good look then, one considerably longer than the previous had been, one where she can practically witness the gears turning behind his skull. The submissive supposes she’s gotten what she’d wanted, after all. Then, his mouth twitches like he’s actively attempting to bridle it from morphing to a grimace. 

“Come here,” the dominant instructs eventually, tone firm. 

Shrouding her timidness, Isla follows his directions and makes her way to the bed until she’s stood in front of him with her chin held high. The way his hand gently grasps her wrist then, as the opposite digs into a pocket of his slacks, has her heart fluttering. His face is downcast to the bracelet as the pin-like key winds, until there’s a click and it isn’t — instead it fixes onto her own. The dominant leans in, his voice soft. 

“On the bed. All fours.” 

Isla turns just as he pockets the bangle, and crawls onto the mattress, just as instructed. She feels chilly metal graze against her calves, a brush of smooth leather. 

“Spread,” Harry demands, and starts fastening one of the plush, padded cuffs to her ankle once she’s knee’d her thighs apart. Then, the following joint. “Put your arms back, through here,” he pats at the empty space between her (involuntarily) splayed limbs. 

So Isla does that, too, rocking forward onto her shoulders and pressing her cheek against the sheets, her face cast at the wall where the door stands as her fingers twitch. He fastens cuffs onto those, too, and by the time all’s done and well, Isla’s absolutely immobile. Testingly, she tries to wrench her wrist back, the attempt subtle. She can’t move. At all. And behind her, the dominant’s pillowy mouth crooks at the sight. Apprehension rises in her, like a flood of water surging through a cylindrical building, swelling in the space between a spiral staircase that clings to the curved walls. 

The beginnings of that beautiful adrenaline. 

“Anything uncomfortable?” 

“No, Sir,” Isla tells him. 

“I mean — you’re going to be plenty uncomfortable,” she rocks back a tad as the dominant smooths his hand down the back of her thigh, “but I’d prefer you didn’t end up with a cramp, or a weird soreness because your neck’s in a funny position.”

The touch withdraws. Isla swallows. 

“No. Everything’s good.” 

She jolts when her ears pick up on a sound that destroys the lull — like tape, bondage tape, she’s sure, and the dominant sounds as if he has a piece between his teeth when he responds, “Wonderful.” 

Then comes the sounds of tape tearing. Her muscles tense as she feels something press against her thigh, against her core, and then his hand starts to wind what she knows is the tape around her flesh. A click. The wand comes alive, rumbling. Isla can’t begin to stifle her soft hum. 

“Good spot?” the dominant prods, out of sight. 

The young woman fixes her gaze onto the bland wall through shapes and swirls of lace, her lashes fluttering, “Mm — yeah. Really good spot.”

“O-kay.”

And then after that — a stalling silence. Nothing reverberates over the walls, nothing falls on eardrums besides her soft breaths and the fixed buzz of the wand, pressed between her clammy thighs. Pleasure builds within her like water surging behind a dam, just sort of steadily rising until the structure starts to show signs of wear, rifts in its integrity. Then — well, then, there’s imminent destruction. 

The mattress creaks. He’s shifted.

“Sir?” Isla prods, her voice small. 

“No talking,” the dominant tells her after a moment, his cadence steely, “Don’t wanna hear you.” 

Her bottom lip becomes siphoned past her teeth. That’s — fuck. Okay. She regulates her breathing, and stares at the wall as the toy continues rumbling against her. He hadn’t exactly, explicitly mentioned that she was to hold off her climax, so. All sort of fair game, Isla thinks. Despite this, she does try to moderate the pace in the surge of bliss — maybe it could be, like, a trickle instead of a swelling flood, if she really focuses—

Another click. The buzzing increases in intensity. Her digits flex and clench, and her wrists shift in their respective cuffs. Still, she stays very quiet. That is, until the familiar, foreboding wave of pleasure tides, frothing at her tummy and sinking. Isla tenses in the restraints, and holds off pleading until she absolutely has to. It’s sort of a gray area, because she’s definitely not supposed to wait until that happens, but apparently she’s also not supposed to talk, so. 

“Sir! Can I cum? Please, please, can I—“ 

“Cum,” he tells her simply, not even batting an eye at her improper wording — may, he’s told her so many times, may I? 

Isla does, and it’s extraordinary. His dialogue nearly misses the mark entirely before the wave crashes, the countdown spent to milliseconds. Her toes curl, and her eyes screw shut, and her thighs tense, and her wrists tug reflexively, pinioned, as she groans and attempts to coil up. The dominant doesn’t make any moves that propose the idea of him touching her or using her for his own pleasure, in any manner, nor does he make an effort to remove the vibrator or her restraints. It buzzes at her core, even as the tide of pleasure ebbs. It ebbs, and all she’s left with is the hammering of her heart, and the toy still rumbling at her core. The young woman feels her pulse racketing in her eardrums. Isla shifts in her cuffs a smidge — as much as she can — though, there’s not much leeway for that. 

“Thank you, Sir,” she tells him, after a moment, her tongue swiping out after, over her strawberry mouth. She supposes she’s supposed to thank him, right? Isla’s still unsure of what exactly is going on. He’s going to overstimulate her — that much she’s discerned. It’s not rocket science. Spreader bar plus vibrator plus bondage tape? That shit was crystal clear from a mile away. She figures the dominant is aiming to venture to three, …maybe four. Maybe until she’s crying. Who knows. 

The dominant doesn’t respond. She hears him exhale, though. The bed creaks again. 

The thing with toying at senses with overstimulation was that the first bit …wasn’t all that rough. The first bit feels good — even on the advance towards the second crest, past that incipient budding of discomfort post an orgasm, the pleasure builds up pretty well. In fact, it sort of feeds off that discomfort. For Isla, at least. Because once you get past that first hurtle of too much, too much, that smidge of aching becomes a mere shadow in the cliff of rapture that blooms from stone — growing, growing, growing. 

Until, eventually, it gives. 

“Oh, oh, please, can I— Sir—“ 

“Cum.”

She expands and shrivels all in one, everywhere and nowhere with a surfeit of dopamine spurting through her nervous system. The fire kindles. Ah. The beginning stages of displeasure-pleasure. She’s felt it before, a plethora. That kind where her nerve endings settle into a dull, numbing ache. Involuntarily, her limbs jerk in the restraints, tugging to get away. Her jaw clenches. 

The thing with toying at senses with overstimulation was that the first bit wasn’t all that rough, but the bit after starts to suck. All good things must come to an end, and all that, but—

Despite that, the unwavering pleasure builds. It builds because of the stimulation, first and foremost, but then it builds because he hasn’t touched her, because he’s just sat back ogling, because she knows she’s dripping down the toy and that the bulbous head glints with her arousal. It builds because it’s a punishment, because Eros doesn’t want to hear her, because she’s disappointed him, and now she’s meant to appease him by enduring suffering. It builds because she wants nothing more than to endure suffering to please him—

“Sir!” Isla wriggles in the restraints, helplessly, the mantra of please-please-please morphed to nothing but a slurred string of words. 

“Cum.” 

The submissive nearly rolls and topples to her side under the earth-shattering abuse of the third — frankly, the only reason she doesn’t sink into a ridiculous sort of spreader-bar-mangled fetal position, is because Harry touches her, for the first time, steadying her with a firm palm against her bare hip. The pleasure with the third is much shorter-lived than the wide windows of the first two. It wanes nearly instantaneously, shrinking back as fiery ache overtakes it in the race. Isla grits her teeth, writhing forlornly as pain settles, coating her and seeping to interweave through the marrow of her bones. Three, maybe four, she tells herself, a mellow appeasement for inner peace — though, her brain has slowly begun its melt into a commonplace mush. Telling anyone anything, or even processing thoughts besides the signals fired off by her nervous system, is beyond strenuous. She doesn’t notice a sheen of tears has glazed over until she blinks and what’s normally sharp, clear lines of fabric turns to blurs. Despite the (reasonable, Isla believes) assessment of the dominant’s agenda (Isla’s fixated upon to ground herself amidst the curdling fear that tails the unknown, in all circumstances), she can’t help but start to plead, a bit, all things considered. 

“Sir, please, please, please—“

“Cum,” the man tells her, from behind, offhand and simple, probably admiring his gloves, or something. The statement comes as if he’s nothing but a robot programmed to grant her permission, and that word is the only term coded into his feasible vocabulary. 

If Isla had it in her to balk, she certainly would. She doesn’t. Partly because she doesn’t have it in her, and mostly because the tingling pain from the toy has her expression helplessly forming into a frown, almost as if on its own accord. The submissive just pouts, her bottom lip quivering in forlorn appall. Because Sir doesn’t care if she’s begging, because he doesn’t care that she’s already had three, because the realization dawns on her, then, that that would’ve been four, and he still hadn’t made any inclination to cease the torture. 

“No — no, Sir,” Isla starts, her waterline welling with tears behind her disguise — it’s wet, and irritates her skin horribly. 

The bed creaks. Behind her, the man tuts. And then the toy becomes toggled to a higher setting, buzzing incessantly against her clit with an intensity that wrenches a sharp keen from her. 

“What did I tell you? I don’t want to hear you. Not unless you’re asking permission, or you’re safing. One or the other. Nothing in between. Disobedient, little whores don’t deserve to beg.” 

It’s — he’s. Pitifully, Isla sobs against the comforter. 

Five. Harry’s on the track to wrench five from her — which, all things considered, is a reasonable goal to shoot for, he thinks. He knows she certainly has four in her to give, because she’s already given him four, weeks ago, in the Dungeon. And if she can’t make it to five within a reasonable time frame, he’ll cut it short post her enduring the aftershocks of the fourth for a bit. He settles back onto his arm, braced against the mattress as he splays behind her, at the foot of the bed, cheek pasted to his gloved palm as he drinks in the sight of her cunt leaking helplessly over the head of the wand. Great view. One for the books. 

Despite all of this, the sobs wracking her body have him sitting up a smidge to peer around at her face, which. Not much to decipher past swollen-post-teething lips and trembling flesh, without a good view of her eyes, but. The goal is definitely not to make her safe — that last bit was just sort of open encouragement. Like, an, always feel free sort of thing. They’re only on three. He frowns. 

“Hey. Baby,” Harry sits up to lean beside her, closer to her face, where she expels helpless sobs from a quivering, slobbery mouth. 

The thing with Isla crying was that it was cool. Deemed cool by both parties — sought after, in fact. But checking in, Harry thinks, is also (even more) cool, especially when she’s crying in a manner that implies that she’s slipping, and that it’s all teeming into the territory of too much, despite the fact that it can sort of break apart the characters they play up in a scene. Because roles are easy to slip back into, but reforming a bond of security post the unnecessary trauma of a boundary being unintentionally crossed is, frankly, much more difficult to casually slip back into. Safety is cool. Big thumbs up. 

This stuff is so much easier with eyes, Harry thinks — they speak volumes. They get blown like nightfall, crossing and shading past the lines of pupils and seeping into colors of irises, they become shifty and evident in apprehension, they kind of give it all away. He flips the toy off, but it stays nestled to her core, and he strokes hair off the band of lace shrouding her from him. 

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” a crease works between his brows as he rakes his digits through Isla’s hair from her sweaty hairline. Because you sound like I’m murdering you, goes unsaid. 

The thing is, he knows Isla’s limits, basically. General ballpark, that is. Really knowing and understanding takes months, and months — maybe years of experimentation. But even then, there’s those scenes where you have to check in and break character, and that’s okay. He just hadn’t prepared that it’d be after three. 

Isla sniffles beneath his touch. 

“Do you want to stop, darling? Red?” he smooths the pads of his digits over her cheek. And beneath his palm, weakly, the submissive shakes her head, an indication that, no, she doesn’t want to do that. 

The muscles in her neck strain with a swallow as Harry tucks loose fragments of hair away, his chin dipped to observe her response, and then the young woman tells him, softly, “No. Please.” 

“We don’t have to keep doing this, pet,” Harry promises, his cadence taking on a note that’s the most gentle it's been since she’d been sat over his lap, “I can take these off, and we can keep playing, but we don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.” 

Isla sighs softly. The pain had begun intermingling with pleasure just before he’d shut the toy off, tinges of bliss blooming post abuse on her physical senses — that’s not why she was crying. Really, there’s a plethora of reasons, some not entirely decipherable. Partly because of the intensity, partly because of the adrenaline and their subsequent endorphins, and partly because she was definitely fucking slipping. She could feel it loom over her when her mind got all mushy, when it all became slower, and more difficult, like trudging through a swamp of molasses. When her tongue got heavier and her body felt fuzzier. 

“Wanna make you happy,” Isla tells him. Her eyes are screwed shut behind the lace, mostly to hinder the onslaught of tears, so she can't see him, but she does hear him sigh. 

“You do make me happy. Always make me happy. Always happy I get to play with you. Silly.” 

Her mouth twitches, then, and curls up a bit. She huffs through her nostrils. Harry cocks his head, smoothing a thumb down the bare fragment of her face on one cheek. 

“You make me happy, too,” Isla confesses, her voice small. 

Harry tries to keep his mouth from curving into a sad sort of smile in return. Instead, he slips his thumb up to brush over the bottom-most hem of her mask. 

“Let me get you out of these,” he only pivots his head towards the bar before she’s humming, evidently dissatisfied by the proposal. 

“No,” Isla whines, “Don’t wanna stop playing.” 

“We’re not going to stop playing,” the dominant curbs the instinctive eye roll that nearly overtakes the jade, “Just a little break. Don’t you want some water? Doesn’t water sound so good?” 

He smirks when she gnaws on her bottom lip and gives him a slow, little nod against the sheets. The man smooths his hand, fondly, down the side of her neck, kneeing around her to slip his fingers to the tape. He unravels that, first, trying to keep the process short, like a bandaid, and he sets the toy down beside her on the bed. Next to go are the cuffs. 

“Just a little break,” he promises, “Gonna get some water,” he unbuckles the first cuff — her left wrist, “stretch a bit,” the second — her right, “stretch your neck. Can’t imagine it’s not cramping a bit,” Isla rolls her wrists, her arms still splayed beneath her in the space between the bed and her arched back — the third to go is her left ankle, “and we’ll get you back to shambles in no time,” the last, her right ankle, and he smacks her backside lightly, because it’s there and it’d be a cardinal sin to miss the opportunity, honestly. “How’s that sound?” 

The dominant strokes a palm softly up her calf after he sets the spreader bar aside. Isla stretches back against him, like a little cat. Yes. All of these things sound great. 

“Stretch out a bit. I’m gonna grab some,” Isla picks up on him saying, before his touch retracts and she hears his shoes clicking over the tile. 

Isla shuffles her arms forward, lifting up a bit only to flop back down and morph into Child’s Pose. Sort of. As best as she can. The water machine grinds in the background. By the time Harry has made his way back to the foot of the bed, Isla’s rolled onto her side. He gestures out with the plastic, little cup, and Isla flips onto her back and sits up to grasp it between her palms. They’ve ceased their shaking, for now. Harry takes a seat beside her, his legs kicked out ahead as opposed to her coiled hover, calves pressed against the bed. Her Eros has all the answers, Isla thinks. Her throat bobs frantically as she chugs, and in her peripherals she watches him take a slow sip. Once she’s reached the bottom, her hands flop against her sweaty lap, the empty cup wrapped by her right hand. 

She turns her face to him, a little smile over her mouth. The dominant peers at her, lips wrapped over the rim of his respective cup through the unzipped mouth slit, and he lifts a hand to swipe a stray rivulet of water from the corner of her mouth with a thumb. Her tongue swipes out as his touch retracts, almost as if to chase the pad of his digit. The man makes a soft sound of amusement over the lip of the cup. Slowly, Isla cranes her neck back, and then forward, and then side to side, and Harry takes another sip. 

“You take care of me so well,” Isla admits, planting her forehead against his arm. She’s jostled then, and nearly complains, but then she realizes that he’s only done it to grant her a space to nestle, a nook for her so he can hold her. She still feels a little …warm and fuzzy, but her head has cleared considerably since he’d unshackled her. Isla scoots in, and the dominant winds his arm around her shoulders, squeezing softly. 

“You always know what I need, even when I don’t.” 

“S’because I’ve got you figured out,” Harry nudges in her direction with his beverage, three thirds of the way down. His hand, cradling the cup, lays laxly against his thigh, then. 

“Do you?” Isla’s gaze narrows behind the mask as a little grin plays over her mouth. She lifts her chin up to display it. And she’s so close, he could kiss her. 

The male’s tongue peeks out to glide over his pillowy mouth. Isla Cleery. Cherries, and Hydrangeas, and pencil skirts and strange tendencies to do dangerous things on a whim. 

No. He absolutely does not. 

“Basically. You’re an easy read, love.” 

Her pupils rove over the rubber hood. Over his eyes, glinting through the shadows cast by parted zippers, slipping to the muted berry of his mouth. She’s never yearned, so badly, to surpass a personal limit and kiss someone she was …just playing with. Desperately. She tears her gaze away. 

“Can we keep playing?” the young woman inquires, instead. 

The dominant rolls his eyes, a soft smile cresting his cushiony mouth, “Do you want to keep playing?” 

“Yes. Sir. Please. Right where we left off.” 

“Right where we left off?” his eyebrows raise a smidge, “Are you sure? We can move on to phase two.” 

“Phase two?” 

“Well. Since phase one was punishment for your little slip up earlier in the week,” Isla’s gaze skids away sheepishly, “figure s’only fair phase two is penance for that little comment you made out in the lounge.” 

The young woman’s gaze snaps back to the dominant, and she wracks her brain for a dull moment where her mind sort of lags, the edges still a little fuzzy. And then it dawns on her. Fuck. Right. There was that. 

“Okay,” Isla tells him, after a moment — not a deliberative one, per se. Just. Mental preparation. “That sounds good.” 

“That sounds good?” Harry’s hand slinks out to stroke over her bare thigh, and then his gaze skims to his thumb as he strokes it over the hem of her stocking, “You’re sure?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla tells him, sitting up a bit with her rejuvenated courage, “and I want to start where we left off.” 

Harry hums, pausing his thumb over her stocking. He digs it under, just a bit, tugs up, and lets it snap back into place. And then he pats her thigh, takes her cup from her, and tells her, “Alright. Back into position then. M’gonna refill these so we have them ready, for later.” 

As the dominant stands to refill their respective beverages of sustenance, Isla scoots back on the mattress, flips, and clambers into position, already prepped with her arms stuck flat out in the space between her parted calves by the time he returns and sets the cups onto the, (oddly domestic and ludicrously practical), nightstand, beside the bed. She hears him blow out a breath, and the bed shifts as he knees his way onto it from behind. 

“All good to keep going?” Harry prods, the thin pole of the spreader bar grasped in one hand, “Promise?” 

“I promise,” the young woman returns, half-nodding and half kind of just taking the opportunity to snuggle her face into the comforter. The area soused by her tears is a little further to the right, now, and despite the fact that her mask is still wet, the blanket beneath her face, now, is dry, so it all feels like a spruced up, fresh start. 

He slots the cuffs back on, one by one, working backwards from the order in which they’d been discarded minutes prior. And when she’s all splayed and riveted for him, a particular sort of sensitivity settles in her as the wand, still slick from her, presses to her cunt as he sets all the props back into place for the scene (pun intended). It’s not necessarily that grating numbness she’d become accustomed to, or a cloying past aftershocks. Just the sensation of knowing, physically, that she’s already given three. A tremble nearly slinks down the knobs of her spine at the thought. The tape unsticks from the roll as the dominant works it back over her thigh. 

Isla blinks, her lashes brushing over the innermost of the lace, squeezed to her face in its tightening against the sheets. She chimes, for good measure, “And. I’m all good. You don’t have to …be nice.” 

His handiwork pauses. And his cadence, rasped like sandpaper, slow like seeping molasses, sweet like syrup, nearly causes her to drown in it all. He sounds …hungry, for the first time in the night since they’d explored her fantasies in the verdant armchair, when he tells her, “I don’t intend to be.” 

That’s — shit. Okay. Then, Eros smooths his palm down the back of her thigh and ponders, aloud, “Can you give me five, d’you think?” 

Five. That’s a …milestone. 

Isla blinks. Warmth coils in her at the suggestion, instantly, hunger unsatiated as if she hadn’t just endured the three course meal of three orgasms, back to back. Her throat feels dry, like her mouth’s been stuffed by cotton. 

“I can — I can try,” she swallows, “Sir.” 

“There’s a good girl,” the man hums, pleased by her answer, and he sits back a bit, rewarding her with a loud smack that siphons a gasp and a jerk in the restraints from her. A ruddy splotch teems over the surface of her skin — tinges shaped by his open palm. He gives her another, just over where the first had landed, and Isla releases a girlish grunt in response, rocking forward. A third, then, and with the opposite hand, he toggles the toy on. Harry watches every muscle in her body tense, at that.  

The newfound pleasure, post the break, feels almost as if spawning from square one. Not entirely — there’s still that nagging reminder deep within her nervous system that she’s already spent so much for him (recovering from three takes, maybe, just a little longer than a span of minutes). But rather than numbing tingles enmeshed with knife-like, slicing pain, pleasure blooms quickly, radiating from between her thighs and coaxing the pit of her tummy to coil with something familiar and warm. And rather than sitting back like an audience member to enjoy the show, this time, the dominant seems interested in taking part — an active part, in fact. He smooths his palms over the globes of her ass, and every blow, falling in increments (when she seems to least expect it), sends jarring shocks through her nervous system that throw her entire comprehension of sensation for a loop. It doesn’t hurt — not at all, really. Instead, each hit enmeshes with the overpowering bliss from the rumbling against her core, and the only tinges of pain come from the eventual soreness that blooms. But it makes her wetter, hotter, more sensitive, and, eventually—

“Sir!” Isla’s eyes squeeze shut as the beginnings of the flame lick at her, “Can I—“

And then one of his palms squeezes into one of her hips and the opposite smacks her again — and, fuck. Isla can’t bridle her strangled sound when he tells her, “Cum.” The wave washes over her like water crashing over jagged rock. 

The discomfort that flourishes as the weak bout of ecstasy recedes is not …horrific, per se, but it certainly reminds her that this isn’t her first, and, just as it’d been strung up prior to the break, her body becomes launched into a frenzied state of escape. Five. Why did she agree to try for five? Isla whimpers, her thighs trembling in desperation. And, as if to allay her worries (or perhaps to spur them further), Harry just delivers another strike. And then again, and again, and again, and again. 

“Sir,” the submissive whines, a plea (for more? for less?), tears gathering over her waterline like rain in a gutter. 

“Say it with me now, go on, darling, I will not,” the volume of his cadence climbs up the stairwell as he smacks her and digs the pads of pleather-clad digits into her skin. Her brows pinch when his mean affections don’t abate, when she aches everywhere to please him, and she sobs. 

“I will— will not,” Isla hiccups, sniffles, sobs, pleads for more of his aggressive attention. More, more, more, please.

“Cum without permission,” Eros waits for her to parrot the dialogue before he toggles the setting on the vibrator pressed within her to a higher setting and her sentence cuts off into a high, loud moan. Perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of pain, and probably a solid concoction of both. 

He talks over her nonetheless, “I will not cum without permission,” he says it until she’s up to par and mimics, in unison, “I will not cum without permission.” 

“What—“ Isla keens as the dominant smacks her again, and her arms strain in the restraints, shackled to the slim pole between her ankles, “—will you not do?”

“I will not cum without permission!” the young woman responds, her cadence breaking into a sob as the toy buzzes incessantly, nuzzled to her overstimulated clit. 

“You will not,” Eros agrees and assures her, tone unwavering despite her sobs, “and I will make sure you remember this lesson very, very well.”

By the time she really starts approaching the fifth crest, Harry’s faltered on the follow through of the blows, just sort of admiring the marks, in lieu, like a rabid animal. He’s nearly foaming at the mouth. The dominant traces the pad of his forefinger over a curve, entranced, and nearly misses her shrill plea entirely. 

“I’m—“

“Cum,” he demands, pupils roving over her hips, over her sticky thighs, between her legs where she clenches emptily, helplessly, drinking in her cry like an audible variation of nectar. 

The burst of pleasure is as short-lived as Isla can imagine, like the most anti-climatic climax of all time. It tears through her, severing her seams, and dwindles almost immediately for a dull ache to settle in its place. Except, this one isn't dull at all. It’s sharp, and it sends her nerve endings into pure angst. She freezes up, her muscles quivering, tensed like the string of a bow just waiting to snap, and she can’t even make out discernable request for him to turn the wand off. All that slips from her is a string of incoherent, muffled sounds, and then the rumbling ceases. Isla pants, her heartbeat so frantic she can feel it in the tip of her tongue. It pulses through her neck, through her appendages, tingling in their cuffs. It slinks through her stomach, through her fingers, it rattles her ribcage as the organ pumps rapidly. 

She doesn’t realize the cuffs are gone until she feels herself being manhandled, onto her side, and then onto her back. The dominant slips off the bed, standing at the foot, and wraps his arms around the backs of her thighs as he yanks her toward him. And Isla just splays like a ragdoll. She watches him watch her, her legs flopping and her soles planting against the mattress, knees bent. The submissive tells him, then, cadence soft and dry as if she hasn’t drunk in days, “Please.” 

Her chest rises and falls, almost in tune with the slow clink of his belt buckle as he opens it, nimbly, with one gloved palm as the opposite strokes over her knee. His eyes glint like green embers — hungry with want like fire kindling in a forest. Contained in a campfire, for now, just yearning to swallow the branches and brush in flame. Her own pupils shift to his belt buckle. He draws the belt out. 

“Please.” 

Finally, some give in his otherwise hardened features — his mouth quirks as he tips his chin towards his trousers, utilizing both hands to pop the button and tug down the zipper. 

“Please? What, you wanna bounce on my cock, a bit? Gave you five orgasms, and you’re still desperate for it, like a slut.” 

Her inhale is tremble-y as she watches him cull a condom, tucked away in its wrapper — red, this time, unlike his usual. His mouth purses as he flips it, rotating between his fingertips. 

“Funny,” Harry shoots a glance her way, “This one’s cherry.” 

Want a taste, she nearly expects him to jest, memorable remnants of their first one-on-one scene floating to the forefront of her mind. He doesn’t. He goes quiet, and looks awfully concentrated. Isla exhales at the sight of him untucking his cock from its confines, at the view of him tearing the wrapper open with his teeth, and the image of him rolling the condom down his shaft. He takes his hands away, and his cock bobs. The young woman’s chest rolls as he lines himself up with her core, and she jerks when he swipes the head from where she gushes and leaks to where she’s swollen and sensitive. Jade flickers up to face her. 

“Gonna be a good girl and follow the rules from now on?” he croons, his voice a bit strained given that he’s been aching for fuck her for the entirety of the session. 

The submissive nods, weakly. More than anything, it’s a mindless jerk of her chin. She tenses when he nudges into her. And the stretch is — it’s euphoric. She feels like pure euphoria to him, her spongy walls squeezing over his tip as if they’re two puzzle pieces destined to slot together. A perfect fit. A tight one. His teeth clench, and he hisses and he slides further, unable to curb his groan halfway to the hilt. 

“Fuck.”

Isla spasms over him, over the perfect drag, over the perfect stretch. He buries in, sheathing his cock in its entirety until she hugs every last inch, and his fingers fondle over her thigh as he lifts her legs to plant her calves against his shoulders. 

“Please,” Isla says again, her hips shifting like she’s eager for him to move. 

His mouth twitches. He huffs, reining the instinct to hammer into her as his stomach swirls with want and his mind swims with defiling filth. “Look at you. Desperate to cum. Desperate for attention — for anyone’s attention,” he tacks on pointedly, a dig made as her little rendezvous back at the bar, and Isla’s irises nearly roll back into her head as he withdraws, just a smidge, and pumps forward harshly. Harry grunts. “Just a desperate, little thing. Aren’t you?” 

All Isla can manage, as his hips work into a steady pace, is a wordless part of her lips. 

“Answer me,” the dominant demands, tone hard. 

“No,” the submissive manages out, eventually, and his hips stutter. She whines, bracing her calves against his shoulders to grind wantonly. Case and point. 

A wryly amused crease works over his brow bone, behind latex, and his pace becomes stifled to nothing, “No?” 

Isla whines, frantically, rolling her hips and squeezing over his length, until he scoffs, throws her legs off of him unceremoniously, and leans down in the newfound space to press her cheeks between his digits harshly. 

“No? What the fuck are you doing right now? Grinding on me, like a desperate whore.” 

Her breaths are shallow, and she expels, again, a denial. His takes his hand away, just a smidge, and then pats, once, over the fleshy part of her cheek with his open palm splaying — it’s borderline harsh enough to be considered a slap. Isla groans, and the dominant feels the aftermath manifest as a frantic spasm over his cock. 

“No?” he repeats, voice low and soft. 

“No,” Isla tells him, for the third time. So, he lifts his hand back and does it again, this time a little firmer. Her hips cant as she muzzles a soft sound with her lips, glued together. 

“Don’t want anyone’s attention,” the young woman tells him from below, then, her inflection borderline frenzied, “just want yours.” 

Slowly, the plush strawberry of his mouth quirks and curls up. His ego swells, and the man pulls his hips back, just a smidge, and pummels forward — a reward, for her, and she’s aware. “S’that right?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla cranes her neck back against the comforter when he pushes off of her, picks her legs back up, and melts back into a sure, satisfying tempo, his hips pumping relentlessly. It’s the best. He’s the best. 

The dominant takes her ankles in one palm — how the fuck does he do that, Isla thinks, his hand is so large, and strong, and—

“Fuck, baby, f’you could just see the way we fit together — s’like a fucking match made in heaven,” he throws his head back with a groan post taking in the view of her cunt swallowing him up, coated in cherry-flavored, red latex. His shoulders roll as a shudder wracks down the knobs of his spine, and he separates her ankles off with his hands, setting them into a spread, against the bed, gently. He pushes her knees back until the front of her thighs nearly brush over the sheets, and braces himself with his palms on either side of her head as he works into a hammer. 

“He fuck you like—“ Harry grunts as his hips swivel, and Isla watches, entranced, the plush of his lips part on shallow breaths, his grin wicked and twitchy in response to her little sounds, “this? Give you what you want? What you need?” 

She doesn’t have to inquire to know that he’s talking about Faunus — still on about Faunus. 

“No,” Isla tells him, soft and breathy, And he rewards her, again, by pumping forward, harder, faster, deeper, and groaning, soft huffs suffusing his speech. 

“No? Doesn’t stretch this snug little cunt out the way you need? Who does?” 

“You — just you,” she keens as the entire mattress rocks beneath her. 

“Just me?” his tongue sticks to the tips of his front teeth as he pummels forward and punches a little gasp out of her, “Who does this sweet, little cunt belong to?” 

“You — Sir!” 

“That’s right. S’my cunt. Mine to fuck, mine to tease, mine to kiss,” his gaze flickers down between them, where they connect, and the sight alone nearly has his balls draining. His hand ventures, and fingertips rub over the bundle of nerve endings in a way that has her tensing and crying out. 

“My clit. Isn’t it?” He switches to a thumb, swiping over it, and his jaw falls open as he watches her pulse over his shaft while her head thrashes above, her teeth clenched and grinding in a pained frenzy. She’s quite pretty, overstimulated, too. 

“And that means,” the left corner of his mouth buckles up, his speech glazed with condescension, “I can do whatever I want to it, right?” 

As soon as his touch abates, Isla can no longer restrain herself. She digs the pads of her fingers onto his placket, into the empty spaces between the buttons of his shirt and the slits where they’re looped, clenching a fist as she raises herself and tugs him down. And before the dominant has the opportunity to scold her for treating his dress shirt with such an unshackled lack of care, she meshes their mouths together. Harry’s arms nearly buckle. 

It’s filthy — but not at first. At first, he doesn’t return it, appalled by the gesture. Because it’s a limit, according to her, it’s her limit, because it’s too personal, and she’s just broken it herself. Because she just couldn’t hold back anymore, and in the fervor with which she kisses him, that shit is pretty evident. But then, he does return it. His lips move, and he moans against her strawberry mouth, and then her lips part, and from there it’s just …lewd. They’re sort of in the middle of active intercourse, Isla thinks, so a kiss shouldn’t make her feel so dirty — but it does. It’s not a dainty first kiss of first loves and soft touches and curious experimentation. It’s thrilling, and dirty, and his tongue slips into her mouth after she brushes her own against his bottom lip, and one of her hands tangles into his dress shirt while the opposite presses against his shoulder as if aiming to work out a fucking knot with the pressure. She whimpers against him, wetly, and in turn he groans and nips at her bottom lip with his teeth, his cock pulsing inside of her. And then it’s all teeth, and tongues, and want, want, want, as his hips hammer against her. It’s wanton moans, and whimpers, and rugged groans. It’s everything she’s been yearning for, and more. 

“Open your mouth, open your mouth,” Harry urges, pulling off a bit and slinking a hand over her cheek, “Tongue out.” 

She complies, and then a rivulet of spit dribbles from his mouth against her twitching tongue, and that’s just—

“Fuck,” Harry groans, his hips rolling against her, “You’re fucking filthy. Swallow it.” 

So she does, her throat bobs below his palm, which slinks to cradle over her windpipe — not squeezing, just …there. She moans, soft and melty and desperate as his hips roll into her. And then Harry exhales, takes his hand off of her throat, and plants his palms on either side of her head to raise himself, hovering over her. He sighs like the experience is too pornographic to even comment upon. It sort of is. 

“Dirty fucking girl,” the dominant settles on, eventually. And then he plows her like fucking farmland. 

Her palms roam, frantically, over the fabric covering his back, the craving to leave marks of her own with short nails swelling through her mind, as he pumps forward, until it’s the only thought fathomable. It’s that — and the sick urge to spit into his own strawberry mouth, to have him leant back against the sheets, bare beneath her as she works and bounces over his cock. 

Christ. 

She’s warm, and wet, and heaven, and Harry imagines that his own personal Nirvana, then, would involve nothing but her cunt squeezing over his cock for the rest of eternity, her skin sticky with sweat beneath him, and her muscles quivering as he imbibes and basks. She is, in the moment, everything he wants and everything he’s ever wanted. Everything he ever will want, maybe. Because sex with Isla was — well. It was something else. Something rapturous, something sick and twisted, something he imagines he could never grow tired of. Ever. 

His muscles do, though. Eventually. He feels the ache start in his hamstrings, in his shoulders, in his neck from its crane to gaze down upon her, because he just can’t tear his irises away — it’d be a cardinal sin to miss the view of a lifetime, afterall, Harry thinks. And along with the ache of his muscles comes the familiar chip in his resolve — cracks surfacing as he begins to become rended apart. He feels that in his stomach, first and foremost, in the trench of his tummy as his muscles tense — then, on the underside of his balls, a pleasured warmth that radiates as he pulses, and finally it seeps through his shaft. She squeezes over him, like she knows, and he almost loses it, then and there. He drives into her frantically, groaning animalistically as his body chases release almost on its own accord. 

“Shit — always milk my cock so good, baby. Gonna— FUCK—“

Isla moans, soft beneath him, when she feels the warmth of his release, confined by the stupid cherry-flavored condom. When she feels his cock pulsing in her, when she feels his tempo slow, when he gives her a few last, weak strokes. When his head dips and he blows out a long breath, grunting as he pulls back and slips out, when she feels nothing but emptiness. 

“Sir,” she starts, soft, soft, soft, and the rough exterior, the paramountcy-hungered, hard shell of his demeanor splinters and falls apart. 

“So sweet for me,” Harry says, voice coated in candy, tucking strands back from her sweaty hairline, “Aren’t you? Always so eager to be good for me.” 

Isla whimpers. Harry coos, shushing her with soft croons for a moment, until he pulls back and starts untucking himself from the condom and clearing up a bit. 

“Always make me happy, always such a good girl. Take everything I give you and more, so well,” the man tells her, his pupils bouncing from his cock to her face as he cautiously rolls the condom off, “Hold on just a minute, baby, and we’ll have a cuddle, alright?” 

He stows the condom away in its wrapper after he’s tucked himself away, and he contemplates making the short walk to the trashcan by the electric water thing against the wall. Ultimately, the dominant decides against it when she whines, needy for him and in need. Instead, he sets it off to the side, on the nightstand, as he turns back to her, lips twitching up into a little grin. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he starts, kneeing his way back onto the bed to sit beside her and hover, his hand stroking over her cheek, the side of her head, over her ear, down the side of her neck, “Gave me five today. Made me so proud.” 

Isla just nods against his gloved palm, her sigh dreamy. Did she? Five, really? What an exciting and, frankly, impressive number. It’s all sort of a bliss of euphoria. She feels it, the headspace, the kind where she’s buzzing and floaty and her mind drifts and bobs about the walls aimlessly. The kind where all she can fathom is that she wants to be close to him. And it really hits her when Eros coaxes, “Can you sit up for me, pet?” 

Absolutely not. 

She shakes her head at him, wordlessly, and his mouth quirks with an endeared scoff, and the young woman nearly whines until he slips onto his side beside her to cradle her close. For a minute, he just lays near her, his chest to her side as he pets and caresses over her waist, and eventually he rolls to his own back and beckons, “Come here, baby,” holding her close as she shifts her head onto the space just over his butterfly. 

Harry stares at the ceiling. All is well. 

All is well, and it happens nearly out of the blue, brought about from a murky horizon, unforeseen. Because in their nights together, Isla cries — she always cries, and sometimes, when Harry cradles her close, he coddles her out of soft sobs that wrack her body post an intense scene. But those are traces. Remnants. They’re aftermath. The unanticipated is a fresh wave. 

And Isla feels it coming on. She feels it settling in her chest, first, bursts and blooms of sadness, like the kind where you feel nostalgic, missing something. Then, her eyes. They already feel puffy and swollen, but they start to burn in the back. Her throat feels tight. And that sadness creeps deeper and settles. 

Because she sort of feels she’s living through the nostalgia, then and there, in the moment. Like she’ll never relive it again. 

Isla lays her head over his heartbeat and starts to cry. 

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

#dom harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles wattpad #harry styles writing #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles x oc #dom!harry #dom!harry x sub!reader #tdiag

[thesummerestsolstice]

Part four of my series on Rivendell's guards! Wherein I finally talk about why Hrivossa and Celecoll keep getting into arguments. You might want to read parts 1, 2, and 3 first for context.

So we pick up after the siege of Rivendell is broken by Gil-Galad's forces

Among those forces is Hrivossa and her Feanorian faction, who weren't in Eregion when it fell (they were supposed to go as reinforcements later, but never had a chance)

So Hrivossa is very relieved that her lord is alive, obviously, and fully approves of Elrond creating his own little haven in the valley

Anyway then she meets Celecoll

Let me be clear; it is absolute loathing from first sight for those two

Hrivossa is decked out in Feanorian stars, Celecoll is still wearing some old Iathrim armor, they know what they're dealing with, and they're not happy about it

They are both just sensitive enough not to start yelling obscenities at each other in the middle of Rivendell's main courtyard

Especially when Hrivossa finds out that Celecoll has been an impromptu guard for Elrond during the siege (and Celecoll finds out that Hrivossa is normally Elrond's guard)

As far as Hrivossa is concerned, Celecoll is a coward who hid behind the girdle and shamefully ran away when her kingdom needed her most, all while keeping the Silmarils from their rightful owners, and who has no business around Elrond, a good Feanorian lord

As far as Celecoll is concerned, Hrivossa is a remorseless murder who's probably still extremely dangerous, and definitely crass and improper, and who also maybe kept Elrond prisoner(?) and who has no business around Elrond, a good Sindar lord

(Sidenote: a lot of people had issues with Elrond's former jailers basically becoming the basis for his house as a lord but that's another post topic)

I want to be clear both of these people almost immediately made peace with the actual orcs they were now living with and they still hated each other

After a few loud arguments (because a few cups of elvish wine can easily overcome both their abilities to not start yelling at each other) Elrond decides he's had enough and separates them

Alternating schedules where they don't have to see each other, and now they live at opposite ends of the growing city

Problem solved, right?

Wrong!

Celecoll moves next to Hrivossa and they start fighting again

I feel like I should note that half the time they aren't even arguing in the same language

Subjects for discussion include: whether or not Thingol was bad, who the Silmarils rightfully belonged to, and most importantly, who gets to guard Elrond

Can you become a toxic divorced couple without ever being romantically involved? Local elves sure are trying

This cycle repeats several more times before Elrond decides that they clearly, like, need the enrichment from arguing or something

He gets their rooms soundproofed so that their fights don't wake anyone else up and just kind of lets it happen

For some ungodly reason yelling at each other a few times a month actually seems to help both of them be more calm and relaxed the rest of the time

Some things are unknowable, even to the wisest minds, and the reason why they're like this is one of them

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #silm oc #rivendell #imladris #elrond #elrond peredhel #feanorians #these two are just one example of all the weird problems Rivendell has #like it's a great place but Elrond has had to find many solutions for the problems #that happen when you shove a bunch of people who aren't fit for civil society in the same valley #honestly he's just glad they haven't like #had a duel for his honor or anything #glorfindel still usually ends up guarding Elrond #he's very smug about it

[writeyouin]

Can we have some fluff and angst with V x reader cause the reader is on her period and V never being around women much has no idea how to handle all the anger, food cravings, sadness and horniness 😂😂😂

V X Reader – Prepared For Anything

A/N – I was gonna make this a fem reader, but then I remembered there are other peeps with uterus’ and that’s cool too, so this is completely gender-neutral. Happy Bonfire Night. Also, just in time before the night is over.

Warnings – Slight NSFW

Rating – T

Throughout his life, or at least what little he could remember of it, V had accomplished a great deal. He had survived Larkhill. He had caused the explosion that had allowed his escape, working meticulously for months to coerce Doctor Delia Sturridge to give him everything he needed to do so. He had singlehandedly dug out the collapsed tunnels of the London Underground to create a base of operations. He had robbed, pilfered, and burgled everything that he could from Sutler and his so-called government, always stealthy and vigilant against anyone who might try to stop him.

One thing he hadn’t done was spend time around someone on their menstrual cycle… Until now.

There was a time that V had thought himself prepared for anything, but this was something else. It had started just a few days prior when you as his protégé had gone alone on a mission to rob a supply train heading straight to parliament. Normally, V didn’t mind where you went or what you did, respecting you as a fellow anarchist, but you had acted recklessly, and that was something he couldn’t have.

V was chaotic, but he was an organised chaos, like a storm in a teacup, waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed unto an unsuspecting attendee of his tea party. Everything was timed perfectly. Normally, you respected that. Yet, only a few days ago, you made an unplanned attack that you weren’t wholly prepared for and although you weren’t caught, you had failed to exit the train properly and had come back crying with a dislocated shoulder.

After V had set your shoulder back into place and you had settled down, he had asked you why you had gone through with the robbery without planning it carefully. It was with a sheepish expression that you admitted that you just needed some things; things that V didn’t have. He pressed you further, and you had snapped at him, yelling that he didn’t get to know everything about you, and then you had started crying, frustrated that you couldn’t properly articulate what you meant before stomping away like a moody teenager.

To say V was surprised was an understatement, but he didn’t think much of it past the fact that perhaps you weren’t like him. There weren’t many humans who could survive the isolation of the Shadow Gallery without going mad, missing out on a regular life offered in the world above.

Later, V decided to see if you were okay. He found you in the kitchen hurriedly scarfing down chocolate at an ungodly rate. Although he was curious by the unusual breach of etiquette, V knew that was a battle that he didn’t wish to engage in, and so he backed away slowly, unnoticed by you.

Recklessness. Raging emotions. Intense cravings. If V didn’t know any better, he would have guessed that you were pregnant, but that wasn’t possible. Although he didn’t monitor your comings and goings from the Shadow Gallery, he knew that you hadn’t been fraternising with anyone; or at least he hoped you hadn’t. It wasn’t that he had any claim over you, but lately there had been stirrings of feelings in his chest; feelings that weren’t anger and hatred.

Shaking his head, V decided that whatever was going on with you would likely wear off or you would open-up to him about your feelings when you were ready.

Later that night, he opted to read Don Quixote, finding the titular character endearing on his quest to restore chivalry, though less relatable than he would have liked, seeing as V was anything but a hero. He was an anarchist full of hatred, wishing to free the people from their oppressors. V regularly thought himself to be a necessary monster masquerading as a man. However, one similarity between him and everyone else was that he too needed rest, and as he read further on, tiredness overcame him and he fell asleep on the small settee, the book resting on his chest.

Having been traversing the Shadow Gallery restlessly, the pain in your back and stomach easing for the first time in three days, you stumbled upon V, finding him in an unusually vulnerable position. You stalked over to him, drawn like a moth to a flame. He looked beautiful.

You knelt down on the floor next to him, taking your time to admire the scene. At any other time, you might have found it romantic, but now, you wanted more. How would it feel to be pinned under him? You could wear a mask so as not to risk seeing what he so carefully hid. It would be worth it to have him do as he pleased with you, using you for his needs until you were both exhausted and-

“(Y/N)?” V stated your name, apparently startled.

It was such a difference from his normally self-assured tone that you were certain that he saw exactly what you were thinking in your eyes; the windows to the soul always gave away secrets to those astute enough to decipher their messages.

Well, so be it. In for a penny, in for a pound, You thought haphazardly, before voicing a question you might never have asked under normal circumstances, though any circumstance concerning V was far from normal anyway.

“V, Do you want me the same way that I want you?”

V’s breath seemed to catch in his throat. He cleared it and sat up, staring at you through his grinning Guy Fawkes mask. “(Y/N), please tell me… What has changed between us of late?”

“Hormones.” You laughed drily, the only one to find the joke funny.

V nodded, taking your answer at face value.

“I see,” He said after a minute.

Then he stood up, finding that there was much to think about now that you had raised such a serious question, over something as simple and mundane as your monthly cycle. Ever reasonable, V opted to let you decipher your emotions once your hormones no longer had such a chokehold over you.

“Then please, if you feel the same in a week, ask me again then. I am certain that your feelings might have changed by then, and if they haven’t…” He paused ominously, walking to the door as he did so. “We may discuss the matter properly.” After that, he was gone, leaving the Shadow Gallery for the free space on the roof. While he was alone in the rain, worried about what an attachment to you could mean, you were alone in his library, feeling foolish and crying, before your more primal needs took over and you were merely hungry and frustrated once again.

Periods really were a bitch.

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#v #v for vendetta #v x reader #v for vendetta x reader #reader #reader insert #fanfiction #fanfic #prepared for anything