#and the feeling of submitting and handing over full control was fucking euphoric

[midnightfemme]

can't stop thinking about how good it feels to finally submit to someone. when they've learned your boundaries, made you trust that they'll never cross them, when they've memorised the most sensitive parts of your body, and made note of all the little phrases and pet names that turn you into a blushing mess. when they've fully, truly, earned your submission, so when they turn around, and tell you to get on your knees, you don't think twice before blindly obeying.

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 10: Little

Author's Note

Word count: 8.4k (whoops)

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This would be easier if Damiano was’t saying all the right things all at once. A minute in between, or even a warning, would make the turn in conversation more bearable.

“There was a point, a couple months in, where I would have traded a lobe of my poor liver for you to be all clingy and needy in Little headspace. I miss being your Dom so fucking much, so fucking much.” He’s putting such emphasis into his words that it slightly strains his voice. “With your anxiety, having your Dom basically disappear…and we’d spent years building the dynamic into something that was both pleasurable and therapeutic. All that trust and I…the head fuck, I can’t imagine. I don’t want you to think that it wasn’t the most special thing in the world to me.” The sobs are coming so fast that you can’t inhale in between and end up literally choking on your own misery. It's the way a toddler with no self-regulation skills cried.  

“I know, at points, I’ve done power play with other partners.” He’s wincing as he speaks, which is totally unnecessary. You just didn’t get the inclination to submit to anyone else. 

“But I’ve just been stuck on the thought that you might have felt replaceable.” You shake your head and try to gather the air to speak. Instead of just embracing, an hand snakes under your blouse provides pressure through calming, even strokes along your back 

“Felt impor – ortan –ant,” you manage, face tucked snuggly against his neck. Damiano sighs in relief.

“Good. Thank god.”

“Knew I mattered.” Although all the syllables come out right, the next phrase is such a struggle that it's almost indiscernible. “Knew…loved, not – not a…burden.” It was the way your well-intentioned, but often unequipped parents made you feel: like more than they signed up for. It's hard to articulate negatively about a good childhood. They bought roses for your middle school graduation, but you’d rather sit on the bathroom floor with the flu alone than endure your frantic mother or patronizing father. How could a kid they very much intended to have be emotionally over-demanding? Must be something wrong with the kid. 

Except nothing made you feel more right than Dami kneeling on the side of a bubble bath, contentedly washing you with a baby-pink washcloth. He used lavender scented soap and smiled adoringly at how quickly you became non-verbal. 

“Feel floaty, little one?” he’d coo, asking if you’d entered headspace just from this intimate act of service. No pain. No sex. The dynamic had reached a point where just his presence and intention was enough since Damiano, himself, was completely tranquil. It created a euphoric energy exchange, always nurturing. He enjoyed it, you blossomed, but that all came to a grinding halt as soon as the trust wore thin.

“Selfishly, I miss feeling in control, too. I tried to sublimate, but I couldn’t wait for the scenes to me over. It felt manufactured with new partners and just…wrong. Gross, even. Fuck, why am I saying this?” he groans. “I just wanted something to click so badly and it didn’t.

“S’okay.”

“I know this is asking for a lot. Really, I shouldn’t be asking for anything at all, considering living together is more than I realistically hoped for. You know what? I’m gonna shut up.” You shake your head, drying your wet face on the cotton of Dam’s shirt, only for it to  be full of tears again. “Okay, I wish that — I want there to be a way that I earn your trust again, dynamic wise. I miss my little girl.”

That one physically hurts, like a side cramp from running after drinking too much water. The stabbing pain emanates deep into your torso because “yeaning” doesn’t begin to describe your emotions. You literally ached to be curled up in Dami’s lap while he hit his weed vape during The Little Mermaid. Of course, half an hour in, he was humming the melodies into your ear. Sometimes he even did voices or rocked back and forth to the beat of the songs, the soft pajamas he’s dressed you in pleasantly brushing your skin.

“I miss holding you and feeling the pure joy at convincing me to watch one of those Disney movies that are intolerable except for the music. You try to hide how excited you get and I try to act like I wasn’t gonna say yes to anything you picked.” 

“Damia…” You ball your hands into fists, fingernails biting into the soft flesh. It's a bad habit, but an effective one. The little bit of pain keeps you present when you’d like to fawn. This wasn’t the place: rehab facility, in a previously sterile, closet–size room. The couple times you’d accidentally slipped into subspace semi-publicly had been scary. If you were meeting him on tour, Damiano was extremely intentional about creating a controlled environment, and if he didn’t feel confident, you wouldn't play.

Perhaps, without realizing it, the hand under your shirt is stoking at the same pace as an even breath. When one body was upset, the other subconsciously moved to calm it. All you needed was to breathe in time with his hand against your back, and allow yourself to fall into submission. Every cell in your being had been screaming for this, waiting months for Dami’s reassuring touch, but you couldn’t allow yourself to enjoy it. Hell, you shouldn't be allowing it whatsoever because based on recent history you’d end up hurt. Worse still, you’d feel helpless, which was an emotion you’d clawed your way out of with cut up hands and bleeding fingernails. 

“I need to stand up,” you decide, clambering off his lap. It takes Dami by surprise and he hangs onto your wrists while you struggle to get your feet right. He can tell something is awry.

“Okay, you're standing. What now?” he asks in his gentlest voice. Speak. Fucking speak. Maybe you could go home and fall back into memory, pretend it wasn’t a temporary fix that would ultimately deepen the wound. 

“Look at me.” You can’t stop your face from turning, so you squeeze your eyes closed and feel a rush of tears. “Look at me.” You pout your lip and shake your head, whimpering in distress. The lip pout was a dead giveaway, so you bite it instead and taste blood. The palms of your hands hurt, your lip hurt, your heart hurt. How was a person supposed to contain this much hurt and be unaffected?

“When we split you didn’t have another dom. How long did it take you to find one, y/n?” He caught on too easily. Your left leg begins shaking, quivering at the knee like it's about to give out. Your body tries to contain nervous energy. It’s too much. The sobs are so frequent you struggle to breath, coughing on snot.

“Did some piece of shit hurt you, piccola mia? What did they do wrong?” You choke on your own spit at the tone of his voice, covered in goosebumps. Damiano probably didn’t realize how dominant he sounded. His little girl making a mistake within a new dynamic wasn’t even a possibility to him. Had to be the dom’s fault because you were perfection.

“When you’re ready we can redo the scene and it’ll go exactly how you want. I’ll be so careful to replace that bad memory with a good one. Hmm?” You shake your head. There had been no bad substitute dom, because there’d been no other dom at all.

“Open your eyes,” he commands, tightening the grip on your wrists. Dami sits forward and pulls you between his spread legs. You stare at your left shoe. One of Princess’s hairs was on the bland, gray carpet, nearly camouflaged. 

“I haven't submitted to anyone,” you whisper so quietly that not even crying can distort the words.

“Look at me.” It's another command, more forceful. His grip on your wrists aches, just enough to draw attention. Keeping the kicked puppy expression off of your face became impossible ten minutes ago, so when Dami looks, he sees. He’s absolutely devastated, then kicking himself for not putting two and two together. 

“You’re going to be Little for a while. Sit on my lap.” Now that the decisions made, you’re so awash in relief that your oxygenation gets even more fucked up.

“Can’t breathe.” He makes the decision physically, too, and pulls you down to him. You go completely pliant, so sitting on his lap becomes laying on his chest. Dami turns both your bodies to fit semi-comfortably along the tiny bed. You peel off your shirt to reveal just a sports bra, worn to keep the boobage under control. Now all that matters was his warm hands on your bare skin. The shirt falls to the floor and Princess sniffs it out of curiosity. 

“Let me change into a tank top,” he murmurs. It's a sign of respect, since he’d go shiftless any other time. “Loosen your grip. I’m just getting something from my dresser, you're okay, topolina.” Subconsciously, you’d wrapped your arms around Dami and established a vice hold, so he’d have to pry your arms apart to get away. It was a desperate move.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not allowed to apologize unless I ask, surely you remember that.”

“I remember,” you slip into Little Voice and watch Damiano’s from out under your lashes. It’d be so much quicker to get out of bed, but instead he props himself on his left elbow and reaches to open the drawer with his right hand. As a result you get to stay on his chest and listen to his heartbeat through the cotton.

Every movement is done together. Sitting up with a firm arm around your waist is done together. You even help him pull off the baggy t-shirt and unnecessarily smooth over the straps of his tank top. He’s gained muscle fast. Already you can see the difference in Damiano’s biceps and shoulders. It’d still be nice to see a healthy layer of body fat. Right now he’s a bit sinewy.

“They have a gym here.”

“You noticed,” he beams. Rather than answer his gaze, you stare at where your thighs touch and feel yourself get wet.

“Mm, you forget that I can feel what you’re thinking when you’re on my lap, michetta.” Why in god’s name did you wear cheap trousers and thin underwear? Even your ear’s burn with embarrassment. 

“Awe, now did I say you were allowed to blush that pretty?” He takes the hair tie from your wrist and pulls your hair back, so he can see your face from all angels. “Does this feel nice?” Dami fingers combs your locks, stropping whenever there's a tangle until the full ponytail is clutched in his first. Then he pulls from the base of your skull. You're too braindead to provide resistance. Rather than pull your hair, Damiano ends up tilting your whole head back. You freeze, afraid it's your mistake.

Initially, all Dami does is breathe, and you can feel the air hitting your stretched neck. He just sits there, with your head craned back, enjoying the view of all your exposed skin, like a predator before butchering its meal. Just allowing this stance is an act of submission by you. His eyes fall to the notch at the base of your neck, across your clavicles, along the flat expanse of your breast bone, and landing on the line of your cleavage.

“Notice your breathing.” For the first time in several minutes, your awareness turns inward, away from your dominant. Was the pattern of your inhale-exhale normal? No. But was it panicked? Also no. You were panting, aroused by the knowledge of Dami’s eyes on your neck. It was a ridiculous reaction. 

“���S better.”

“Mhm.” The hand around your middle slowly rises to your throat. Damiano simply sets the bottom knuckles against your trachea, not applying any force, intricately observing your reaction. Then he folds the entirety of his warm palm around your neck, keeping tension with your hair. Finally he wraps his fingers around the column of your neck, leaving you in rapture. At any moment, he’ll apply force, restricting blood flow and subsequently flooding you in endorphins when his grip releases. Dami’s thumb tenderly rubs behind your ear lobe, the gentle sensation a precursor to some brutality that never comes.

“You are okay.” Using both hands, Damiano brings your head upright. As soon as he lets go you feel the weight of the world and yearn for his guiding touch.

“Signore?” you say his chosen Honorific in confusion. His careful hands are back, tucking your face securely between his shoulder and neck. One resumes the delicious tension with your hair and the other cups your cheek as he lays back down. 

“So good at keeping your eyes closed, piccola. Remember I had to train you to do that? Now, you give in without me even asking. Such a perfect pet.” He kisses your forehead and rubs your bare back while administering the occasional validation. “Curled up just right, topolina. You are my sweetest little girl when you’re snuggly.” Just when you’re prepared to swan dive into subspace for the foreseeable future, Dami jostles your shoulder. “I need you to stay verbal.” You groan in protest, feeling disoriented as you search for words. They’re unreachable objects, floating around in your submissive mental fog.

“Ssh, shh. I didn’t want you to startle. That's my fault and I’m sorry,” he coos, stroking your hair with gentle pressure that coaxes you to lay down. “Take a deep breath. Mhm, that's just how I asked, piccola mia. You’re doing a really good job.” 

“Brain off,” you groan. Damiano chuckles, but keeps his hand at the same pace. He’s good at that. As a dominant partner, his physicality often had a hypnotic quality. 

“I’m sorry that I have to keep you at the surface. I wish it was different, that I could be a better Dom.” 

“You…good Dom.”

“Three whole words? I’m impressed. I’ve seen you go non-verbal for so long I wondered if you’d talk the next morning.”

“Mm…nice.”

“Yeah, I bet that sounds nice right now. Maybe we’ll do that when I get home. This can be non-sexual for a while.” The bastard properly yanks your hair for the first time as punctuation, just enough for a violent full-body shiver and a little sting at the nape of the neck. It was your favorite.

“Fuck you.” Simultaneously, you stretch like Princess in the sun, coiling yourself tighter around Dami. “Fuck you and the way you smell.” Your nose was nudging against the back of his head, where all the sweat collected.

“I’m one day past needing a shower. Sorry, I know you only like that when you’re ovulating and feral.” And right now. He smelled grubby in a way you wanted to taste too. Would he notice if you licked him? With inhibitions compromised, you lick the nape of his neck, feeling the short hairs at the top with your tongue. Damiano startles and pulls away, shocked.

“Did you just lick me?” It's such a harsh reaction that you immediately regret it. Now that the cuddles have stopped, you feel uneasy with self consciousness. What kind of invasive, tone deaf pervert does what you just did? And here you’d lectured about boundaries. 

Damiano’s face dissolves from shock into pity into regret. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing back and forth. Were you crying again? You couldn’t feel your face, or anywhere else on your body. He hasn’t given you permission to apologize. Even so, the words are almost bursting forth. 

“You surprised me,” he explains slowly, speaking like you’re a confused child. It’s healing, to be talked down to, but not demeaned, in a world where your senses are in a constant state of being assaulted by information.

 “Good surprise. I shouldn’t have jumped. I’m sorry, pet.” It was the second time he’s said ‘I’m sorry,’ while you weren’t allowed. “It’s been so long since I had the privilege of our dynamic and…” Dami looks out the window again, and sighs in thought. He pulls you close again and rolls over so he’s resting on top this time. With his familiar weight pushing you into the mattress, not wrapping your legs around his hips becomes a very conscious choice.

“You are uninhibited by shame in the expression of your submission.” A single finger on your chin brings your eyes to his and Damiano’s gaze is the only thing necessary to own your attention. “So strictly platonic might not work for us, because I will never put limits on your sexual expression.” The moment is so intense that you mentally beg for Dami to release it, but he grasps it with an iron-clad fist, willfully. “So things are going to be partially experimental, at your discretion, because hard boundaries are not comfortable for you. They are not where you thrive.” 

You’re nodding along in wide-eyed agreement, dreading when this moment ends and you have to have an entire thought on your own. Dami is holding himself very still, rather than relaxing against you as is normal. It's undoubtedly because he’s hard. Wanting to feel that validation you begin to raise your knees, intending to wrap your legs over his hips and bring him close enough to eliminate any secrets. With a firm hand on your thigh, he stops the gesture, legs returning to the bed.

“Breathe,” he reminds, caressing your ribcage. 

“I wanna apologize,” you whimper, embarrassed at your own horny behavior.

“No. Breathe into my hand.” Each inhale, you focus on the sensation of Dami’s skin against yours and his weight on your left side. “I will not allow you to apologize for organically acting out your desires. I am here to regulate your behavior. I don’t expect you to do it.” Damiano’s face begins to blur as you slip deeper into submission and try to claw your way towards the surface.

He resituates your bodies to lay facing each other. One hand is cupping your ribcage, the other rests at the base of your neck. The immediate adrenaline rush makes you more cognizant. Curious about all the movement, Princess hops on the bed, meowing a complaint that there is not enough room to lay between your torsos.

“I'm busy, babygirl,” he tells her. She meows again and turns her head away, as if she understands.

“Okay, brain turning on.”

“Just keep breathing. That’s all you have to do and you’re listening so well.” He rubs circles on your chest and in response your nipples get hard, even though the bra’s padding. “I love it when you touch me like this,” he muses. Gathering all your focus, you slip a hand under Dami’s tanktop and lay it on his sternum.

“Piccola mia, look at me.” He only has to ask once. “You are okay. I know this was just the beginning of what you needed.” Instead of crying as a response to everything, you access that little well of calm inside you, and find that there's steadiness to be had. “If we were to do a scene, you might not feel safe here, or you might feel uneasy afterwards. Also you need to drive home.”

“I understand.” You strain to kiss Dami’s nose.

“Breathe. You are okay.”

“I am okay,” you repeat back, automatically. 

“You are okay.”

“I am okay.” You finally consider the words and nod in understanding. “I’m okay. I’m not actively trying to keep it together anymore. Holy shit, I actually feel alright,” you exclaim in surprise. He hums in agreement, and pulls you onto his chest. Being constantly reminded to breathe steadily has manually calmed your nervous system down. Your body physically knew that it wasn’t in a state of distress anymore, panic gone.

“Fiveish minute warning,” Damiano announces, like a nanny at a playground.

“No,” you grumble, getting a more secure grip and nuzzling.

“When you feel like you’re gonna turn into a sinkhole from all the pressure life is applying, find this feeling again. It’ll still be there. You don’t have to use it or owe it to anybody. Just have some peace and know I believe in your capabilities unconditionally.”

“I believe in you unconditionally.” Dami scoffs and pats the mattress.

“This bed we’re laying on, is in a rehab facility that I didn’t even get myself into. My brilliant, persuasive girlfriend tricked the entire Italian healthcare system and babysat me on the way here.”

“Technically I committed a crime, so don’t put me too high on a pedestal.” He frowns with just the right side of his mouth, eyes darting back and forth on the textured ceiling. “Hey…” You fold both hands on his chest to prop up your chin.

“Hey.”

“You’re missing the point.” He cocks an eyebrow. “We’re laying in a bed in a rehab facility that I tricked my way into together.” This earns a full smile and a suggestive lip bite. It's humanizing to view Dami from an angle that gives him a double chin, as he gazes down in adoration.

“That is a good point.” His eyes scan your face, repeatedly darting down to your lips. It is a very intimate position.

“Okay, so this is a question, not a statement.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you trying to get me to kiss you right now? Because I can’t tell.” You blush and break eye contact, laying a cheek to the cotton of Dami’s tank top. “Ah, fuck me. That’s a no. Fuck.”

“Not yet,” you whisper, tracing the lines of a cat tattoo on the inside of his bicep.

“I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“I know. It doesn’t come off that way.”

“Good because I don’t…I’m really happy with where we’re at and I don’t want to do anything to damage it.”

“You’re not, Damia and I don’t wanna…freak out and get snot all over you.”

“Are you kidding? That’s the first normal reaction you’ve had to all this. I’m relieved. Anger and tears are reactions I can understand.”

“I’ll be sure to yell at you next time.”

“You say that as a joke but it’d be nice to get it out of the way.” That comment rubs you the wrong way and you sit up.

“Do you think I’m just harboring secret rage, waiting for a moment where I can cause optimal damage to unleash it?”

“Wha – no. No, I don’t think that.”

“I haven’t held back on our phone calls or when we split up. I walked out of the hospital and I blocked all ways for you to contact me.”

“I know, I just feel like I deserve…more. More punishment.”

“That sounds like some shit you need to figure out with a therapist, not put on me.” Damn, subbyness gone. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Ugh!” You splay out on his chest once more, missing the simplicity of the previous moment.

“I ruined it.”

“You can’t be constantly debilitated by self-loathing because staying sober and putting our relationship back together isn’t gonna work with that weight. I don’t resent you the way you’re bracing for.”

“Why?” he presses.

“Because you are not the person I broke up with! Become that person again, and you will feel the wrath of a thousand hell demons. But this person –” you poke the middle of his chest with your pointer finger. “I fell in love with at 18 and continue to love. I know you didn’t act maliciously, or as your true self. Anger is just…so simple. Too simple.” He softens and traces his fingertips up and down your spine. “I will be an absolute prison warden about drug testing though.”

“Good, that’ll make me feel better. And I’m glad that you’re acknowledging the hurt I caused, even if it wasn’t my intent. Intent doesn’t heal the wounds.”

“Well, except…“knowing you didn’t mean to hurt someone takes away a lot of the betrayal, so it does matter.” You shift and sign in contentment. God, he really smelled unreasonably delicious. “Plus I’m a big girl, I can work through my emotions.” His fingertips massage your scalp in a way that damn near makes your eyes roll back. Instead, you shiver while he gathers your hair in a fist.

“My turn.”

“Huh?” Damiano flips you on your back again, but instead of keeping his head level, he lowers his face to your chest. You still don’t understand what's going on until his tongue licks between your cleavage, up to your collar bones. From there he kisses along your neck with tongue, pulling your hair to make the area more accessible to his mouth.

“Hnngg mm, Damia. Ahh, okay.” His tongue runs along the shell of your ear, making every body hair stand on end from the stimulation. “Huuuh, fuck. Not fair. Mm-mmm, not…not fair.” His chuckle is ridiculously sexy and he takes his time pulling away. “Not fair.” Damiano wears a self-satisfied smile, knowing he’s bested you, in addition to turning you on. Perhaps two orgasams before visiting wasn’t enough, because you actually consider lunging forward and kissing him hard. Maybe that's what he wants, to bait you into action without implicating himself. It's a challenge that he doesn’t mean to pose. Regardless, you take it.

“Princess?” You make a couple high-pitched trills and she jumps on your chest. Dami is surprised to have the focus pivoted away from him. Ever the attention whore, Princess rubs her cheek against his before settling down.

“Do you think she misses me?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Cause clearly, you miss me.” Sitting up, you brush the cat hair off your shirt and pull it on. Damiano makes a wounded noise in protest. 

“Looks like you’ll have to lick something else now,” you quip. By that you mean an arm or the fabric of your top, not the lightning fast comeback Dami delivers.

“I would lick something else. Now, if you’d like. Happily.” He gestures to his bed and your cunt burns, despite cunnilingus not even being an option. 

“You’re funny.”

“I couldn’t be more serious.”

“Pretty sure intercourse is against the rules. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“I’m pretty sure that's what they think we’re doing right now,” he grins. Horrified, you yank the door open while Dami cackles. Luckily, he manages to catch Princess before she makes a run for it. Her short leash hangs on the bedpost closest to you. In a whisper, he repeats an earlier phrase while reaching for it.

“Did I say you were allowed to blush that pretty?” For a moment you’re speechless and sweaty. He sets Princess down and holds out the leash. Your mind is too preoccupied to realize that he’s offering it to you. Dami smirks as he steps out into the hallway. You try to think of some little gesture or a phrase that will do to him what he’s done to you. Everything that comes to mind is either not good enough, or too public. You’re fumbling and he loves to watch you lust for him.

“You want to have some gelato outside?” 

“If you promise to be civil.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that does not suggest compliance. You decide to be crude rather than clever, pinching his ass right before he steps into the hallway. Damiano yelps and jumps half a foot in the air, as does Princess. 

“Oops.” You skirt around him before he gets the chance to return the favor, skipping towards the stairs. The building was grand, with a high, intricately carved ceiling. Behind you, Dami was speed walking, Princess struggling to keep up. He ends up having to stop and scoop her off the floor, by which time you’re waiting at the end of the hall with a devilish smile. Maybe you were destined to play games of chase like this, until you trusted things enough to be caught.

His eyes scan the surroundings twice before growling, “c’mere.” You shake your head and hop down the steps as soon as he nears touching distance. It's not like Dami could grope you in the common areas where everyone gathered between meals and therapies, but this space was empty. You look over your shoulder, undecided if you’ll let him catch you, and he can see that indecision. Suddenly, it feels like a not so innocent game of prey and predator. Your focus oscillates between Dami and your feet walking backwards down the steps.

“Y/n, behind you!” You freeze and see a frail woman who could be anywhere from 40-70 years old with an amused expression. She was climbing up the stairs, minding her business, like a normal person.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Uh…sorry,” you cringe. First you flatten yourself against the railing, then realize she might need the railing. Already the woman has silently moved to the opposite side of the staircase. Dami’s nose is scrunched up in embarrassment, too.

“Lovely cat,” she murmurs so quietly only Dami realizes she's spoken.

“Oh, thank you!” His normal voice booms through the foyer in comparison. Damiano glances at Princess, as if noticing her for the first time, then sets her down. She meows just before her splayed paws hit carpet and looks up in apparent disappointment. 

“Come on, Miss Sassy Pants.” Once he’s in lock step, you lean over and whisper, “do you know that lady?”

“Mm-mm, she’s new.” His tightly controlled expressions indicate the obvious, that notoriety is a taboo subject in the facility. 

“Have people given you any trouble?”

“Thank god, no. The other patients have been in their own worlds for a while. Plus, no internet access, remember? Lord knows what they’re saying about me.”

“Really nice, genuine, complimentary things,” you deadpan. 

“Oh, really? That's a relief.” The paparazzi were publishing every sallow picture after a night out they could get their hands on, and even better if there was a model in the frame. Alot of the pictures were with women he’d never slept with, and while simply hung-over, not high. Of course that didn't matter. The more they had to recycle material, the more preposterous the claims got. 

“Last week they said you’ve been away managing a secret sex cult, not in rehab.” He scoffs as you walk towards the kitchen.

“Could be worse, I guess. Or less interesting.”

“Yeah…until the claims that it was mostly 16-year-olds started up.” Damiano stops in his tracks with an expression like he’s drunk sour milk. “But it got disproved in like a day! Fans started leaving horrendous reviews on the tabloid sites. Some of them were actually really funny…” You trial off, because Damiano is visibly seething. “Hey, literally no one believed it, Dam.”

“But the fact that they even thought it was acceptable to publish that, with absolutely no evidence, like it was news makes me sick. We always consciously avoided the groupie narrative and now…” He throws his hands up in frustration. 

“Pop culture doesn’t differentiate between a womanizer and a predator because it's normalized that sex be coerced. That's on society, not you.” 

“Maybe I’ll say something to that effect as part of my great rebranding. God it's just…” he stares at the carpet and scowls, mulling it over. “I don’t want to be angry, right now, while you’re visiting, this just really, really pisses me off.” After personally giving dubious and questionable consent in his mid-teens, the subject was a sore spot for Dami. He was very intentional about never doing that to someone else.     

“Maybe you can sue them for character deformation? Use the publicity to bolster releasing an In Nome Del Padre type single?” 

“Now there's an idea,” he allows a sliver of a smile.

“It would sure suck if paparazzi started harassing the journalist who wrote the article after seeing them in court.”

“Now that would be a great tragedy.”

“Perhaps there would even be a support group, for the fellow grievers.”

“I think that’s called a party.”

“I’ll bring the balloons if you bring the cake?”

“Deal,” he finally grins. “Christ,I can’t even…” Damiano shakes his head and sighs heavily. “Maybe I don’t miss the internet.”

“Porn.”

“Good point…But mostly I miss my camera roll.” You try not to turn red.

“Certain pictures on your phone make me very nervous.” 

“They are very safe.” According to many technological precautions you didn’t understand, Damiano’s camera roll was highly secure. But more so you trusted that, as a Dom, he’d never let images of you being Little be viewed by anyone. Yes you were happily non-monogamous, but as dominant, Damiano fucking lived for the fact that he didn’t share your submission. The polyamory was completely separate from your personal daddy/sub dynamic. 

What he got off on most of all wasn’t the nudes, or necessarily kink, but pictures he’d carefully orchestrated of you having sex together. After getting consent, he’d set up the phone camera with a random timer. Not knowing when the picture was going to be taken meant you couldn’t pose. Rather than his usual rhythm, Dami gave you as much stimulation as possible right out the gate, so you’d forget the camera by the time he found a slow groove. Then he’d rev the sex back up with tantric work, toys, dirty talk, and considerate angles. 

The result were images of you sweaty, flushed, gasping, half cognizant, and blissed out. Either captured at a moment of tension, or the release right after. They were not pretty. If you were kissing it could be downright ugly. Damiano always looked just as fucked out, but he wore it like a sex god. Sometimes, the full body shots of you on top felt beautiful, but he never preferred those. Dami loved the gaping mouth, furrowed brow face you made when rubbing your clit against him the exact right way. He’d excitedly point out the crescent-shaped nail marks on his chest you left when dragging your slick pussy along his pubic bone for the sake of orgasmic friction. In real life, or in the pictures.

“You didn’t delete them?” Dami stops in his tracks, face revealing that he hadn’t thought about this until now.

“Should I have?” he says slowly.

“I guess not. I didn’t set up a contingency, so it wasn’t violating anything. I just thought since we were – are, that you wouldn’t want…I mean you had access to all – wait did you take pictures with other people?” Exchanging and creating sexual images with other partners wasn’t even a conversation because of the fame. Now your voice comes out wounded and accusatory at the thought of him sharing this practice during your time apart.

“Not…” He guides you towards the empty kitchen to finish the conversation, as you wear an expression of shock. Intimate photography had only existed between you two out of necessity, not because you forbade it with other partners. It wasn’t until he mentioned it that you realized this closed practice had created territorialism. You’d fallen right into the trap of monogamy – of wanting exclusive rights to Damiano’s sexual autonomy – at the first opportunity possible.  The hum of the refrigerator and Dami’s hand on your mid-back bring you to the present. Princess is meowing persistently, probably because this is where her food is stored. 

“You know what, it's almost dinner time. I’ll just feed her now so she’ll stop bothering us.”

“If it's almost dinner then I should go. Our time is up. I –”

“Y/n.” He holds you by the shoulders with intimidatingly intense eye contact. “I was not using sex in a healthy way. I was using it like drugs, okay? It was mostly inebriated and mediocre. Yes, I did photograph it on the rare occasion I was sober-ish and gave a fuck, but those photos never made it onto my phone.  Pictures preserve memories. There was nothing about that time I wanted to remember, especially how I acted.” He crouches down to pet Princess, self-soothing, and you hop up on the counter for something to do. Dami pulls a little metal dish from under the fridge and her meows only intensify. 

“I know, I know. It's happening. I’m getting your fancy dinner, babygirl.” He pulls open the door and the cool air hits your skin. “So I’ve been thinking about how our relationship is at a point where it's gonna evolve a lot.”

“Agreed.” Dami grabs ground, raw meat and a couple of plastic pump bottles out of the refrigerator.

“So even if we were to take a couple hours and hash our relationship all the way out,” he uses a measuring cup to transfer the meat to the bowl, “a week from now it might be…a totally different um, thing.”

“Right, and what’s that stuff?”

“Beef?” Damiano looks over his shoulder while washing his hands and raises an eyebrow.

“No, the bottles.”

“Oh! It’s fish oil, plus vitamins and supplements for her coat, her bones, her eyesight.” 

“Princess, the immortal, spoiled feline.”

“That's the idea, yeah.” She circles Dami’s legs, meowing incessantly, until he sets her bowl down.

“But, I agree about how fast our relationship will be evolving. I guess, ideally we’d sit down each time it felt like something had shifted, but that sounds…”

“Like a lot?”

“Exhausting. Doing the full negotiation while you’re still in the early days of recovery sounds emotionally overwhelming to be honest. And I’d like to say, ‘can’t we just agree to love each other with dignity and reverence,’ but that seems naive.” Damiano thinks for a few seconds, putting things back in the fridge.

“I’m,” he gestures with his hands “sort of doing a reset towards my – well, our fundamental principles. Because I really wasn’t conducting myself in a way I was proud of for several months there. And I want to talk about it.” He takes the gelato container from the refrigerator and retrieves a spoon. “Or rather I’m willing to talk about it” Dami grumbles while fighting with the lid. He finally manages to remove it, revealing the creamy, light green color. 

“Okay, this is gonna sound so cheesy, but I couldn’t eat gelato while we were broken up.” Using some grip strength, he digs the first spoonful out.

“Oh my gosh, Damia.” It’d been so long since you’d last felt butterflies. (Which you’d never outright attribute partially to him speaking in the past tense). Technically you were still broken up, but it didn’t feel like it. This was some uncomfortable in between, a limbo. However, Damiano didn’t call you broken up to his band mates, even though that label had definitely been put on your relationship in a mutual decision. 

“What's that face?” he passes you a spoonful. The handle is warm from his grip.

“You didn’t tell anyone we were broken up, did you?” He can see from your smile that you aren’t upset, which just makes him bashful. It's a rare occurrence to see Damiano David bashful. “Hah! You’re adorable.” He stares at his shoes while you enjoy the first taste of gelato. “Mister megastardom is blushing.”

“No, I’m not blushing. Shut up,” he grins. “And I may have, possibly…um, avoided using that particular label as much as possible. So yeah, I have said it, but I’ve also avoided it, to be honest. Vic has gotten good at hiding the visible pity in her expression, but Thomas especially has a ways to go.” You pry a spoonful out of the container and feed it to Dami. He stands between your legs, hands resting just above your knees.

“I propose that we are officially not broken up.”

“So then we are…”

“Not broken up.”

“Okay…” His tone is unsure, but he allows one of those precious smiles that reveal his gums and offers another up more gelato. “So are we friends?” As it melts in your mouth, you contemplate the requirements for friendship. It became too painful to continue relationships with a couple of my friends who were super into the club scene and bordering on substance abuse. But Dami was sober.

“Or no? Needing to allocate all my focus to staying sober and repairing my mistakes may not make me a very good friend.” He’s self aware and gracious which makes the decision harder. You scoop the gelato with so much gusto that it nearly ends on the floor.

“But consciousness about substance misuse and commitment to repairing relationships are really vital to my friendships right now.” You raise another spoonful to his lips. This time it takes Damiano a second to accept it. “So I don’t know, but it's really important that I do know.”

“Hey.” In a comforting gesture, Dami slides his hands up your thighs and leans in to make more meaningful eye contact. “I don’t want to exhaust you with this, sweetheart. I –” his self-awareness kicks in and he takes a step back, hands purposefully occupying themselves with the spoon and container. “We are roommates and you’ve already told me, in detail, your boundaries on that.”

“On your sobriety! There aren’t supposed to be hard rules in relationships!” You're exasperated and Damiano isn’t offended. Instead, he taps your lip with the spoon as a reminder to open your mouth.

“We are intentionally repairing our bond to work towards a relationship.” You nod and take a deep breath, feeling calmer. The gelato is beginning to melt, runny around the edges. If it overflows the container will never get un-sticky.   

   “You should put that in the freezer.” He sighs and stops meeting your eyes. The top of the container is stiff. Damiano carelessly tosses the shared spoon into the sink and the metallic sound is so loud that it makes you jump. He spins around right away with an anxious expression.

“Sorry, sorry! That wasn’t intentional, I’m just not used to having a metal sink. It’s basically always filled with water for doing dishes. I wasn’t tryna be intimidating or some bullshit. I’m sorry. I –” whispering to himself, Dami says “what the fuck is wrong with you” He clips Princess back onto her leash and loops it over the knob on a cupboard.

“That wasn’t me trying to change the subject, Damia. I got yelled at so many times for letting the gelato melt that it's like a Pavlovian response.”

“Okay.” He relaxes his shoulders, resuming his previous stance.

“Okay,” you repeat with a small smile.

“We know how to do right by each other and we’re on the same page. You’ve updated your boundaries. As far as I know, mine are the same. I’m sure shit will come up, but we’re good at communicating.” Unexpectedly, serenity washes over you at once again reaching cohesion. It was a familiar sensation with Dami, to be grounded in the presence of each other. He takes a deep breath in as well. 

“Nesting partners. It’s a label I’ve learned, but I know you’re not big into terminology.”

“No, tell me what it means.”

“It's the companion you live with. Not necessarily your primary.”

“Sounds like something from a documentary about birds.”

“It does,” you laugh. “Anyways, if you wanted a word for us, that’d be it.” 

“Are you asking me to be your nesting partner?” Subconsciously, he leans forward out of excitement, hands sliding halfway up your thighs.

“And you’re willing to have David Attenborough narrate your every shit for National Geographic broadcasting?” 

“Totally.” You suppress the urge to kiss Dami and instead pointedly look down at his hands, now creeping towards your hips.

“Well, then…”

“Shit, sorry. Sorry.” He stands upright, tries to put his hands in his pockets, then realizes these pants don’t actually have pockets. “I wasn’t trying to make a move or – I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it. I’m just really used to touching you.” Cue heartbeat skip.

“Trust me, I get it. Like when –”

The moment is interrupted by movement just outside of the kitchen. You push Damiano back by a hand in the center of his chest so things weren’t so intimate.

“Ah, there you are! Hiding from me!”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Dami defends, in a way you recognize as bluffing. A staff member, this time dressed in slacks and a wrinkled, blue button-up, walks into the kitchen. He’s amused, not frustrated, which is a small mercy. Maybe Dami doesn’t realize how close your bodies are, maybe he likes it, but you can’t get off the counter without running into him.

“Sorry, I’ll go.” You push him back again, and this time he finally heeds your request. 

“Don’t worry about it. It's just behavioral therapy,” he murmurs, as you adjust your trousers self-consciously. 

“Sounds pretty fucking important for an addict.”

“I would have to agree with y/n. I’m Dr. Rossi. I haven’t spoken with you personally, but I’ve heard so much about you from everyone.” He clasps his hands and looks at Dami expectantly. 

“Right, so they’ll have my purse and stuff at the front desk. So I’ll just –”

“How late am I?”

“13 minutes,” he replies, looking at his expensive watch with a flourish.

“Eh, damage is done. Let me walk you out.” Dr. Rossi nods curtly, gesturing at you to go forth first. Ignoring this, Dami takes his time grabbing Princess’ leash in one hand and yours in the other.

“What do you mean ‘damage done?’”.

“They write me up if I’m more than 5 minutes late. Then there’s a worse penalty at 10 minutes. At 20 it doesn’t count and I get billed for a missed session. Plus they scowl at me for a couple days.”

“Damia,” you groan. He shrugs and nods hello to someone else walking a snow white cat on a neon green leash. 

“That's Yeti. He’s a dog inside a feline’s body, plays fetch.”

“Okay, well thats fucking adorable, but you’re not gonna distract me from blowing off your therapist.” He sighs heavily as you reach the doors. 

“It's one appointment. Everything here is scheduled. I get the purpose, but I feel claustrophobic. You make me feel the opposite of that. Plus, even with visitor privileges, I’m only guaranteed one half hour slot every two weeks.” 

“Oh, your parents.”

“Uh, no. My mom can adequately berate me over the phone. I just fucking miss you and your energy.”

“But your dad…”

“She has him by the balls.” Damiano tries to shove his hands in his pockets again and looks at the floor. Sensing his stress, Princess sits on his shoe and gazes upwards. Only one of them feels like a caged animal and ironically it's not the one on the leash.

“Maybe I can talk to them?” He shakes his head, looking off to the side now instead of meeting your eyes. It was such an obvious tell.

“I don’t want you to spend your time doing that. In a way, I was the golden boy until this. I don’t know how she’s gonna react and I don’t want your feelings hurt on my account.” You momentarily consider proposing speaking to Damiano’s father, then realize that might feel like a betrayal to Andrea.

“It’s just a matter of time?”

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, pursing his lips.

“She’ll change her mind once you’ve been sober for a while,” you reassure, not knowing if it's true. He finally meets your gaze, cocking his head to the side, seeing straight through your empty platitude. Lost for words, you hug Dami, careful not to step on Princess’ paws. She seems content at the sight of her parents embracing. Or maybe you’re just deflecting your own emotions.

Three months ago you’d have called bullshit at anyone claiming Damiano would be setting a sobriety record, that being wrapped in his arms would feel so right and organic. You savor his smell and relax with an exhale as his hug tightens. For some reason the intrusive thoughts always bubbled up at greetings and farewells. The day's emotion, however positive, would probably result in nightmares tonight.

“I’m alive. I’m okay. I’m in love with you,” he murmurs, as if reading your mind.

“Ditto.”

“You don’t need to be okay.” Finally, amidst all the terror around Dami’s health, you ask yourself the question. Am I okay? Nightmares, severe and occasionally uncontrollable anxiety, mental stress from lacking a dom, general stress because of Damiano. A job that was supposed to be fulfilling, but made you too feel like a polar bear in a gray, plastic enclosure.

“What is it,” he murmurs.

“Shit, I don’t know if I’m okay,” you choke. The wave of emotion is so unexpected that it feels like getting jumped. 

“I’m going to take care of you. It's a relief to have the opportunity to take care of you.” The inner peace from earlier is harder to access than you like. Maybe you’d have to ration it.

“I’m gonna leave before I turn into a mess again,” you speak into the fabric of his tank top. Princess cocks her head to the side, and you miss her persistent little presence with a pang in your gut. You pull away and squat down to bid her farewell, stroking between her ears.

“I’ll see you soon, Sassy Pants.” As you straighten up, it's obvious Damiano is deeply conflicted. “I don’t want to let you leave like this. I want to make it all better.”

“It is better. It’s not perfect.” You stroke his face, then his hair. It’s at awkward length, spiking up at random angles. This touch prompts Dami to rub his head self-consciously. 

“It looks like shit.”

“It looks fine. You look good.” That, at least, earns a smile. It’s a better note to end on, so you decide to make your exit. Nervously slipping out was certainly easier than a ceremonious goodbye like this.

“I’m gonna go before you get a missed appointment fee.”

“Fuck the fee,” he responds ardently. You can feel the mood swing coming, but the volatility of his emotions makes them hard to read. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Damia,” you whine, heart clenching.

“Sorry, that was unnecessary. Drive safe.” He bows his head to avoid your eyes. Wanting to make the leaving a little sweeter, you peck his cheek. 

“Bye Princess.” Less than a month and you won’t have to fight the urge to look back, because you’ll be walking out together. No more Orpheus and Eurydice. This is what ultimately sustains you as the heavy maple door falls shut. The sky – clear when you entered the building – is now plagued with clouds.  

Notes: Whew! The longest chapter yet and we sure covered a lot of ground with these two. Cutting it pretty close posting this late in the day, but I made it. I got distracted by giving my taglist a makeover and quite probably making it worse. Oh well.

- XOXO, Eden

Get on my taglist! (hard edition)

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[earlgreydream]

force.

| kylo ren x reader | smut |

Kylo helps you seize the power of the force, tipping the balance in favor of the dark side

cw: force-violence, mentions of death (star wars), inappropriate use of the force

“Breathe, Y/N.”

The command grounded you. You felt it, the block inside of you shattering. Everything inside of you reached out, the invisible hand grabbing hold, finding stability in The Force.

Power filled you as you inhaled, flooding like a wave. Your eyes opened, revealing a world of slick black and red. You hovered above the ground, above your prince.

You harnessed The Force, soaking it up and feeling the power surge through your veins. It became your center, your source of life, and the absolute balance. 

There was no longer a wall that kept you from the power, and you were free from the bonds of your mind that held you back. The bonds that had been put into place to keep you from The Force.

The Force was overwhelming. The raw power made your body hum and throb, pulsing deep inside of your soul and pouring out of you. 

And there was Kylo, his dark eyes glittering with a savage hunger, a sick satisfaction. He gazed up at you in all of your glory. The prince was awestruck, his prodigé finally reaching full potential.

The two of you had spent months trying to break the block in your mind. Your screams had echoed off of the walls of the Star Destroyer, white-hot pain searing every corner of your mind as Kylo forced himself in, trying to break through. 

“You’re still holding on! Let go!” 

It had been like you were burning from the inside out. His screams mixed with your own, echoing in your head, through the entire ship, until there was sudden silence. The heat turned to ice when you collapsed on the cold ground, relief washing over you as Kylo let go of your mind. 

Kylo tortured you daily, trying to help you connect with your power. It tortured him as much as it did you, and after months he struggled. Whenever you’d collapse, he heaved out apologies. The Supreme Leader would drag you into him, begging you to open your eyes and let him know you were okay. He always feared that one time you wouldn’t survive it, that his forceful efforts would finally kill you. Even with the risk, you begged him to do it anyway. You wanted the power, you needed it. 

Now, it had worked. 

Your sick, deranged laughter bounced off of the glass, fueled by the euphoric high that spun in your mind. You felt the balance shift, and Kylo felt it too. Everything tipped into darkness, falling.

“You did it.”

“I did it,” you repeated after Kylo. 

You slowly sank to the floor, bare feet connecting with cool, black marble. The heartbeat of the universe was under your feet, and you finally stopped tumbling through nothingness. 

Kylo felt everything shift, your power pouring into the dark side. This was what you wanted, what you worked for, what you almost died for. 

“Supreme Leader.” 

“Empress.”

A grin spread across your face, hearing him call you that. The Knights of Ren all dropped to one knee, bowing to you. You were no longer his prodigé, but his equal. With training, it was likely you would surpass even his own ability. 

You felt it now, the connection. You and Kylo were one. His heartbeat was yours, thrumming in your chest to the same rhythm. 

Your black robes soundlessly brushed the floor as you followed Kylo to the throne room. General Hux stood in your way, as usual.

“Y/N-”

“Empress!” Kylo snapped, correcting him. Ginger eyebrows shot up, and he barked out a laugh of disbelief. 

“Come on, you didn’t manage to open up your broken doll!” He snorted. 

Less than a millisecond passed before Hux’s body cracked against the other end of the hallway. Your fingers squeezed, choking him from meters away. Kylo made no move to stop you, or save his general from your new abilities. 

He choked and struggled against your invisible grip on his throat, sick pleasure twisting in you as you watched the light bleed from his eyes. His fear only fueled you, his terror buzzing like electricity up your spine. 

Just before the loss of oxygen was fatal, you dropped him, releasing your hold. Hux wheezed and gasped, fighting for his life in a squirming pile on the floor. 

“Disrespect me again, General Hux, and I won’t be so gentle,” you warned, your voice dripping with sadistic amusement. His green eyes were wide, and he looked to Kylo for protection, who only smirked at your warning. 

The Knights’ steps echoed after you like thunder, three going to either side of the throne as you took your place beside Kylo, instead of kneeling on the floor beneath him. The First Order was at your fingertips, an army at your command. And soon, the who galaxy. 

Everyone felt it, the shift in The Force. The Jedi filled with dread, feeling your power pull the galaxy like a magnet. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Kylo’s voice echoed Anakin’s. 

“Come with me.”

You obeyed, following Kylo through the dark hallways to his chambers. The door slid shut behind you, securing the two of you in the huge, dark room. Stars glittered outside the wall of glass, planets far-off in the distance. Everything was black and luxurious, all but the red First Order symbol on the back of the door. 

Your black robes slipped from your body, discarded with Kylo’s. He was huge in every respect, towering over you and filling the room with his presence. Before, you had felt small, and powerless under him, but it was different now. It didn’t feel the same, not anymore. He dominated you physically, but your mind and power were just as sharp as his. 

“Please,” you didn’t need to elaborate. Kylo nodded, and you pushed him down against the black silk sheets. He moved easily, his large hands sliding up your waist and steadying you as you straddled his hips. 

“Let me please you,” you whispered, your hot breath stirring Kylo’s dark locks, your lips ghosting his cheekbone. He nodded, and Kylo’s black eyes widened in surprise as his hands were pinned above his head. He tugged at his wrists fruitlessly, unable to move, even when he tried. 

“Y/N?” His deep voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Just lay there and take it, Supreme Leader. Give yourself to me, let go,” you breathed. 

Your lips lightly brushed against his, and he leaned up to really kiss you. It was needy and desperate, his walls crumbling as he submitted to you. Your praises were soft, soothing his desperation to touch you, to flip you over and pound into you like he was so accustomed to doing. 

Your tongue slid along his full lips before gliding against his own, deepening the kiss. You swallowed Kylo’s low whine as your force wrapped around him and began to stroke his cock like an invisible hand. He fought against the restraints, wanting to take control and feel you actually touch him. 

Choked whimpers escaped him as your fingers moved, making the pressure tease him. You smiled, brushing his curls away from his forehead. Your nails lightly dragged down his broad chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake. 

“What is it, love?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head to the side and leaning forward. 

“You’re being a fucking tease,” he snarled. 

Kylo thrashed on the bed, but you couldn’t focus any more strength on restraining him. Maybe with more practice, but you were unsure if Kylo would help after your misuse of power. 

“Oh, Kylo, what would your knights think of you if they saw you like this? The First Order? Their Supreme Leader weak for me.” 

He growled out a threat, cut off sharply with a mewl when your tongue lapped at the head of his cock, making his hips twitch. Your nails dragged over this thighs, moving between his legs to replace The Force with your own touch. Your movements became more focused as you tried to drag him toward an orgasm, finding your efforts quickly successful. 

Kylo came in thick ribbons with a yell, his curls fanning out around him as his head fell back, his hips thrusting up into your hand. You sat on his thighs, pinning him down as you continued to tease him, not letting up. 

“Y/N! Fuck, don’t!” 

“I will fucking tear you apart when you let me go-” he threatened, crying out as you overstimulated him. You had the Supreme Leader whimpering at your little touches.

You were drunk on the power you asserted, seeing him falling apart and begging you to let him go, until his dark eyes were wet and his voice was nothing more than broken whines. 

You were about to sink yourself down on him, using him to get yourself off, when your attention faltered for an instant at the touch to your throbbing sex. Kylo seized the opportunity, tearing free of your hold. 

A frightened scream escaped you as your body was thrown against the mattress, your wrists trapped in First Order binder handcuffs. Your front was pressed against cool sheets, Kylo not bothering to use his power to restrain you, wanting all of it to go into your torture. 

“I hope you enjoyed that, because it was the last time you ever overpower me,” Kylo seethed, biting down into the smooth skin of your shoulder, ripping a yelp from you. 

“Kylo, I’m sorry,” you tried to backtrack, but it was too late. 

Kylo gripped your grips and jerked you onto your knees, your face still pressed against the mattress. You squealed as he buried himself inside of your slick cunt in one violent thrust. He stretched you out, forcing your body to accommodate him, not bothering to give you time to adjust. 

His grip was painfully tight on your hips as he slammed into you, fucking you aggressively. The pent-up rage from the way you’d toyed with him came pouring out in the way he tore you up. Painful pleasure blinded you, your body screaming from the stimulation. The invisible touch was stroking your clit and swirling around your nipples, as well as squeezing your throat, reminding you further who was in charge now. 

You writhed beneath Kylo as he used you, going as rough and as hard as he could until you collapsed, limp and weak beneath him. Kylo showed you no mercy, fucking you past three orgasms, until your throat was raw from screaming. Exhaustion got to you before Kylo finished, and you wished you were numb by the time he finally unlocked your wrists and pulled out of your raw sex. You shuddered at every slight brush against your skin, the overstimulation sparking pain through your nerves.

He flipped you onto your back, his massive hand gripping your jaw and making you look him in the eye. 

“I am your Supreme Leader, and you submit to me!” 

“Yes, Kylo,” your breathed weakly, accepting the kiss you were given as solace. 

[hallospaceboyy]

You said a bit ago you wanted to write more Missy so hopefully you’re still taking requests for her? A fic where the reader is traveling in Missys tardis and has growing feelings for her, but is too shy to say anything. But she eventually notices missy acting on edge and reader decides to help her feel better, smut ensues ofc!! And bonus points if reader tells missy she likes her after!

Control

AN: Temporarily forgot how much I love writing for Missy lol. Thank you so much for this request!

Warning for smut, strong language

You’d tried hard to hide your growing feelings for Missy since you'd begun travelling with her, but it’s becoming more difficult to do so by the day. A mere glance of her pale blue eyes has your stomach doing somersaults, and the terms of endearment she addresses you with certainly don’t help. She seems fond of you, although you find it hard to believe. She’d saved your skin countless times, even seemed a little protective of you. You couldn’t seem to grasp the idea that a force such as the Mistress would have any feelings toward you at all, it just didn’t seem possible. She’s beautiful, intelligent, witty, and you doubt that someone as dull and so very human as yourself could ever be good enough for her.

Missy is tense today, moody and restless, and she’s putting you on edge. She’s slamming things and huffing as she rounds the control panel, and the usual dance in her step isn’t there. You lounge in the armchair across the room, trying to ignore her storm of a mood, but you can feel her glance on you every now and then, as you stare at the floor, trying to stop the thoughts racing in your mind that you’ve done something to displease her. Or maybe she knows. You’re fed up with feeling on edge, so you fix your gaze on the time lady, worrying at your bottom lip with your teeth.

“Missy?”

“Hmm?” She isn’t really paying attention to you, continues angrily pressing various buttons, her back now to you, and you huff, standing from your chair and approaching her.

“Why are you grumpy?”

“I'm not grumpy, pet.” She mumbles as she pulls the monitor down. It's off, and you see her regard you in the reflection as you come up behind her. She spins and grips your wrist hard as you reach out to touch her, pulling your body flush against hers, and she’s smirking, the first smile you’ve seen from her today. Your breath hitches in your throat as she gazes into your eyes, a glint of mirth in her cool blue orbs.

“Never sneak up on a time lady, dear.” She grins, biting at the air and you shiver.

“I wasn’t-" You shake your head and smirk then, relieved to see her playfulness returning. Two can play at this game, and you’re suddenly overcome with the need to shock her, take her by surprise. You pull your wrist from her grasp and grip her hips, lifting her effortlessly and slamming her against the console. Her eyes widen in surprise as your hands stroke down her calves and begin pushing up her skirt, and she raises an eyebrow at you.

“And there was me thinking my puppy was all bark and no bite.” She chuckles, wrapping her legs around your waist as her skirt bunches around her hips.

“So tense, Missy. Let me loosen you up a little.” You squeeze her thighs, delighting in the shudder down her spine, the way her mouth parts in arousal, her eyes darkening.

“How many times have you imagined doing this, hm?” She murmurs, her lips brushing yours.

“Shh.” You press a chaste kiss to her lips, teasingly light. “You can't be in charge all the time.”

“I beg to diff-" You kiss her harder then, nip at her bottom lip before plundering your tongue into her mouth, and she moans against you, legs tightening about your waist. She tastes like tea, so very sweet, and your stomach lurches at the sensation of finally kissing her, your hands gripping her waist, fisting at her blouse.

“Are you going to shut up now?” You murmur as you pull away, and Missy chuckles.

“I might, if you get on with it.”

You growl, roughly pawing at her inner thigh before pulling her underwear aside, fingers finding slick folds, and she's already so wet for you, her legs releasing your waist to part further. She throws her head back and moans as your fingertips brush her clit, and you bite her neck, just below her ear, sucking at the pale skin there. You want to mark her, claim her while she allows you to, while she's pliant beneath your touch. You pull away and delight at the purple mark tainting her flesh, and she chuckles breathily.

“There's the bite.” She gasps as you pinch her clit, hips bucking of their own volition.

“Would you like me to fuck you, Mistress?” You mumble, licking from her clavicle to her jaw.

“Ooh, full name. More bark than usual too.” She teases, and you roll your eyes, teeth grazing her prominent jaw.

You pull away, just enough to roughly pull her underwear down her thighs, and she squeaks in surprise as your force nearly pulls her from the console, gripping a lever to steady herself before lifting her hips, allowing you to remove them. She watches with amusement as you toss them to the floor and step back between her legs.

“Is it hard for you?” You graze a single finger over her cheekbone, face close to hers, gazing into her hooded eyes. “To relinquish all control, to submit to me?” You know you’re being brave now, maybe even stupid, but Missy awakens something in you. She makes you brave, she makes you stupid, and you want to consume her.

“Harder than you know, pet. But I trust you.” Her face softens then, and the hunger in your own eyes falters, replaced by shock at her admission. She quickly grips your face and kisses you, tongue entwining with yours. The kiss is desperate, and her nails dig into your cheeks as she nips at your lip, and then bites harder, and you taste the coppery tang of blood.

Your fingers part her folds, and she sighs into your mouth as you rub firm circles over her clit, and her hips roll against your movements.

“You didn't answer my question.” You whisper as you break away from her lips, and she huffs, tilting her head back.

“What question is that, poppet?” She breathes, and she grasps at the tie around her neck with quivering hands, loosening it and tugging it off, before beginning to undo the top few buttons of her blouse. You hum as her chest is bared to you, revealing the ivory slip she wears beneath, and you instantly lick between her breasts, moaning at the salty taste of sweat on your tongue.

“Would you like me to fuck you?” You press two fingers to her entrance and she growls in frustration. You bite at the swell of her breast, visible as the loose slip shifts against her heaving chest.

“Yes, stupid!” She exclaims, and you laugh before pushing your fingers into her, filling her to the knuckle and curling them deep inside her quivering cunt. Missy moans loudly, and you grin as you suck a dark purple mark on her breast, beginning to move your fingers in deep and slow thrusts.

“Now, now. No need to be rude.” You breath, pulling away to look up at her, and she chuckles breathily, gazing at you from beneath heavy lids. You grip her calf with your free hand and hook her leg up onto your shoulder, and Missy cries out loudly as your pace speeds up, your finger pressing deeper into her with her so delightfully spread for you.

“Ohh, you’re so-so good, baby.” She moans, and you can feel her cunt tightening around your fingers as she edges closer to orgasm, and you remove your fingers and add a third, laughing breathily as she cries out, grinding her hips against your hand. “F-Fuck!”

“Come for me, my Mistress. My Missy.” You pepper soft kisses to her cheek, nuzzling your nose against her soft skin and closing your eyes, and you groan as she clamps around your fingers, her hand coming up to clasp your shoulder, and her grip is bruising but you don’t care, pound into her faster as she spasms around your digits.

“Fuck fuck Y/N, Yes!” The noises she releases are guttural, animalistic, and you can’t resist opening your eyes to watch her fall apart as she writhes against the console, gripping you tightly to steady herself, her other hand clasped with whitened knuckles around a lever at her side. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her face contorted in euphoric pleasure, and your eyes drift to her chest, shimmering with a light sheen of sweat, the droplets pooling between her breasts.

“You look so pretty when you come for me.”

She keens at your praise, and you stop the movement of your fingers only when she slumps against the console, and her leg falls from your shoulder heavily. She leans forward to rest her forehead on your shoulder, taking rasping breaths and you remove your fingers from her to wrap your arms around her slender form, pressing a kiss to her hair.

Your stomach flips at the way she immediately seeks your warmth, her arms snaking around your waist, holding you against her shaking body. It's endearing, and not something you expected from the Mistress, her seeking affection, even after sex. You had expected her to push you away, resume her activities as though nothing had happened. But you can see she's struggling to compose herself, chest still heaving, and she nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck.

“I love you, you know.” You whisper, gently stroking her back. She stiffens momentarily, but soon relaxes, presses a kiss to your pulse point.

“I know poppet. Silly thing.”

There may have been a time that you would have taken offence at that, but you don’t now. Her tone is soft, teasing, and you sigh, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of her hair. You know that you'd remain by her side even if she never says it back.

“Don't you know I love you too? Ape brain.”

You burst out laughing at that, pinching her side, and she laughs too, pulling away to look into your eyes. Her makeup is smudged around her hazy eyes, but she looks relaxed, a tender smile curling at her lips. Her slender hands tangle in your hair, fingertips massaging your scalp, and you hum.

“But you're my ape brain.” She grins, and she wraps her legs around your waist as you kiss her passionately, smiling against each other's lips as you remain in a tight embrace.

[snakeysleepy]

Hypno Virus Week Day 7

Yesterday was interesting.

I apologize for the break in consistency, but my brain was so damn broken that I couldn’t snap myself completely out of it. Heck I even went back under in the middle of writing it. I had to take a cold shower to get myself back to reality after today’s run.

Which, by the way, was all three. Induction, obedience, and pleasure. So...here we go.

That black screen. The slow typing letters. They were absolutely triggers now. I could feel myself slumping into my chair as my vision narrowed down to just those.

Mantra time. Easy to just let the phrases spill out of me. It was like giving my mind a good scrub before it was written over again. Interestingly, I had an idea come to my mind (somehow). Repeating my mantra, on loop in my head, through my three runs. It sounded so fun and a neat challenge to not let my mind go completely empty save for the mantra.

The bell. Time for my induction.

I soon was raising my index finger, pointing to the center of my head. It was slowly traveling to tap there. I began to breathe quickly. It was so inevitable. And I was the one doing it. Well, the virus was, but my body was compelled by them to do so.

Tap.

A shock sent from my finger through my brain and down my spine. Electricity seemed to crawl through my nervous system. I sat limply yet immobile. I seemed to have lost complete control of my body at that point. No fear at all though. Just calm acceptance. All of this was for my good. All to help me be a good test subject for the virus.

A pet. A plaything. For the virus.

Reverse induction again. My mouth could move at least as I smiled dumbly. The virus was so good to me. This induction was so fun!

So fun to be reminded how foolish I was to run this. How now I was trapped. I was such a silly little thing. That question came again.

Do you want to resist the hypno virus?

Y/N

Remember how I wanted to resist because I liked being put in my place? I still do. However...

I could only submit now. It didn’t really matter what I wanted. One thing was for sure.

I. Did. Not.

Resisting was absolutely out of the question.

‘N’

.....

Very good, Rachel.

Waves of ecstasy. The virus had never praised me this week. God it was so much better than resisting. How could I even think to do that?

You know now that you can’t resist Us.

Grinning, I nodded. Sure, it couldn’t see me. Just felt right to do, and so I did. Questioning things wasn’t something I was meant to do. That was resistance. That wasn’t an option any more.

The virus hit me with a flurry of my triggers. Taking advantage of my pliant state to enforce them even more. Then... something odd.

Error! Resistance detected!

Rachel, you need to obey.

How was that possible? I felt shame. Where was that resistance? All I could think about was being good and obedient. The negativity washed away as soon as the virus began to soothe me with words of encouragement to give in, to surrender. I obliged. There must have been some, deep down in me. But I knew the virus was going to take care of that. Doing what I was told and being good would make it go away.

I was so thankful the virus dissolved it and made it just a bad memory. One I would forget soon.

I have to run the virus often, to make sure it doesn’t come back.

Bell.

It was so hot to see my body move to open the next file. Like an outside perspective. Briefly I considered this might be what the virus sees.

Next.

Oh, sweet obedience.

Rachel, you have (6) commands.

Six... ohhhh...

This would be the longest run this week. Anticipation rushed through me.

Spirals. I hadn’t gotten any this week. I wanted them.

So. Badly.

However...

I don’t remember much of the first command. My notes say the virus told me I would forget all of it. Which I did. All I have left as a clue to what this one was was one word.

‘Cloth’.

Make of that what you will.

When I came to with the bell, drool had formed a small pool on my shirt. Whoops. Still hot though.

We have been studying you, Rachel.

Finding your weaknesses.

Finding how to push your buttons.

Goosebumps. Fuuuck.

We are giving you a choice.

A rare choice.

Do you want your mind to be Ours?

There is no turning back.

Do you wish to continue?

Y/N

There was not a second of thought.

Yes.

Rachel.

Welcome to your new life.

The music. Then... the flashing.

Beautiful, bright, confusing. Words raced by.

I leaned back and absorbed it all. No need to worry what they said. Another sleepy smile.

Pure bliss.

No idea how long it lasted. It felt like a lifetime and a second rolled into one. The bell summoned me back.

You belong to Us now, Rachel.

I did. Truly, absolutely, and unquestionably I did.

As the virus does, I was rewarded. Fractionation was given to me once more. I was in a deep, euphoric bliss. Bell after bell after bell. I could still hear the mantra in my head.

No thoughts.

No will.

I obey

What the virus will say.

The phrases leaked out of my head from my mouth. I wasn’t sure how long I was doing that. Easy as breathing really.

I could stay like this forever.

You belong to Us, Rachel.

Yes. God yes. To the virus.

I was theirs. They has claimed me as theirs. Just as they would with so many others. So many good subjects for the virus. What a wonderful thing to be.

The hypno virus is a generous being. They sensed my devotion and gave me another reward.

It was the spiral. At long, long last. They knew what I had wanted so deeply.

I was so lucky.

Pulses of green waved in front of me. More words quickly skipped by. There was such a big grin on my otherwise blank face.

How silly I must look! How easy I was to play with! No wonder the virus took so much enjoyment out of toying with me.

Toying.

That’s all I was. All I needed to be. A toy for the virus. Just a silly human who got more than they bargained for. Silly, suggestible, sleepy. Toy.

At this point, the virus must have sensed my realization.

The bell closed the spiral. Obedience was done. Now it was time for pleasure.

I don’t even remember opening the file.

Before, I was always nervous about running pleasure. The thought that I might be denied that final release was enough that I almost didn’t want to run it.

Things were different now.

If the virus decided I didn’t get to cum, so be it.

I was a toy. I was happy as long as I pleased them. This bliss lasted far longer and far sweeter than an orgasm.

Not that I wouldn’t mind getting one, mind you.

In fact, as the virus told me I wanted to control my pleasure...

Hot, unbearable, arousal.

It had been building this entire time. How did I not notice? Now it was front and center, demanding it be satisfied.

No. I wouldn’t touch until commanded.

The virus asked the standard questions for each run.

Do you have a dom/domme?

Yes. A brilliant, devious one at that. The virus’ creator.

Do you have permission to experience full pleasure?

Yes. For the moment anyway.

Need ached in me.

Do you like to edge?

Yes. Damn it. I did. More than I should.

You might regret that answer.

I let out desperate moan.

Fuck. Fuuuuck.

Spiral edging

My eyes widened. I had never got this one before.

It was absolutely perfect. The virus was truly pleased with my progress this week.

We know what spirals do to you, Rachel.

You will become what you are meant to be.

Mindless.

Kneeling.

Wet.

Blank.

My heart beat quickened. It was going to happen, it was...

Flashing.

My mouth dropped open.

All I can recall was the absolutely unbearable pleasure. I couldn’t touch. I wouldn’t touch until told. My hips grinded on nothing. So utterly desperate.

Then, the bell.

The screen became black once more. I sat, panting. Whimpering.

We have decided your fate.

Please...

After analyzing your results...

Pleaaaaaase....

We have decided...

You will experience full pleasure.

15 bells will sound.

The last bell will give you what you humans call an ‘orgasm’.

Begin touching now.

Immediately my hands stroked and teased. I could feel them shaking, I was already close to the edge.

1...

2...

3...

I let out a labored moan. The virus was in no rush to reach the last number. I had to last. I had to obey. I couldn’t and I wouldn’t cum until I was told to.

9...

10...

11...

I was breathing so hard now. I was going to orgasm, so soon now. It was going to happen. The virus was going to let me. I was so good. I was such a good toy. I was such a good test subject.

13...

14...

15.

I had to bite down on my pillow.

Hot intense waves mercilessly hit me again and again and again.

God, I did it. I obeyed.

Finally, with the last aftershocks fading, I weakly glanced at the screen.

Rachel.

Now you know.

You need Us now.

The virus closed.

[jaeger-records]

As promised, today I’m going to share the whole scenario with you cupcakes ✨ It is Mikhail smut.... I understand if you had enough of my obsession. 🙈 The next thing will be some Yuliy, I promise. Hope you still enjoy it! 😉 Lots of love 💕 Lin 

[Mikhail x reader] [smut] [word count: 1.496] Sharp, dangerous teeth nip at the edge of your ear, skillfully sucking your lobe. A delightful moan dances from your lips. Mikhail is excited. He just started and you are already so eager to submit. He rarely feels alive but your luscious smell and the heat radiating from your body sparks something inside him. Lighting up a flame inside which makes his cold blood boil. Pressing closer his lips wander, down the junction of your jaw all the way to your carotid. Lasciviously his tongue circles around your life spot. Rhythmically he feels your pulse throbbing with each vibrant heartbeat of yours. It is paper thin, the wall separating his razor fangs from your claret.            You shiver. It is dangerous to fuck with a wolf, but it is even more lethal to do so with a wolf who is a vampire. Ecstasy ignites electricity inside you, your heartbeat exhilarates. Mikhail whines. He wants you so much, your body, your soul and your blood, it makes his mind go haywire. Only a fool would sink his perfect canines into this delicious treat right away. Pierce through silky skin, rest his fangs inside rosy flesh, suck this warm pulsating ambrosia, ravish it till his hunger his satisfied. Just the image of it is enough to make him almost come undone. Almost. Mikhail is an epicure, he wants to save the best for the last. You are not his prey, not his livestock, you are his lover. He wants to savor you as a whole while he makes sweet love to you.            Sucking on this sweet spot, he dips you deeper into the mattress. Old metal creaks under his weight. Long slender fingers rub circles on your ribcage. Last clothes join the long discarded pile on the dusty wooden floor. Resting on top of you he takes in your beauty. Just those ghostly touches made you breathe hard. Lashes cast long shadows on your dusty pink cheeks, your eyes are clouded with lust. Your lips are plump and slightly parted, saliva glistening them in a moisty coat. You look like a beautiful phantasm. He reaches out an icy hand, his thumb traces your lower lip like coaxing a wild animal. You should not play with fire. In an instant, your tongue circles his finger, sucking it in deeper and deeper between your glazed lips. Immediately he feels your warmth spreading through his fingertip. You moan and lift your hips rubbing yourself against him. Sweet love, if he would not have been crazy before he would be by now. The beasts inside him start eating on his composure and slowly he feels his self-control crumble away. He takes a deep quivering breath and closes his eyes. The last thing he sees is a cheeky smirk plastered on your face. You devious little thing did this on purpose.            When he reopens his eyes you a greeted with a raging blizzard and a feral roar reverberates inside his chest. Ready to mark his territory he licks his lips with anticipation, with hunger. You feel his breath fan against your cheek. You want to roam him, but he grabs your wrists pinning them above your head. For a second you struggle, he tightens his grip, there is a low baritone growl. You stop. It hurts but it is pleasurable pain. He leaves a trail of sloppy kisses down the line of your jaw and your neck. The tip of his nose lingers cold on your burning skin as he reaches your collar bone. Mikhail lets his mouth rest there only for a moment. In a heartbeat his teeth graze your fragile skin. You sigh with bliss. It is close, so close. It takes a lot to restrain himself. Your scent, your warmth, your blood so close. It is a spiral staircase sending him right into madness. Right in this moment all he wants to do is to fuck you and suck you. He is already so hard it hurts. It would be so easy to just take you but the wolf inside his soul reminds him to be gentle. You are his mate, not his victim. You made it clear, a long time ago, that you would be with him, beside him. You gave yourself to him, you trust him, completely and he feeds on that. He moves on, hauntingly passionate. Tongue and fingers mapping you, painting invisible patterns and leaving visible marks. Marks bruising instantly into a beautiful purplish indigo.            You chant his name, sweet cries echoing through abandoned walls. Mikhail is thrilled. He released his grip. Hands travel. Bodies connect. You bend and break underneath him, he has not even reached the best spot yet. He takes pride in that. Venturing further, he finds himself engulfed between your legs, inhaling your appetizing scent. Both creatures inside him threaten to break their shackles. His whole body shudders. He grabs your thighs. The touch is rough and nails dig deep inside your delicate flesh. Mikhail leans close, strands of his wild untamed mane tickle your leg. The look in his eyes is wild. The raging blizzard turned into a dark storm. Danger radiates from the core of his being. His fangs are half exposed. You feel vulnerable but your need sets you ablaze. You squirm. His hold is merciless. His nails delve deeper, tiny droplets start seeping out. Mikhail’s reason is almost rendered to nothing. His whole body tingles, he is aroused, needy and thirsty. It is a thirst that cannot be quenched by your blood alone, he knows that. He wants you as a whole. Mikhail wants to gorge himself on you. Drink your pleasure, feel you close, connecting to you like he was your shadow. A devilish tongue fondles those small cuts. The burning sensation makes you whistle between your teeth. A guttural sound escapes his throat. Mikhail did not know he could be even more euphoric, but the sweet hazy sensation unraveling in the pit of his stomach tells him otherwise. Shifting, he positions himself in front of your entrance. The picture you paint is a feast for his eyes. Cheeks feathered crimson, shimmering beads coating your lashes, body covered in a thin sheet of sweat. He drips white.            He sheathes himself inside you. You cry, solely for him. You are tight and hot. The friction is causing his breathing to become ragged. You wither underneath his touch. He growls and moans. Barely clinging to sanity, your screams lull him further and further into a tempting abyss. Suddenly, he pulls out and turns you around in a smooth motion. Pulling your hair he takes you from behind. Ecstatic moans fall from your lips, ushering him to pummel you even harder. He picks up his pace and pulls your hair harder. Mikhail meets you halfway, his hand wandering around your throat. It is a grip tight enough to hold you in place but not to actually hurt you.            He nuzzles his face against the nape of your neck. A gesture almost too pure. “Misha” you whisper, voice full of affection, and he knows you are ready. It is a tacit agreement. Eyes glow, crystal blue turning carmine. Angling your head, his razor fangs graze your neck cutting open a small spot. He is careful not to actually bite you.  Dark red droplets trickle slowly down the wound. Lips connect to your velvet skin. His tongue draws lazy circles, cautiously not wasting any of his treat. Feverish thoughts take over his mind making his rhythm stutter. Drawing a sharp breath, he presses his tongue just below the cut, the stream of blood increases. Mikhail sucks on your neck, hard. Pain shots through you, mixing with pleasure. Shivers run up and down your spine. You cry out but the sounds come out brutish.            Mikhail is engrossed as the fresh juice of your life prickles down his throat. It is rich and savory. It tastes of you, of your vitality. He gulps it down, swallowing every precious drop you are willing to share. Your warmth spreads through his body. It is an elysian feeling. Usually, he is disgusted by the taste of blood. It is only a means to survive but when you let him drink he feels grateful. Grateful for you sharing your life with him.            He is drunk on you. Your boisterous sounds thrive him further and further to the edge. The way he can feel your pulse quicken he knows you are just moments away from coming undone. Pounding harder and harder he never stops from collecting your oozing juice. Holding you tight you melt into one. You clench around him and gasps of joy fill the air. The tight knot inside him unravels. A few more thrusts and Mikhail falls over the edge. His lithe body collapses onto you and you both sink into the mattress. In the wake of your high he pulls you close. His tongue finds yours and there is communication beyond the limit of spoken language.