#cw: power dynamics

[a-million-usernames]

All Too Well (Intro)

Last year, @burningdownthedark hit both @leatherboundbirate and I with an idea for an au of our au, featuring All Too Well and I thought you know, I'm going to write about this. AND NO SHOCKER HERE but I'm still in the process of doing so. But this is a little smidge of a teaser. An intro to the piece, if you will.

Warnings: Daddy Kink, Power Dynamics, Professor/Student Dynamic, Gendered Pet Name(s) Word Count: 333 This is also on AO3, if you're interested in reading there.

“I don’t want to go back home—back to reality.”

The large, warm hand that rests on your bare thigh gives a reassuring squeeze as Jack looks over at you from his spot behind the wheel. The air is still tinged with a hint of summery warmth—warm enough to keep the windows down as he drives—in spite of the leaves that have already begun to change in the early Autumn days, coloring the hills in small pops of reds and yellows. Jack’s hair, now streaked with gray, tousles in the breeze as his thumb taps lightly against the wheel.

“I know, Princess.” Slowly, his foot presses down onto the brake, the car rolling to a gradual stop at the intersection. “C’mere,” he says before pouting his lips out to signal his need for more of your affection.

The scent of his cologne is much stronger now that you’re leaning across the console, a hand grazing the soft fabric of the scarf—your scarf—that hangs loosely from his neck. The more that you lean into him, the further his hand inadvertently slides up your thigh until it is disappearing beneath the flowy material of your dress, fingers grazing along your rapidly dampening underwear. A sound of satisfaction rumbles in the depths of Jack’s chest when your lips finally close the distance to meet his. The kiss is slow and unhurried complete with tongues that glide along one another and teeth that nip at plush bottom lips.

“Did you have a nice weekend,” he asks when the kiss comes to an end.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Jack is on the verge of leaning in for another kiss when a horn blares loudly from behind. His eyes shift to look at the light which has now switched to green and moves his foot off the brake to step on the gas. The hand at your thigh gives another squeeze before slipping away entirely as the sound of your mischievous giggles and the slide of his zipper fill the car’s interior.

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 10: Little

Author's Note

Word count: 8.4k (whoops)

Read the rest on my Masterlist!

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)

@surelyfreedombound @shinshans @lonnybunnys @davianos-blog @hauntedpostpersona @lizzylynch1 @kammerstx @harryssshouseee @slavicgoddess133 @persona1read1ng @katyldamusic @whore4damia @the-chaotic-cow @icarodamiano @gr8rainbowpunk @elvirabelle @bright-shiningstar @maneslut @stardustingold @little-moonbeam-666 @que--sera--sera @dustyinkpages@lapauradelcheez@girlnred @ami--gami

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[ae-azile]

Progression: Chapter 29 Preview

While Chay does work this evening, he may have lied about why he needed to leave for his shift early.

“There is an event,” Chay says to Kim, which is true, “I am going in to help set up and make sure new bottles are at the bar. I’ll be back late.”

Kim buys it. None of it is a lie, but there is an omission of one, single truth. If the circumstances were different, Chay would have no issues with telling Kim he's meeting Ye Joon. But Kim is weird about him, and Chay isn't sure if it comes from a persistent insecurity, a past experience with another producer, or something more complex than either of those things. If Ye Joon wasn't a respected producer and shareholder at the label Chay is now working under, he feels like he would pull away since Kim has such an issue with him. But he is a respected producer and shareholder, one who is involved with big international stars and bands.

And for some reason, he has taken an interest in Chay and his talent. Kim’s as well, but Kim doesn't really need Ye Joon’s support. He's already made it. With the new album, Kim’s place in the music industry will only become more monumental. Chay is still new, and while being featured on Kim’s album is a big deal, it still might not establish him as a separate talent.

At least, that's what Ye Joon says. But Ye Joon has been a powerhouse in the industry for twenty years. He knows what he is talking about. If he thinks Chay is worth putting work into, then he is going to be grateful for that and not mess it up. Kim should understand that.

But Chay also feels like Kim would make a big deal about him going to Ye Joon’s apartment. It was there or the studio, and Ye Joon made a good point about how bad traffic gets downtown around this time. Ye Joon’s apartment is also close to Yok’s, so it made more sense to meet there.

Kim probably wouldn't see it that way, but it will be fine. Chay knows it.

“Right on time,” Ye Joon says, smiling as he lets Chay inside. It's a nice, luxury apartment, one that is only half unpacked. Despite that, Ye Joon has two wine glasses out filled halfway and candles lit.

…Maybe he just likes soft, warm lighting. Kim is the same way.

“Here,” Ye Joon says, putting his hand on the small of Chay’s back as he leads him over to the couch, “Sit.”

Chay does what he's told and runs his hands over his knees as Ye Joon sits down next to him, “You said you wanted to talk to me about an opportunity?”

Ye Joon nods and reaches over to grab a binder, “I heard Kim doesn't have much interest in acting, but I was wondering what your stance on it was.”

“Oh,” Chay says, then tries to think out what he wants to say before actually saying it. He can sing songs in English easily, but speaking in it is a little harder. It isn't as natural for him as it seems to be for Kim.

Maybe he can ask for English lessons next. Kim keeps telling him his English is completely understandable and fine, but the fact that he has to script out longer responses in his head probably means he needs to work on it more.

“I don't know. I haven't given it much thought. I always did school musicals growing up and got prominent roles in them. I did acting workshops at performing arts camps my brother saved up for and sent me to. I got good feedback. My main interest has always been music though.”

“So you would be open to an acting opportunity if it caught your interest and could further advance your music career?” Ye Joon asks, then hands over the binder, “Because I have a partnership with a production and artist management company here. We are developing a few projects to include international up and comers. While I did throw Kim’s name around for another project, Noel made it clear Kim had no current interest in such a venture. But you are your own person, and I see you as someone who is…more suitable for this particular project. It would be a Thai and Korean based project-”

“I only know a little Korean,” Chay cuts in.

Ye Joon shrugs his shoulders, “You don't need to know much. The character I would have in mind for you is Thai and primarily speaks it. His love interest is a tourist from Korea, so he would need to brush up on his Thai and English, but your language skills are where they would need to be for this role.”

“He,” Chay says, “So it's a BL?”

“They are very popular in this country,” Ye Joon says, “Korea is just starting to realize the potential in funding and marketing shows focused on same sex pairings, but they aren't as…daring with it. The shows here seem to be unafraid to cross that boundary. The actors go all out and aren't afraid of the more provocative scenes. Many of the actors have also entered the music industry, either while acting or they transition to the music industry after developing a fanbase. This show would feature a well-known actor from Korea. He's a bit older than you - mid 30s - but that's what the script calls for. I don't want to throw his name out there yet, but I guarantee you have likely seen his work. He's wanting to do something more…unexpected. Dark. He's normally cast as a leading man, but wants to make some waves. Sometimes, that includes some onscreen controversy. Seeing him cast with a younger man as his love interest would get a lot of people talking in Korea. But it's a great script, and he will need a costar around your age with great musical abilities. If you play the part just right, he won't be the only one everyone is talking about.”

“...Oh,” Chay says, then clears his throat, “Uh…I can take it back with me and read it, if you want. Maybe see how I feel-” 

“A read-through would be more immersive, with you reading as the character I have in mind for you,” Ye Joon interjects, his voice gentle but commanding, “We don't have to read the whole thing, of course. I respect that you are still loyal to your other workplace for the time being, even if I don't fully understand it. But I do understand it is important to be punctual. I think we have time for half though. So why don't we get started?"

[karamelised]

Microfic: Unhand // for @microficmay Pairing: Drarry Rating: Mature (TW: power dynamics) Words: 437 Posted on AO3 here

------

They stood inches apart, the vast room silent except for their ragged breathing. Harry's hand moved almost involuntarily, gripping Draco's jaw.

Draco flinched, but not enough to break the contact. The touch was electric, sending shivers through them both. With a firm grip, Harry turned Draco's face left, then right, before finally centering it. Draco offered no resistance.

"Unhand me, you oaf," Draco had said the first time Harry touched him like this. But his eyes had betrayed the desperation his words denied. 

These days, he simply let Harry do as he pleased. This silent submission was the kind of control Harry had never known before, and the more Draco yielded, the more insatiable Harry's need became.

He let Draco see that need etched on his face, pressing his lower body closer to drive the point home. Draco's breath hitched, his eyes squeezing shut in response.

"We can't... My father is in the next room," he whispered, voice trembling, tinged with panic.

"So he is," Harry affirmed. As an Auror assigned to Malfoy Manor after the war, it was his job to know. But it didn't matter now. They teetered on the edge of something dangerous and transformative, something far, far more interesting than Lucius Malfoy's whereabouts.

Instead, Harry leaned in, feeling Draco's erratic breath on his face. He slid his hand up, tracing Draco's bottom lip with his thumb. 

Draco's mouth parted on a gasp, and Harry pushed the digit in. A thrill shot through Harry when, despite trembling legs and the way he slid down the wall, Draco let him.

Harry's knee nudged between Draco's, anchoring him in place. The hitch in Draco's breathing at that contact barely registered. Mostly, Harry watched, transfixed, as his thumb pushed between those spit-slick lips, in and out, in and out.

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing closer, his hips finding a hard rhythm.

Draco whimpered, sucking harder.

"Draco," Harry whispered, the name feeling both strange and oddly familiar on his tongue. He had never been this close to anyone, had never seen anyone this vulnerable — not even in battle.

Draco turned his head away sharply. "Don't," he whispered, eyes squeezed shut. A flush colored his cheeks, which Harry rather liked. "Please don't call me that." 

He spoke in a voice so fragile, the slightest breeze might shatter it. In contrast, his mouth looked positively obscene. Harry wanted to push him to his knees.

Draco's eyes fluttered, as if sensing Harry's thoughts. "I can't," he murmured, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "I'm... me."

"You can," Harry said softly, his voice steady and sure. "You don't have to be alone anymore.”

[lingrimmart]

dan apologized and herbert weaponized it instantly

[lambcultist]

 ۪  ׂ   ۪  ꒰  mdni ꒱ ֪   ׂ ۪ just having thoughts about being cassandra kiramman's. that's it. simply belonging to her. you are hers, but she is not yours—not yet, that's what you tell yourself. she's only with tobias for reputation, not love. she doesn't love that man, she can't. she loves you. you know this because she lets you up onto her lap when she's sure she will not be interrupted by unwelcome eyes. you know cassandra loves you because she kisses you slowly and warmly. your heart stutters whenever the older woman licks into your mouth, caresses your lips against her own soft ones. she pats your bum and lets a kiss linger on your cheek before guiding you onto your knees below the desk. you already know what to do—hiking her dress up and waiting between her spread thighs. you know she loves you because you kiss her cunt so sweetly, 'n you're such a well behaved girlfriend. you know councilor kiramman loves you because you pretend she does.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Was thinking about how in dreamtale nightmare has replaced killer multiple times and how that means the power dynamics between nightmare and killer is so severe that nightmare basically has the power to decide if killer has the right to continue existing or not

[a-million-usernames]

All Too Well (Part Two)

Last year, @burningdownthedark hit both @leatherboundbirate and I with an idea for an au of our au, featuring All Too Well and I thought you know, I’m going to write about this. AND NO SHOCKER HERE but I’m still in the process of doing so. This is the second part, which is a follow up to the Intro, which you can read here.

Warnings:Female Reader, Angst, Daddy Kink, Gendered Pet Names, Student/Teacher Power Dynamic, Light Choking/Gagging Word Count:1,435 As always, you can find this over on AO3.

Months later the mild warmth of early Autumn days has long since given way to the bitter and whipping winds of a colder than normal winter, but in the confines of a locked office, the two of you remain oh so warm. Panted breaths remain hushed to prevent those kept at bay by the closed door from becoming privy to what’s currently unfolding as clumsy hands fumble with a belt, the buckle soon knocking heavily against the exposed wooden top of the desk between your parted legs. Jack utters a soft hush against your lips, swallowing down a moan that slips free from your lips when deft fingers pull aside dampened fabric to explore your already glistening cunt. You respond in kind, wrapping a hand around the thick girth of his half-hard cock, causing his hips to buck further into your grasp; a silent urging for you to continue.

“That’s it, Princess,” he gasps into your mouth when your hand gives a tentative squeeze before setting a steady rhythm. “Want you to get Daddy nice ‘n’ hard before I–mmmfffuck–wreck this little pussy.”

A happy little noise is emitted, something akin to a breathy laugh or maybe a gasp—perhaps a mix of the two, Jack cannot really tell. Truthfully, he’s too far gone to really care, lost in the way that your soft hand strokes up and down his cock that now stands rigid against your palm. His hips begin to give tentative thrusts that move in perfect rhythm with your hand and this time, when your thumb glides along the head of his cock to spread and smear the beads of precum that have already gathered, it is Jack who is forced to be as quiet as possible. His lips part against yours, and a puff of hot air fans across your face as he huffs out a silent moan in response to the touch. God, he’s going to miss this when—

No, he shakes the thought from his mind.

He’s going to enjoy this moment with you. And enjoy he does when he pulls his fingers from your slick cunt, watching as they glisten beneath the harsh fluorescent lights overhead.

“Open,” he instructs.

It comes as no surprise to him that you do as you’re told, opening your mouth to reveal your tongue to him. He slides his fingers in, showing little mercy when he jabs them into the back of your throat. He likes this, likes watching as your happy expression changes to one of focus and concentration as you struggle not to choke on thick digits. You fail, of course. You always fail—small choking noises fill the room, and as you struggle against him, he can feel the way that your hand inadvertently grips and squeezes his cock tighter, as if doing so helps to brace you through moments such as this. His cock throbs against your palm and, fuck, he’d love nothing more than to have you on your knees in front of him, his angry, red cock shoved deep into the back of your throat as you fight against him, struggling to breathe while he stuffs you full.

He shakes the image from his mind, chasing away darker thoughts that always linger so dangerously close—too close for his liking.

Now that his fingers have been sufficiently cleaned, he pulls them free from your mouth and uses the spit that now covers them to slicken his cock once he chases away the hand that had been holding it mere seconds ago. Even held in his large hand, his cock still manages to look impressive and intimidating and though he knows that you yield to him so perfectly, taking him with little complaint each time, he cannot help but wonder if this is finally the time you tell him that it is too much.

Jack takes a step forward, his slacks now slipping down to the midway points of his thighs from the movement. He takes his time now, teasing the both of you as he slides the head of his cock up along your wet pussy, circling it around your clit over and over again. He loves this moment, as torturous as it is for him, because he knows that it is even more so for you; the light taps his doles out onto the sensitive bundle of nerves coupled with the ceaseless circling are almost always guaranteed to have your body trembling beneath his.

Oh, how he loves to see you at his mercy.

He waits until you are teetering so dangerously close to the edge, right when you begin to spasm and clench around nothing, though you’re still not quite there yet. Only then does he allow his cock to slip down until it notches in the warmth of your cunt, and without allowing for any accommodation to his girth, Jack seizes forward, stopping only when he can go no further, until he is buried in you completely. It’s risky, he knows, doing this to you when there are people right outside of the door, administrators who could hear if you so much as let a moan or a scream slip past those pretty lips of yours. But it’s the thrill of such a notion that Jack loves so much. Even in spite of his rough handling, how he purposely tries to coax the faintest little whimper from you—tries to see how much he can get away with—you always manage to stay perfectly quiet.

His perfect girl.

Your pussy feels as if it was made for him, gripping him tightly, bringing him closer and closer to his release with each stroke of his cock against your soft, slick walls. The desk squeaks once beneath you on a particularly rough thrust, and though Jack shifts his attention to the door, his hips never once cease their relentless onslaught. His brow is beaded with sweat when he looks back to you, brows now pinched in concentration and face reddened by the strain of keeping quiet. He slips a hand between the two of you to work a calloused thumb against your already sensitive and stiffened clit, circling it over and over again until finally—fuck, finally—he can feel your cunt fluttering around him and gripping him even tighter than before. His free hand is quick to slip over your mouth, perhaps gripping a little too hard as he stops the cries that always inevitably slip free in spite of your best efforts to keep them at bay.

Jack, the very man who you’ve heard snarling, grunting, and growling like a feral beast possessed in your most heated of moments, cums with birthing more than the tiniest whimper. Throwing his head back, veins and tendons straining with the effort of being silent in a moment when he’d love nothing more than to roar with ferocity, his hips stutter and then still entirely. His cock throbs with each rope of cum that he shoots deep into your greedy little cunt. When he finally settles, the all too intense sensation passing, he bends down to deposit a single kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” you whisper up to him like a prayer, the words you’ve held onto for months now finally spilling free.

There is the faintest curving of his lips, you notice, but… Jack finds that he can’t bring himself to say it. The words are trapped in his throat, stuck behind a blockade of other emotions he cannot bear to burden you with here and now. It never comes, the verbal reciprocation you’d desperately been hoping for. Instead, Jack leans in once more and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, allowing his lips to linger for longer than necessary before pulling away from you to tuck himself back into his pants and make himself look presentable once again.

With a quick glance at the watch that adorns his wrist, he looks back at where you remain atop his desk. “If you hurry, you can make it to your creative writing class on time.”

It’s impossible to miss the disappointment that flashes across your face when he finally speaks. Jack falls silent again when you all but throw yourself off of his desk, avoiding any and all eye contact with him as you work to fix your appearance before gathering the collegiate materials you’d left on a nearby seat when you’d first entered his office earlier in the day.

There are no more words exchanged when you vacate his office, leaving him standing in the center of the room, a hand passing through thinning hair. All that remains is a deafening silence.

[briar--rising]

It is so funny to me when people try to argue about who's 'worse', Lestat or Armand. First of all, worse by what metric? By the way they treat humans? The way they treat Claudia? Or (as it seems most people are focused on) only the way they treat Louis? And if it's by the way they treat Louis, are you judging based on what you would find worse in a partner, or by what Louis does (bc I would argue he pretty clearly has an opinion on that based on the end of season 2).

And most importantly of all, who cares??? They are both TERRIBLE. Everyone in this show is terrible! You can like morally reprehensible characters. Armand is my personal blorbo, and what he does is horrific. I can feel bad for him, and enjoy watching him, and think that his actions are heinous, and reblog art and read fanfiction of him, and analyze him without excusing him, all at the same time! And so can you with whoever you like!

Pitting these characters against one another is absurd. "Which one is less abusive" is a question I guess you can ask, but it's not a very interesting one. Much more interesting is "Why are they abusive in these specific ways? What about their trauma and personality informs their actions? Why does Louis react the way he does to each of them? What does that say about Louis? What does this show say about domestic violence in general? Are the rules different for vampires? Or is abuse abuse? Do the victims determine who should get forgiveness? Or are certain actions inherently unforgivable? Can you forgive someone when their victim hasn't? Is any of this different in fiction rather than reality? etc etc etc." There are so many interesting questions posed by the juxtaposition between Lestat and Armand and the way they treat Louis, and none of them are "but which one is worse so I can forever villify that one and hold up the other one as the paragon of what's good and right and perfect for Louis"

[kacievvbbbb]

Look I don’t know what to tell you. Michael is 19 and Lucifer, Gabriel and Raphael are middle aged. Yes he is their older brother, No it doesn’t make sense, Yes those still are the vibes. I don’t know what to tell you the vibes told me themselves…..

AU Michael us 40 tho

(Also Im a adams body didn’t physically age so he still looks 19 truther and a two body truther (sorry) and I like them being the same age)

[dandelion-emblems]

God Power Dynamic

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For those who are god-like, fulfill the "God" (power) dynamic in their relationship. Whether that be NSFW or SFW is up to personal interpretation.

This is neither a CisID or a TransID, use how you like.

(Pt: This blog has no DNI, Please follow your own when interacting <3 /End Pt)

[gothicseverance]

Light is that which allows the subject to be ‘caught, manipulated, captured, in the field of vision.’

—Gothic Light

Gif by @emziess 🖤

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Posting my tags in a previous post (although I meant to say “colors emotions doesn’t make him underestimate killer or stop him from defending himself” so basically color wont pull a swap and take killers “crying” and pretending to give up fighting at face value enough to be stabbed in the eye like swap was) here because I wanna hear the people’s thoughts.

killers control or be controlled concept of relationships, the difference between conditioned vs willing submission due to trust and the struggle for control & avoidance of vulnerability vs the growing realization of a desire to be cared for deep down and struggling with to understand if that makes him weak or not, the difference of wielding and use of strength and power.

the way killer would likely resist against the willing submission at first—unable to understand or trust those urges, and likely experiencing derealization even when color is taking care of him because it feels good and he can’t trust it or accept that it’s real or genuine and happening for no other reason than because color cares and struggling to get his body’s reactions back under control—not wanting color or anyone else to see that. but even the dissociation is like a pleasant, hazy dream—a good dream.

can see him slipping in and out of the haze—because colors touch is grounding him but also is too gentle, confusing and disorienting him—blinking and shaking in his head like trying to fight off sleep. and of course color would notice and would probably ease up on being too overwhelming too much, probably pull back and focus on healing killer.

[realbeefman]

tfw u are so desperate for control you will use anything, anyone, shred any relationship for The Narrative because nothing is sacred, everything is transactional, and if you aren’t the one doing the screwing, being the director, the showrunner, then you’re the one getting screwed. also ur still in love with the guy who groomed you a little bit. ok a lot. he’s not that bad when you think about it. and he has a lot of redeeming qualities. so stop questioning it! we’re fine. i’m fine. this. is all. fine.

[rush-the-stars]

good morning dash can i confess something

[dandelion-emblems]

Servant Power Dynamic

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For those who are servant-like, fulfill the "Servant" (power) dynamic in their relationship. Whether that be NSFW or SFW is up to personal interpretation.

This is neither a CisID or a TransID, use how you like.

(Pt: This blog has no DNI, Please follow your own when interacting <3 /End Pt)