#(never do i draw ALL the seams in the clothing on a piece. but it jus felt right for the overalls)

[didderd]

(Click/tap images for better quality)

Himb <3

Milk was tryna figure out what kinda specific casual clothes he'd wear, and these were some of the suggestions. (There's still one more that I need to draw with a specific piece of clothing, but that can wait for another post. 👀)

Butch belongs to @sans-guy.

[owliellder]

The Finer Details

Post DI! Leon Kennedy x f! Painter Reader

MDNI 18+

(Session 1, Session 2, Session 3, Session 4, Session 5, The Reveal)

Description: Leon realizes that retirement is in his best interest now that he's getting older. All of his accomplishments as an agent mean he's truly earned a painting to commemorate..

Warnings: Not Proofread, Age gap! (reader is anywhere between mid-late 20's and Leon is 40), Porn w/ Plot, Use of she/her pronouns, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Alcoholism, mentions of trauma/PTSD/depression, P in V smut (wrap it NEOW), Leon cries during sex 💔

Tags: Older Leon Kennedy, Younger afab!Reader, Leon is SAD but he is your muse, Crying, mentions of Leon masturbating, starts off with Dom! Leon and Sub! Reader, falls into switch territory because that man needs some serious TLC, Praise kink, Hickeys, Handjob, Nipple play, Oral sex (m! and f! receiving), and a heavy dose of Aftercare

Final Word Count: 22.6k

Author's Note: Ta-da! I put a lot of work into this last chapter, like actually becoming the president for a couple hours, but I really wanted to make it worth everyone's time for sticking around and reading all the way through.

Thank you so much for following along! All the sweet comments from you guys never fails to make my day!

^//v//^

Cross posted on AO3

The Reveal

Almost three months.

It took almost three months for Leon's portrait to fully dry after it had been varnished. You'd checked it almost daily after the two month mark due to Leon's constant pestering. He was understandably antsy, and admittedly, you were too.

There was a lot of convincing involved, but you managed to keep the man at home while you transported the painting to the White House. He worried it would be damaged en-route. Such a little worry wart.

Setting up the painting's respective spot a column away from Chris and Claire's seemed very appropriate; tall, fake bushes sitting on either side of where it would be placed, a warm yellow bulb lighting up the inside of the decorative archway, and the patterned golden frame where the canvas would forever be now hung empty in that portrait hallway, waiting to be pieced together and completed.

The shiny gold placard had already been screwed onto the frame, words zapped on it via laser:

Leon S. Kennedy

USSTRATCOM Agent from 1998 - 2011

D.S.O. Agent from 2011 - 2017

You knew how long he'd been working as an agent, but it was still baffling nonetheless. Nearly 20 years of non-stop intense and usually very traumatizing work, what a feat.

Moving on, you'd worked out the plans for Leon's farewell party with the President and a few coordinators over the span of a few days, making sure to store the painting in a secure room for the time being. It was to stay covered with a violet piece of velvet cloth up until the reveal at the party, no one was allowed to see it besides you, the President, and the various security guards working the grounds.

After another two extra months of waiting, the farewell party was drawing near. There had to be enough time given for invitations to be sent out to people, wait for said people to RSVP, and allow travel time. And at this point, Leon was busting at the seams; extremely nervous, excited, and even a little scared at the prospect of it all.

Your words from that second painting session all those months ago never left his mind: "Seeing the portrait once it's finished is going to be an incredibly emotional ordeal. It's a reminder that this is truly the end of an era for you, Mr. Kennedy..."

The man clung to that, doing his best to internalize it and mentally prepare himself for what was to come. He was hoping you were exaggerating, but from what Chris, Claire, and even Jill have told him about their experience after the fact, he knew deep down that you'd seen it all too well before.

What Leon failed to realize was that he wasn't alone anymore. Sure he had his friends to help, but he'd never had someone to come home to everyday.

During the last few sessions, he had asked to stay with you at your apartment, citing the potential aftermath of the party as reasoning. However, you really didn't need him to explain his reasoning, you would've let him. Even if he just felt like it, you would've welcomed him with opened arms.

Besides, he'd already been staying at your place for longer periods of time over the months. You'd visited his house a few times, but he made sure to whine and complain about how bare and boring it was. If you remember correctly, Leon had said, word for word, that your apartment "felt like a warm hug". With that, he shelled up with you in only a couple weeks before the painting had dried. He made special effort to learn your routine, wanting to give you the space that you needed while also maximizing his time spent with you.

Leon was an actual angel, you were wholeheartedly convinced. Some days you would come home after working on another painting to the man cooking dinner, having bought an expensive wine to share with you. When your hands would start to ache and your back and shoulders were sore from the long hours spent holding a paintbrush in an awkward hunched position, he would set aside anything he had going on just to give you all the massages, kisses, and love that you could ever want.

Nothing was ignored when it came to you and your wants and needs. Leon admitted awhile back that he felt guilty for intruding on your space, though you were very quick to shut that down. He was far from a burden, actually lining up more with a dream come true.

And just like he did with you, you spared nothing while getting to know the in's and out's of the man that occupied your mind, heart, and home. You learned his favorite meals, watched his favorite shows and movies with him, returning the massages when he would return from the gym, and paid extra attention to how he liked to be held at night. Who would've guessed that the Leon Kennedy loved to be the little spoon?

What you spent the most time on was making sure to listen when he suddenly went on tangents about his past. They really did haunt him. You would wake up in the middle of the night to him huddled at the top of the bed, arms wrapped around his legs and head between his knees as he did his best to cry quietly. All you could do for him in those moments was pull him against your chest, gently rocking him back and forth while whispering sweet nothings, just until he felt either ready to talk or ready to fall back asleep. If he just wanted more comfort, then that's what he got, obviously.

He was only recently put on a couple medications to help him better manage his PTSD and anxiety since he really had to cut back on the alcohol in order to take them the way he needed. Definitely worth it to both you and him seeing as his nightmares lessened in intensity and frequency.

Now here you were, straightening out Leon's tie for him since his hands were failing him, nerves getting the better of him. He had taken his meds a few minutes ago, wanting to have the full effect during the party to combat any destructive behaviors during it, so it was no wonder his hands were still trembling.

"You're going to do so well, Leon." You smiled, giving him a gentle pat between his pecs after tucking his tie into his suit jacket. He was staring straight ahead, eyebrows furrowed with worry as he stared at himself in the mirror. "You've made so much progress and I couldn't be any prouder."

He licked his dry lips before slowly looking down at you, giving you the best smile he could, which was really just him pulling his lips back tight. If it weren't for you constantly being around to encourage him and push him to get better, he would not be able to attend his own farewell party.

How had he managed to get so far without this level of love and care? Where would he even be without you? Hopefully later when his mind isn't racing a million miles per minute, Leon will be able to tell you just how lucky he is to have you in his life.

Leon watched you in the mirror as you walked around to stand behind him, straightening out his suit jacket in random spots until deciding to just wrap your arms around his midriff, pressing the side of your face against his back with a content sigh. He brought his still-trembling hands up to hold onto your arms, rubbing his thumbs up and down across your soft skin.

His eyes settled back on his own face after staring at your arms linked around him, letting out a shaky sigh of his own as he attempted to just focus on this moment. You were perfect, ethereal, a true work of art. He wouldn't trade any of this for the world.

It took some time, about an hour, before Leon's medication was starting to kick in. You were definitely a big help, he couldn't give all the credit to his meds.

His relaxed demeanor wasn't easy to spot, the man was just naturally rigid, but you waited until he let you know that he was ready; ready to go to his farewell party, ready to see the portrait you painted for him, ready to put in the effort into accepting the next chapter in his life.

The drive to the White House was seamless, having been picked up in a blacked out SUV that held four personal guards, courtesy of the President. Leon wasn't going to complain, he actually kind of liked the pampering effect that came with being driven around by a dedicated entourage.

Almost all good feelings were drained from Leon when the car finally pulled up to the front of the White House where more guards stood waiting to escort the two of you inside. It was still early in the night, but the sun had set long ago, making for quite the beautiful atmosphere.

He could see numerous party attendees walking up the stairs, dressed up in their fanciest outfits for him. He held your hand the entire way up the stairs and into the entrance hall with a grip that was sure to leave your hand hurting. No matter, you could tell he needed you. That vice grip he had was well worth it for his comfort.

There were quite a few more people than either you or Leon expected. It seems as if all available agents, young, old, and retired, had been sent an invitation for tonight, along with quite a few high-ranking government workers. Luckily, this was a private event; no reporters, no news, only those who had been fortunate enough to be invited.

The first to spot you two was Chris who quickly made his way over to pull Leon into a bone-crushing hug, giving him a few solid pats on the back before letting go. Leon only reciprocated the hug with one hand, the other refusing to let go of yours, though his grip had loosened by now.

"Where's Claire?" Leon muttered, leaning to the side to scan over the sizeable crowd. "She's.." Chris turned around to also scan the crowd, squinting a bit as he looked. "She's somewhere. My wife is with her, her family, and Jill."

Leon pursed his lips with a curt nod, humming quietly in acknowledgement before standing straight again. He glanced down at where his hand held yours, squeezing it again for just a second as if to remind himself that you haven't gone anywhere.

Chris had turned back around to see the small gesture Leon gave to you, a coy smirk on his face. "What uhh... what's all this, huh?" He subtly pointed between you and the other man, voice lowered.

Leon cleared his throat and looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear despite the volume in the hall. "... M'gonna save that for the-.. the speech." Chris just nodded, crossing his arms before slowly turning to look through the crowd again. "Alright, well, let me go find the family and bring them over before you're swarmed." And with that, Chris made his way back into the crowd.

Unfortunately, Leon had been spotted by the rest of the partygoers before Chris could return with everyone. Many pleasantries were repeated while also returning small talk with the people he recognized, which was a lot. You managed to avoid most of it, only being questioned a few times due to the rather obvious hold the man had on you. Despite having attended the last few parties like this, most people unable to recognize you as the artist. A blessing and a curse.

The next couple hours were spent eating finger foods, conversing with whoever, and enjoying the way Leon started to flow with the event. He soon found his way to Chris, Claire, their partners and kids, and Jill which really helped him loosen up. He needed the more familiar faces, having now let go of your hand fully to talk more animatedly with them. You made sure to stick by his side as long as you could, letting out a soft laugh every time you noticed his quick glances over to you to check if you're still there.

The time eventually did come for you to part with Leon, signaling a couple guards to follow you down a few hallways until reaching the room where the portrait sat, still covered with the violet cloth. The decision to keep it back here for so long was made by the President, wanting less of a sudden reveal and more of a build up.

Normally it would already be hanging in the entrance hall, covered and ready to be revealed, but not wanting to risk any potential damage, you were asked to hold off bringing it in until the President was ready to give the speech leading up to Leon's.

It'd been set in the golden frame rather quickly with the help from one of the guards that walked down with you. You had the guard to hold it up for you so you could give it one final good look before he was instructed to lead you back. After recovering, you took the portrait in both hands, holding it close as you were escorted back through the halls and into the main entrance hall.

By now everyone had directed their focus closer to the center of the back wall. Next to where the President stood, your own art easel was now set up. That was mostly as homage to you and it wasn't like anyone besides you would understand that it's yours, though Leon did pick up on that little feature. He'd been staring at the back of that thing for months, counted the various old streaks of paint on the pale wood over and over.

It made his farewell all the more personal, struggling to mask the feeling of the ever-growing pit in his stomach from the friends he was still standing next to.

The sound of a mic being tapped drew everyone's attention in to the President, the volume in the hall quieting to a whisper, soon completely silent as he began to speak into the mic;

"Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you to honor and pay tribute to a true hero, a dedicated public servant, and a loyal friend who has served our nation with unwavering dedication for the past 19 years. It is with great respect and admiration that I address you on this occasion, as we bid farewell to a remarkable agent who has exemplified the very best qualities of service and sacrifice." As the President spoke, Leon held his breath, hands gripping onto his suit jacket to keep from trembling again.

At this point, you'd silently walked along the side with the guards from before, bringing the covered portrait up to the front before carefully placing it on your easel. "Throughout this nation's history, these agents have played an essential role in ensuring the safety and security of our nation's people and have consistently placed their lives on the line to protect the sanctity of our democracy. And today, we acknowledge one agent who has done so with unparalleled devotion."

"This retiring agent has been a silent sentinel, ensuring the continuity of our democratic ideals. Through countless hours of training, vigilance, and selflessness, they have demonstrated a level of commitment that is nothing short of extraordinary. But beyond their exceptional professional duties, this agent has been a friend and a confidant to those of us privileged to work alongside them. They have been a source of strength, a steady hand in turbulent times, and a symbol of the unbreakable bond that can form within the ranks of those who dedicate their lives to service."

You positioned yourself opposite of the President, placing your hands behind your back to keep your posture tall as you now smiled at the crowd, subtly scanning for Leon. His eyes were already on you when you found him, and your smile only widened further.

It prompted his own nervous smile, toying with the buttons on his jacket while turning his attention back to the President, wanting to remain respectful to his, honestly, very flattering speech so far. You followed Leon's eyes, seemingly having the same idea to just watch and listen.

"The sacrifices made by our agents often go unnoticed by the public, and that is by design. Their commitment to duty is matched only by their humility. But today, we pause to recognize and celebrate this retiring agent's dedication, valor, and sacrifice." The President continued to address the attendees in the room, giving you a quick nod before returning his focus to everyone in the entrance hall.

The President outstretched his hand towards Leon standing in the crowd, now staring at him with a prideful yet relaxed look. "To Mr. Leon S. Kennedy, our retiring agent and loyal friend, thank you for your 19 years of dedicated service to our nation. May your retirement be filled with the peace and contentment that you so richly deserve. You leave behind a legacy of honor and courage that will never be forgotten." The crowd of attendees clapped and cheered briefly, causing Leon to reach his hand up to wipe across his face. A poor way to hide his red face. He's done that before, hasn't he?

Once the crowd quieted back down, the President finished his speech with a classic, "May God bless you, your family, and may God continue to bless the United States of America. Thank you" before the crowd picked back up cheering and clapping. You clapped along with them, laughing at Leon's flustered expression. He could barely hold back his smile, not really have expecting to be so well recognized for his service.

Leon's queue to make his way to the front was when the President walked over to stand next to you, making sure not to block the covered portrait from anyone's view. He'd recited this speech to you countless times, even more to himself when he was alone, but all those eyes staring at him were causing him to fumble. He messed around with the mic once he was standing in front of it, and that was your queue to walk over and stand next to him, placing a loving hand on his forearm.

That's all he needed, just a little extra encouragement from the person he relied on the most. His speech was short and straight to the point, never having been a man of professional word, yet he still managed to slip in some words of praise for you and all the help you provided him during his rough patch earlier in the year.

Neither you or Leon had outright said it to each other, let alone to anyone else, but hearing him announce to the entire hall of people that you were his girlfriend made your heart soar. Speaking about you calmed his nerves, and he wanted everyone to know just how lucky he felt, like he'd hoped for earlier.

He bent over slightly to whisper in your ear, covering the mic with his hand to make sure it didn't pick up his voice. "Now, why don't you go ahead and show us all that masterpiece you spent months working on?" Oh, now you were the flustered one, giggling nervously as you gave his arm a gentle squeeze before walking over to where the painting sat on the easel.

"Ladies and gentleman," Leon's eyes followed you as he straightened his posture out, speaking into the mic once more with a wide smile gracing his features, "I'm honored to have the wonderful artist herself present my very own portrait to you." As he spoke, you carefully lifted the cloth from where it was draped over the painting, finally revealing the ever-awaited portrait to everyone.

Just like with Chris and Claire's, Leon was sat in that soft maroon chair, slightly off center, but his position was different with his right ankle rested atop his left knee, elbows on the arms of the chair while his hands rested in his lap, fingers interlaced. His smile was soft and partially crooked while he looked forward with relaxed eyes, a few strands of hair painted to sit in front of his brow. And to tie it all together, it had a lovely green background, a dark forest green as the base while a sage green was used to add texture. The vintage look had always been your favorite, and Leon fit it so perfectly. He was nearly timeless.

Many "ooo's" and "ahh's" were heard amongst the clapping from the crowd, along with a handshake from the President. Before you could turn to face Leon, you felt his arms slowly slink around you from underneath your arms, the weight of his head now pressing down on your shoulder. You could feel his grin when he tilted his head to kiss your jawline, beginning to gently rock you side to side. Getting to show off your work was always so rewarding, but just knowing Leon was handling everything so well was a feeling you'll truly never forget.

He was happy. That's all you ever wanted for him. The man has truly earned his portrait in that agent hall of fame.

The portrait was soon brought down to the aforementioned hall to be hung up and displayed for good, a few small groups trailing down to get a better look at it. Chris was the noisiest about it, telling Leon it looked like it belonged above a grand fireplace, to which said man agreed with.

Chris, Claire, Jill, and their respective families stared at it for quite some time alongside Leon and you. They all chatted while Leon stared quietly, taking in every little fine detail you'd added. You changed his position some, and did he really smile at you like that? He really did look lovestruck. Of course only he could tell that. Hopefully.

He surprised himself with how okay he felt after seeing the painting. You warned him multiple times that it would most likely be overwhelming and emotional, and while it was, it wasn't in a bad way. The most compelling thought he had right now was to just sweep you off your feet and smother you with love.

Leon asked one of the guards to take a picture of him with everyone, including you, in front of his portrait. Then, just a picture of you and him standing in front of it, easily becoming the background on his phone.

The party went on for only an hour or so more before people started to trickle out. You and Leon were some of the first to leave, saying all your thanks and goodbye's with hugs and handshakes.

The moment the two of you walked into your apartment he practically pounced on you before the door had shut, large hands gripping tight on your hips as he sloppily made out with you. He just had to show his gratitude for all your hard work.

Your lips tasted so sweet and your soft little moans were driving him wild, he couldn't help the groan that rumbled from his chest. Full blown sex had been held off by you, not wanting to rush him into anything while you helped him manage his problems. Honestly, he was glad you'd held off on him, because now that he was feeling like his own person again, it made waiting all the more fulfilling.

Leon hoisted you up into his arms after you'd kicked your heels off, holding onto the back of your thighs as he carried you to the bedroom. You wrapped your arms around his neck, giggling against his lips as he carefully navigated around the short hallway and into the bedroom.

You looked so good splayed out on the bed for him, that beautiful dress you chose was insanely flattering on you. It had to go though, so after yanking off his jacket he made quick work of your dress, fumbling with the zipper for a moment before pulling it up and over your head. Your bra and panties didn't last either. He'd only gotten to see you naked a couple times before, but god, he'll never get tired of seeing you this way, acting all shy like you weren't his favorite view.

Leon was so eager to get his hands on you that he neglected to take off his suit, opting instead to hover over you and bury his face into your neck. He wasn't a good artist, but he loved to cover your neck in shades of red and purple like you were his own little painting, akin to leaving his signature all over you.

He only pulled away once you tugged on his hair, listening to your begs and pleas for him to get his clothes off. As much as he wanted to prolong this night and tease you, he couldn't hold himself back. He needed to feel your soft skin against his.

"So perfect." Leon mumbled against your skin, licking and kissing his way up your stomach and to your breasts after practically ripping off his clothes. His hands found their way back to your hips, pressing them firm against the bed to keep you from squirming away as he nipped at one of your nipples, pulling it into his mouth.

He moaned as he sucked and circled his tongue around your nipple, his eyes falling closed. The other couldn't stay neglected, so he brought one hand up to pinch and tug at your other nipple, sighing when he felt your body press against his as you arched at the sensation. He loved when your moans would pitch, so cute.

His cock was pressed against the inside of your thigh, rutting against it when you would tug at his hair. Once he decided your nipples had enough attention, he sat up and grabbed the backs of your knees to place around his waist. The new position offered Leon the perfect opportunity to drag his leaking cock through your folds, pressing it down with his thumb so the tip would nudge your clit with every slow thrust forward.

You were so wet, so delicate. He could've fucked you right then, slid right into that juicy little pussy, but he needed to take care of you first. He would never forgive himself if he hurt you.

Reluctantly, the man pulled his dick away from you, letting out a poorly concealed whine at the loss. He ran his hands up your thighs before moving one hand so he could circle your clit with his thumb, the other hand back on your hip to keep you steady.

"L-eon~!" You brokenly moaned out, pleading to him with your watery eyes. You needed more; his fingers, his cock, anything. He couldn't say no to that, stopping his assault on your clit to drag his middle and ring finger through your drenched folds to wet them properly. He brought your right leg to sit over his shoulder, hand gripping the top of your thigh as he leaned forward, studying your face closely as he gently teased the outside of your slit with his middle finger.

He moaned with you as he slid his finger in, keeping his eyes trained on you as he started to tentatively thrust his finger in and out. "Yeah?" Leon whispered, licking his lips as you barely managed to nod. "Yeeeaah, there's my girl..." The rumble in his voice was music to your ears.

His ring finger was soon slid in next to his middle finger, switching between scissoring you and making a partial 'come here' motion with them. After only a couple minutes you were leaking all over his hand and the bed, the wet sounds of your pussy mixed with your moans making his cock jerk and drip with precum. Leon clenched his teeth as he slowly pulled his fingers from you, immediately bringing them to his mouth to suck off your juices. He let out an audible sigh after swallowing, repositioning his dick to slide through your folds a couple more times before nudging your hole with the tip.

"Look at me, baby..." Leon's hushed demand brought you to open your eyes, if only half way. He made eye contact with you before leaning forward further to kiss you, all the while finally pushing into you. He soaked in your gasp, his eyebrows furrowing as you tensed up. "Relax.. let me in~..."

"It's only me.." He panted, tilting his head to kiss the corner of your mouth as your eyes shut again. "It's only me, baby..." he repeated this a few more times as he eased his cock inside of you, the stretch only stinging for a moment before it turned to pleasure. He filled you perfectly, you could feel every bit of him, especially with his right hand adding a bit of pressure to your stomach.

Leon sat still for a minute to give you time to adjust, taking the way you moved your hips as a sign to move. He pulled out, all the way to the tip, before slowly thrusting back in. He managed to choke out a quiet "Fuck-.." when you clenched around him. "Taking me so well.. such a big girl~.."

He always knew just how to talk to you, making sure to take his time buttering you up. You were putty in his hands, and between his words and the feeling of him reaching so deep inside of you, you could barely think.

It didn't take long for him to start to lose his composure, the sound of wet skin slapping together filling the room as his thrusts intensified. "All mine. All for me." The grip he had on your thigh was sure to leave a bruise, but that was the last thing on your mind.

The hand he had pressing on your stomach moved further down so he could circle your clit with his thumb again, jaw tight as he looked from your blissed out expression to where his hand was playing with you. "Oh fuck! That's it!" Leon growled, eyes glued to your cunt as he plunged in and out of it. "Cream this dick, mamas~... Cum on my cock so I can fill this pretty pussy up.."

The way you gasped and moaned when you came was enough to warrant a noise complaint, but screw your neighbors. You needed this just as much Leon did.

"Oohhh fuck yeah.. Milk me, baby~... shit-" Leon's thrusts stuttered to a stop while pressed flush against you, abs flexing as he pumped ropes of cum into you. Once you managed to open your eyes, all you could do was stare at the man, flushed pink and sweaty, sitting between your legs. Both of you moaned in tandem as he pulled out, Leon groaning to himself as he watched his cum drip from your pussy. Truly a work of art meant for his eyes only.

He leaned over you again to plant a quick kiss on your lips, chuckling when he felt you smile. "Let me go grab something to clean you up, okay?" You could only nod in response, reaching your hand up to caress the side of his face before he stood up from the bed. He walked across the hall into the bathroom, wetting a soft rag with warm water before making his way back over to you.

Leon made sure to be gentle when cleaning you, the warmth from the rag soothing your tender skin. You were able to sit up on your elbows and watch him, using his gentle touches as a way to calm your still racing heart.

After wiping himself off with the rag, he tossed it over in the general direction of your laundry basket. It was a problem for later. Right now, he wanted lay back on the bed and pull you up so you could lay on top of him. Along with just how nice it felt to hold you, he loved the weight of you on him. So that's what he did, pulling you onto him after laying on the bed, running his fingers though your hair on the back of your head.

"Leon." You muttered against his collarbone. His eyebrows raised, yet his eyes were closed. "Mm?" His right eye peaked open when he felt you giggle. "What?"

"I love you." His fingers paused their ministrations at your words. You lifted your head up to look at him, growing worried with his shocked expression. "Sorry, is that too-" you choked on your words, stopped mid-sentence by Leon's arms suddenly squeezing the breath out of you with a very tight hug. He pulled you up just a little further so he could smush his lips against yours.

"I love you too!" He breathed out excitedly. "You don't know how long I've been waiting to tell you!" You tapped his arm and he immediately relaxed his grip, mumbling a small, "Sorry, my bad.." when you took in a deep breath.

"You're adorable, Leon." You shook your head with a smile, brushing the hair from his face to give him a much gentler kiss before settling you head back against his chest with a quiet sigh.

Leon was still a tough man, but you made him soft. Only ever soft for you.

Side note: I totally forgot to add in the pussy eating i am so sorry. i thought i did but it was literally just a thought that never manifested 😭

tags!: @greywardensaywhat @xkittiecatx @httpsuguru @httpsuguru @k-fallingstar @lysa1201 @bobastayhigh @pocketstoriesstore @agent-dessis-posts @klee-iii @missjoenowhere @mi-zer-y @bigtiddiesimp @finsternisle @sweets3rial @sodacolablast (there's a few of you that tumblr wouldn't let me tag for some reason)

[queenie-avenue]

Never Judge a Book by It's Cover.

💌 ⤻ THE COVER, VALERIO MARCHETTI

—> did you really think that he was the one?

⤻ reader is gender neutral, reader is an assassin, kidnapping, attempted murder, suggestive themes, talks of torture, mafia shenanigans, 1940s - 50s slang, valerio is a creep, reader gets shot

notes: thank you to @resident-cryptid who gave me this awesome idea for a mafia man, i hope you enjoy it. also, i'm not too sure where to set this time period but i do like the idea of them using slang from the old timey days.

💌 ⤻ archives.

A vial of poison rested in the hidden pockets of your clothes as you walked inside the venue event.

Everyone was dancing and laughing, bright looks on their faces. It was an antsville in here. How could they live with all the crimes they committed? How could they live their lives in splendour when people on the streets were starving to death?

Especially that man in the centre of it all.

The man who ran the Marchetti Syndicate.

Valerio Marchetti. The man you were assigned to kill.

Long gone were the days where you were anxious about the act of killing someone. No, for this victim, you felt excitement thrum in your bones as you approached the bar where he was seated, chatting with some men. People whom you recognised, a few judges, some corporate leaders and others, influential people in and out of the political realm. They were all wrapped around his tanned pinky finger.

"One martini, please." You ordered, sitting just beside the gaggle of men who talked on and on. You probably should have listened, but if you had to listen to someone talk about stock prices for more than a minute, you swore you might as well have just spiked everyone's giggle juice here.

Finally, Valerio noticed you and from the corner of your eye, you saw that he was hurriedly shooing away the rest of the men just to be able to talk to you, his eyes looking you up and down. "Well, hello there." He grinned at you as shivers ran down your spine. This... was a tad bit too easy, and your body immediately set into a cautious mode as you turned yourself over, giving him your best award-winning smile there was.

"Hello." You grinned as you leaned forward, grabbing your martini from the bartender.

"What a foxy little individual like you doing around these parts." He asked, running a hand through his gelled back hair, winking at you. On top of being the largest crime boss in the entirety of Italy, Valerio was also a known playboy; men and women alike were always photographed with him, but no one dared to say anything lest their entire family's blood be painted on the walls the next day. "I can see you're not around these parts." He smirked.

"Golly, is it that noticeable?" You chuckled as you took a sip of your martini before offering him a sip, establishing some trust between the two of you as you returned his smirk.

He took the martini glass gratefully from your hand before finishing it. Son of a bitch, you thought when you saw how rude he was despite having just met him.

"Trust me, baby, I can tell from a mile away when I see a deer lost in the wrong forest." He said as he called for the bartender. "Load us up with some good drinks. Shots, cocktails, whatever, just bring the big guns out." He gestured before turning back to you.

Yeah, definitely way too easy.

"What's the special occasion?" You flirted back, deciding to be bold and stroke a messy line down the clean seams of his suit.

"Seeing a hot piece of meat like you." He replied smoothly as he handed you a new drink to replace the one he had basically stolen from you.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

Valerio slammed you up against the wall of the dimly-lit hallway, propping you up with his muscular build as his hands roamed across your body with no restraint. His veiny arms were all exposed thanks to you asking him to roll up his sleeves, faking it as something that you had a thing for. "Oh, god. You're amazing." He whispered into your lips as he bit them, drawing out just the slightest bit of blood.

Even with love, he seemed to be sadistic.

His larger than life hands roamed across your body, squeezing your bum as you gasped, causing him to smirk. "Sensitive there, are we?" He questioned and despite your best efforts, you did blush. You nod your head, and he took that as indication that you were liking where this was going. Without warning, he hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around his before moving you to a table.

Your hands scratched at his back for support and you took this as your chance. Slyly, your hands reached into your pocket to take out a syringe filled with poison.

And you stabbed it into his back, injecting it into his bloodstream as he let out a gasp. One not of pleasure but shock, he immediately got off you, gasping for air as you watched him tumble towards the ground. He shifted around, grabbing his coat pocket, attempting to fish out his pistol but you beat him to the punch, kicking his hands away. "Not so quick." You whispered.

"Not so quick, indeed." A female voice sounded from behind you, and before you knew it, a chloroform towel was placed over your nose, your gun kicked away as you fell into a deep sleep.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

With a groan, you jolted awake when you remembered the last few memories before you passed out. You hit your head against what you assume to be metal as your vision adjusts itself to the darkness you find yourself in. The only source of light being the one in front of you, illuminating the man you tried to kill tonight, and a woman at his side? An assistant? His lover?

"You're awake." Your suspicions were confirmed when you heard the woman speak; she was the one who knocked you out.

"Who are you?"

"My boss." Valerio said, wiping himself off with a towel, sweat pooling at his forehead as he panted for breath. It seemed he had gotten an antidote on time, but even then, the symptoms of the poison still affected him.

"What do you mean? Aren't you the head?" Your eyes narrowed as cogs began to shift in your head.

"He's a cover." The brunette woman stated without emotion in her voice as she turned away from you, as if she had not just dropped a bombshell of a fact at you, walking out of the room they kept you in. "Have fun with them, Valerio."

Valerio got up from his seat. "Trust me, I will." He smirked.

"Shit." You muttered.

"Don't worry, mi amore, this won't hurt at all."

[velvet-paradox]

Naughty

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Keegan P. Russ x Female reader Length: Medium Summary: You like your man a little mean and he obliges. Warnings: NSFW 18 + ONLY, reader discretion advised, established relationship, name calling (dumb, dummy, toy, slut), strong language, porn with very little plot, a lot of brain rot going on here friends, light slapping (but not painful), oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talking, detailed smut. P.S. I may or may not have a lovi obsession just sayin'. OK BYE Tagging: @synnersaint

She likes it when he's mean.

When he comes home hot and still full of spit and vinegar. Says it turns her on to get a little kaleidoscope glimpse in to what his enemies get the full taste of. Of course he's never truly mean to her, how could he? He loves his little dummy back home. With her glittering eyes and open arms, waiting patiently for him mission after mission. Her hugs are the best. Welcoming him home, where he belongs, even if he does reek of gun residue, sweat and gore.

Blood doesn't bother her, whether it be her own or Keegan's, she's not shy with the sticky stuff. She's cleaned his wounds with bare hands and when she's finished she's got more dirt and grime under her nails then he did. She's even stitched his forehead once or twice, much to his disapproval even though when he chances a look in the mirror, he can barely see the scars.

She's good.

Too good.

Too good for him, she doesn't deserve the junk and turmoil he brings to her doorstep. Wounds that won't heal, scars that won't fade. But he tries. He tries to be a good man when he's not running point, when he's not given instructions to just barrel through and get the job at hand, done. Keegan wants to be a good man; good enough to deserve you.

He looks at your photo when he's alone in his tent, on the road, in the helo. When the world is just too fucking loud, he's careful to take it out of his front left breast pocket (safe keeping of course), looking at your beautiful handwriting first.

FROM ONE DUMMY TO ANOTHER XOXO

He'll smile at it, beneath his ghost balaclava or bare and streaked when he's all alone, before he'll turn it over. Still after these tedious months, he gets that tingle in the pit of his stomach, the ends of his toes, the balls of his feet, the seam where God himself split his sac.

You don't have to be naked to look this fucking good. In fact, you're fully clothed, only your soft hands are available, giving two peace signs on the back of his motorcycle. Two of his most precious guilty pleasures.

"Come on, come on." Your whine cuts through the forgotten music in the background, the faint smell of a homecooked meal wafts up the stairs and renders the man completely useless.

Keegan is transfixed at the leash in his hand, the black leather is soft and worn in his palm, the chain clinks quietly when he moves his wrist and finally looks down. Stunned once more by your beauty. On your knees in a lacy one piece, slinky at best, leaving just a hint of peek-a-boo skin through the fine material. The leash is of course attached to the collar around your neck, next thing he sees is your wiggling, hips swaying as if you had a tail, sticking out your tongue in a lewd and obscene manner.

"You said we were gonna' play," you pouted as Keegan smiled down at your desperation. Distance did make the heart grow fonder and stitched your desires back together. "Don't you wanna' play with me?"

"Of course I do baby," Keegan pet your pretty face, humming when you nuzzled against his palm. "I'm just trying to figure out which hole I'd rather stretch out tonight."

The gasp and look in your eyes hit him straight in the groin, knowing damn he'd never sunk into that tight ring of muscle as of yet. You'd need preparation, time and training of course and more than just spit as lube.

Keegan shuffled and wound the chain around his thick fist, drawing you up on your knees. "You wanna' play? Let's play."

….

Your noises are music to his ears, long forgotten are the spraying bullets and shouts of commands, what's left, the only sounds that matter are of desire. Not too long ago were you taunting him from over your shoulder. He forced you to stand, about face, hands on the wall as he kicked your legs open. Biting his tongue at the way you arched your back and made your ass jiggle, pushing back against him as he tried to remain as still as possible. Which wasn't easy.

You never took it easy it on Keegan, he was a man of war. As much as you'd tease him, make that pretty noise when you wanted something badly enough to vocalize it, he'd lose his composure. Keeping the balaclava on just a little longer until he couldn't take it anymore.

He tossed you to the bed after that stunt, crawling over you, the clips of his fresh gear snagging on the lace as he covered your mouth with one hand, pinned your hip down with the other and stared into your fluttering eyes.

"You sound so good baby, so damn needy for me. You can hardly stand it, huh? Look at you, already moaning like a slut for me, just for me right? No one else."

You shook your head frantically, mumbling behind his palm until he lifted it away from your lips. "What's that, pet?"

"No one. No one else, I promise. Just you," you licked his hand sensually, keeping your eyes on his face as you laid back down. "I only want you to slut me out."

Keegan chuckled lowly with a nod of approval, pinching your side. "Good girl. Now just keep letting me know how good you feel, yeah? 'm gonna' keep going until you're shaking, making a fucking mess, is that understood?"

Your enthusiastic face made him hard.

Keegan ripped off his mask and got down on his knees, dipping the bed with his weight. He delighted in your squeals and giggles, fitting your legs over his shoulders, licking his lips when he realized the only the thing separating his mouth from your pussy was a pair of flat snap buttons.

Now listen, Keegan is no slouch when it comes to eating pussy. He knows what he's doing. If there were a (pun intended) eating contest, there would be a trophy case decorated with a few honorable medals as well.

The first time he tasted you, you almost broken his nose, bucking up hard into his face. You apologized repeatedly but Keegan just laughed it off, saying that would be the best excuse for his twice broken nose already. He licked his name against your clit. Letter by letter, shapes and swirls as he claimed your cunt.

K was a pointed tongue slashed against the hooded nub, the first E was gentle and flat tongued, the other E was followed by a slow and deliberate suck, G was a sloppy swirl and A and N were hummed to a tune of his own making.

Your hands moving to brush back his hair felt so damn good on his scalp, panting and wiggling for him. It had been two weeks too long. "Please baby that's it, that's it." Your voice was already fucked.

"I know you fucking love it," Keegan grunted against your sex, taking a moment to grace your slick folds with the bridge of his nose, chuckling lowly when you keened. "You just fucking love it when I devour you whole, don't you? Yes you do, tastes so fucking good."

When Keegan got lost in the sauce there was no telling just what he'd say, what string of commands or obscenities he'd loop together in some sensual tapestry that left you breathless.

"Yeah? I taste good?"

Keegan lifted his head, remnants of black grease paint over his pretty eyes looked up at you from between your legs, making them tremble in his grip. "You taste divine, princess."

With that, Keegan brought you to the edge, licking and sucking, toying with your cunt when he tagged in his fingers to join in the fun, those thick fingers breached your hole and stretched you out over and over until you begged. Sobbed for him to let you cum, that you couldn't hold it back any longer and oh how did Keegan love it when you begged!

"Come on sweetie, you can do better than that. Turns me on when you do it…. so fucking beg."

He licked your arousal from his fingers, making an absolute show of it too. "Good job, baby. You did such a good job for me." Keegan groaned as you panted to catch your breath, laid out and limber. He could throw you over his shoulders if he wanted, flip you over with ease, your limp body just going through the motions. Keegan could (and has) had you in every position possible and some that required a bit of technical work, a little fine tuning, angling his hips just so, holding your neck or lacing your fingers together.

Keegan is a man of many talents, in and out of the bedroom as he shifts and takes off his belt-- one handed. Your glassy eyes shine in the dim light from the room, predatory as you drink him in while he undresses.

Your hands are on his waist, burning hot before gives a gentle pat to the outside of your thigh, rolling you over on to your stomach. Sometimes he can't help himself and he gets this primal surge deep in his groin to obliterate you, break you, fuck you raw and stupid until you're a sloppy little mess of limbs and cum.

The smacks to your ass are deliberate and you raise up only to be pushed back down, Keegan grunted at you to keep still, to spread your legs, keep that one bent, just like that.

Keegan edges himself, rock hard in his hand as you dips just the crown of it around the base you, still wet. That bit of pre-cum on the tip is enough to wiggle between your cheeks with ease.

You shudder when he does that thing you like.

His spit slips between you, another glob of it makes it a sound leaving his mouth and hitting his shaft.

"Jesus Keegan, fuck me already. I need it."

"Oh I've got just what you need you dumb little pet," he grabs the leash, tugging on the chain as you pull on the sheets. "Whose my dumb little girl, huh? Is it you, baby? Are you my dummy girl?"

"Fuck. Yes."

Keegan yanks on it, jerking your head back. "Say it. I wanna' hear you say it."

Fuck; he's throbbing.

"I'm your dumb little girl. Just so fucking-- God that feels so good... I'm so dumb, so dumb for your cock, baby. Please."

"Good job." Keegan cooed and then thrusted in deep. "Let's slut you out then, yeah?"

….

God you're pretty. Clawing at the sheets as he fucks you through another orgasm. The clanking, your moans and body bending, arching into his touch like a needy cat. Pet me pet me pet me.

"Baby please," you paw at him, sentences die on your tongue, failing to make it out of the column of your throat. "I'm gonna' cum again." Now on your back with your knees pretty much to your chest, rocking on his cock with his momentum, the leash pulled skin tight.

"Awww of course you are. I can feel you squeezing me, my dumb little girl is getting her pretty little hole fucked out. You're so fucking hot," Keegan moaned out, he dragged a hand down his face, salt and sweat, paint staining his hands before he smeared it over your chest. He's marked you in a number of ways but to see you marked like this, with his mystery always got him going.

"Just like that-- ha!" you drawled, an almost pained 'oh my God' seeped into the air behind clenched teeth. Keegan mimicked you instantly, keeping his hand pressed between your tits. "I'm gonna' cum again, don't stop!"

Keegan's chuckle held desire and humor, fitting one of your legs over his shoulder, smearing his face against your calf. He was tempted to take a bite, too. Those intrusive thoughts always got the better of him.

"You think I could ever stop fucking this pussy, huh? Fuck yeah, squeeze around me again baby. You're such a good girl for me," Keegan was rewarded by his own praise when you leaned up to watch him split you open, spit on your pussy and fuck you harder.

What can I say? The man has stamina.

"Oh my God! Keep going keep going, fuck."

Your legs started to shake the minute Keegan's thumb met your swollen bundle of nerves, throbbing around his cock, crying out for more more more, that you couldn't take it. You came with a whine, sobbing with your release that flooded around the base of his cock. Keegan growled and gave it, chomping down the sensitive meat of your leg.

"Good job, baby. You look so fucking cute when you cum, when you're all brain dead," Keegan hissed through his teeth and pinned you down, heavy hands on your knees as he spread you open. "Open up for me, let me finish inside you. Gonna' fuckin' fill you up, two weeks is bullshit. Stay awake baby," he gently slapped your face in quick succession, jerking your chin to make you look at him and only him. "Don't get all dizzy on me now dummy, you've got some more dick to take."

She's really going to get it now...

[lil-tachyon]

Got any good resources for clothing drawing tips?

Okay so quick little introduction before I try to answer this question. First of all, sorry for letting this languish in the inbox for so long. I have a lot I want to say about this and I'd really like to make a proper "tutorial" but this week took a lot out of me so what you're going to get are some visual notes on graph paper and some rambling thoughts. Maybe down the line I'll try to flesh this out more into a proper guide, but for now it is what it is.

Second- for many different art concepts I can give you some really great recommended reading for self-teaching. There's a whole section of my website with links to things that helped me learn. Clothing is one of those things where I never found a book or tutorial that really "clicked" with me. It's one of the few areas of art where I feel like it's fair to say I'm genuinely self-taught. So what you're going to get here is very much my opinion, not undisputed common wisdom or whatever. Take it with a grain of salt. This is how I draw, not the "right way" to draw.

Third- drawing clothes is not something fundamental like perspective or rendering where there are actual hard-and-fast "rules" you can learn to guide you. It's not even like anatomy where there are approaches that have been worked out and passed down by artists over generations. I think about drawing clothing as a synthesis of several different skills- a little bit of anatomy, a little bit of perspective, a little bit of rendering. Honestly a smidge of graphic design. You're employing a "cloud" of your artistic skills towards a specific end. What this means is that the TLDR of this post is going to be "do what you would normally do to improve at drawing but apply it to clothing." So don't expect something life-changing, instead just open your mind to maybe trying some new things you hadn't thought of before. Also this is going to be more about drawing than painting, that is more about "lines" than "shapes" but the two skills overlap and the same concepts should be broadly applicable. But my examples are going to be drawings.

Okay intro out of the way. Clothes are mostly just tubes of fabric, fabric wants to fall down. The human body and sometimes wind and water and other fluids will stop this fabric from falling down all at once and instead give it a shape. Keep this in mind. It's helpful to know how clothes are actually constructed if you want to know how they will deform when falling across the figure. Where a garment is simply a length of fabric, it's very flexible. It can bunch together or be stretched taught. This is most noticeable at the parts of the body that open and shut like hinges- knees, elbows, and armpits. The behavior of garments at these areas of the body is highly dynamic.

At seams where different sections of fabric are stitched together, movement can be come more limited. Seams are usually imperfect- pieces of fabric of slightly different lengths might be stitched together or fabric may shrink over time around a thread causing it to pucker and wrinkle. For these reasons, seams often act as the originating areas for folds and wrinkles, even when a garment is not in a particularly flexed/active state.

In a two-dimensional image, it can be helpful to describe a garment in terms of silhouette and wrinkles/folds. The silhouette is the actual boundary of the garment, where the fabric comes to an end. The wrinkles/folds are where different parts of the garment pass in front of each other or where the fabric becomes bunched up to the point that light can't reach inside and occlusion shadows form. You should always keep the overall silhouette of the garment in mind to inform the bigger shapes you draw, but you will use wrinkles and folds to demonstrate how the garment twists and deforms. These are the basic tools in your arsenal. Keep it simple.

There are lots of different ways to approach wrinkles. My advice and my personal preference is to draw wrinkles as shapes and not just lines. Specifically, tapered shapes (like triangles) and be really good both for implying motion and the varying depth of a fold/wrinkle. Experiment with different shapes of varying angularity, fill texture, etc. Your hands and eyes will guide you towards what looks and feels good. There's no right way but I would advise you to exaggerate! Ask yourself- what's the biggest shape I can draw here? How can I twist it to make it bigger, crazier but still describe the form in a way that makes sense? It can be exhausting to just try to perfectly copy a reference and also using your imagination like this when doing studies will help build up your visual library for when you're drawing/designing clothing from imagination. In general I would advise you to focus more on drawing something that looks good (ie is composed of shapes that you find aesthetically pleasant) than is "correct."

Quick recap: Garments fall down, you can simplify an article of clothing into a silhouette described by folds and wrinkles. What next? Observe! Take notes! It is worth your time to think about how common articles of clothing are constructed. Jeans, t-shirts, dresses, etc. I used to do some hobbyist sewing and clothing alteration and I think that hands-on work with clothes has really affected the way I think about drawing them. You don't have to go that far but like- look at the world around you. Stuck on the bus, in school, in a meeting, etc? Even if you can't draw, look at how your pants bunch up around your legs, look at the sleeves of someone sitting next to you. I mean, don't be weird about it, but these are valuable observations. Think about how you would draw those things! Really getting good at drawing clothes involves studying them in the wild, understanding how they work, building up your visual library. Look at a faded denim jacket- at the puckered places where the indigo has rubbed away or the permanent creases that hardly see the light of day and remain a deeper blue. Look at petrochemical techwear outfits that break into jagged, high-sheen triangular wrinkles. Soak it all in!

Save pictures of and take notes on outfits you like, designers you like, garments you like. Keep track of these things. Come back and study them over time. Have fun with it! I have folders and folders and folders of images of clothes that I come back to constantly. Over time and with lots of study you'll learn what you want to draw when you draw clothes and that's half the battle. You'll have images of buttons, pockets, belts, laces, fabrics, seams, dancing around in your head that you can deploy at will. It's delightful.

Hope this helps! If anyone has more advice to add, please do! If this tutorial helped anyone, please show me your drawings! If you'd like more stuff like this from me, just send me an ask or an email and I'll answer it when I can.

Peace,

Logan

[1800titz]

Hi friends! This one came out to 19.3K — the longest part yet! Whew.

WARNINGS do apply to this chapter — once again, we touch on fear play with our kinky couple. Please do remember that everything between the characters is consensual, safe, and has been discussed in depth. Features mean H with a soft touch. I hope you love this one, and if you do, I'd love some feedback! (✿◠‿◠)

FOR WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE CLICK HERE PREVIOUS PARTS

You're sixteen minutes late. What do you think we should do about that?

For a moment, Isla just stares at his feet numbly. Harry Styles; Eros. Serpentine loafers. These are all ...very ...intense revelations, and, oh, wow, is it — is the room getting smaller, or is the air just casually being sucked out like the head of a vacuum's been slung through the light fixture?

She needs to sit down, Isla decides. She's already sitting. Okay.

Okay, okay, okay, okay. So she wasn't insane to draw correlations — and that's, like, a relief? Right?

Her palms press to the chill of the linoleum, and her heart thunders like a storm looms behind her ribcage. Eros — no, Harry says nothing.

Sixteen minutes of apprehension and distress over her absence are sixteen minutes too many, Harry thinks.

Generally, there's little that winds the man up into a state of restless concern. He's a pretty do unto others, golden rule sort of fellow, and so far, his karmic ramifications have mirrored the belief system he lives by. So there's nothing to feel tense over, in that department.

But when Isla Cleery doesn't show up for an entire sixteen minutes — when he usually finds her kneeling in the room, waiting for him, in the same time frame he enters tonight, only to discover an empty room... well. That's a bit of a cause for concern. Just a smidge.

And the thing is, it wouldn't be so abhorrently concerning had he not just suffered through a house showing, leading her through a scantily furnished shell of a home with scantily seamed composure. He couldn't say anything to her about it — he just couldn't take the burden upon himself to crush obscurity, and she'd grown so odd with him towards the end. Like he'd done something to upset her. She was still all friendly smiles and chatter, but the grins didn't reach her eyes, and those same eyes wouldn't hone on his stature in quite the same manner they had prior. As if something was throwing her off. Like she knew, the way he did.

Isla Cleery was a smart girl. He'd no doubt she'd piece the puzzle together in the same manner he had. And it wasn't like, (despite his hesitancy on breaking the wordless code that'd been set in the dynamic), he was going to go on this complex venture all in hopes of shielding her from the knowledge. He just didn't want to be the one to bring it up.

His change of clothes, or lack thereof, hadn't been this intentionally drawn out gameplan of hinting — the dominant just hadn't had the time to change, and partly...

Well, maybe just partly, he wanted her to know.

He wanted her to know that he'd just spent the better part of the last hour showcasing a house to her, and that after, he'd driven down to Indulge — that the next few would be spent walking her through things far less pure.

But then she just wasn't there. He'd sat down in the chair, gears grinding in contemplation.

Okay.

She was late. She just happened to be late. That could be chalked up to coincidence, entirely. But then five minutes turned into ten. Within fifteen, he'd wound himself up into an over-analyzing cycle, mentally walking through their interactions with critical inspection, gaze pinned to the door in unfocused daze. Had he said something?

Half an hour. Harry would give her half an hour, and then he'd go out and sit at the bar, and probably stare at the swirls over the countertop with doleful jade, and then he'd call it a night. Because who the fuck liked being stood up?

But then his detail-oriented dissection morphs into worry, because why the fuck was she suddenly late, when she'd never been late before, when he definitely hadn't made any sort of implications to reveal his status. He started worrying if the drive had been alright for her.

By the time Isla does show, slipping through the door quietly like a late pupil to a class in session, Harry's buzzing on the edge. He wants to feel relieved when she slips to her knees ahead of him, taking her typical spot over the linoleum, but all he feels is ...vexed. She's so nonchalant about it — no instant apologies rolling off her tongue as he'd expected.

Why was she late?

That's fine. He's fine to be the one to bring the elephant in the room to attention. In fact, it's his first course of action.

"You're late," he'd told her, no sugarcoating to his tone. He's had his time to stew.

No, how was your day, darling? No jesting to his cadence. No preamble of small talk.

And now, Isla Cleery is silent, keeled over with her hands pasted to the marble like she's already sorry. Good.

Harry prods into her silence, "Hm? Any suggestions?"

"Whatever—" she swallows, her pupils plastered to the rouge tips of the snake tails over the toes, "Whatever you find to be suited, Sir."

"Whatever I find to be suited..."

In the reticence following his echo of her statement, Isla deliberates. She doesn't ponder over punishment suggestions. Instead, she mulls over what sane reasoning there is to be so mortified.

So what? Her dominant also happens to be her realtor.

Yeah, he'd just walked her through the property on Sweeger, and he'd made jokes and showcased charming divots on either side of his smile. So what if she knew his name, and had his phone number at the top of her iMessage history? These are all astronomical things, Isla recognizes, in the realm of Indulge, but she glosses over the intensity of her emotions.

Harry Styles was good looking. In all honesty, she'd deem him to fall far beyond the realm of her own league. Ludicrous allure to the man, honestly. And she finally has a face to her mysterious Eros, afterall. A face she knows lies beyond the latex — a face she'd seen only an hour prior. And slowly, from mortifying, these things become ...exciting. Like a cliche taboo — she feels that she knows a secret she shouldn't, because she does.

And in the same cycle of processing, Isla decides she can't say anything. She can't just dismantle the sacredness of their arrangement — it's, like, cardinal sin to out anonymity. It's all a lot to process. She needs to sit down and just process.

But when she peers up at Eros, his face, and finds his own gaze intent upon her through the unzipped slit in rubber, Isla finds that it's difficult to process much of anything. What normally glints with profound inklings of mischief and teasing is void. He's ...indecipherable. Just as she'd begun to find him more decipherable than she could have prior imagined. The male takes in a breath and sits back.

"Come here."

Isla pushes her sticky palms off of the tile and stands. Her gait is slow, like she's nine again and she's just broken a lamp in the living room with an imprudent toss of a ball. When she's stood between his parted thighs, her hands fidgeting in their interlock ahead of her, Eros — Harry places his own colossal palms onto her hips.

He tips his chin up at her, like he's ...ogling through the lace, and says, "Tell me why you were late."

Her throat flexes with a swallow, and the young woman tells him, an uncharacteristically timid note to her cadence, "I ...didn't have my mask to take with me straight from where I was, Sir." 

The dominant just stares at her for a moment, like he's weighing her words in his mind, and then his line of sight flickers to her waistline. Though he hadn't altered his apparel, she had, in her apparent detour by the apartment — now, instead of denim and white, she's shaped by dark biker shorts and a matching skin-tight tank that showcases a line of skin on her tummy. Comfortable to climb in and out of. He digs his thumbs into the shorts, on either side, and tugs down. Beneath those, white lace clings. He wonders if she'd been wearing the same pair as he'd escorted her through the property. As the spandex slips, she steps out of it. But he doesn't go for the strings of her underthings. Instead, jade irises flick back up to her face, and the man tells her, "Sit."

She takes a seat over one of his thighs, her denuded feet crossing, one over the other, and her arms mirror the cross as she seems hesitant to nudge against his chest. Harry wraps an arm around her, the opposite palm resting on her bare thigh.

"Are you," Isla starts, her hands still to herself and body language somewhat frigid despite the warmth of his touch, and her tongue peeks out and brushes over her strawberry lips as she restores the beginning of her statement, "I'm sorry, for upsetting you. I didn't..."

Her words die off, then. Harry's own tongue sticks out to glide over pillowy pink as he muses. He finds that it's irrational, when he thinks about it – to be upset with her for something that they hadn't even discussed. The time frame of their meetings was unspoken – it had just occurred over time, and they had stuck with it. But it wasn't as if she was contractually obligated to be present when the clock struck a specific number.

"It wasn't a rule," he tells her, finally, soft to combat her obvious discomfort, "It's not fair for me to be cross."

"But you are," she lifts her chin to face him, a morph from what'd prior been a downcast gaze to her hands.

The male chews on his bottom lip, and tells her, earnestly, an assurance to caress over the tension, "...I was just worried, is all."

A pleather-coated hand pets over the smooth expanse of her thigh as he tacks on, "You've never been late before."

"I'm sorry," the submissive responds, fingering at a button over linen, "I can't imagine — you must have thought I'd stood you up."

Something like that, Harry thinks wryly.

"It wasn't a rule, and it's not fair for me to be upset, but I'm going to write it in," the man says, after a moment, and lifts his hand to trace a gentle touch over the sculpt of her cheekbone as he shoots her a look through his lashes, "New rule; you are to be on time, a prespecified time."

"Okay."

"Okay?" he nudges with his chin — a motion clearly meant to coax her into a self-correction.

Isla obliges, "Yes, Sir."

So, they're all good.

"Then, we're all good," Harry tells her, awarding a delicate squeeze to her thigh.

But — no. The thing is, they're not, Isla decides with gallantry that (she's aware) will likely haunt her later. The White Room with Eros was no space for pluck, she'd learned, time and time again. Despite vivid reminiscence of these instances, the young woman tells him, a pinch working over her brows beneath the shroud of crocheted netting, "But ...I think you should punish me."

The man's eyes just glimmer in response, narrowed as they wordlessly probe.

"You want to," she supplies, her pupils skidding to ogle the plush of his pink mouth — it parts open as he catches his bottom lip with his teeth, and her own teeth do the same. It's ludicrous, the amount of sexually charged tension there is between the mutuality of lip biting. It conveys what words do not.

And he does, Harry thinks. He wants to punish her for her little ankle antics first and foremost — the concept had floated to the forefront of his mind even then. He wants to punish her for flashing the bangle at him, again and again. He wants to punish her for making him wait. Wants to do it because she's been winding him up through one unwitting deed or another, unintended and innocuous on her end, for the better part of the evening.

But these are all just... Well, they're all just that — unintended and innocuous, and punishment can't be warranted where warnings haven't spawned to begin with. Aside from the ankle thing — that was just annoying, but he supposes, just as he had back at the showing, it's not exactly an area of jurisdiction for him.

"I mean," the young woman's shoulders jump and freeze as she ponders over her words. And then she just ...gives him an in, "it wasn't a rule — but, it was still ...very irresponsible that I didn't plan accordingly."

The dominant's head cocks a bit. Isla bites into her cheek, her shoulders still raised and her mouth twitching sheepishly in a clear attempt to bridle a grin.

"If you want me to spank you," he tells her, after a second, his own strawberry mouth curbing visibility of amusement, "you can just ask."

She can just ask. She knows that. But, it's not just ...that, Isla thinks. It's — her heart's still walloping behind her ribcage like its intentions are to overheat her circulatory system, and the man's hand — Harry's hand is on her thigh, squeezing, petting, caressing, and she knows what lies beyond the rubber hood — she knows his name, his phone number, the color of his hair. And he was charismatic, and kind, and as playful in an out-of-Indulge setting as he was cracking lewd jokes with her post a scene, sprawled over sweaty sheets, and he was so ...weirdly wholesome, with the mask abandoned. Eros — with his dimples and his glinty gaze and soft curls. The clash of his unprofaned atmosphere, the range she'd observed, when Isla knows his capabilities, is jarring. Today, Harry Styles pushed her on a rope swing, and last week he had made her crawl to him on all fours, stuffed his cock down her throat, and clamped her tongue with a clothespin when she hadn't called him Sir. The spectrum, evidently, was boundless.

And the thing is, it's not like Isla had assumed he'd be this chains-and-buckles-man in an out-of-club context, straddling a Harley in skimpy dishabille like a debauched porno ad. Or that he'd be this stoic business tycoon who had an assistant that would bring him his coffee every morning Secretary-Circa-2002-style — Dan Sever certainly wasn't either of those. Dan Sever liked books and walking through abstract art galas, and he had a golden retriever named Lucky. He'd go for morning runs in battered Nikes and listen to Depeche Mode, and his favorite movie was Casino. Dan sold insurance and worked from home. He had a handsome smile that could light up a room, and he was the same man who'd cradle his palm over Isla's pulse and press as he rocked his hips against her, that same smile crooked and obscene as he told her she would only breathe if he was feeling particularly nice.

Isla anticipated, when she'd ponder over and imagine what her mysterious Eros was like, who he was behind the mask, that the dominant would be a seemingly wholesome man in a normal setting. Because that was the thing — the scariest were always, for some reason or another, the nicest. The ones who would smirk down at your pleas of mercy and laugh were the same ones who'd spend weekends volunteering in homeless shelters, or something equally virtuous and good-natured. Isla's not totally sure if it has to do with a Purge sort of inner turmoil, like the kind where someone is so nice that eventually they just have to snap — she has her sneaking suspicions, but whatever. For some reason, it always seemed to work out like that. Like a maidenly adult that was forced into attending a Christian college. How's that saying go? Lady in the Streets, Freak in the Sheets? Nice is to streets as sadistically vile is to sheets.

Isla knew he'd be attractive — she knew based off his build, the pillowy plush of his mouth and the vibrant jade of his eyes, the length of his eyelashes through the slits of unzipped rubber, alone. She knew that he had taste based off the stretches of his skin with artistic character she'd managed to lay her eyes upon in incrementing episodes, personality based off his sarcasm and quip. Isla could piece together artifacts like no other — seamless details sewn by her imagination like a bird harvesting trinkets in the process of building a nest. She had her analysis.

But musing and daydreaming was vastly different from the real deal. And Harry to Eros? That was like whiplash. And Isla wants to see Eros ambidextrous — his devil on one shoulder and the angel on the opposite, two sides of the same coin. She doesn't want to ask him to spank her. She wants Harry to punish her, because she wants to bask in the reversal of the poles. She wants to know that only a short hour ago he'd walked her through the shell of a house, made jokes on her cherry infatuation, and pushed her on a rope swing. Now, she wants to see the devil.

But of course, Isla can't tell him any of this. He couldn't possibly know that she's ...stumbled upon this information. Isla hopes that her not-so-mysterious Eros hasn't struck upon the same conclusions. And Isla Cleery thinks, thank God she changed.

"I know," the young woman responds, voice soft, "But," and then she groans and cranes her neck back, "Why do you have to make me say it, why can't you just jump on the opportunity?"

"Because that's not how this works," laughter suffuses Harry's words, "We talk first, right?" his thumb brushes over her bottom lip.

Isla nips at it. With the glove-coated digit between her teeth, she tells him, "Let's cut the middleman."

His mouth crooks.

"You want me to punish you?"

"Desperately, Mr. Eros. Be mean to me."

She's — she's ...Harry's gaze narrows. His tongue digs against his cheek.

"Be mean to you," he starts, musing, and his lips purse as he nudges his thumb further in her insolent, muted cherry mouth, "Maybe I just won't let you cum at all tonight. How's that sound?" his gaze, laden with frustrations pent up and glazed over by lust, watches her lips wrap over the digit, "S'pretty mean, innit? Get you all worked up just to send you home."

Rather than a whine of protest, as he'd anticipated, when he suggests, "I can think of loads of cruel and unusual things that'd be mean," as he withdraws his thumb, his submissive gnaws into her lip and exhales.

The Executioner, she'd called him upon introductions. She'd felt the sobriquet unfitting, but now...

The young woman repeats her prior words, "Whatever you find to be suited, Sir."

Isla practically watches the gears turn behind his skull, and anticipation slinks down the knobs of her spine, chilly like ice sliding over her skin. He pats her hip.

"Whatever I find to be suited. O-kay," he tells her, finally, "Hop up."

When she stands, Eros does the same, and wordlessly, gaze speaking volumes in lieu of his tongue, fiery hot, he physically moves her around and coaxes her into a kneel on the same cushion he'd been sitting on prior. Isla can only fix her hands onto the back of the chair and turn her head over her shoulder. And he's wordless, until his vision slips to her backside, and then back up to the side of her face. Instead of discarding the white lace altogether, he just tugs it up to expose more skin — it's already a fairly cheeky pair.

"S'gonna be a long night," he — warns? tells her? Evidently, it's leeway into advice, because the man tacks on, "M'not gonna be nice, per your request. It'll be in your best interest to be a good girl from here on."

And — there he is, Isla thinks. Her eyes slip shut as his words seep into her brain, spoken with the same pleasant cadence that'd discussed gorgeous ceilings and ensuites and gardening. His tone's a little darker now, but there's no denying the syrupy inflection, smooth as molasses, belongs to the same man that'd discussed square footage and budgets and seller motives.

Isla most certainly will not be a good girl, but she appreciates his words of wisdom.

The man makes his way over to a row of implements, and Isla peers over at him, curiosity growing as he lifts objects, ogles them, and discards. Eventually he seems to settle on a strap — sort of like a fancy alternative for a belt, reinforced leather folded, but rather than a mere grip holding two ends together to keep its shape, a wooden handle holds its form. It swings like a flimsy paddle.

Isla knows the sensation well — she's felt it a plethora of times, and even a handful of weeks prior with Eros wielding it. Her recollection happens to be that he wasn't very nice with it, but she supposes she deserved it. It's a fuck, this sucks sensation, at first, but there's more thud than there is sting to it, and eventually, it just begins to scratch an itch deep in her bones. Harry places it beside her, on the cushion, and winds one hand over her hair, bundling it into a makeshift pony. He wrenches her head back gently while the opposite palm pastes over her throat. And his gaze is ...it's captivating. Soft, hard, fiery with want. He holds her like that for a moment, just pressing over her skin with his palm and his shrouded face hovering over her own, like he's contemplating. Irises settle over her mouth and stick and meddle — like he wants to kiss her.

"Gonna be a good girl for me, tonight?" he says, instead, voice low.

Isla doesn't answer. He doesn't say anything, for a moment, either, and the palm that's pressed over her throat slinks up for a thumb to graze over her mouth. And then his own lips quirk, and he removes his touch, altogether, taking a step away. Isla's heart pumps blood desperately. She's getting lightheaded.

Harry's eyes roam over the slope of her figure from the side view. His hand draws over her hip, "Stick this out."

The young woman complies, shuffling on her knees a bit. In response, Eros fondles over her flesh and squeezes a handful of her backside in his grip. The sensation is biting enough for Isla to gnaw into her cheek, all to bridle a sound she knows would be much too pathetic to slip this early on.

"You've got a pretty arse," he tells her, shamelessly ogling. It's his to ogle, anyhow. There's no shame to be had in that.

"Thanks," Isla tells him, chirpy despite the clear edge to her voice when Harry digs his fingers in harder, "Grew it myself."

Despite the serious demeanor he'd taken on, he can't help the subdued sound of amusement the quip wrests from him. He shakes his head, digging his teeth into his cheek to curb a grin. His touch retracts and returns as a smack. And then a second, and a third. A fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eighth. When his eyes disconnect from her bum and paste onto her hands, he notices they're clenched over the back of the armchair — not quite white-knuckled, but not lax, either.

"S'heavy?" he ponders aloud, referencing her complaint from the week prior. At least she's smart enough not to complain about it, now. Her answer comes in the form of an exhale on the ninth blow and a hum of concurrence.

"I know, so mean," he jokes, drawing a palm over the flesh he's sure is turning heated beneath his touch — he can't exactly feel it, but he can certainly witness the shift in color, "Such a horrible, mean man — making sure you don't bruise."

He gives her a smattering more, just until he's sure he's siphoned enough blood to the surface to ward off bruising, and by that point she's slumped forward a bit, with her ribcage resting against the back of the chair. The dominant eyes the pleasant glow of pink he's managed to draw in such a short expanse of time, winding a finger over the skin and then opting to smooth over the globes of flesh with a palm.

"All warmed up," he tells her, sighing and giving her a definitive pat before harvesting the strap, "I think sixteen will do — one for every minute you were late, little miss."

Sixteen? Only sixteen?

Isla's unable to bridle her disbelief, "That's it?"

Harry's head nudges back a smidge, and he blinks as if her amazement is a clock that's stunned him a bit.

"Okay. We can do thirty-two, then. Two for each," he smooths the leather tail over her backside as he tacks on, "Or would you prefer we triple it? Forty-eight work for you?"

"No, no," Isla appeases, nervous laughter teeming her speech, "Sixteen sounds wonderful. I mean, punishment's gotta fit the crime, right?"

"Right," Harry narrows his gaze against the back of her head, "See, but I have a sneaking suspicion you were trying to dictate how this was gonna go."

"Oh, I'd never," Isla chimes, feigning seriousness. The man's irises roll up in exasperation. He hums.

"Of course you wouldn't," the way he huffs has Isla gnawing into her cheek in restraint of curling corners over her (nearly smiley) mouth.

He instructs, "Alright. Easy stuff. You will count, and you will thank me, and you'll ask for another, so," the dominant takes a step, approximating a good position for a swing, the handle of the strap in his gloved grip. Harry clears his throat and provides an example for her to mirror, "S'gonna go, 'One, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir," he rolls his shoulders, and bobs with his head as he drones into the following number for sequential clarification, "Two, Sir, thank you, Sir,' yada, yada. Yes?"

It's simple stuff. Pretty elementary shit. His instructions are crystal, and yet, somehow, Isla still manages to find a way to entangle some form of lippy something into the mix. He shouldn't have put it past her.

The young woman says, after a moment of lull, "What happens at three?"

She bites into her cheek and purses her mouth. Harry can't see her face, but he knows she's either smiling or making a poor attempt to stifle it. The mirth is pretty short-lived. That part sort of follows the trend of his patience. A crease works its way over the dominant's brow bone, the predecessor for another eye roll. Isla doesn't expect it when, after a beat of silence, the strap makes contact with her backside. Instantly, she winces, her hips canting forward.

"Cheeky," Harry scolds, placing his free palm onto her hip to coax her back into position, "I hope you got it out of your system."

"You love when I'm cheeky," she quips under her breath, sounding a bit miffed despite the strain of her voice, no doubt from the strike.

He smacks her again.

"Two, Sir—"

"Ah — no," Harry shakes his head, "Skipped a number."

There's a pause and then a high whine of complaint, just as he'd expected, "But that was two—"

"How d'you count?"

"What?"

"How do you count?" the male repeats, this time enunciating each word, slow and crisp, like she won't comprehend it otherwise, "From one to five. Count, for me." He twists the stem of the leather paddle in his grip, gaze cast upon it, and his tone only varnishes the words as he tacks on, patronizing, "Surely you know how to do that."

"Of course I know how to count — what kind of—"

He folds his arms over his chest as he steps over to the side of the chair, resting his hip against it to peer down at her, "So, do it. Count. From one to five, out loud."

For a moment, Harry just watches her jaw set, a minute motion that gives away everything he needs to know, and he's aware that she's probably ogling the tilt of his head through the lace with venom. Begrudgingly, Isla complies, "One, two, three, four, five."

"Lovely," the praise, in response to her half-hearted compliance, doesn't lack its typical notes of condescension, "Little less attitude next time, but. S'one, two, three, innit?"

Isla chews into her lip.

"Not two. Doesn't start with two. So now, we're starting fresh," he pushes off of the chair and winds back around her, and the dangle of the strap from his priorly crossed arms morphs menacing, "Clean slate. Start from one."

The reinforced leather falls, and her breath hitches, but her voice is impressively even. "One, Sir. Thank you, Sir. May I have another, Sir?"

"Absolutely."

She asks, and so he gives.  And the thing with Isla — Harry thinks, perhaps his most favorite quality about Isla in play, is that she has this nonsensical moxie, this unwavering resolution. It's sort of admirable, but mostly just a headache — in a good sort of way. She's like a sexy headache, which is a first among many firsts. Because Harry likes that he has to manually chip at her stubborn resolve — he likes that she doesn't just fall in line. It's not a very sensible decision, on her part, because it could go so much easier for her if she were to just follow the rules.

But that's no fun, according to her.

Harry gets it.

So when she says, "Two, Sir, thank you, Sir," and it's followed by a pause and then a quieter, "yada, yada," he's not entirely surprised.

He digs his tongue against his cheek. "Excuse me?"

Isla chimes, a bit louder, and this time with no break, "Two, Sir, thank you, Sir, yada, yada."

In response to his obnoxious sigh, the submissive bursts into a string of self-satisfied snickers. And then those snickers morph into a gasp of helpless pain as Harry places his arm over the small of her back, holds onto a love handle to keep her in place, and gives her three hard ones in succession.

"Yada, yada," he scoffs.

"That's how you told me to count!" Isla complains, shrill and (characteristically) incorrigible, "That's how you counted two!"

"Your smart mouth is going to keep you here all night," Harry advises.

"You know what, that's fine. Thank you, actually. It's a very smart mouth, just like the rest of me is smart—"

She twists when another blow lands, a soft, resentful sort of "mmph" plucked from her vocal cords. She follows that up with a steely, exaggerated, "Ow." Like he's supposed to feel bad about it or something.

"Ow? Good," Harry tells her, instead, "Seems that's gonna be your favorite word for the night. If you were smart, you'd start counting proper."

He waits a moment, and then smacks her with it again.

Isla screws her eyes shut behind onyx mesh and netting, her voice riding the edge of strained, "Seven—"

Never has she heard him sound more incredulous.

"How in the world did you get from two to seven?"

It's ridiculous. She's ridiculous, Harry thinks.

"With the five in between!" the young woman defends.

"If you haven't counted it, it doesn't count," the male tells her from behind, features surely in a miffed assemblage beneath rubber, and he promises, "I will keep starting over — you will spend all night on this chair if you make that choice. And I've got a wonderful view, so I wouldn't complain if I had to do this all night long."

Isla weighs his words behind her skull. Eros is nothing if not the type of man to follow through on his words.

His steely reminder coaxes her into some form of compliance, "You've gone from sixteen to twenty-three, already. D'you really wanna keep pushing it?"

"Okay, okay, okay, I'll count right!" she smacks the back of the armchair with the heel of her palm softly in resolve. Her toes curl.

Harry's tongue peeks out from his mouth to swipe, "Will you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

Isla's head twists over her shoulder, "...Yes, Sir."

He lifts the strap and gestures at her threateningly, "Yada yada me one more time. I dare you. Eyes ahead."

She doesn't say anything, for once, and her head pivots back towards the wall obediently. Harry steps back, pleased.

And then he hits her with the strap just as she starts to say, "yada, yada," so her insubordination morphs into a squeal, and that's just divine timing, Harry thinks.

Isla blows out a breath, starting over, "One—" and grunts when he smacks her again.

"Just couldn't help yourself, could you? That doesn't count," he tells her, tone firm, and if Isla wasn't in her current predicament, she'd laugh at how sober and dark he sounds when he tells her, "You yada yada'd me."

"You dared me to—" her breath practically gets punched out of her with another blow. The submissive grows awfully quiet.

"Count," Harry reminds her.

Isla swallows. "One, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

Another strike.

"Two, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

Two more — "Three — Four! Sir!" Isla rocks forward, ducking her chin and hanging her head as she seesaws over the cushion on her knees, "Thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

"That's nice," Harry tells her, "I'll let it slide this time — but you're going to say the whole thing for each one."

Her knees shuffle, "Okay."

She gasps when he smacks her again, "Five, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

"'Okay' is not the answer I wanna hear. It's 'yes, Sir.'"

"Yes, Mr. Eros," Isla tells him, shaking her head and morphing her voice into ceremonious enthusiasm.

The next strike is considerably harsher — right across her sit spot, hard enough for her to press the front of her hips against the back of the armchair, "Six! Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

He tuts and leans forward, placing a pleather-clad palm onto a hip to fix her (now, nonexistent) arch, "I'm gonna give you a friendly word of advice, darling. Only words out of your mouth from here on out need to be numbers, if you'd like to cut down on time."

Numbers. Okay. She'll do just numbers, Isla thinks, despite the way her backside seethes.

When he hits her again, she grits her teeth, finger pads drumming over waxy verdant, "...Seven."

Harry blinks and his chin sticks out with expectation, "Seven...?"

"Seven," Isla blows out a breath, rolling her shoulders, "That's the number."

She's — it's beyond amusing, honestly. It just makes him want to smack the heel of his palm square between his own brows, because it's not even entertaining. There's just no sense to it — her resolve. Bad choices, bad choices. Harry sighs.

When Isla hears steps, her eardrums perk. If she were a dog, her ears would twitch and rise. Her head turns, and her eyes follow his frame in motion. When he makes his way to the wall of implements, a bud of worry does sprout.

And then he culls a cane. He doesn't seem to weigh the variety of options — he just swipes one off a rack with nonchalant, apparently nonexistent deliberation, like harvesting the first available box of cereal rather than sifting through apples for bruising. It's thin, and long, and terrifying.

If she were a dog, her ears would slump in a cower.

Isla swallows, nervous laughter plucking at her vocal cords, instantly, "No — hey. Don't grab that. We don't need that. Look—"

"Oh, but I think we do."

"Oh, but I think we ...don't," she can feel the lump growing in her throat, is the thing, can sense the spell of rain looming, instant, despite feigned bravado. As he nears, she sinks onto her haunches, slipping out of position, and buries her face in her folded arms over the back of the armchair. She can't bear to watch him walk up to her with it — she'll really cry. So early on, too. What a shame, Isla thinks, bitterly.

When Harry steps ahead of her, gaze narrowed, the display makes his eyes nearly roll. He takes one of her arms and manually unfolds it back out, and the limb goes without a fight, limp like a puppet. Her face rolls on its cheek, facing away from him, against the other, still folded.

"You're not crying. Stop."

It's true. Isla is, in fact, not crying. She does give a shaky exhale, though, as his fingers wriggle in between her laxly coiled palm to nudge the other arm out straight, as well.

"Sit up," Harry demands, fondling at her side with the hand that's free of the hellish implement.

Her arms rest up against the wall, braced on the arms of the chair, just as he'd settled them, but her cheek presses to shiny forest fabrication, and she doesn't make any indications that she's inclined to move.

"M'gonna tell you once, and I'm not gonna tell you again, sit up," he tells her, cadence low and gentle despite the thing he's holding.

Oh, what big teeth you have, Isla thinks, pitifully.

Reluctantly, she shuffles and clambers back into position. Her ribcage presses to the back of the armchair, and her forearms press to the wall, and her cheek presses to that, too. Still faced away from him.

Harry cocks his head and his mouth settles into a line as he lifts the cane and slides it against her open palms. Isla's shoulders jump and freeze, much like they had in her sheepish shrug perched upon his lap prior, but this time it's body language of discomfort.

"Hold it," he tells her, "You can stare at it. Motivation."

Her fingers gently clasp over it, twitchy as if the stick will make to bite her at any moment. There's just a smidge of space between the chair and the wall — just enough for her palms to wrap over the horrid, wooden thing comfortably. The dominant hears the young woman sigh as if she's in absolute woe.

"Look at me," he frowns.

Again, her motions are sluggish, but she submits and lifts her cheek to pivot in his direction. Her mouth has formed a pout. Harry tuts, and a gloved thumb drags over her bottom lip.

"Can't hit you with it if you're the one holding it. Save those tears," he tells her.

Isla holds it. She screws her eyes shut. Eventually, he smacks her again with the strap. Her palms squeeze over the cane.

"Eight, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

And despite her mishap with the seventh, Harry lets it slide. Which he thinks is very nice on his part. It sort of defeats the whole basis of the being mean thing, but. They have plenty of time for his cruel and unusual antics. By the time they're done, her grip is white-knuckled over the wood of the cane and her cheek is pressed back to the wall as she huffs like she's run a marathon.

They end with twenty-seven, all in all, which is a beautiful number according to the hues over her backside — he'd even gotten the backs of her thighs a bit towards the end, and those smart with soft pinks. The dominant traces a forefinger over the abused flesh, and a streak of white runs and trails abaft his touch like breakless, milky footprints dragging through sand. Isla's breath hitches.

It just looks too good not to gawk at, Harry thinks — the contrast of bright pinks and ruddy tinges against the lily white of her lingerie. He wants to bite into her — to sit back and ogle imprints of teeth. Wants to feel the heat of her skin against his own. It's all sort of very primal and sick, but what is for, at Indulge, if not to indulge? Contemplatively, Harry slips to his knees and grazes his palms over her, from the top of her panties, smoothing down the backs of her thighs. Isla sighs, but it's sort of dreamy this time rather than a by-product of acceptance of terror.

There's just this thing — with the marks, that gets to him, and it gets to him good. And, God, he just wants to feel her. He flexes his hand, dragging it down, like clawless claws, just to see more of that gorgeous aftermath. Her hips nudge back.

Fuck.

He gives. Harry's grip withdraws. He takes the fingertips of a glove in one palm, and tugs with the opposite. His palm wriggles. The glove slips off. And when he introduces his touch to her skin, warm, the furnace that meets his palm is — Christ.

Isla tenses. Because that's his hand, that's definitely his hand, without a fucking glove. Which, in reality, shouldn't be all that jarring — but he's never done that before. His stroking, despite its inherent warmth from the confines of the glove, is cooling in comparison to the heat that seeps from her pores. It's lovely. But then she feels something that nearly has her craning her head back to face him — a different sensation, beside his bare hand, on the opposite cheek. Wetness, lips, a mouth, a tongue. Kisses, over the flesh, down her thigh, open-mouthed with a tongue that winds in lines that have her toes curling. Like he's laving at the bruising. The muscle slips and dips against her sit spot, just — so close. Close enough to incite sparks at her core and send a warm wave of bliss rupturing through her cunt. God — what the fuck is he—

Isla squeaks — something sharp, something like... her eyes screw shut and she squeezes over the cane helplessly. Is he — did he just—

Harry hums, pulling back tracing with his bare hand over wet imprints of teeth. Dental records — against her skin.

"Fuck. Sweetheart, wish you could see," the dominant tells her, well aware he sounds a bit wrecked himself. He could stare at it for hours — at the colors that bloom over her skin post his affections. Alas, there's more fun to be had (for him, particularly — maybe some parts not so fun, for her), and that thought inspires him to rein his composure.

He's going to wreck her tonight, he thinks. He's going to wreck her, he's going to destroy her and make her melt, and the marks will be fallout for his admiration as he pastes kisses to her sweaty hairline and glues soft hands to her skin. And for her, they'll be sweet, little souvenirs to take home — traces for her eyes to rivet on in the mirror in the morning. He imagines her ahead of a full length mirror, hands tugging up the back of a sundress as pupils pore and delve. It's a weekend, so she certainly won't be in slacks and heels — the thought of her in a sundress, to begin with, sends a nice, fresh wave of arousal plunging through his veins, enmeshed with blood, like raging river rapids.

Just a little longer, Harry thinks — he'll oblige to his yearnings just a little longer.

His zippers graze over her skin and his mouth puckers and presses, and then he pastes a latex coated cheek to one globe and squeezes the other and Isla just. She just—

Processing is becoming a trench through murky waters, the young woman finds.

His hand slides. The backs of his bare knuckles brush over her cunt, still in the confines of her underwear. Isla's hips arch, and Harry sits back, mouth crooking. The man traces the wet spot over her panties with the pad of his finger.

"Sir."

The dominant tuts, and then Isla feels his gentle touch withdraw in lieu of awarding her with a stinging smack. A soft sound hums out through her lips, pressed together. But then he gives her another, and another, and another—

"Please," her hips twist, cadence pitchy and desperate, "Why?"

"Why?" Harry blatantly stifles snickers, his own voice low and lewd and tantalizingly condescending, "Did you just ask me why?"

"Yes," Isla whines, her cheek squished against the wall.

"Because—" Isla grunts when he spanks her again, "—I want to. So I'm going to," he asserts himself with another swat. The grin he wears is openmouthed, lips wrapping over teeth and a tyrannical tongue that torments, "You're wet — and it was supposed to be a punishment."

"It's — you— you touched me," the submissive protests, gasping when he digs the pads of his fingers against her bruised backside, the sensation sharpened by his short, bare nails as opposed to the dull softness of a glove. Harry hums in mock understanding. "And — and before that you were kissing me and — and licking me."

Isla's eyes squeeze shut behind lace when, as if to taunt her further, the man leans forward and glues his plush mouth back against her sweltry skin.

"Oh, is that right?" Harry teases between the paste of kisses, and fingertips draw scratchy white streaks on the opposite side, "Because I think," he bares his teeth to scrape over her, "you're lying." The dominant sucks a patch of skin between his teeth, and pillowy lips coax while teeth skim and a tongue strokes.

From her, the motion incites a soft, hummy moan that falls through flared nostrils and locked lips. Harry gives her another swat and pulls off. There's a pretty love bite left behind. Quite peachy, a bit darker of a shade than the rest of her skin, but it matches the palette of colorful marks he's accessorized her with.

"Are you lying to me, darling?"

"N— No," Isla fibs through the cracks of her teeth.

"No?" his mouth purses as he takes his palms, one clad with pleather and the other denuded, and fondles over the globes of her bum. His thumbs skim and dip, crooking into the nooks of her thighs — so close to where—

"You're a naughty," Harry's bare hand collides with the opposite cheek this time, the one he'd focused his oral affections upon only moments prior — and it's as if the smack is meant to drive the love bite further, to make it stick, "dirty, little thing."

Isla's hips cant back on their own accord, and the cane trembles in her grip, and his hand is on her skin, and—

His touch retracts. The young woman picks up on audible shuffling. The dominant's chest brushes against her as he propels himself up with a brace on the arms of the chair — linen of his shirt grazing over bare fragments of skin where her tank doesn't cover.

"Wouldn't you agree?" he croons against the shell of her ear. Isla's heart thunders wildly — there is no steady beat to the mess left in his wake. "Hm?" teeth nip at her earlobe. The ghost of his soft breath, the featherlight kiss of zippers, the velvet of his cadence, drenched in dire intent facading; it all sends chills down her neck, down her shoulders, down her arms. A heat teems over her cheekbones.

Harry lets himself bask in her shuddery breaths, her tensed muscles, the view of her head hung. Then, his mouth quirks, and he pushes off the chair, off and away from her, from the pleasant, little detour he'd entertained.

Isla seems opposed to his absence. Her head twists over her shoulder, like she wants to know what he's doing — why he's detached from her when she was sure he'd nudge his cock up into her, or slide his bare fingers into her hole, or, or, anything. Anything but make a beeline for his duffel. God, that scary duffel. All sorts of horrors encompassed by the onyx travel bag, like a kinky carry on. She watches Eros crouch before it, and the sound of a zipper has her wishing she could see over the frame of his back. Then, rummaging.

When he stands back up and turns toward her, he's got what looks to be a little bottle of lubricant wrapped by his bare hand — the other, the gloved, cradles something small and vividly fuchsia. Two objects — or perhaps three, all small, over the pleather — the little fuchsia egg-thing, something shiny and blue, and something ...else. Something mysterious. Though, she doesn't know what any of the three are.

"Missing me already?" the dominant quips. The soles of his fancy serpentine shoes pad against the linoleum in ambivalence. His return, Isla thinks, is enticing. His unpredictability, that serves as a side dish to the entree of that return, however—

"Eyes ahead. So nosey," Harry instructs, an undeniable, firm quality to his statement, one that demands obedience, despite the lighthearted tone on the phrase. Isla turns back to the wall and gnaws into her bottom lip.

"Well, you didn't tell me to keep my eyes ahead."

"Well, M'telling you now," the male sets the objects down (whatever the two mysterious ones she wasn't able to make out) between her parted calves, on the cushion. It's clearly intentional — deliberately done so that Isla is unable to turn back over her shoulder to see.

"Well, sorry, I didn't know," Isla tells him, notes of attitude interlacing the syllables despite the warning in her palms, which, until Harry steps around and braces his palm against the back of the armchair, has evidently been forgotten.

That's fine. He'll remind her.

"You wanna talk to me like that?" His words are soft-spoken. Gentle, in their contrast to the underlying threat.

"Like what?" Isla's eyes hone ahead. She hadn't even noticed the walls had marbled texture, swirls of faint gray patterns over white. What a nice touch.

"You know what," Harry tells her, a little less gentle and a little more firm.

"I'm not talking to you like anything, Sir. I think you're misconstruing."

He ducks his chin, fingers drumming over shiny emerald over the back of the armchair, and sardonic dimples rise awake beneath the latex of his mask, "Misconstruing."

The man shakes his head, and Isla blinks. She tacks on, "Simple case of misinterpretation."

His face lifts, and for a moment, in her peripherals, there's nothing but shiny latex and lull. An inhale that packs things unsaid.

"What are you holding right now?" he lifts a digit to tap over the wooden, "Hm?"

Her hands tighten over it, and as his pupils bounce from the cane to her side-profile, he notices the way her jaw sets a smidge. She takes a deep breath, and tells him, with that same resolve still keeping her voice clipped, "A cane. Sir."

"Right. And what does it mean, when you're holding it?"

Her jawline flexes as her mouth parts, and for a moment she says nothing, like she's bridling the plummet of her courage at the insinuation.

"It means that you were ...mean ...and made me hold it."

Pink curls through a parted slit, and he shakes his head, "Not quite," his head tilts, "Means I can't hit you with it, right? When you have it? Means you're," his gaze drives over its length, over the noticeable tremble in her fists, "recklessly brave," his eyes bounce back up to her, as he tacks on, "because you know I can't use it on you. Not when you're the one holding it."

Isla says nothing. Harry's palm wraps over the thicker end, right ahead of him, and he tugs slowly. It slides from her grasp with little resistance. The young woman's head turns away from him, just a smidge, and Harry tells her, his priorly soft spoken voice only dropping in volume further, until the phrase is nearly a whisper, "And what about now?"

He leans with his shoulder against the wall, the same wall Isla's forehead presses onto as he nudges her shoulder with the end of the cane, "Hm?"

When her tone, morphed from insolent to cowering, comes in the form of a soft, "please," and a subsequent, pathetic sniffle, the dominant physically has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes and letting the corners of his mouth buckle into a wicked grin.

"Oh, poor baby. D'you think I'm gonna hit you with it?"

He's met with silence. He contemplates sliding the cane back into her hands, but, no. She'll need those. Feigning pity, Harry sighs, "Peitho, Peitho, Peitho. I think I'll keep this little stick with me—" with her head turned away, Isla's bottom lip wobbles, "—just so we don't have any more ...misconstruing or misinterpretations."

He winds around her, cane in hand, and then sets the implement onto the linoleum beside him as he kneels ahead of the armchair, just as he had prior. Only now, he has his goodies — equipment he's set in a neat little pile between her calves that will aid in his agenda for the night. Isla goes easily enough when he glues his palms onto her hips and tugs to fix her arch, like a warm puppet with blood pumping, muscles agreeable and compliant. He sticks his digits into the strips of lacy fabric, on either side of her hips, and shimmies those down, just about until they rest mid-thigh. He pats over one of her nude, pinky cheeks and she jolts in reflex, as if she expects the worst of him. Good.

"Hands. Back here."

Again, the submissive obliges with little hesitation, no doubt spurred by the custody situation of the cane, though her movements offer insight that she's bemused by the request. When she interlocks her wrists behind her back, he nudges at them with his own palm, clarifying, "On your arse." 

Behind her, Isla hears a soft click — like a cap popping open. She thinks, the lube. Her hands settle back over her cheeks, elbows bent. And then the dominant tells her, "Spread."

"Sir..." she tells him, her voice small, not exactly a protest of insubordination, but...

"What did we just talk about, darling?" Harry tells her, tone distracted as he spreads lubricant over the middle digit on his bare hand.

It's — she feels the humiliation flood through her when she accedes, when she feels the cool air over her hole, when Isla knows he can see everything. The arousal that wracks through her nervous system, subsequently, is absolutely perverse. And the thing is, it's not that he hasn't seen it before, or that she's insecure, or something of the sort. But it's one thing to give an unwitting view in doggy, and another to just ...bare herself like that. Despite the doubts in her brain, the embarrassment is delicious, according to her body. She's pulled from those thoughts when she feels the pad of a finger, chilly and wet, brush there. The steady position of her hips jolts in surprise, in reflex, but she snaps back like an elastic. At first, there's only rubbing. A soft press, a graze, slick on her, like the prompt to test the waters.

"Gonna stretch you out a bit," Harry tells her, but that part, she's already gathered. She bridles her witty quip. Her own digits twitch. The fingertip nudges, just a smidge, not quite entering but no longer simply grazing, either.

"Pretty," his cadence is absentminded, admiring, as he dips just the very tip of his digit past the rim, "little holes. All mine."

"Isn't that right, sweetheart?" his free hand comes to stroke over the back of her thigh, where her muscles strain and tremble, as he delves just a smidge further, just to the first knuckle, before he fucks in out of her slowly, "Hm? All mine to use?"

"Yes, Sir," she tells him, breathy, and her breath hitches as the hand on her thigh withdraws and draws closer to her core. "Oh, Sir," Isla keens, whiny when he buries a digit on the opposite into cunt.

"I know, baby," his mouth crooks, and the finger in her cunt slips in, to the hilt, while its counterpart makes gentle, shallow prods, "makes you so desperate to have both your little holes used at the same time, doesn't it? All full of my fingers..."

He draws the digit out from her cunt and slips it, slick with arousal, down to play with her clit. The young woman absolutely loses it — her forehead knocks against the wall as a garbled curse slips from her mouth, and Harry uses the opportunity to twist the finger, from the first knuckle, just a little further in. That earns him a little "mmph" and the view of her own splayed digits pressing harder into her own skin. He fucks in and out of her for a bit, drawing slow circles over her clit, featherlight — a tease to work her into a pliable frenzy. Then, he pulls the digit out and stuffs it just up to the second knuckle — it's the thickest part of his finger, and it rests just beyond the breach of her rim. He nudges.

"Oh, God," is Isla's response, her hands clenching over handfuls of her own rounded flesh. Her hips punch back subtly to take more, rock forward to run away (though there's not much leeway for that option), she doesn't even know what she wants. The stretch is — it's intense, and his fingers are lengthy and thick, just one feels like so much. He intends to stretch her out a bit, and Isla's unsure if she'd even be able to handle anything beyond what he's already given her. But then he slinks it in the to the hilt, fucking in little motions that are deep, and all she can think, as Harry's pleather-clad finger pads roll circles over her clit, and Harry's bare digit wriggles fluidly in her, is fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

The withdrawal of the digit, is perhaps, the most uncomfortable sensation of all. He's slow, and gentle, and careful, but it's not exactly a pleasant sensation, regardless of his attentiveness. Isla uses the short recess to stall her hammering pulse.

"Christ, you're a sight," she hears him say darkly over the rush in her ears, and all she can really manage is a pathetic whimper — the man's muted berry lips twitch at the sound, and he swipes lube off his finger onto her backside, a shiny trail illuminating the flush of her skin.

Harry uncaps the lube to drizzle a bit over his first article of the night — her first accessory. A plug — a pretty one, small and metallic, silvery with a tapered shape that melts off into its most eye-catching detail — a little cobalt gem that'll peek out from between her crack.

"S'gonna be a bit more than my finger, pet," he presses the rounded point of its tip to her hole, and his cadence is so firm, so sure, that Isla would wholeheartedly believe any words that come off his tongue, then, "But you're gonna take it like a good girl."

His hand squeezes at her thigh when he prods with the plug and lets it sink in, so her rim swallows around it like it's just heavenly. Meant to be.

It's cold, and rigid, and as the plug settles in her, there's no give that comes with her clench. No flexibility of silicone for her to clamp over, no give for settling. Just sturdy pressure with a heaviness that's not the most comfortable sensation, at first. The dominant behind her draws his fingertips over the end, and tugs, and oh.

"Oh," the moan slips from her mouth, melty as he prods it back into place and digs his thumb against the flared end, is followed by a hum from the man.

"Gorgeous," his thumb strokes over the gem, because she is, "all plugged up," and Isla thinks of gorgeous ceilings.

There's lull, and then a huff, a creak, shuffling. Isla finds the dominant has stood back up, because then she feels fingers in her hair, a yank that cranes her neck back like a pez dispenser. The opposite grapples over her cheeks harshly from behind. Isla gasps.

"Pretty, little thing."

She thinks she makes out, vaguely, through the flutter of her lashes, and the crowding of lace upon her sight, and the upside-down perspective she's been subjected to, that Eros has dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Part of his palm presses flush to her mouth, smushing her lips, and they're parted enough for her to flick her tongue out tentatively, to reap the treasures of his bare skin against her taste buds. In response, the man's mouth jolts.

"You," he guides her back with the grip until she's forced to shuffle back on her knees, "are gonna get on all fours for me. Just—" he walks her back in a mandhandle, her hips flush to his own in the arch, and he drives her into an unwieldy clamber off the cushion, "—Right here, on the ground."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Sir," her lashes flutter and dance frantically beyond lace as Harry presses his mouth to her temple and unhands her roughly. The young woman sinks to her knees, palms pressing to milky tile and figure stretching and arching, succumbing to his whims. She still has the panties clinging to her thighs.

The fuschia trinket, Isla learns, comes next. He slots it to her entrance, the caress of the silicone tantalizing, and then he prods it into her. It's sort of like those small egg-things with a unsightly tampon-like string for withdrawal (those things always look a little funny to her), except its method of extraction offers a flared little limb that nudges to her clit. Either side of her clit, actually — two silicone rabbit ears that envelop the bundle of nerves in a soft pinch. The dominant situates those, drawing soft, breathy sounds from Isla in the process, and then sits back to admire. He gives her backside a pat, still pleasantly ruddy, tugs the lace back over her, and stands.

And then he picks up the cane. Isla grows stiff. Her voice sounds awfully sad when she tells him, "Please."

"Please?" his mouth curls, and he ambles back over to her with it in hand, "What a nice word. Dunno what you're asking for, though, love."

The submissive ducks her head, looking a bit forlorn, and Harry squats beside her face, cane braced between his thighs like a post. He clears his throat, and tells her, "You've been a good girl for me, haven't you, Peitho?"

The muscles in her neck strain in his view as she turns her head away from him a smidge.

"We've had our hiccups, but," he reaches a hand out to grasp at her chin and twists her face back in his direction, "let me play with you the way I wanted. Got on the floor when I told you to. Right?"

A pout has illustrated its way over her mouth, but she nods in his grip after a second, small and jerky.

"So why would I punish you for being a good girl?" he traces a thumb over her bottom lip, almost as if to smooth the frown away,  "Hm?"

She wouldn't put it past him — but he just sounds so gentle, then, so kind. Like a wolf dressed in sheepskin — and despite the automatic allusion her mind creates, Isla melts into his touch.

Eros, Isla had learned time and time and time again, had an unpredictability to his character. A delicious sort of instability that kept her on her toes in the best way, his intentions never quite fully explicable. Even after scene and scene and scene with the man, Isla feels she never knows what to expect. He has this way of always catching her off guard — sometimes he'd let her comments slide, sometimes he'd tease her back, and sometimes she met something ominous, something that would loom behind his stature, a shadow greater in size than he. But then, other times, despite laughter and lecherous beams as he procured whatever sadistic urges came to the forefront of his mind, sweetness would reign, and he'd give her caresses and kisses with whips and soft words. It was always sort of flip-flopped — where she'd assume there would be darkness, he was soft. When she assumes she can push, she finds she can't.

Despite her awareness of this quality, when he stands and steps away, his casual, small-talk-seeming dialogue catches Isla off guard, "S'a great room, innit?"

Isla blinks. Her head winds, slowly, to face him, where his menacing stature, with the equally menacing cane, looms ahead of the armchair.

"What?"

"Nice decor, comfortable chair," his mouth purses, and he flops back into the verdant seat unceremoniously, huffing out a breath as if it's a conclusion to his strenuous workday. The dominant glances about himself, wall to wall over ceilings, and then his gaze focuses on her.

"But, y'know," eyes narrow as he bridges into foreshadowing, "there's just something missing."

"A ...sex swing?" Isla offers, her cadence still a smidge jesting despite all that's been endured. She's a bit confused with his sudden nonchalant nature, with his withdrawal, with the bizarre nature of the conversation topic. 

Harry hums and drums his fingertips over the arm of the chair, and his tongue clicks as he jerks with his chin, "No, s'not quite it."

"Y'know," he sits up a bit then and snaps with bare fingers — her pupils flit to the motion, "I've got it. I'm thinking, an ottoman."

Isla swallows.

"An ottoman?" she parrots.

"Sure," Harry sits back and splays one arm out over the back of the seat. The other cradles the cane, propped against the floor. "Nice chair," as if for emphasis, he lays his legs out laxly and crosses one ankle over the other, "and nothing to kick my feet up on."

Isla stares down at serpents and jet leather. She ogles as he tells her, "Don't you think I deserve to kick my feet up after all of my hard work, darling?"

A pinch works between her brows, and then he lifts a foot, sets it onto the small of her back, and follows with the other, like she's a fucking coffee table.

Oh. OH. The young woman tenses, and she hangs her head as (sordidly, unsurprising) arousal ripples through her. She is a woman plagued. What kind of twisted desires would prompt her into the reaction— honestly, Isla thinks. The warmth between her legs pulses into a fire. Harry digs the heels of his dress shoes in a little harder, eyes glimmering and strawberry mouth buckling into a grin, "Dealing with an incorrigible brat s'quite exhausting."

"Sir..."

"What?" the dominant pouts, mimicking her tone, cadence pitied and painted with condescension. All Isla provides him with an exhale with a bit of tremble to it.

"S'getting you awful bothered, isn't it, sweetheart?" his lips twitch with knowing, "I know, darling. Feels good to have a purpose."

Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck.

"Sir," she rocks back a smidge, a little more desperation to her voice. She feels like her entire body's been dipped into a tank of sex — chills envelop her, her stomach wracks with want, and craving slips and pulses lower, and as she literally, physically pulses, clenching, she's greeted with the reminder of the plug, and the other toy in her cunt, and—

"Ah, ah, ah," in her peripherals, she makes out that the dominant has brandished another little object, a small, dark rectangle, lax in his grip. Harry tells her, "you are going to be a quiet, little girl, and the only time I wanna hear anything from you—"

A click.

A smirk.

The fuschia trinket comes alive, buzzing inside of her, against her clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her. Isla rocks forward, jostling his feet a bit, and he plants the sole of his right shoe against her side until she straightens back out.

"—is when you're begging to cum."

Isla bites into her lip — he's the devil. The vibrator hums gently over her, but she's been so worked up over the course of the session that it pulses through her nerve endings and sends the entirety of her system on overdrive. So good, it's so good, she's so sensitive, and this is the lowest setting?

The LOWEST setting?

Like clockwork, the dominant chimes, "Shouldn't take too long to get you there, but, let's amp it up a bit—" and then the toy buzzes harder, firmer, and he tacks on as she hangs her head, chest rolling and hips rocking in minute motions, "Wanna see those little panties soaked all the way through." 

The panties — she realizes he'd left them on to keep the toy inside of her as her muscles spasm. He'd thought ahead. Regardless of the precaution, Isla clenches over the toy, desperately, to keep the buzzing from the appendage enveloped about her clit. It's just right — it feels so good — teasing in the best way. But her efforts only make the pleasure so much more intense, and it's not long before she's making quiet little sounds involuntarily. Not long before the pressure builds and builds and builds, like a jenga set just waiting to topple.

"Sir, Sir — Sir—"

"Yes, yes, yes?" the dominant returns, cheerily lilt-y on the former, "This better be good. M'trying to relax."

The disinterest weaved in his inflection only spurs her further. Isla gasps, "Please, Sir — it's — can I—"

"Any day now," Harry drawls, and despite his feigned demeanor of disinterest, he keeps his thumb hovering on the off switch and a careful gaze on her figure.

"May I cum, Sir?" she cries out, but the cry that spills upon the toy just ...shutting off puts the volume of that first one to shame.

"Absolutely not," Harry tells her. Isla's heart hammers so intensely she can feel it in her throat, in her temples, in the tip of her tongue. Her body freezes in the state of shock the shut-off has induced. Eventually she lets a whine consume her vocal cords. A block ripped from the tower.

As she harvests composure, bridling a complaint in lieu of fixing her obnoxiously uneven breathing pattern, she doesn't even have the time to properly bounce back before the toy comes back alive, on its lowest setting. Higher, higher, flitting like fruit on a slot machine, and then it settles on a pattern that pulses. One that doesn't really satisfy — just tantalizes. It sends bursts of pleasure through her clit with every buzz, in intervals, and follows up with pauses that serve as come-downs. Those split seconds of nothingness, (that feel as if they last forever before the rumble returns), have her sweaty body struggling to comprehend the onslaught of sensations. Because just as she crests, sinking into enjoyment, it stops. And then it comes back. The cycle repeats, an everlasting inferno reaped upon her.

And even then, the pleasure swells. The blocks expand, higher, higher, higher, and then he flips it to a setting that just rumbles, unremitting and powerful in a way that teems deep and settles into her, twining over her bones. She knows what the answer will be. She knows it, and still—

"May I cum, Sir?" the words are spoken through an exhale, like she'd been staving off the pleasure by holding her breath.

Harry hums as if deliberating. Something naively hopeful churns in her chest.

"No," he settles on, and Isla hangs her head, her entire figure jittering as the toy shuts off. Harry snickers as she rocks, his feet following in their placement over her back. After a moment, he holds the button over the remote, and he can tell it's turned back on based on the jolt in her muscles, the way she straightens out.

"Soaking through yet? I'd get up to check, but I'm quite comfortable, I'll be honest with you."

"Sir," she screws her eyes shut, and the electricity that zaps through her at the reminder that she's serving as a fucking ottoman for him renders her immobile. Harry twirls the stem of the cane in his hand — it spins, dancing over the floor. The time span between the third ignition of the toy and her crest is ludicrously short — enough so that it draws a cheeky smirk over his strawberry mouth. Harry waits patiently for her mantra of pleas. It comes soon enough.

"Sir, may I—"

"You wanna cum?" the dominant interjects, shifting his feet over her back in a way that's more comfortable for him, nonchalantly, as if it's the most casual thing in the world.

Isla's jaw sets, her teeth gritting and breaths escaping through flared nostrils. Does she want to cum? What a stupid fucking question. She's just about to give him as much courtesy with her tone as he's been giving her with his actions, but the sound of the cane scraping over the tile jars her. The young woman shudders through a potent wave of pleasure that cascades, not quite ebbing.

"Yes, Sir," the docile statement leaks through the cracks of her teeth.

"Convince me," his statement brushes over eardrums wracked with the racket of blood pumping, "Why do you deserve it?"

At first she balks. Tenses as the fire licks at her. And then her tongue moves on its own accord, a desperate showcase of her conviction, despite her muddled thought processing, "I — I was good. I did what you told me to do, Sir."

"And?"

"And — and," her stomach clenches as the seams of composure start in subtle fissures, "And you — you want to see me cum, and, and — Oh, God, please—"

"I want to see you cum?" his eyebrows jolt, "That's your brilliant reasoning?"

Isla can't contain it. Her mouth parts, ready to warn him, but it's all sort of too little, too late. Joints of suture burst as her body becomes launched into the sea of bliss, just spiraling as flares of ecstasy absorb her senses. Her thighs tremble, and her elbows nearly give, though they stay determined in their structure, and she spasms over the toy as it keeps up its rumble through the aftershocks. Vaguely, over her own heartbeat, she makes out that he says something, something that doesn't sound hungry as he typically does when he coaxes her through climax. The heels of his shoes withdraw.

"Did you cum?" Harry prods, sitting up a bit as the submissive finally gives in to the bend that'd been begging at her elbows, sagging forward, "You came, darling?"

Regardless of her lull, he shuts the toy off — her body language and the sudden cease in pleas is confirmation enough. Weakly, Isla nods against the floor.

"You came?" he repeats, incredulity leaking into his tone and coating the underlying, audible frustration. They enmesh in his sigh. He drags the cane over the tile.

And despite Isla Cleery's disposition of exhaustion, her muscles come right back to life when he strokes the tip of it down her back.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tells her, voice firm, "Still."

"Sir..." Isla sounds absolutely destroyed by it — by all of it, by the sudden orgasm, the switch from bliss to terror, in the blink of an eye, while her senses are still pliant and weak.

"Did I give you permission?" he tuts, jerking with his head once, tone hard, and as he drags the tip of the implement between her shoulder blades, Isla crumbles.

Permission to cum or permission to speak, she's unsure. Though, Isla's positively certain that she wants nothing to do with that wooden thing he's holding, and fear climbs in place of what was prior rapture. Her silence quirks his mouth.

"What is it with this thing?" he ponders aloud, corners of his mouth jolting as she whimpers and quivers as he slips it over the back of her thigh, "Hm?"

He'd been fully intent on terrorizing her with the thing solely to make a point — that he is to be listened to, and that her actions have consequences. He wasn't keen on hitting her with it, not now, but if she got a little freaked out by him harmlessly trailing it over her figure, Harry supposed that would suffice. Dirty, little thing got off on it, anyhow. But now, curiosity peaks. Because they never did talk about the root of her fear with it, did they? He'd inquired after the second scene, in the dungeon, brushing her tears away with soft thumbs and soft croons, beckoning for answers, making sure that she'd actually enjoyed the introduction of the implement, despite (she'd warned him, to be fair) her ...vigorous reaction.

Harry had dabbled in fear play before. That vicious sadist in him did quite get off on fear, after all. It was always intense. There had been a submissive he'd played with a couple of years prior, fairly regularly. Hedone had been her name, and she no longer attended Indulge — huge fear of balloons. Globophobia it was called; a pretty small-scale niche of those affected. She had a thing with the anticipation of the popping — it'd make her hairs stand straight. Something stemming from childhood trauma, antics of older siblings, something vaguely along those lines. But anyways, it wasn't about what the fear was, or exploiting the fear in a way that made her feel genuinely upset. It was always about the endorphins. The adrenaline. She'd expressed her desire, and he got it. And, man, did she get timid with fright and soft when he brought one around. As unsexy as the idea of dragging a dark, latex balloon over someone's bare body sounds — the reaction she had was... well it made missionary in the dark sound well beyond dull.

But that play partner didn't have quite as ...intense of a reaction as Isla had. Hedone would just shriek, and then grow still and awfully quiet, with soft pleas spilling from a soft mouth, at most. She hadn't been a crier.

Isla was.

And Isla had warned him.

Still, that first scene in the dungeon had been fairly severe on the senses, to say the least, emotions concerned, and Harry had made well sure that Peitho was alright with everything they had explored. Isla told him she was. That she'd loved every minute of it — of the view of him standing over her with it, threatening her with the rod.

But they never discussed the history.

"Why..." he lifts it, gaze slipping over its stem, before he returns to drawing over her tank-clad ribs with the end, and Isla squeaks, "Are you so scared of it? S'just a stick," he reasons, and tacks on, half-jesting, "Can't bite you."

"Because it hurts," she tells him, inflection trembling incredulously.

"Yeah but that's the point, innit?"

Isla sobs as he traces her spine with it, and he speaks over her shuddery breaths, tone nonchalant, "The clamps hurt, but you're not scared of those. Hm? The strap," he emphasizes by stroking the end over her curvature, where her flesh has grown ruddy under its abuse, "hurts," and his eyes wander over her skin, ogling the marks like they're part of a scenic view. He shakes his head and feigns a wince, leaning over to draw a line of white with his forefinger and siphoning a gasp in the process. Harry turns his head, mouth crooking, "Hm? S'pretty rough, innit?"

When she doesn't respond, he sighs, and sits back, wandering over the vale of her side with the tip of the implement casually.

"But you're not scared of that. So why," he pokes her shoulder with the end, and he sees her mouth physically form into a grimace as she restrains herself from jolting away, "are you so scared of the cane, darling?"

His cadence is low and condescending, in a way, Isla finds, as he reiterates, "What's so scary about the big stick, baby?"

When she doesn't give him an answer, he purses his pillowy mouth and grazes it over her underside, gliding it over her fabric-covered tummy. Isla hangs her head with a sob.

The chair creaks as he retracts the cane and sits up again. Instead of tracing lines over her with the tip, he places it onto her back, vertically, keeping his hand on the handle as her breathing starts to quicken. He tells her, with no-nonsense to his tone, "I can't hit you with it when I'm not holding it, so stay still, if you'd like to keep it that way."

Despite the minute tremble of her ribcage, Isla maintains a composure as still as a statue. Well — a statue with twitchy muscles.

He tells her, ducking to scratch at her scalp, with a voice soft like melted butter — a contrast to the prospect of the unspoken threat, "If you can stop crying long enough to tell me why you're so scared of it, I'll put it away."

And if you can't, we can keep playing the Mean Cane Game all night long.

The young woman seems to weigh his words then, her audible inhale shuddery through her nostrils. Finally, she responds, her voice impressively even, despite the fact that she sounds right back on the edge of bursting into tears, "It just hurts."

She sniffles, and Harry purses his mouth, patiently waiting on her to expand. She does, this time, evidently understanding that he's not keen on circling back to the same point he's already made.

"I don't — I don't know. Like, it just ...hurts ...really bad. Worse than — than anything," she ducks her chin and blows out a breath.

He tuts, and tells her, voice coated in sweetness that makes her feel much like she's a little fish swimming through a beautiful enclosure of vines, only to find that she's swam through the teeth of a whale, "Mm. Played too rough with it?"

After a moment, the young woman responds, her voice small, "Yes," and despite the terror of the implement resting over her spine like a second layer of bone, his soft touch, his soft croon of understanding, it makes her feel ...melty.

The dominant hums, with that same sense of understanding to his demeanor.

"So it's a bad association," he reaches for the cane, "that you have with it."

Isla freezes up. She stops melting, like a pint of ice cream that's been stuffed back into the freezer. Eros doesn't instantly stand to put the cane away, as he'd priorly implied, and Isla suddenly feels that those teeth don't belong to a benign whale who'd simply become entangled with her as an unintended predator — she feels she's swam past the teeth of a shark; a shark who'd intended to bite.

"Sir?" she says, her heart thundering when she hears him sit back. She's unsure of what she's asking, but she is sure that she can't look. She can't — she can't watch him wave that horrifying thing at her.

"Let's fix it," he tells her, sadistically eager, as if he's just invited her to come along on an insightful adventure, like he's found a project for himself to tackle. Her whole body tenses when the dominant reintroduces the tip of the cane, and when it bumpily cascades down her thigh, her knee jumps and bends, skidding over the smooth flooring.

"Oh, Sir," she sobs, her cadence hopeless. There's no pluck left to her fragility — no desperate attempts to argue. But she does tell him, her voice small and shaky, "You— you said you'd put it away. I was good, I was good."

"I did say that, didn't I," he says over another stifled cry, like he's ruminating on it, "but you're crying over a stick," he says it like it's ridiculous, open-mouthed grin showcasing shark teeth with no visible sharpness, "and — I know, pet, I'm just such a horrible, mean man," he bites into his lip, "But you're just so pretty when you cry."

She shakes her head at the linoleum, wordlessly, and surprises him with a whimper rather than a shriek as he bends forward to menacingly tap against the sole of her foot with it. It's pretty painless — they're love taps, but her toes curl and she whines sharply. He tuts.

"This isn't so bad, is it?"

Isla doesn't respond, her entire silhouette tensed like lifeless marble and her breathing shallow as he prods, "Right? Doesn't hurt?"

Perhaps, what surprises him more than the restraint on her vocal cords, is when she speaks up. Her voice is hard with determination, but it's riddled with what's blatantly a mask of pluck (all puns aside). She's going to keep crying, Harry thinks. She's going to keep crying, and it'll happen any second, and as Harry contemplates over this fact, he finds that he wants nothing more than to see Isla Cleery's pretty eyes brimming with pretty tears.

"Sir — I'm sorry I came," she tells him, and tacks on, after a moment, "without permission. ...But—"

Isla finds the intrigue of her own surprise, severing through the terror and peaking when he cuts her off with a sound of mirth. Like her apology amuses him. She feels ...ridiculed, and small. So small. And perhaps most mortifying of all, is that she feels small ...and it makes her fuzzy. It makes her mellow and biddable, and she feels, in that moment and in every, entrapped by his claws, that he knows best. She wants him to make all the choices. She wants to be his ottoman, and she wants to jump when he says jump, and if he wants to hit her with it she wants to let him. Wants to feel the apprehension melt away because it's his whim. And she's wet — she's so wet. She feels that too, it's undeniable. She's terrified, and she feels small, and she's gushing between her thighs because of it all.

His huff brings her out of her own head, and when he speaks up through the amusement, she can tell that he's wearing a grin, "S'not a punishment, little Peitho."

Little Peitho — he hasn't called her that in ages, not since the first scene in the lounge, and she hangs her head, basking in the affectionate moniker, the tip of the cane pressing to the middle of her sole, nearly forgotten.

"Or maybe it is — I suppose it's however you take it, darling. But—" her breath hitches as he takes the cane from the sole of her foot, and strokes over her calf with it, his cadence low and tantalizing, "Someone was very mean with a cane to you — and now you have a bad habit, don't you, baby?"

His pupils flicker to her skin, to her thigh as he draws with the cane over the back of it, smoothing it over her flesh. Her toes curl.

"You cry when the cane comes out. But it's not scary — s'just a big stick," he tells her, "Right? This doesn't hurt. Does it?"

She doesn't give him a verbal response, and he presses it to her skin a little harder, "Hm?"

Her answer comes as an exhale, a string of words nearly meshed together by a breath, "No, Sir."

Her muscles turn to stone as the cane slides over her with his lean forward, and when he speaks close to her ear, chills run across her skin and something wracks down the knobs of her spine. "If it doesn't hurt, why are you still crying?"

She's still crying — she's still crying, he's right. Isla stares through the muddled lace, her face is itchy and wet, and her mouth is sopping and puffy, and he's right, she is.

"I don't— I don't know, Sir."

"You don't know," he sits back on the echo, sliding the cane down the expanse of her skin rather than taunting her with a side-to-side, "Are you scared that I'm going to hurt you with it?"

Isla chews into her swollen bottom lip, only swelling the cushiony flesh further by the ministration of her teeth.

"Tell me."

Is she scared that he's going to hurt her? It's one of those ...complex questions, one that an answer can be altered for based on the emphasis on wording. Is she scared that he's going to hurt her? Genuinely, really hurt her; that he'd mar her in a way beyond play — no. Is she worried that he's going to break a limit? Isla breathes. She's not. That answer comes just as easily as the first. She trusts her Eros more than anything. But is she terrified that he'll hit her with the cane? Yes.

She's not scared of him — she's scared of it. And the thing is, she knows that it's irrational — she's made far too many jokes about it in settings out of play, because she's aware that the reaction she has to a thin, wooden pole is ludicrous. But—

"Yes, Sir," she finally responds, her head drooping between her shoulders.

His mouth purses — she's ducked her head like she's ...disappointed with her own answer. Harry isn't. She was candid, and that's all he can ask for. Partly, her admission makes something soft turn in his chest for her. And partly, well — the other, darker part of him suffuses with wicked desire.

"M'not going to hurt you with it," he finally supplies, promise interweaving the syllables as he summons that first chunk of himself to the forefront of his exterior, because he's aware she'll need him to be soft with her for this next part, because he knows his little Peitho like the back of his hand, despite so little knowledge tucked away on Isla Cleery.

"We're going to make new associations," as he draws the cane off from between her jutted shoulder blades, Isla worries her bottom lip between the bite of her teeth, shying away.

"We're going to learn," Harry strokes the side of it over her cheek as he buries the bare fingers of his opposite hand into her hair, "that the cane's not inherently bad."

"Because my sweet girl," he tugs her head back softly and the cane slips to press against her throat, "doesn't need to be scared of silly sticks."

It drowns her chest with something warm, his softness peeking through harsh motives, chips at her heart a bit, the notion. But more than anything, it douses Isla with desire, the carnal, tinged-with-adrenaline kind, when he stands, sits back in the chair, toggles the vibrator back on, and strokes the cane over her silhouette like an artist sketching effortless lines and shapes.

Because she's scared, she's still so scared, that sense of fear engraved in her mentality like scarring, but the fear heightens her arousal, heightens the softness of the pleasure at her core, heightens it all. And as Eros strokes the cane over the vale of her arch, down over her lace, drawing a streak over her sore, marked thighs, she feels rapture spring upon her, unforeseen.

"You're going to cum again," the dominant commands, though his inflection is gentle, "you're gonna give me one more, and it's not gonna matter that the cane is there, because you're not even gonna think about it. You're just gonna think about the buzzing in your desperate, little pussy," he slides it, vertical, to press between her cheeks and coaxes a soft gasp from her, "you're gonna think about the pretty plug in your tight, little arse, and you're gonna think about how good it'll feel to cum because I told you to."

And Isla does — she thinks of all those things, despite the kiss of the horrid implement dragging across her skin. Honestly, his insightful suggestions are all a little difficult to ignore, anyhow. The incessant buzzing at her core is just that, it's incessant. The plug is rigid when she clenches, a constant, sturdy reminder that it's there, a perpetual inspiration to recall the way he'd put it there, and flashes of delectable humiliation spawn at the memoirs as if he's doing it all over again. And the cane — she half-expects him to whack her with it as she peaks, to leave a singular, pretty, little stripe over her thighs, just beneath the love bite he'd previously pasted as another token. The anticipation only drives her further wild. She finds the tears, as if her ducts are magnets, siphon to the surface with the thought, but they come in delicious bliss. It's cathartic, as they gather over her waterline, as her nervous system's wrung through tides of primal euphoria, and when he starts drawing side-to-side lines over her thighs, like he's fixing to hit her, Isla feels herself doomed to that inevitable crumble.

"Please— may—"

"Cum for me."

And that's really all the encouragement she needs. She whimpers and sobs as it tears through her, muscles taut and straining in preparation for something.

But the cane just draws soft lines over her, just as it had been prior, smoothing and gentle in its caress.

And that makes her cry harder. She cries as he pulls it away and braces it against the arm of the chair. She cries when he slips his fingers over the remote and switches the rumbling toy off. She cries when he stands over her and hovers, when he bends to dig his fingers into her hair to coax her into a kneel, when he wordlessly draws a bare thumb over her bottom lip.

They start to stifle and wind down a bit when he disentangles his fingers from her tendrils, though, when deft fingertips work to unbuckle a belt, and unbutton a button, and unzip a zipper. They die off into hiccups and stuttery breaths when he pulls his shaft out through the opening, when he strokes himself over her upturned face, when he taps at her puffy mouth with a tip that leaks precum. Like clockwork, her lips part with intent to envelop him in warmth, but the dominant just tuts softly.

"Spit on it," Harry tells her, the cracks in his own resolve finally, finally evident with the breathiness of his inflection, "Go on. Make it messy."

So she does. Her lips pucker, through tethered sniffles, and Isla leaks saliva onto his tip, onto the thumb of his glove, and it dribbles off and lands onto the marble before he starts to stroke.

"Stick that tongue out," Harry demands, fondling over the head of his cock teasingly — both to his senses, and to her gaze. Isla obliges, her tongue slinking out, until he instructs, "wider, wider, wider," until it hangs and her strawberry mouth illustrates an empty inlet of potential. He taps with his head over her tongue — one, two, three times, enough for the taste of his precum to stick, salty to her taste buds, but he doesn't stuff himself into her mouth. He doesn't slide himself against her tongue. Instead, the man strokes over her with his bare hand, squeezing at his tip, a tantalizing sight of dark eyes staring lewdly through shadows, of his own lips parted with pleasured breaths, as lashes flutter.

"Gonna cum all over that pretty face—" his jaw sets as he promises, "Gonna give it all to you."

Isla Cleery, Isla Cleery, Isla Cleery — he pictures doe eyes behind lace, the slope of her nose, the flutter of wet lashes.

Her tongue flexes, and her cheeks burn from her tears, and her whole body sort of aches in that pleasant, welcomed way. She just wants to mouth over him, wants something, wants to give her Eros more, more, more. A sound slips from the back of her throat, a desperate one, as his fist slides, slick over his shaft, and sends his tip bumping over her tongue with each hungry motion. And then he sticks his free fingers into her hair, tugging harshly at her scalp, and groans out a deep string of curses as he paints ribbons over her. They land in spurts, some on her tongue, some over her lips, her chin. A smidge lands over the bottom-most hem of her mask, and it — it—

Isla whines, his cum pasted over her tongue, over her face, on the onyx lace, but she doesn't close her mouth — not yet. Not until he instructs her to do so.

Once he's done milking himself through the aftershocks, squeezing at the tip and canting his hips forward for a droplet, like an afterthought, to bubble out and slide over her tongue, his hands withdraw as he sighs and draws a thumb over a bit of his artistry. He'd aimed well enough, he decides then, because he'd gotten it just over the hem, as he'd intended. And as the man drags his thumb over milky white, over her swollen lips and pastes that same thumb to her tongue, Isla keeps her jaw slack. She keeps her tongue out. He thumbs more of it on, and then more. Like a perverse cleaning routine. His cock, spent, still pulses at the sight. She's stayed the most clothed in this scene than ever before, and yet, somehow, the sight of her now, kneeling beneath him with faint remnants of cum that he's thumbed off onto her eager tongue, is still the filthiest.

"Swallow. Every drop, sweetheart," he tells her, and she does. His fingers plaster to her cheeks, rough in their purpose initially, but then they mutate in intent. The squeeze and dig turns to soft petting, soft thumbs. And then, the tone that'd priorly taken on such firm notes shifts and morphs. It turns to a treacle of sweetness when he praises, "Such a good girl."

Isla sighs like his words have fed her with bliss. They sort of have. She watches him tuck himself away, the taste of him still fresh on her tongue, in absolutely untethered bliss. He glides his palms over her cheeks softly, cupping either side of warm skin, and tells her, "Stay here, just for a mo', baby."

She does. She waits, patient despite the urge clawing within her to press herself into his touch, against his chest, to curl up small and be coddled, all while he gleans whatever he must from about the room, winding. It's all familiar — an electric water jug grinding, the sounds of tissues being culled, of soles of shoes padding over tile in ...power. God — the sound of his dress shoes over the ground is eroticism in and of itself.

And then he comes back to her — her Eros, and he draws soft, cool tissue that leaves wetness in its wake over her skin, and gives her soft praises all the while.

He helps her up onto achy legs with achy joints, and then he literally, physically picks her up, like she weighs nothing, which is also a turn on, in and of itself — if Isla had the strength, she'd squeak in response to the motion. He cradles her to him like he's her own, personal, deviant Prince Charming.

Harry sets her onto untainted, tucked sheets, running his palms over the sultry expanse of bare thighs before he settles his palms over her hip and physically manhandles her onto her tummy with a smooth movement and a squeezing press. Isla is gone. She is a puppet, a vessel, her mind a blip in a boundless sky of stars. His hands rove and roam, fondling down the ruddy backs of her thighs, slinking back up — one palm gloved, the opposite denuded. She could fall asleep, Isla decides, she could fall asleep, like this.

"Prop your hips up, darling," Harry tells her, patting at a hip and snapping her out of her daze, "Gotta take the toys out."

Isla clenches. Oh, she thinks, greeted with the pressure and the stretch she'd become well-accustomed to. Yeah. Vaguely, she's aware that those are still there, but her lack of care is far less vague. She doesn't want to move. Maybe, ever. The man seems to pick up on this, huffing with a cave up at the corners of his mouth, and he presses kisses up her thighs, then sets his palms back on her hips and drags her down over the edge of the mattress, just so she's forced to bend at an angle for him. He shimmies the lace over her hips, just enough to where they expose what he needs and rest just below the rounding of her flesh. His hands spread, and his fingers prod, and all Isla can really do is press her cheek against the sheets and sigh. The one at her core goes first. He tugs it out, slick with her arousal, and sets it aside.

The dominant pets over one of her cheeks and tells her, "Alright, just relax for me, baby."

Right — one more. She nuzzles her face into the comforter, screwing her eyes shut as his fingers prod and twist. He's quite careful with the plug as she tugs it out of her. Slow. But there's still that sensation of discomfort and she bears down on the emptiness. His mouth crooks and he presses his lips over a curve as a token of his affections, "All done."

Then, the man tugs the lace back up (haphazardly — back dimples and just a smidge below peek from the hem) and tells her, his inflection soft as warm, syrupy honey, "Scootch back up. Need to love on my sweet girl a bit."

Love on his girl a bit, he says. Her heart swoons dreamily. Isla can certainly go for some of that. With sluggish limbs she clambers and scoots, just until her ankle dangles off the bed and the opposite leg crooks and bends over the mattress. Harry knees his way onto the bed, settles just beside her, and buries a hand in her hair at the back of her scalp, the pads of his fingers scratching at her like one of those bizarre, short clips Isla stumbles upon scrolling through tiktok — the weirdly erotic massage videos (ads?) that definitely go against the community guidelines of the social platform. She'll scrutinize the videos, thinking, there's just no way this thing ends without a happy ending, off-camera. The chat logs always brim with phrases like, "if someone did this to me, I would simply fall in love."

And Isla kind of gets it now.

His opposite hand trails blunt nails delicately over her back, slipping beneath her tank. He's tender in his touches. It incites chills that crawl up her neck, over her shoulders, trails of goosebumps rising over her arms.

"I'm proud of you," he tells her, and the sincerity, the softness of his cadence nearly causes a fresh wave of tears to flow to the surface. Her mouth quivers, her cheek squished to the sheets as the dominant leans forward and speaks low against her ear, "You were so brave for me, weren't you? Always make me so happy. Always so good for me."

Her dreamy sigh coaxes the corners of his mouth to buckle, and he presses a kiss just behind the shell of her ear. Isla says something indecipherable, something small and garbled. He hums against her neck in question.

"Hold me," she clarifies, almost sounding a bit miffed that he's not already doing that.

Cushiony lips quirk, and his hand slides down the nape of her neck. He leans over her, pasting kisses down from her nape to the top of cropped elastic fabric, skimming past as his hands withdraw, and then lower, lower, lower, all down the line of her spine and just between the dimples in her back. His bare hand fondles her backside, and then he sits back, trailing the pad of his forefinger over a faint, little bloom of purple-y red amidst a sea of pink. His teeth marks have faded, but the love bite lingers, and Harry knows Isla will be able to admire it over the course of the week until they meet again. He imagines that she will.

"Mm. Okay. Sit up, then."

Move this way, move that way, do this, do that. What an overbearing load of requests, Isla thinks. Despite this, she does, as he slips off of the mattress and winds around to untuck corners of bed sheets. He throws a corner of the blanket over her as she slides over the bed, and then the mattress dips as he crawls over and settles beside her against the headboard. Isla crawls into his lap like the spot was made for her.

For a while, he just holds her. Smushes kisses to her hairline, swaddling her in the blanket and swallowing her up with his arms. He makes her nurse her little cup of water, and then drinks his own as she nestles her face into the nook between his neck and his shoulder. He whispers soft words until she starts to get back to him, until gravity starts pulling her down from the airy float that'd taken over her.

"You always surprise me," she tells him, finally, her cadence muffled against his collar.

"Hm?"

"When I came without permission, the first time," she lifts her head, casting her gaze onto his eyes, "You didn't punish me. But I thought you would."

Her pupils jolt to his mouth, it twitches in the parted slit of rubber. She watches it move as he talks. "You don't think that last bit was a punishment?" He tucks her hair behind her ear, and then leans in to nip at the same ear with his teeth. It evokes chills and she shudders, her shoulders scrunching up in the blanket.

"You told me it wasn't," Isla lifts a shoulder to bridle his playful nipping, smile blooming over her mouth. She meets a burst of air from him, soft and warm over her neck, traces of amusement. Harry sits back, his eyes wending over her face.

"Mm. I guess I did say that," then tacks on, only half-teasing, "Suppose I should still punish you for it, then, right?"

Isla sighs and digs her face into the smooth cotton of his shirt — he smirks, and adds, "Don't get ahead of yourself. I fully intend to."

The young woman groans and wriggles a hand out from the confines of the blanket to stick her fingers through a gap between buttons — to feel the warm skin of his chest against her fingertips. "You can't just—" her brows pinch together, "hang it over my head all week long. That's just ...mean."

"Oh," he raises his eyebrows, nudging with his chin as his arms tighten around her, "is it mean? Is it, really? Because, well, the way I understood it—"

"It is mean, yeah—"

"—you wanted me to be mean. Asked for it, in fact."

"Oh, is that what you recall?"

Lashes sweep as eyes blink, soft at the reference of the inside joke of sorts. His tongue sweeps out and glides over his strawberry lips, before he takes her bottom lip between the pad of his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, squeezing gently. She teeths at his thumb, playful.

"I'll be nice — won't hang it over your head all week long," and before she has time to voice her bemusement, Eros tells her, "M'gonna tell you to do something, and you're gonna do it. Easy enough?"

Slowly, Isla nods against his hand.

"Good. You can," he thumbs at her bottom lip, irises lingering on the motion, "stare at the pretty marks I've left. Think about me, all week long. About my hands," as if to make his point, the thumb delves past her teeth, resting on her tongue, "My cock. My voice," behind lace, Isla's lashes flutter. When her eyes settle open they meet his own, jade and intent, "And you're not to touch yourself, all week long. Not until I see you again, next Friday."

The next morning, Isla Cleery googles Harry Styles and pores through nearly every web page linked that the search engine has to offer.

She scrolls through linked-in, through forums of dashing headshots, through company pages. She finds his facebook. It's horrifically stalker-ish of her, but she can't help swiping through, her pupils flitting across words and columns of answers to typical ice breaker-esque questions — mentally drinking in every tidbit of insight she can. Things like February 1st, 1994 and Keller Simpson Realty. Friends, tagged photos. This page isn't much in use, she finds. There's promos and inklings of professional shoots for appearances, but there's not much to scroll through besides that — no candids in sand on the beach showcasing stretches of skin, no reckless tags of college party nights with embarrassing, blurred, drunken photoshoots from years prior. The latest post hasn't been updated in well over a couple of years.

And then, Isla Cleery hits a goldmine.

She finds his instagram.

She scrolls through @harrystyles, pupils flitting over headshots and ads with blocky, colorful phrases and lengthy captions, and she scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls. She finds old posts — selfies, pictures of tattoos, tags with friends. Long hair — what is this masterpiece, Isla thinks, eyes engorging. Further, further, further. Dimples, scenic views. One word captions with abstract photos of random details. She scrolls and scrolls. Isla does the unthinkable. She likes.

It's an accident. A horrific, mortifying mishap. The post is from 2013. Eyes widening, she frantically unlikes.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Isla blocks Harry Styles.

Isla breaks on a Monday night. It's pathetic, honestly – not even three full days, she makes it, before hungry fingers dig past the fabric of her underwear.

And the thing is, she wants to listen. She wants to be good for Eros. She wants to submit. But it's a ludicrous thing to request – for her to stave of her sexual desires for the entirety of the week, when all she's (nearly constantly) plagued by, are the thoughts of his hands sliding over her skin, of his voice in her ear, of ropes, and cuffs, and gloves, and zippers, and belt buckles. She spends Saturday admiring her marks. It's not an intentional venture – she'll catch sight of herself walking past a mirror, roaming about the house in a cheeky set of shorts and turn, just to be faced with the reminder; a patch of skin that stands out in shade, where he'd suckled and dug teeth in. On Sunday, she works over her laptop at her dining table, ogling the golden bangle manacled onto her wrist that beseeches in her peripherals. The charms brush with every motion of her wrist. On Monday, she goes to work, for once pleased to have a proper distraction. And even then, all she can think of, as she sits in her swivel-y office chair, is the thought of how sore she would be if she disobeyed his command. How, next week, she'd be squirming over the same seat she sits in now, as a consequence — and that only winds her up more.

She thinks of how good it would feel to just give in, how she'd finally be able to breathe and function if she were to just get off, how mean the dominant would be at the end of the week when she told him of her infraction.

That's how she finds herself sprawled over her bedsheets, gaze cast to the ceiling as her vibrator rumbles between her thighs as the TV blares in the background. It feels good — it feels so good, too good. But it's nothing compared to the touch of her Eros — to Harry whispering filthily against the shell of her ear, to Harry's touch gliding over her flesh. She sets the setting up a level and digs her short nails into her thigh to feel a burst of pain, imagining it's his hand, his nails.

It's not enough. Nothing is enough. She craves his voice against her eardrum, a velvet caress — even droning about something mundane, anything.

And it's — it's a spur of the moment decision, a frantic idea brought on by a brain that's mushy with lust, and lust only. She keeps the handle of the vibrator poised between her legs with one grip, and scrolls through her phone with the opposite. She finds his contact. Her thumb hovers. Isla makes a last minute decision, and tucks the phone to her ear.

The line rings. A click.

"Hello?"

Fuck. His voice, low and raspy through the line. 

"Hey!" Isla shifts over the sheets, her heart hammering and her voice overly chirpy, "Harry. This is Isla Cleery."

"Isla! Hi," his cadence is pleasant, and friendly, and warm, like it always is when they manage to interact outside of Indulge.

Her eyes screw shut, "Hi," and she moves again, the phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder, "Listen, I'm so sorry to be calling you so late but — ah," she hopes the TV blocks out the rumble of the vibrator between her legs, "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 supplies from the other end of the line.

"Yes, the, uh, the Mulnich property. I wanted to see that one. So," her tongue sticks out past her lips to swipe before she expands, "Can we set that up?"

A pause. A shuffle on the other end of the line.

"Sure. Yeah. Let me just check," another break in his dialogue. Her eyes squeeze shut and her hips grind over the toy, "Does Wednesday at two work for you?"

Isla grits her teeth, hopelessly on the wire, "Can't — can't. Wednesday, at two. Anything — can you do anything later? In the evening, maybe?"

There's a beat of silence in which she absolutely prays he's analyzing his schedule and not pondering suspiciously over the reasoning of her choppy, poorly concealed cadence.

"Yeah," the man responds after a moment of lull that, (combined with the rumbling of the toy, the risky nature of the situation, and her absolute gall), leaves her heart hammering behind her ribcage, "I can do ...five? If that works for you."

"Yes! Yeah," Isla clears her throat, hips canting in little motions over the wand. She gnaws into her lip and wills herself to have some form of restraint, "Five. Wednesday. Yes. So, I can — I can come?"

It's shitty wording. A poor excuse of a masked request. A beat of silence follows it.

"To see the property?" she tacks on, feeling a bit like her ribs are ready to crack open and barbarically part, as if she's sprawled on a medieval doctor's table amidst surgery — her heart's ready to burst, and it'll need an aisle, after all.

Another moment of toe-curling lull. Her thighs tremble.

"Yeah, yes. Of course," Harry returns from the other end of the line, voice rasped by tinny interventions from the phone line, and Isla bites into the back of her hand. It barely covers her moan of relief as the beginnings of the wave lick at her.

When it crests, only a short second later, the young woman can't garble her helpless, soft squeak, irises lolling back. She squeezes her eyes shut, hips canting, and whatever is said from the other end of the line just blends in with the television, the subdued buzz from the vibrator — enmeshing and morphing into frivolous, insignificant background noise. Once the wave ebbs, she tosses the vibrator to the side of her, and it rolls over the mattress. Her heart is racing, pumping, hammering as she breathes deeply, shifting her laxed muscles.

"Isla?"

Mortified, her eyes widen, and she frantically shuffles over the bed to shut off the toy, attempting to cover the noise with a cough. She feels like a — a horrible, filthy sexual deviant. Shame spirals through her veins as she plucks the phone back up off the sheets and says into the priorly discarded receiver, "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—" she licks her lips as words fail her, and the batter of her heart only spurs at the silence (and honestly, the entire situation, as realization dawns upon her), "Thank you for taking my call. Wednesday at five. Have a good night."

Isla hangs up the phone before Harry can respond and buries her face in her hands.

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

[genderlessghoul]

Am I the only one who has a love-hate relationship with their hobbies?

My thing is sewing, right? Been doing it since I was 7, can't imagine a world where I'm not doing that. I can't imagine ever not making accessories, clothes, outfits, entire complicated costumes with nothing but my hands, a couple tools and a sewing machine. I love the feeling of watching something that lived only in my head and watching it come to life. I love pulling apart every single detail of the costume of my favourite character and recreating it. I love shopping for fabrics, I love feeling the different textures, weights, seeing all the colours. I love planning every step of that journey too.

But I haaaaaaate most part of the proceeeeess.

I do not like making patterns. Only one word. Maths. No thank you. I went to school for that shit, I could make you a sleeve pattern with my eyes closed at this point but I do not like it. I hate tracing, especially when the fabric keeps stretching when I'm trying to draw on it. I hate cutting the pieces. It hurts my hands after a while. Pinning is exhausting because of my Doctor Strange syndrome, it takes me 3 times as long as a normal person. Same reason threading needles is a task onto itself. And if something doesn't fit right, I have to rip that seam. Do you know how many holes I've poked in fabrics from ripping seams? A lot. Sometimes the entire piece needs to be scrapped.

All and all, it really feels like I hate sewing. But also I love sewing and I can never stop.

Am I the only one who feels like this about my hobbies?

[therantingfangirl]

Kinktober 2021 Day 24 - Piercings with Kiba

Kinktober 2021 day 24 - Piercings

Fandom: Naruto

Kiba x female reader

Word Count: 1000+

Summary: You had never truly thought about how tempting a simple piece of jewelry could be. When this piece of metal causes great distraction, you find yourself giving over to temptation.

Content Warning: tongue piercing, over-the-clothes oral, short smut, doesn't even get to the good stuff to be honest

Author Notes: @justmyownreality was the only one who said anything about which kinktober piece I should share first, so here we are.

My kinktober masterlist

Minors do not interact! This contains adult themes, read at your own risk.

It shouldn’t have been that enticing.

No, really, it shouldn’t have been.

But there was something about that silver stud peeking out from between his lips when he spoke that made your brain malfunction. Honestly, it wasn’t fair. But all you wanted was to find out what it would feel like to have that little metal piece of jewelry brush up against your lips.

It was stupid, really.

And then you couldn’t see the piercing any more. All you could see was that little fang poking out over his bottom lip. You blinked slowly as the trance was broken and dragged your gaze back up to his eyes. Dark eyes narrowed back at you. His head was tilted to the side as if he were waiting for you to respond to something he had said.

“Sorry,” you cleared your throat softly. “What did you say again?”

Kiba chuckled and shook his head at you. “Something distract you?”

“Just tired, I guess,” you said. An obvious lie. One that he would easily figure out, you were sure.

He only shrugged it off before repeating himself once again, “I’m heading over to Ichiraku, wanna come?”

It was such a simple word. Such a simple answer. You hadn’t truly thought that a simple utterance of “yes” would’ve led to your back being shoved into the back-alley wall of some building that you knew you should’ve paid more attention to. You were smart—smart enough to have known that the flirting that the two of you had done all throughout dinner would’ve led to this. But you had doubted yourself. Doubted that you would have actually been able to feel that cool metal pierced into his tongue brush in between the seam of your lips, demanding entrance into your mouth.

But here you were.

Your fingers threaded desperately into his hair. You found yourself incredibly grateful that he had ditched that hood all those years ago. Your mouth slid open easily for him, eagerly welcoming in that little piece of jewelry that had made you drop your defenses.

Kiba caged you in with one forearm braced against the wall beside your head. His thigh found its way in between your thighs, pressing just right against your clothed sex. His tongue brushed against your own, that cool metal sending shivers down your spine and drawing a deep moan from your throat. And then his lips were separating from yours, leaving you breathless and panting. You strained your neck up, trying to catch his lips once again, but he ducked his head away from your own and to your neck.

“‘Could smell you all night,” he mumbled against your skin. He whispered your name against the shell of your ear. “You were driving me crazy.” His tongue brushed against your ear, tracing its shape carefully. The little ball at the end of the barbell stroked at your skin, sending direct waves of pleasure to the apex of your thighs.

You clutched at his hair just as you began rocking your hips against him. The angle he had shoved his leg against you was just right to hit you in all the right ways. You knew Kiba—he was a tease—and he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction you wanted when you wanted it. So you would take it for yourself.

“Fucking hell,” he grunted out. “You’re like a bitch in heat.” He pulled back, just enough to be able to look you in the eyes. Just to see them flutter as you chased your release against him. “I know I shouldn’t question it,” and you could see it in his eyes—the way he truly didn’t want to question it—but even you had to admit this wasn’t normal behavior for you, “and it shouldn’t be too surprising that you would want me to fuck you like this, but what’s gotten into you?”

He brushed his lips with his tongue and your eyes narrowed in on that spot in answer. You just couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t keep this new obsession of yours hidden from him. His eyebrows knit together and his canine poked out from between his lips. And then a moment passed before realization dawned on his face and he began to laugh…loudly.

And then that beautiful pressure against your clothed sex was gone.

“Kiba,” you whined, hands reaching out to grasp at him once again.

He grabbed you by the wrists and pinned your hands above your head, that damn laugh of his still falling from his pretty lips. “It’s the piercing, isn’t it?” he asked through bouts of laughter. “What? Since you saw it, all you can think about is it rubbing against you, is that it?”

Your cheeks flushed at his words—you hadn’t expected him to actually call you out on it. Which, in hindsight, was a complete and utter miscalculation on your part. It was Kiba of all people.

“I—”

“No sense denying it now, sweetheart.” He grinned down at you before falling down on his knees. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Here?” the word tumbled out of you in a squeak that you had absolutely no control over.

“Why not? It’s late and Akamaru is standing watch.”

The ninja hound was currently taking up the space that led to the alley. You had thought it was to give the two of you some semblance of privacy, and you weren’t entirely certain if it made you feel better or worse knowing that the hound was actually just standing guard.

As if he were Kiba’s wingman.

But thoughts of Akamaru, in clear ear shot—and in way too close of quarters not to smell your arousal—were quickly forgotten as the intense pleasurable sensation of a small nub brushed against the seam of your pants.

Your eyes snapped back to the man between your legs. He ran his tongue against your clothed slit again, his nostrils flaring with every stroke. That new piece of jewelry of his brushed against you over and over, seeking out that bundle of nerves that he knew would truly drive you to release.

A pleasured groan fell from his lips and he stroked his tongue further up your slit. Your legs shook as the metal nub hit your clit just right. You closed your eyes tightly, gripping his hair. He squeezed your thighs and pressed them further apart. He flattened his tongue against the bundle of nerves and left himself still against you.

Chest heaving, you peeled your eyes open and stared down at his unmoving form. “Wh-why did you stop?” you forced the words out.

He did not respond, but his dark eyes flickered up to meet yours. He raised his eyebrows at you once just as he tugged your thighs forward, giving you that delightful friction once again. But then he stilled against you.

“Ah,” you whispered, finally understanding what he wanted from you.

And who were you to deny him?

You rocked your hips towards him, forcing that piece of jewelry to rub at you. Shocks of pleasure trailed down your spine and collected in your stomach. You sought out your release against him, quiet moans of his name filing the alley. You knew you should be quiet, but with the way that your thighs trembled and your entrance squeezed around nothing, you couldn’t keep his name from tumbling out from your lips.

Akamaru’s bark rang out, even louder than the sounds you made, and then you were rocking against nothing. Kiba slid the palm of his hand against your own, fingers threading together before you could even wrap your mind around what was happening to you.

“But you—”

“To be continued later, sweetheart.”

Akamaru bounded over to the two of you, giving your cheek a happy lick. You absentmindedly ran your free hand over his head lovingly. Kiba pressed his own kiss to the spot below your ear and squeezed your hand just as he began to lead you back down the alley. The hound and man led you away and down the street, in the wrong direction to lead you to your own home. But in the perfect direction to his—right where you believed you’d be able to feel that cold metal against your skin without any pesky material in the way.

[wolves-in-the-world]

[inspired by @eliot-wolfgirl-spencer's selkie eliot post]

Featuring selkie feels, shitty parenting (broad strokes only), and Moreau angst, and stopping before any happy ending, so you'll have to see the linked post for that.

[1.7k, also on Ao3]

—

The thing about Eliot is that his isn't a traditional selkie story. His father had a fling with a woman who hid what she was, who had left her family behind and was going it alone. (Selkies aren't all good, either.) She has Eliot, and she loves and looks after him, and she dies unexpectedly while he's still small.

So his father (who has children with someone else already, though she's no longer in the picture) gets his first son. Eliot's barely more than a toddler then, delivered to his doorstep with nothing but the clothes on his back and a soft grey blanket he seems reluctant to let go of, and when Eliot's father gets a hand on it he just thinks: Oh.

He lets Eliot keep it for the comfort, for now. When the kid’s older and less timid and getting seen more by the community he tucks it away in a cupboard so he won’t go drawing attention—it’s not like there’s anywhere good to change around here, anyway—and Eliot sort of… forgets. Not entirely. Not the rough cadence of his mother’s songs, not that there’s a piece of him he has to keep hidden. But he forgets and he’s mostly glad that he gets to. He doesn’t want to be singled out.

And maybe once or twice when the restlessness rises up under his skin, when the town’s so small it’s penning him in and he thinks he might burst from it, he takes the pelt from out of the cupboard and runs out to the lake in the dead of the night. It’s not much of a lake, not remotely pretty, but it’s something that isn’t just forcing himself still until he splits at the seams.

The first time, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s been so long since his mother helped him with this, and he can’t remember where she started. So he’s sweating and he’s getting frustrated and the awkwardness of it is uncomfortably reminiscent of puberty, really, and he has to keep his swearing quiet because he doesn’t want to risk being found, doesn’t know what his father would do.

But once he gets it to a certain point it’s like it… belongs, like it knows what to do when he doesn’t. He should be afraid but he marvels at the change. The water isn’t clean—doesn’t hold him like it should, he knows that in his bones, even if he doesn’t remember what it was like to swim in the sea—but it feels like a taste of freedom.

The sun rising makes him panic, every time. The sealskin's easier to peel off than it is to put on, and he pats it dry once he’s dried and dressed himself, folds it and stows it in his satchel and tries not to feel like it’s a dirty secret.

It is a dirty secret. His father never put it into words, never had to, but Eliot was never meant to use it, never meant to risk anyone else finding out.

He’s managing that much, at least. He kisses Aimee for the first time, learns how to make her smile, gives her a promise ring and means every word of the promises they make each other. It’s easy to confine his restlessness to those strange, guilty nights he slips out alone and banishes from his mind the next day. It’s easy to tell himself he can do this.

It’s easy, until it isn’t.

He meant to leave his sealskin at home. He meant to keep thinking of it as home, even after he leaves, except that his father gets angry. It’s far from the first time they’ve butted heads but it is by far the worst, and Eliot can’t listen well enough to try to fix things over the insistent call of I need to get out I need to I need to, and he slams the door of his room in his father’s face to pack the things he would miss.

He takes the sealskin with him.

Aimee’s family like him enough to put him up until he leaves. He helps with the horses, washes the dishes under the approving eye of Mrs Martin, keeps a little distance from Aimee—she doesn’t want him to leave, either.

But he has to catch her before he goes. She agrees to take the battered old suitcase and keep it somewhere safe—shows him where, even—and she doesn’t press him on what’s inside. He doesn’t think she’ll look inside. They kiss then, and more, and the day after the next he’s gone.

Working for the military doesn’t sate the itch inside him, but he can tell himself it does, for a while. He can tell himself he’s doing good. Then he can tell himself it’s necessary. Then it’s just the only thing he knows how to do. And he misses Aimee, but she’s less happy with him each time he contacts her—she never mentions the sealskin, at least, there’s that—and it’s looking like the life he wanted to have with her is something he left behind without ever really meaning to.

And then she gets married. It’s her dad—Willie—who contacts him, and he’s kind about it, which makes it worse. Eliot swallows his feelings and takes a moment to respond and Willie doesn’t seem bothered by it—awkward, maybe, but that’s to be expected. Eliot gets out the niceties, the congratulations, to equally awkward responses, then stumbles into I left a suitcase with her.

Willie makes the arrangements, and next time Eliot’s on leave he stops by for long enough to collect it and to thank him, and leaves before things can get any worse.

He moves the sealskin around a bit before finding the hiding place he’s happiest with, near the bottom of a stack of blankets at his most secure safehouse. He’s on his first PMC by then. It’s been years since he shifted—not since he became an adult, not since that grimy old lake he would sneak out to at night like visiting a secret boyfriend—and the pelt has become dry, still supple, but less like touching a living thing.

Eliot doesn’t like touching it.

It’s a burden, is the thing. A weakness. An achilles’ heel he can’t afford. He’d have destroyed it, except his research—and there’s precious little research available without talking to actual selkies, but the idea of that made his skin crawl when he considered it—suggested that wouldn’t be safe to do. A part of him, then, just not one he ever has to acknowledge.

He finds Toby. He finds a reprieve from his numbness, a way to put something good into the world, a way to talk to the parts of himself that he thought were closed off forever. He finds his hands covered with more blood than he could ever hope to wash clean.

He flees.

Working for Moreau might be one of the ugliest things he’s ever done, but at least it’s simple. He doesn’t work well without someone else calling the shots, he doesn’t want to begin to examine the breadth and weight of his work so far; he wants to do what he’s good at and let this wild thing out of his chest just long enough, just far enough, to let him rest easy in his skin.

Easier, at least.

He moves his pelt to San Lorenzo: the safest place he knows, the place he arranges the security for. Maybe he knew the risk he was taking, maybe he’s ignoring that part of himself so much that he’s forgotten it, but when he comes back to his room one day and finds Moreau standing over the desk running his fingertips over the fur, Eliot feels a stutter of something like fear in his chest.

Damien’s kind about it. He doesn’t take it from him.

The thing is, Eliot wants it gone. He doesn’t want to have to deal with it. And sometimes when you’re facing the awful thing, the fear of being controlled, the terrible truth that you’re a monster, all you can do is lean into it. Yanking out stitches to let it heal, even if it heals up ugly.

The thing is: just as much as when he was a child, when his father pulled the sealskin from his fingers and told him it had to stay hidden, Eliot’s ashamed of it.

Damien accepts when Eliot offers it to him, and it feels like a blessing. Damien tells him: don’t worry. He tells him: I’ll take good care of it.

Eliot doesn’t miss it when it’s gone.

(He doesn’t see the ways he was led to that decision. He doesn’t see the satisfaction in Damien’s eyes.)

It’s the lightest he’s felt for years, being known, being seen for all he is and accepted for it, and he wonders why he didn’t do this sooner. Damien didn’t flinch from the fur beneath his fingers or the patchy explanations that were all Eliot could give. Damien doesn’t flinch from the things Eliot can do—he finds a purpose for them. Eliot scrubs blood and tissue from under his fingernails and the rough thing inside his ribcage is almost at rest.

So he falters, sometimes. So he tries to be something he’s not, lets people go or kills them too quickly, questions Moreau’s orders. He always returns to here. He always remembers what he’s for.

He doesn’t think about Toby. He doesn’t think about Aimee, who wanted him to stay, who knew him before all this but didn’t know what he was trusting her with. He doesn’t think about his mother who braided his hair when he was small and kept him from sinking under the waves when she was teaching him how to swim.

(He doesn’t let himself think of them often.)

Then one day he goes even further. He didn’t think he could. He didn’t think he would get this moment of terrible clarity again, looking at what he’s done, at what he is, with everything inside him rebelling. Last time he detached from himself, denied feeling anything in an attempt to escape this, and he can feel that starting again. He can feel himself teetering.

Last time, it didn’t work. He realises, in the parts of himself he’s been ignoring for so long, that he doesn’t want to end up here again. He can’t afford to. He can’t survive it.

With his sealskin in Moreau’s hands, running could mean death. But he doesn’t have a choice. If he goes back, Moreau will talk him into staying.

He runs.

Moreau lets him go.

And Eliot leaves a part of himself behind.

[totentnz]

💥💤🍧👖 for V!!

𝐎𝐂 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒!

💥 COLLISON - what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

i would say most of them tbh. v isn't very good at emotional labour and most of her feelings end in some kind of aggression. angry? yell. happy? also yell.

she is used to anger, to hate, though things that would mildly annoy most people will often drive her straight into a rage, a rage that she can deal with and even hide, if she wants to, but rage nonetheless.

sadness comes to mind though, she doesn't have time to be sad, cannot afford to be sad, so she is angry instead. this amazing piece of art really spoke to me on the matter. it's a never ending cycle, really.

💤 SLEEPING - do they fall asleep easily? what helps them sleep?

v can't sleep very well, thanks to the ridiculous amounts of caffeine she consumes lmao. even if she's tired she has a hard time falling asleep. alcohol, drugs or a blow to the head usually helps. she also can't just relax, before the game takes place she already was doing mercwork but she also had multiple regular jobs in order to always have something to do.

another never ending cycle: i have so much to do -> i need energy -> let's drink some BZZZZT! -> fuck i can't sleep -> let's do something then

🍧 SHAVED ICE - do they still have any objects from their childhood? what significance does it have to them? what would their reaction be if they lost it?

v never formally moved out of her childhood home, so she really doesn't have any objects from her childhood, besides maybe the clothes she was wearing when she ran away. some scraps of those might still exist in her wardrobe but that's about it.

at some point v is faced with the opportunity to get her hands on her childhood belongings but either she doesn't take said opportunity or they end up at the next dump anyway.

as you know, in our AU viv and v will take her belongings to the badlands and start a bonfire. i believe there v will find a thing or two she wants to keep: some pictures, maybe some of viv's drawings and most importantly: her school uniform. :3c

👖 JEANS - what is their go-to outfit?

.... i think you get it lmao. lots of DIY as well, both repairs on the pieces of clothing she has and making them her own pieces. adding patches, cutting up one shirt with font on it to sew the letters back onto another one (usually crude messages like "SUCK MY DICK"), adding staples, pulltabs from nicola cans, pinching the metal bits from lighters onto the seams and all kinds of good old punk DIY. band merch is also big in theory but whenever i imagine her she's wearing a funny shirt rather than being a fangirl.

DIRTY TOO they are called crust pants for a REASON. 😤

one thing to keep in mind: if she's doing mercwork she wears something else entirely. difficult to sneak with all that leather and metal dangling around, right? usually some sneakers and pants she cant easily (and quietly) sneak in, a shirt with a stupid message on it and maybe even a cap with some sunglasses.

[sinful-huntress]

Kinktober Day 12

Klaus & Lingerie Kink

"I've got a surprise for you when you get home. ;)"

Klaus had been sitting at his desk puzzling over what you meant by that since lunch. Why kind of surprise did you mean? Certainly you wouldn't go out of your way to do something, right? A deep breath before stepping into the house was all Klaus could do to calm his nerves.

He was NOT ready for what he saw waiting for him.

It had been a nightmare trying to keep this secret from Klaus, but you managed to... by some miracle. And while a new little lacy baby doll piece was far from a grand surprise, you knew that Klaus would appreciate it all the same.

And seeing his jaw practically hit the floor, knowing it was from the way you posed in such an outfit. You knew you'd be in for a long night.

Klaus blinked and tried to swallow the lump in his throat as nerves became excitement. With you wearing a half lace, half satin lingerie set, and in cherry red no less. The thin black outlines at the seams, the fact that you had matching knee highs and elbow gloves to accentuate the otherwise frilly lace. Klaus couldn't help himself from drawing near to the bed.

"Liebling, you look incredible." Klaus eased up onto the bed without even thinking about it, "May I... May I feel?"

You nodded, relaxing completely under his warm hands, ever gentle as they slid across the smooth fabric. Klaus wasn't fully in control of himself, more on auto-pilot as he carefully pushed you back against the bed. Hands slipping around on the satin cloth, giving you the silent permission to start your own wandering hands. You took your time removing Klaus's tie, his waist coat, undoing every button down his shirt, both of you savoring the quiet desire for each other.

Leaning down, Klaus pressed firm kisses along your neck. His hands never left your sides, massaging you from under the lingerie. Soft moans and growls eased out of Klaus's throat as easy as breathing, he simply couldn't contain any of it with how you were rubbing his arms and sides. The soft touches from such smooth fabric, it truly ensnared his mind and kept him from asking verbal permission.

Just as you were about to try and remove the gloves, Klaus stopped you immediately. Looking you in the eye, probably the first time since he walked into the bedroom.

"Please don't Liebling." He purred softly, "It feels so nice. The way your touch feels is quite invigorating."

You felt a jolt racing up your spine. This would definitely be a long night. A long night indeed.

[stemmmm]

10, 18, 19 and 26?

10. Favorite piece of clothing to draw

I'm just crazy about baggy t shirts and jackets that are a little too wide for the characters shoulders. it's all about the seam of the sleeve and the way the fabric bunches in odd places. baggy pants can also have good fabric bunching but pants are also of the devil (make no sense to me)

18. An estimate of how much art supplies you’ve broken

I'm an extremely delicate and cautious hand, and I haven't really used physical supplies since grade school so it's impossible to say. but I would estimate extremely few, like in the single digits

19. Favorite inanimate objects to draw (food, nature, etc.)

I've been really into the shape of watering cans lately (I almost never draw inanimate objects, they only exist to aid in whatever a given character is doing so this is nigh impossible to answer lol)

26. What’s a piece that got a wildly different interpretation from what you intended

i feel like i havent posted anything that could be left to interpretation in years.... damn i have to put more emotion into my stuff. it would have to be something from one of my old undertale askblogs as those things are an exercise in being completely misconstrued. i shant delve deeper than that, it's too early in the morning

weird art asks

[threewaysdivided]

Hobson Heckled into Historical Haute-Couture

Continuing the Dan Jones & Dragons gala parade with Hobson, the Flower Crowns' oft-harried Halfling Warlock (played by the ever-wholesome Dan Floyd). Is he trying to massage away the realisation that letting his literally-half-brained patron choose his gala attire might have been a mistake? Is Valse giving him a headache over something else entirely? Did he use Detect Magic in a room full of powerful items and accidentally flash-bang himself? Yes.

More Flower Crowns Gala Outfits: Morenthal | Gelnek

As always, design talk under the cut:

But before that, a short story: I've been following Dan's content on Youtube for... oh jeez, that sure is almost a decade now, both on his current New Frame Plus/Playframe channels and back when he was the primary founder and narrator for EC. His old games education videos helped me get one of my earliest jobs in project work and introduced me to a bunch of media production concepts (like scope management) that would go on to inform some of my own storytelling analysis posts. It was a startling little moment of artistic ouroboros to realise I was mentally running through key points from Dan's own Pose Design 101 video as I was drawing his DnD character. Never expected things to come full-circle like that, but if you're seeing this, Dan: here's to you 🫡 If you're not Dan and haven't already, do go check out his stuff - it's all super well-produced, informative, funny and he's just an overall stand-up guy.

Now: onto the tiny little nerd and his passé party attire

This was a really fun costuming challenge, with a bunch of interesting curveballs thrown in the mix. Unlike the rest of the Flower Crowns, Hobson didn't choose his own party outfit: it was picked out by his patron after Valse kibbitzed him into giving up and letting a heroism-obsessed Fey call the shots. Dan cited Valse as having the fashion sense of Stede Bonnet-as-depicted-in-OFMD, briefing a vaguely 19th century-style outfit that had frilled sleeves and 'would have looked gaudy even when it was in fashion a century earlier'.

Actually dating his outfit was the first challenge. D&D settings are kind of an anachronistic uchronia, with classic swords-and-sorcery fantasy campaigns potentially pulling inspiration points from anywhere across the Arthurian era up to pre-war modernity. Which leads to the question: how do you make something seem dated in a setting where most everything looks vaguely ye-olde-fantasy? The other challenge was that, IRL, the 19th century (i.e Victorian era) was when menswear started taking on a lot of the shapes that would eventually become modern suit and top-'n'-tails fashion. Since Trilby was already going to be wearing classic top-'n'-tails formalwear, I decided to set Hobson's style earlier in the 1800s-1820s and pull in some 18th century Stede Bonnet flourishes to visually set them apart. This article provided some great reference images, and once I hit on the figured silk waistcoat I knew I had a potential starting point.

Colour-wise, I stuck with the burgundy-and-gold palette the Dans gave Hobson in his official gala stream art, since those looked good together and matched up with Dan J's tendency to draw Hobson wearing greens/earth-tones and Valse in reds/jewel-tones. The combination is a lot more colourful and richly saturated than is typical for this style of Victorian-adjacent clothes, which felt appropriate for Valse's gaudy tastes.

Fabric-wise, I figured a fun way to gaudy things up even further would be to lean into the silks and satins that were fashionable at the time, but make all of his outfit shimmery rather than just a single feature piece. As a bonus, silk and satin clothes tend be hot, inelastic and have horribly itchy seams if worn unlined, which felt like exactly the kind of thing Valse's all-form-no-function sensibilities would inflict upon the small, long-suffering fellow. Both these fabrics also have a habit of behaving hideously and ripping themselves apart when worn wet, which makes this a great outfit to, say, accidentally fight an Aboleth in. Poor Hobson.

Some other details, just for fun: 1. Hobson's sketch layers include a drawing of his un-removable cursed left bracer. He's pulled the frilly, puffy sleeve over it but you might spot hints of the shape and the gem if you squint. 2. The reference waistcoat I used had floral embroidery on it. Had this actually been a Hobson outfit, I would have converted them to his garland flower (Forget-Me-Nots), but since it was a Valse pick I decided to make them Senaliesse chrysanthemums; a flower given out to friends of the Feywild's Summer Court as a sign of protection and favour. (It also adds extra layers to Pocket mistaking Hobson for a denizen of the Fey, which is fun).

Close crop on the details because I'm very happy with how they turned out:

[non-un-topo]

4, 5, 10, 11 for the weirdly specific ask game

Hello my friend!!! <333

4. Fav character/subject that's a bitch to draw

Honestly, I still struggle so much with Joe! Whether it's the placement of his hairline (rip) or his facial features, there's always something a liiittle off. I'm starting to wonder if his beard has something to do with it, because I always have trouble with beards. Andy's face is also a site of struggle for me. Such pointy cheekbones...

5. Estimate of how much of your art you post online vs. the art you keep for yourself

I think I post just a little more than I keep for myself. I have plenty of drawings (pretty much all unfinished) that will never see the light of day, but I'm trying not to be so shy about my art. I post some of these things on my ko-fi page from time to time.

10. Favorite piece of clothing to draw

OHOHOHOHO you know me and you knew I would love this question! I loooove drawing billowy fabric and folds/wrinkles, so those big poofy white shirts are great. But I also really love drawing pants, for the small folds and the seams. All those details like seams, collars, buttons, and strings make my brain buzz I get so happy when I draw them.

11. Do you listen to anything while drawing? If so, what

I listen to many different genres, but tend to stick to the same songs over and over. This is only because I let youtube make a little playlist of the things I listen to most lol. Got no spotify premium. Depending on the drawing I'll listen to The Oh Hellos, Heilung, Of Monsters and Men, some anime soundtracks (lmao), the lotr soundtrack, Kate Bush, Bowie... So many things and almost no consistency between them.

Weirdly Specific Artist Ask Game!

[tareyoabrumado]

ive been a lot happier making art since i stopped doing character art.

i was focused on making interesting ocs and their stories and drawing them to keep up with what everyone else was doing. i had one oc i focused on most strongly, and everyone else within the story was an afterthought to fill out the backstory. i still really love the character, dont get it wrong, but i realized over the development process that my favorite parts werent designing and drawing the character; it was the worldbuilding behind it:

speculative biology for nonhuman sentient organisms

language with no basis in existing languages (i developed my first conlang solely for this one character!)

environmental influences on a society's culture

linguistic and cultural barriers upon migration to a new world

practicality and structure of clothing and tools (i feel it reasonable to believe that all the clothes i designed would be easily sewn in real life) (also hair!! many of the hairstyles i designed could theoretically be done irl, provided the wearer had horns)

music and instruments and the arts culture within a society

it got to the point where i would look at the character and there would be so much going on, and yet very little in terms of a present-day storyline. ive since realised this character was just a vessel for all my other interests: linguistics, anthropology, biology, music, and physical crafts.

and i didnt even realize those were things i was that interested in! i knew i liked music, and i was on my way to a second language, but the technical linguistics really came out of nowhere (the biology was a huge surprise, given my apathy when learning it in school).

i havent touched the character in a long time. but im happy leaving their story where its at. they live out their life until they get bored, and then move on to something else, and so on. life goes on.

i got a little bit off-topic with this post. anyway. when i joined the art side of the internet, much of it was dedicated to character design and story. everyone was making intricate universes with overarching stories and detailed characters and relationships and developments; and rather than write books, they shared concept art in the form of comics, scene drawings, and character reference pages. i very rarely saw more traditional art: paintings of just. people and things. nothing exists past the piece. its nobody specific. because of this environment, somewhere in my head it was established that this is what art is these days, and to be an artist online youre expected to do character-based pieces.

so i forced myself into it. its what all my friends were doing, after all. social psychology says that you are your friends. they were all making fanart and of course, character-based pieces with extensive stories behind them. and i just couldnt figure it out. i thought there was some kind of social disconnect--wouldnt be the first time, as i seem to be the only one in my group who really doesnt enjoy playing any videogames aside from minecraft. i tried my best, and really enjoyed the process of building up my character and their backstory and homeland and culture and anatomy and dear god ive strayed away from the character themself. it never was about the character. it was about the messages i was trying to convey. everything that overshadowed the character was everything that was more important. i dont care if the design is too busy--look at all the ways a person could wear chains as jewelry!

i see the details in everything, and especially people. human bodies. nonhuman bodies. clothes and jewelry and hair and everything else. this made drawing very difficult. i wanted to detail every part of it. it became a too-realistic cartoon. i drew the seams in the clothes and the twists in the locs. i had to stop myself from drawing lines in the face. there are lines everywhere and once you notice them its impossible to ignore them. the one time i included lines and creases in the face (not nearly as many as i wanted to, but the minimum required to convey the expression and emotion), my friends said it looked weird. unfortunately cartoons and anime and character illustration have simplified designs, and every character is either young and smooth and beautiful or theyre old and wizened and wrinkled and never beautiful and often played for laughs or when the protagonist needs a mentor figure. for a person grappling with their own identity and physical existence, seeing these sentiments expressed so prominently is. difficult. people have a lot to them and its busy and not traditionally beautiful and complex and thats what makes them interesting beings.

character art is almost always digital in its final form. so that was my medium. i got by with the lineart-colorblock-shading-background setup that much of that kind of art shares. i began using a crayon-style brush for my lineart. i was always searching for a way to do a realistic oil paint style with my coloring and shading. i never found the perfect brush, so my art never turned out exactly how i was dreaming.

i thought i hated art classes. i thought i hated art classes. i thought i hated art classes. i was so trapped in the character-art funnel that nothing was to my standards and every project was shit.

i took two art classes this year to fill credits, one focusing on 2d art and the other on ceramics. neither was digital. neither was about characters.

in my pieces, i want to explore abstract ideas. i could just make a candle lantern with a cool design carved into it; or i could explore themes of what it means to be human. there is not a single character aside from vague representations of human beings. im in love.

for my 2d class, we're expected to keep a sketchbook. any art, so long as it's art. too many times ive filled a page with a drawing of a person. nothing exists past the piece. its nobody specific. and their faces are covered in lines. everywhere. eye bags, crow's feet, lines around the mouth and nose and chin, forehead wrinkles. necks.

they are people aging and they are beautiful. they are young people with decades under their belts and they are beautiful. they are people of every age and every life and they have existed physically enough for their bodies to recognize their physical habits. a testament to their living.

they are not smiling. but they have the crow's feet and the lines around the mouth and nose and chin and you know they have laughed many times before. they have lines between their brows and you know theyve felt worried about maybe one too many things. they have wrinkles on their foreheads and you know theyve felt surprise. everything is surprising. and interesting. and awe-inspiring. and beautiful.

we age and we change. this is a story everyone knows. people are often afraid, but then years later, theyre happier than theyve ever been. and they know it will only get better with time.

november 15, 2022

[snackhobi]

min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear. 

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif​ and @morndas​ for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!​

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable. 

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance. 

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t. 

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business. 

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always. 

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot. 

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to. 

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating. 

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?” 

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel. 

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs. 

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth. 

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement. 

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good). 

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself. 

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.” 

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too. 

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says. 

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him. 

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness. 

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy. 

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern. 

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin. 

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says. 

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates.  Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away. 

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him. 

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare. 

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead. 

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob. 

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment. 

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull. 

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair. 

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy. 

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features. 

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

 You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart. 

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you,  pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself. 

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause. 

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words. 

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness. 

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

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