#Harrow x you

[6th-for-truth]

Hats and bumper stickers are here for my favorite fictional presidential campaign 😂

There’s a whole section on my shop now for all your 6th house 2024 needs 😍

[bisexualfbiagents]

THE X FILES | Fox Mulder's Standup Comedy Demo Reel (part 1/?)

[unreachedgalaxy]

something i desperately need in alecto the ninth is for harrow to be chasing after gideon. like, one of the most heartbreaking aspects of their relationship is that gideon genuinely believes that harrow can never be as devoted to her as she is to harrow. like, she SAYS as much to ianthe at the end of htn (and meanwhile, harrow is standing in a crumbling mansion clinging to the memory of gideon for everything she’s worth, turning herself into gideon’s mausoleum, but gideon has no way of knowing that).

gideon needs to be wanted. she manifests that in her desire to join the cohort, and it is most obvious in the way she emotionally latches onto the idea of her mother, an idea that is violently destroyed when she finds out that her mother never wanted her either. that’s why she’s the saddest girl in the world, as nona says - she might be the prince of the empire, but she isn’t wanted. ianthe is more devoted to harrow. the emperor is grieving his original lyctors. harrow is still obsessed with the idea of the body in the tomb. pyrrha found nona to love instead. hell, even aiglamene kept herself at arm’s length throughout gideon’s life. gideon really, really doesn’t think that she is loved at all.

all of this is to say I need it to not be gideon running after harrow in the last book. I need harrow to be the one showing gideon how much she cares. that gideon’s sacrifice tore her apart, that she’ll willingly burn everything to get gideon back. let harrow be the devoted one.

[domibomz]

Yeah please make a post about Necro Gideon & Nova's relationship... I just can't get enough of these aus

gideon tried courting nova in the only way she knew how to show affection: Being aggressive and annoying, and Nova said No Thanks <3, and gideons lowkey been bitter about it ever since </3 also my wife @ghostsessioned still has her nova design locked up in the wip vault so this harrow nova is subject to change in the future dont get attached to this design bonus content: gideon using her neck bones for evil (that's all she uses them for actually)

[wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart]

main love language is touch x touch-starved is the ultimate character dynamic btw

[theharrowing]

Why are you stopping?

Just another day in the life of Jungkook and baby squirt.

🤍 What, now? Jungkook x Female Reader

🤍 word count: ≈ 535

🤍 established relationship, pwp, smut, nsfw, 18+

🤍 warnings: this is literally porn without plot - that's the warning (vaginal sex from behind and mention of riding, wrists held behind back); this universe Jungkook has dominant vibes in general and there is some of that in here; plus we get a little of baby squirt's bossiness; Jungkookie also has his dick pierced!!!

🤍 notes: smut starts immediately! enjoy!

🤍 written for the Harrow's Holiday Cheer Event, requested by @here4kpopfics 🎈 i love you, my baby Kelly!!! thank you for being such a good friend in person and online!!! i hope you know that i wrote this shit so fucking fast lmao. like, the night you submitted the request. i did change the wording of the prompt a little hehe. i hope you enjoyyy!!!

🤍 beta read by @neoneunnajimin

🤍 posted dec. 2023

The slap of skin against skin is atrocious. Pornographic. Breathtaking. 

You attempt to praise Jeongguk, but your face is buried in the pillow, and he presses against the center of your shoulders with one hand while his other holds your wrists behind your back, muffling all sound and creating a pocket of hot breath that makes your face sweat. 

It is not your finest moment, but Jeongguk's thick, pierced cock is enough to convince you to become scrunched into even the most precarious of positions. So you babble and mutter senselessly, threatening to choke on your favorite floral pillowcase but willing to accept your fate. This is, after all, a fine way to die. 

Thankfully Jeongguk switches positions so often you do not have a chance to suffocate, and he not only lets up on your shoulders, he lifts them, continuing his quick, punishing pace while pulling you up to your knees and forcing you to sit tall. You allow him to move you as he pleases, your hands dangling and fingers grazing your thighs while your back bows and his hands slide to hold you in place, one against your hip and the other on your throat.

"F-f-uck," you manage to stammer, eyes fluttering closed as Jeongguk spears you open mercilessly.

He has the audacity to ask, "You like that, baby? Like the way I pound this tight pussy?" right next to your ear, hot breath warming your skin. 

"So g-good," you respond as you reach between your legs and lazily circle your clit with your fingertips, feeling pleasure burst white hot. "Fuck, Jeongguk…you make me f-feel so good."

With a deep, eager groan, Jeongguk fucks you harder, causing the soft skin of your ass and thighs to ripple with each slam of his hips. Jeongguk applies a hint of pressure against your throat and that is all it takes for the floodgates to open.

Your voice is broken and raw as you moan and sob, begging Jeongguk not to stop while your entire body trembles and tingles. As Jeongguk fucks you through your orgasm, you feel yourself slipping into an out-of-body trance. But then his hips slow nearly to a halt, causing every nerve in your body to begin to panic.

Desperate, you ask, "Why are you stopping?"

Jeongguk chuckles and loosens his grip on your throat, cock adored with metal dragging slowly past your walls. "Sorry, baby squirt. You sounded so fucking good and I guess I had a moment."

Feeling petulance rise, you wiggle out of Jeongguk's grasp and pull his dick from inside you, grumbling, "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself," before pointing to the headboard and saying, "Sit. It's my turn to fuck you."

Jeongguk laughs again, then begins to crawl to where you want him, moving the pillows out of his way and taking his place against the headboard. He looks dreadfully pretty with a dopey smirk, his long hair messy and wavy and framing his face, his cheeks flushed, and his body covered in a sheen of sweat. You get onto your hands and knees and begin to crawl as soon as he taps his thighs and says, "I'm all yours, baby."

ugh, these drabbles are already a lot of fun and it has been nice to just get some bursts of energy out without stressing over a whole oneshot or chapter.

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD IF THIS HELLSITE AND LIKES ARE SUPER APPRECIATED TOO!!! THANK YOU FOR READING, I LOVE YOU!!!

🎈 tag list: @btsiguess-kpop @codeinebelle @dasexydevitt13 @fluffybuns69 @giriiboyy @idkjustlovingbts @mgthecat @moonleeai @m1sss1mp @spookyminyunki 🤍 want to be tagged in everything i write? or just my member x reader content? send me a message!

🎈 check out more drabbles from the Harrow’s Holiday Cheer Event!

Say Please is copyright 2023 theharrowing, all rights reserved. reposts and translations are not allowed.

[twicetheheartx2]

Griddlehark from my 6 Lgbtq ship sheet. This one was bitch to figure out how to fit on the sheet, but the pose was just too perfect for them, I just had to make it work. And of course I had to do a version with the face paint.

[yuurionviktor]

Let griddle be silly agenda

[pedge-page]

Joel sitting in much needed therapy with you perched in his lap so he can squeeze his emotional-support-titty to talk through his trauma.

[evilbubu]

hey, (Jewish) moon knight fans, i need help!

I'm writing a blog post called "Is Khonshu really a deity in Moon Knight? | A Religious Analysis" and I need a little help with Marc's beliefs. I'm not Jewish so I'm worried I might've missed clues on Marc's level of belief in his faith because it's not explicitly stated out loud. He's Jewish and that's that. (I'm basing this mostly on the series because that's how i was introduced to mk. but comics fans are also welcome to participate.)

What I'm trying to ask is how do YOU think Marc feels about Khonshu calling himself a god? Does he really think Khonshu is a god?

I already have my conclusion and opinion on this matter. But the more information I can get the better.

Also, this is not just a question for Jewish mk fans but also those that know/study Judaism.

You can either answer in the tags, comments, reblogs, send me an ask or even dm. i dont care. just please if you have any opinions or thoughts about this (and evidence too) I would greatly appreciate it.

[softspeirs]

gosh, these prompts are just so fluffy, it makes me want to cry! 🥹

maybe these for whoever you're feeling in the moment:

❛ what, am i not allowed to look at you? ❜

❛ seeing you happy is all that matters. ❜

A/N: First, you asked for this so long ago, I'm sorry it took so long! I wanted to explore a lil reunion for Rosie and Grace after (one of the times) his plane goes down and he makes it back. I did a smidge of research for this, but to be clear, this isn't the time he lands in Russia that we see in the show. This is an earlier mission where he crash lands in France - p422 (? I think?) in Masters of the Air if you want to read more. I tweaked the dialogue of that second prompt just a tiny bit, hope that's okay. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

Seven. Wounded.

When Robert Rosenthal opens his eyes, for a moment he doesn't remember where he is. There's a brief unsettling moment of sheer panic where he tries to get his bearings, tries to sit up and tries to remember what's happened to him in the last 48 hours.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." A voice says. American. He sighs in relief.

An unfamiliar worried face swims into his vision. "Major Rosenthal?"

"What--" His throat hurts, his entire body hurts, and he stops trying to talk.

"You've been asleep for almost two days."

"Where am I?"

"Please, try to relax. You're safe. You're in Oxford."

Now that he hears the words, he remembers loud, urgent voices, he remembers flashing lights and the feeling of being manhandled around. It doesn't do much to quell the fear rising in his gut. "My crew."

"They're fine. Some wounded, but everyone's going to be okay." She moves around the bed with quick, sure steps, checking his chart before meeting his eyes again. "You've got a broken arm and a few broken ribs, Major. Now that you're awake, we'd just like to monitor you for a few hours and then we can talk about a transport back to your base."

He nods, thanking her, and she smiles before disappearing down a corridor, leaving him to his thoughts. His mind is slow, fuzzy, but there's one thought blaring like an alarm louder than anything else - he needs to find a way to call Grace.

He swore to her a long time ago that he'd never give her a reason to think he wasn't coming back. He has no idea if anyone knows he and his crew are here.

He also has a panicked thought that he won't be able to fly again, not if they were helped the French resistance. He forces himself to take deep breaths and tries to beat back the anxiety fluttering in his ribcage.

"Rosie?" A familiar voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he tries to sit up before pain laces up his spine, making him wince.

"Croz?"

Harry's worried face peeks around the curtain. "Jesus." He says, making Rosie wonder what he must look like.

"What are you doing here?"

"We got a call. Wasn't going to let you guys walk back to Thorpe Abbotts, was I?" He takes a few steps closer, scraping a chair closer to the bed before sitting down. He looks exhausted. "I volunteered to come get you."

"How long--"

"It's been five days since the mission." Harry rubs a hand over his face. "Can't begin to tell you how lucky you were, Rosie."

It starts to hit him, how close he was to not coming back. He doesn't even remember the plane going down, not entirely. He has no memory of being rescued. He feels strangely guilty. He's the one that's supposed to lead and help his crew when he can.

"Have you talked to a doctor?" Harry asks.

Rosie shakes his head. "Not yet, just a nurse. Obviously I can't do much with this--" He struggles to shrug with his injured arm in a sling.

"It'll be fine. Desk duty until you're well."

"Croz, you know I hate--"

"You can't fly like that, Rosie. Technically you should be pulled from duty altogether."

Rosie clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. It's not Harry's call, even though he knows he's right. He's going to do everything he can to get back in the seat again, even if he has to get demoted to do it.

.

He discharges himself so he can leave with his crew and with Crosby and hitch a ride back to base. The doctor fixes him with a stern look as he does it, but he must see the determination on Rosie's face, and just tells him to take it easy for the next few weeks.

Fat chance of that.

"Stop looking at me like that." He grouses to Harry as they bounce along the road back to Thorpe Abbotts, Rosie biting back a wince with grit teeth as the road jostles his muscles uncomfortably.

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

Harry has long stopped trying to convince Rosie of anything, just like Rosie has stopped trying to tell him to get more sleep or eat more. They're all just doing whatever they can to survive at this point. The cost of it all is secondary.

"I'll save the lecture for Grace." He mutters.

Rosie's head snaps up. "Is she--"

"Worried sick? Probably, but you know her. Once she knew you were alive, she went from worried to furious."

"Not like I had any say in the matter," Rosie counters, voice dry. "Didn't try asking them not to shoot at us, though."

Harry smiles, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. Angry at the circumstances. Frustrated with herself for being emotional. That's Grace."

That's Grace. And isn't that the truth. Rosie can't help but smile softly, because he knows Harry is right - he's going to get an earful when he gets back. But he must be a masochist, because he's almost looking forward to it - it means she cares. Not that he's ever had any reason to doubt that.

The truck rumbles along for miles. Rosie hadn't thought about how long it would take them to get back to the base, but he tries to close his eyes and get relatively comfortable until they arrive.

He hears the noise of the gates and opens his eyes to find the sun nearly down. There's a big commotion as they enter and he takes a deep breath to try to get his bearings.

"We'll go to command first, and then to the infirmary. You'll probably have to sleep there." Harry says groggily.

They're let out in front of the command building, Jack Kidd already there waiting for him along with the Colonel. Both look like they haven't slept in days. A few paces behind them is Grace, and the sight of her softens Rosie, makes his shoulders lose their tension. He meets her eyes and tries for a smile, but he thinks it comes off as more of a grimace.

Grace, for her part, is restraining herself. She feels a mixture of relief and anger wash over her at the sight of him, arm in a sling and bruises and cuts littering his handsome face. He looks exhausted, and she's sure she looks much the same.

She knows being angry is the wrong thing. It's not his fault he got shot down, after all. Really, she's angry at herself. She's angry at her heart, at the way it plummeted to her feet when she heard the news that his plane didn't come back, and she's angrier that every day since confirms to her what she already knows: she's in love with him.

And that's as terrifying as it is liberating, because there's a very real chance he could break her heart, whether he means to or not. (She knows that Robert Rosenthal doesn't have a cruel bone in his body, but sometimes, in war, the choice isn't his)

"Jesus Christ, Rosie." Jack says quietly, voice heavy. "I--" He takes a deep breath, and seems to remember what he needs to do. "It's good to see you back. We need to go to interrogation."

"The crew isn't ready--"

Kidd shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Rosie, but the quicker we do this, the better. It's already been a few days."

"Who's back?"

"Maddox, Rubick, Palmer, and Hartos. The others won't be back until tomorrow, but we'll debrief them then. I don't want to wait an extra day."

Jack looks over his shoulder, and Rosie is sure he catches an apologetic look on his face that's there and gone quickly as he sees Grace there. "Twenty minutes, then go to the infirmary." He says as he turns back to Rosie. "Let's go."

The interrogation is as grueling as Rosie expected. He's glad to see some of the members of his crew again. Despite his brain telling him that none of this is his fault, his heart can't help but beat wildly, flooding him with guilt as they give their account of what happened after they went down, when Rosie was knocked unconscious.

It feels like hours before he's trudging towards the infirmary, luckily only a few steps away from the interrogation hut.

The door is opening before he arrives, and Grace's worry-filled face fills his vision. "Grace." Her name leaves his mouth without his permission, his tone exhausted, but full of emotion.

She swallows hard. "Major." Her tone is relieved and... frustrated. He's not surprised, but he hopes she'll spare him Nurse Grace and instead give him the Grace he's been dreaming of for days, though he knows it's selfish, knows that she has a job to do.

He sees the doctor hovering behind her. She opens the door wider so he can come through.

All he wants is to be alone with her. He wants to tell her he's sorry, he wants to tell her that she was on his mind every second, that she is one of the reasons not only that he gets in the seat, but the reason he comes home.

Home.

The exam is quick, thankfully. They took good care of him in Oxford. The doctor leaves Grace to administer pain meds and do the paperwork, and it's only when they're finally alone that he sees the emotion on her face, though she's trying valiantly to hide it.

With each injury she catalogues, her face hardens. Her eyes meet his as she tilts his face up to dab a cooling salve on a bruise forming on his orbital bone.

"You have a look on your face." He says quietly.

"What, I'm not allowed to look at you?" She asks, and he can see how she's trying so hard to hold it together. Pretending. Pretending this is all business for her. He wishes she wouldn't.

"I'm sorry." He croaks, throat dry from overuse.

"Please don't apologize," she says, expression suddenly stricken, as if she realizes what she must look and sound like. "You didn't--" She stops herself, eyes closing for a moment as she gathers her professionalism. "I'm just so relieved you're alive." She whispers. "I'm not angry at you. I'm upset... I'm angry at the war. At these circumstances. That you're hurt--" She stops herself.

He wishes more than anything he had the use of both his arms. He settles for reaching out with one hand, thankful when she doesn't hesitate to take it, lacing their fingers together.

"I never want you to worry." He says, and it's the truth, even though they both know it's pointless.

She shrugs. "Comes with the territory, Major." She squeezes his hand. Her voice lowers to a whisper. "Worry happens naturally when you love someone."

His pulse pounding in his ears is all he can hear. He feels like the world tilts on its axis and then rights itself, all at once.

"Maybe it's too soon or too big for me to say it, but I don't want you to fly ever again without knowing it." She says, voice strong this time. He loves her for it.

He loves her.

He tugs her a little closer and she seems to understand, her face softening as she stands as close as she can, leaning down to meet him halfway. He tries to tell her how he feels when he kisses her gently, mindful of the black eye he's sure he's sporting and the soreness of his cheekbone. His hand leaves hers in favor of cradling her jaw, and the sigh that leaves her is music to his ears.

"Of course I love you." He murmurs, barely a centimeter between them when they break apart. "Probably have for a long time, Grace."

She pulls herself away, just for a moment, and starts to tidy up the triage area where he sits with her. He recognizes what she's doing and gives her the space she needs to gather herself, to come to terms with whatever she needs to. He's relieved at least that the smile hasn't left her face.

"Winning this war and seeing you happy are just about all that matter to me anymore." He admits, and watches as she stops what she's doing to turn back to face him.

"I just want to be sure I'm not a distraction for you."

He shakes his head. "No."

"Rosie, I'm--"

He shakes his head again, cutting her off. "Grace, you don't think I'm going to let you tell me you love me and then push me away, do you?" He tilts his head to one side.

"That's not what I'm doing. I promise."

"Then come over here and let me kiss you again."

She smiles, and he swears to himself that he's going to be responsible for that smile on her face every day, for as long as he can help it. He has no doubt that they have some trials ahead, but they have each other, and sometimes the will of the heart is stronger than anything else.

[yannig]

And this right here is the first proof we have that Huaien is lying to Xiaobao.

Of course, he's lying on his background as a bodyguard, but that's different from lying to Xiaobao's face - it's a general cover that the Jin's men discovered through investigation. It's not directly relevant to their relationship.

But the rest of it? I'm expecting most if not all of the stories about his family to be truthful - as well as his disbelief in love. Sure, he's hiding a lot, but most of what he's revealed to Xiaobao was likely true.

It doesn't, however, mean that it was genuine. I was asking last week if Huaien's vulnerability was genuine or a calculated way to manipulate Xiaobao. I'm of the opinion it's going too quickly to be entirely genuine - Huaien doesn't strike me as the type to make love declarations that early.

This lie proves that it is at least part of said vulnerability is manipulative. He pretends to have sacrificed a great deal to save Xiaobao when in reality his mission was perfectly fulfilled. Of course the document he gave whoever this asshole is was a decoy; Huaien isn't stupid.

But he nods when Xiaobao asks if he gave their attacker what he wanted, lying to cement the idea that he's falling in love with Xiaobao and that he's ready to risk his father's anger for him. It's the first clear confirmation we have that he's purposefully manipulating Xiaobao.

Of course, it comes to bite him in the ass instantly when his father's next order it to kill the Jin family, which actually puts him in a situation where he has to chose between his father and Xiaobao.

Up to that point, he could tell himself that every time he was allowing Xiaobao close, it was for the good of the mission. That he was seducing him to use him to get the accounting book. That he was being vulnerable and open to manipulate Xiaobao and not because he was enjoying his attention, his care, his warmth. That he was protecting him to endear Xiaobao to him and not because he cares about him. That he was being possessive because the seduction plan will work better is Xiaobao's attention is focused solely on him.

Now though? Now he's going to have to make a choice.

Does he follow his father's orders in hope that he will actually give him his freedom, but lose Xiaobao's warmth?

Does he try to pretend he followed his orders while hiding Xiaobao somewhere?

Or worse, does he fully disobey his father and try to save the whole family, because Xiaobao has both shown and stated that he'll be sad if his family dies?

[jokeringcutio]

ARTHUR HARROW X FTM READER - PART 2 (Doctor Harrow)

TWO: Summary: You meet Doctor Harrow, he introduces some new kinks to you. Continuation of: You’re part of Arthur Harrow’s community, but hold a special place. [ Part 1 here ] Arthur Harrow (Cult Leader) x FTM Reader. Rating: Explicit (Contains smut, Warning for dub-con, One-sided Breeding Kink from Harrow, talk about getting Reader pregnant, Praise kink, use of good boy, reader curses a few times (mostly damn) ). Words: 5785 Thanks to the wonderful supporter who commissioned this fic ♡

For: @apriltearsbringmayfears Tags: Older man x younger (ftm) reader, dub-con and consensual intimacy, praise kink, touching, kissing, explicit sexual content, bit of powerplay, you x the villainous cult leader, Doctor Harrow is messing about.

Your head was spinning, the world a blur of sterile white. White walls, white floor, even you were swallowed by the stark whiteness of the fabric encasing your body. An asylum patient's garb clung to you, the realization cold and sharp in your mind. You were a patient, trapped in a room that reeks of disinfectant and stripped-down sanity. The air was still, almost suffocating in its cleanliness.

"Good morning," came a calm, composed voice from across the room. You turned your head slowly, fighting the dizziness. There he was. Doctor Arthur Harrow, his hair shorter, slicked back in a mockery of casual sophistication. He sat behind a desk made of glass, aviator glasses perched on his nose. A small mustache curled above his lip, giving him an air of quiet authority.

Your eyes were instantly drawn to the cane that rested against the desk. His cane. But the crocodile heads were nowhere in sight. Instead, you saw a modern black cane with a golden accent and a white handle. No crocodile head. Just plain, clinical efficiency.

This wasn’t your Arthur.

He tapped a white, expensive-looking pen against the sides of his glasses and – to your shock- you noticed a golden gleaming ring on his ring finger. He seemed to trace your gaze and hummed, but said nothing.

Modern clothes clung to his frame, a crisp departure from the red cotton he usually favored. White books and little white trinkets adorned the colorless cabinets against the walls. It made you realize this could not be a real place. No one kept everything in white. Even the hearth, the tables, the chairs, everything lacked color except for a painting on the wall.

But the books. Their covers were all blank.

You knew where this place was. And that you weren’t the first to visit it.

"Doctor..." you whispered, the title tasting foreign on your tongue. You’d wanted to ask so many questions, but your throat felt dry. Memories swirled in the fog of your mind - fragments of a different life, a different Harrow.

"Yes, it's me," he said, smile faint but present. His eyes, hidden behind those reflective lenses, seemed to pierce through you. "I believe I know what your problem is."

You shivered, folding your arms tightly around yourself as if that could keep out the chill seeping into your bones. The room smelled of antiseptic and something else. Something metallic, almost coppery. Blood? No. Just your imagination.

"What problem?" you managed to ask, though the words felt insignificant. There wasn’t anything wrong with you. Not anything you weren’t aware of. "Why am I here?”

"Calm down," he replied, voice soothing but firm. "We're going to try something new. Something that could help you." The confidence in his tone was unshakeable, absolute.

Your heart could be heard pounding in your ears, chest heaving more rapidly now. What did he think was wrong with you? Arthur had always assured you that you were perfect to him. Surely, this mirror-version of him was lying – a fraud. Perhaps not so much a dream as a nightmare.

"Help me?" you scoffed, disbelief mingling with fear. "What are you talking about?"

"A new kind of therapy,” he said, leaning forward, his gaze never leaving you. That familiar smile tugged the corners of his lips. A smile you recognized from your Arthur. Oh, how you recognized that look. Kind, yet mischievous. He already had his mind set on something. Whatever it was, you weren’t going to change his thoughts.  

“A new treatment,” you echoed hollowly, mind racing.

"One that requires your complete trust and cooperation." The confidence in his voice was unwavering, a rock amidst the storm of your confusion.

You stared at him, your heart pounding a chaotic rhythm against your ribs. He seemed so sure, so calm. The sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint hum of fluorescent lights above.

“Why?”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Questions clawed at your mind. What kind of therapy? Why you? And why did this all feel so disturbingly familiar?

"Trust me," he said, his voice low and hypnotic.

You crossed your arms over your chest, the thin fabric of the white patient outfit doing little to shield you from the cold.

"Why should I agree to this therapy?" Your voice came out sharper than you intended, slicing through the sterile air.

Doctor Arthur Harrow leaned back in his chair, unperturbed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Because you need it," he said simply, his tone smooth and confident. "Everything will become clear. You'll see."

"Need it?" You scoffed, feeling a surge of defiance. "Why should I trust you?"

"Trust is earned," he replied, his eyes narrowing slightly behind those aviator glasses. "We’ve already made such progress, haven’t we? I remember you’ve already put all your trust in me…”

And that caused a pang deep inside your chest because, with a start, you realized he was right. You’d come to trust your Arthur blindly. Fully. Your love for him has become irrevocably passionate and wild. A treasure you did not want to lose or abandon.

Trust Arthur? You already did with your whole heart.

But this? This man? He was not your Arthur. Of that you were sure. And defiantly you gazed at him, your own lips twisting in disdain. How dare someone, or some higher power, simulate the man of your desires?

"Faith," you muttered, tasting the word like poison. "My faith is reserved for one alone."

"And that’s a good thing," he said, leaning forward again, his gaze intense. "It is going to make my job so much easier.”

His words sent shivers down your spine, his voice full of dark promises that had you squeezing your thighs together and your cock throbbing to life. You silently cursed for getting aroused by this illusion of the man you loved.

"What job?” you asked, shaking your head and willing your erection to go down. Not that you were successful…"You keep saying these words, but they mean nothing."

"Words are powerful," he responded, his voice a gentle caress. "They can heal, or they can destroy. It's all in how you use them."

"You're not answering my question," you snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Why me? Why now?"

"Why not you?" His answer was infuriatingly cryptic, his calm demeanor only adding to your agitation. "Aren’t the favorite disciple?”

There it was. Your eyes flew wide. A confession that made him sound more like the man you knew. Was he the same as your Arthur after all?

“And so you chose me for this new… therapy of yours?’

“Sometimes, the universe chooses us for reasons we can't understand," he continued, voice husky and low. Entranced, you watched his finger trace an imaginary circle on a blank paper on the glass table in front of him. The golden wedding band gleamed in the light.

Was it to symbolize his faithfulness to Ammit? Or to someone else?

To you?

Why were you hopeful?

"That's not an answer," you bit back, your pulse quickening.

"Maybe not the one you want," he conceded, his smile widening. "But it's the one you need."

"Need," you echoed, feeling the word coil around your mind like a snake. "What do you think I need?"

"To see the truth," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "To understand your own need, I will have to show you.”

While your mind was still racing  - running wouldn’t be of any help as there was no place to go – you heard the clicking of his heels as he rose from his chair and made his way around the desk.

Doctor Harrow came to stand behind you, his presence looming. You felt the warmth first, a heavy presence that crept over your shoulder. The air in the asylum office felt thick, almost suffocating. His hand had found your shoulder, firm but gentle. You tried to turn, to look at his hand, to see where he touched you, but the grip he had on you tightened. His fingers, strong and sure, pressed gently into your flesh through the thin fabric.

A silent warning.

"Shh," he whispered, voice low and soothing. It was a command wrapped in velvet.

You swallowed hard, nerves jittery. "What if I don't agree to the new therapy?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. You knew going against his will was going to be a challenge.

Harrow's breath warmed the back of your neck. "You'll give in...eventually," he said, each word deliberate, measured. A strange sensation crawled up your spine, settling deep in your gut. His hand squeezed your shoulder, the pressure both reassuring and terrifying.

"Why are you so sure?" you managed to ask, heart pounding in your chest.

"Because," he murmured softly, his grip tightening just enough to make you wince, "I know how your mind works. I cracked the code and found the combination."

Harrow's hand slid from your shoulder, trailing down your spine. His touch was electric, igniting nerves you didn't know existed. You stiffened, feeling every inch of his presence behind you.

"Doctor, what are you doing?" Your voice quivered, barely audible.

"I’ve started your therapy," Harrow replied, his tone maddeningly calm. "This is part of it."

You shook your head, a weak attempt to muster defiance. "I didn’t agree to…"

"Shh," he interrupted, his fingers tracing the curve of your back, then moving around to your chest. "Trust me."

Harrow’s hand was under your clothes before you could react. His fingers traced a path of fire across your skin, each touch igniting something primal within you. Your breath hitched as he found the sensitive spot just below your navel, his thumb circling it with deliberate slowness.

"Doctor..." you gasped, but he silenced you with a finger to your lips. The gesture felt intimate, almost reverent, and yet there was an undeniable dominance in his eyes.

"Shh," he whispered, his voice a soothing purr. "Trust me."

The way he loomed over you felt dominating – as if he was crowding in on you. And then, it happened.

Before you could protest further, Harrow’s lips crashed against yours. The kiss was demanding, consuming, as if he sought to claim every breath you had. His mustache scratched your face, adding to the overwhelming sensation. Your mind screamed confusion, but your body betrayed you, melting into his touch.

His tongue explored your mouth with a hungry urgency, each movement calculated and intense. You felt his hands gripping your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Time seemed to warp, seconds stretched into eternity. The world outside the asylum office ceased to exist. It was only Harrow. His taste, his scent, his heat.

When he finally pulled away, you gasped for air, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He looked at you, his blue eyes piercing through your defenses.

This was his therapy? You didn’t want to know how he treated his other patients.

You shivered as his hand moved lower, fingertips brushing against the waistband of your pants. He probably already spotted the bulge there, must have seen the signs of your arousal. Damn him. He took his time, savoring each second as if it were a ritual. The air thickened with anticipation, every heartbeat echoing like a drum in your ears.

Then, his fingers flicked over your bulge, the friction enough to make you gasp deliciously. With a swift motion, he gripped the back of your neck. Not painfully, but firmly, asserting control. The pressure sent a thrill down your spine, making you arch involuntarily into his touch. A smug smile slid on his face, the corners of his lips pulling up in that cocky smirk you loved to kiss away.

Harrow’s other hand tugged at your pants, pulling them down with practiced ease. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, sending a shiver through your body. Your cock popped out, kissed proudly by the cold office air.

"Doctor..." you breathed again, this time less a plea and more a surrender.

"Good boy," he murmured, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. His fingers stroked past your swollen cock, earning him another moan torn from your lips. “So eager,” he muttered. “So ready to please me.”

His hand moved up and down between your thighs, strong fingers teasing and exploring. You couldn’t help the moans that escaped your lips, your body responding eagerly to his touch. He knew exactly where to press, where to stroke, drawing out pleasure with expert precision.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice velvet smooth. "Give your body what it wants. Let go."

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as waves of sensation crashed over you. Each touch, each caress, brought you closer to the edge. His name became a mantra on your lips, a prayer offered up to this godlike figure who held you in thrall.

"Arthur... please..."

“Doctor,” he firmly corrected you. “Doctor Harrow,” and then he leaned over you again to bring his lips close to your ear. The rasped whisper was enough to bring you closer to your climax. “Or call me daddy, because that is the real issue here. Isn’t it?”

His words confused you at first because you didn’t call your Arthur that. But Doctor Harrow’s fingers moved so expertly, he had you crawling in your seat, back arched, legs trembling, body wrecked with desire. And yet he kept you pinned down by your shoulders, used his own body weight to keep you trapped in your seat as he assaulted you with pleasure.

Just his hand and his voice. You thought it was unfair that he could do this to you.

"You're doing so well," he praised, his voice thick with approval. "But you can do even better.”

The rustling of clothes and the absence of pressure indicated that he had moved. But only when his fingers left your cock did you open your eyes and actually look. Doctor Harrow limped around you and came to stand before you, with a serious and solemn expression. And then he sank to his knees, pushing your legs aside before pressing a hand flatly against your tummy, applying pressure to keep you there.

“Let’s just take this a notch further.”

His lips closed around your small cock and you were reeling. You tried to wiggle under his touch while he sucked and nipped. Your hands found his – shorter – hair and dug into it, tugging at the strands for leverage and a silent plea to let go.

“Don’t,” a hoarse moan. “Stop,” the voice was your own. But damn, this felt good. As did the smirk that you felt against your skin while he kept on sucking and nipping, using his mouth to bring you to the edge, ready to tumble over.

One hard suck – the slurping noise that accompanied it was embarrassing but oh-so-good. With a choked cry, you came undone, your body wracked with intense pleasure. Every muscle tensed, then released, leaving you trembling in the aftermath.

And still, he nipped and sucked until the last of the tremors faded and pleasure became sensitivity, bordering on pain if he didn’t let go and would overstimulate you.

Luckily, he let go of your cock with a loud pop on his lips. One last lick past your cock made you shiver – too much, your mind provided – but then he was done, rising to a standing position in front of you. He withdrew his hand slowly, almost reluctantly, as if savoring the last vestiges of your climax. And when you looked up at him, he was staring down at you intently, yet pensively. As if he was lost in thought.

"Good boy," Doctor Harrow praised you, his tone laced with satisfaction.

You were still catching your breath, glancing up at him. “Is the therapy over now?’ You cheekily asked, not caring if he would think you a brat for the tone of your voice.

Doctor Harrow pursed his lips, the frown above his aviator glasses deepened. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked,” you repeated, this time a little more agitated. He had sucked you off. You were done now, weren’t you? You could leave, right? “Are we done now?’

A pregnant silence filled the air between you.

“My dear boy,” he finally said after what felt like too long. “Why would you assume such a thing.” The way he stood, leaning against his desk, so carefree, so comfortable. It made you want to rage. How could he be so calm and collected?

“This is only the beginning.” And without a warning, Harrow closed the gap between you. You tried to stand up and struggled against his grip as he reached for your neck again. Your pants were still down between your ankles, making it hard to walk away.

Harrow's grip tightened around your neck, his fingers digging into your skin. With a swift motion, he pushed you forward. The cold surface of the glass desk met your chest, sending a shiver through your body. The sound of rattling glass filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths.

"Stay still," he commanded, his voice firm yet dripping with affection.

You heard the zipper but were too busy trying to wiggle out of his grasp. You barely had time to register the command before he positioned himself behind you. His hands roamed over your exposed skin, greedy and unapologetic. You felt the blunt pressure, then the agonizingly slow slide as he entered you. Your breath hitched, pleasure mixing with pain.

"Doctor..." you gasped, the word spilling from your lips like a prayer. Another deep thrust. Luckily, your walls were slick from your previous orgasm, providing him easy access and an easy slide.

"Good boy," Harrow murmured, his voice heavy with desire. You felt his hips press fully against your ass, knowing that he was completely inside – as far as your body would allow – and suppressed a little gasp. Damn, this man felt good. Even if he wasn’t the real deal. He surely felt real.

A hoarse rasp in your ear, a dark promise: "I’m going to cure you."

The desk beneath you creaked ominously with each thrust, the glass threatening to give way under the force of your combined weight. But the sensation of him inside you drowned out any fear. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your veins, pushing you further into blissful abandon.

"Do you feel that?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you feel how deep I'm inside you?"

"Yes, Doctor Harrow... oh god, yes," you moaned, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk for support.

"Imagine," he continued, his pace relentless, each thrust deep and hard, "me filling you up, making you pregnant. Wouldn't you love that, my sweet boy? To carry my child?"

The words sent a jolt of forbidden excitement through you. The thought of bearing his mark, of being claimed so completely, was intoxicating.

"Yes," you cried out, the confession torn from your soul. "I want it... I want you."

"That's right," he praised, each word punctuated by a powerful thrust. "You're mine. Only mine."

The rhythm grew frantic, bodies slick with sweat, moving in perfect, chaotic harmony. His hands kept you pinned, his strength a constant reminder of his control. The eroticism of his power, his dominance, fueled your desire, driving you closer to another release.

You liked him like this, always had when he was in control. But him taking you so deep, so passionately… was he truly working you toward your second orgasm of the day?

Your body started to tremble around him, your own voice growing hoarse with each gasp, and cry, and moan.

“More,” he commanded, another firm thrust deep inside. Another echo of wet noises as he pounded you like there was no tomorrow.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice rough and commanding. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," you screamed, as loudly as your breaking voice allowed you. Your body was twitching and trembling with pleasure. Thank Ammit you had the desk to keep you up because your own legs surely wouldn’t. It felt good, the truth breaking free in desperate gasps. "I belong to you, Doctor Harrow."

A few more firm thrusts. You were nearly there.

And then he paused.

You cursed, teeth gnashing as you tried to move your hips and ass to get some more friction. The glass felt cold against your erect cock, stimulating you – but not enough. Why had he stopped?

You heard the heavy swallow, the way he cleared his throat, then felt how Doctor Harrow leaned over you, cloaking your body entirely with his own.

The hairs of his mustache tickled your ear.

"See?" he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple. "I told you you'd enjoy the therapy."

Bastard.

You groaned loudly, moving your hips but groaning in disappointment when his hands kept you pinned down, unable to move up and down his shaft.

“Please,” you begged, voice hoarse. It was enough.

"Good boy," he echoed, his tone laced with triumph. "Let go again. For me."

He didn’t wait but started a fast pace, for which you were grateful. Each stroke was deep and hit that right spot inside that had your toes curled and your fingers grasping past the slick surface of the glass.

Your body obeyed, surrendering to the overwhelming tide of pleasure. Everything else faded away leaving only the raw, unfiltered connection between you and Harrow. Nothing else mattered.

You clamped down on his cock, earning the stuttering rasped groans in your ear that betrayed he was near as well. A few more deep thrusts and he followed. Warm, hot liquid poured deep inside while his hands held your hips pressed against the cold glass. Your body was throbbing, but so was his shaft as it emptied itself. You imagined the way his balls must be pulsing right now as they were drained dry completely by your deliciously tight cunt.

“Hmm, so greedy,” he murmured, as if he was reading your thoughts. He leaned a little backward, cock still locked inside you, so he could clap a hand firmly to the cheek of your ass.

You did a little yelp, your body scooting forward on the glass, and then tried to look at him from over your shoulder.

“Do you think it will take?” The doctor rasped, his blue eyes finding yours through the reflecting glasses. You felt the way his fingers pried your cheeks open, then slid lower until they pressed inside your cunt, joining his cock.

“You think you’re going to make me a daddy, sweetheart?”

He slowly retracted his cock and seemed to watch how slick seed came dripping from your hole. Holding his cock in his hand, he used his half-hard shaft to rub past your sensitive lips, pushing the semen back in with the tip.

You closed your eyes and allowed him to play with you, your body tired from a second climax and your breath still rapid and uneven.

You felt him push the head of his cock inside you, dipping in and out – almost experimentally – a few times. Then he retracted and the warmth of his body was gone.

"Up," Harrow commanded, his voice a rough whisper against your ear.

You barely had time to register the word before he pulled you to your feet. His hand remained firm around your neck, guiding you as he maneuvered behind you. The cold air hit your back, stark in contrast to the heat of his body. He turned you to face him, eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart race.

"That's it," he murmured, as he held you close, his touch almost tender despite the intensity of what had just transpired.

Finally, he stepped back, leaving you feeling strangely empty without his presence. You noticed the limp when he walked. At least that hadn’t changed. But the half-hard cock you had expected to go limp was curling up proudly again, tipping against Harrow’s stomach as he limped to the other side of the desk. Wait? What?

You groaned, taking a few deep breaths while you watched him lowering himself into his chair with a grace that belied his years. He sat there, pants discarded, watching you with a calm, expectant gaze.

You stood there, catching your breath, the silence stretching out between you. What did he want from you?

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sit on me." His tone was gentle but firm, laced with the promise of more to come. You knew that even if you had wanted to, you could not disobey him.

And a third time? Well, what was one more? Even if this wasn’t your Harrow, he surely was a good fuck. You wouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.

With trembling legs and a racing heart, you moved closer, your skin still tingling from the last wave of pleasure. You discarded your pants fully, even taking the time to take off the rest of your asylum garb until you stood fully naked.

Harrow's eyes were on you, unwavering, his gaze a mix of command and invitation. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, fingers tapping lightly against the metal as if to a rhythm only he could hear.

"Come here," he urged softly, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

You straddled him, knees at either side of his waist. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was intoxicating. Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, feeling him fill you once more. A squelching sound accompanied the movement, as combined slick from you and Doctor Harrow’s semen paved the way for his hard cock to slide deep inside. A gasp escaped your lips, the sensation almost overwhelming.

"That's it," he whispered, his hands finding your hips, guiding you. "Just like that."

And it was just like that. You preferred this position more, the way your cock rubbed past him, the friction, it was all so much better than the cool glass table had been.

You began to move, the rhythm slow at first, savoring every inch of him within you. He had grown hard again, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside your narrow cunt. Each rise and fall brought a fresh surge of heat, a deep ache of pleasure that built with every movement. His grip tightened on your hips, encouraging, guiding, coaxing you to go faster.

"Good boy," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're perfect. Could only be better swollen with child."

The words spurred you on, driving you to quicken your pace. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, bound together in this intense dance. Sweat slicked your bodies, the sound of your mingled breaths filling the silence.  

"Arthur," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. "I'm close."

"Then let go," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Show me how much you need this."

The coil of pleasure wound tighter within you, threatening to snap. You rode him harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. His hands roamed your back, caressing, encouraging, sending sparks of electricity through your veins.

"Come for me," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

Your body obeyed, the release crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cried out, his name a prayer on your lips, your vision blurring as ecstasy consumed you. He followed soon after, his own release a powerful surge that left you both trembling.

"That's it, my love," he murmured, holding you close, his breath hot against your ear. “Let me stuff you nice and full. Think of all the cum. Make me a dad.”

He stroked your back gently, the touch tender and soothing. You melted into him, feeling safe, cherished. Even if he wasn’t your Arthur. Nothing else mattered.

“We have made such good progress, haven’t we?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple.

“Progress?’ you asked, blearily. You felt as if your body could take no more, yet he started to gently thrust inside you again.

“One more time,” he said, but you were already shaking your head.

“No.”

“Come on, we have made such good progress,” he moved you up and down his shaft shallowly, but your pussy was oversensitive and each thrust felt like it was too much. You flinched, trying to push him away, but his hand found your cock and flicked against it. You recoiled, back arched, and let out a cry.

“Fuck, I can’t,” you gasped, still struggling in his grip. “It’s too much.”

But as Harrow gently pounded your sore cunt, the world around you seemed to crumble away until everything faded. Even the feeling of being fucked raw.

You sat up and instantly winced. Your body felt sore, pussy even sorer. As if you truly had climaxed three times.

You rubbed your head, eyes slowly getting used to the daylight that already filtered into the room. That was when you noticed him.

Arthur Harrow sat on the edge of your desk, his shoulder-length hair cascading around his face, worry etched into his features. The morning light streamed through the window, casting long shadows that danced eerily across the floor. You’d almost thought he wasn’t real, but then he moved.

"Good morning," Arthur said softly, his voice a soothing balm against your frayed nerves. He leaned forward, the creak of the desk cutting through the silence. "You missed breakfast so I came to have a look. See if you’re all right."

Your mouth felt dry as sandpaper, and you licked your lips, trying to find your voice. "I..."

"It’s all right," he interrupted gently, holding up a hand. "I brought you something." He gestured to a tray beside him, laden with fruit, toast, cheese, and a steaming cup.

The disorientation clawed at your mind, the lines between dream and reality blurring. You stared at the food, your stomach twisting in knots. "Why?"

"Because I care about you," he replied, his gaze unwavering. Those bright blue eyes bored into yours, filled with an earnest concern that made your heart ache.

"Was it... real?" you muttered, the words barely audible.

"Dreams can feel very real, can't they?" Arthur's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. He pushed the tray closer to you. "Eat. You'll feel better."

You slowly got out of bed, unperturbed about Arthur seeing you like this. He’d seen you in worse states.

You reached for the toast, your hands trembling. The memory of Doctor Harrow's touch still lingered on your skin, ghostly and persistent. You took a bite, the crunch loud in the otherwise quiet room.

"Was it another nightmare?" Arthur asked, concern etching lines across his face.

"Something like that," you admitted after swallowing, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on the tray of food, absently picking at the toast.

"Talk to me," Arthur prompted gently, his voice a soothing balm that eased some of the lingering tension within you. "What happened in the dream?"

“You were there,” you finally confessed, still confused about everything that had just happened.

"I was?" He asked, his voice low and steady. Arthur's blue eyes bore into you, steady and unwavering, as if trying to decipher the secrets hidden within your soul. Your heart pounded in your chest, the lingering effects of the dream making it difficult to distinguish between reality and fantasy.

You hesitated before speaking, the weight of the dream heavy on your tongue. "It was you," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "But not you. You were a doctor, in an asylum."

A flicker of surprise crossed Arthur's face, his brows knitting together as he processed your words. "A doctor, huh?" His voice was steady, but you could see the wheels turning behind those piercing blue eyes. "And what did this doctor do?"

You hesitated, a shiver running down your spine as you remembered the way Doctor Harrow's hands felt on you, the controlled strength in his grip. "He… he was...helping me, or at least, that's what he claimed." The words tumbled out in a rush, a confession burning your lips as you spoke. "But it didn't feel like help. It felt like control."

Arthur's hand tightened on your arm, a protective gesture that sent warmth flooding through you. "Did he touch you?”

“Oh yes,” you didn’t know why you confessed so easily, but once you looked up it was to see Arthur’s eyes darken menacingly. “Said it was this new therapy he wanted to try, Was supposed to help me with something, but it only ended with him telling me he wanted to see me carry his baby. It was really weird.”

You finally finished, taking your time to catch your breath and think. In the meanwhile, you studied him. Your Arthur.

"In the dream,” he began, eyes unfocused. “I was... obsessed with becoming a father."

He hesitated, gauging your reaction.

“You sure were. Or well, he sure was,” you clicked your tongue and picked up another piece of toast. Orgasming three times had made you hungry.

"Interesting," Arthur murmured, his expression inscrutable. "And how did that make you feel?"

"Confused," you admitted, mouth full, frowning. "I don't understand why he would tell me that."

"Perhaps there's a reason," Arthur suggested, leaning forward in his chair. "Dreams can be windows into our deepest desires and fears. Maybe this is something you need to explore further."

"Are you saying that I should try to get actual therapy?" You asked, skepticism lacing your words.

"Not quite," Arthur replied, his voice soft but firm. "Trust your instincts."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. The idea of delving deeper into Doctor Harrow's fixation unnerved you. And the way your Arthur reacted to your dream had left you puzzled. Did he know there was a dream version of him lingering around? Could he influence it? Hadn’t it just all been inside your head? Because you’d been pretty certain Ammit and the other Gods loved to use familiar faces and an asylum room to bring their messages across.

"I’m hungry now,” you said, reluctantly. "I just want to eat.”

"Good," Arthur smiled, his eyes warm and reassuring. "I will leave you be. But just remember, I'm here for you, no matter what."

"Thank you," you whispered, your throat tight with emotion.

You watched as Arthur stood and made his way to the door, the familiar crunch of glass beneath his feet a constant reminder of his devotion. His silhouette framed by the doorway, he paused and glanced back at you, his eyes filled with an emotion that you couldn't quite place. Then he was gone. ~ * ~

[theharrowing]

You. Me. Bed. Clothes off. Now.

You and some friends visit Paradise for a fun night out and you meet an alluring stranger who invites you to a part of the club many don't know exist.

🤍 Collateral Hoseok x Female Reader

🤍 word count: 770

🤍 strangers to strangers with benefits, nsfw, 18+

🤍 warnings: an allusion to smut with adult language (thinking about voyeurism/exhibitionism, explicit discussion of sex and squirting); Collateral Hoseok is a bisexual menace; does this count as Hoseok cuckolding Seokjin?; mc is a little naïve because i like this trope; consensual grinding on the dancefloor; location is a strip club & brothel (for those of you unfamiliar with Paradise.)

🤍 notes: this is not the mc from Collateral!!! this is a different reader character. i don't have a lot of Hoseoks that i felt would fit this so i decided that my Collateral Hoseok would be a good fit. 2024 needs to be the year that i write some smutty Hoseok x reader content!!! also, although Collateral is a mafia au, it's not mentioned in this snip.

🤍 written for the Harrow's Holiday Cheer Event, requested by @back2bluesidex 🎈 my darling Nika!!! thank you do much for requesting!!! although we have only recently met, i am already thrilled to call you a friend & get to know you better.

🤍 beta read by @neoneunnajimin

🤍 posted dec. 2023

When you joined your best friends at Paradise to dance the night away near the back bar with the hope of getting some rich hottie to take you home for the night, you were not expecting the first guy to approach you to have a boyfriend. 

"He doesn't mind," the man insists in your ear as you dance with your ass pressed against his crotch, staring ahead at an equally hot man who sits at the bar, facing you with his legs spread wide while another man sits beside him.

The man you dance with and his boyfriend wear all black with their dark hair styled away from their foreheads, and the one at the bar stares at you with an intense, hungry gaze while the man at his side, dressed in all white, rubs a palm over his chest and tummy. 

You've never fucked a man with a boyfriend before, and the prospect sends a thrill down your spine—you wonder if he might want to watch. As you nibble your bottom lip and consider the proposal, swishing your ass against the man's growing erection hard enough to feel it against you, the man at the bar cocks an eyebrow.

"Alright," you say, grinning widely and surprising yourself. "Where?"

"Downstairs," the man answers, nibbling at your earlobe until you raise your shoulder high and giggle. "We own a brothel down there."

"A brothel?" you ask in disbelief, spinning enough to attempt to look at the man behind you. 

"Shhh," he whispers with a hint of a smirk, "It's a secret."

The man takes you by the hand, blows a kiss to his boyfriend, and leads you through the club, past the large center bar and three long stripper stages, to a door manned by a security guard. The guard nods at the man you are with and does not say a word, and you are surprised as you are led into a somewhat well-lit hallway, past rooms that look like they are meant for private strip shows—some with the doors closed. 

"I'm Hoseok, by the way," the man says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. 

You feel your cheeks warm as you tell him your name, then you turn to take in his pretty face and ask, "Do you work here?"

Hoseok's features are long and thin, just like his build, and his heart shaped lips pull into a bright, wide smile as he glances at you and says, "I guess you could say it's a family business."

You hum and store the information for later, not eager to ruin the moment by asking too many questions. At the end of the hall is another guard who nods to Hoseok and says, "Executive suite is all yours, sir."

"Thanks, Binnie," Hoseok says as he punches a long code into the a keypad and opens the door to a set of stairs that continue underground to a dark, fuchsia-lit hallway. With another squeeze of your hand, he says, "Do you have a safeword? Or, rather, do you think we will need one?"

You do not have a safeword and you shake your head as you say, "I don't…but we could establish one."

A loud slap followed by a scream echoes from behind one of the doors you pass, causing goosebumps to break out over your skin. And when Hoseok asks, "Just how hard do you like to be fucked?" you feel a shiver work its way through you.

"Hard," you admit, keeping your eyes on the black door at the end of the hallway, too shy to look at Hoseok. "Make me forget about my shitty ex. Make me forget my own name."

"Ooh, a rebound?" Hoseok asks excitedly as you reach the door at the end of the hall and he punches in another long code to gain access. "How exciting."

The door opens wide and you step inside, marveling at the large bed with silk sheets and black wrist and ankle restraints resting on top—at the shelves of impact toys and dildos, vibrators, and plugs. You take in the sight of a large, white leather couch and a fully stocked bar to the far left, and then you turn back to Hoseok, feeling bold. 

"I've always wanted to try to squirt, but I've never been with someone good enough to get me there."

Hoseok's eyes widen, and the door slams closed behind the two of you, leaving you in an equally dim room, perfectly alone. Quickly, he begins to unbutton his black dress shirt as he very sharply says, “You. Me. Bed. Clothes off. Now.”

this one was just cruel. i'm so sorry for stopping here. i.............i might have to write more of this at some point because i would love to explore Collateral Hoseok so, so badly.

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD IF THIS HELLSITE AND LIKES ARE SUPER APPRECIATED TOO!!! THANK YOU FOR READING, I LOVE YOU!!!

🎈 tag list: @btsiguess-kpop @codeinebelle @dasexydevitt13 @fluffybuns69 @giriiboyy @idkjustlovingbts @itsmina29 @mgthecat @moonleeai @m1sss1mp @spookyminyunki 🤍 want to be tagged in everything i write? or just my member x reader content? send me a message!

🎈 check out more drabbles from the Harrow’s Holiday Cheer Event!

You. Me. Bed. Clothes off. Now. is copyright 2023 theharrowing, all rights reserved. reposts and translations are not allowed.

[smallblueandloud]

see it's like. yes, locked tomb princess bride au!

harrow pushes the dread pirate kiriona off the cliff and as she rolls down gideon yells "AS YOU WISH" and harrow is so horrified she throws herself down too! like yes, of course! but also.

harrow saying "inconceivable!" and gideon saying "i do not think that word means what you think it means" -- gideon saying she'll fight their pursuer left-handed and harrow rolling her eyes and letting her. but also!

gideon BEING the pursuer and saying that killing camilla ("my name is camilla hect. you killed my adept. prepare to die.") would be like destroying a stained-glass window. but ALSO.

gideon being buttercup and harrow leading her through the fire swamp.

BUT ALSO. the "only mostly dead" scene except abigail pent is miracle max, magnus is her househusband, and they're in harrow's dreamscape talking about harrow herself.

BUT ALSO! harrow is the sick kid, actually, and ortus is the grandfather reading her the story.

how are we supposed to decide!!!

[ridrawsart]

When I first read Gideon the Ninth I definitely thought that Gideon had kissed Harrow on the mouth during the pool scene. After re-reading it and googling where the "bone of the frontal sinus" was I realized she did not, in fact, kiss Harrow on the mouth. She kissed her on the forehead. But, like Harrow, I reject that reality and substitute it with my own. (haha)