#leave it in the wrapper because they always think it’s candy

[titus-androgynous-87]

Honestly, I have to say the absolute best part of being a middle-aged 100-footer butch dyke is telling men who piss me off that they can suck all 5 of my dicks

And telling them they can choose the size and color

[intoxicated-chan]

angsty fight between miguel and wife!reader

and then they make up yayayayay

Give Me Reasons We Should Be Complete

✿ฺ Paring ➳❥ Miguel O’Hara x F!Reader

✿ฺ Summary ➳❥ Miguel has been pushing you away for some time now. After a talk with a friend, you and Miguel try to sort things out.

✿ฺ (A/n) ➳❥ Inspired by “DANCING IN THE DARK” by Joji. Writing this made me think back on past crushes/lovers. But thank you for your request! I am also holding back on writing smut because it keeps getting labeled and it takes me longer to write.

✿ฺ Word Count ➳❥ 1.4k

✿ฺ Content Warnings ➳❥ Female reader, angst-to-fluff, swearing, Miguel is kinda a dick head, mentions of sleep deprivation…

Want more Miguel content? Check out my MASTERLIST!

You stood in his cold and dark office. The best source of light was his laptop but his huge frame blocked most of the light. You managed around the crumbled paper and thrown desk objects with a plate in hand.

“Miguel?” You peer over his shoulder, “I made you dinner.”

He nods.

“You know you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

He nods again.

“And you know that you’ve been here for a long time. I think it’s best for you to-”

“Take a break?” Miguel interrupts you, “I don’t have time for that.”

“Miguel, I’m sure whatever it is, it can wait a few minutes. All I’m asking is for you to eat something.” You try to set the plate down.

“I thought I made it clear that I do not want to be bothered. You’re distracting me. Leave.”

He didn’t mean it like that… He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean it like that…

“But Mig-”

“I said go.” He growls, his eyes turning its blood red from anger, “You’re becoming a nuisance.”

He didn’t mean it like that.

“Okay.” You tried not to let the crack in your voice show. You didn’t even bother to leave the plate behind because you knew it was going to be wasted.

“And don’t bother me again.” You heard him say as you left his office.

You took deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down before you burst into tears. But your hands shook, nearly dropping the plate.

You choked down your sobs and let your tears fall, the plate was left in the fridge, and you pushed yourself to your bedroom. It was basically yours now since Miguel was sleeping in his office.

The sheets no longer lingered on his cologne and any sign of his presence was gone, other than his clothing and a few photos. The room has become a mess of discarded clothing, old plates and cups, and candy wrappers.

How long has it been since Miguel showed affection? Or even looked at you?

This was normal behavior for Miguel, right? You should know, you’re married to him. You’re his wife. But he experienced loss, unlike you. You didn’t want to judge him for how he deals with his emotions, he’s emotionally distant. You knew that from the start.

And because of this, you felt like he deserved more than what you could give him. It’s what kept you going through the many times Miguel tore your heart, how it squeezed in pain at his actions and words. How you look the other way and ignore his hurtful words.

You couldn’t sleep. You left the still cold bed and dressed in something warm and headed up to the roof.

You sat on the edge, looking at Nueva York. How beautiful it looked during the night, which is one of the reasons why you liked sitting up here.

“Sitting all by yourself?” You tense up only to relax when you know that voice, “At this time? All alone?” Peter B. lands next to you, his daughter in his arms.

“I would ask my husband to join me but he’s too busy.” You respond truthfully.

“Again? He’s been at this all week.” He sits next to you.

“Yeah.” You huff.

“And… how are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really? Because it doesn’t look like it.” He offers Mayday who reaches out to you.

You take her and set her down on your lap, “I just don’t know what to do, everything I do seems to bother Miguel. Checking up on him, bringing him food. It feels like he’s doing this on purpose.”

“Miguel’s always been difficult and from the time I spent with him… He’s different, not like the rest of us. He’s accepted his fate as Spider-Man and believes he’s destined for bad things 24/7. But good things do come along, like you. I think… I think he’s trying to come to terms that he can get it because he deserves it.”

Mayday coos, pulling at your hair, “And I think Miguel is scared. He puts on his tough act because he has to, yet he’s afraid to admit he’s scared. Normally, people would’ve given up on him. Why haven’t you?

“Till death do us part. I don’t want to lose him. I don’t give up on him because when you love someone, you love them every single day as who they are.”

“Talk about romantic.”

“Oh please.” You look down at Mayday, “Plus I think-”

“There you are.” You jump and this time, you remain tense, “I was looking for you.”

“Now you’re looking for me?” You respond, refusing to turn your head.

“It’s late, (Y/n). It’s dangerous.”

“I’m here, she’s alright.” Mayday jumps into her father’s arms.

“I’ve already had enough of you. Please, (Y/n).”

“It’s fine.” You tell him, following Miguel inside.

You head to the bedroom, “Where are you going?”

“Bed.”

“(Y/n)-”

“I’m tired and I do not want to be bothered. That includes you too, Miguel.”

“Excuse me?” He follows you into the bedroom.

“You heard me.”

“Please, (Y/n), talk to me.” Miguel begs.

“I’m sorry, did you just say talk? Like I have been trying to do for the past week?”

“(Y/n)-”

“You know what? No, no. You do not get to try to get me to talk after all of this. I have been trying, I have been all in. All I asked of you was to look after yourself.”

“I know.”

“You know? You KNOW?” You scoff rather loudly, “Did you know that Lyla has even talked to me about your behavior? I’m worried about you Miguel. All the damn time, even more when I see you not eating and staying up all night. All I ask is one minute, one bite of the damn food.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“Is sorry all you have to say? Not even a half assed excuse?” You see Miguel trying to form a sentence but nothing leaves his left and his head hangs low, “I need to be alone.”

You walk past him but he grabs your arm, “Please don’t leave.” He says, “Please don’t walk out that door.”

“I’m sleeping on the couch, you could have the bed.” You look up at him.

“I love you, (Y/n). I know I don’t say it as much but I fucking love you. He’s right, you know. I am scared. Scared of everything. Because at first, I didn’t think I could have that, have you. You let me hurt you and that is unforgivable.”

He’s crying. Looking right at you, letting himself be bare right in front of you. His grip on your arm loosens and his hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks. You could hear his staggered breathing, trying to keep himself composed.

“But I wasn’t lying when I said I love you, I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted a family, and I wasn’t lying when I said that you make me believe in love.”

“I’m always here for you, Miguel. You don’t have to go through things alone, but when you want to, I’m here.” You take one of his hands into yours, pulling it away from your face but keeping a tight hold on it.

“It’s not that easy. I hurt you, I understand why you don’t want to.”

“I love you, Miguel. We’ll work on this. I promise you.” After a moment, Miguel practically tackles you, nearly falling to the ground. The hug is tight and warm, and you could feel your shirt become wet with Miguel’s tears.

“You’re okay, right?” His voice cracks as he speaks through his sobs, “Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I promise you, I am okay.” You whisper.

“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“You can start by getting some rest. But you’ve got a lot of apologies O’Hara.”

You don’t know how long you and Miguel stayed like this, nor did you care. All you cared about was Miguel and he felt complete at last.

© 2023 Intoxicated-Chan, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform with permission.

[stylesharrys]

Y/N’s never been with a man like Harry before. (Blurb)

A/N: I haven’t posted any content on here for a while (but I’m working on it I promise), so here’s a little blurb for you darlings — I’m also opening up requests again so if you have any blurb ideas, feel free to send them in <3

//

For as long as she could remember, Y/N had always done everything when it came to relationships. The cooking, the cleaning, the date planning — all of it. It was never like that in the beginning, of course. Most men would love-bomb and tell her everything she wanted to hear. She’d never realise until it was too late.

That’s how it always happened.

And yet, she always allowed herself to forget those signs whenever she met someone new. Always told herself that it wasn’t fair to pre-judge anybody and that perhaps that’s just how they were and it wasn’t an act.

It was foolish, really — her way of thinking. Because time and time again, they always proved her wrong, always left her feeling alone and unappreciated until she finally bucked up the courage to call it quits and leave.

She tried to be more weary of it when she met Harry. She found herself mentally scrutinising every word he spoke, every promise he made. She’d lock everything away in a safe in her mind that she’d go back through if he ever slipped up or started showing signs that he wasn’t who he portrayed himself to be when they first met.

But that day didn’t come, it still hadn’t.

In Y/N’s most recent relationship, she’d never been so low. She’d stupidly agreed to move in with James and from there, it went downhill pretty fast. He never cleaned up after himself, ever. His damp towels would be left on the bathroom floor, his empty beer bottles and candy wrappers would be left on the counter instead of in the bin, and the one time he did wash the dishes after dinner, he made a right cock out of it.

Weaponised incompetence was what she remembered her mother calling it. When somebody purposely carries out a task poorly as to not be asked to do it again.

He didn’t cook, had no idea how to use the washing machine and at one point made it blatantly clear that because he worked, he shouldn’t have to come home and do chores around the house after.

That was the cherry on top for her. Because Y/N worked, too. She worked the same kind of hours and still did everything in the home and cleaned up after him day in and day out.

When her and Harry first started dating, she kept her heart close to her chest. She was far too afraid of making the same mistakes as last time, of wasting time and energy into someone who isn’t willing to give her one-hundred percent back.

But Harry did.

Harry cooked on nights that Y/N cleaned and vice versa. She never once had to ask him to pick up his damp towel or put his rubbish in the bin. Harry just did these things. He changed the sheets on his own accord, he did more laundry than Y/N and he enjoyed a weekly Sunday deep clean with her, blaring music and lighting a candle at the end of it.

Tonight was no different. She came home from work a little later than usual and dinner was already waiting for her on the table. Harry had remembered she texted earlier in the day that she was feeling under the weather, and prepared her some chicken soup with buttered rolls for as soon as she got home.

A bubble bath was run and fresh pyjamas were warming in the dryer. The floors had been hoovered and mopped, the laundry was folded and hung in the wardrobes and the trash had been taken out.

The realisation of something that happened every day hit her tonight for some reason. Perhaps because Harry picked up the chores she typically did as well, or maybe because he thought of her and did the dinner and bath to make her life a little easier.

Either way, it had tears stinging her vision and her heart thumping. It was silly, really. She was getting emotional over her partner doing the bare minimum — him pulling his weight and keeping their home clean.

“What’s a’matter?” His gentle voice cooed from across the table.

Y/N smiled tearily, taking a bite out of her roll as she shook her head. She didn’t want to make a thing out of this — she knew he’d only laugh at her and call her a numpty. (Which in this instance, she was.)

“Nothing, I just appreciate this a lot,” she swallowed her food as the tears began to dry.

Harry squinted at her, not quite buying what she was saying. “Y’sure? If the soups bad, you can be honest and tell me. Promise I won’t get too upset.”

She laughed at him, shaking her head. “I just hope you know how much I appreciate and acknowledge what you do in our home and our relationship. Thank you for not leaving everything on my shoulders.”

Harry’s face softened into one of adoration, like he couldn’t believe she was thanking him for doing what any responsible adult should. But he understood. She’d told him about her exes, about how she felt like their mother ninety percent of the time.

Harry couldn’t imagine ever being like that.

“I appreciate and acknowledge everything you do, too. Know you’ve had a rough day, didn’t want you coming home to stuff to do. You can have your soup, take a long bath and I even charged your Kindle.”

Y/N smiled at him, lovingly. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” Harry’s words were sincere, and she knew he meant what he said. “Oh, and I cancelled the plumber for tomorrow, so you can still get your nails done.”

She frowned, finishing the last of her soup. “Why? Did he come out today?”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “I sorted it.”

Y/N quirked a brow. “Sorted it as in…”

“As in I fixed the leak. You don’t need to hire maintenance people for the house, babe. If you notice something needs fixing just let me know and I’ll sort it.”

His statement shouldn’t have made her feel hot inside but it did. A man that would actively repair their house and not batter an eye or complain about it? That would do it without being asked?

Now, why the fuck did that turn her on?

//

Tag list:

@kissfromadove @stilesissaved @kiwitsayedsugar @savannahwendel @triski73 @stylesfever

[gdjyho]

candy. | JJK

but you still lick the wrapper…

pairing : jungkook x (f!) reader

sypnosis : it’s just wrong. that’s the older brother figure you never had. but is it worng if no one knows?

warnings : nipple sucking, spit play, pussy eating, fingering, cum play, crying during sex( dacryphilia is it?), they get caught, pet names, dom! jk and sub! reader.

sugar coated, lies unfolded

✧ ✧

‘fuck’ you think out loud, as his soft, wet tongue makes sloppy trails around your sensitive buds. you grip onto his hair, stomach muscles tensing with your leg resting on his shoulder. he put it up there so he could get a better angle. or so he says.

‘that’s it, spread a little wider for me’ jungkook drags out his dangerous words. his fingers fart right to the end of you, and they can’t go any further in. your eyes prick up at the sudden sharp sting of him grazing your walls.

he knew what he was doing to you. he always knows what he’s doing, especially when he followed you up to the bathroom to help you get that stain off the low cut top of your dress. he springs up from the table, so eager to help you. it’s almost as if he knew this was gonna happen.

you didn’t think anything of it when he came up because you grew up with him. being an only child, he was like a sibling to you. you had watched him grow and in turn he did too. you watched him turn into a man, grow taller and his voice drop. he watched you get curvy, your tits perk up through your shirts and your ass get rounder.

jungkook leaves your wet nipple and switched to your pulsing hole. without any warning, his tongue is making itself at home in your walls. your mouth falls to an ‘O’ shape as you fight to stay silent through this ecstasy. he withdraws from the warm and sweetness from on his tongue to draw up his saliva and spits it on your pussy.

he begins to rub. faster and faster bit by bit. the aching sensation forms on your folds as you feel your organs twist at the need to cum. the door is slightly cracked open as a cool breeze laps over your drying nipples. your buds stiffen up once again and you whimper softly at the erotic feeling.

jungkook’s sister stands in the doorway, who you didn’t notice until you turn your head. it already seems as if he noticed her, as he stares deep into her eyes, her lips subtly parted and chest rising and sinking. her eyes move to you and you simply justt bat your lashes, and she mirrors your movement, tongue skimming a layer of moisture over her dry lips.

after a few moments, she scurries off to her room. your pussy is emptied from fingers and replaced with his tongue once again. his tastebuds yearn for more as you feel them graze and rub against your insides. the small dots caress your flaps slowly and painfully.

‘ your pussy is so good, you taste so good’ jungkook’s lips turning into a small smile as he breaths out those words against you. all you do is mutter out in response and hum in agreement to his statement as your cheeks flush out. you move your hair from your face, a mixture of salty tears and sweat make a mess of your face.

your back arches even more over the cold bathroom tiles, your bare ass hitting the porcelain of the sink basin. you cum, gracefully into his mouth and he swallows you up. jungkook releases your leg from his shoulder, peeling it off him as the sweat had clung you together. you pull his face for a kiss, your legs straddling his hips as your hands lock behind his soft hair.

you’re both left heaving into the kiss staring at eachother as you share this intimate moment. you look down at his through your bottom lashes with are clumped with tear drops, admiring his soft face. you were turned into such a mess while he sat there no different.

- erm. I’ve been gone a while but yh i think I’m back now. 😌 school was getting to me but im back!!

✧ ✧

[into-the-lokiverse]

Who You Really Are (Loki, God of Stories x Reader)

Summary: When all appears lost to an aspiring novelist, the God of Stories sends a message of hope.

(credit to @lokitvsource for the gif)

You weren't sure how much further you could go on, or if you could go on.

For years, one of the biggest things you desperately wanted in life was to be a novelist. To entertain with stories of magic, power, action, romance, and a little nonsense.

But lately, as you sat before your desk, exhausted from the day job you relied on to pay the bills, you just couldn't bring yourself to move forward with your debut story. The plot felt too twisted to the point even you could barely comprehend it at times. The characters once vivid, were fading into shadows and dust of their former selves. And the scenes you envisioned in detail started to feel...unreachable.

And yet, you couldn not stop scribbling notes at every random moment of inspiration. You clung to the memory of your characters.

Like a parasite or an infection, the idea of your story plagued your mind for weeks, months to the point where it never seemed to leave you. You could barely think straight about anything else, even cleaning.

Half-drank cups of coffee at every corner of the desk, loose napkins with random thoughts written on them, a garbage can full of tissues, candy wrappers, and tea bags, a folder filled with printed images of your dark-haired, blue-eyed muse, and a stack of books that you checked out for "inspiration" but hardly touched.

The floor surrounding your desk had a thin layer of dust, wherever there weren't fallen pens you hadn't the heart to pick up, or papers you abandoned.

Am I meant to be a writer, or am I simply possessed?, you contemplated over a cup of stale coffee. Am I truly, clinically insane with obssssion? Am I doing the right thing, or have I finally lost my mind? Maybe I'm just crazy...maybe I'm wasting my time, doing the wrong thing that was never meant for me.

Or maybe I'm just not worthy of being the person who...does things. The person who flourishes in doing something they love.

But just as you were about to put your head down on the one free space on your cluttered desk, you spotted a mysterious note in parchment.

It read,

I believe in you.

I believe in every part of you, even in that couple of paragraphs you've stuffed in your desk (which honestly should be cleaned, but you won't do it.).

I believe in you because I know who you could become.

Because I know who you really are. You're a talented, blessed individual burdened with a glorious compulsivity to write and far too much fear for your own good.

But who you really are, it does not matter. It is all about the stories. The adventures.

There is a last refuge for the unloved and the desperate, and the persecuted.

When life gets too impossible, when life gets too terrifying, find hope in this, my talented scribe. That when all else fails, remember that you are a branch on the tree of life.

And in the center of that tree, there is someone watching over you, protecting you like he's always done before, and will continue to do so.

Your branch is just beginning. So marvel me, and marvel yourself with all you do. My blessing is with you.

For all time always.

Loki

[ghostybat00]

*⁠.⁠✧Michael Myers with a chubby reader*⁠.⁠✧

🔪:I think he would be the type of yandere that wouldn't care about his s/o's appearance. (I mean, I think Almost no one in slashers cares about appearances, anyway)

🔪:I think he would like a chubby s/o more, anyway he is very strong, literally superhuman strength, why do you care so much if you "weigh too much"?

🔪:He would continue carrying you with ease.

🔪:It would be like a type of...personal feeder? He likes to feed you even if he is the most expressionless man in the world, Inside he loves it, he loves feeling like your protector, although he doent's show it .

🔪:He would enter your house, he would enter wherever room you are and he would stare at you, and then he would leave you a small sweet or snack, like some chips, cookies, or just a jelly bean close to you, and then he would leave. (Spoiler: The snack/candy wrapper may be bloody, but you can always clean it!)

🔪:This man loves your curves, he will randomly take you in his suffocating arms and squeeze you the air outside of you.

🔪:He may be the most expressionless, but it seriously bothers him, it irritates him that people make fun of or make comments about your appearance, which leads him to kill anyone who even makes a comment at you.

🔪:This will probably lead him to discover a somewhat strange fetish of his, he loves to watch you eat, seeing food put to your lips is a great turn on for him.

🔪:Fruits, sweets, spoons, it doesn't matter, as long as he can see your pretty lips around the food and see how with each step of the month that passes with you see how your body looks curvier and chubbier It excites him so much that he wants to just throw you on the floor and fuck you pretty little mouth :3

🔪:If one day you have a drop in self-esteem because of your appearance, he would give you more comfort food, and if you don't accept it, he will be a little offended and try to give it to you by force, but he always ends up giving you little pats as a silent way of saying don't worry about it.

[amans-mulierum-pinguium]

I mean, how were you supposed to be anything but fat?

You used to be so good about calorie control and exercising. Leaving high school and going into college you were the perfect image of a fit young woman, taking on all the advice given to you in the mandatory health and gym classes. You would go to the gym multiple times a week, fit runs into your schedule, meal plan, calorie count. You did it all. And you did it all right. You were exactly what society said you should be.

But that gnawing feeling never quite left you, did it? That sense that you never really ate enough at every meal. That you were a little too thin for the cold winters. Your body was slim in a bathing suit, but you didn't think you had any of the parts a woman should have. You were perfect but it was miserable.

And then you ate for the first time. You'd eaten before, obviously, but you hadn't EATEN. You had the time, space, food, maybe a little bit of weed in your system, and you gorged. Afterward you sat on the couch in your underwear, groaning from the pressure and discomfort. You felt terrible. You knew you'd done something wrong. But you also realized you liked that feeling, of having your toned little belly stuffed hard with food. It hurt but it felt incredible.

You spent months with a somehow more problematic relationship with food. You would do all the things you'd always done, maintaining that fit, athletic body perfectly, and then you'd slip up again. You'd smoke a little too much, or drink a bit more than you intended, or were home alone and got a but horny. And as soon as your mind was dulled a little you would lose control. You'd wake up the next morning surrounded by empty bags of ordered in fast food, candy wrappers, soda cans and beer bottles. You would feel horrible, mentally at least. The physical pain made you feel good, though. You'd curl up around your ball of a belly in your bed and make yourself cum before getting up for the day. Then you'd go for a longer run, cut out a meal, and try to undo the damage.

But then you stopped trying to mitigate it, didn't you? You got high and drunk a couple too many nights in a row. Your roommates had all gone home for the break and left you alone with a house empty of people but full of food. You broke that perfect routine you'd crafted over the years, and just never got back on the cycle. By the end of the week you'd not set foot in the gym and gained eight pounds.

That hard belly packed tight with food had, with regular stuffing, softened to have a thin layer of fat. You couldn't remember the last time you had a soft part of your body. And it just felt so good to touch and rub. And you realized you wanted more of it.

As college went on you kept doing that to yourself. You kept stuffing yourself on nights in, or even on those nights where you'd go out with your friends. You'd drink beers while you were out because you liked the taste and their higher calorie count, or you'd smoke yourself silly if you were alone. Your roommates, all gym bunnies like you had been, tried to get you to come back out with them in vain. They saw you were gaining, and tried desperately to help you out of what they thought was a depressive spiral. But you weren't depressed, you were actually the happiest you'd ever been. You were happy for the first time, because you were doing what you'd always wished you could have. You'd always wanted to be fat, but the thought was so repulsive you'd pushed it deep enough to believe you'd never wanted it. And now you could be.

It's been a while since then. You're in your senior year, you're still with the same roommates. You never got them to come around to your way of thinking, but they'd stopped trying to get you to come out to exercise. They knew you were a feedee and gainer, you'd finally felt comfortable in telling them, and they respected your wishes. Though they didn't understand. All they knew was that they had watched their friend quickly destroy her previously toned body and cover it with a layer of fat and lard.

But now when you ate, you ate your fill. Until your belly felt like it was going to burst, and then just a little more for good measure. And the cold didn't bother you anymore, because you had such good insulation that kept you warm and snuggly regardless of the weather. And when the summer came around and you went down to the lake with your friends, you wore a new swim suit. An adorable bikini set that was red and white. The best part was that people could barely see it, cause of how much your curves swallowed the thin strings that held it precariously atop your jiggling body. Your belly hung over the front and made it seem like you weren't wearing anything to cover yourself, though you could have gone out nude and your thighs, belly and fupa would've hidden it. And the string that wrapped around your massive hips and ass was swallowed by your side roles. The two small triangles of fabric that made the top covered your nipples and nothing else, allowing your huge tits to hang almost unencumbered. You bought the bikini a week before summer started and by the time you wore it you were almost bursting out. You had all the curves of a woman and then some.

You had a perfect body and were happy.

And you really were going to get that fat, sooner or later. It was just a matter of time. At some point you'd slip up, break your routine, and realize how good it felt to laze around and eat and swell. You're easily a hundred and fifty pounds up from when you first arrived at school, and you can't see yourself slowing down.

[iambilliejeanok]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!! “sleeping with” WITH BUDDHA IM BEGGING YOU I WANT TO CUDDLE WITH HIM AND DO THE NASTY AND CUDDLE MORE 😫😫😫😫😫

Warnings: 18+, overstimulation, dacryphillia, smut, nsfw and saw headcanons, (The Buddha mentioned is a character from the anime Record of Ragnarok and doesn’t depict the true nature of the real god Buddha. It’s fiction), fluff.

SFW

Maybe its because of his overwhelming love for humans and the fact that he was one too, Buddha needs all the cuddles all time. He loves love and genuinely enjoys the feeling of something in his arms, whether it be a human, an animal, or maybe even a stuffed animal. Yes, Buddha has a stuffy collection for his alone times indeed. That being said, if whatever he’s cuddling could wrap themselves around him and cuddle him back? He melts right then and there. It might even be better than eating candy under the pleasant shade of a tree in the Valhalla.

Buddha will most certainly not see sleep without being able to rest in your arms. He’s as clingy as a koala with how often he needs to feel you around him and most likely cuddles you all day. There’s never been a day hot enough to dampen his desire to be on you. “No baby, don’t you think its too hot?”, you try to reason, hoping he would be understanding enough to let this go just one time. “Why worry, the AC is running so you’ll need me anyway you dig?”, he says, gently taking your hand in his and pulling you into his chest, “Come now, let me pick you up angel”. And picking you up is something he does often, you see being a god, nothing is impossible and lifting you up to carry you from any position isn’t any problem at all. You don’t even need to jump. Sometimes, he will gently scoop you up with a single arm, desperately needing for you to constantly hug and kiss his face while you sit on his arm and lean against him, snuggling him while he prepares some snack bowels for the two of you.

He’s a big fan of sharing his candy with you, opening every single wrapper and feeding you whichever piece you desire. His hand is almost as big as your face, leaving you with no choice but to submit to his soft lips melting against yours with his hand firmly holding your face in place as his tongue slips into your mouth. You’re always eager to have some of whatever candy he’s eating, and he always going to share it with you, especially during a kiss like this.

Randomly squeezes you throughout the night when he changes positions. Buddha doesn’t actually need to sleep, but he loves the idea of falling asleep with you, so he makes himself sleepy whenever he sees you’re sleepy too. And in public the PDA doesn’t change much. He’s god so what’s anyone gonna do? Sits you on his lap everywhere the two of you go, unless you demand to sit on another surface, he will let you have your way with a cute pout on his face, that obviously goes away with a few soft kisses against his lips, but only he will decide how many kisses will do the trick. You just keep kissing him.

He’s so wholesome, how can you resist all that love.

NSFW

Buddha also doesn’t experience any sexual desire, but he knows a mere human like you battles with that, sensing even the slightest arousal you experience, which to his amusement, is always within his vicinity. You’re actually always horny, since he’s always in your personal space, so smooth without even realizing it. However, he does understand that what he does to that empty little noggin of yours, always filled with thoughts of him defiling you in ways even he finds entertaining. Eventually, he does approach the topic, hearing your thoughts from all the way in the kitchen while you thought about him in the shower, grabbing your breasts and tweaking your nipples as you freely moaned, confident that the running water in the shower drowned out your sweet sounds. “Woah,babe, you really want me to do that to you?” , he loudly chuckles, caging you against wall of the shower. Maybe you did have a heart attack at the sudden presence of your lover butt naked in the shower next to you, a heart attack he quickly reversed. He’s so close you could feel his skin pressing against yours, your pussy so hot and wet and Buddha knows its not from the water, swallowing the spit building in his mouth at the thought of your arousal on his tongue. “Bud-Buddha, wai—“, you whimper, knowing how overwhelming he can be at times.

Excited to fulfill another one of your requests, he’s already on his knees in between your legs, your thighs resting on his broad shoulders while your back is leaning against the smooth stone wall for support. “Buddha please!”, you whimper, overwhelmed with the anticipation of what he’s about to do to you. You’ve never gone a session without crying from the intense amount of pleasure he gives you and boy does he love comforting you through it all. It’s just so addictive how needy and dependent you are under his touches. He has so much fun playing with your body, his tongue plunging into your aching vagina, smiling at the sharp gasp you made, not expecting him to go that route so soon. Both his large hands on your hips, you know there’s never any point in fighting him as he starts sucking your swollen clit, flattening his tongue to lick your entire vulva before repeating his actions, your hand caressing your breasts while you bite your lower lip, submitting yourself to whatever happens.

He might be a little obsessed with you because he fucks you purely for your enjoyment, not that he’s not enjoying himself too, its just that he knows you need him like this and he revels in spoiling his sweet little angel rotten. Slowly plunging his thick, long member deep inside of you, his focus is only on your face, admiring the cute faces you make struggling to handle such a stretch, your hands gripping his biceps for dear life as he goes impossibly deeper, randomly pressing kisses on your lips while your mouth is open to accommodate your breathing, more kisses decorating your face as he thrusts his hips slowly. He’s just completely mesmerized with how stunning you are, his patience never running thin to make sure you’re thoroughly overwhelmed, slipping out of your pussy only to try and shove himself into your asshole. “Uh uh uh, its okay pretty, you’ve got this”, he says, trying to encourage you to take him, knowing damn well he’s making a complete mess of you. You’re literally whimpering, choking on a scream with every thrust into your tight asshole, his godly cock massaging every inch of your walls, his thumb reaching down to start massaging your clit, a small smirk on Buddhas face when he feels your making a mess, the shivering of your thighs growing more violent as he keeps the same pace, his thumb still massaging your clit, “Buddha!!! no no I can’t”, you say out of breath, only hoping he understands you, but you know he’s not ending this here. “Shh shh angel, you can take it, gimmy kissy, c’mere”, he softly says, he’s warm breath on your face, finally pulling his dick out of your rectum to realign it with your squirting vagina. Crying out loudly, you could feel him rub himself along your clit, knowing what this meant. You begin kicking your legs, attempting to crawl away from him before he simply holds you down your thighs, pulling you closer to him again, pushing himself into you again, moving slowly since he was too big move too fast. “Fuck!”, he growls above your cries. “Fuck! No sweetheart its okay, keep coming for me, you’re such a sweet little angel you know”, he coos at you, his only goal to fulfill your fantasy…a fantasy you obviously can’t handle.

[the-s1lly-corner]

hi! Hooe ur having a good day so far ;)

if its not a big thing to ask, could you do the TADC crew with a s/o who has a really big sweet tooth? Like they dont need to eat, but anytime something slightly sweet is presented they always eat it no matter what? Thank you!

TADC cast x a reader w/ a sweet tooth!

yipee third request of the day! just got 13 more then im all caught up!! thinking about it more i might reopen requests day after tomorrow, if i finish all the current requests today!

CAINE:

congrats! there isnt a better source of sugar in the digital world than from the tooth man himself; bro literally pulled a cake out of thin air youre set for life if you want to eat treats! i like to think he would make a mental note of what sweets are your favorite and for what reason; taste, texture, smell, stuff like that

i personally hc that since caine is an ai he cant really taste, at least not in the same way we can, so bonus idea, imagine describing what things taste like to him, ,i think thats cute

POMNI:

when you told pomni that you had a sweet tooth, she assumed that you had a normal sweet tooth; as in you simply liked having a little treat here and there. imagine her shock when caine promises sweets as a reward for completing an IHA and you end up going full ham trying to secure the reward. maybe its because your sweet tooth is that intense, or maybe you havent had many chances to indulge since entering the digital world... whatever it may be, i think pomni would give you her candies and treats; she seems like a more bitter flavor enjoyer

RAGATHA:

writing her part first because i just got struck with an idea but imagine the two of you baking something together; bonus you keep trying to eat the stuff before its fully done (ex. you keep eating some of the frosting before it can be put on a cupcake or something). she playfully swats your hand when you try to snag more of whatever you're baking together. gives an apologetic look; would the treat not be better when its complete? come on reader, practice patience!

thats another idea for a real world au thing with ragatha, you two running a little baking business; i think that would be cute

JAX:

you guys fist fight over a bag of sour patch kids sorry i dont make the rules. i hc that jax has a huge sweet tooth, especially for sour candies. so uh, if you like sour candies youre going to have to make a stash... but considering jax has keys to some peoples rooms, you might wanna be smart about it... will share his candy with you if youre feeling extra bad one day, though

KINGER:

sweets, a loving partner, and a cozy pillow fort. does it get more comforting than that? okay maybe it can, if you pair a cup of hot coco with your cinnamon roll, but hey! side note, we see kinger sitting at the table at the end of the pilot... with food... so like.. how does he eat? does it just clip through his face? did he only get food to be polite? now i have a few questions... i dont think kinger would be a huge sweet fan; not really craving sugar that often... i think he would be a spice lover, though, this man would love himself a spice cake me thinks

ZOOBLE:

also not a particularly huge sweet fan, but i think similar to jax they would love sour candies. unlike jax, though, they wont go snooping around for your stash, though! probably snags stuff from the common areas if caine has like a communal candy store in the circus, or if not... stares at jax. you WILL hear from them if you leave your candy wrappers around though!

GANGLE:

speaking of candy wrappers, i think gangle would keep them! gives them a use; depending on what kind of material they are or like... if theyre foldable (think like a gum wrapper) she makes little pieces of origami for you! hearts, frogs, flowers, things like that! sometimes gets you some candy so she can get the wrappers. also likes how the crinkling feels n sounds!

[1800titz]

HI FRIENDS. 18K here!! This time we explore breaks, because sometimes they are necessary! Also, we see Jealousrry, and we see Isla being Isla. Hope you enjoy!! (Feedback always appreciated!) (✿◠‿◠)

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE - WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE HERE

Open houses, to Harry, are a stage, and the gift of his gab leaves him basking in the luster of the spotlight with no stage fright. 

First time home buyers, young couples waltzing through hallways with gazes bouncing over walls with demure decorum, families with young kids who run amuck, darting from one end of the house to the other as he guides their parents through empty rooms, his dialogue friendly and bright — he finds comfort in any audience. Divorced milfs whose heels click over tile, mimicking wood varnish, trailing behind as his silver tongue sells, and sells, and sells — some of those really find his dialogue of “sleek, floor to ceiling windows,” and the “flowing floor plan,” and “custom built additions,” charming enough for hungry fingers to creep against biceps by the end of the tour. 

Harry, never in his life, has had so many nerves over a tour. Maybe just his very first open house, where he’d taken the reins for the first time alone. 

It makes sense, theoretically, that he’d be nervous to become enclosed in a space with Isla Cleery — his masked, blissfully unaware submissive, in a setting where so much was prone to go awry. It makes sense that he’d be nervous to let something slip, that he’d be nervous he’d find himself fucking into her, pressing her face against a full length bathroom mirror mid-tour, like the climax (pun unintended) to a dirty storyline in a professionally produced porno. Young, Hot Slut Isla Cleery Bounces on Raunchy Realtor Cock, or maybe Adorable Brunette Gets Pussy Pounding for a Discount. Something like that. That last one is especially depraved, but — gotta add some form of sordid cliche to create a flashy title. Click bait, if you will.

It makes sense to be nervous when his nerves are all he can think about, sitting behind the wheel of his Range Rover, parked on the curb as he waits for her own vehicle to turn the corner and pull up to the property. It’s all sort of a vicious cycle. 

She’d called him two days prior. He’d been laying in bed, in the midst of his Candy Crush bedtime ritual — culling ice tiles and smashing colorful blocks with point-inducing combos of stripes and wrappers. He’d stared at his phone as the LED display sparked alive with a banner over the top of the screen — an incoming call from an unsaved phone number. A pinch had worked between his brows, and he’d tapped over the banner with the pad of his thumb, clearing his throat and pressing the phone to his ear as he answered. A business call was a business call. 

“Hello?” his voice was low with incoming sleep, his vocal cords supplying a rasp on account of the silence he’d priorly stalled in. 

The pace of the organ behind his rib cage had picked up considerably when Isla Cleery’s soft voice had come in response, her cadence tinny through the speaker, undeniably delectable. 

“Hey!” his ears had swallowed her chime, “Harry,” the man had shifted a bit over his linen sheets, “This is Isla Cleery.” 

Isla Cleery. Bright, and chipper, and …randomly dialing his number at a strange hour in the night.

“Isla! Hi,” he’d responded, clearing his throat to curtail tacking on a quip of how can I assist you at this ungodly hour?

The uneasy wavelength of her inflection had spurred a crease to work over his brow bone — rushed, and breathy, and almost frantic in its phrasing. 

“Hi,” a pause, a half-hearted apology, “Listen, I’m so sorry to be calling you so late but — ah,” a stifled, little sound that had caused his nostrils to flare and had sent an inopportune rush of excitement slithering through to the trench of his tummy and frothing, “So, you sent me this other property, and I wanted to — I wanted to see that one. The one on, Mul-Mulner, was it?”

“Mulnich,” he’d gnawed into his lip, sitting up a smidge, braced on his forearm as his curiosity piqued. 

“Yes, the, uh, the Mulnich property. I wanted to see that one. So,” another pause that had his face contorting in bemusement — (was she running on a fucking treadmill?), “Can we set that up?”

The man had pulled the receiver back and toggled his counterpart to leak through the speaker setting, rolling onto his side as he’d swiped through his virtual calendar. 

“Sure. Yeah. Let me just check,” Harry had supplied, pausing and pursing his lips as he’d just listened — background noise, like a TV, a rustle, a sigh, a laugh track, an inhale, “Does Wednesday at two work for you?” 

“Can’t — can’t. Wednesday, at two. Anything — can you do anything later? In the evening, maybe?”

Harry had paused. He’d paused, and just listened, his ears working on overdrive to attempt to decipher whatever was spurring her strange behavior, the note of apprehension of her cadence, the — was he going insane? — desperation to her dialogue. There’d been nothing but the familiarity of a common laugh track and shuffling. His pupils had perused as he’d ripped his attention off of the odd display and swiped to give her a proper appointment. 

“Yeah,” the man responded after a moment of lull, clearing his throat, “I can do …five? If that works for you.” 

“Yes! Yeah,” He’d picked up on Isla Cleery doing the same on the other end of the line, her speech giddy and garbled, “Five. Wednesday. Yes. So, I can — I can come?” 

His jaw had set at the choice of words — there was just no way, but the frenzy in her inflection so vividly resembled the way she’d begged him back in the White Room, days prior. There was no way, he’d told himself. She didn’t have the gall. She didn’t have the audacity. She was working him into a ludicrous frenzy — or rather, he was working himself into one with the lewd train of thought derailing his composure. 

There was no way Isla Cleery was calling him and touching herself. 

“To see the property?” the voice on the other end had tacked on, coaxing him from the zoned out thrill of a wild imagination. 

“Yeah, yes. Of course,” he’d said. 

There was just no fucking way. 

More shuffling. A garbled sound. Something that’d incited his teeth to dig into his bottom lip, to sit up as he was met with silence beyond the sounds of a TV. 

“Isla?” 

More shuffling. There was just—

No. Fucking. Way. 

He’d felt his own stomach clenching up then, muscles rippling as blood pumped and the familiarity of deluded arousal, at the prospect, suffusing through his veins like quick-acting alcohol. 

“Isla?” Harry had prodded again, louder. 

“Yes, sorry, I’m so sorry. God, I just saw the time — I’m sorry, it was so unprofessional of me to call so late. I hope I didn’t—“ his face twisted up at the breathless onslaught of her breakless cadence, like her speech was expelled all in one, rushed breath, “Thank you for taking my call. Wednesday at Five. Have a good night.” 

His mouth had parted to inquire, because what the fuck — but from there, a click. The green logo of an active phone call had vanished. She’d hung up, evidently in a rush. Harry had stared up at his ceiling for a solid twenty minutes, ruminating on the odd encounter. 

There was, simply, as previously emphasized, no fucking way. 

So yeah, now, with his bare fingertips drumming over the leather of his steering wheel, he’s a smidge nervous to see her. His innards are twisting into knots by the time he catches sight of her white Corolla slipping in against the curb behind him. Harry climbs out of the car. 

“Hi,” Isla Cleery talks first. 

There’s no dainty bell sleeves trapped in car doors today — a pencil skirt hugs her hips, and a long sleeve with a funnel neckline adorns her torso. Harry notes the way she nonchalantly tugs to further lower a sleeve on the arm where he knows the bangle is manacled. 

“You’ve renounced …your renouncement of heels,” is the first thing he says. He wants to smack himself square between the brows with the heel of his palm — what an inane start. 

“Oh,” Isla shoots a glance to her choice of footwear — smart (Harry thinks, spiffy), dark pumps, “Yeah,” she bends a knee back and lifts an ankle a smidge, “Sort of had to. Felt a little weird wearing a pencil skirt with flats.” 

“And,” the young woman casts a small simper his way, “No evil grates, as of yet. Fingers crossed,” she lifts her arm, the left, where the bracelet isn’t, and bares friendly teeth. 

Evil grates …what the fuck? Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, her inner voice coaxes frantically. 

Isla is dying inside. For good reason — it makes sense. Being enclosed in a space, casually, with her dominant un-dominant-clad, has this weird butterfly-eruption effect. They bounce against her insides aimlessly, like little crack-infused insects. She’s nervous to let something slip — anything, and it’s too easy considering she’s been cuffed by a bracelet that sort of gives it all away within a split-second flash of gold and secrets. 

She’s unsure of what succubus-like tendencies of the day had possessed her to abandon her panties — that had been a dirty, last-minute decision of thrill, and it had seemed filthily exciting and sort of dangerous in the best way. The idea of ambling through a house tour with Harry, and knowing that she was entirely bare beneath her skirt. But now, faced by him, obnoxiously aware of her nude thighs grazing together under the fabric and … only …more debauched nudeness higher, well. 

Isla just feels like a pervert.

It bears resemblance to the sensation she had encountered two days prior, once she’d hung up the phone (and the sex-haze had worn off). That was another thing she was nervous about. There’s no way the man had just glossed over the encounter as entirely unsuspicious. It was weird, she was weird for that, Isla thought, she was weird on the phone with a stuttery, breathy inflection that was obnoxious in give-away, and he definitely knew something was off, if not the entire background behind the lust-driven call.  

She clears her throat in an attempt to ward off the flurry of nervous apprehension coiling in her stomach (that she’s sure will find its way among her vocal cords), “But. Yeah.” 

Harry grins. He’s just so — Isla ogles, kind of dreamily — handsome. And she knows him on an intimate level, (a very intimate level), but these glimpses of his face, in person… she doesn’t get the pleasure of espying those often. His hair, coiled and placed in soft ringlets, his dimples burrowing as teeth showcase and his mouth lights alive with a smile. Last time he’d been clean-shaven and smooth, but today there’s a soft dusting of facial hair over his jaw. She wants to kiss him, she wants to feel it brush against her own face, wants to feel it graze over her inner thighs as he sucks kisses into her skin like affectionate bruises as proof of his presence, and—

“Please,” the man folds his palms together, like a prayer, and pillowy pink curves with his statement, “No …impromptu rope swing climbing—“

Isla’s mouth jolts.

“In heels,” Harry tacks on, raising his eyebrows and gesturing subtly with his palms. 

“Ooh,” she rocks forward a bit, a pinch in her own brows, “Can’t make any promises. The rope swing calls.” 

“Oh it does?” 

“Siren song,” Isla nods. 

Harry’s mouth quirks. And then he clears his throat. 

“Well. I’m pleased you’re interested in viewing another property with me, but I can’t lie and say I’m not a bit disappointed that Sweeger Avenue didn’t particularly catch your eye. I’ll have to buy it if you don’t,” the curly-headed brunette jests. 

“It did!” Isla assuages, motioning with her palm and following as he turns slowly — a gesture that indicates he’d like her to follow in the direction of the house, “It’s a beautiful house, I’m just keeping my options open.” 

Harry hums. The young woman’s heels sink softly into the lawn, bright, neatly trimmed tufts crinkling with each step.

“Watch your step, there, darling,” the realtor warns softly as they venture over a pattern of concrete stone that leads up to the porch. 

“Oh — thank you.” 

She adds, once they’re stood under the awning of the porch, “And, well, you gave such a good tour, I figured another property in my price range was worth a look, right?” 

“Right,” he sends a soft grin over his shoulder at her (that shrouds the nerves he feels teeming below the surface), “Sure. Of course.” 

Isla watches him unveil a little key from his pocket and stuff it into the notch in the knob, twisting. “I will say,” the man starts, gaze cast to his handiwork, “while this one isn’t as… maybe ritzy as the last — y’know, all the bells and whistles of the reno’s — there’s still a lot of potential with this one. Character.” 

The door creaks and clicks on its hinges as it swings open. Isla follows him in, greeted by the sight of what she imagines, once upon a time, had been pasted with warm hues of color and overbearing wallpaper patterns. The entryway, as the first showing had been, is no showstopper with elegant twin staircases. The wood beneath her feet is scuffed, and faint stains litter the walls near the baseboards — but it’s far from time forgotten and termite embraced, as she’d assumed would tail the realtor lingo of potential. 

“Three bed, two-and-a-half bath — little more space with 2,052 square feet. Little more out of pocket, too, if you wanted to amp it up to that sort of à la mode Sweeger had,” the realtor’s shoes click over the wood in a sound that just oozes power, power, power, and Isla tails him, vision walloping the walls to curb the hunger that grows within her at something as innocuous as the sound of his dress shoes on wooden floors, “but if not, there’s loads of character to enjoy and build upon.”

The young woman sneaks a glance — they’re no serpentine patched loafers, but they’re smooth and glossy and jet. Simple. 

She wonders what pair will greet her on Friday night. 

“This one’s a bit newer than the last — but a lot of this stuff is original. Really a step back in time. Very open concept — vaulted floor to ceiling floor plan,” her vision flits over the living area, his velvety cadence like a pre-rehearsed soundtrack to fit a virtual tour posted on the web.

Isla gazes over the expanse of the innards — replicas of the imagery she’d scrolled through online. Only now, the lines are larger, the shapes are prettier, the space is more vibrant. Personal. It’s lived in — furnishings remain of the sellers, but there are no personalized touches of family photos (a key factor, she’d learned, to bolster prospective buyer imaginations, to spur their mental imagery into forming their own space). A half wall breaks a living area off from the entry. Set upon a platform (where tile sweeps from lounge to kitchen; a drab shade of beige others would perhaps not find nearly as endearing as Isla does — it’s a nostalgia thing, she’s sure) — between the wooded entryway that flows into an empty expanse of doors — are armchairs and a sectional in neutral tones. Beyond this, a formal dining area, and on the end is a little kitchen, broken apart from a hallway with another wall. 

“We’ve got these sleek lines that come with open space like this,” Harry gestures towards the sculpt of plaster and drywall shaping lips over windows in the lounge, “but we’ve also got little touches, like a time capsule,” he twists, motioning towards the staircase — an interesting piece unforeseen, “like the spiral staircase. White wrought-iron with wood paneling — you’re not gonna find these being built very often, anymore.”

Upon the grin the realtor casts her way, Isla ambles towards it, and she runs her touch over the railing. 

“Really pretty. You’re right. I don’t see many of these anymore.” 

Her sight is torn between the man — his charismatic demeanor, his good looks — and the space as he continues, lucratively well-versed, “I’m sure you note there’s no overbearing pops of color, or wallpaper that’s wasting away, since I told you it wasn’t all that renovated. Carpet’s been ripped up,” he slides the toe of his shoe over the wooden floorboards, a dark, warm chocolate, and then his hand comes to rap softly over the short wall dividing the kitchen from an expanse of hallway with doors as jade reaffixes onto her, “and the walls were repainted by previous buyers. All original wood and tiling, though.”

As Isla steps onto the platform, she regards chips in laminate. Yes. Original. 

“Between you and me,” her head twists — a friendly simper plays over the realtor’s cushiony (intimately familiar) lips, “I think that was a good choice. Versatile. But the rest, like these gorgeous light fixtures — all original,” he nudges towards the dining area behind her, and Isla pivots to face the table, “‘83, I believe.”

A bundle of two lanterns, elongated like cylinders with tapered ends. They hang over the table, a darling focus point. 

Isla peers back over just as the man’s tongue peeks out to slick his mouth, “But my favorite’s in the kitchen.”

Eagerly, she makes her way forward, where the kitchen lays, open for her exploration. It’s no showstopper. She gets it now — his sugared warning of original pieces. And it’s not like the kitchen is this heinous sight, but it’s timeworn. An outdated shade of mustard hugs the countertops, and the cabinetry is stale and dinged. Scratches and blemishes stain almost plastic-y looking white. The appliances look to be about forty years old — which adds up, according to the timeline. But there’s an island. It’s beautiful, and broad, and even if Isla has no interest in piling it with culinary disasters, it’s still pleasant ken. She finds that on the opposite side of that wall is a pantry. 

“I don’t know what to do with a kitchen like this,” her pink (gloriously fuckable, Harry thinks) mouth jolts as a smile slithers over, “It’s so. Large.” 

“You don’t cook?” 

Her irises roll up to the ceiling with her soft smile, “I microwave. TV dinners, mostly. I can put frozen waffles in a toaster, too. Maybe scramble an egg, but there’s no guarantee there won’t be shell in the mix.” 

It’s sort of funny, Harry thinks — the way polar opposites attract. Like magnets, he supposes. Really, very horribly horny magnets. He can’t remember the last time he had a frozen waffle. 

“But I guess I’ll have to learn, with an island like this,” Isla sighs and gestures. 

Well, if you’re ever in need of a taste tester… Harry bridles his flirty quip. Instead, he shows her what lies behind the doors of the hallway, the rooms downstairs. A half bath, a bedroom scantily furnished — an office, for her, perhaps. 

“You said you were a paralegal last time, right?” he cocks his head back at her over his shoulder as he leads the way, and Isla tries not to feel the warmth the remembrance of the minute detail ignites. 

Of course he remembered. It was his job. She bites her tongue to curb the instinctive, “Yes, Sir.” 

“I am, yeah.” 

“Lot’s of research and a work-from-home, after-hours situation, you said, last time? I think the study on this property will be very suited to your needs.” 

A laundry room, the entrance to the garage, a slow amble back towards the staircase. Ah, the staircase. The young woman feels a burnishing blush suffuse over her cheekbones when the male gestures with an open palm — an invitation for her to go on ahead of him. But there’s that little …no panties …thing. Her legs shift. Her skirt brushes against the back of her knees. There’s no probable likelihood of a flash, she’s sure. Still, that ruddiness glows over her skin as she takes the cautious, first step. She feels ludicrously lewd. 

“Wouldn’t want you to get your heel caught,” the realtor states, strawberry mouth twitching. 

No, that would certainly cause far more than a glimpse of a flash. 

“Truly a gentleman,” Isla quips, and by the time she’s wound halfway up, Harry only a couple of steps behind, she tacks on, “God. It really is sort of a scary set of stairs.” 

“Climbing a rickety rope swing is scary,” Harry scoffs from behind, his cadence lighthearted. 

A hallway with a landing that allows for a gaze upon the first story. A wall of doors. A bathroom with an unsightly, pink tub. A cozy original with old-world-charm, according to the realtor; definitely creative wording, Isla thinks. 

“Master bedroom,” the man slips the final door open, and Isla’s irises bounce from window to window — they suffuse the room with what she imagines would be bright, refreshing daylight. Now, it comes in the form of a warm, yellow glow with the time of day. 

“Very roomy,” she comments. It is. The square footage of the space, she’s sure, has to be roomier than the master bedroom of the first showing, but perhaps the emphasis on the broadness of the space has to do with the sheer fact that the first showing had been bare, and this room holds furniture — even still, the space is bigger. Despite the queen sized bed, throned by the waxy, wooden headboard, the nightstands that mirror either side of the mattress, and the matching wooden dresser, the space is open. 

“S’no reno’d Sweeger Ave,” the realtor supplies, wandering a handful of steps behind her as she makes her way into the room, “But it’s roomy, like you said. Bright. Beautiful windows — lots of light. Can you imagine yourself here?” 

It’s a queen sized bed. Isla is not wearing panties, and she’s reminded of this particular fact as she stares at it and imagines Eros bending her over the edge of the mattress. She thinks of Harry’s chest pressing up behind her as his broad, ring-clad digits slide over her waist, settle on her stomach. She thinks of his mouth pasting to the crook of her neck, sponging kisses over the expanse of her skin as his soft breaths caress her nerve endings. She thinks of him walking her forward, his crotch glued to her hips. She thinks of fingers grappling for wrists and a firm grip as he manhandles the joints behind her back with ease. She thinks of him flipping her skirt up and discovering that she’s bare beneath it, thinks of a palm fondling, of croons in her ear on what a filthy, naughty girl she is, of his fingers slipping lower and his teeth grazing over her neck and—

“Great room, innit?” 

Her eyes flash to him at a dangerous speed, his words from the prior week hurtling through her mind as he tells her, tone entirely innocuous, “But I think there’s something missing.” 

An ottoman, the young woman thinks, her expression kept impressively neutral, all things considered. An ottoman.

“Accent wall there, long curtains with a sheer layering, different furniture set — contemporary, I’d go with, a rug,” the male taps his foot over a stark area of the floorboards, just ahead of the footboard of the bed, “Nice shag rug. Right here.” 

Shag rug. 

Shag rug — textile characterized by longer, heavier pile, so as to have the appearance of being shaggy. Isla imagines a white rug in tufts, warding her brain from mental images of the man physically shagging her on said rug. Yes. These are all very …compelling suggestions.

“Mhm,” Isla hums curtly. 

“And, y’know, all this light lets the room whisper sweet nothings about the beauties of the approaching day, but I think, the view,” he takes slow steps over chocolate wood to tug blinds open, “beckons sleepless nights.” 

Sleepless nights — Isla is going to wring her own neck. Despite the arousal that seeps through her at the dirty-fucking-twist of insinuation, she makes her way to his side for a peer. Beyond the horizon of plains and landscaping lies skyscrapers — the city a blip of scenery with the sky as its backdrop. 

“Oh.” 

“Mm. Really pretty at night, I’d think.”

“It’s a …good thing I have a strong constitution for sleepless nights,” Isla swallows, “I’m sure the view will keep me entertained.” 

Harry steals a soft glance, down at her side profile. He’s bridled his flirtish nature, he’s restrained his quips. He’s bent over backwards for sanctity. But—

“If you ever find yourself in need of a midnight conversation partner, you know who to call.” 

The young woman peers up at him through her lashes. It’s a blatant implication of her untimely phone call two days prior. He’s teasing. He has to be simply teasing. But the way his mouth twitches, the way his eyes fix on her — there’s something… something beyond innocent jest. 

“Offering your services as a nocturnal conversationalist?” she tries to keep the nervous note from her cadence as she takes a step away — he had to be flirting. “I’m a lucky girl.” 

“Real estate agent by day, midnight talk-show host by night. I’m a man of many talents,” the curly-headed brunette shrugs, digging ring-adorned fingers halfway into pockets of slacks. A soft smile plays over his soft mouth. It’s all sort of lascivious. Isla wants to clamber back onto a stranger's bed in a master bedroom that doesn’t belong to her, and she wants to ogle his reflection glint at her from the waxy headboard as his hips pump forward. As his cock pummels into her. A warmth pulses between her thighs, beneath her pencil skirt. 

The reminder of her arousal, left in a dried stain post her drive home, confronts her as she strips in the confines of her apartment, alone, nearly two hours later. 

Harry is not a green-eyed monster. 

Which is an irony, because in the realm of indulge, there’s more than a handful of people who would confidently deem him with that pretty title. 

Perhaps, better phrasing (that wouldn’t allow for the claim to be twisted by unruly, prior play partners), would be that Harry is not innately a jealous man. He’s a sure man, a man who knows his ambitions and aims — bluntly so. He’s a man that doesn’t like to share during scenes, but he’s upfront and honest about it. There’s no games, no teetering tugs and yanks on strings of emotions. He’s not a man that is known to ooze green at the sight of his partner fraternizing with someone else, and he’s definitely not the type of man to care about those things in any context outside of Indulge. 

A person is a person — their own person. That’s not his thing to fuck with. Harry is not a green-eyed monster that bleeds envy with begrudging glances. 

The sight of Isla Cleery, though, shrouded by her commonplace lace, leant up against the bar, in the midst of lively chatter with some shirtless dom adorned by an eye-cover with plastic-y tufts of horns — that culls an odd reaction from him. It’s strange — she’s early. He always shows before her to reserve the room of the night, and she arrives and waits in an obedient kneel until he opts to join her. But she’s early — she’s at the bar, and he’s just booked the room (The White Room, tonight). Harry nearly misses the sight of the interaction altogether. 

But he doesn’t — she catches his eye, clad in a set of dark, silky underthings and sheer stockings. He watches her toe back against the stem of one of the barstools. She’s got her cherry concoction in hand, a plethora of syrupy fruit upon a bed of ice and artificial sweeteners, and she’s laughing at something her counterpart says. In response, the man’s grin is vibrant over the visible expanse of his lower face. Harry doesn’t know who he is at first. But then he squints, and his vision roves. Faunus. He vaguely knows of the dominant, but the most prominent thought that floats to the forefront of his mind involves the jest Isla had made prior to the drafting of their contract. The one where she’d mentioned the alternation of rocking her shit, and the name Faunus had been introduced in the prospective party.  

And it’s not like Harry bleeds jade at the sight, but he kind of does. Because, the thing is, next week is their last scene, contractual obligations concerned — and. Well, it makes him feel ill. The thought of his submissive — of Isla Cleery, slipping to her knees for Faunus as their own contract comes to a close, the thought of Faunus manhandling her in the same way Harry does every Friday night, it all makes his jaw set from across the lounge. Because those are their Fridays. Something stirs in him when Faunus places his hand onto her arm — because, what the fuck? 

Slowly but surely, he makes his way over, slipping into the interaction from behind his submissive. He brushes a gloved palm against the small of her back, and upon the touch, Peitho stiffens and twists. And then she relaxes. Smiles all pretty at him, too. 

“You’re early,” the hand slides to the vale of her waist and squeezes softly as he presses close and speaks low. It’s obnoxious, Harry’s aware — opting not to initially acknowledge the other member of the conversation, but Faunus watches the two with a silent eye, anyhow, so. 

“I was late last week, so. Wanted to be early this time. Didn’t know you were here, Sir,” the submissive supplies, rocking forward onto her toes, and then lets the outside of her arm glue to his torso as he pastes to her side. 

Harry hums. And then he casts his gaze onto Faunus as the man speaks. “Eros, right?” the male’s mouth curls softly as he nudges towards Harry. 

“In the flesh,” Harry grins politely. Politely. Because he’s polite.

His counterpart, glistening with a sheen of sweat under the purple-ish tinges of the lights, takes a swig from his glass — water, Harry assumes it to be, but you never can really tell in the hue of the lounge, “You’re a little infamous around here.” 

Infamous. Sounds about right. 

“Am I?” 

“Mm. I’ve heard only good things from this one, though,” the horn-masked man gestures with his glass towards Isla. In turn, she shifts a little further against her dominant. 

“Yeah?” Harry’s chin dips toward the submissive, then, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “All good things, baby?” 

Isla nods and hums, melting with the side of her cheek against his chest. 

“But between you and me,” Faunus leans forward a smidge, elbow braced over the marbled bar countertop, “This one’s a bit of a handful.”

Harry grins politely. Yeah, the reminder that this man has manhandled his submissive in the same manner he has makes him go a bit neon green. What the fuck. And Isla — she just squirms against him. Harry’s well aware that the nonchalant small talk of her, with no acknowledgement, like she’s not stood in the midst of the conversation, riles her in a filthy way. And Faunus seems to know this tidbit of information, too — his irises, glinty under the lights overhead, slink from Harry to Isla and back again. It’s a subtle motion, but it shows Harry enough. The dominant’s mouth quirks, gaze subtly steely in the narrow of his lashes. 

“Mm. Well, between you and me,” the hand that’d previously settled on her waist slips up to her hair, cards through past the nape of her neck, digits entangling in the roots, “she knows her place with me,” Harry shoots her a look, and tugs firmly by slowly tightening his fist. It’s a subtle motion — but the pinpricks of pain that burst over her scalp, as a result, have her pulse quickening. 

And Harry knows. He knows and his lips nearly crook up, but he curbs his smirk. And Faunus can ogle all he wants — but he can’t touch. Can’t draw the same reaction from her. That thought has satisfaction blooming in his chest. 

“Don’t you, darling?” 

When the young woman returns in concurrence, her inflection is breathy and soft. “Yes, Sir.” 

He’s jealous, Isla thinks. She’s not sure why. But he’s jealous, and he tugs on her hair like a showcase of his dominion, like she’s simply a plaything for him and him only to lewdly siphon soft reactions from. It’s so blatant, the way he does it all in front of Faunus. He’s claiming his territory. It’s subtle, it’s obnoxious, it borders on impolite, but it lights a fire within her like no other. 

“The White Room,” Harry croons against her ear, low in decibel, “S’open. If you were up to play.” Jade slinks back up to dull blue, to the opposite dominant watching the display — a blank slate of curious interest. His gloved fingers untether gently and he speaks a bit louder, face turned back towards Faunus, “Wouldn’t want to tear you away and impose, though.” 

The White Room. With Eros. Yes. Isla wants to go to the White Room with her Eros. 

“Oh — no,” Isla assuages quickly, pivoting her head from Faunus to Eros and back, “Great — it’s been great, catching up, with you,” she motions with her palm towards the horn-masked dom. 

Faunus pauses, as if musing, and eventually the corners of his mouth curl up softly. 

“Likewise,” he tells her, gesturing with his glass, before his vision skids from Isla to Harry and back. His tongue peeks out to glide over his bare lips. Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes wander roguely over the submissive’s silhouette — a tad flirtily, if he’s not mistaken, before he tacks on what sounds uncomfortably ominous to him. “I’ll see you around, Peitho.” 

Harry’s jaw sets and he watches the other man all the way as he ambles off and disappears into the midst of the crowded lounge to mingle. It’s childish, he’s aware, to feel as though his turf is being invaded upon, like a personally deemed sector of a sandbox, and Isla his prized, shiny …bucket …or something (what do children play with in sandboxes? Harry can’t recall, at the moment). And he’s aware that Isla is not his possession, per se, but she sort of is. For the window of six weeks, she is his and his only, and the way he seems to recall it, they’re only on number five. His head snaps to her as the submissive clears her throat. She’s peering up at him, her mouth twitchy in giveaway. 

He’s jealous, Isla thinks, and obviously so, the envy in him visible like figurines through the glass of a snowglobe. 

“Had a nice time catching up with your friend?” Harry settles on. His inflection is smooth like molasses and low like a foreboding omen — a siren song. Isla contemplates getting him jealous more often.  

“Yeah,” the young woman blinks, “Faunus is always great.” 

Her lips twitch on the latter, and the word choice is made with such outright and overt intent to goad him — but she’s so harmless about it, too, afterwards nestling against him sweetly post the double entendre. Always great. Always a great fuck. Harry gives into her game shamelessly. He fingers at the strap on her brassiere as his mouth quirks wryly. 

“This is a pretty little piece. Wear it for Faunus?”

“No,” Isla’s cadence doesn’t offer nearly as much resolve, and she jolts minutely as he lets it snap back into place. “Wore it for you.” 

“For me?” the dominant raises his eyebrows, playing coy, and smooths the pad of his finger over an embellishment of lace over the edge of a cup as he tacks on, a little derisively, “How sweet.” 

Then, Eros juts with his chin towards her unfinished rocks glass of sugar and syrup and fruit with the barest bones of their original nutrients, “Are you gonna throw that up if I play rough tonight?”

The brazen insinuation causes Isla to swallow, her chest growing a little tighter and the valley between her thighs growing a little warmer. 

“Wouldn’t be a pretty sight. S’the White Room, after all,” his irises glimmer mischievously. 

“No,” Isla protests, her gaze jumping from the glass to the shiny latex disguising his stupid, perfect face. A beat. The sound of the glass grazing over the wood coaxes his eyes to her hand as she slides it away. Yes. 

“No, no. Feel free to finish it. I’ll wait.”

Despite this, her eyes jump between the half-empty glass and his face. His lack of tout — the empty, unspoken allurement of possibility — only lure her further. Take your time, I’ll patiently wait to do cruel and unusual things to you (that would’ve probably been deemed beyond illegal in the middle ages). It’s — yes. That is, no. No. Isla does not want to wait, her imagination running rampantly on the prospects of a mean Eros spurred by a jealous streak suddenly prevalent. 

That she’s wrenched from him. 

“No, I’m good,” Isla tells him, her cherries discarded. 

Harry blinks at her, and then responds, his mouth curling softly, “Really, love. S’no rush. Got all night to,” her fingers jump to her palm, as he stretches it and settles it against the countertop, pleather-coated digits splaying, “play.” 

Play. Her interest itches horribly to know what his agenda for the night entails. 

“No — no, I’m good. I’m good,” the submissive clears her throat, sliding the cup away just a smidge more with the flex of her fingers. Harry’s mouth quirks. 

“You’re awfully eager.” 

Good. He’s pleased to coax the reaction — he’s pleased that Faunus, evidently, doesn’t even have the ability to harvest her attention in the same manner. Good, good, good. 

“Well. White Room’s waiting for you, then. I’ll meet you in there,” Harry blinks at her, and then his eyes flash to his fingers as those come out to smooth over the bangle manacling her wrist, “Lemme just tie up some loose ends.”  

Isla looks at him then, for a second, speaking volumes through her expression despite the majority of it being clandestine by swirls of dark fabric. Loose ends. He can tell she’s bemused that he doesn’t personally walk her, hand-in-hand. 

“Okay,” the young woman settles on. 

“Okay?”

“Okay, …Sir.” 

He watches her walk off down a secluded hallway at the edge of the lounge, and then he blows out a breath and turns to the mocktail bartender on shift. Bliss — pretty corset, pretty, bedazzled mask, and a pretty mean dominatrix on the weekends when she’s not tending to the bar, he’s heard. 

“S’cuse me, could you just—“ he gestures with the glass once the bartender’s in earshot, and she lifts her face from the sink at his cadence, “switch this off her tab onto mine.”

He doesn’t have to specify — he knows Bliss well enough. They’ll engage in the occasional small talk. Mundane shit, usually; the weather, the housing market, reputable toy artisans. Or, they had. These days he spends much of his Indulge time playing rather than strung up at the bar. Anyways, it’s the least he could do for Peitho, considering… well. The agenda for the night. The least. His mouth nearly crooks at the thought. 

“Oh, it’s not on her tab, babes. Guy that was with her already tabbed it out.” 

Oh — Oh. Okay. O-kay. His head swivels back to the throng of Indulge, where Faunus has vanished into the midst of the mingling masses. So now Faunus was buying her mocktails. Sick.

“How …nice,” Harry turns back, a tick in his jaw. 

By the time the door clicks open from behind her, Isla’s knees are already shifting into their welcomed ache. It’s all sort of a routine she’s become beyond well accustomed to. The young woman listens to his dress shoes pad over the floor, and then she feels his hand brush through her hair from the back. 

“Come sit.” 

He says it in a way that doesn’t imply that he’s presently vexed — it’s easygoing enough, but his tone nearly carries the impending weight of the incoming scene. The submissive feels his palm withdraw, and then watches the backs of his dress shoes move, for a moment, as he winds past her towards the chair. And then she clambers up and follows. The mischievous jest Isla had basked in, priorly, starts its usual gear-shift into apprehension. Because being in a room, alone, with Eros, post whatever brazenly mouthy infringements Isla has managed, doesn’t leave her with …nearly as much pluck. Though, unfortunately for Eros and his ego, (or perhaps fortunately — she’s convinced he quite enjoys manually taming her into submission far more than he lets on), she’s still far from that state of mindless subservience he always manages to draw her into by the end of a session. The dominant sinks into the cushion and blows out a breath as if to discard the heft of a long workday, and his thighs splay a smidge as his eyes convey, expectantly through the slit of his mask, that he’d like her to sit. Isla slips into his lap, against the sturdy muscle of one of his parted thighs, and his leg shifts beneath her as his arm winds around her waist to cradle her close. 

“I didn’t fuck you last week, and you’re already looking elsewhere, darling?” are the first words out of his mouth. 

The statement is said as a jest — but it’s only half of that. His strawberry mouth is twitchy, and the pads of his digits are gentle on her thigh, and his tone is calm, and friendly, and traitorously sweet. 

But Isla knows better. 

Her mother had always said, behind every joke there’s some truth, sort of like a more wholesome version of drunk words are sober thoughts — far more kid friendly, but. The young woman couldn’t relate more to the wise piece of advice than she was, now, in this moment. Because her Eros is green, and obviously so. It radiates from his pores, the envy, no doubt a response to seeing Faunus’s palm pasted to her arm (she’s sure her innocuous, little comment played some part, as well), and the tidbits of his vulnerability make something oddly twist in her. Something like — feelings, beyond the playroom. It pleases her, in a red-flag-on-her-part sort of way, knowing that he cares. But more than that, the sentiment leaves her brimming with arousal. A jealous man was never a kind man, and a mean Eros, tucked away with her in a reserved playroom at Indulge, always left her simmering in welcomed anticipation. 

“Of course not,” she assuages, tracing the folds of fabric in his collar and fixing them up with a smoothing touch, her pupils fixed to her fingers as she tacks on, “I’d never look elsewhere when I’m contractually obligated to uphold monogamy.” 

It’s a tease that’s blatantly meant to rile him — the corners of her mouth buckle like an afterthought, and beneath her touch, the dominant’s chest heaves with a sigh. 

“Contractual obligation. S’that all my time is to you, then?” 

His tone is lighthearted, but the words have that undercurrent of brooding, like her words have wounded him, and Isla thumbs over a button and pops it through a loop — just for a bit of skin. 

“All my cock is to you?” the man shifts below her, his tone still playful, “A contractual obligation?” 

“No,” she protests, her fingers twitchy before his chin dips to ogle her handiwork, and a palm clasps over her wrist to bring the fingertips to his mouth and nip. 

“Hm?” he prods, teeth grazing over skin playfully, “Gonna go back to alternating having your shit rocked when my time is up?” 

Okay. Little less playful. His cadence is still light and good-natured but. Oddly heavy question. That little, unspoken slice of reality peeks through the facade of joking, traces streaking like dawn through cracks of blinds, if only for a moment. 

Isla swallows. Her pupils paste to his cushiony mouth, to the tips of her digits pressed lightly between his teeth. She settles for something safe, her breath held in her chest. Actually, maybe a little unsafe, given the trajectory of his emotions. 

“If you want me to, Sir.” 

Placate, placate, placate. The words are all that any dominant could want — submission in its ultimation. Whatever he wants of her. Despite this, the statement has something like …disappointment twisting in his chest. He doesn’t want that. He wants to elongate their contract, he wants to keep railing Isla over, and over, and over, he wants to spend the rest of timeless time with her as his in the realm of Indulge, and only his. And he doesn’t want it to be up to him. Tell me no, Harry wants to say. Tell me you want me and only me. Show me you care, the way I do. 

Instead, his mouth purses. 

If there’s any inkling of protest to her words, the dominant doesn’t showcase it. She’s curious to hear his response, but he doesn’t give one. Instead, he intertwines their fingers and shoots her a glance. The topic of conversation pivots. 

“Were you a good girl for me this week, sweetheart?” 

Oh, goodness gracious. She’d nearly forgotten all about Monday night’s debacle, so honed and amused by the envy the dominant was radiating. The mischievous streak in her really starts to fade, then. 

Was she a good girl for him this week? Vague recollections of a very satisfying vibrator pressed between clammy thighs in messy sheets at late hours flit through her mind. 

And her Eros on the other end of the line.

There’s a sudden heaviness to her tongue. It’d be easy to fib and pretend she hadn’t slipped up with hungry fingers between hungrily splayed thighs, just as he’d requested — commanded — her not to do. It’s not like he’d know.

Was she a good girl for him? No. Isla certainly wasn’t. 

She admits, after a moment of deliberative lull, “No, Sir.” 

Sir, she’s tacked on, politely — without coaxing, Harry notes. It’s the first thing he notes, in fact, besides her candid confession of misconduct. After that, it’s the way her body language has morphed from joking to tensed, to the way her fingers rub together in her lap, to the way her chest rolls lightly with her slow, bated breaths. 

“No?” he prods softly, pondering on her admission, “You weren’t a good girl?” 

Behind his ribcage, his heart kicks it up a notch from priorly peaceful equilibrium into a wild, racketing hammer. Because if she tells him what he thinks she’s going to tell him, if she confirms his suspicions and proves that he hadn’t spent Monday night driving himself mad, with hands raking restively through his tendrils in lieu of getting a good night’s rest post her late night call, then—

“I …touched myself, Sir.” 

And there it is. 

Isla bites into her cheek when faced with his hum of acknowledgement — of course the sound is coated with condescension, as if he’d expected her to fail. 

“And you came, I assume?” jade glimmers between lengthy lashes and shadows of an unnecessary disguise as he tacks on, “I mean, I’d hope disappointing me was worth it, at least.” 

It — what? Isla toes at the back of her opposite ankle, a crease working between her eyebrows. 

“I didn’t — I don’t know,” she blows out a breath, “how to answer this question.” 

“You don’t know if you came?” his own eyebrows rise in teasing, inflection jestingly incredulous. It’s a good sign, for now, the young woman thinks. She’d expected green to turn steely, but he seems keen on poking at her — which she’ll take rather than to be confronted by his demeanor of disdain. 

“No— I,” she sighs, craning her neck back and crossing her arms as the dominant’s pillowy mouth twitches, “I did,” upon the glint of warning to his expression, even mostly bridled by rubber, the submissive curbs the exasperation that’s leaked into her tone, backtracking softly, “I mean, I don’t — I wasn’t trying to disappoint you.” 

“Mm.” 

“And — well, anyways. I think you should be the opposite of disappointed, considering I came clean,” the twist she takes on the circumstances, to Harry, are a little appalling. 

He just sort of hums, entertained, and states, “S’that where the bar is, now?” and upon her vexed look, commences a slow clap, “Applause for the bare minimum.” 

“Amnesty,” she cocks her head, sitting up a bit, unperturbed by his derisive sarcasm, “is a thing, by the way, if you weren’t aware.” 

At that, he literally feels the dimples poke into place beside the curl of his smile. “You’re quite funny.” 

“I know,” Isla tells him after a moment, her shoulders sagging as she tips her chin to her hands and picks at her nails, her voice low, “I’m hilarious.” 

Harry brushes a pleather-clad palm over her thigh before he bats at her hands. He clears his throat. “How many times?” 

Her face tips up, like she’s confused by the question, and the man clarifies, “How many times did you touch yourself?” 

Rather than persisting with the jittery habit of nail picking, she mollifies by tracing down his chest, over his dress shirt, sort of hoping to smooth out the incoming tension of the scene in the same way her touch smooths the fabric, “Just once.” 

“Tell me,” she watches his tongue peek over before his swipes over his lips, and her vision only flits away for a mere moment when she feels his colossal palm squeezing at her hip, “how you did it.” 

She blinks up at him, like the request baffles her.

“S’not that difficult of a task. Well,” Harry pauses, and his eyes roll to the side with the patronizing dig, “The first one wasn’t either, but.” 

“I—“ the young woman’s jaw sets as she lifts her chin at the jab and she declares with resolve (plucky, Harry thinks, considering the circumstances), “with my vibrator.” 

Vibrator. Interesting. He hadn’t heard it on the other end of the phone — sneaky girl. The chatter from the television, obnoxiously loud, floats to the forefront of his mind, then.

“Okay,” he nudges with his chin, “Getting somewhere…”

“Third setting,” Isla states, deadpan in decibel, “and I came.” 

And then his palm locks, softly, over the back of her neck, and he physically guides her to lean forward against him. The dominant’s strawberry lips brush over Isla’s ear as he speaks, low and tantalizing, and then that same mouth pastes to an expanse of skin just below. 

“Details, little miss. And less attitude. Paint me a picture.” 

Oh — her pulse stutters. 

“Were you,” his mouth alternates between questioning and pressing open-mouthed kisses that incite chills to bloom over her flesh, “watching something? Thinking of something? Hm?” 

The young woman’s unsure of the cause behind the sudden, sensual twist in their discussion, but she tries to bare her neck a bit, quite literally the furthest from complaining. 

“I — the TV was on. But I was thinking about you,” she admits, and the dominant slides the opposite hand around the curvature of her hip, fondling over the side of her thigh. 

“What about?” 

“Your—“ the man’s mouth curls up lewdly against her skin in response to the stutter he coaxes as his hand ventures to her backside, squeezing — the way her throat bobs with a swallow, “your hands, touching me. Your mouth — on my, on my—“

“Your…?” Harry wheedles tauntingly, his hand tracing its way back onto her front and teasing at the hem of her underwear.

Isla’s confession comes breathy, and her legs splay apart a smidge when he dips his forefinger past the barrier just a tad, brushing over the smooth, sensitive crease between her pelvis and her thigh, “My pussy.” 

“Mm. S’that all?” 

“No,” her lashes flutter behind the lace, “I thought about — about your cock. Thought about you fucking my mouth, and,” her speech dies off as his fingers wriggle further beneath her panties and brush against her clit.

“And?” 

“and I thought about you,” Isla swallows, screwing her eyes shut, “…holding my nose, as you did it. So I couldn’t breathe.”

The pads of his fingers stutter in their caress. Shit. His nostrils flare at the filthy admission, and the way desire teems through his veins and arousal coils through his tummy at the thought is pure, hedonistic darkness. When Harry asks her, “What else?” his voice is considerably huskier against the crook of her neck. 

“I thought about you slapping me — my face,” her chest rolls as his fingers dip and gather sopping slick — she knows she’s ludicrously wet, reliving the fantasies that’d become tucked away in the dells of her mind, in combination with his soft touch, will sort of do that. It all has her feeling as if a fucking furnace glows angrily between her thighs. “I thought about—“ her jaw sets as she tips her head back, and he nips at her earlobe, “you spanking me for touching myself. How sore I would be over the next few days, having to sit at work.” 

“Spanking you with what?” Harry’s cadence comes muffled and heady against her skin. 

“Just — just your hand,” Isla’s heart races in her chest as he draws circles, like it beats in laps that trace the track of the motion. 

The dominant presses open-mouthed kisses to her skin, crooning, “Just my hand? Y’dont think you deserve the paddle or the strap for disobeying me?”

Isla doesn’t think much of anything when his tongue pokes out and glides over straining muscle.  

“Whatever,” she swallows, his fingers fisting desperately at the sturdy muscle of his thigh, “Whatever you want, Sir.” 

“S’not whatever I want, though,” he hums, “It’s about what you deserve. So what,” his fingers press a little harder, his cadence grows a little hungrier, “do you think you deserve?”

“I — I deserve whatever you decide I deserve, Sir.” 

“Mm. Well. I think,” Isla gasps and jolts, her breath morphing into a soft whimper when he pinches her clit between his digits, “You don’t deserve to entertain any of those little fantasies. Not after you couldn’t follow one simple rule.” 

She sags as his fingers withdraw and the elastic snaps back into place. 

“Don’t deserve to have your mouth fucked,” Harry sighs, shaking his head as if disappointed by the statement, himself (good, he’d be missing out, Isla thinks petulantly), “Don’t deserve to have my hands, or my mouth. I suppose spanking wouldn’t even serve as a punishment for you, would it?”

“Because,” he motions with a hand, “we’ve done loads of that, and you’re still what, darling?” 

Isla gnaws on her bottom lip, chin tilted to her hands. 

“I’m talking to you,” she’s caught off guard and has to bridle a gasp when he grips onto her jaw with a gloved palm and roughly guides her face in the direction of his own. The sudden emergence of his stern streak leaves her doused in want, “You’re still what?”

It’s appalling, honestly, the way a mercurial flip of a switch in his character could affect her so deeply, but there’s nothing Isla finds more arousing than when her Eros gets like …this. 

“…Disobedient,” Isla tells him softly, after a moment, not entirely sure of the answer he’s looking for. 

“A disobedient, little whore—“

Isla swallows dryly, his words — his irritated tone, sinking straight to her core. 

“—that just doesn’t seem to learn.” 

“I’m sorry,” the submissive starts after a moment, but her cautious apology is hindered by his scoff, a shake of his head that leaves light bouncing off the glossy hood, a sound of sardonic amusement. Her pupils, through the lace, bound to meet his narrowed gaze. 

“No, you’re not.”

Isla swallows. He’s right. She’s not exactly this virtuous angel who’s lurched into a pit of misdeed because of a careless accident. And she’s not exactly regretful of it, either. 

The way the dominant squeezes over her hip then, the fondle of his hand gentle in contrast to the foreboding words he tacks on — the way his irises sweep over her like he’s nonchalantly deliberating her fate, has an eager thrill of the looming danger wracking down the knobs of her spine. “But you will be.” 

Loads of people are adrenaline junkies — the bungee jumpers, the skydivers, the bull riders, the mountain bikers, the people who like to watch scary movies in theaters with 3D glasses, melted back against their seats as the volume of the music dims and a pregnant pause of impending doom stalls. The ones who stand in lines, veins teeming with anticipation as they edge closer and closer, zig-zagging through dividers in slow, stalling steps, all to become seated in a rollercoaster with a 90 degree drop. That excitement on the drop billows through their arteries like a chaser. It’s all sort of the same thing. Isla just has …unorthodox penchants. Methods. She happens to enjoy having the shit beat out of her, maybe, or being terrorized by something rooted in fear. Because when you mix adrenaline and sex, it’s just. Unfathomable. Truly a top-tier recommendation, if Isla were ever coaxed to recommend it. But it’s all the same thing. All a similar outcome. 

Isla’s absolutely aching for that enslaving rush, and then Eros nearly gives her whiplash as he just …looks at her and says, “Maybe we shouldn’t play at all tonight.”

She can’t manage to muzzle the bloom of bemused disappointment that seeps into her tone, “I — what?” 

“I mean,” Harry retracts his palm, and Isla’s suddenly left oddly cold, perched on his lap as his arms cross laxly over his chest, “you’re a disobedient, little whore. We’re on the same page about that, aren’t we, pet? Doesn’t matter if I punish you for it. And you certainly don’t deserve to be rewarded. Could just call it a night, hang out in the lounge—” his eyes convey volumes as he peers at her through lashes with insinuation, “Could mingle a bit. Sit around with your great, little friend.” 

Faunus. Back to Faunus.

“I—“ Harry watches her pillowy mouth part, and settle into a line as words fail her, and then part again, “Please.” 

“Please?” his eyebrows jolt, mouth pursing as a huff of wry amusement is expelled from his nostrils, and he’s about to say more, but then she interjects—

“Please, Sir. Please, I need—“

“Shut—“ Isla freezes when his hand comes back to her face, this time with the pads of his digits squeezing into her cheeks harshly, “—the fuck up.” And all Isla can really manage, from there, is a wordless mouthing against his digit, like a fish out of water. Harry watches her lips move a bit over a silent please, sort of amused by the persistive spectacle (but he definitely doesn’t let it show). 

“Stand up,” he tells her, after a moment, unlatching his grip and shifting his thigh beneath her, “Stand up, and strip.” 

As the young woman stands, he nudges himself off the armchair as well, making a beeline straight for the wall of toys, but not before aiming his forefinger her way and adding, (a bit cheekily, if Isla’s not mistaken, though that note is drowned out by the sternness that brims his tone), “Leave the stockings on.” 

The pads of her thumbs hesitate, just past the hem of her left, sheer stocking. Slowly, she straightens back out and fixes the digits into her bra straps, shimmying those off of her shoulders first, then winding her arms behind her back to unsnap the hooks with a deft enough motion (her hands are sort of trembling). Her fingertips dip into her underwear — soaked, of course, post the ministrations of the man who mills about the room all the while, gleaning objects. Isla watches him gather and deliver the objects to the mattress before going back for more — almost like an animal stockpiling in preparation for a lengthy winter. She works the pair of underwear down her thighs, stepping out of them, and throwing them alongside her brassiere on the armchair. 

The young woman feels, for the first time in a long time, a bit awkward, just standing on the linoleum, bare of all but her stockings, as she waits for further instruction from a dominant who doesn’t look as if he cares to bask in her nudity for even a split second. Because Harry always has this way of making her feel worshiped — even when he feigns that his attention is entirely torn away. Because in those split seconds where his pupils train back onto her, that facade breaks, and she sees the hunger seeping through. Her pulse stays impressively even when she watches him set a long, metallic spreader bar with cuffs — like shackles — onto the comforter beside a large wand. Finally, the rubber-hooded male shoots her a blank gaze — it lasts, as expected, a minute timespan before he fixes his attention back onto the objects. He doesn’t look even a smidge interested in her denuded state — it’s an offhand glance to make a point. 

“Are you just going to stand there all night?” 

“If you’d like me to, Sir,” Isla tells him — he couldn’t possibly get upset at an open offer of subservience (despite the underlying aim of innocuously-feigned backchat), and that fact seems to register with him. 

Harry gives her a good look then, one considerably longer than the previous had been, one where she can practically witness the gears turning behind his skull. The submissive supposes she’s gotten what she’d wanted, after all. Then, his mouth twitches like he’s actively attempting to bridle it from morphing to a grimace. 

“Come here,” the dominant instructs eventually, tone firm. 

Shrouding her timidness, Isla follows his directions and makes her way to the bed until she’s stood in front of him with her chin held high. The way his hand gently grasps her wrist then, as the opposite digs into a pocket of his slacks, has her heart fluttering. His face is downcast to the bracelet as the pin-like key winds, until there’s a click and it isn’t — instead it fixes onto her own. The dominant leans in, his voice soft. 

“On the bed. All fours.” 

Isla turns just as he pockets the bangle, and crawls onto the mattress, just as instructed. She feels chilly metal graze against her calves, a brush of smooth leather. 

“Spread,” Harry demands, and starts fastening one of the plush, padded cuffs to her ankle once she’s knee’d her thighs apart. Then, the following joint. “Put your arms back, through here,” he pats at the empty space between her (involuntarily) splayed limbs. 

So Isla does that, too, rocking forward onto her shoulders and pressing her cheek against the sheets, her face cast at the wall where the door stands as her fingers twitch. He fastens cuffs onto those, too, and by the time all’s done and well, Isla’s absolutely immobile. Testingly, she tries to wrench her wrist back, the attempt subtle. She can’t move. At all. And behind her, the dominant’s pillowy mouth crooks at the sight. Apprehension rises in her, like a flood of water surging through a cylindrical building, swelling in the space between a spiral staircase that clings to the curved walls. 

The beginnings of that beautiful adrenaline. 

“Anything uncomfortable?” 

“No, Sir,” Isla tells him. 

“I mean — you’re going to be plenty uncomfortable,” she rocks back a tad as the dominant smooths his hand down the back of her thigh, “but I’d prefer you didn’t end up with a cramp, or a weird soreness because your neck’s in a funny position.”

The touch withdraws. Isla swallows. 

“No. Everything’s good.” 

She jolts when her ears pick up on a sound that destroys the lull — like tape, bondage tape, she’s sure, and the dominant sounds as if he has a piece between his teeth when he responds, “Wonderful.” 

Then comes the sounds of tape tearing. Her muscles tense as she feels something press against her thigh, against her core, and then his hand starts to wind what she knows is the tape around her flesh. A click. The wand comes alive, rumbling. Isla can’t begin to stifle her soft hum. 

“Good spot?” the dominant prods, out of sight. 

The young woman fixes her gaze onto the bland wall through shapes and swirls of lace, her lashes fluttering, “Mm — yeah. Really good spot.”

“O-kay.”

And then after that — a stalling silence. Nothing reverberates over the walls, nothing falls on eardrums besides her soft breaths and the fixed buzz of the wand, pressed between her clammy thighs. Pleasure builds within her like water surging behind a dam, just sort of steadily rising until the structure starts to show signs of wear, rifts in its integrity. Then — well, then, there’s imminent destruction. 

The mattress creaks. He’s shifted.

“Sir?” Isla prods, her voice small. 

“No talking,” the dominant tells her after a moment, his cadence steely, “Don’t wanna hear you.” 

Her bottom lip becomes siphoned past her teeth. That’s — fuck. Okay. She regulates her breathing, and stares at the wall as the toy continues rumbling against her. He hadn’t exactly, explicitly mentioned that she was to hold off her climax, so. All sort of fair game, Isla thinks. Despite this, she does try to moderate the pace in the surge of bliss — maybe it could be, like, a trickle instead of a swelling flood, if she really focuses—

Another click. The buzzing increases in intensity. Her digits flex and clench, and her wrists shift in their respective cuffs. Still, she stays very quiet. That is, until the familiar, foreboding wave of pleasure tides, frothing at her tummy and sinking. Isla tenses in the restraints, and holds off pleading until she absolutely has to. It’s sort of a gray area, because she’s definitely not supposed to wait until that happens, but apparently she’s also not supposed to talk, so. 

“Sir! Can I cum? Please, please, can I—“ 

“Cum,” he tells her simply, not even batting an eye at her improper wording — may, he’s told her so many times, may I? 

Isla does, and it’s extraordinary. His dialogue nearly misses the mark entirely before the wave crashes, the countdown spent to milliseconds. Her toes curl, and her eyes screw shut, and her thighs tense, and her wrists tug reflexively, pinioned, as she groans and attempts to coil up. The dominant doesn’t make any moves that propose the idea of him touching her or using her for his own pleasure, in any manner, nor does he make an effort to remove the vibrator or her restraints. It buzzes at her core, even as the tide of pleasure ebbs. It ebbs, and all she’s left with is the hammering of her heart, and the toy still rumbling at her core. The young woman feels her pulse racketing in her eardrums. Isla shifts in her cuffs a smidge — as much as she can — though, there’s not much leeway for that. 

“Thank you, Sir,” she tells him, after a moment, her tongue swiping out after, over her strawberry mouth. She supposes she’s supposed to thank him, right? Isla’s still unsure of what exactly is going on. He’s going to overstimulate her — that much she’s discerned. It’s not rocket science. Spreader bar plus vibrator plus bondage tape? That shit was crystal clear from a mile away. She figures the dominant is aiming to venture to three, …maybe four. Maybe until she’s crying. Who knows. 

The dominant doesn’t respond. She hears him exhale, though. The bed creaks again. 

The thing with toying at senses with overstimulation was that the first bit …wasn’t all that rough. The first bit feels good — even on the advance towards the second crest, past that incipient budding of discomfort post an orgasm, the pleasure builds up pretty well. In fact, it sort of feeds off that discomfort. For Isla, at least. Because once you get past that first hurtle of too much, too much, that smidge of aching becomes a mere shadow in the cliff of rapture that blooms from stone — growing, growing, growing. 

Until, eventually, it gives. 

“Oh, oh, please, can I— Sir—“ 

“Cum.”

She expands and shrivels all in one, everywhere and nowhere with a surfeit of dopamine spurting through her nervous system. The fire kindles. Ah. The beginning stages of displeasure-pleasure. She’s felt it before, a plethora. That kind where her nerve endings settle into a dull, numbing ache. Involuntarily, her limbs jerk in the restraints, tugging to get away. Her jaw clenches. 

The thing with toying at senses with overstimulation was that the first bit wasn’t all that rough, but the bit after starts to suck. All good things must come to an end, and all that, but—

Despite that, the unwavering pleasure builds. It builds because of the stimulation, first and foremost, but then it builds because he hasn’t touched her, because he’s just sat back ogling, because she knows she’s dripping down the toy and that the bulbous head glints with her arousal. It builds because it’s a punishment, because Eros doesn’t want to hear her, because she’s disappointed him, and now she’s meant to appease him by enduring suffering. It builds because she wants nothing more than to endure suffering to please him—

“Sir!” Isla wriggles in the restraints, helplessly, the mantra of please-please-please morphed to nothing but a slurred string of words. 

“Cum.” 

The submissive nearly rolls and topples to her side under the earth-shattering abuse of the third — frankly, the only reason she doesn’t sink into a ridiculous sort of spreader-bar-mangled fetal position, is because Harry touches her, for the first time, steadying her with a firm palm against her bare hip. The pleasure with the third is much shorter-lived than the wide windows of the first two. It wanes nearly instantaneously, shrinking back as fiery ache overtakes it in the race. Isla grits her teeth, writhing forlornly as pain settles, coating her and seeping to interweave through the marrow of her bones. Three, maybe four, she tells herself, a mellow appeasement for inner peace — though, her brain has slowly begun its melt into a commonplace mush. Telling anyone anything, or even processing thoughts besides the signals fired off by her nervous system, is beyond strenuous. She doesn’t notice a sheen of tears has glazed over until she blinks and what’s normally sharp, clear lines of fabric turns to blurs. Despite the (reasonable, Isla believes) assessment of the dominant’s agenda (Isla’s fixated upon to ground herself amidst the curdling fear that tails the unknown, in all circumstances), she can’t help but start to plead, a bit, all things considered. 

“Sir, please, please, please—“

“Cum,” the man tells her, from behind, offhand and simple, probably admiring his gloves, or something. The statement comes as if he’s nothing but a robot programmed to grant her permission, and that word is the only term coded into his feasible vocabulary. 

If Isla had it in her to balk, she certainly would. She doesn’t. Partly because she doesn’t have it in her, and mostly because the tingling pain from the toy has her expression helplessly forming into a frown, almost as if on its own accord. The submissive just pouts, her bottom lip quivering in forlorn appall. Because Sir doesn’t care if she’s begging, because he doesn’t care that she’s already had three, because the realization dawns on her, then, that that would’ve been four, and he still hadn’t made any inclination to cease the torture. 

“No — no, Sir,” Isla starts, her waterline welling with tears behind her disguise — it’s wet, and irritates her skin horribly. 

The bed creaks. Behind her, the man tuts. And then the toy becomes toggled to a higher setting, buzzing incessantly against her clit with an intensity that wrenches a sharp keen from her. 

“What did I tell you? I don’t want to hear you. Not unless you’re asking permission, or you’re safing. One or the other. Nothing in between. Disobedient, little whores don’t deserve to beg.” 

It’s — he’s. Pitifully, Isla sobs against the comforter. 

Five. Harry’s on the track to wrench five from her — which, all things considered, is a reasonable goal to shoot for, he thinks. He knows she certainly has four in her to give, because she’s already given him four, weeks ago, in the Dungeon. And if she can’t make it to five within a reasonable time frame, he’ll cut it short post her enduring the aftershocks of the fourth for a bit. He settles back onto his arm, braced against the mattress as he splays behind her, at the foot of the bed, cheek pasted to his gloved palm as he drinks in the sight of her cunt leaking helplessly over the head of the wand. Great view. One for the books. 

Despite all of this, the sobs wracking her body have him sitting up a smidge to peer around at her face, which. Not much to decipher past swollen-post-teething lips and trembling flesh, without a good view of her eyes, but. The goal is definitely not to make her safe — that last bit was just sort of open encouragement. Like, an, always feel free sort of thing. They’re only on three. He frowns. 

“Hey. Baby,” Harry sits up to lean beside her, closer to her face, where she expels helpless sobs from a quivering, slobbery mouth. 

The thing with Isla crying was that it was cool. Deemed cool by both parties — sought after, in fact. But checking in, Harry thinks, is also (even more) cool, especially when she’s crying in a manner that implies that she’s slipping, and that it’s all teeming into the territory of too much, despite the fact that it can sort of break apart the characters they play up in a scene. Because roles are easy to slip back into, but reforming a bond of security post the unnecessary trauma of a boundary being unintentionally crossed is, frankly, much more difficult to casually slip back into. Safety is cool. Big thumbs up. 

This stuff is so much easier with eyes, Harry thinks — they speak volumes. They get blown like nightfall, crossing and shading past the lines of pupils and seeping into colors of irises, they become shifty and evident in apprehension, they kind of give it all away. He flips the toy off, but it stays nestled to her core, and he strokes hair off the band of lace shrouding her from him. 

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” a crease works between his brows as he rakes his digits through Isla’s hair from her sweaty hairline. Because you sound like I’m murdering you, goes unsaid. 

The thing is, he knows Isla’s limits, basically. General ballpark, that is. Really knowing and understanding takes months, and months — maybe years of experimentation. But even then, there’s those scenes where you have to check in and break character, and that’s okay. He just hadn’t prepared that it’d be after three. 

Isla sniffles beneath his touch. 

“Do you want to stop, darling? Red?” he smooths the pads of his digits over her cheek. And beneath his palm, weakly, the submissive shakes her head, an indication that, no, she doesn’t want to do that. 

The muscles in her neck strain with a swallow as Harry tucks loose fragments of hair away, his chin dipped to observe her response, and then the young woman tells him, softly, “No. Please.” 

“We don’t have to keep doing this, pet,” Harry promises, his cadence taking on a note that’s the most gentle it's been since she’d been sat over his lap, “I can take these off, and we can keep playing, but we don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.” 

Isla sighs softly. The pain had begun intermingling with pleasure just before he’d shut the toy off, tinges of bliss blooming post abuse on her physical senses — that’s not why she was crying. Really, there’s a plethora of reasons, some not entirely decipherable. Partly because of the intensity, partly because of the adrenaline and their subsequent endorphins, and partly because she was definitely fucking slipping. She could feel it loom over her when her mind got all mushy, when it all became slower, and more difficult, like trudging through a swamp of molasses. When her tongue got heavier and her body felt fuzzier. 

“Wanna make you happy,” Isla tells him. Her eyes are screwed shut behind the lace, mostly to hinder the onslaught of tears, so she can't see him, but she does hear him sigh. 

“You do make me happy. Always make me happy. Always happy I get to play with you. Silly.” 

Her mouth twitches, then, and curls up a bit. She huffs through her nostrils. Harry cocks his head, smoothing a thumb down the bare fragment of her face on one cheek. 

“You make me happy, too,” Isla confesses, her voice small. 

Harry tries to keep his mouth from curving into a sad sort of smile in return. Instead, he slips his thumb up to brush over the bottom-most hem of her mask. 

“Let me get you out of these,” he only pivots his head towards the bar before she’s humming, evidently dissatisfied by the proposal. 

“No,” Isla whines, “Don’t wanna stop playing.” 

“We’re not going to stop playing,” the dominant curbs the instinctive eye roll that nearly overtakes the jade, “Just a little break. Don’t you want some water? Doesn’t water sound so good?” 

He smirks when she gnaws on her bottom lip and gives him a slow, little nod against the sheets. The man smooths his hand, fondly, down the side of her neck, kneeing around her to slip his fingers to the tape. He unravels that, first, trying to keep the process short, like a bandaid, and he sets the toy down beside her on the bed. Next to go are the cuffs. 

“Just a little break,” he promises, “Gonna get some water,” he unbuckles the first cuff — her left wrist, “stretch a bit,” the second — her right, “stretch your neck. Can’t imagine it’s not cramping a bit,” Isla rolls her wrists, her arms still splayed beneath her in the space between the bed and her arched back — the third to go is her left ankle, “and we’ll get you back to shambles in no time,” the last, her right ankle, and he smacks her backside lightly, because it’s there and it’d be a cardinal sin to miss the opportunity, honestly. “How’s that sound?” 

The dominant strokes a palm softly up her calf after he sets the spreader bar aside. Isla stretches back against him, like a little cat. Yes. All of these things sound great. 

“Stretch out a bit. I’m gonna grab some,” Isla picks up on him saying, before his touch retracts and she hears his shoes clicking over the tile. 

Isla shuffles her arms forward, lifting up a bit only to flop back down and morph into Child’s Pose. Sort of. As best as she can. The water machine grinds in the background. By the time Harry has made his way back to the foot of the bed, Isla’s rolled onto her side. He gestures out with the plastic, little cup, and Isla flips onto her back and sits up to grasp it between her palms. They’ve ceased their shaking, for now. Harry takes a seat beside her, his legs kicked out ahead as opposed to her coiled hover, calves pressed against the bed. Her Eros has all the answers, Isla thinks. Her throat bobs frantically as she chugs, and in her peripherals she watches him take a slow sip. Once she’s reached the bottom, her hands flop against her sweaty lap, the empty cup wrapped by her right hand. 

She turns her face to him, a little smile over her mouth. The dominant peers at her, lips wrapped over the rim of his respective cup through the unzipped mouth slit, and he lifts a hand to swipe a stray rivulet of water from the corner of her mouth with a thumb. Her tongue swipes out as his touch retracts, almost as if to chase the pad of his digit. The man makes a soft sound of amusement over the lip of the cup. Slowly, Isla cranes her neck back, and then forward, and then side to side, and Harry takes another sip. 

“You take care of me so well,” Isla admits, planting her forehead against his arm. She’s jostled then, and nearly complains, but then she realizes that he’s only done it to grant her a space to nestle, a nook for her so he can hold her. She still feels a little …warm and fuzzy, but her head has cleared considerably since he’d unshackled her. Isla scoots in, and the dominant winds his arm around her shoulders, squeezing softly. 

“You always know what I need, even when I don’t.” 

“S’because I’ve got you figured out,” Harry nudges in her direction with his beverage, three thirds of the way down. His hand, cradling the cup, lays laxly against his thigh, then. 

“Do you?” Isla’s gaze narrows behind the mask as a little grin plays over her mouth. She lifts her chin up to display it. And she’s so close, he could kiss her. 

The male’s tongue peeks out to glide over his pillowy mouth. Isla Cleery. Cherries, and Hydrangeas, and pencil skirts and strange tendencies to do dangerous things on a whim. 

No. He absolutely does not. 

“Basically. You’re an easy read, love.” 

Her pupils rove over the rubber hood. Over his eyes, glinting through the shadows cast by parted zippers, slipping to the muted berry of his mouth. She’s never yearned, so badly, to surpass a personal limit and kiss someone she was …just playing with. Desperately. She tears her gaze away. 

“Can we keep playing?” the young woman inquires, instead. 

The dominant rolls his eyes, a soft smile cresting his cushiony mouth, “Do you want to keep playing?” 

“Yes. Sir. Please. Right where we left off.” 

“Right where we left off?” his eyebrows raise a smidge, “Are you sure? We can move on to phase two.” 

“Phase two?” 

“Well. Since phase one was punishment for your little slip up earlier in the week,” Isla’s gaze skids away sheepishly, “figure s’only fair phase two is penance for that little comment you made out in the lounge.” 

The young woman’s gaze snaps back to the dominant, and she wracks her brain for a dull moment where her mind sort of lags, the edges still a little fuzzy. And then it dawns on her. Fuck. Right. There was that. 

“Okay,” Isla tells him, after a moment — not a deliberative one, per se. Just. Mental preparation. “That sounds good.” 

“That sounds good?” Harry’s hand slinks out to stroke over her bare thigh, and then his gaze skims to his thumb as he strokes it over the hem of her stocking, “You’re sure?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla tells him, sitting up a bit with her rejuvenated courage, “and I want to start where we left off.” 

Harry hums, pausing his thumb over her stocking. He digs it under, just a bit, tugs up, and lets it snap back into place. And then he pats her thigh, takes her cup from her, and tells her, “Alright. Back into position then. M’gonna refill these so we have them ready, for later.” 

As the dominant stands to refill their respective beverages of sustenance, Isla scoots back on the mattress, flips, and clambers into position, already prepped with her arms stuck flat out in the space between her parted calves by the time he returns and sets the cups onto the, (oddly domestic and ludicrously practical), nightstand, beside the bed. She hears him blow out a breath, and the bed shifts as he knees his way onto it from behind. 

“All good to keep going?” Harry prods, the thin pole of the spreader bar grasped in one hand, “Promise?” 

“I promise,” the young woman returns, half-nodding and half kind of just taking the opportunity to snuggle her face into the comforter. The area soused by her tears is a little further to the right, now, and despite the fact that her mask is still wet, the blanket beneath her face, now, is dry, so it all feels like a spruced up, fresh start. 

He slots the cuffs back on, one by one, working backwards from the order in which they’d been discarded minutes prior. And when she’s all splayed and riveted for him, a particular sort of sensitivity settles in her as the wand, still slick from her, presses to her cunt as he sets all the props back into place for the scene (pun intended). It’s not necessarily that grating numbness she’d become accustomed to, or a cloying past aftershocks. Just the sensation of knowing, physically, that she’s already given three. A tremble nearly slinks down the knobs of her spine at the thought. The tape unsticks from the roll as the dominant works it back over her thigh. 

Isla blinks, her lashes brushing over the innermost of the lace, squeezed to her face in its tightening against the sheets. She chimes, for good measure, “And. I’m all good. You don’t have to …be nice.” 

His handiwork pauses. And his cadence, rasped like sandpaper, slow like seeping molasses, sweet like syrup, nearly causes her to drown in it all. He sounds …hungry, for the first time in the night since they’d explored her fantasies in the verdant armchair, when he tells her, “I don’t intend to be.” 

That’s — shit. Okay. Then, Eros smooths his palm down the back of her thigh and ponders, aloud, “Can you give me five, d’you think?” 

Five. That’s a …milestone. 

Isla blinks. Warmth coils in her at the suggestion, instantly, hunger unsatiated as if she hadn’t just endured the three course meal of three orgasms, back to back. Her throat feels dry, like her mouth’s been stuffed by cotton. 

“I can — I can try,” she swallows, “Sir.” 

“There’s a good girl,” the man hums, pleased by her answer, and he sits back a bit, rewarding her with a loud smack that siphons a gasp and a jerk in the restraints from her. A ruddy splotch teems over the surface of her skin — tinges shaped by his open palm. He gives her another, just over where the first had landed, and Isla releases a girlish grunt in response, rocking forward. A third, then, and with the opposite hand, he toggles the toy on. Harry watches every muscle in her body tense, at that.  

The newfound pleasure, post the break, feels almost as if spawning from square one. Not entirely — there’s still that nagging reminder deep within her nervous system that she’s already spent so much for him (recovering from three takes, maybe, just a little longer than a span of minutes). But rather than numbing tingles enmeshed with knife-like, slicing pain, pleasure blooms quickly, radiating from between her thighs and coaxing the pit of her tummy to coil with something familiar and warm. And rather than sitting back like an audience member to enjoy the show, this time, the dominant seems interested in taking part — an active part, in fact. He smooths his palms over the globes of her ass, and every blow, falling in increments (when she seems to least expect it), sends jarring shocks through her nervous system that throw her entire comprehension of sensation for a loop. It doesn’t hurt — not at all, really. Instead, each hit enmeshes with the overpowering bliss from the rumbling against her core, and the only tinges of pain come from the eventual soreness that blooms. But it makes her wetter, hotter, more sensitive, and, eventually—

“Sir!” Isla’s eyes squeeze shut as the beginnings of the flame lick at her, “Can I—“

And then one of his palms squeezes into one of her hips and the opposite smacks her again — and, fuck. Isla can’t bridle her strangled sound when he tells her, “Cum.” The wave washes over her like water crashing over jagged rock. 

The discomfort that flourishes as the weak bout of ecstasy recedes is not …horrific, per se, but it certainly reminds her that this isn’t her first, and, just as it’d been strung up prior to the break, her body becomes launched into a frenzied state of escape. Five. Why did she agree to try for five? Isla whimpers, her thighs trembling in desperation. And, as if to allay her worries (or perhaps to spur them further), Harry just delivers another strike. And then again, and again, and again, and again. 

“Sir,” the submissive whines, a plea (for more? for less?), tears gathering over her waterline like rain in a gutter. 

“Say it with me now, go on, darling, I will not,” the volume of his cadence climbs up the stairwell as he smacks her and digs the pads of pleather-clad digits into her skin. Her brows pinch when his mean affections don’t abate, when she aches everywhere to please him, and she sobs. 

“I will— will not,” Isla hiccups, sniffles, sobs, pleads for more of his aggressive attention. More, more, more, please.

“Cum without permission,” Eros waits for her to parrot the dialogue before he toggles the setting on the vibrator pressed within her to a higher setting and her sentence cuts off into a high, loud moan. Perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of pain, and probably a solid concoction of both. 

He talks over her nonetheless, “I will not cum without permission,” he says it until she’s up to par and mimics, in unison, “I will not cum without permission.” 

“What—“ Isla keens as the dominant smacks her again, and her arms strain in the restraints, shackled to the slim pole between her ankles, “—will you not do?”

“I will not cum without permission!” the young woman responds, her cadence breaking into a sob as the toy buzzes incessantly, nuzzled to her overstimulated clit. 

“You will not,” Eros agrees and assures her, tone unwavering despite her sobs, “and I will make sure you remember this lesson very, very well.”

By the time she really starts approaching the fifth crest, Harry’s faltered on the follow through of the blows, just sort of admiring the marks, in lieu, like a rabid animal. He’s nearly foaming at the mouth. The dominant traces the pad of his forefinger over a curve, entranced, and nearly misses her shrill plea entirely. 

“I’m—“

“Cum,” he demands, pupils roving over her hips, over her sticky thighs, between her legs where she clenches emptily, helplessly, drinking in her cry like an audible variation of nectar. 

The burst of pleasure is as short-lived as Isla can imagine, like the most anti-climatic climax of all time. It tears through her, severing her seams, and dwindles almost immediately for a dull ache to settle in its place. Except, this one isn't dull at all. It’s sharp, and it sends her nerve endings into pure angst. She freezes up, her muscles quivering, tensed like the string of a bow just waiting to snap, and she can’t even make out discernable request for him to turn the wand off. All that slips from her is a string of incoherent, muffled sounds, and then the rumbling ceases. Isla pants, her heartbeat so frantic she can feel it in the tip of her tongue. It pulses through her neck, through her appendages, tingling in their cuffs. It slinks through her stomach, through her fingers, it rattles her ribcage as the organ pumps rapidly. 

She doesn’t realize the cuffs are gone until she feels herself being manhandled, onto her side, and then onto her back. The dominant slips off the bed, standing at the foot, and wraps his arms around the backs of her thighs as he yanks her toward him. And Isla just splays like a ragdoll. She watches him watch her, her legs flopping and her soles planting against the mattress, knees bent. The submissive tells him, then, cadence soft and dry as if she hasn’t drunk in days, “Please.” 

Her chest rises and falls, almost in tune with the slow clink of his belt buckle as he opens it, nimbly, with one gloved palm as the opposite strokes over her knee. His eyes glint like green embers — hungry with want like fire kindling in a forest. Contained in a campfire, for now, just yearning to swallow the branches and brush in flame. Her own pupils shift to his belt buckle. He draws the belt out. 

“Please.” 

Finally, some give in his otherwise hardened features — his mouth quirks as he tips his chin towards his trousers, utilizing both hands to pop the button and tug down the zipper. 

“Please? What, you wanna bounce on my cock, a bit? Gave you five orgasms, and you’re still desperate for it, like a slut.” 

Her inhale is tremble-y as she watches him cull a condom, tucked away in its wrapper — red, this time, unlike his usual. His mouth purses as he flips it, rotating between his fingertips. 

“Funny,” Harry shoots a glance her way, “This one’s cherry.” 

Want a taste, she nearly expects him to jest, memorable remnants of their first one-on-one scene floating to the forefront of her mind. He doesn’t. He goes quiet, and looks awfully concentrated. Isla exhales at the sight of him untucking his cock from its confines, at the view of him tearing the wrapper open with his teeth, and the image of him rolling the condom down his shaft. He takes his hands away, and his cock bobs. The young woman’s chest rolls as he lines himself up with her core, and she jerks when he swipes the head from where she gushes and leaks to where she’s swollen and sensitive. Jade flickers up to face her. 

“Gonna be a good girl and follow the rules from now on?” he croons, his voice a bit strained given that he’s been aching for fuck her for the entirety of the session. 

The submissive nods, weakly. More than anything, it’s a mindless jerk of her chin. She tenses when he nudges into her. And the stretch is — it’s euphoric. She feels like pure euphoria to him, her spongy walls squeezing over his tip as if they’re two puzzle pieces destined to slot together. A perfect fit. A tight one. His teeth clench, and he hisses and he slides further, unable to curb his groan halfway to the hilt. 

“Fuck.”

Isla spasms over him, over the perfect drag, over the perfect stretch. He buries in, sheathing his cock in its entirety until she hugs every last inch, and his fingers fondle over her thigh as he lifts her legs to plant her calves against his shoulders. 

“Please,” Isla says again, her hips shifting like she’s eager for him to move. 

His mouth twitches. He huffs, reining the instinct to hammer into her as his stomach swirls with want and his mind swims with defiling filth. “Look at you. Desperate to cum. Desperate for attention — for anyone’s attention,” he tacks on pointedly, a dig made as her little rendezvous back at the bar, and Isla’s irises nearly roll back into her head as he withdraws, just a smidge, and pumps forward harshly. Harry grunts. “Just a desperate, little thing. Aren’t you?” 

All Isla can manage, as his hips work into a steady pace, is a wordless part of her lips. 

“Answer me,” the dominant demands, tone hard. 

“No,” the submissive manages out, eventually, and his hips stutter. She whines, bracing her calves against his shoulders to grind wantonly. Case and point. 

A wryly amused crease works over his brow bone, behind latex, and his pace becomes stifled to nothing, “No?” 

Isla whines, frantically, rolling her hips and squeezing over his length, until he scoffs, throws her legs off of him unceremoniously, and leans down in the newfound space to press her cheeks between his digits harshly. 

“No? What the fuck are you doing right now? Grinding on me, like a desperate whore.” 

Her breaths are shallow, and she expels, again, a denial. His takes his hand away, just a smidge, and then pats, once, over the fleshy part of her cheek with his open palm splaying — it’s borderline harsh enough to be considered a slap. Isla groans, and the dominant feels the aftermath manifest as a frantic spasm over his cock. 

“No?” he repeats, voice low and soft. 

“No,” Isla tells him, for the third time. So, he lifts his hand back and does it again, this time a little firmer. Her hips cant as she muzzles a soft sound with her lips, glued together. 

“Don’t want anyone’s attention,” the young woman tells him from below, then, her inflection borderline frenzied, “just want yours.” 

Slowly, the plush strawberry of his mouth quirks and curls up. His ego swells, and the man pulls his hips back, just a smidge, and pummels forward — a reward, for her, and she’s aware. “S’that right?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla cranes her neck back against the comforter when he pushes off of her, picks her legs back up, and melts back into a sure, satisfying tempo, his hips pumping relentlessly. It’s the best. He’s the best. 

The dominant takes her ankles in one palm — how the fuck does he do that, Isla thinks, his hand is so large, and strong, and—

“Fuck, baby, f’you could just see the way we fit together — s’like a fucking match made in heaven,” he throws his head back with a groan post taking in the view of her cunt swallowing him up, coated in cherry-flavored, red latex. His shoulders roll as a shudder wracks down the knobs of his spine, and he separates her ankles off with his hands, setting them into a spread, against the bed, gently. He pushes her knees back until the front of her thighs nearly brush over the sheets, and braces himself with his palms on either side of her head as he works into a hammer. 

“He fuck you like—“ Harry grunts as his hips swivel, and Isla watches, entranced, the plush of his lips part on shallow breaths, his grin wicked and twitchy in response to her little sounds, “this? Give you what you want? What you need?” 

She doesn’t have to inquire to know that he’s talking about Faunus — still on about Faunus. 

“No,” Isla tells him, soft and breathy, And he rewards her, again, by pumping forward, harder, faster, deeper, and groaning, soft huffs suffusing his speech. 

“No? Doesn’t stretch this snug little cunt out the way you need? Who does?” 

“You — just you,” she keens as the entire mattress rocks beneath her. 

“Just me?” his tongue sticks to the tips of his front teeth as he pummels forward and punches a little gasp out of her, “Who does this sweet, little cunt belong to?” 

“You — Sir!” 

“That’s right. S’my cunt. Mine to fuck, mine to tease, mine to kiss,” his gaze flickers down between them, where they connect, and the sight alone nearly has his balls draining. His hand ventures, and fingertips rub over the bundle of nerve endings in a way that has her tensing and crying out. 

“My clit. Isn’t it?” He switches to a thumb, swiping over it, and his jaw falls open as he watches her pulse over his shaft while her head thrashes above, her teeth clenched and grinding in a pained frenzy. She’s quite pretty, overstimulated, too. 

“And that means,” the left corner of his mouth buckles up, his speech glazed with condescension, “I can do whatever I want to it, right?” 

As soon as his touch abates, Isla can no longer restrain herself. She digs the pads of her fingers onto his placket, into the empty spaces between the buttons of his shirt and the slits where they’re looped, clenching a fist as she raises herself and tugs him down. And before the dominant has the opportunity to scold her for treating his dress shirt with such an unshackled lack of care, she meshes their mouths together. Harry’s arms nearly buckle. 

It’s filthy — but not at first. At first, he doesn’t return it, appalled by the gesture. Because it’s a limit, according to her, it’s her limit, because it’s too personal, and she’s just broken it herself. Because she just couldn’t hold back anymore, and in the fervor with which she kisses him, that shit is pretty evident. But then, he does return it. His lips move, and he moans against her strawberry mouth, and then her lips part, and from there it’s just …lewd. They’re sort of in the middle of active intercourse, Isla thinks, so a kiss shouldn’t make her feel so dirty — but it does. It’s not a dainty first kiss of first loves and soft touches and curious experimentation. It’s thrilling, and dirty, and his tongue slips into her mouth after she brushes her own against his bottom lip, and one of her hands tangles into his dress shirt while the opposite presses against his shoulder as if aiming to work out a fucking knot with the pressure. She whimpers against him, wetly, and in turn he groans and nips at her bottom lip with his teeth, his cock pulsing inside of her. And then it’s all teeth, and tongues, and want, want, want, as his hips hammer against her. It’s wanton moans, and whimpers, and rugged groans. It’s everything she’s been yearning for, and more. 

“Open your mouth, open your mouth,” Harry urges, pulling off a bit and slinking a hand over her cheek, “Tongue out.” 

She complies, and then a rivulet of spit dribbles from his mouth against her twitching tongue, and that’s just—

“Fuck,” Harry groans, his hips rolling against her, “You’re fucking filthy. Swallow it.” 

So she does, her throat bobs below his palm, which slinks to cradle over her windpipe — not squeezing, just …there. She moans, soft and melty and desperate as his hips roll into her. And then Harry exhales, takes his hand off of her throat, and plants his palms on either side of her head to raise himself, hovering over her. He sighs like the experience is too pornographic to even comment upon. It sort of is. 

“Dirty fucking girl,” the dominant settles on, eventually. And then he plows her like fucking farmland. 

Her palms roam, frantically, over the fabric covering his back, the craving to leave marks of her own with short nails swelling through her mind, as he pumps forward, until it’s the only thought fathomable. It’s that — and the sick urge to spit into his own strawberry mouth, to have him leant back against the sheets, bare beneath her as she works and bounces over his cock. 

Christ. 

She’s warm, and wet, and heaven, and Harry imagines that his own personal Nirvana, then, would involve nothing but her cunt squeezing over his cock for the rest of eternity, her skin sticky with sweat beneath him, and her muscles quivering as he imbibes and basks. She is, in the moment, everything he wants and everything he’s ever wanted. Everything he ever will want, maybe. Because sex with Isla was — well. It was something else. Something rapturous, something sick and twisted, something he imagines he could never grow tired of. Ever. 

His muscles do, though. Eventually. He feels the ache start in his hamstrings, in his shoulders, in his neck from its crane to gaze down upon her, because he just can’t tear his irises away — it’d be a cardinal sin to miss the view of a lifetime, afterall, Harry thinks. And along with the ache of his muscles comes the familiar chip in his resolve — cracks surfacing as he begins to become rended apart. He feels that in his stomach, first and foremost, in the trench of his tummy as his muscles tense — then, on the underside of his balls, a pleasured warmth that radiates as he pulses, and finally it seeps through his shaft. She squeezes over him, like she knows, and he almost loses it, then and there. He drives into her frantically, groaning animalistically as his body chases release almost on its own accord. 

“Shit — always milk my cock so good, baby. Gonna— FUCK—“

Isla moans, soft beneath him, when she feels the warmth of his release, confined by the stupid cherry-flavored condom. When she feels his cock pulsing in her, when she feels his tempo slow, when he gives her a few last, weak strokes. When his head dips and he blows out a long breath, grunting as he pulls back and slips out, when she feels nothing but emptiness. 

“Sir,” she starts, soft, soft, soft, and the rough exterior, the paramountcy-hungered, hard shell of his demeanor splinters and falls apart. 

“So sweet for me,” Harry says, voice coated in candy, tucking strands back from her sweaty hairline, “Aren’t you? Always so eager to be good for me.” 

Isla whimpers. Harry coos, shushing her with soft croons for a moment, until he pulls back and starts untucking himself from the condom and clearing up a bit. 

“Always make me happy, always such a good girl. Take everything I give you and more, so well,” the man tells her, his pupils bouncing from his cock to her face as he cautiously rolls the condom off, “Hold on just a minute, baby, and we’ll have a cuddle, alright?” 

He stows the condom away in its wrapper after he’s tucked himself away, and he contemplates making the short walk to the trashcan by the electric water thing against the wall. Ultimately, the dominant decides against it when she whines, needy for him and in need. Instead, he sets it off to the side, on the nightstand, as he turns back to her, lips twitching up into a little grin. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he starts, kneeing his way back onto the bed to sit beside her and hover, his hand stroking over her cheek, the side of her head, over her ear, down the side of her neck, “Gave me five today. Made me so proud.” 

Isla just nods against his gloved palm, her sigh dreamy. Did she? Five, really? What an exciting and, frankly, impressive number. It’s all sort of a bliss of euphoria. She feels it, the headspace, the kind where she’s buzzing and floaty and her mind drifts and bobs about the walls aimlessly. The kind where all she can fathom is that she wants to be close to him. And it really hits her when Eros coaxes, “Can you sit up for me, pet?” 

Absolutely not. 

She shakes her head at him, wordlessly, and his mouth quirks with an endeared scoff, and the young woman nearly whines until he slips onto his side beside her to cradle her close. For a minute, he just lays near her, his chest to her side as he pets and caresses over her waist, and eventually he rolls to his own back and beckons, “Come here, baby,” holding her close as she shifts her head onto the space just over his butterfly. 

Harry stares at the ceiling. All is well. 

All is well, and it happens nearly out of the blue, brought about from a murky horizon, unforeseen. Because in their nights together, Isla cries — she always cries, and sometimes, when Harry cradles her close, he coddles her out of soft sobs that wrack her body post an intense scene. But those are traces. Remnants. They’re aftermath. The unanticipated is a fresh wave. 

And Isla feels it coming on. She feels it settling in her chest, first, bursts and blooms of sadness, like the kind where you feel nostalgic, missing something. Then, her eyes. They already feel puffy and swollen, but they start to burn in the back. Her throat feels tight. And that sadness creeps deeper and settles. 

Because she sort of feels she’s living through the nostalgia, then and there, in the moment. Like she’ll never relive it again. 

Isla lays her head over his heartbeat and starts to cry. 

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

[help-itrappedmyself]

Jegulus Part 3

Regulus has not seen Sirius since that night. There has been no communication, and while he does have a very strong guess, he still doesn’t know for sure where Sirius even went, or if he is okay. 

Regulus stops in the train corridor and huffs to himself. He knows nothing good can come of it. And Sirius is the one who left him. But now that he’s closer to his brother than he has been in over a month, he finds himself wanting to see for himself if he really is okay, if he’s even here, coming back to Hogwarts, or if he ran away from everything that night and not just his family. So, Regulus readies himself, preparing to go in search of him. Shouldn’t be hard to find him, he’s always with the loudest people ever. Which is fitting because Sirius is a loud person as well. 

Regulus is not. Where Sirius is bright, loud, and simply big in personality and spirit, Regulus is small. This is mostly by design on Regulus’ part. Regulus is small, he has worked hard to maintain no presence in a room. His personality is carefully crafted for prying eyes, and the rest of him hides away most of the time. He is, by design, a complete shadow. People know the edges of him, a vague shape of him, but no one but Sirius truly knows him. Well, Sirius did, but where he once held that claim he has certainly lost it. So now Regulus is known only to himself. And he does know himself. Years of hiding and dissecting your personality to please other people leaves a lot of room for introspection. He knows he has the capacity to be big if he wanted to. His feelings themselves can be quite large and he struggles trying to hide them all of the time. 

For example, his feelings for one James Potter, who he sees going into the next cabin. Regulus follows because wherever Potter is, his brother should be there as well. So, he hides himself, masks his expression, making sure that whether his brother is there or not, nothing Regulus thinks will be revealed. Because there are no good options here. Either Sirius is there and he not only didn’t say goodbye when walking out of his life, but he also doesn’t care about Regulus enough to attempt any communication. Or he isn’t there and all that means is that instead of just leaving his family, leaving him, Sirius also gave up on his friends and past life altogether. Which, admittedly, would leave Regulus more confused, but also less hurt. But he’s stalled out here long enough.Regulus goes to the cabin he saw Potter enter and, without knocking, slams the door open. Inside is a mess. How they managed to make such a mess in so little time is astounding. There’s Pettigrew and Lupin on one side of the cabin, though Lupin will be leaving at some point, because that’s a prefect badge on his robes, candy wrappers everywhere, as well as candy that has yet to be eaten. Parchment, quill and ink lay on the side of the bench with a small stack of books, probably Lupin’s. And on the other side of the cabin, there’s Potter, close to the door and staring at him. To the left of Potter - Sirius. They lock eyes for a moment and that is quite enough for Regulus, he has his answer.

[smolkiwi98]

hi! i'm not sure if youre alright with it and im sorry if youre not, but could you write some non sexual domination with steve or eddie? so its consensual but not really for pleasure. something like reader and him having agreements on things she should and should not do, things she wants to improve but has a hard time with and punishments and maybe she breaks a rule and he gives her a spanking and lots of after care of course. again, sorry if its somthing youre not comfortable with

I'm sorry if this one seems rushed as well! I hope you enjoy!

masterlist

if you want to make a request click here

!WARNING! brief mentions of spanking, one spank is mentioned, depression and anxiety is mentioned, dom/sub dynamic but not in a sexual way! I think that's it.

It was simple. You do certain things and get rewarded for doing those certain things, but those things are so hard to complete no matter how simple they are! Your relationship with Eddie is amazing and what’s great is he’s always there to help no matter what. He wants nothing but the best for you. Which is why the two of you have come to an agreement to bring your dom/sub dynamic out of the bedroom and into normal everyday things. No you weren’t doing spicy things out in public (no matter how many times Eddie jokes about it), you were simply doing what your dom asks. Following tasks…following his rules. Not for sexual pleasure, no. For your well being. Making sure you’re taking care of yourself. 

The rules were simple, but sometimes mentally…it was hard. It was hard to remember to take your meds on time, brush your hair, brush your teeth, wash your hair. These are things you’re supposed to automatically do, like it's nothing! But your anxiety gets in the way. Your depression stops you. You hated it and wanted to better yourself, but no matter how times you’ve tried it just didn’t work. It would last about 3 days and then it would all just stop, so you and Eddie decided on rules and if those rules are broken then you get punished. Again not a sexual thing. A lifestyle to help you. 

“Okay, Princess. What are your tasks for today?” Eddie asks you as he walks to the front door. He had gotten you up and ready for the day while he got ready for work. You followed him around the trailer as he got ready to leave. Finally he turned and looked at you “Sweetheart?” He asked, making you blink, “Oh! Um…Make myself lunch, clean up the living room, and do laundry.” Eddie nodded “Aaaand?” He said, watching you, “Take my meds?” He smiled and nodded “Yup! You’re so smart.” He said while pulling you into a hug “I’ll be back around 6 tonight.” He said while kissing your head “I love you.” He said against your forehead. You smiled and squeezed him a little tighter “I love you too, Eds.” He smiled and kissed you one more time before leaving for work. You smiled and closed the door and turned around to look at the trailer, “This shouldn’t be too bad.” You said to yourself and walked to the room to get the laundry together. 

~ 4 Hours ~

You had separated the laundry and managed to get all the under clothes in the washer, but the only issue is they’ve been in there for about an hour now…maybe longer? The jeans pile and the shirt pile laid on the floor of the living room. The living room wasn’t messy. The only thing to pick up were some cups and empty candy wrappers…which were still on the end tables. The only task you actually got done was taking your medicine and that’s only because Eddie called to make sure you did take them! Your first  mistake was turning on the tv and finding out your favorite movie was on, your second mistake was finding your favorite nail polish on the end table and your third mistake? Convincing yourself all your tasks were done. That’s another problem you have. You find something other things to do and just tell yourself everything on your to-do list was done!

You sat on the coffee table sitting criss crossed while you painted your nails and watched the movie. You were so engulfed by nail painting and the movie that you didn’t realize the door was opening. Eddie walked in and kicked off his boots and looked over at you. He smiled thinking how cute you looked while painting your nails, your tongue was sticking out as you concentrated. He walked a little closer and his smile slowly fell when he saw the two piles of clothes on the floor in front of you and then looked at the end tables and saw the trash still sitting there, “Princess.” He said making you jump. You smiled wide and got up and made your way over to him hugging him tight “I missed you!” You exclaimed while wrapping your arms around him. Eddie hugged you back, but it wasn’t a squeeze that he usually gave you after work. You pulled away and looked up at him frowning “Are you okay?” You asked. Maybe he had a bad day? Eddie took a small step back and crossed his arms “How did your tasks go?” He asked “Oh! I got a load of laundry done and I took my medicine.” You said smiling, completely forgetting about the trash and the other two piles of clothes. Eddie nodded his head “Where’s that load of laundry?” You turned around to point at the laundry basket, but found that it was empty which made you frown, “I thought I put it in the basket.” You said quietly. Eddie bent down a little so he was making eye contact with you and gently took a hold of your face. His thumb and fingers squishing your cheeks “I think you need to take a closer look at the living room, Sweetheart.” He said while turning your head back towards the living room. You looked around and you were confused at first until it clicked. Your eyes widened and you looked back at him ‘The load is still in the washer…” You mumbled. Eddie chuckled almost like he was amazed “Did you even look at the floor? What about the tables? Huh?” He said, “Try again.” He said making you look back. You sighed when you finally saw what he was talking about. How could you be so stupid. You looked down “I didn’t clean the living room and I didn’t finish the laundry.” You said. Eddie did nothing but nod and take your hand and started to walk to the bedroom. 

The small walk to the room had you confused, but once Eddie sat down on the bed man spreading you realized you were going to be punished. A small blush made its way on your cheeks and you played with your fingers “Come on, Princess. You know the drill.” He said while patting his lap. You sighed and slowly made your way across his lap. You put your face in the bed and held onto his thigh. His hand ran up and down thigh, pushing your soft night shorts up so the bottom of your ass peaked out. You shivered, his rings were so cold against your skin, “Now…before I start tell me what you did all day.” He always did this. Made you explain your day so you can figure out what you did wrong and if you lied then your punishment would just be worse. “I…I started the first load of clothes and took my medicine.” He hummed signaling for you to continue “I separated the rest of the clothes. I turned the tv on for background noise and saw that a movie was on…and I also found my nail polish.” You mumbled, “Okay. What was your first mistake?” He asked “I turned the tv on?” You asked “Right. I’ve told you no tv until you finish your tasks.” He said as he stopped rubbing your bottom “I think 10 spanks is good, yeah?” You nodded your head “I won’t make you count this time.” Again you nodded and responded with a quiet ‘okay.’ Eddie brought his hand up and spanked you. You silently thanked him for not going so hard this time, you guessed it was because he didn’t think of the issue as a huge one. 

After the 10 spanks he slowly lifted you up and gently set you down on his lap. Your legs on either side of him making you straddle him “How are you feeling?” He whispered while wiping the small tears that threatened to fall. You sniffed “I’m okay.” You said quietly “Lay on your tummy for me, okay?” He said which you just responded with a nod. You climbed off of him and laid on your tummy. Your bottom hurt, but it wasn’t as bad as his other punishments. You watched as he moved around the room and grabbed different things. Finally he was back by you and spread your legs a little “I’m gonna pull your shorts down, alright Princess.” He always announced what he was doing when you couldn’t see what he was doing, it made you feel safe and it made him more comfortable with you knowing what he was doing. You could hear a cap being opened and already knew he was going to put soothing cream where had spanked you. Even though it wasn’t harsh, the cream still felt nice against your burning skin. You let out a small sigh and closed your eyes as he massaged you.  Every now and then he would leave little kisses on the back of your thighs, “Do you want to wear these shorts or just one of my shirts?” He asked standing up. You sat up and turned around to face him “I kinda wanna wear my shorts until we go to bed.” You said. Eddie nodded and leaned in to give you a small kiss on the lips, “How about you finish the laundry while I cook us some dinner.” He said. You pouted not really wanting to do the laundry right now, but the pout just made Eddie give you a stern look “Okay.” You said and stood up from the bed, but before you could walk out the room Eddie scooped you up and carried you to the living room “Finish the laundry and I might make you a milkshake.” He said while setting you down. 

Well now you had something to work for.

[whoistartaglia]

halloween activities. 

including: zhongli, al haitham, diluc, childe, xiao, kaeya, itto, tighnari.

warnings: mentions of some creepy stuff, gender neutral reader, fluff.

notes: happy almost halloween!

zhongli. 

you watch a horror movie together. it was your idea, naturally. zhongli isn’t scared by much; certainly not a fictional horror movie. he doesn’t like them, not really, but he does like how you curl up next to him after you start the movie. how, whenever you suspect something’s bad going to happen or a particularly nasty scene, you bury your face into his chest, waiting for him to tell you, “it’s okay, dear, you can look now.”

just be warned: his tolerance for guts and gore is much higher than yours. on more than one occasion, you looked when he said it would be okay, and no, zhongli—seeing that girl’s head on the side of the road after her brother drove her home was not in your definition of okay. 

al haitham. 

you go out to dinner. you and al haitham never considered yourselves true halloween fanatics, so you don’t go out partying or stay up waiting for trick-or-treaters (you just leave a bowl out with a “take one” sign that gets mostly ignored). but al haitham insists you at least do something for the holiday, so you suggested fine dining, and it’s been a tradition ever since. 

you admit, it’s slightly strange to be walking the city in fine clothes while those around you dawn makeup and costumes galore. but hey, maybe they think you’re also dressed up—hollywood stars, rich arisocrats, famous models, something like that. they wouldn’t think you’d go out to a five star restaurant on a halloween night instead of some bar or party. 

your tradition is strange and a little out of place on such a spooky night, but it’s yours, and you wouldn’t rather do anything else. 

diluc. 

you make him dress up with you. he squabbles and complains and moans and groans like always, but if you had to guess, you think he secretly likes it. even when he broods during the obligatory picture you take, you think you can see the faintest hint of a smile. not that the wine tycoon would ever admit such a thing. 

no, no, diluc keeps up his slightly annoyed, slightly exasperated facade (or tries to). but that’s all it is: a facade. he allows you to dress him with whichever costume matches yours. if you go out, people will tell you its the cutest couple costume ever, and also diluc rolls his eyes… why, yes. you do think you detect a blush on his face, his lips trying not to form a smile. 

childe. 

you bought candy for the children. the sweet little trick-or-treaters that go door to door, politely asking for some candy. you were once one of those children; it’s time you give back. and you do—you even bought a couple of king-sized bars because those were your favorite when you were a kid. 

so imagine your surprise when they’re… gone. not in the kitchen, not near the door. then you notice your garbage is filled with wrappers and— is that chocolate smeared on childe’s lips?

“did you— did you eat all of the candy bars?” you ask, slightly horrified at the prospect. 

“yeah?” childe replies. “you bought my favorite. i couldn’t not have some.”

“i…” your voice trails off. “i suppose not…” there goes your dream of being that house on the block, the one that gives out full sized candy bars. but then again, maybe you shouldn’t have bought your boyfriend’s favorite candy bars—an all-too tragic mistake and temptation.

xiao. 

you wouldn’t call your boyfriend scary… but you cqn see why other people would. xiao can’t help his resting-i’m-unhappy-and-look-kind-of-annoyed face. honestly, it’s not even that bad. 

at least to other adults. when some of the trick-or-treaters came knocking and were met with xiao’s unintentional scowl… well. you had some explaining to do to some unhappy parents and frightened children. 

xiao felt horrible. you comforted him and told him to smile next time and—

that was somehow worse. another group of frightened children—these ones actually looked like middle schoolers. xiao didn’t try handing out candy after that, and for a couple days, you had to reaffirm his face was not scary, most kids are just wimps. 

kaeya. 

he’s a menace, an absolute menace, who will try and scare the living daylights out of you for the entire week leading up to halloween. a jumpscare whenever you turn the corner, creepy music playing while you’re just trying to brush your teeth before bed, flickering lights that’s actually pretty obviously kaeya. it doesn’t bother you too much, although you were pretty upset when you spilt some coffee on yourself when kaeya snuck up on you. 

but now it was your turn to play some tricks, and what night better than mischief night? there kaeya was, asleep on the couch. you approached, intending to scare him awake and have the final laugh before halloween. you crept nearer, hovering over his sleeping—

kaeya’s eyes popped open and he shouted, “BOO!”, making you stumble backwards, your heart begin racing, your breathing catch. his laugh after is loud, and really, you should have known kaeya always gets the last laugh. 

itto.

you party. this is your halloweekend, and you make the most out of every night, with a different costume for each. yes, you and itto spent a long time planning your costumes and which party you’re going to and when and where. it’s a whole thing; you even make a spreadsheet. 

you have very little time to recover in the morning before you’re getting ready for the next one. and everyone thinks you’re the best costumed couple there; your costumes and makeup and hair compliment each other’s perfectly. your couple costumes are truly unique, even if they do get a little… messed up during the party. after all, hours of dancing and shouting against the rooftops tends to cause handbands and wings and cosmetics to fall off. 

tighnari. 

you go to an amusement park. what’s better than being scared for your life at the peak of a rollercoaster, and being scared by the various actors throughout the park? a two for one deal, if you ask tighnari. it was his idea, and you protest it; you quite liked theme parks. 

but… those actors were ruthless. sneaking up on you after you got off a rollercoaster, dizzy and a little more than disoriented. taunting you with too-wide smiles as you wait in line for the next one. their grins promise no mirth, only fear, on a ride or off. it’s when you exit the park that you think you’re safe… you get into the car and drive—

was that another masked creep in your rearview? you don’t want to know; you just tell tighnari to floor it. 

[negativecharm]

141 task force and their good boy antics:

Ghost: I'm getting the idea he might be the one to feel unhostile to leave the table all messy when he eats outside. He probably stacks the plates and silverware, possibly even wipe the table with napkins because he knows it's less work for anyone working there.

Soap: Johnny would be the one to keep little bits of trash like candy wrappers and tissues in his jean pockets or in the bag he's carrying because he'd never be the one to litter. He forgets to take them out so he always tends to carry scrunched up bits of trash in his belongings. If he sees someone do the opposite he silently judges them.

Price: His way of being good natured would be one of the most obvious things to notice. Like giving up his seat for anyone who he thinks has been enduring the trip for too long while standing. If he sees someone who's carrying some kind of baggage, he immediately gets up and offers them his seat.

Gaz: I just think doing the day-to-day chores with this man would be a delight no matter how boring the chore could be. Just going out to get groceries with him could be enjoyable at some points (i just rlly adore him ok). You can't offer him to carry anything for him because he doesn't specifically do it for anyone. He's just a gentleman. And I think he's a very stoical soul. If there's a minor thing that bothers him, he'd only say it aloud when you ask him. He tries to maintain the calmness in any situation if it was necessary which he thinks is most of the time.

[asfateentertwines]

Thinking about a Kiri desperate for answers who begs Ewya to see her, to talk to her, to just give her a chance. About her slipping into the water and connecting to the tree of souls when she knows she can’t. About her crying into warm sand as she racks her brain for memories she can’t quite reach and not knowing if they’re even hers.

About a Kiri meeting an aunt she never met, who brushes the hair from her face and whispers about before all this. About a school yard and a her mother as little as Tuk. She dreams of glimpses of red hair and a teacher, not a mother yet. She can’t imagine a life as peaceful as that could really be real.

A Kiri who opens her eyes and is immediately on the floor, a narrow eyed man pulls her up and holds her shoulder tight as if he didn’t shove her to the dirt the moment before. Tsutey is barely there before he is gone but she feels strong as stone. She wants to ask what he was going to say but the ground under her feet is growing growing growing until the earth reclaims her as it did him.

Her grandfather is found when she tries to bond to a tree with a shimmer in its bark. Is not a soul tree but she thinks there’s something there. He whispers about failures. About passing his burden to his youngest daughter’s oldest son. How he almost ended a cycle. How he didn’t.

She never thought about the people in bridgehead that were like Norm, Max, Trudy, Grace - they couldn’t be people in the stories or else the fires were too hot. But she breathes in the air of one of Norms meal kits and the metal floor beneath her feet is littered with candy wrappers and paper. There’s laughter, clinking of vials, a song humming through a tinny radio, and humanity feels a little too real. Her skin suddenly feels thin, her bones weaker. Her body is too big and too awkward but there’s a haze she hopes they felt all the way til the end. She never forgets how warm the sun through a window felt on such fragile skin.

Spider is so small and so stubborn and she can’t protect him. She’s screaming into the soil, begging for her mother to tell her what to do, and then the smoke fills her lungs. She gasps, breathing in fumes and choking on the poison when his eyes meet hers. Paz Socorro has his eyes, his curls in darker little ringlets. She cries, sobbing just like Kiri. She tried to get home, she tried not to leave him. She didn’t mean to start the pattern. She was only 23, she’d never done this before. Her plane burns and all she can taste are ashes but she feels her strength in her bones, trembling as they are, and she marches home like she doesn’t remember what fire tastes like.

The answers never come plain and sometimes Kiri doesn’t think she’s one person. She thinks she’s a collection. All the souls lost on pandora, gathered and loved with her ancestors or buried beneath the dirt she walks over. She tries though, again and again and again because the heartbeat thunders so loud that she swears it’s thousands of them, begging her to find them. She loves them as much as she hates them. She clings to her mother, the large and the small, and speaks with the only voice that doesn’t shake. Thinking about Kiri who calls it a blessing because a curse is ungrateful and she can’t call them something so cruel. She was never a little girl in the same way there’s always one reaching for her hand in the quiet seconds between minutes. Thinking about how Kiri can never just be Kiri but the way it’s integral to her that she can’t ever just be the one girl she was born as. How she’s not even sure which one that is.

[ghostchems]

A silly one:

A Papa that has eaten all the leftover Halloween candy and is now unwell from it.

- A Nonny Mouse

You are left staring at the bowl of candy on Primo’s counter just next to an array of succulents. Eyes scan the small kitchen for any evidence of wrappers or candy. Maybe he threw them away? You wander around the kitchen for a moment, opening to the trash can to find no candy. And then you hear it… a soft groan coming from down the hall.

You move in the direction of the sound, the carpet feeling soft on your socks as you slowly move toward the door at the end of the hallway. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you reach the door and the groaning only grows louder. Your heart pounds in your ears before you push the door open, only to find Primo in bed with the covers drawn up underneath his nose.

“Amore mio.” He whines and tries to sit up in bed, wincing as he moves. “I have made a mistake.” You sigh deeply, looking over his figure with a soft smile. You’re relieved that it’s exactly what you thought it was and not something serious — despite his diet mainly consisting of food grown from his garden (vegetables, fruits, etc) but he is known to have a severe sweet tooth. You considered not leaving the bowl of candy out for the day because of this but you figured that Primo would be busy enough to stay out of his quarters.

You were wrong.

“You know you have a sensitive stomach, Primo.” You coo, spilling his secret to the four walls that surround the two of you. The ministry thinks that Primo became this gardening wizard because of his passion for plants but in all actuality, it was because of his constant stomach issues. The more natural foods helped him digest better, hence the intense interest in gardening.

But he always succumbs to the candy.

“Don’t tease.” Primo groans again and reaches out for you, his favorite piece of candy of all. You crawl onto the bed and lay next to him, settling on your side so you can slip your hand down the covers and up his t-shirt to stroke his upset tummy. He sighs happily and relaxes against you, his hands moving to hold your arms. “It was the nougat.”

You chuckle quietly against his ear before moving your lips to kiss at the wrinkles on the corner of his mouth and then up to brush over his laugh lines. Primo is all but purring, closing his eyes to bask in your love.

“A nap should fix you up, don’t you think? I’ll get you some ginger ale after if it’s still upset.” You hum as you smooth his hair from his face. Primo sighs in the affirmative, melting at your touch and relaxes even further against you. It’s impossible for you to be frustrated at him; he can’t help it when the forbidden goodness is staring him right in the face, wrapped in pretty colors.

You’re happy to take care of him, after all, he’s taken care of you quite a bit.