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#Isla ( mirror )
victormalonso · 5 months
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dreamer | victor m. alonso
november, 9, 2023 \ my shape reflected in a street dirty window
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icestory-is · 2 months
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locktobre · 2 years
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did anyone else feel like MP made “Isla” feel older? in DM she seemed to be Malibu’s age, but in MP we find out she has like... a full job, a pretty important job since Coralia is in charge and she’s her assistant(?), so like... is she actually an adult? (not even gonna go into her character model previously being used for adult characters...)
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sundays-sims · 6 months
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I S L A . (early access, patreon)
Welcoming my favorite weather with a set I have been wanting to create for a while: a cute area for your sims to get ready & dessed, either in a bedroom or a walk-in. I tried my best to create nice hanging clothes & a rack, super cute skincare clutter, some slippers etc! Although I made this with a bedroom/home in mind, I can totally see this set as part of a store as well! It's up to your imagination! The isla set contains 18 new meshes, the rack is functional as a wardrobe as well, so simmies can change their outfit using it. The vanity & pouf can also work as a computer desk as well. I hope you enjoy this set, I really enjoyed creating all the details and small objects! ♥
↓ details & download link under the cut ↓
D O W N L O A D - L I N K : [X] (patreon, early access)
SET DETAILS:
clothes rack
hanger
body suit
t-shirt
buttoned shirt
knit sweater
bralette
slippers
vanity desk
pouf
floor mirror
lip oil (2 versions)
comb & earrings
ceramic plate
body lotion bottle
lotion tube
scrunchie
**WCIF: the vanity mirror is from my Ungasan set, the rattan basket from my Rimouski set, the small earring stand with the diamond earrings is from my canggu set**
→ terms of use / TOU ← / / → instagram ←
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orangelala · 11 days
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the dare - c.s
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female reader x chris sturniolo
summary: it's been months since you both last seen each other, what happens when two old flames reignite and the secret is out?
warnings: angst to fluff? use of y/n, mentions of possible regret, some mention of not taking care of oneself, kissing (lots of dialog, back and forth povs)
requested for part two by @nicksmainbitch
word count: 2,284 words (not proof read)
it's been three almost four months since chris has last seen you. making it difficult for him to leave the house, let alone his room. his brothers having to drag him out the house to make youtube videos and to socialize again. chris couldn't, what he did to you ached him in unbearable ways. he wishes to know how you were. wishes to feel your presence, how you roamed your small hands into his hair as he kissed softly on your neck, and hearing small little giggles and moans leaving your mouth. how you fit perfectly into him. you were his other half.
you on the other hand, you struggled. dealing with all the pregnancy symptoms alone. morning sickness, night sweats, cravings, dizziness, everything you wanted to experience with chris as he helped. but here you were sitting in your now apartment you rented almost five weeks back. deciding it was best to get a place of your own. as much as you appreciated all your friends help, you needed a place of your own for you and your baby on the way.
bills were unfortunately piling up and as much as you didn't want to leave your spot in your bed or the couch, you were going to have to get back to work eventually. calling your boss, hoping to explain your situation and if it's okay to go from full to part time, just for right now. as you wait for a response back you decided to go to the store to pick up some groceries as you started to come down to the last bit of your essentials. you could easily doordash them but with bills stacking it's best to go in person.
you walk to your room once again to get ready, grabbing a pair of jeans that were once upon baggy, a crewneck that you folded up a bit so it's somewhat cropped and your slippers as they seen to be the only thing comfortable on your feet. starting your car and heading towards the store. you get out to grab a cart and head inside. grabbing some snacks, wishing you ate before you came so you weren't just getting your cravings at the moment. you walk towards the produce.
back with chris, his brothers are about to head out for the day, trying to get him to go so he can get out. protesting multiple times he finally caves, grabbing some sweatpants, a hoodie and some airforces walking to the garage looking at the car as nick and matt were already in waiting for him. the whole time chris had one thing on his mind, you. reminiscing back on memories as he looked out the window. matt looks at nick through the review mirror giving nick a worried look as chris has yet to say anything, no music, no nothing it was too quiet.
dragging chris from the gas station, a friend's house to pick up something, and now entering the store. chris ends up walking away from nick and matt as he heads down the chip isle to get his favorite honey barbeque fritos which were yours as well. hesitating to grab a bag, he looks to his right as he smells your perfume. the same perfume that lingered around his room constantly, the same scent that was stuck on his clothes that he refuses to touch as it's the last thing he has of you. that's why he lays in his room, you still linger around him.
looking at the person in front of him, seeing a small figure. it reminded him of you. he rubbed his eyes and thought he was hallucinating the thought of you again, turning back around to grab the chips and walk away which is cut off quickly as he hears a familiar and comforting voice. "chris? is that you?" you say making chris just stand there wondering if his brain is playing tricks on him. turning around slowly facing you now. he feels so at ease and he looks at you, scanning your beautiful but yet tired face. seeing the discomfort and sadness that overcame the joyful girl he once knew.
knowing that he made her that way, he moves his eyes from her face to chest as it starts to raise up fast and lower to her stomach, making his eyes widen. she's pregnant, chris thought to himself. your pregnant with his baby. he steps forward "hi y/n" he says putting his head down immediately, making you pull your crewneck down. "um it's good to see you" you say trying to break the ice. this is so awkward you both thought, you can feel the tension between you two from a mile away.
"it's good to see you too," chris says, lifting up his head to smile. you hear chris's name being called by who you assume is matt. you quickly take out a piece of paper from your purse and write down an address and hand it to chris. "here, come over around seven. so we can talk" you say, giving him a small smile and quickly walk away. chris looks down at the paper and smiles. happy you're willing to speak to him again. he puts the paper in his pocket and walks towards the direction of his name being called.
the whole way home he's looking at time on his phone and bouncing his leg up and down nervously wondering what your going to say, but most importantly he can't stop thinking about the fact your pregnant. pregnant with his baby. you both talked about children, but it had sadden him knowing you spent what he's guessing the first five, maybe six months without him.
chris quickly gets out of the car as soon as matt drives up the driveway into the garage and goes to his room to take a shower. he takes a shower and starts getting ready, he looks at clock and it now reads 6:15pm, he pulls out his phone and puts in the address you gave him so see how long it takes. reading it takes about twenty minutes, chris walks out his room and heads up the stairs to ask matt if he can take him. matt agrees feeling a sigh of relief that his brother is willing to go out again. matt and chris let nick know they are going and that matt will be back soon.
chris and matt are now in the car, chris is giving the directions and finally pulling up to the apartment complex almost thirty minutes later. matt asked who chris was visiting and not wanting to get his own feelings worked up he smiled and said a friend. getting out and saying goodbye to matt as matt drives away.
you on the other hand, you are beyond nervous. not knowing what to wear and wondering if your apartment is tidy up enough for him. feeling all these emotions and feelings flood through you as you think about all the nights you've cried for chris. wanting to call or text him to come over. for him to just hold you. tell you all of what happened was something you both could put past you, but you had thought since what had happened he possibly didn't want anything to do with you. you were wrong as he agreed to come over, as least you think he did. watching the clock as it feels like you've been sitting for forever.
chris knocks on your door, and you immediately jump up and walk towards the door. closing your eyes for a brief moment and taking a deep breath before opening the door. "hi, come in please" you say opening the door wider for him. chris steps in and stands to the side as you close the door and guide you both to the living room. he looks around and compliments your apartment. "you have a great place, it suits you" he says smiling now sitting on the couch.
"thank you, would you like anything?" you say before walking away for the kitchen. "no im okay love-" chris stops himself immediately as he realizes what he had said. you feel your heart sink as he said it. you haven't heard that nickname in so long. "im sorry- it just slipped out" you says quickly. "hey, it's okay" you say as you walk back with a water, placing it on the table in front of you and taking your time to sit down.
chris notices and moves some pillows so your more comfortable, "thank you" you say again smiling. chris nods waiting for you to say something. "so.." you both say in sync making you both laugh. chris felt alot more comfortable hearing your laugh as it became his favorite thing. "well i guess the secret is out" you say hesitantly. "yeah, i- i guess it is" chris says wondering if he should move closer or not. "how um how far along are you?" chris says looking down at his fingers. "almost six months" you say choked up.
all you can think to yourself is how awkward this is, you were going to speak again but you are beaten by chris speaking first. "look y/n im so sorry, i should've never did what i did. never should've did that dare. i had feelings for you at first but buried them when i thought you didn't feel the same. so when the dare had came up when everyone was playing truth or dare i took it as an opportunity, i get this sounds like an excuse but it's the truth. i'd never want to hurt you, it's literally the last thing i wanted to do" chris says as tears start to come down his face.
you were going to speak but he cuts you off once again "- i know you didn't want anything to do with me, trust me i wouldn't want anything to do with me either. but i love you, i love you so much. you are all i think about from the moment i wake up to the moment my eyes close at night. it was us. i wanted- i want to spend my life with you and now-" chris says moving closer and puts his hand on your belly. "- and now our baby" he continues with tears down his face as he holds onto you.
"chris" you say softly. but you think chris didn't hear you as his sobs surround the room. "chris" you say again but more louder as you cup his face. "you hurt me chris, you really did. but this whole time you were the only person i thought of, it was so hard leaving the house and have conversations with people. i didn't- i don't want to do this pregnancy alone. i want to do it with you, the man i fell inlove with." you say with now your eyes swelling with tears. chris looks at you "does this mean?" he says swiping his eyes. "yes chris, im willing to try this again. but i swear to god if you hurt me- hurt us again. that's it" you say but chris cups your face immediately and kisses you passionately, and pulling away to pepper you in kisses. in between kisses he thanks you a million times. "i promise, i won't hurt you again, or you my little one" chris says moving his face to your belly to give it a light kiss.
"do you know the gender?" chris says looking you in the eyes. "well was kind of hoping you'd go with me tomorrow to find out? you say keeping your eyes on him. "i'd love too" he says pulling you back into another kiss. "i want it to be us three, i can't imagine my life with anyone else." he says pulling you into a hug and with the other holding your belly to lightly rub it. "and i can't imagine my life with anyone else" you say taking in his cologne as you missed it.
"so we're obviously passed the talking stage, and im not sure if we should-" chris trys to say but you cut him off "let's just take it small, we just got each other back, but absolutely no secrets right?" you say pulling yourself away and looking him better in his eyes so he knows how serious you are. "no secrets" he says placing a kiss on your forehead.
you just fall into his presence, thinking about your future with him. if it's something you're willing to go through again. you really do believe he's sorry, and you don't want your little girl or boy to grow up without their father. you want to believe he'll do you no harm. part of you is going to wonder if it's best to let go completely, but all you can think about is that other part that craved him this whole time. he made you so happy when you were with him.
he was originally supposed to be your forever in the first place right? so why can't he be it now. you take a deep breath and close your eyes. that night you both fell asleep in each other's arms. this was going to be the story you tell your children that with the right person you will find your way to each other. it's just your decision if your willing to take the risk or not. let's just say you took that risk, do you regret it? part of you does, but your love for him is so much stronger, all you do is bury it and spend the rest of your life with him and your child.
a/n: was abousltley not going to write a part two, but it was requested alot. this could be so much better, meaning the ending, but i gave up wondering if it should be a good one or not. but i put you guys in enough pain the first part, so here's this. hope you like. love you 🧡
tags: @astronomysturniolos @nicksmainbitch @sturniolossss @sturnlova @samandcolbyfan22
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nataliasquote · 4 months
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Double the trouble [pt.1] | n romanoff
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Double the trouble au: part 1, part 2
Summary: Natasha and Wanda’s teenage twin daughters are a lot to handle, but despite their differences and arguments, there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for each other
Warnings: none
Pairings: WandaNat
wc: 3.9k
note: my first time putting a one shot on tumblr. Here goes nothing
— ⧗ —
"Y/N! Mom told me to come wake you. You're gonna be late." Isla stood at the door, her arms folded with a cocky smirk plastered on her face.
Y/N groaned and turned over in her bed, flinging an arm over her face as she squinted into the light to see who was speaking. The familiar outline of her twin sister came into view and she rolled back over.
"Y/N. Get up. Or don't. It's not my fault if you're late." And with that, the girl was gone, the door swinging shut as a cloud of floral perfume was all that was left in her place.
"Good morning to you too." Y/N muttered under her breath as she pulled her phone off charge and checked the time. Her stomach dropped as 7:19 flashed up on her screen. School started at 8:00. They left at 7:45. She did not have long at all.
"Isla I'm gonna kill you!" The distressed teenager screamed out, running over to her closet to pull out the first half decent outfit she could find. Any feeling of tiredness evaporated from her body as she got dressed, which was probably the only positive to come out of this morning.
A knock sounded on her bedroom door as she pulled her shirt over her head. Wanda's head popped around before she saw it was safe for her to enter. She watched her daughter getting frustrated over her hair for a moment before walking over with a plate of freshly made toast and fruit. There wasn't much time to eat it but Wanda was the kind of mother who made sure all of her girls were fed. Even when Nat was feeling stubborn.
"Good morning sweetheart. I brought breakfast." It was an obvious thing to send but Y/N smiled gratefully at her in the mirror for a split second before a large tangle in her hair caused her to wince.
"Thanks Mom."
"Do you want me to send Mama up to help with your hair?" As a typical mom, Wanda collected a few spare cups from her daughter's desk and stacked them in her hand. Y/N attacked her hair with her hairbrush before setting it down on the table with a thud.
"No! I'm not 4! I can do my own hair!" She exclaimed. She didn't normally talk to Wanda that way, but the stress of being late was taking its toll so Wanda didn't take offence.
"Okay. Well, you've got 15 minutes."
Y/N groaned loudly and started on her make up, having given up on her hair. A ponytail would suffice for today. She did not have the patience.
"Isla, you know you can't leave without your sister. So I don't know what trick you're playing on her, but if she's late then you're late." Wanda went into stern mother mode as she entered the kitchen, where her eldest (by 11 minutes) was sat at the table drinking her breakfast smoothie.
The teenager looked up in offence at her mother, who just shot her a warning look. "I didn-" She was cut off by another glare from Wanda.
The mother tapped the side of her head. "Mind reader. Remember?"
"What's this about mind reading?" Nat questioned as she walked into the kitchen, going straight over to her wife to wrap her in a hug and a kiss. Isla turned back to her phone and the women looked over at their daughter. "And where's Y/N?"
"Well, someone turned her sister's alarm off so she's currently rushing around upstairs."
Nat sent her famous disappointed look to Isla, who cowered slightly. Wanda was easy to get around, often being far too soft with her girls. Natasha was the tough parent, but she still cared. Being a dance teacher and studio owner meant she was an expert in tough love. "Isla... why?"
The teenager shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought it was funny. I was gonna wake her up but I lost track of time." She pulled a lock of perfectly curled hair out of her face and Nat knew what had made her 'lose track of time'.
"You don't do that again, okay?" Isla nodded, not wanting to start an argument before 8am. She wasn't a bad person, but her ideas of teasing her sister and playing jokes weren't exactly the best.
"Hey my love," Wanda hummed as Nat passed her again with a kiss. "Can you go see if Y/N needs any help? She might benefit from your braiding skills today, even though she was okay."
Natasha smiled, nodding. She loved braiding her daughters' hair. Even at 17, when the twins claimed they were too old for it, they secretly loved Nat's braids. Especially Y/N, who found her mom doing her hair at lot during dance show season.
There was just over 5 minutes before they needed to leave so Nat tentatively entered Y/N's room, observing the girl before talking. The teenager was threading her earrings into her ears, the rest of her jewellery already in place. Make up was scattered across the desk and her hairbrush was on the other side of the room. Her hair hung down her back in a dark red curtain, the ends curling naturally slightly. It looked smooth but wasn't styled, and Nat smiled.
"Hey sweet girl. Can I help?" She sat on Y/N's bed slightly, picking up the backpack by the floor and slotting her daughter's laptop and charger into the right compartment. She didn't snoop around, but instead put it back on the floor by her feet.
"I just need to finish my make up. How long do I have?" Y/N took a bite of toast as Nat checked her watch.
"5 minutes. Do you want braids? I can do them in 2 minutes. And I won't be in your way." Y/N was hesitant as she applied her concealer, frantically blending it in. Wasn't her neatest job but she still wanted to be presentable.
"Okay but please make it quick."
Nat sprung into action, gathering up a small section of hair to begin braiding. The two worked in silence, with there being no time to walk. As Nat tied off the first braid, Y/N leaned forwards to curl her lashes before Nat started again on the other side. The braids were only small, taking the front sections of Y/N's hair to keep them out of her face during the day.
Being a dancer, she kept her hair long but there was so much of it that it got in the way a lot. So she rarely had it fully down, either claw clips or braids holding back. Isla rarely wore braids, wanting to differentiate herself from her sister at school. They got mixed up enough as it was.
"Okay. All done." Nat stepped back as Y/N applied her final coat of lipgloss. She smiled as she saw the braids but didn't have time to admire them before a jangle of keys was heard and a voice yelled up the stairs.
"Y/N! Let's go!"
"Always so polite." Nat said sarcastically with a smile to Y/N. She handed her daughter her backpack and gave her a quick hug before the girl rushed out of the room, Nat following behind more calmly.
"Love you Mama! Love you Mom!" Y/N shouted over her shoulder, running out of the house with a slice of her toast in her hand.
"Have a great day girls." The women called out, watching the car pull away from the driveway. Isla got her permit before Y/N so she was the designated taxi girl in the family now. Y/N hated it, but driving wasn't her strongest suit so she stuck out the irritating chatter of her sister until she was finally ready for her own permit.
"Everyday I'm still surprised at how similar yet so different they are." Wanda commented, her hands wrapped round her mug of tea. Nat mirrored her from her side, her mug containing coffee instead.
"They look like a carbon copy of each other and yet sometimes I feel it's like they're from different planets." This made Wanda laugh slightly, her breathy giggle never failing to put a smile on her wife's face.
"I mean, you wouldn't find Isla in a dance studio anymore. But then Y/N practically lives there. And you wouldn't find her on the athletics track either, unlike Isla. We must have done something right... right?"
Nat sidled up to her wife and wrapped her arms around her waist, mug now abandoned on the counter. "You, my dear, are the best mom those girls could ask for." She looked into the green eyes she knew far too well before pressing a kiss to the lips she had memorised and could draw in her sleep. "We've done everything we can do for them. And our girls are the toughest girls in the world."
"And they're ours."
"Our little babies." Nat said with a soft smile, her head leaning down to rest on Wanda's shoulder.
"Don't let Y/N hear you saying that. She was snappy about me thinking she was 4 earlier."
"That girl is a whirlwind. She's as wild as her hair sometimes." Wanda reached up and pushed a lock of Nat's red hair behind her ear, admiring the colour which matched the twins' almost perfectly.
"And I know just where she gets it from." The Sokovian said with a smile before kissing her wife. Nat tried to deepen it now it was just them, but Wanda pulled back. "I have work to do. As much as I'd love to stay here with you all day, those emails won't answer themselves." She left the room with an aura of grace surrounding her and Nat found herself staring at the door way long after she was gone.
— ⧗ —
The day went by quite fast. Wanda worked in her office until 4pm, whilst Nat left for her studio at 1pm to start preparing that evening's classes. Competition season was a stressful time but she handled herself well, staying on top of what she needed and when.
The final bell rang and the corridors were soon filled with hoards of teenagers, everyone racing to get home as quickly as possible. Y/N and Isla stopped by their lockers, chatting with friends as they exchanged the textbooks needed for tonight's homework.
Despite their quarrels and petty arguments, the twins shared the same group of friends at school. They were known by everyone, but Bucky, Maria, Clint, Kate and Steve made up their main group. They were pretty popular, partly due to the fact that there wasn't a single person who disliked their moms. Nat and Wanda were the favourite parents which somehow elevated the girls' social status in school. Maybe it was also because of the parties they were allowed to host.
Natasha and Wanda's main focus was to give their girls as normal of a life as they possible could. Which meant letting them live like teenagers. Going to football games, school dances, hosting house parties, trips to the mall with friends. Anything that normal teenagers did was allowed. Alcohol was monitored and smoking and drugs was a strict no. But the twins followed the rules, knowing they were a lot luckier than most.
"Shit. Mom needs me in the studio." Y/N read aloud as her locker slammed shut. Isla peered down at her sister's phone and sighed.
"Y/N I've got track practice in 15 minutes. I can't get you there and back in time." Her sports bag hung off her shoulder and she watched her sister grab the emergency dance bag from her locker that she kept purely for times like this. "Well, I suppo-"
"I can take you" Bucky spoke. He was leaning with his back against the lockers like he usually did, watching Y/N with a soft smile.
"No I-" Isla started to protest but stopped herself. She knew how much Bucky was crushing on her sister and she was in full support. "Actually, Bucky, that would be amazing." Everyone else was aware of his crush, all except Y/N. She was completely oblivious, which obviously Isla took full advantage of and teased her about it almost on a daily basis.
"Do you know where it is?" Y/N asked casually. She had been crouched down by her bags to swap her stuff over and so had missed the looks and glances that everyone shared as Bucky offered. So as she stood back up everyone was smiling wide which confused her. "What?"
"Yeah my little sister does ballet on saturdays there and I pick her up sometimes." Bucky had already fished his car keys out and was tossing them in his hand.
Y/N noticed her sister's smirk out of the corner of her eye as they all walked to the exit of the school. "Isla, what is it?"
"Nothing. You guys have fun. But not too much fun." And with a wink, she turned towards the track and ran off to join her friends who were already on their way over in the distance. Everyone else said goodbye and went their separate ways for the night, leaving Bucky and Y/N by his car.
Y/N was definitely the kindest out of the twins, so she could easily make conversation with anyone. She didn't think anything special of the car ride to her mom's studio, except maybe that Bucky was really nice to offer her a ride. It was only a 10 minute drive but she was still so grateful.
"Thanks a lot for this, by the way." Y/N said as she stared out of the window. She knew this route like the back of her hand but something about the sun shining through the trees made it extra special today.
Bucky shook his head. "It's no problem. Always happy to help."
Y/N looked over and smiled at him. "You're a really good friend. I'm glad I've got you."
Bucky's smile slipped but he fixed it quickly as they came to a red light. Once again he was pushed back into the friend zone, but it was his fault for not making his feelings known. As he looked over at her, the sun catching her red hair, making it look like fire, her body swaying slightly to the music of "You Make Loving Fun", he realised just how much he liked her. But Y/N was sweet to everyone, so it held him back. Maybe she didn't see him the way he saw her. Or maybe she liked someone else.
His thoughts had distracted him and the lights turned green, earning a soft poke in the arm from Y/N who gestured to the lights.
They both hummed along to the music and chatted the rest of the way, Y/N sending her mom a quick text as they caught the rush hour traffic.
"You really are amazing for doing this. I'll pay you back at some point, I promise!" Y/N gratefully thanked him as she grabbed her bags to climb out of the car. Bucky offered to get out and help but Y/N's stubborn nature refused any help.
"Don't worry about it. Enjoy yourself. You're an amazing dancer!" He leaned out of the window and waved as he drove off, sending a blush creeping across Y/N's face.
Maybe the feelings were reciprocated. Just a little...
"Hey angel," Nat called out as Y/N walked through the main entrance doors.
"Hi Mama."
"Who was that outside?" Nat asked after Y/N said hi to the receptionist. She made her way over to her mother, who was stood by the door to the main studio and cafe.
"Oh, Bucky gave me a lift here. Isla had track so she couldn't get back in time." Nat couldn't help the smirk that crept onto her face, identical to the one Isla wore just before they left school.
"Oh so that's Bucky? Nice." She turned around and walked down the hall, leaving Y/N to chase after her.
"What's that supposed to mean?" The teenager called out, but Nat just shrugged and checked the windows outside studio 1b. "Mama. Please tell me. Isla had the same smirk. I'm not stupid so just tell me what's going on."
Y/N's huff and pout made Nat 'aw' and she pinched her daughter's cheek before her hand was quickly slapped away. "Nothing baby. I just expected to see Isla, that's all. Not Bucky."
Y/N folded her arms over her chest, careful not to let her backpack or sports bag slip off her shoulders. "I don't believe you."
Nat patted her on the head and unlocked the door to the studio. "Okay. Now come on. I want to work on your solo. We have that turns section to sort out so hurry up and get changed."
Y/N groaned and dropped her back off her shoulder, where it landed with a muffled thud ad her feet. "Mom give me a minute. I just got here."
"I have no minutes to give. It's comp season, you know that Y/N/N. No time to waste." Nat was already over in the speaker corner, connecting her laptop up so it was ready. "Why are you still standing there?"
"Can I just have 2 minutes to breathe?"
Natasha turned around and placed her hands on her hips, mirroring her daughter perfectly. "Do you want Yelena to take your private instead? She's free right now actually. I could be teaching junior tap instead."
Y/N's eyes went wide and she quickly grabbed her discarded bag. "No no! I'll hurry. I'll change and be back! Please don't sent Yelena in here!"
"Good. And I won't. She's taking your class for ballet later anyway. So you have that to enjoy."
The teenager was halfway to the changing room before she stopped dead in her tracks. That was her worst nightmare. "Mama! She's gonna be all 'Those feet are horrible. Point them. Why do your hands look like claws. Are you a crab? Are we doing Little Mermaid dance? Your posture is like potato couch. Why are none of you flexible?'" Her Russian accent sounded nothing like her aunt, which made Nat raise an eyebrow. She'd taught her daughters better than that. Or so she thought.
"Potato couch?"
"I think she meant couch potato. But yeah she said that to Becca last week. It helped though. Her posture was better last night."
"Then she's a good teacher." Such a know it all.  "Do you stretch every night?"
Y/N went to answer and Nat gave her a knowing look. "Well, not every night."
"Then everything Yelena says is true. So don't complain. She tells me everything."
"I don't see how you guys are sisters. You're so different. She makes you seem almost angelic." Y/N fiddled with the lock on the changing room door.
"Exactly what your mom and I say about you and Isla. Now stop being cheeky and go get changed. And I want the hi-cut black leotard because we're working on legs today. Oh, and Y/N, bring your half soles because I don't want to completely destroy your feet before the rest of your classes." Natasha was bossy but it's what made her one of the best teachers around. She knew what she wanted and what it took to get there. She could recognise the potential in her dancers but would only work with those who put the work in themselves.
There was something so special about working with your daughter. Nat loved it, even if she didn't get to do privates like this much. Yes, she went into dance teacher mode and Y/N was no exception, but the pride she felt when she watched her daughter dance was something she didn't feel as much with the other dancers. Just like when she watched Isla win her races, seeing Y/N dance made her heart swell so much it felt as though it would burst.
10 minutes later and Y/N emerged from the changing room, a hair tie between her teeth as she pulled her hair up into a ponytail. Nat wasn't strict on hair with privates, only with normal class. So she just put on some calming music and started stretching with her daughter. Yes, it was weird seeing her mom effortlessly do the splits, but Y/N was used to it by now.
They gossiped the whole time, Y/N filling her in on any school drama that was of interest. As Y/N moved to the bar to stretch her leg holds, Nat couldn't hold back her questions anymore.
"What's going on with you and Bucky?" Nat asked and then burst out laughing as she turned to face her daughter. Y/N had her right leg pulled up to her head, but the most confused and shocked expression on her face. It truly was a hilarious sight.
"Uh- nothing? But I feel like you know something I don't? That's the second time you've asked me today."
Nat shrugged. "Well, he gave you a lift. I'm just curious."
"Well there's nothing to be curious about." She switched legs as she was talking. "He's just a friend. You know that. We've literally been friends since middle school!"
"Okay. I'll just ask Isla then." Nat smirked and walked over to her laptop.
"Mama, she will just tell you the same! And if she doesn't then she's just causing drama. Or making my life a living hell."
"She's your sister. That's what she's supposed to do. You do the exact same to her, even if you don't think so." Y/N rolled her eyes, moving to the centre of the room. "Okay, let's run it. You ready?"
"Is that why you and Aunt Yelena can't direct the same dance show? Because you argue?" Y/N smirked as her mom shook her head. "I'm right aren't I?"
"No you're not. And she's Miss Yelena to you. Just like I'm Miss Natasha. Now, dance."
"Yes Mama." Y/N wore a shit eating grin as she moved to her starting position, trying to get into the character of her dance so she didn't burst out laughing.
She was grateful for the relationship she had with both her moms and family meant the most to her. Even Isla had a special place in her heart, despite their quarrels and petty arguments. Those sisters would do anything for each other if it came down to it. Which was surprising to everyone except Wanda and Natasha. They saw the sisterly bond like no one else did. It was unbreakable.
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The Duff 17
Warnings: groping, insecurity, food and body issues, manipulation, and the usual. Proceed with caution.
Feedback is always welcome. Love you and thanks for the wonderful responses so far. ♥♥♥♥
Image credit (I want to give dues where due but don’t want the creator to keep getting tagged in my posts as I have been approached by some before that they don’t want me in their notifs)
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You get up to your apartment and lock the door, double checking before you can bring yourself to step away. Finally a chance to breathe, but you can’t.
You go to the counter, plopping your bag on top as you try to gulp down air. The roll and clatter of some unseen object can’t break through your panic.
What the fuck? What the fucking fuck!?
You don’t get it. Curtis, Andy, all of it. One big clusterfuck with no escape. Some weirdo you got stuck with in the club is not your personal pest and your own boss can’t take a hint.
Since when did you become some hot commodity? How could you take for granted all those years of being overlooked? You’d give anything to never be seen again.
You clumsily reach for your bag and fish out your phone. You can barely grip it as your breaths remain shallow and your hands tremble. You pull up your chat with Stephanie and text her; then Isla, then Mindy. You need someone.
You stare at the empty checkmarks. You’ll be lucky if you get a response before the morning. Some friends. 
All your anger and resent boils up until you’re crying again. You were always the odd one out, the third wheel, always left with the scraps and now look what it got you. You blame them. For exiling you to the status of DUFF. For not giving a goddamn shit. Not one of them checked in after that night at the club.
You could throw your phone. Instead you swipe away the more than twenty messages piled up in your notification bar. All from the same person. Curtis is insane, you know that much. You should’ve seen it sooner. You should’ve let yourself see it sooner but you really thought you’d met a decent guy. The first guy to actually see you, but not he’s way too focused on you.
You feel helpless, trapped. You don’t know what to do. You can’t even hide at work with your desperate boss hovering like a shark. How did you not see that either? Well, you wouldn’t expect it. You’ve worked for Andy for almost a year and he’s never tried anything. 
Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re sending all the wrong signals. Well, you don’t even know what kind of signals to send. When you want someone to leave you alone, they bother you, and when you’ve only ever wanted a bit of attention, you were castigated.
You give up. You get a hold of yourself and count until your heartbeat evens out. You plug your phone into the charger and pick up the half-empty bottle of mint-flavoured sparkling water from the floor. You place it back on the counter and drag your feet across the unlit living room.
You’ll call in, take a day to recover. Maybe one of the girls will finally answer their messages and you can get some ideas from them. One thing for sure, you’re locking yourself up in this place and not going anywhere.
You go into the bathroom, flicking on the light. You look in the mirror and sigh. Are you really the type to drive men mad?
You rinse your face and brush your teeth. You go through the motions, hoping routine can comfort you. It hardly does.
You enter the bedroom and flip off the bathroom light. You walk through the dark. You're too drained to turn on the lamp as you approached the bed.
You strip down to your underwear and pull on the tee shirt you left rumpled up by your pillow. You nestle under the covers and resist another wave of tears. You feel lost. You don’t know which way to go.
You squeeze your eyes shut and pray for sleep. You just need to forget everything. You just need a break. You–
You don’t drink sparkling water. You sit up and hold a cramped breath in your chest. That bottle. Mint? What kind of psycho buys organic mint water?
Your heart hammers. Your phone is out in the kitchen. Shit. 
You get up slowly and listen to the silence of your apartment. You creep towards the door, your footsteps light but scuffing over the carpet and onto the hardwood. You pause just in the doorway as you try to see through the dark into the front room.
You hear the slow roll of the closet door folding back too late. In a moment, you’re wrenched off your feet. You flail and kick, your voice muffled beneath the rough palm as you claw blindly at the figure behind you. His low hush warms the shell of your ear.
“It’s okay, bunny,” Curtis grits softly, “I’m going to take care of you.”
He keeps his hand over your mouth, snug against your nose, blocking all air. Your eyes bulge as you fight to breathe and his thick arm comes up around your neck, squeezing enough to make you dizzy.
"I know you love me. Let me show you how much I can love you..." He rasps.
The world speckles around you, the distant noise of the city pulsing until silent, your eyelids closing against your will, casting you into horrifying black.
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justabigassnerd · 8 months
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Never Your Fault
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Pairing - Ethan Hunt x daughter!reader
Word count - 6,254
Warnings - MAJOR DEAD RECKONING SPOILERS, death, injuries, blood, knives, violence, guilt, grief, nightmares
Summary - after witnessing a traumatic loss, you begin to blame yourself. can your dad help you out or is he too wrapped up in his own grief?
A/N - the first official part of the lil' Hunt series y'all! I'm so excited for y'all to read this I've been working so hard on it! it was really fun exploring these new dynamics and I genuinely enjoyed writing this so much (even if it was super painful at times). anyways I won't ramble anymore, as per y'all, please send in requests, feedback and enjoy!!!
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Most people go to places like Italy on their holidays or maybe even visiting loved ones, but you and your dad? You travelled to Rome in search of a woman who had half of a key that was crucial in the shutting down of an ever-powerful AI named The Entity.
Your dad had been tracking Grace since she made off with half the key in the Abu Dhabi airport and had managed to track her down in Rome before she escaped his grasp once more. He, Ilsa, Benji, and Luther managed to track where Grace’s next move might be and it was in Venice, at the party held by someone Ethan and the IMF had dealt with before, Alanna Mitsopolis, better known as the White Widow. They figured if Grace was heading to Venice, then the person who hired Grace must be at that party or in the area.
Ethan decided that he and Ilsa would go to the party to see if they could track Grace or her buyer down while you, Benji, and Luther remained in the safe house and ran surveillance while the two were at the party.
“y/n, be good for Benji and Luther.” Ethan says as he tugs on his blazer, folding the collar down and checking he looked alright in the mirror before Ilsa walked in.
“Seriously? I’m not a kid you know.” You scoff jokingly as Ethan looks over at you with a grin.
“Well gotta put the warning down just in case. And if you want to leave the safe house, make sure Benji and Luther know where you are and-”
“Stick to lit areas and always stay alert. I know dad.” You finish his sentence for him, smiling up at him as he lets out a soft, breathy laugh.
“You’re too much like me, you know?” Ethan says softly, reaching out to tug you into his arms for a quick hug before pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I love you, dad.” You say quietly, squeezing him a little before pulling away.
“I love you too, y/n/n.” Ethan replies before he releases you and he and Isla gather the last of their stuff and bid a last goodbye to the three of you remaining in the safe house before leaving.
“You’ve taught her well, Ethan. She’ll be just fine.” Ilsa says with a gentle smile upon seeing the hidden worry in Ethan’s eyes. She knew how much he worried about you and your well-being, but she also knew that he was protecting you as best he could. The two make their way out onto the streets of Venice and head in the direction of the party to begin their investigation.
Not long after you heard that Ilsa and Ethan had arrived at the party, you stretched your arms above your head and stood up from your chair once you relaxed.
“Guys, I’m going out for a walk. I haven’t gotten a chance to explore yet.” You say as you grab your jacket and throw it on before grabbing your phone.
“Location on?” Luther asks, glancing at the phone in your hand as you nod.
“You know it.” You reply as both Benji and Luther see your phone location appear on their screens.
“Yep, there you are. Be safe out there y/n.” Benji says, looking at you worriedly as you smile softly at him.
“Always am.” You say reassuringly, bidding Benji and Luther goodbye before exiting the safe house and beginning to wander the streets of Venice. You didn’t have a set location in mind and since it was relatively quiet out on the streets you decided to let your legs take you wherever they wanted to go. You’d never been to Venice before so you took in every sight you came across, knowing that you may not come back to this beautiful city again after this mission. You find yourself at one point sitting on a bench near one of the canals and admiring the stars in the sky, you always found the night sky so calming.
Meanwhile, at Alanna’s party, Ethan and Ilsa had tracked down Grace and discovered that Alanna was the one who hired her to steal the half of the key that Ethan had attempted to acquire in Abu Dhabi. They found out that Alanna was planning to sell it on to someone else and despite Ethan’s best efforts, he couldn’t convince her to not sell it. Gabriel stood before the four sat on the plush sofa and revealed that The Entity had been listening in and had infiltrated the party thanks to Gabriel and his men.
“Ethan Hunt. The Entity knows all about you. And your precious little daughter. y/n, is it? Yes, that’s the one.” Gabriel starts, noticing Ethan’s body tense up at the mention of your name and a twisted grin covered his face. He was getting the reaction he wanted and now he was going to have Ethan play right into The Entity’s plan. Ethan’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears, and he could barely focus on anything around him other than Gabriel and his sneer.
“The Entity has also decided that you have to pick someone to die. Ilsa, or y/n. You cannot save both Ethan.” Gabriel says, his grin widening as Ethan shoots to his feet, immediately held back by Gabriel’s men from attacking him.
“If you hurt either one of them, I swear, no one, not even your god will stop me from killing you.” Ethan growls angrily, fighting against the two men, desperate to launch at Gabriel who stands there and laughs at Ethan’s threats. Gabriel slinks off with a couple of men in tow after Alanna leaves and Ethan and Ilsa take the opportunity to attack the men to keep Ilsa safe and buy time for them to find out where you were so they could keep you safe too.
“Grace take this comm, Luther will guide you to someplace safe, I promise. Now go!” Ethan says, shoving a small communication device into Grace’s hand and encouraging her to get out while she still can.
“Benji, where is y/n? Is she with you?” Ethan says as he dodges a punch and quickly delivers a blow in retaliation.
“No, she left a while ago, said she wanted to go on a walk.” Benji says, his eyes fixed on his laptop as he hurriedly scans the map for your whereabouts.
“Connect me to her comm now!” Ethan says to Benji, landing a punch on an enemy, sending them stumbling back.
“She didn’t take one Ethan, but she does have her location on.” Benji says, hurriedly pulling up the map and searching for the dot that signals where you are.
“Give me directions to where she is right now.” Ethan says as Ilsa subdues the final man and they exchange a brief look before both running out of the building, dodging the men pursuing them from outside the building.
“Yes, directions… wait… what’s going…? Ethan, I’ve lost her she’s not on the map anymore.” Benji’s panicked voice comes through the comms and Ethan feels his blood run cold.
“Benji, where is she? Where is y/n?” Ethan’s voice was clearly panicked, and everyone could tell how worried he was about you. Benji was frantically typing away on his laptop trying to figure out why your signal had disappeared.
“Let’s split up and search while Benji tries to find her. We’ll cover more ground that way.” Ilsa says as the two duck into an alley to avoid being spotted.
“Are you sure?” Ethan asks. He knew Ilsa also had a bright red target on her back because of her closeness to him and he wasn’t willing to lose you or her to Gabriel or The Entity.
“I’ll be fine Ethan. Whoever finds her has to let the other know and we’ll rendezvous back at the safe house. Nothing more dangerous than the stuff we’ve already done.” Ilsa says softly, taking Ethan’s hand and squeezing it softly. The two silently agree on which direction they’re going to head in before leaving the safety of the alley and running off.
“Ethan, I’ve got her back on the map I’ll lead you to her now.” Benji’s voice comes over Ethan’s comm and he perks up, completely unaware that back in the safe house, Benji had not said a word and was instead staring at his laptop in confusion at the voice that eerily mimicked his own.
You were oblivious to everything that was going on as you walked around Venice. You stopped halfway across a bridge and just admired the quiet canal and the sky above before the sound of footsteps reached your ears. You barely glanced their way at first, expecting it to be a passerby who would do no more than maybe offer you a curt nod before continuing on their way but when you noticed out the corner of your eye that they were standing there staring at you, you turned to face them. Your breath hitched in your throat and your heartbeat picked up when you got a proper look at the man standing before you. He stood in front of you, a maniacal grin on his face as he stared down at you. Every instinct was screaming at you to run, to move, to do anything but your body wouldn’t co-operate. It was like you were frozen in place and nothing you did could make you move.
“y/n Hunt. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.” The man says, approaching you slowly and your brain finally kicks in enough to make you pull your small switchblade out of your pocket and flick the blade out. Your dad and Ilsa had taught you how to defend yourself should the occasion arise, but you had always hoped and prayed you would never have to.
“Who are you?” You ask, fighting to keep your voice from shaking as you tighten your grip on the handle of your weapon.
“Just an old friend of your father’s.” The man says simply, moving ever closer as you lift your hand that held the blade and ready yourself, your brain repeating everything your dad and Ilsa had taught you as the man launched at you. You managed to dodge his attack and came just shy of your blade meeting his skin. The fight consisted of a lot of back and forth between dodging attacks and trying to land them. You managed to slash the man a couple of times with your small blade before the weapon was knocked from your hand and you looked up at the man in terror before he punches you across the face and sends you to the ground, hitting your head on one of the stone steps of the bridge which makes your world grow dark in an instant.
Ilsa came across you first, instantly recognising Gabriel who reached down and tugged you up by your hair as he lifted his blade to your throat. You were unconscious and unable to fight back and Ilsa couldn’t just stand by and watch.
“In all the years I’ve known Ethan I’ve learnt he cares for everyone. But his daughter will always be his top priority.” Luther’s words echoed in Ilsa’s head as she noticed the switchblade gleaming in the moonlight and she wasted no time in scooping it up.
“Pick on someone your own size.”
When you come to, the first thing that registers is the sound of an engine and the splashing of water against the walls of the canal. Your head was throbbing as you carefully sit up, blinking your eyes to adjust to your surroundings. You glanced to the side as you caught sight of a blurry figure to your right and squinted your eyes to focus them and are surprised to see the man who attacked you was now missing and your dad had taken his place, kneeling over a figure as you force yourself to your feet.
“Dad, what’s going-” You immediately cut yourself off as you approach your dad, recognising the figure he was kneeling by. Tears instantly sprang to your eyes as you stared down at Ilsa. Her eyes were open but there was no sign of life within them. Your hand covered your mouth as you blinked back the tears. You were confused, and you were worried, but above everything, you were scared. You didn’t know who attacked you and whether they were behind Ilsa’s death or even who that man was working for and what his end goal was.
“y/n, Ethan, get in!” You hear the hushed, hurried voice of Benji which breaks you from your thoughts and you see him positioning the boat near the path so you could get in the boat. You shakily make your way towards the boat, taking Benji’s outstretched hand as he eases you down into the boat.
“Careful y/n, are you okay?” Benji asks worriedly, grabbing a cloth from the first aid kit and holding it against your temple, encouraging you to hold it firmly in place as you sit down on one of the seats. In your haze, you hadn’t noticed the blood that had run down your face from when your head hit on the step.
“I’m okay.” You say shakily, looking up at Benji with tear filled eyes.
“Luther will check you over once we’re back at the safe house, just to be on the safe side.” Benji says softly with a small smile before moving to help Ethan into the boat, Ethan refused to leave Ilsa’s body behind and so Benji helped Ethan load her body onto the boat and travel down the canal until he found a place to bury her. Somewhere quiet that he would be able to visit. When he found the perfect spot, he insisted he didn’t need any help and disappeared on his own to bury the woman he loved. When he returned, his face was set and he barely spoke to you or Benji, just silently confirming he wanted to go back to the safe house and Benji complied.
When you arrived back at the safe house, Ethan excused himself to go to the roof while Luther crossed to you, placing his hands on each of your shoulders which makes you look up at him.
“Benji, keep an eye on Grace, and check in with Ethan when he comes back down. y/n lets go to your room and I’ll check that head injury of yours.” Luther says, at first to Benji who moves to sit near Grace at the table while Luther grabs the first aid kit and carefully guides you to the small room you would use to sleep in. Luther doesn’t switch the main light on, instead flicking on a small lamp. He sits you down on the edge of the bed and sits alongside you, carefully taking your hand in his own and moving both it and the cloth away from your injury so he could take a look.
“The good news is the bleeding is slowing, I’ll bandage it up now, but I think it’s best if you don’t sleep just so we can keep an eye on you. How are you feeling right now?” Luther says gently, opening the first aid kit and finding an antiseptic wipe to clean the wound.
“A bit dizzy, but I’ll live.” You mumble, wincing slightly when the wipe comes into contact with the injury, but you didn’t complain, you felt like you deserved the pain for what happened.
“And how are you feeling?” Luther asks, scrunching up the wipe and tossing it on top of its packaging before grabbing some gauze.
“I just told you I-”
“No, I’m asking how you are feeling. Emotionally not physically.” Luther corrects you gently, carefully placing the gauze against your temple and asking you quietly to hold it in place while he gets the medical tape out.
“I got Ilsa killed Luther, how do you expect me to feel?” The words came out sharper than you meant them to. You didn’t mean to snap, not at Luther but the guilt was beginning to take hold, clinging onto you gleefully like some sort of malicious creature and whispering in your ear about how it was your fault.
“y/n, it wasn’t your fault.” Luther says, a gentleness to his voice only reserved for heart to hearts like this.
“The guy that attacked me wanted to kill me I know it. So why did he kill her instead?” You whisper, tears springing to your eyes again as you think of what had just transpired. You were the one who was supposed to be dead. Ilsa was supposed to be alive, and you knew it. Ilsa was dead and it was all your fault. Luther remained quiet for a moment, silently debating his next words. He knew he couldn’t tell you that Ethan had been given a choice to save you or Ilsa, not that Ethan would have ever made the decision. But he couldn’t let you sit by and blame yourself either.
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened it was out of your control.” Luther argues gently, beginning to put the medical tape along the gauze to keep it in place while you remain silent, Luther’s words seemingly hitting a brick wall. When Luther finishes patching you up, he gathers up everything he’s used and stands, looking down at you softly.
“We’ll be in the other room if you need us.” He says before leaving the room. You remain sat on the edge of your bed, various thoughts swimming through your head of how you could’ve saved Ilsa somehow.
“y/n, we need you in the other room. We’re going over the new plan.” Benji says as he opens the door, making you wonder how long you had zoned out and did nothing but listen to your thoughts. You nod lightly at Benji’s words, forcing yourself to your feet and heading into the next room. Grace was still sitting at the table under both Ethan and Luther’s watchful eyes as you enter behind Benji. As you sit at the table, Ethan starts going over the new plan, how both he and Grace would disguise themselves and get the other half of the key and then Ethan would leave the train and meet you and Benji at the rendezvous point so you could figure out the next move from there while Grace would let herself get arrested and get into contact with Kittridge so she could join the IMF. Gabriel, who you learnt was the man who attacked you, was the only man who knew how to use the key so learning what the key opened and how it worked was important to the mission. As Ethan walked Grace through what she had to do, you noticed Luther packing up his belongings and you noticed he hadn’t been mentioned once in the plan.
“What about you Luther?” You ask, confused when he looks up at you with a soft smile.
“I’m heading off the grid for a while, I have traces of The Entity on my hard drive, so I want to investigate it further. I’ll make contact when I have something.” Luther says, putting the last of his stuff in a bag and straightening up.
“I’ll see you around Ethan. Don’t kill Gabriel, we need him.” Luther says, clapping Ethan on the shoulder as he approaches him.
“Luther, wait!” You call quickly, leaping to your feet and rushing over to give the man a hug which he quickly reciprocates.
“I’ll see you around Lil’ Hunt.” Luther whispers as he hugs you back, bringing a small smile to your face at the nickname Luther had been calling you since the moment he first met you. After pulling away you bid Luther one final goodbye before he leaves to investigate The Entity further. After Luther leaves, Benji notices that the mask machine has broken while making the mask for Ethan.
“Grace, you’ll have to get on the train by yourself. I’ll figure out another way on.” Ethan says, glancing at Grace who is visibly worried by the news.
“Promise me you’ll be on that train.” Grace says to your dad, and you watch him carefully to see how he’ll respond.
“I promise.” Your dad responds, and despite the lack of emotion on his face, you knew he was being one hundred percent serious. He’d never let anyone who trusted him down if he could help it. Grace is then given a mask with Alanna’s likeness and is instructed to put it in a bag so she can board the Orient Express and track down Alanna. She’s also given a sedative to knock Alanna out long enough for Grace to take her place and retrieve both halves of the key.
“We should probably make a move guys; we don’t have long until the train is due to leave.” Benji points out, scooping what he needs into his bag while encouraging you to do the same, so you quickly go into your room and grab the stuff you need and shove them into a bag and sling it over your shoulder. The four of you then head down to the garage that was used for IMF vehicles. Ethan immediately grabs the motorbike, gets on it and looks at Benji.
“You take Grace to the train station. Get her on safely, okay?” He says directly to Benji, barely sparing you a second glance, making you look to the ground, fighting back any potential tears as you follow Benji to the car and get in the back seat while Benji gets behind the wheel and Grace gets in the passenger seat. You lean back against the seat and squeeze your eyes shut to fight back the tears further. Seeing your dad actively avoid looking at you was just confirmation to you that he thought it was your fault Ilsa was dead. That he wished you had been the one who died instead of her. You watch as your dad revs the engine and drives off, with Benji following. When you reach the train station that the Orient Express will stop at, Benji pulls over and lets Grace out, reassuring her that she’ll be just fine before watching her walk into the station.
“Come on y/n, get in the front.” Benji says with a smile, turning back to look at you and fighting back a frown when you shake your head.
“I need my co-pilot for this.” He then says, noticing how you perk up just a little at his words. He knew Ethan tried to keep you out of the IMF life as much as possible but Benji figured that helping out behind the scenes wouldn’t hurt and so he taught you all the technical stuff he knew and allowed you to help out if you wanted to. Convinced by his words, you move to sit in the passenger seat, smiling softly as Benji smiles back.
“Atta girl.” Benji says with a smile before starting the car up and beginning the drive to the rendezvous point. You figured it would be a straight shot and a lot of waiting around. Your dad already knew where he was going to attempt to board the train and Grace was already on it, so it was just you and Benji until your dad met you at the rendezvous point with the key.
“Benji, the train didn’t slow down I need another place to get on!” You hear your dad’s shout come over the comms as you exchange a worried look with Benji.
“y/n, get my tablet and pull up the map.” Benji quickly instructs and you do as he asks, opening the map and handing it to Benji as he puts the car on autopilot. You and Benji scour the terrain and areas your dad could use to get on the train. You notice it first, switching your comm off and pointing it out.
“He might not like it, but this seems like our best bet.” You say, glancing from the map to Benji who lets out a small sigh but nods regardless.
“Okay, this is where you need to go.” Benji takes over directing Ethan where to go while you remain silent, listening to the pounding of your heart echoing in your ears. When you heard your dad confirming he reached the top of the mountain and wondering how he was going to get down you started to worry. Benji insisted he’d be fine since he had his parachute but when your dad’s comm went silent you started to worry that you had caused your dad’s death as well.
By the time you had reached the rendezvous point, you had confirmation that your dad had made it onto the train, but you didn’t hear from him after that, leaving you to wonder if he was okay.
“He’ll be fine. He’s Ethan and nothing stops Ethan.” Benji says reassuringly, noticing you fidgeting and the obvious tension in your body.
“I could’ve gotten him killed with that mountain idea.” You mumble, looking down and fiddling with the charm bracelet that sat proudly on your right wrist.
“It’s the only way Ethan could’ve gotten to the train, there were no other chances for him to get on. Your dad knows what he’s doing, and I bet it won’t be long until he turns up.” Benji says reassuringly, shuffling in his seat so he can face you as best he can. When you remain silent, Benji speaks up again.
“Are you okay, y/n? You seemed shaken up on the bridge and I haven’t gotten a chance to check in with you yet.” Benji asks softly, worry written across his face as he remembers watching you realise that Ilsa had died.
“It’s my fault Ilsa died, isn’t it? And dad thinks it’s my fault too.” You mumble, your gaze not moving from the bracelet as you flick one of the silver charms lightly, watching as it flies away from your finger due to the impact and then bounces harmlessly off your wrist. As you stared at your bracelet you neglected to see Benji’s expression shift to one of shock at the realisation that you were not only blaming yourself but thinking Ethan blamed you too.
“y/n/n, Ilsa’s death was not your fault at all. You didn’t even know what was happening because-”
“You’re right, I didn’t know what was happening and I should’ve. I should’ve taken a comm with me so I would know if anything was happening, like some mad man wanting to kill me. I should’ve known so I could’ve gone back to the safe house and Ilsa and dad wouldn’t have had to run around Venice looking for me.” You say, frustrated tears filling your eyes as more potential ways you could’ve saved Ilsa pop into your head.
“y/n, even if you did have a comm it wouldn’t have helped that much. The Entity managed to mimic my voice and use it to lead Ethan somewhere else when I was trying to figure out where you were because it wiped your signal from the map so I couldn’t lead your dad or Ilsa to you to keep you safe.” Benji explains, his heart breaking for you, wishing he could take this pain away from you because in his eyes you didn’t deserve it.
“It doesn’t change the fact that dad obviously blames me. He couldn’t even look at me before we left, and he didn’t talk to me either.” Your voice was no louder than a whisper now as the tears escaped their confinement and rolled down your cheeks. Benji’s face softened when he saw how upset you were and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“Ethan would never blame you for what happened to Ilsa. He’s just trying to put the mission first, so he doesn’t have to deal with his emotions. You know what he’s like. Try and talk to him when we make it to the next safe house, it’ll do you both some good to talk things over.” Benji says softly, squeezing your shoulder gently to make you look up at him, eyes still filled with tears.
“I know you’ve got it in your head that your dad blames you, but he couldn’t. Ethan knows it’s not your fault. It’s Gabriel’s.” Benji assures as you sniffle lightly, reaching up with your hand to wipe at your eyes harshly.
“Benji, I’m on my way now stand by.” Before you had a chance to respond, Ethan’s voice crackles over the comms and you immediately move to sit in the back of the car, knowing it’ll be the easiest way to avoid talking to your dad. You waited with bated breath for your dad to arrive and as soon as he landed, he took his parachute off and loaded into the car.
“I got it, Benji. We’ve gotta get somewhere to lay low and get into contact with Luther to let him know we’ve got it.” Ethan says, holding up the key to show off that he has it while you curl into yourself in the backseat, avoiding even looking in your dad’s direction as Benji starts the car to drive to a safe house you could use to lie low in. Halfway through the journey, Benji glanced in his rearview mirror and saw you staring out the window intently, tears evident in your eyes and fought back a frown as he then glanced at Ethan out of the corner of his eyes and saw him focused on the road ahead.
The drive to the new safe house was silent other than the rumbling of the engine, and when Benji parked the car in the garage you were quick to jump out, grab your bag and disappear in the building, leaving Benji and Ethan behind. Benji, having had enough of the silence, turns to Ethan.
“Ethan, mate, you need to talk to y/n. She’s not okay right now and I know the mission is important, but I think right now your daughter is more important. You weren’t the only one there when you found Ilsa. She blames herself, Ethan.” Benji says, his tone gentle but with a certain strength in his voice showing how he wanted to get his point across. Ethan briefly looks in the direction of where you had gone and nods so lightly that the movement was almost imperceivable. Ethan decided to wait until he could find an appropriate time to talk to you since he needed to get into contact with Luther and try and figure out where to start searching for the Sevastopol so he can end The Entity. Before he knew it night had fallen and when he sticks his head in the room you decided to occupy to see if you were awake, he was greeted with the sight of you curled up in bed. He pressed his lips into a firm line and backed out of the room, vowing to talk to you in the morning.
What Ethan didn’t know was that you were faking it. You couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard you tried. Every time you closed your eyes you were greeted with the image of Isla’s dead body on the bridge and the heartbreak in your dad’s eyes. Your brain refused to let up as you continued to try, coaching yourself through methods your dad had taught you to help you get to sleep. After hearing silence fall around the safe house and realising that everyone has gone to bed, you get up, grabbing a blanket and tugging it around your shoulders as you head out onto the balcony to sit and watch the stars.
An hour after you went out onto the balcony, Ethan shot up in bed, panting heavily as flashes of his nightmare replay in his head, making him squeeze his eyes shut in an attempt to rid of them but immediately regretting his actions when he sees the dead body on the bridge again, but instead of Ilsa, it was you. Opening his eyes again, Ethan pushes himself off the bed and heads to your room, wanting to check in on you just to prove to himself that you were fast asleep and safe within the building. When he opened the door, he squinted to search for your figure beneath the covers, but panic rose in his chest when he realised you weren’t there. He rushed over to the bed to look for any signs of a struggle but when he found nothing, he left your room to look for anything that might clue him into your whereabouts, pausing as he walked past the doors that went out onto the balcony when he noticed a figure outside and when he focused, he realised it was you.
At first, Ethan’s instinct was to head out onto the balcony and scold you for disappearing without letting him know but just as he reached for the door handle, he took a step back and allowed himself to gather his thoughts. Had his nightmare not awoken him and made him want to check on you, you would’ve simply remained out on the balcony until you felt ready to come back in and he would’ve woken up in the morning none the wiser. You hadn’t left the safe house. You just needed a moment. After taking a deep breath, Ethan opens the door carefully before stepping out onto the balcony and closing the door behind him. You didn’t turn to face him, your gaze remained fixed on the stars that had provided you endless comfort night after night and when Ethan stepped closer, he noticed the tear tracks on your cheeks.
“Couldn’t sleep?” He asks softly, resting his forearms against the cool metal railings and joining you in looking up at the sky.
“Every time I tried; I saw Ilsa.” You mumble, blinking as another few tears roll down your cheeks. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ethan turn his head to look at you.
“I’m sorry you were there. I should’ve been there to protect you.” You hear your dad say and that sentence made you finally tear your gaze away from the sky to look at your dad who had tears of his own shining in his eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault dad. Benji told me about The Entity mimicking his voice to throw you off.” You say, a sad smile on your face as you look at him before looking up at the moon, admiring how its crescent shape shone in the darkness.
“It wasn’t your fault either. Gabriel was already two steps ahead of me when he said he was going to kill you or Ilsa. He made it practically impossible for both of you to survive by distracting me.” Ethan says softly, getting your attention once more as he watches you softly.
“But Ilsa died.” You argue, watching how Ethan nods forlornly but his eyes never lose their gentleness.
“She did. But that doesn’t mean I’d want you in her place. It was never your fault that she died.” Your dad says, reaching out to wipe the tears that had fallen down your cheeks. He catches them softly on his thumbs and swipes them away as he considers his next words.
“Ilsa knew what she was getting into. She died protecting you because Gabriel had gotten to you first. I will miss her as long as I’m alive and I will always love her, especially because she saved you.” Ethan then says, silently asking for permission to pull you into a hug which you allow him to do, clinging to him as you fight back more tears.
“I wish there was something I could’ve done to have her with us right now.” You whisper, biting down on your lip to stop more tears from falling.
“Me too, sweetheart. But we can avenge her by using the key to destroy The Entity, and after that, I’m not going to let Gabriel get away again.” Ethan swears, a hand reaching up to run through your hair before he presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head before suddenly being reminded of the injury you sustained.
“Your head, is it okay?” He asks, pulling away slightly to look at the gauze that was covering the injury.
“It’s feeling a lot better than it was.” You admit, a small smile appearing on your face as you look up at your dad who mirrors your smile.
“I’m sorry for not realising how you felt sooner. I was just overwhelmed by losing Ilsa and I let the mission get-“
“Dad, it’s okay. Getting the key was important. And I know you miss Ilsa. Your grief is valid, and I never wanted to make you feel like it wasn’t. I know I’m your daughter and you want to protect me, but you can talk to me, and I’ll try to help.” You say and instead of replying verbally, Ethan pulls you in for another hug, squeezing you gently as he plants another kiss on the top of your head.
“I love you so much, y/n.” He whispers, allowing himself to relax as he holds you safely in his arms.
“I love you too, dad.” You reply, cuddling as close to your dad as possible as you spare the night sky one last glance.
You’d be okay.
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the-sunshine-dims · 2 months
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Thinking about the way Islas parenting probably would've mirrored her father's, the way if she got to be a mother to Rae and Icarus for longer it probably would've been evident- but maybe it still was, just harder to pinpoint from younger perspectives, thinking about cycles and generations, and something from your parents always follows you, good or bad
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victormalonso · 1 year
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la cara oculta del espejo
the other side of the mirror | © víctor m. alonso
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in every mirror there is an invisible side to the human eye; it is not seen because it is on the reverse; in spite of that, without that unknown, unnoticed, invisible side, no mirror would have existence, nor would let us, the observers, to choose between so many magical and playful spaces that the infinite perspectives of the reflection offers us ...
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hoodharlow · 10 months
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Happiest Time of the Year
AN: there was a fic but fuck it insta AU
Requested? No
Warnings: none? Annoying fans I guess lol
Word Count: n/a
IHEARTRADIO via tiktok, Dec. 11
@'iheartradio: he also smells really good 😍
@'miriamdominguez: why are y'all that even close to my man 🤨
->@'annoyingtwittergirlie: stfu, don't act all fake jealous when you haven't even gone to any of his shows. I've been to more shows than you have
->@'Miriamismother: she has a job unlike you if you're out here stalking her man
@'miriamxjenna: oh he's like tall
@'Celtics: our favorite fan 🍀
View all 1785 comments
Dec. 16
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@'mdm: Pamela Islas 🪴🌱🌿🌾🌵🌲🌴🌳
@'mdm: earrings are custom from this shop in Alamitos Beach near Long Beach
-> @'fan: girl what do you know about Long Beach
-> @'mdmstan: she was born there 😭 and she's talked about how spent most of her formative years there before her parents moved them to Calabasas
@'mamimiriam: Miriam’s chola aesthetic is something that could be so personal
@'lesliegrace: Poison 🌿
-> @'mdm: mi batichica 🦇
@'jackharlow: ♥️
->@'miriamhater: get a girlfriend who goes to your concerts
->@'mackaremyparents: why don't you wait until Jack's show to see if she didn't make it before y'all are under comments talking shit 💀
->@'mdmsource: there's a video of Jack picking her up at the airport in Louisville
-> @'stalkertwittergirlie: I had the misfortune of sitting in the same row as her in first class and she was a fucking bitch the entire flight. I tried making conversation and she covered herself with her blanket and ignored me the whole flight
-> @'mdm: that was business class babes, there's no first class from New York to Louisville
->@'mdmxjh: GAG
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Dec. 19
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@'jackharlow: finally home
@'mdm: there's no place like it 🥺 also I'm gonna need my pants back 💛
->@'jackharlow: fine then I'm gonna need all my hoodies, shirts, and sweats back
->@'mdm: 😦😦😦
@'urbanwyatt: 🖕🏻😝🖕🏻
@'claybornharlow: where's my jacket?
@'mackshipper: their height differences are everything to me
@'nickiejohn: mf icon
@'mdmxjh: notice how all the antis are quiet now 😂
->@'mdmupdates: literally haha, I know that clip of them making out in the background of Urban's live had them in shambles 🤣
->@'mackshipper: that was them?
->@'mdmupdates: yeah the red hair threw me off but that's def her ass that he's squeezing lol
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Dec. 28
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@'mdm: aquí nomás
@'medegutierrez: Daisy's face 🦦
->@'mdm: her ass was out here acting like she didn't spend 2 winters in Aspen lol
@'katdominguez: abuela Tere said to put on a sweater pa'que no te de un resfrío
@'jackharlow: 🤞🏻
@'haileybieber: my heart 🥰🥰🥰
@'haileesteinfeld: Daisy is so precious
@'jackandmiriam4life: their mirror selfies are always either super couply or they're on the verge of them starting a couples OF page lol
@'claybornharlow: owm to rescue my niece from the cold
->@'antimack: rescue Jack too
->@'annoyingtwittergirlie: she doesn't deserve them
->@'claybornharlow: y'all fucking can't take a joke 🙄
View all 53,220 comments
Jan. 3
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@'jackharlowsource: Some pictures of Jack at his new year's party
@'jack_stan: obsessed with these
@'mackshipper: not Jack photobombing the group picture lol
@'antimack: she's trying so hard to be liked by his friends
@'jhupdates: where did you get the first picture
->@'jackharlowsource: Miriam’s sister posted and deleted it on her ig stories
View all 1,468 comments
Taglist: @cherry4everrr @heavyhitterheaux ​ @carma-fanficaddict ​ @youngharleezy @youngharleezyxo ​ @babyharleezy ​ @that-90s-girllll ​ @alinaharlow @harlowcomehome @nattinatalia @webinurcloset @gassyandsassy1 @jackharloww @awhore4moree @noescapricho-essentimiento @a-moment-captured @neon-lights-and-glitter @purecinnamonextract @whywontyoulovemecami @camificrecs
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miscfandomwrites · 8 months
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Mama: Chapter Three
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A/N: Oop, another repost. I'll set this in my queue for now tho.
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Mom! Avenger! Reader
Warnings: Cussing, Clint being Clint.
Words: 1.2k
Tagging: @tyler-t0t
Thankfully, the rest of the trip was quiet and peaceful. I decided to listen to some music and rest for a bit. Once we landed, I put my jacket and backpack on, and then carefully picked up Lillith. 
Clint stayed by my side the entire time, occasionally giving me a worried glance.
He spoke in a hushed tone once we got inside. 
“You’ll be on the eighteenth floor, and I’m right above you if you need anything. I’ve already started to set up some things the way you like them. The map is up in the living room and the kitchen is stocked with snacks.” He told me. 
“Thank you. I thought there was only one kitchen?” I asked him. 
“There’s the main, but all floors have a basic setup. Fridge, microwave, sink, dishwasher, and countertop stove. There’s no oven, unless you buy one of the countertop ones.” He replied to me. I nodded. 
Him, Natasha, Lillith, and I got into the elevator. Clint pushed the button to go up to my floor. 
“I can’t believe she’s still asleep.” Natasha whispered to me. I smiled at her and readjusted my grip on the sleeping toddler in my arms. 
“She sleeps through anything. It was a gift when she was littler.” I replied. 
The elevator flew up the floors really quickly. Within two minutes we were already at my floor. 
We got off, and Clint walked to the back of the floor. I looked around-this place was huge. And I had it entirely for Lillith and I…
I followed Clint into a bedroom that was as big as my entire living room in my old apartment, and saw the decor setup for Lillith. 
The walls were painted to show a forest scenery, and various woodland animals weaved through the trees and branches. The colors were done tastefully in green, dark brown, and black. A touch of gold here and there, but overall it gave the room a very ‘foresty’ feeling. Lillith had a huge dresser and a closet with mirrors on it, along with her toy box and bookshelves. Her stuffed animals were everywhere, including on her bed. Thankfully, it was a twin, not a queen. Clint and Natasha excused themselves, heading to where I assumed the kitchen was. 
The few times Lillith slept in a queen bed, she somehow managed to move more than enough to yank and burrito herself in all the blankets, usually getting stuck and hollering for me in the morning to let her out to go pee. 
I set her down in the bed, pulling the blankets gently over her. I grabbed her plush wolf-that was almost half her size-and tucked it in her arms. She instinctively wrapped her arms around it, pulling it closer to her, I smiled and tucked her in, smoothing her hair around her face. I kissed her on her forehead and told her goodnight, before turning on the nightlight on the wall. 
After gently closing the door, I found my bedroom. My door was painted completely (favorite color). It was just down the hallway from Lilliths, as well. 
I walked in and was greeted by the sight of a large, plush rug and my desk. Everything was mostly still in boxes, because last time I had Clint help me move, kitchenware somehow made it into my desk and my papers had ended up in the kitchen. How he was able to screw up that bad was beyond me, but he somehow did it. 
I tossed my jacket on the chair and set my backpack at the foot of my queen sized bed. The room was decorated with (favorite colors) and the walls were painted white. Shelves were waiting to be filled with my various trinkets and books, and it looks like I not only had a walk-in closet, but a huge bathroom as well. 
After exploring a little bit and moving a box or two, I grabbed my hoodie from my backpack and headed to the kitchen area. 
Clint was making a cup of coffee, and Natasha was looking at the massive map that took up most of one of the walls. 
I opened the fridge and grabbed a soda, popping the lid off and taking a sip. I hopped on the island counter and watched as Clint tried to figure out how to work the coffee machine. 
“Three scoops, fill the water, then press the on button. Not that hard dude.” I told him with a chuckle. He swore under his breath at me, in which I chucked again. I turned towards Natasha and the wall map. 
“What is this?” She asked me, still facing the map. 
“Red pins are places that Hydra has sent me, that I’ve found out about at least. Black pins are places I’ve been after Hydra, White is places I’ve been with Lillith.” I answered, sipping on my soda. 
“And the green?” 
“Places the Marines have sent me.”
“Yellow?” 
“Places I’ve been before the Marines. My childhood.” 
She hummed and turned, walking back to Clint and I. 
I took the time to notice her outfit and her in general. 
Slightly curvy red hair falling just at her shoulders, green eyes that reminded me of emeralds and the forest after rain. A simple t-shirt tucked into black pants, a black leather jacket I knew was just to cover up the fact that she was carrying a gun. Black boots that probably had a knife or two tucked in them. 
“Take a photo, it’ll last longer.” She told me. I looked up to her face and smiled softly. 
“I thought you didn’t want any evidence that you existed?” I told her as I took another drink of my soda. 
She smirked at me. “I suppose you will be the only exception to that.” She replied. 
I grinned and pulled out my phone, snapping a few photos of her. 
“FINALLY!” Clint yelled. I jumped, spilling my soda all over my hoodie and nearly falling off the counter. 
“Jesus Christ Clint, my kid is sleeping!” I whisper-yelled at him. He winced and muttered a ‘sorry’ as he held his coffee cup. 
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and hopped off the counter. My hoodie and shirt was soaked through with soda. I pulled the wet materials away from my body. 
“Thanks, this is what I exactly needed right now.” I snarkily told him.
“You’re welcome, bitch.” He replied, pouring coffee into the cup. 
I pulled off my hoodie and tossed it into a conveniently placed laundry basket. My shirt was soaked through as well. I groaned and tossed the now empty can of soda into the trash, and pulled off my shirt and tossed it into the basket. 
Clint wolf-whistled and I flipped him off. “You’ve got a wife, asshole.” I reminded him. 
He nodded, sipping on his coffee. Then he pointed to Natasha. “She’s single.”  
My mouth opened in protest before I rolled my eyes. 
“Oh please, I got too much to deal with. I’m not exactly wife material right now.” I replied. 
“So?” He told me. 
I shook my head. “You are insane. I’m getting a shower and going to bed. Clint, if you start some shit I will tape you to the ceiling.” I answered. 
Natasha laughed as I entered the hallway, grabbing some clothes from my bag and headed to the bathroom. 
I could tell we would get along fine. 
~~
A/N: I honestly love this. Bit of detail that will/will not be in the story: Clint and Reader have been friends since they were young, drifting apart after high school. He’s the one that helped her with Lillith after her wife died, and helped her join S.H.I.E.L.D. They’ve got a fantastic relationship, if you can’t tell.
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locktobre · 2 years
Note
Penny for your thoughts? I'd love to hear your headcanons! :]- That PCS Anon
Right now, I have way more questions than answers. I don't even know where to start making answers tbh. Like, how do the mermaid powers actually work? Why can Aquaryah suddenly become Power Keeper if she wasn't chosen by the Golden Pearl? Does it even matter? Why do they have to compete to be Power Keeper in the first place? Theoretically, this is a better system than, say, a hereditary monarchy like in Mermaid Tale with the merillia being passed down that way, but in practice it seems nonsensical bc it doesn't even matter in the end. So what's the point? And why does "Isla" immediately think of (Malibu) Barbie, A HUMAN, when she sees the 2 empty spots?
And as for "Isla" herself, I can pretty confidently say, that is NOT DM Isla, no matter what mattel wants me to believe. It just isn't. Her appearance is different, her personality is different, her voice actor is even different. All that's the same is the fact that she's a mermaid named Isla and has green eyes.
The simplest explanation for the differences in her appearance is that she had some offscreen magical adventure and transformed at the end of it. (She also kept in touch with the Roberts sisters, offscreen, so they already knew.) As for her personality, well, whatever, she was around strangers and in the human world and really stressed out bc Emerald was kidnapped and everything so maybe we never saw the "real" her in the movie. Sure.
The most complicated explanation is that Morton Rise messed with the timeline somewhere in the past (my go-to explanation for any inconsistencies in the DAverse, and there are a lot of them), and DM as we know it did not happen... but something else did, and they still met a mermaid named Isla, just a completely different one. Which is sort of an insane answer but I'm leaning toward it bc at least it would make the movie slightly more interesting to me lmfao.
There are also a few kind of half-steps between the two extremes, but the "Isla" thing is one of the biggest answers I need or I will not be able to sleep at night. But I don't know what to do bc it's insane that I even have to do this, that they did this movie with this character when it could have easily been like, a friend of Isla's, or new mermaid they ran into while cleaning up garbage, or whatever. It's just nonsense.
tl;dr I don't have any headcanons yet just way too many fucking questions
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quietlyimplode · 6 months
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the language of flowers and silent things
Whumptober 2023: Day 10: You said you’d never leave
Warnings: nightmares, discussions of time in the red room (and all that entails)
Word Count: 1.8k (gif not mine)
Summary: Natasha and Clint discuss finding Yelena (and all the ways it could go wrong).
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A/N: The set up for tomorrow. For everyone who’s kept up and comments, my love for you is tenfold. It’s what keeps this going. Thank you.
Masterlist
Whumptober Masterlist
.
2014
BUDAPEST
Isla sits and waits.
She’s going to give Natasha ten minutes.
The black widow scratches at her thigh and takes a sip of her Italian coffee.
Budapest is chilly, but not what she would call cold. It makes Isla smile that the city where Natasha made her escape, is the one she had chosen to reconnect in.
Nevertheless, it had given her an opportunity to go shopping and purchase a new identity and set of katanas.
She sees Natasha, her red hair tied back framing her face, a single braid.
Isla knew what that meant, someone is watching.
If more braids, a different communication system, one that only the Red Room girls knew.
A French braid vs a Dutch one, could mean the difference between safety and danger, but she didn’t think that Natasha still trusted that.
Still, Isla focuses on the world around her, the sounds of people talking, idle chatter, cars and then… tunes it all out, focusing on the widows approach.
Natasha had, of course, seen her.
Isla wonders what language she will approach her in and is unsurprised to hear the Russian safe words flow out of her mouth.
She nods, and answers appropriately.
“You wouldn’t prefer English? Hmm? Your new language and lack of accent are impressive, but I suppose that is what happens with immersion.”
The dig rolls off Natasha as she responds in Russian again, smiling and crossing her legs.
“Still as pernicious as ever.”
Isla rolls her eyes, not understanding the word, thinking she will have to look it up.
“The money is deposited,” Natasha nods, “tell me what I want to know.”
Isla looks around.
“You have a sniper trained on me?”
She waves to the right, a movement of her fingers.
Natasha looks around and sees the slight glisten off mirrors under the table.
“Of course,” she nods, “and I suggest you don’t move from your seat until twenty minutes have passed after I go, otherwise…” she makes a sign for explosions using her mouth to puff out sounds.
Isla laughs.
“I didn’t even feel it underneath me.”
Natasha leans forward.
“Tell me, where can I find her?”
Isla laughs again.
“Straight to the point. I’m surprised you didn’t look sooner. She won’t want to come with you, you know? She’s the Red Room’s heavy hitter, a killer with skill and style, no conscious, no remorse, the perfect assassin.”
“Much like you were, little Natasha, before you became a traitor,” she finishes.
She leans back.
“Do you think the Red Room went easy on her after all you did? Anyone attached to you was reprogrammed, sent to the hole, the scientists and to Odessa.”
“Do you think we didn’t get punished? They wondered where they went wrong when their best efforts resulted in a traitor.”
She rolls up her sleeves, showing acid burn marks that makes Natasha look away.
“Those closest to you, of course, got it worse, and Yelena? Well, even though she hadn’t seen you or known you for years, well, let’s just say, they made her stronger, performed more experiments on her.”
The words hurt the way Isla wants them too.
Even though Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, there’s a subtleness in the air, and no longer is Isla on the defensive.
“You want to know where your sister is?” she laughs, easily.
“She’s where she’s always been; where you’ve never wanted to go.”
She shrugs.
“The question is; will you do to get her back?”
Natasha regains composure. Subtle as it is, Isla feels the shift and focuses on her.
“As agreed, as paid for,” she says, voice low, “tell me where she is.”
Isla produces a piece of paper.
“How does it feel to know that despite your best efforts to get rid of the Red Room, it just moved to a new location with a new figurehead. Do you really think Dreykov was the puppet master? Killing him did nothing.
It just made them stronger, more malicious, more deranged. And we? We got caught in the crossfire. He was a buffer, using the Red Room more for his personal gain; when they came in, they used it how it was intended. For war.”
She takes a breath, feeling the vitriol pounding through her.
“Little girls doing the bidding of wealthy men. Trafficked and sold as good little soldiers. You sister. Me.”
She snarls.
“But it doesn’t matter to you, fighting aliens, fighting Hydra, what does it matter to the great Natasha Romanoff, the black widow of Russia; defector to America?”
Isla wants to stand and move but is aware of the pressure plate under her.
Natasha is right, they gave her money and they have her at cross hairs.
She makes her heart rate slow, realising how much composure she had lost in her tirade, and Natasha, just absorbing it with her sunglasses on, face neutral and legs still crossed.
“Yelena is currently on a mission in Singapore, she’s collecting information on the G8 summit being held.”
Isla finally passes her the piece of paper.
“You’ll find her there, but don’t expect to be welcomed back.”
Natasha takes it and stands.
“The second transfer will come when you leave,” she tells her, looking down.
“Oh, Natasha?” Isla holds her drink up.
“It’s been good to see you.”
Brows furrowed, Natasha holds up the piece of paper and leaves, disappearing into the crowd.
Isla sips her coffee, then picks up her phone.
“It’s done,” she says into it, then snaps it in half and throws it under the table.
.
“It’s a trap,” Clint says, his voice raising slightly, “she gets you riled up and wanting to go after them, and you go because you want to help her.”
He gestures to the hotel map and points.
“This has got to be the worst access, even if I sit on the tower across here, and watch any extraction, we’d need a whole team to get her out; and if we take a whole team; it’s an international incident - even if it has nothing to do with the G8 gathering.”
Natasha hums.
“But we have to try, she’s there? Maybe even if I can talk to her-“
“What? Convince her to do that? Defect?”
Natasha frowns at him.
“Yes? I mean isn’t that the end game? Saving her?”
Clint crosses his arms over his body, then raises them up in surrender.
“We can’t take a team, even if Tony or Steve go, they’d create publicity, and we can’t afford that, we need to go-“
“Not as ourselves,” Natasha finishes.
“It’s a trap,” he starts again, “what would be protocol, if they wanted to pick you up?”
She looks at the map and the surrounding areas.
“I don’t know, I can’t tell you what I would do, but who even knows if they were telling the truth.”
Pausing, Clint calls Tony.
He picks up on the second ring.
There’s a crash and he swears.
“Hello,” he says finally.
“Can you screen entrants into a country,” Clint asks, “that have come through in the last week and in the next two days?”
Tony scoffs.
“Of course I can.”
They hear him walking and a low hum of a machine.
“This is about her, isn’t it?”
Natasha sighs.
“Yeah, it’s Yelena. How long do you think it will take you?”
Tony starts typing, and they assume he’s setting up a program. He’s silent before he answers.
“Give me twenty four hours.”
Natasha nods and thanks him, then hangs up and sighs.
“What now?” Clint asks, looking at the map.
“Make a plan then try and sleep I guess,” she replies.
.
She lets Clint go to bed, her mind still swirling with a question to no solution.
If it’s a trap, if Yelena will come, if she will defect, if it really is all her fault, how the red room is still standing, what happened after she left.
Her mind is a mess of questions and she makes herself focus on one.
How to get in and out with Yelena.
Everything else, all the other questions can wait.
Into the hours of the morning, she goes over everything, the way in, the way out, getting in and out of the country.
Her back up plans have back up plans.
Somewhere around 3am, Clint pads out, eyes bleary.
“Come to bed,” he asks, “we have some big days ahead.”
Natasha knows it’s true. Her eyes have been closing for the last twenty minutes and she knows she needs to rest.
Brushing her teeth, she wonders if it will work, then follows Clint into bed.
Mind heavy, sleep consumes her, followed by dreams and then nightmares.
.
Yelena sits in a chair, she’s 5 and Natasha covers her mouth with duct tape.
“Shut up,” she tells her.
Scared eyes watch her.
The dream morphs and there a dead girl on her left.
Yelena is holding a knife, blood on her hands.
“Did I do it right?” she asks, and looks up to Natasha who looks down on her, horrified.
It morphs again.
Yelena chases Natasha, she catches her and pushes her down, hitting her as Natasha protects her face.
“Why?” she screams.
“Why?”
“You said you’d never leave!?”
Natasha drops her guard and lets her hit her.
She did promise, she deserves the pain.
The third hit she feels herself being shaken.
“‘m sorry,” she moans.
“Nat? Natasha?”
Light fills the room.
Then a cold breeze.
Natasha shakes the dream.
Feels it fade away.
Clint sits on the edge of the bed, waiting, but she has no words for the dreams that plagued her.
“Bad dreams?” he says redundantly, handing her water.
She takes it and nods, not elaborating.
He switches off the light and turns off the fan.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks in the dark.
Reaching across, he takes her hand and places it on his chest.
“I promised her I wouldn’t leave,” she whispers.
“But then you got ripped apart,” he says softly, “that wasn’t your fault.”
“I didn’t go looking for her, that is my fault,” she continues.
“Natasha,” he admonishes, “you did your best with the capacity you had.”
She’s not ready to hear it, rolls over and backs into Clint’s arms.
“You always thought Barney would come back,” she whispers.
“But he couldn’t, and he didn’t,” he whispers back, “and sometimes we can’t change the things that have happened and we can’t go back.”
Natasha sighs deeply.
“I know.”
“Doesn’t make it better though, does it?”
Natasha feels silent tears fall.
She shakes her head against the pillow.
“We’ll get her Nat. It’s not your fault, okay? We’ll get her.”
.
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[SUMMARY: Negan finds his sons girlfriend in the shower.]
Smut
Negan and Isla
It was a week day where you knew Jack would have the house to himself for the morning, as he usually did. The both of you had evening college classes together and would spend the day alone while his father, Negan would be off to work. He didn't get along with his father too well so he liked to be home when he wasn't home. Today was like any other day until Jack got called into work for an earlier schedule. You sighed hating that he had to leave. Still he asked you to wait for him in the house just incase he was able to get out early.
"I'll make an excuse after like an hour and come back home, so just wait here for me. My dad won't be home till after five anyway." Jack explained. You agreed with his plan and kissed him goodbye as he left to work.
After some time you decided to get in the shower, taking advantage that you were alone in the house you left all your clothes in Jacks bedroom. Starting your shower you let the hot water fall on you as you felt yourself slowly relax. Not too long after, you heard the door open downstairs figuring Jacks plan had worked. Excitedly you heard him walking up the stairs hoping he would come join you in the shower since you left the door cracked and waited patiently.
Little did you know, Jack had never returned and had left you a text that they were too short staffed for him to leave early. Jacks father, Negan was out of work unexpectedly early and didn't expect anyone to be home but his son. Negan left his belongings in his room then was quick to enter the bathroom to trim his facial hair a bit. He didn't say a word since it wasn't the first time Negan would step in for a quick trim. With a smile you heard the bathroom door open as you figured Jack was getting ready to join you. Negan quickly trimmed his beard as you stood quietly letting the water fall down your body until you realized he was taking a little longer than expected. Feeling already aroused at the thought of Jack joining you in the shower like he usually did you slowly reached low between your legs and began to touch yourself.
Negan was finishing up as he looked at himself in the mirror when the sound of your voice took him by surprise.
"Jack, are you almost done doing whatever you're doing?" His face quickly turned to the shower curtain when he realized it was you.
"Shit.." Negan whispered very low to himself.
"Jack?" You spoke softly as you began to rub your clit, Negan was quietly reaching for the door to let himself out when you suddenly moaned making him stop in his tracks.
"Please Jack....I've been waiting here for you to come back home and fuck me.." Negan looked back pressing his lips together, holy shit was it tempting. Again another moan escaping your lips making him completely turn towards you.
"God dammit.." he whispered as you continued to moan, the sounds you made only making him hard. Without saying a word he locked the door knob behind him before he began to unbuckle his belt. You could hear his clothes hitting the floor making you laugh with excitement as you closed your eyes, the water falling over your head as you heard the curtain pull back. Negans eyes darkened at the naked site of you, your body soaked as water continued to pour over your hard nipples. Negan knew this wasn't right, you were his sons girlfriend for gods sake but how could he just turn away from this? Plus, he noticed how you would look at him certain times, you wouldn't say a word but you didn't have to, your eyes expressed truly what you felt. Still with your eyes closed you bit your bottom lip as you began to caress your breasts. Negan watched as you squeezed them before reaching between your legs again with your foot on the edge of the tub.
"Fuck.." he whispered very low to himself as he watched you continue.
"Well aren't you gonna come in babe?" You asked before you slowly opened your eyes.
With a loud scream you stepped back against the wall not expecting what was before you.
"Negan?!" You gasped as you looked down and noticed the man was naked.
"What-what are you doing?" You attempted to cover your breasts as he slowly began to step inside the shower.
"Negan, I-" he pulled the curtain back behind him as he stood still and stared at you for a moment. He was more aroused than he had ever felt, he could see it in your eyes, the shock yet the curiosity. You could barely keep your eyes off his erect cock.
"Where..where's Jack?" You whispered as he slowly smirked walking closer to you.
"Don't worry about Jack," he responded smoothly as he stood face to face with you. His eyes looking hypnotized down at your body that you no longer tried to cover, then into your eyes, you couldn't believe what was happening.
"What-what are you doing?" You asked as you hadn't moved, your back still against the wall.
"You want me to leave?" He tilted his head with a cocky smirk, he knew as shocked as you may have been, you didn't want him to leave. He began to slowly rub his cock watching as you stared down at it.
"Negan...we can't...-"
"So tell me to leave." He cut you off confidently. Sliding his tongue between his teeth he grinned at the look on your face.
"This is so wrong. I can't do this..." You whispered as he watched your lips move.
"But you want to," he responded as he looked back into your eyes. You couldn't deny it, you couldn't find it in you to lie. Looking straight up at him you didn't say a word, your breathing was erratic as you watched the water fall over him.
He began to move closer to you, of course you had nowhere else to go, so quietly you stood until he stopped right before you. Brushing his wet hair back he looked down at you and caressed the side of your neck as he slowly leaned in and kissed you. Your eyes open in shock yet you let him kiss you, his tongue parting your lips as he moaned pulling your wet body against his, your breasts against his chest you hesitantly wrapped your arms around him as his hands moved to your waist. He kissed your neck as you held onto him, why did this have to feel so damn good? His hand grabbing your ass hard before he lifted one of your legs leaning you against the wall, you could feel the tip of him pressing against your entrance.
"What if-"
"Shh.." he whispered with a smile. A tingly sensation between your legs, you knew you wanted this.
"Just this once.." you whispered.
"Mhm," Negan licked his bottom lip as you felt him adjust himself and just like that he slid in you. He groaned feeling your warmth, grabbing your breast, his hand reached up to your throat and he noticed the look in your eyes.
"You like to be grabbed like this, don't you?" Negan bit his bottom lip as he squeezed his hand around your throat and thrusted his hips faster. Not letting go of your throat, he made your head lean back against the tiles as he thrusted harder. You whimpered as his jaw tensed watching you take what he was doing to you.
"Is this how you wanted to be fucked? This what you were asking for?" He thrusted harder as his grip around your throat loosened allowing you to moan loudly before he squeezed again. You'd watch as he'd dig his teeth into his bottom lip each time he thrusted harder. His hand moving up he placed his thumb in your mouth, making you suck on it as he watched your lips close around it. He moaned closing his eyes as he moved faster when the both of you heard the door close from outside. You both froze as Negan looked back trying to see if he could hear anything.
"Dad?" You gasped as you heard Jacks voice just out the door, he knew his father was home when he saw his car out front.
"Sh!" Negan looked back at you grabbing your face as he slowly began to thrust again.
"Yeah?!" He answered back without looking away from you.
"Was Isla here when you got back? They ended up changing my schedule but she's not answering my calls." You remembered you left your phone on mute in his room.
Negan grinned at the mention of your name as you stared up at him nervously.
"No, she must've left!" Negan yelled back as he watched your eyes roll back from each slow deep stroke. You couldn't help it, as anxious as Jack being there made you, the pleasure this man was making you feel didn't slow down. It was insane how much control he could have of your body with your boyfriend just outside the door.
"Alright, I'm gonna head back out I'll see you later!" Jack could be heard walking back down the stairs before the door slammed shut. Negan went on to thrust harder and faster again, his complete focus on you.
"What if he comes-" You panicked but before you could finish your sentence Negan grabbed your face and kissed you, distracting you from any concerns.
"Come on, baby. I wanna see you cum, I'm
not stopping till you do," He began to choke you again making you moan louder. Cursing at yourself you could feel the orgasm about to take over your body in a way you never had really felt before. The water splashing amongst you both you fell silent until you suddenly cried out in a way you yourself didn't expect. Negan holding your leg up watched as your body trembled against the wall.
"Yes," he whispered excitedly as he felt you tighten around him. You whimpered as he continued to move, Negan grunted with each thrust until he quickly pulled out and cum squirted out of him reaching your breast.
"Fuck-" he panted as he let your leg go and leaned on the wall behind you barely able to balance himself. Jerking himself off with his other hand you looked down and watched as he continued to cum onto your thighs. You couldn't believe what you had just done.
As he looked up directly at you, you couldn't help but think how amazing it all was. As wrong as it may have been, in that moment you didn't regret it. The way he kissed you, the way he touched you, he smiled at you noticing the way you stared at him.
"You liked that?" He whispered as you looked up at him. Before you could answer he grabbed your face for another kiss, his deep moan echoing in the shower. You didn't say a word still in shock with what you just let happen, it was like something out of a movie. The two of you finished the shower before he let himself out first as you stood alone staring at the wall. Replaying in your mind the way he looked at you when you first realized it was him. The sounds he must've heard you making before he even stepped in. Then you thought of Jack and your heart sunk.
Following him out of the shower you wrapped a towel around you as you watched him get dressed.
"What about Jack?" You whispered as he buttoned his pants.
"What would he think of you....your his father." Negan stood silent for a moment before he stepped closer to you.
"Sweetheart, me fucking you won't change the shitty relationship I already have with him-"
"Yeah but-"
"Listen, did I make you feel good?" He asked in a seductive voice as he stepped closer to you.
"Yes,"
"So then I don't wanna hear nothing else. No one has to know a damn thing."
"Well still-" you persisted.
"Why didn't you say something when you realized it was me? Why didn't you stop me from-"
"From making yourself cum? Now why would I do that?"
He smirked as he looked into your eyes.
"A naked woman in my shower touching herself, did you think I would ignore that? Did you really think I could ignore those sounds coming out of those sweet lips?" Just thinking about it again was making Negan want to start all over until he noticed your look of concern.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. This is our little secret," before you could say anything else Negan walked out leaving you alone in the bathroom, quickly you gathered your belongings and left before Jack returned.
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1800titz · 9 months
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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
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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. 
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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. 
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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. 
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