#but like man - despite despite despite we're thriving | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alphabetboyluvr · 10 months

Text

bad decisions - jjk | thirteen

When you open your eyes, you avoid looking towards the mirror. You look down, look away. Jungkook notices. He nudges the side of your head with his own. Realigns it. Encourages. "Watch." He speaks quietly, the dulcet tone of his purr just loud enough for you, but untraceable to anyone outside the room. He doesn't want Jimin to hear. Doesn't want Jimin to know. It's not that he was lying when he said Jimin wouldn't care—he genuinely believes it'd be no issue, especially with context provided—it's just that he hasn't figured out how to explain it. 'Oh, the girl you shagged a few months ago? We're friends. Pretty good friends, actually. And I'm touching her boobs to help her get over a fear. Totally normal.'

Bad Decision #13 - Work of Art

warnings: jungkook discovers boobs! we rejoice! wahooo!! okay so this entire chapter is basically titty worship (no titty sucking (sad)). lots of paint. curious art. shower (again) mutual masturbation (for realsies this time) jaykay aka my dream man. the chess plot device is born! the mirror kink is also born! WE THRIVE!!

soundtrack: vibez- zayn

wc: 11.8k

bd total wc: 370k (on-going)

minors dni | wattpad | series masterlist |

"Why did you write it like that?"

"Like what?" you say, coming to sit beside Jungkook at a pair of easels towards the back of the room. The last few tasks were carried out by the pair of you, Jungkook insisting on helping despite the fact he had no clue really what to do. You'd ended up asking him to move a couple of boxes you couldn't reach just to appease his need to lend a hand.

He looks at your bird once more, and holds it open for you to read again. You knock your head to the side and shrug.

"Guess it's just how I feel about it."

"Like screaming?"

"Kind of," you laugh. It's written in just the same way as the last one - full capital letters, zero context, and more exclamation points than any one person should use. "I guess it's like... a big one for me?"

"How big are we talking?" Jungkook asks as he looks at it again. It's just a single word, but he knows there's more to it than meets the eye. There always is with you.

You pull one of your feet up to the chair and wrap your arms around your knee. The apron you'd been wearing earlier is up on a hook, and Jungkook finds the simplicity of your outfit all very intriguing. You're monochromatic, which isn't much of a surprise, in a large white shirt and black slacks. The caps of your hightops peek out from the hem of your trousers, and a satin scrunchie is around your wrist instead of in your hair.

You're lacking a little sparkle. There's still some across your lashline, and little specks on your skin that your makeup remover hadn't managed to get, but what with the paint and the two showers you've had since the paint party, there's really not all that much left.

He wonders if there's any glitter glue in the art supplies. Thinks you should just use that instead. You're really not quite yourself without it.

"My ex was a tittie guy," you say, and Jungkook's eyes widen as if he'd forgotten the topic of conversation. You laugh. "Is it really that much of a surprise? Ass guys are hardly gonna go for me."

"Your ass is fine," Jungkook says. He means it as a compliment, but realises 'fine' isn't the way to ever really describe a woman's assets—and so he corrects himself. "Good, I mean. Your ass is good."

There's a look of disgust on your face as you question why on earth he's been looking at your ass, which causes him to roll his eyes. There really is no winning with you.

"I'm an ass guy," he shrugs.

"Doesn't give you any right to look at it."

"Oh give over," he laughs. "It's literally just a body part. No different to me looking at, I don't know... your wrist. Something like that."

"Well, it depends," you argue back. "Are you into wrists?"

Regretfully, the answer is yes.

"I don't know!" Jungkook protests when you grill him for how the fuck he can be 'into' wrists. "They're just dainty! And pretty! I don't know! It's not my fault."

You narrow your eyes, and hide your exposed wrist behind your knee. He looks at you with a poorly hidden smile, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. His lip ring always dances along his peachy bottom lip when he does so, and it makes you laugh - but you're still feigning disgust.

In all honestly, you like your wrists. Would put them in your top five for your physical attributes. Completely understand why he would be into wrists, just like you're into forearms. You like arms that feel safe.

Kind of like his.

But still, he's an ass guy.

"See, this is why you and I would never work," you tell him, and nod to the piece of paper he's still holding, adorned with a singular scribble:

!!!!! TITS !!!!!

"We want different things," you clarify. "You're after a good ass, I'm after a guy who knows how to handle a pair of tits."

"Hey! That's not fair. I never said I didn't know how to handle them," he scoffs - although now he comes to think about it, he's not sure he actually does. "Like, sure, maybe my exes have all had great asses, but they all had a pair of tits, too. I'm not opposed to a pair of tits."

"Yeah, but there's a pair of tits, and a pair of tits, yanno?" You say, using your hands to really emphasise the point. "Anyway my ex really liked them."

"So?"

"So, I really liked that he really liked them," you shrug. It's painfully obvious to you, but Jungkook is still a little confused. "I just... The idea of someone else doing what he did to them just... makes me wanna run, yanno?"

"The fuck did he do them?" Jungkook laughs.

"Nothing obscene," you smile, though when you think about it, perhaps 'obscene' is the only way to describe how much he enjoyed them. "I guess it's more so that it was always a part of sex? Most guys I've been with pick and choose whenever they want to deal with them, but with him..."

You don't mean to trail off, but fuck. You're thinking about Seokjin, how his plump lips would trail down your throat. He'd inhale the scent of your perfume and fucking whine, only stopping to latch himself to your nipples. Would spend more time on your tits than he would any other part of your body. Spent so long once that he made you orgasm from the simulation of it all alone.

And so now they're off limits. It doesn't matter who it is. The second someone reaches for your bra, you shake your head, reposition their hands, and pretend you hate your tits being touched. It's not like it's an unreasonable lie. You know it's one of Danbi's least favourite forms of foreplay. If anything, she'd be a good match for Jungkook. In fact, now you come to think about it, she's got a cracking ass from all of her dog-walking.

Maybe you should cool the deal off. It's highly likely they're compatible. Fucking around with Jungkook would only complicate things in the future if they discovered that themselves - but you know Taehyung's interested in her, and Jungkook hasn't given any indication of interest further than friendship with her.

It's not like this is anything beyond friendship, you reason with yourself.

Jungkook stays quiet as you work through your thought process. Assumes you're skimming through traumatic memories. Doesn't realise you're actually playing matchmaker in your head for him and your best friend.

"But with him?" He asks.

You're drawn from your thoughts. Feel a little guilty. Wonder if you should really be doing this - not for your sake, but for his.

"Are you sure about this?" You ask, ignoring his question entirely.

"About?"

"Doing my birds?"

He purses his lips - and now he feels guilty, too. Funny, how you're both more concerned about one another than yourselves.

"It's entirely your choice," he says. Doesn't want you to feel pressured into it - but it just makes you feel like he feels pressured into it.

"No, but, that just feels to me as if you don't want to," you tell him. "And like, that's totally fine, if you don't, but-"

"Byeol," he says all rather plainly. "I'm the one who suggested it. If I didn't want to I wouldn't be here right now, would I? I sought you out. I came here. This is all on me."

The worry on your features softens, and he's pleased to see you smile again no matter how subtle it may be.

"Only thing I will say is that I don't actually know what 'exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point, tits, excla'"—

"Kook, you don't have to say every single exclamation point."

"Right," he nods. "Well, that. I don't know what that exactly entails."

And truth be told, nor do you. So you just sigh. Press your lips together a little tighter than usual. Think about it for a moment. Draw a blank. Furrow your brows.

Jungkook looks just as perplexed as you. He's looking away, trying to find inspiration in the room around him—and when his eyes land on the 'gallery' wall where there are imitations of famous works, an idea comes to mind.

"So this is all about separating physical acts from emotional intimacy, right?" He says, and when you nod, he continues. "So what if we do something that involves"— he laughs, because he's a child. —"Touching your tits"—

"Real mature."

"Shut up. We'll do something that involves touching your tits," he has to pause so that he doesn't laugh, but you're grinning too. Just as immature as he is. "But something that isn't sexual at all."

"Alright," you muse. "I'm listening."

"You got any black paint?"

You narrow your eyes. Turn your nose up a little. Question if he's lost all of his brain cells. "Jungkook, this is an art cafe."

"I didn't wanna just assume," he feigns offence. "Are there security cameras in this place?"

"Only by the front entrance. None into the studio area."

"Okay, good. Go get some black paint and I'll get the blinds."

"No blinds," you say, nodding over the windows. "Chiffon curtains. If we turn the main lights off and just keep the lamps on, it should all be obscured. Let's just... not be too close to the windows—and what's the paint for?"

"Will tell you in a bit," he says as he heads to the windows. "Chop, chop, Byeol. We've got a fear to overcome."

You stay as you are for a moment, watching him with unrivalled wonder. There's an enigmatic energy to him that makes it seem as if he's the one constantly covered in glitter, not you. It's quite alarming that this is Jungkook operating at half capacity. His confidence was knocked quite considerably after his heart was broken, and he's yet to recover. You know this. Know that's what his birds are all about. Know that once you've worked through them with him, he'll be an unstoppable force of nature.

In the time you've known him, he's been nothing but an angel. Cocky? Yes. A little petulant? Make that incredibly petulant. And yet he's a joy to be around. Shines without the need for artificial sparkles. You envy it. Wish you could emulate it.

It's as you're getting the paint, and a few extra supplies that you'll figure you'll need - some brushes, some washcloths - that Jungkook begins to explain himself. He's drawing the curtains shut, glancing over at you every few words just to check you're paying attention.

"So I saw a video the other day - something to do with easy Halloween crafts, don't ask - and there are two options for you. One of them is quite literally painting your tits and pressing it against a canvas"—

"You are not painting my tits."

"Noted. The other one was way more family-friendly," he says, before he mulls it over and changes his mind. "Kinda. Maybe. It's a skeleton hand shirt."

"Okay..."

"It's super simple, one person covers their hands in paint and basically just grabs the other persons tits"—

"Does that mean I can grab yours too?"

"I don't have tits, I have incredibly defined pecks," he states rather sharply. "Please rephrase the question, Byeol."

You just grin. "Can I grab your tits?"

"No."

"Boring."

"Look," he smiles as he walks over to the easels where you'd been sat before. He turns the chair and sits on it backwards, arms resting over the back of it. There's a casualness to the way in which he carries himself. One that you quite enjoy. "This is a quick, easy and totally platonic way for you to have your tits touched, and it not be sexual at all."

"It'll just ruin my shirt."

"Or not," he says as he nods up to the wall where canvas sizes are displayed. There's also a plain tote bag and white tee pinned to the wall, still up from a promotion put on during the back-to-school season. It had been Hoseok's job to take them down, but he'd just broken up with his girlfriend at the time and had spent the entire week face down in the back room - getting him to do anything had been impossible - and so they remain as they were. "Would your boss notice if one went missing?"

You shake your head. Your boss really has no clue about the day-to-day goings on.

Still, you're hesitant. "If I get fired"—

"Then I'll fire Yeonjun and you can have his job," Jungkook bullshits. If he was gonna fire anyone, Yeonjun would be the last to go. "C'mon, you gotta stop stressing the small stuff, Byeol."

You're making excuses. You know you are, and so does he.

"Can we at least do it at your place?" You ask. It feels rude to invite yourself to his apartment, but it's honestly probably where you feel most comfortable. It's where the birds are, and it feels like a sanctuary for your fears. When done in the confines of his room, you're able to shut them away and never think about them again - at least not until you return.

Jungkook thinks it over. He's got no problem with it, just isn't sure if Jimin is in. He tells you as such and is met with a shrug.

"If he's in, he's in," you say. "We can just say we're working on planning an event for Tae's exhibition, say that I'm using you for cheap labour."

"Oh shit yeah," Jungkook gasps, suddenly reminded of the fact Taehyung had been here with a purpose. "How did it go? You think your boss will approve."

You nod. "Don't see why not. It's a solid pitch and we haven't held an exhibition in a while. I have some contacts saved up from our last couple of shows so can get together a guest list for the opening night."

It's more than Taehyung would have hoped for. The painting cafe is unassuming, in a way, which makes it a great underdog location for hosting such events.

"Sorry to have sent him here without warning," Jungkook adds. "I wasn't even sure if you did things like that."

"Not often," you admit. "I really enjoy them, though. I'm always keen for more."

The pair of you gather up your things and head back to Jungkook's place, talking about his friends, and their careers. You learn Taehyung is an artist by night, but a teaching assistant by day, which makes his love for arts and crafts all the more sweeter, you decide. Jimin works at a local interior design firm, which suddenly makes so much sense considering the books you remember being on his desk when you were bent over it.

Namjoon works at the local off-branch of the national paper, with a focus on environmental reporting, which is how he'd met Yoongi, who works as a sustainable carpenter, specialising in local woods and materials. Running his own studio, Mins, he'd done a promotional interview a few years back around the time it opened, and had then introduced Namjoon to the rest of the boys.

Their friendships run deep, and it's nice that Jungkook is so willing to share that part of his life with you. The way he sees it, you're well on your way to becoming a part of the group, too.

When you arrive at Jungkook's place, he enters first.

The shower is running, loud enough to obscure any noise of his arrival, so he ushers you in and straight to his room. The sneaking around is getting a little old already, but he figures soon enough it will be commonplace for you to hang out with the both of them.

Jimin isn't naive to your friendship, he just isn't aware quite how friendly you've become.

And so you keep your voices down, even when the pair of you are trying your hardest not to laugh, hands covered in paint, neither of you wanting to be the one who goes first. He's in a black shirt, so your hands are covered in white paint. You're in white, so his hands are coated in a layer of black paint instead.

It's stupid and it's juvenile, but also incredibly sweet. You appreciate how much Jungkook tries to ease you into things. Baby steps.

"No, no," you whisper. "I'll go first. On you. Easier that way."

He knows it will make it no more difficult nor easy no matter who goes when, but he understands what you're saying. It will make you feel more comfortable. Of course, he obliges.

"Stand behind me," he says quietly. "Can you see in the mirror?"

"Not really," you say. His back is broad and he's obviously far taller than you, which pretty much obscures the entire mirror. If you lean around, you can see part of it, but it makes it harder for your to get an equal placement on his chest.

"Okay, just stand straight. I'll guide you."

The way he knocks your hands into position, mostly because his are also covered in paint, is just as gentle as the tone of his voice is.

"Three, two, one," he counts down. "Now press."

You do as you're told and are confronted with potentially the firmest pecks you've ever laid your hands upon. Sure, Seokjin had a body built like a God, but Jungkook? Jesus Christ. He must be something entirely... unhuman.

"Anddd pull away," he whispers. The shirt sticks a little bit, but as your hands peel off, Jungkook smirks. "Your hands are so small."

You take great offence to this for absolutely no reason other than to bicker with him. "Says you!"

"Sorry?"

"You don't exactly have massive hands," you goad him, seeing if you can get a rise out of him, and as if by magic—

"Turn the fuck around, Byeol," he says, almost forgetting the volume control. You do as you're told, grinning like the smug little bitch you are. "Don't have massive hands? I swear you say shit just to piss me off."

"Who me?" You feign innocence. "Never."

"Yes, you," he laughs, but he makes no attempt to reciprocate the shirt creation. Instead, he holds back. Wants to make sure you're okay with it. You tell him you are, but he still doubles down on confirmation. "If it's too much at any point, just say."

You nod. Wonder if he can see the beat of your heart running through your veins. He can't. But he can see your eyes in the mirror, and recognise the trepidation they're drowning in.

"You ready?"

And again, you nod. Exhale. "Ready."

He's tentative in his approach, palms wide, fingers outstretched. He lets his palms rest on the sides of your chest first. You stop breathing for a moment.

"You okay?" He checks, to which you nod. "Okay, Byeol. We're going at your pace. The second it's too much, you let me know, okay?"

He waits for your go-ahead, and then lets his fingers squeeze into the softness of your chest. He sort of assumed he'd eclipse them like he always has done with his former partners, but he doesn't quite manage it with you. It takes him by surprise. Stops him in his tracks. Makes you nervous.

"Kook?"

Whatever trance he's in, he snaps out of it. Realigns his focus. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," you nod. "Are you?"

"Yeah, yeah," he parrots back. "Just being careful."

"It's fine," you smile. "I'm not a porcelain doll—and this is fine, actually."

"It is?"

"Mhmm. This isn't half as bad as I thought it would be."

"You're welcome."

You laugh, and tell him to shut up. He squeezes ever so gently around your chest, and as much as you hate to admit it, a fucking moan is lodged in your throat. You don't let it out. Don't want him to know it feels electric having his hands on you like this. God, it's nice. It's good. Comforting. That's what surprises you the most.

You've spent so long avoiding contact like this, that you had forgotten why you liked it so much in the first place.

In fact, you find yourself pouting ever so slightly when he pulls away, revealing two black handprints cradling your tits. His is the reverse, white paint on a black shirt.

"See," he smiles. "Told you it was cool. When they're dry, we can go in with markers and outline the skeleton shapes."

The pout on your lips as you look at him is sweet, eyes full of wonder. He thinks he's only ever seen you like this when you're drunk. It's all hazy, and it's like the glitter that's normally on your cheeks is in your pupils instead.

Silence resumes in his room, both of you conscious of Jimin milling around in the kitchen. Jungkook tells you to take the shirt off —"be careful, don't let the paint touch anywhere else"— so that it can dry properly.

It's as you're both standing there half-naked with your backs to one another, that he's caught off guard.

"Let's do it."

"Hmm?"

"Let's do it," you repeat. "That first idea. The canvas. I packed one just in case and I... I didn't think we'd need it - but it wasn't entirely horrible, and-I-think-I-wanna-see-if-maybe-"

"Byeol," Jungkook laughs, cutting you off, but doesn't turn around to face you. He's still trying to be as respectful as he can be. "Breathe. If you wanna do it, we can. No biggie on my part."

"It's a biggie on my part," you say quietly.

Jungkook frowns. Doesn't like how vulnerable you sound. "I know. It's okay. We can make it not a biggie."

Your mind races at a mile a minute. You've not let anyone other than Seokjin touch your bare chest in such a long time. The idea of Jungkook doing it now makes you feel nervous, but you're ready for it. Ready to feel renewed. Ready to finally fucking let go.

"How do you want to do this?" You ask, because one decision is enough for you. You'd rather let him be in the driver's seat, now. Leave your destination unknown. Leave it up to him. You're just here for the journey. Here for the ride.

"Can I turn around?"

"Yeah," you say. You don't mind him seeing you like this - you're shirtless, but you still have a bra on. He takes a second to look at your back; how your spine trails down it. Wonders if there are dimples at the bottom of it. They'd be hidden by your trousers now, and he doesn't really remember checking after the paint party.

He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thoughts, as he heads to the curtains and draws one of them shut. The other curtain remains open, but neither of you will be standing in front of it, so he doesn't think it matters all that much.

Jungkook comes to stand behind you, turning you to face the mirror. His hands are on your shoulders, still a little paint-ridden, but nothing that bothers you.

"So I'm thinking," he says quietly, eyes on yours in the reflection as he toys slightly with the bra straps over your shoulders. "That this comes off."

You swallow so hard that Jungkook thinks you might choke. You don't.

But you also nod.

"Is that a yes?" He checks for consent.

"It's a yes."

His hands are slow as they stroke down your back. He's not really thinking. Just working on auto-pilot. This isn't about him. It's all about you. What you need. What you want.

"Then, I think we need more paint," he says, his fingers working to unclasp your bra. You feel the tension ping and release, and you think you might have a heart attack. He notices the change in your breathing. "If you need to stop, you just say, okay? Tell me okay?"

"Okay," you nod, knowing you're in the safest hands you possibly could be.

"What will you say? Give me a word. Something obscure. A safe word."

You shake your head and shrug, trying to think. "I don't know - chess?"

Jungkook laughs, knowing exactly where your eyes must have been focused - on the shelf by his desk, where his chess set sits undisturbed. "Okay. Chess."

"Chess."

"Just say it, and I'll stop."

You're silent as he reaches over for the paint, and tells you to toss your bra on his bed. The click of the acrylic bottle opening and closing beats in time with your heart. Jungkook's warming the paint between his hands, trying to make this as comfortable for you as he possibly can.

You're entirely bare from the waist up, and don't take much comfort in the fact that he is too. It feels a hell of a lot scarier for you, and you both know it.

"I'm gonna touch you now," he says, and waits for you to nod. You close your eyes. Bite on your lip. Wait for the contact—and when his palms softly connect, your brows knit together. Jungkook watches on, apprehensive. It almost looks like you're in pain, but as he begins to spread the paint over your breasts, they ease. "That okay?"

You nod. "It's okay."

When you open your eyes, you avoid looking towards the mirror. You look down, look away - and Jungkook notices. He nudges the side of your head with his own. Realigns it. Encourages. "Watch."

He speaks quietly, the dulcet tone of his purr just loud enough for you, but untraceable to anyone outside the room. He doesn't want Jimin to hear. Doesn't want Jimin to know.

It's not that he was lying when he said Jimin wouldn't care - he genuinely believes it'd be no issue, especially with context provided—it's just that he hasn't figured out how to explain it. The girl you shagged a few months ago? We're friends. Pretty good friends, actually. And I'm touching her boobs to help her get over a fear. Totally normal.

Jimin's fully aware of the friendship. Knows you've been in the apartment a handful of times. Jungkook never hides it from it; just tells him after the occasion. He doesn't mind.

In fact, Jimin quite likes your company whenever he bumps into you. Is quite glad you're not weird around him just because you've had sex. If anything, it gives him high hopes that maybe you'll be up for round two on the nights he can't find anyone else. To be honest, it'd make you the perfect candidate for a friends-with-benefits type situation with him. He hasn't had one of those in a while.

He doesn't share this thought process with Jungkook. Isn't sure how well received it would be. See, Jungkook's been incredibly vocal about how embarking on a friends-with-benefits situation is potentially the stupidest thing a person can do.

He'd lost his best friend—the girl he could have spent his life with—that way. Hasn't spoken to his favourite person in months because her new boyfriend doesn't like her hanging out with people she used to fuck. Makes sense. He can't argue against it.

He can think about it in the quiet hours of the early mornings, though, and weep a little out of frustration with how fucked up the best thing in life became.

There's a naive hope within him now that thinks he's fixing his previous wrongs with you. Doing things he's already done, without taking it too far, this time. A broken heart can't fall in love, after all. It's different.

Your eyes land on his; dark and frightfully deep. He's not sure what you're thinking. Tells himself it's better that way.

"My hands," he corrects. "Eyes on my hands, Byeol. Watch what I'm doing."

It takes you a moment to pull your eyes from his - and when you do, something about it feels catastrophic. Paint covers the skin of your chest; only a few small gaps of exposed skin are still on display. He squeezes. Moves his fingers. Doesn't specifically aim to cover those spots, but know it's the end goal.

There's a muffled moan hiding in your throat; revelations of a lost pleasure that you've refused to let yourself indulge in.

"Kook-" you begin, but he hushes you.

"Just feel it. Watch it."

And so you do. His chin rests on your shoulder, watching your body, keeping an eye on the way your heartbeat begins to calm, yet races all the same. The ink on his hand is hidden by the paint, his forearms just as much of a mess as your chest. You fight your instincts which tell you to close your eyes; to lean into his touch.

The moan that's made it home in your throat decides it's been trapped for too long. It tickles at your lips, vibrates into the room. You catch it with a gasp, and Jungkook can't help but let an airy smirk fall from his lips.

He never thought you were kidding about how much you liked it, but it's different seeing it in the flesh. There's an insolent nature to his teasing, and it makes you want to fucking whine.

"How does it feel, Byeol?"

Your eyes flick up to his, your lips resting ajar. The heaving of your chest is far easier to see when he stops massaging your chest. You smirk back at him. Roll your eyes.

"You don't wanna know," you tell him, because as much as he tried to make out that none of this would be sexual, your body doesn't agree.

And honestly, nor does his.

"No," he says, closing the minuscule gap he's been keeping between his crotch and your ass. The corners of his lips twitch upwards when you feel it—feel him—press against you. "I think I do wanna know."

His smirk is laced in sin, dark eyes hazy, as your chest begins to stutter all over again. You bring your hand to rest over one of his. Encourage his movements. Let your eyes close. Don't hide the moan that travels through you.

"I thought you said this wasn't gonna be sexual," you eventually say a little breathlessly. You encourage his movements still, just to let him know you're not entirely opposed to it.

"It's not," he purrs against your ear, and presses himself against you again, a little firmer this time. His breath is hot against your skin as you lean your head back, a laboured grunt stuck now in his throat. You can feel his heartbeat against your back.

You let your eyes rest on him in the reflection. Take a moment to read his face, and decide you've no idea what this man is thinking.

Truth be told, he's not really having any cognitive thoughts.

"You're hard," you tell him.

His eyes rest shut, a bashful smile on his giddy lips, neck turning ever so slightly to rest his forehead against your hair. And then he whispers, "Don't tell me you're not wet, Byeol."

"Mhhm," you moan with a little humour. "Dry as the Sahara, buddy."

"God, if my hands weren't covered in paint-"

"You'd what?" you interrupt with a sardonic smile. "This isn't sexual, remember?"

He scrunches his face up. Looks at you. Looks at your chest. Looks away from the mirror, and down to watch his movements. He alters his pace, playing with your tits just for the fun of it, seeing how he can toy with them. It might not be what usually gets him keen, but he can see why you attract boob guys; can also understand why your ex would keep coming back if he is a boob guy.

"You ever do this to yourself? Like, for fun?" He asks, ignoring your last question, seemingly hypnotised by the overspill between his fingers, and the way it jiggles for him.

"Like non-sexually?"

"Mhhm," he says as he repositions himself. Cups the undersides of your boobs. Lets his thumbs flick against your nipples. You moan in a way he hasn't heard before. Does it again. Same result.

"Fuck," you hiss. "Yeah, I do it - fuck, Kook - for fun. Not like this though. This is"—

"Just for getting you wet?"

Yes.

"I'm not wet."

"Such a liar, Byeol."

His fingers pinch, gently clasping at your nipples. Has you mewling. Has you amazed you haven't been letting anyone do this during sex. You've been making yourself suffer to solidify your heartbreak. Maybe if you'd have been fucking people how you like to be fucked, instead of using it as a tool of validation, you'd have found the whole thing a bit easier. Or perhaps not. Perhaps you'll never know.

"Are you trying to make me wet?" You challenge, eyes on him, watching the way he's watching himself.

He shakes his head. Nestles it against your hair. Likes the scent of your shampoo. Inhales a little deeper. Is breathless when he rasps, "Just helping out a friend. How your body reacts to me is its own problem."

You scoff. "My body's reaction has got nothing to do with you."

"No?" His grip tightens. You whine.

"Kook-" is all you can manage, chest heaving, heart in your throat. Your back is arching, pushing your chest further into his grasp.

He's about to mock you; about to tease you a little more. Make some dumb remark, you sure, something that will have you fighting back against him—but it's interrupted.

"Hey, Jungkook?" A voice shouts from the living room. "You in?"

The way Jungkook pulls away from you is so abrupt you almost lose balance. He pulls a shirt from his chair, chucks it in your direction without looking back and darts for the door at such speed, you wouldn't be surprised to see him in a comic book like one of his damn figurines.

He opens the door just a crack, keeping you hidden, ignoring the fact his door handle is now slathered in black paint - the corner of his pristine white wall, too.

"Hey," he squeaks as Jimin stops in his tracks. He'd just been about to reach for Jungkook's doorhandle to invite himself in, but the look on Jungkook's face tells him to stay away.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. "This isn't suspicious at all."

Behind Jungkook's head, Jimin can see his bed. It's made, not disturbed in the slightest, but the way Jungkook is guarding the room makes it incredibly clear he was up to no good. It's all very amusing. Just out of his eye line is your bra.

"Was just letting you know I'm off out," he smirks. "But I'll leave you to it. Don't think I'll be back till morning, so stay safe, young padawan."

"Right," Jungkook purses his lips, not wanting to give Jimin the satisfaction of confirming nor denying anything.

Jimin doesn't care to watch Jungkook squirm. Would rather let him get back to whoever it is with him in his room. The kid's been out of action for so long that he's frankly pleased to see him acting so shifty. He's never known anyone who needs to get laid as much as Jungkook does. Hopes this means he's finally over the last girl.

He turns on his heel, but calls back, "Don't forget to wrap it up! Can't be arsed with baby-proofing the apartment."

"Jesus Christ," Jungkook mutters as he closed his door. He rests his head on the frame for a moment, before turning his head to find you in a state of absolute horror.

"Kook!" You whisper, eyes wide, heart thumping into your chest. The shirt he'd thrown at you is still on the floor because it's a white shirt, and you weren't stupid enough to actually pick it up. You kick back across to his chair, hands covering your chest without touching them. You don't want to end up as messy as he is.

Jungkook strides across to you with a scrunched-up face and just moves your arms, laughing to himself slightly as he cups your breasts in his hands. He holds them firmly. Squeezes an apology. Admittedly, you do feel more protected like this.

"Shush, shush," he coos quietly, a stupid smile plastered all over his face. His hands are temperate, but they squeeze at you a little as his shoulders lift ever so slightly. "He's not out the door yet."

There's a pause as you both wait with bated breath. There's a faint click, which Jungkook knows is the front door going, so he nods. A second click follows.

"You're safe," he laughs, and you can't help but laugh, too. Your hands instinctively come up to cover your chest, but his hands are already there, so you drop them again. His forehead rests against yours. His frivolous energy is contagious, the pair of you breathlessly giggling at the weird fucking situation you're in. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you shake your head, keeping your forehead against his, almost brushing your nose with his. "Not your fault."

"Got a little carried away, though," he whispers, his smile fading as he harshly swallows back. "Should've tapped out. I should have said chess."

You shrug. Whisper, "Takes two to tango."

The moment lingers. Wraps you both up in a ribbon, and ties a bow where his hands meet your chest. Safe and secure. A memory to be tucked away under your list of bad decisions, but for the moment, you'll convince yourself it was a good idea. You're not thinking of Seokjin, at least, and that was the real goal.

"Let's finish this off," he says, nodding over to the canvas. "We need more paint, though. I'm pretty sure I've literally, like, moisturised it into your skin. I don't think that's a good thing."

"It's definitely not a good thing," you cringe, knowing that your pores must be screaming beneath the acrylic. You wait for his grip to leave your chest, but it doesn't. It's only when you raise a brow and shake your head at him that he realises.

"Oh, right, yeah, yeah."

It's a lot more clumsy this time round. Jungkook's second-guessing himself, almost as if he hasn't just spent God knows how long grappling with your tits. He laughs, and so do you, the pair of you finding every little thing hilarious. Perhaps it's nerves, or perhaps you're trying to play this off as something totally normal between friends, but either way, you think you're glad you're with him. Glad he took a chance on your birds.

"How do we even do this?" Jungkook hums in confusion when he holds up the canvas. He puts it in all kinds of positions, but can't seem to figure out the best course of action. You tilt your head and mull it over.

"Gimmie it," you say softly, holding your hands out to retrieve it from him. His palms have left prints on the edges, but it doesn't matter. Turning to the mirror, you can't help but smile at how much of a mess you are. Such a stupid idea, and yet it's worked perfectly. "Okay, stand behind me again - keep your boner away from me this time, though."

"My God, I don't even have one anymore," he whines, and it's true. It's just a semi.

"Sure," you tease, but begin to instruct him further. "Hold them, like, underneath. How you did earlier. Yeah, yeah, that's it," you nod.

His long fingers support the base of your breasts, his thumbs resting on the sides. Chin on the top of your head, it's a lot less intimate than it had been. This, you think, could be argued as non-sexual.

A momentary lapse in judgement is fine, and that's what you'll chalk earlier up to.

It's not like there are set rules to this whole arrangement. Mistakes will be made; bad decisions, too. What matters is that you don't make the same ones twice.

"Okay," you muse quietly, holding the canvas up to your chest, trying to line it up perfectly. "I'm gonna press down. Keep still."

Jungkook doesn't dare move. Too scared you'll notice his semi and tell him off for being a randy bastard. It's circumstantial. He's never spent so long holding a pair of tits. It's just... hormones. Maybe. He isn't really sure.

Pressing the canvas against your poised chest, you apply as much pressure as you can, trying to get the imprint. You're mumbling affirmations of a good job to yourself —"Okay, good. Just a little more. Little more pressure, c'mon."—before pulling it away.

It almost peels, the paint a little tacky, but sure enough, the imprint is there, and pretty damn perfect if you do say so yourself. A pleased, albeit a little surprised, laugh escapes your lips.

"Oh, that's fucking cool," Jungkook beams. "Looks like one of those inkblot tests."

He's not wrong. There are two well-defined black circles, the imprints differing ever so slightly, smudging outwards. To you, it's plainly obvious it's a pair of tits—but then again, they are your tits. It's a lived, breathed experience of yours. Anyone else looking might mistake them for something else.

"Mmm," you agree. "What do you see?"

You're holding it up in front of you, blocking the mirror from your view. Jungkook's head dips to your shoulder, where his pointy chin rests but you don't complain. One of his structured hands eases, slipping to a more natural grasp on your boob, while the other drops. It slinks around the front of your waist, his forearm keeping your back pressed against his chest.

"Big ol' pair of titties," he says in potentially the most childish voice he could have chosen. You pull away from his grasp and give him a look of disgust. "Sorry, I mean... not a pair of tits?"

"You're a fucking child, Jeon," you scold, to which he tells you that he's actually very mature and you're just being a boring old bint. Turning back around to study it a little more, you tilt your head. It's missing something. Jungkook's grasp on you had never fully eased, but both of his hands rest now at the dips of your waist. You pay it no mind. "I think we should add to it."

"Watcha thinking?"

"Not sure," you muse. "It is a little bit too obvious."

"So you're saying it does look like a big pair of"—

"Oh my God," you groan, walking away from him and to where the paint is sitting pretty. "Lie down."

"Sorry?"

"You heard me. Lie down."

You don't look at him as you say your commands, instead you spend your time picking between the paints. The silver is your favourite, but as much as he likes to wear it in the form of jewellery, you know that gold is his colour. It's the one that suits him best - or at least, suits who he is.

He's hesitant, but he does as you say. He lies on his back horizontally across the bed, like how the pair of you do when you look at the birds, one of his arms resting over his stomach. He looks up to them now, no smile on his lips, but an overwhelming sense of contentedness.

Before you, he used to look at the birds and feel guilt. Was harbouring feelings that he'd told everyone he had let go of. They're still there, but they're diluted. Too much of you filling the empty spaces for him to dwell on the birds made for her instead.

You come to perch next to him on the bed, sitting on your ankles as his gaze falls to yours with great curiosity.

"What are you doing, Byeol?"

With a smile, you say nothing - just uncap the paint lid, and turn it on its end over the top of his chest. He doesn't object. Just watches you quietly. Patiently. Hisses when the chill of the paint comes into contact with his skin, but lets you do as you please.

Capping it shut with a click, you reach over to put the paint on his bedside table. Still shirtless, Jungkook watches the way your tits move, and doesn't even try to hide it.

"Eyes up here," you say as you regain full posture, but he keeps his eyes on your tits.

"Can't. Hypnotised."

You're laughing as you roll your eyes. "Such a liar, Mr 'I'm an Ass Guy'."

He finally looks at you, almost in horror, thanks to the voice you just did impersonate him. "Is that how you think I sound?!"

"It is how you sound," you tell him, knowing that you should have deepened your voice. Instead, you'd deliberately raised it a few octaves. "I'm a voice actress in my spare time," you lie. "I've been told I have perfect pitch on many occasions. That was an exact replica of your voice."

It's said with such a straight face that it would be believable if it wasn't for the fact that Jungkook does have perfect pitch. His music teacher always tried to make him pursue a musical career, but he was fearful of failure. Didn't want to put himself out there just to get rejected.

"I can't believe I'm friends with you," he mutters as your finger begins to draw over his chest with the paint. "Most annoying girl I've ever met—shit"— He winces as you flick his nipple, his hand coming to rub at it almost immediately. "Byeol!"

"Hmm?" you smile. "Sorry were you saying something?"

He says nothing, just narrows his eyes at you as you get back to work, spreading the paint over his chest.

"We've already got an imprint of my tits," you muse, pressing the metallic gold into his muscles, quietly in awe over his physique. "And now I wanna get an imprint of your tits, too. Over the top of mine. I think it'll look cool."

"You mean my pecks?"

"Yeah, sure," you say. "Your tits."

"They're pecks!"

"Okay?"

"One of those birds better have 'fixing my attitude problem' on them," Jungkook huffs, but it's all in good humour. You tell him your attitude is golden—just like his tits are. "They're fucking pecks!"

Reaching over for the canvas, your golden palms are just clumsy as his had been, leaving little marks on the edge of the canvas. Laughter fills his room as you try and decide how to place it, with the pair of your twisting and turning the canvas to try and figure out your best bet. You don't want to obscure your tits entirely, but his chest is broad.

"Don't think you thought this through," Jungkook teases. "You just wanted an excuse to touch my chest."

You flick his nipple again.

"Jesus Christ! One more time and I'll"—

Oh, how you love a threat. Can't wait to see if it's a promise.

And so you flick the other.

"Right, that's it."

It'd be a lie if you said you knew exactly where he flung the canvas - you were too busy trying to avoid his grasp as he got to his feet - but there are only so many places you can run to in his room.

In fact, you only actually get about three steps away by the time his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into his grasp. The paint on his chest is slick against your back, but he doesn't really think about it as he turns you around, pressing you up against the window that doesn't have the curtain pulled shut.

His large hand clasps both of your wrists, holding them above your head just to keep them away from his damn nipples. The chase was minimal, the catch far too easy - and yet you're both breathless. Chests heaving. Your nipples are gilded in gold. He's far too fucking close.

"Kook"—

"What did I say about flicking my nipples?" He looks down at you, desperately trying not to smirk. The anger he's feigning is convincing, but even if he was furious, he's painted like a chryselephantine statue. In all fairness, he's got the body to match. A Greecian God if you ever did see one.

"Can't help it," you pout. "Your tits are just so perky."

He doesn't even insist on the fact they're pecks this time. Just lets his eyes drop to your tits, then back to your eyes. Repeats this four or five times. Shakes his head.

"If that's the metric we're going with, Byeol, then you're well overdue half a dozen nipple flicks."

"Nooo," you whine, squirming to get out of his grasp. He doesn't let you immediately, but ultimately decides it's for the best. Needs to calm himself down. Can't be having another repeat of the night before.

As soon as his grasp eases, you bolt away from him, and retrieve the canvas from the foot of his bed. He notices the gold on his window, and ignores it. Will deal with it later. It's an easy fix. A logical one.

For now, he's got a half-naked force of a woman in his room that he doesn't know how the fuck to deal with. No logic, no reason, no rhyme seems to help him figure you out.

"Please can we finish the canvas?" you say sweetly, as if you haven't been the one derailing things every single step of the way.

He says nothing. Spread his arms wide. Beckons you forward.

Pressing the canvas to his chest, you throw all of your deliberations out of the window. You don't really care for the outcome, now. Just know that the pair of you need to not be topless anymore.

It's platonic, yeah, but it is tempting.

The canvas peels much like it did when your impression was made, the paint tacky on his skin. The pair of you are dumbfounded as you take in the result for the first time.

It's fucking beautiful.

Metallic gold weaves around the black, overlaying ever so serenely, creating an abstract interaction between the shapes.

"What do you see now?" you ask softly, quietly proud of your creation together.

"I see a masterpiece," he grins, and that arm of his that likes hooking around your waist so much finds its favourite spot once more. His chin is on your head. "And you know what else?"

"What?"

"Look there"— he points to a small 'v' shape, just above the imprint of your chest that's free of gold. "Looks to me like a bird."

"Holy shit."

"A fear set free," he muses.

"Well done us," you beam, holding your hand up for him to high-five. He does so with ease, before reaching for the canvas and propping it up on his desk.

"C'mon," he grips onto your shoulders. Eases you forward and to his bedroom door. Reaching round to open it, he lets his hands fall to your waist, and then back up to cup your tits as you walk together. "Shower."

"Are you ever gonna let go of them now?" You laugh, finally pointing out just how bloody handsy he is.

"Don't think so."

"Brilliant."

He eventually does let them go as you're both washing your hands beneath the tap of his bathroom sink.

"Got a little paint in your hair," Jungkook says as you're drying your hands. He goes to twiddle at it in an attempt the break the dry paint down. It's not a lot, but it does mean you'll need to wash your hair to avoid the bleached strands from staining.

"Shit," you curse, knowing that Jungkook definitely won't have any silver shampoo, nor will he have anything more than a bog-standard conditioner.

"Hold on," he says, moving you to the side to rummage in the cupboard beneath the sink. There's a small clatter of bottles as he pulls a basket from the back of the shelf with a triumphant smile.

It's a grin that's quietly pleased, lips thin, pressed together, lip ring flipping in that way which always makes you smile. The basket itself is just as interesting as Jungkook's face—a myriad of coloured tubes, and lo-and-behold, the same brand of silver shampoo you use.

"Jimin had a phase," he explains. "Well, no actually, he's had a few - but this is from the coloured hair phase. You need the purple shit, right?"

You nod. "The purple shit."

"Take what you need," he says as he gets back to his full posture, leaving the room only to return a moment later with a bottle of conditioner in hand. You know the brand. It's pricey. You only buy it when it's on sale. You furrow your brows, and he just shrugs. "I keep my good towels out of the bathroom, Jimin keeps his good conditioner out of it instead."

It's funny, 'cause you do exactly the same. Danbi has been blessed with hair from the Gods, so never has to pay much attention to what she uses. A string of bad dye jobs and unhealthy heat habits have left you with a deep conditioning complex, and there's nothing worse than going for a shower and realising the conditioner you paid and an arm and a leg for is all gone.

Will this stop you from using Jimin's special conditioner? No, absolutely not. You care more about your hair than you do about his annoyance.

"How are we doing this?" You ask casually as Jungkook starts the shower up.

"Well," he contemplates far too hard for the sentence that follows. "I think we get in the shower, and then I think we... shower?"

"Right," you nod, as he grins, clearly pleased with himself. "Silly me. Of course it's that simple."

"Well it can be," he shrugs. "We both know we didn't really do the shower bird to completion, and aren't we saying 'fuck it', now? So why not?"

He's got a point. You feel far less on edge about the whole showering thing since the last time. It's like you've been working through it in stages, and it's helped.

"So..." you say quietly. "I don't know about you, Kook, but I normally shower naked."

He just shrugs. "Really, Byeol? Do you not think we've already crossed that boundary? I'm quite literally staring at your tits right now."

You look down to your exposed chest, and suppose he's right.

"Just... don't look, okay? You get in the shower first and like, face the wall or something."

As much as he thinks you're being ridiculous and that it really doesn't matter, he agrees. Your birds are, after all, all about you, and what you're comfortable with. Just because he is doesn't mean you will be.

He strips down, and discards his clothes into a pile. He'd be lying if he said he was entirely confident, but he definitely feels the pressure a lot less than you do.

"I'm in," he says encouraging you to follow suit.

Against your better judgement, you do.

You toss your trousers on top of his, panties too, and make your way into his shower. It's warm, just the right temperature, still set to Jimin's preference from earlier.

"Now was that so hard?" Jungkook asks, still facing the wall.

"No," you say airily. "I can see why you're an ass guy."

He turns his head, and sure enough, your eyes are on his ass. "Double standards."

"It's really good," you say, a little in shock at just how toned it is; how you'd kill for yours to be as peachy as his. "But you're right, you're right - I'm sorry."

"Can I at least turn around now?" He asks. "Seeing as you've already broken rule number one."

"What rule?!"

"Looking! You set the bloody rule!"

"Oh yeah," you grimace. Part of you considers turning around, but in all honesty, you don't want his ass-loving eyes to fall on yours and be disappointed. "Um, yeah. Sure. You can turn."

He's cupping his balls as he does so, hiding himself. It's sort of sweet in a way, and matches your own awkward stance.

"C'mon," he says, knocking his head back, encouraging you further into the stream of water. "Need to wash you off."

"You need to?"

"Well, yeah? Only fair. I'm the one who got you like that." He senses your hesitation, and offers you an out. "Or you can do it. I don't mind either way."

And for some reason, you don't actually seem to mind the suggestion. "Go for it."

He steps a little closer. "Say the word and I'll stop."

You reach for his hands. Lift them to your chest. "I don't think I'll say it."

He begins to massage at them, easing the paint off ever so gently, but it's stubborn. "Could do with some shower gel. Scent preference?"

"Hmm, strawberry?"

"Great choice."

You still find the fact he has more than one shower gel on the go hilarious, but you enjoy having a choice. It's one of the fantastic things about Jungkook; you're never backed into a corner. He'll always give you an option. A way out.

And yet as he gets reacquainted with your chest, you don't think you want one. The things that scared you before - forgetting Seokjin, losing his touch - seem like a world away. Yes, it's different with Jungkook, but it doesn't mean that it erases what you had with Seokjin. It also doesn't mean that you have to subject yourself to a life of boring sex just because you're harbouring guilt from a relationship breakdown that really wasn't your fault at all.

Seokjin had strayed, though. Made you feel like there was something wrong with you. Had you questioning the things you thought he'd loved about you - your tits included.

Seeing how Jungkook - a self-professed ass guy - reacts to them has been so validating. So needed. Will do you wonders in the future, you're sure.

It's as he's kneading at your tits that you notice he's becoming a little moany, too. A little unstrained. God, it's so satisfying.

He closes his eyes. Rests his forehead on yours. Squeezes around your tits as he swallows so harshly you think you can almost hear it. Nods, and then says, "Still an ass guy—but fucking hell, Byeol. You might convert me."

You laugh now, and Jungkook is obsessed with the way your boobs slide beneath his fingers, sopping wet and moving in time with your body. He still doesn't open his eyes.

"Fun aren't they?"

Again, he just nods. Doesn't wanna think about anything too hard.

If he does, he knows he'll have to deal with the fact his cock is now hard, too.

He thanks the high heavens that you just aren't mentioning it, because there's no way you haven't noticed.

It's not like he meant for it to happen. One moment he was trying to be respectful, and the next all he could think about it how soft and warm they are in his grasp. Was all beyond his control.

Thing is, Jungkook has no idea how hard it is for you to resist reaching down for it. It feels like second nature; like it's what you should do.

But it's a boundary that's still intact, and you'd like to keep as many of those as possible.

So would he - but he's fucking solid, throbbing, balls tight. Can't remember the last time he got like this. Sure he's been hard. Been horny. But this is on another level.

And so he just says fuck it.

Tells you so.

"Byeol if I don't cum in the next five minutes I think I'm gonna die."

His admission takes you by surprise. You want to laugh, but remain deadly serious as you say, "I think you'll be fine."

"No," he insists. "I will actually die."

"How?"

"Ruptured ballsack?" He grimaces. "I don't know, but I do know that my life is quite literally flashing before my eyes right now."

"Poor baby," you pout, and stroke at his hair just to wind him up a little bit more.

"Don't," he whines. "I'm one more sarcastic comment away from sucking your tits just to shut you up. You know how many pairs of tits I've sucked?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "None. Always thought it was weird. But now? I'm so horny I'm literally delirious. Willing to do anything."

Yeah right, you think.

"That's not very platonic of you," you state, using the exact tone of voice you know is winding him up.

"Byeol, I said one more."

"One more what?"

"God," he lets out a tortured sob. "It's like you want me to suck your tits."

"Me? Want that? Never."

"But it wasn't on the bird," he says, as if the birds really do dictate every single one of his actions. "Can't do it."

"In all fairness, Kook, nor was anything else that happened tonight. It was literally just the word 'tits'."

He tries to think straight, but he really can't. Doesn't know what's come over him. Maybe he's just tired. Maybe he just never knew how much he liked tits. Either way, he's absolutely done for.

He runs his thumbs over your nipples, and—fuck—the way you moan really does have him wanting to take them in his mouth. It's always been a no-go for him. Always thought the concept was a bit weird.

But it's all he can think about, now.

All he wants.

"Oh my god," he whines, again, obviously going through a little inner turmoil. His forehead drops to your shoulder. "Why do I want it? Why do I wanna suck your tits?"

"Mummy issues."

"Byeol! You're not helping."

"Just get yourself off," you laugh. "Once you get the orgasm out of you, you'll be able to think straight."

He nods. Knows you're right. "What about you? Do you need to?"

You've a much better grasp on your desperation than he does. You're a brat through and through, and find it hilarious that men seem to think they 'tame' you. In reality, you're the one who calls the shots. You're always in control. Just let them think they are.

With Jungkook, you've not needed to play up for him, so you don't realise how unaware he is of the fact your inner thighs are coated in your slickness.

"Can do," you shrug.

"That's not a yes."

You roll your eyes. "Look at me."

He does as he's told, and you decide very quickly that he would be so incredibly easy to turn into your bitch if you wanted him to be. It's cute. His lips are parted, brows pushed together, a crease forming above his nose. He really does look like he might die. Poor baby.

Dipping your hands to where your legs part, you run two fingers along your folds, and hold them up for Jungkook to see. You separate your fingers, the clear fluid suspended between the two of them. He whines again. Rests his head on your shoulder.

"The bird," he says. "The bird that we kinda did, but didn't do."

"What of it?" you toy, knowing exactly what he wants.

"Can we?" He rasps, unable to get his sentence out. One of his hands is on your chest, the other pressed flat to the tiles beside your head. His cock is desperate for contact. His hips are pulsing against nothing. If he doesn't grip onto it soon, he's gonna rut too far and end up touching you.

"You wanna get off together?"

He just nods. Mewls. "Please just give me the green light, Byeol. Please."

And as much as you want to keep fucking with him, it feels cruel now. His veins are engorged, flooded with blood, in desperate need of him to do something - anything - to have his heart beating normally again.

"Okay," you whisper. "Get yourself off."

He doesn't waste a second. Has his hand around his cock by the time you've finished the sentence. The change in his breathing is stark. There's a moan caught with every tug on his cock, his hand moving at a speed you didn't was humanely possible.

And it excites you.

Has you clasping the tit that he isn't currently holding onto for dear life, while your other hand sinks to your folds. You're soaked, clit throbbing, begging for even the faintest bit of attention. When Jungkook hears you moan too, he thinks he's done for. Holds his cock so tight he's scared he'll ruin his orgasm.

You know your body though. Know how to get yourself off within a minute when duty calls.

"Keep going," you tell him. "I can get close."

"That quickly?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"Women are magic," you say between pants, dipping your fingers into your entrance for a little bit of fiction to your g-spot, just enough to really get you there.

"Fucking magic," he husks, his body edging a little closer to yours. You don't mind. In fact, you think you'll prefer it, so you let go of your chest and encourage him to close the gap. Your hand is on his waist, pulling him closer. He looks up. Regrets it, 'cause he never needed to see you looking like this. Doesn't ever wanna fuckin' look away. "Sure?"

"Mhhm," you moan, unable to get a word out because of how close you are—and then you can feel the tip of his cock press against your stomach, just below your ribcage. His movements are frantic.

"I'm not gonna last."

"Then don't."

His forehead rests on yours, the pair of you breathing so heavily that you're basically surviving on one another. Inhale, exhale. You're one and the same.

"Oh, fuck," you mewl, so incredibly close. Your fingers massage at your pussy just how you like it; spank against your clit a little, tease it to the near point of no return. "Kook, I'm about to"—

"Me too," he chokes. "Where?"

"It's fine," you husk, knowing he's asking where to cum. "It's okay. I don't mind."

"Sure?"

"Just fucking cum, Kook. Cum on me."

"Shit."

The release is just as undignified as the build. The pair of you are messes, whining as you come undone together. The voltage runs from the tips of your toes to the tops of your fingers, so intense that they go fucking numb for a moment. You're overstimulated almost as soon as it hits, unable to do anything but pant against his shoulder.

The tip of Jungkook's cock is pressed against your skin, his release painting you in the most glorious sin. He cums, but it feels like it never stops. Every time you think it has, he whines again, wanks a little more, unloads another spurt onto your torso. It trails down your hip, to your thigh and then sinks to the shower floor; washed away like a bad decision never to be repeated.

Breathlessness overcomes the pair of you, remaining as you are for a few moments, until Jungkook finally breaks it.

"I swear I never usually cum that fast."

You just laugh. Pat his head. "Sure."

"Fuck off, I don't," he says, laughing now too. "Christ. What the fuck was that, Byeol?"

He lifts his posture from how it's rested against you, turning to press his shoulders to the tiles beside you. The shower is still running, so he reaches over to turn it off. Neither of you are fully clean yet, but you'll get back to it in a moment. No point in running his water bill up just because he can.

"Well," you exhale. "I think you just discovered boobs."

He laughs. Tilts his head back against the tiles. Bites his lips as he shakes his head. "To be fair, I think you might be right."

You laugh now too, and that's how the evening remains; full of laughter. Jokes about how platonic and totally friendly the entire exchange has been. There's no weirdness, but in all honesty, you never thought there would be.

Jungkook lends you a pair of sweats and one of his shirts after the shower, your hair air drying beautifully thanks to Jimins oh-so-expensive conditioner. You feel a little bad for using it now, but you made him cum once, so you think you're even.

"And when Jimin asks where it's come from?" You question as you watch from Jungkook's sofa while he hangs your artwork up on the wall. It's next to the television. Really fucking hard to miss. Will be the first thing he notices.

"I'll just say it's one of Tae's," Jungkook shrugs.

"And when Tae comes round?"

"I'll... think of another lie?"

"Sounds foolproof," you muse, sipping on your glass of water, thinking that he's possibly the biggest idiot you know.

"Either way, neither of them will know what it is, or who made it. It'll be a mystery. Wait, unless," he stops himself. Furrows his brows together. Tries to join dots in his head. Even uses his hands to help with the mental work. "Would Jimin be able to tell?"

Your lips purse up, forming a thin line between your cheeks. You shake your head.

"No?"

"No," you say. "He never... Well, I meant what I said about them. Keeping them off limits. Or at least, kept."

"Yeah," Jungkook nods, accepting your truth, but thinking of hypotheticals. "Did he not see them, like, at all?"

"Um," you say to buy time, questioning how much you should divulge. "You really wanna know?"

Jungkook shrugs. Nods his head again. Makes no difference to him.

You adjust in your seat, trying to think of how to phrase the events of your night with Jimin, and finally settle on, "Well, I was fully clothed"—

"What?"

—"And we did it from behind." You watch as Jungkook stays silent for a moment. He's doing that thinking face of his again. The hand is moving. Figuring things out. And then you realise what he's doing. "No! Gross! Don't imagine it!"

"I'm just trying to get a visual!" He protests with a small pout. "Just trying to understand how!"

"My god," you cringe, hiding your head in your hands. "Never should have done that bird with you."

Jungkook rolls his eyes as he comes to sit beside you, admiring his handiwork. He actually really likes the painting. Is glad you added him to it, too.

"Yes, you should have," he says. "You admitted it yourself, you kept your tits off-limits, but it's clearly a big part of sex for you, right?"

You nod, not looking at him, but up at the canvas. It really is pretty. "Right."

"If you could do all that with me, you can do it with anyone else. It'll make a huge difference to how satisfying you find casual sex, which is like, the whole goal, right?"

And again, you nod.

"Exactly," he beams. "Now, say 'thank you Jungkook'."

"I'm not saying thank you," you laugh. "You literally got cum on my feet. You should be thanking me."

"Oh my god," he groans. "I'm never showering with you again."

"It wasn't the shower that was the issue!"

The pair of you bicker a little more, until the reality of it being the early hours of the morning kicks in. You're both yawning, hardly able to keep your eyes open. He offers up his bed, but you'd feel guilty taking it two nights in a row, so call for a taxi instead.

You're still in his clothes, but you'll just return them the inevitable next time.

He tells you to let him know when you get home safe, and you do, only for him to reply a few minutes later with a message that makes you consider blocking him.

Jungkook: Still an ass guy, btw.

minors dni | wattpad | series masterlist |

92 notes · View notes

the-delta-quadrant · 10 months

Text

something that repeats itself over and over and over is that exclusionists don't understand the difference between one person and themselves, or one person and the entire community. they live for projection and generalisation. they live for an oversimplified mess.

we're seeing it now with mspec lesbians and lesbian men. someone states they're lesbian and attracted to men or speaks out in support of those who are and someone will immediately jump in and say "so you think that all lesbians are attracted to men?" as if someone stating their personal experience somehow makes it a universal truth, as if lesbians are a monolithic group.

the same thing happens when a trans man says he identifies as lesbian. someone will immediately jump in and say "oh, so you think me being a trans man attracted to women means i'm lesbian?" as if someone's personal experience is a universal truth, as if trans men are a monolith.

but this isn't new at all. REGs have always been awful at nuance. so much so that it often feels deliberate, to be honest. like a deliberate attempt to derail the conversation from the actual thing that's talked about, making it about a strawman that doesn't exist.

it happened with non-binary lesbians. "so all lesbians have to be attracted to non-binary people?" "so me being attracted to women as a non-binary person means i have to be lesbian?"

it happened with non-bi mspec people. "so because i'm attracted to people regardless of gender i can't call myself bi?" "so you think bi is exclusionary?"

it happened with aces not being comfortable being called bisexual, pansexual etc. "so you're reducing MY bisexuality to only sex?"

it happened with aces and aros labelling multiple orientations. "so you think everyone has to separate their sexual attraction from their romantic attraction?"

it happened with non-binary people. "so you think because i'm gnc i can't be a man/woman?"

and it probably happened with other identities before my time.

and for a group who loves to shout "non-binary isn't a single third gender", that loves to shout about how non-binary is not a monolith, they sure love treating basically every identity as one.

it's always the same. their response to other communities emerging and thriving is always that we're trying to take everything over with our ideas, that we want everyone to be like us, that we're somehow the ones that don't understand nuance. they think by stating our experiences we're trying to force our experiences into other people, despite us not randomly calling trans men lesbians without their consent, despite us not caring that people call all of their attractions collectively "pansexual", despite us not caring if people experience sexual and romantic people as one, despite us not forcing every trixic to be lesbian, despite us not caring that someone chooses the label bi over other mspec labels.

they also love to bring up real issues in this, trying to compare other people existing to real bigots, like people saying that asexuals not wanting to be called bisexual means that asexuals are just evil bimisics who oversexualise and fetishise bi people. and that's what makes it so much more believable to the people who aren't familiar with either side, because of course they agree that fetishising bi people is bad. they just don't realise that that's not what we're doing.

what we care about is inclusion. to not be erased. to not be demonised. to be respected. acknowledged. accepted. we want diversity, which includes people like and unlike us. but they think our existence is imposing something onto them. and this is honestly why i feel like there's no point in trying to convince REGs who are committed to their bullshit otherwise. it's no use. they'll just claim i'm trying to speak a universal truth by speaking my personal experience. they'll just keep using prescriptivist ideas and restrictive definitions of labels rather than treating identities like identities. they'll just go against everything that is queerness.

119 notes · View notes

onlyseokmins · 1 year

Text

A/N: don't even ask me where this came from I was doing dishes and had a THOT when I should be doing other things 😔 anyways tw: for degradation and slapping mostly just in case. 🤷🏻‍♀️ I might elaborate on this in an actual fic so getting this out of my system and archiving for later maybe 😉

Coworker Jeonghan who keeps sending not so subtle glances over at you during a company outing. Your secretary and best friend catches his action and snorts, shaking her head. Meanwhile, the giggling interns and newer employees you oversee all stare at you starstruck, their respectable senior, for also catching the attention of such a handsome man.

"How do you know him?" they flock to you and ask, although they're genuinely curious. "Do you know him or is he your secret admirer?"

"Not so secret now."

You glare at Mina. "We used to date in high school and well into college until he decided to take an offer overseas."

"So you're a couple?"

"We were. Obviously we broke up when LDR inevitably failed."

The promising new hire you've been keeping an eye on sighs wistfully. "Old flames never die, do they?"

"We're just coworkers. Acquaintances even. We both agreed to split on amicable terms."

"You're so cool," they gush enthusiastically, "not to have feelings anymore and be so professional."

"As expected of our leader!"

"The ultimate role model in the office!"

You can't help but thrive off of their praise, clinking your glass of water to their alcoholic ones. You smile brightly with your best work attitude, ignoring the dark look Jeonghan is sending your way.

It doesn't matter because you know he'll meet you in the hotel after at precisely 10 'o clock. He's never late and hates to wait.

That's why you're ready by 9:55, sharp. Blouse unbuttoned and skirt riding past your ass, presenting yourself prettily on the bed. Dripping pussy soaking your tiny lace thong faces the door, the first thing Jeonghan sees when he barges through.

He sighs harshly through his nose, though grunts in approval at seeing you just how he likes. The first thing on the docket once you're within reach is to deliver a harsh slap across your ass. The sting makes you moan yet you're already seeing stars when he tears away the scrap of fabric barely concealing your puffy clit. Again.

"Sucking up all that praise from your juniors. What was it? Being calm and collected? Cool-headed? About me?" He scoffs. "A shame I'm the only one who knows the truth."

"I just bought that pair," you complain and try to conceal your smile when he slaps you again.

"Then don't act up," Jeonghan mutters. He frowns, knowing how much you're actually enjoying this and grips the back of your neck, urging you to rise up on your knees. Back flush against his chest, he whispers in your ear. "And tell me the truth."

"I'm a slut. I love being degraded."

"That's right," he drops you forward again, fingers brushing against your bare cunt. "And whose slut are you?"

"Yours."

"And who do you like being degraded by?"

"You!"

He smirks at your elated gasp, the pretty way your arch your back as when he eases a finger inside your warm pussy.

"And who jumped on me the minute my feet touched down on our home turf? Begged me to come apply to their company so I could fuck them like I never left inside their office? Every. Fucking. Lunch break."

He punctuates those last four winders by stuffing you full of his fingers, pausing so you'll answer him. Pussy already clenching at the memories of bouncing on his dick in your leather office chair during a conference call.

Poor Mina.

"Me!"

"That's right. Desperate whore. No one can satisfy this pathetic pussy better than I can, huh?"

"You're right," you sob out in ecstacy when he begins to slide his fingers back and forth only to leave your hole altogether.

Jeonghan moves from the side of the bed to the other and sits down, loosening his tie. He waits for you to crawl over like you know how to, despite your trembling limbs. Shaking hands already reaching for the zipper on his dress pants but he swats them away.

"Then prove I'm right. How much you want me always," he hisses and presses your mouth against the bulge of his dick hidden in his pants. "Take it out with your mouth, slut. If you're desperate enough, you'll be able to, won't you?"

You're already getting to work, eyes shining and focused on the prize. He sighs in relief when your lips wrap around him, running a hand through his blonde bangs.

"That's my pretty slut."

#Damn back to finals and wonu thriller <3 #ez.thots #hannie.thots #yoon jeonghan smut #jeonghan smut #seventeen smut #kpop smut #Brain go brrrrrrrrrrr #I didn't think much w/ this so #Bye!#svt.thots

262 notes · View notes

1800titz · 11 months

Text

Okay, author's note time, and this one has warnings, so please do read. I had to keep it (somewhat) short and sweet with this one, because the ideas didn't stop flowing and I was worried I'd go overboard in length. This once isn't quite as long as the last one, but it's still a solid 14.8K, so I hope it doesn't disappoint(✿◠‿◠) As I mentioned, this fic is pretty heavily centered on smut, but worry not readers — plot will be there (eventually lol)! Maybe a little blip of a star in a sky of smut, but it'll be there! WARNINGS — this one gets REALLY BDSM-y. Like, honestly, more than the last one, and we're just gonna keep turning up the heat so — be warned. This chapter features fear play and I really, really have to emphasize that although MC has a *dubious* reaction, everything that happens between the characters was previously discussed in depth. If any confusion arises refer back to chap 2 during the negotiation (where they agree to all of this stuff!). I think you'll also be able to gauge that H is pretty thorough about communication. ｡^‿^｡ Okay, warnings done. I hope you enjoy, and if you do, as always, I thrive off of feedback

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE

Sure enough, Isla lets Eros smack her around the following Friday evening. Also, the Friday after that.

And the one after that one, too.

It becomes a routine for the two of them — she'll show up at her usual time, a little after his own arrival, and he'll reserve the room. The fourth time, Eros books the room in advance, so by the time Isla turns up, a staff member is letting her know within only a handful of steps into the lounge that her room is ready. And the funny thing is, despite the circumstance of Eros arriving to the club before her, Isla always finds herself in the room of the night first, kneeling patiently in waiting for his ceremonial, climactic arrival. He doesn't keep her waiting long. And when he does show, the pair shed their work weeks, the pressures and burdens of the outside world, their clothes.

Well.

Isla discards her own. Sometimes, with his helping hand, if she asks very nicely. The dominant, though, always meticulously stays dressed, clad with his signature mask and his trademark, pleather gloves, (pleather, she'd learned, not authentic leather, when the topic had come up during a touchy, soft session of aftercare), always along with his commonplace, tailored slacks, a dress shirt, lavish shoes. He'll unease the first few buttons of the shirt, where glimpses of inky beaks catch her eye and leave her wondering what other illustrations lay beneath, etched into his skin. But that's as far as he ever goes to disrobe. He does cruel, vicious, filthy things to her, tearing her apart by the seams, and after, he sews her aplomb back together with gentle touches and soft coos. She looks forward to those ravenous Friday nights with her mysterious Eros.

Tonight is still Thursday night. Unfortunately.

Unfortunately, unfortunately, unfortunately.

It's Thursday night and unfortunately, the self-check out lane is incredibly stalled. The droll sounds of scanners beeping and Katy Perry's TGIF leaking softly from the overhead speakers infiltrate Isla's ears as she zones out. It's like an unpleasant, forced reverie. Under the bright, fluorescent lighting, she can see that the man ahead of her in line showcases a plumber's crack that peeks from skinny jeans that hang a smidge too low. So the young woman looks about, everywhere but ahead. He's wearing a belt, too, is the thing. Grocery stores are truly human zoos.

She's still in work wear — a pencil skirt, heels, and she holds her basket close as she bites into her cheek and waits. A slow step forward.

"That's a lot of cherries."

Isla turns. The man behind her is tall, attractive. She blinks. If his sculpted features, lightly moussed, coiled hair, and striking gaze hadn't already bewitched her into a wordless stare, the way he plucks and eats grapes, straight off the vine, straight from the bag, in the self checkout lane like an absolute maniac, would.

She casts her gaze to her basket. There's a variety of items on her buy-list, like a lone jar of salsa and ...some unsightly, extra absorbent tampons — anyways, why is this stranger ogling the contents of her basket? There are, in fact, three plastic carts of cherries, stacked, which take up the majority of the space.

She clears her throat, "Yeah there was, a, uh. Discount."

"Was there?"

She's still staring obnoxiously, and the man seems to catch on. He swallows the grape his strawberry mouth had closed around, lips curling softly as he expends a vague explanation, "I missed my lunch."

She purses her lips slightly, head tipping forwards in an understanding nod, and attempts to ease her way into politely disengaging back into that aimless stare ahead. She can't do it. She just can't force herself to manually avoid scrutinizing Baldo's crack in the impending foreground. Anyways, the intrusive stranger is certainly easier on the eyes.

"That's a — uh. A lot of grapes," Isla tells him after a beat.

"Is it, really? D'you think?" The attractive stranger moves the back in his obnoxiously large palm as if weighing it contemplatively, "I'd say, 32 ounces, maybe. Well."

The corners of her mouth buckle as he shoots it a sheepish glance and his pillowy mouth quirks in an obvious attempt to bridle a grin, "Less. Now."

The laugh that Isla releases is genuine.

"Probably, like, 31," the man nods and exhales, a laugh catching in the back of his throat at the look she gives him.

"I didn't—" her incredulous laughter bubbles as she pivots to face ahead, "I didn't see anything."

"Yes, well, perhaps you didn't, and I appreciate that, but that lady over there is giving me a horrible look for actively shoplifting grapes," The curly-haired brunette jests, and Isla clamps her mouth together to stifle her amusement.

"Honestly, shoplifting them with your stomach is the best thing you could have done, here."

"You don't reckon she'll ask for them back?"

Isla bites into her cheek, hard, to stop herself from expelling spit all over Baldo ahead in the midst of a wrested raspberry. The stranger laughs softly, and behind her, she hears him say, "No, honestly, I should probably stop eating these things. I think they do charge by weight."

"I think they might, yeah."

"Well, I've saved myself a few good cents."

"And — and," Isla motions with the hand that isn't clasped over the handle of her basket, "Satiated your hunger. Two birds with one stone, honestly."

The man hums in agreement. She hears plastic crinkle as, she assumes, he closes the bag. A comfortable silence falls over them, then. Another slow step forward.

"I'm sorry, I have to ask," she pivots back, a crease working between her brows, "You are just ...oddly familiar. And I can't place it, and if I don't, it's going to bug me for the rest of the night."

The good-looking stranger blinks, then his expression morphs into one of deliberation. His cushiony mouth purses, and he tells her, "Well, I don't do this," he lifts the bag of partly-shoplifted grapes, "often."

He breaks into soft laughter and Isla's face twists.

"If that helps narrow anything down."

"It's just," the young woman motions with her hand jerkily, her tone carrying notes of determination, "Your face. I know your face. I've seen it somewhere."

His features melt into something soft, something telltale, like he knows exactly what she means just off of the vagueness of her reasoning, and the corners of his mouth curl slowly as he supplies, "Probably on a bench."

"Yes!" Isla snaps, tone wildly expressive and pleased to scratch the itch, "A bench! With your face. For..."

"Selling houses," the stranger supplies, once again, helpfully. Another step forward.

"Selling houses! Yes. That's it. I pass a bench with your face on it, like, every morning, on the way to work," Isla waves with her arm, "I see your face all the time," she clears her throat, her voice dying off. The young woman takes a deep breath, then and tells him, with genuine gratitude interlacing the syllables, "Thank you. That was literally going to bug me all night long."

There's mirth weaved in the alluring man's cast, and a haughty tinge, if she's not mistaken, "My pleasure." Before she's taken it upon herself to turn back around, satisfied by simply unearthing the answer, he tells her, "I'm obligated to ask, actually, do you happen to be on the market?"

Isla blinks.

"To buy or sell a house?"

Another step. Baldo moves into the self check-out region from the line, a single cantaloupe wedged between his side and his arm, a pack of triple A batteries in the opposite hand.

"It's," the basket shifts in her grasp, "Actually, it's really funny you ask, because I am looking to buy a house."

"Really?" Isla watches the grin that paints its way over the stranger's mouth — there's hints of mischief, "Hoo-hoo, sorry, I love doing this — let me just give you my business card."

So she waits, basket in hand, as he reaches into his pocket and unearths one of those dainty little business card-holders professional-business-people have. He cradles the bag of grapes with his arm as he uses his opposite hand to retract a sleek little card, and he hands it off to her proudly.

Harry Styles, it reads. There's some contact information, a phone number, an email, a company name, and a rather dashing picture of him, as well.

"Thank you," she tells him, pupils bouncing from the card to his face.

"My pleasure — I think, that check-out's open, now, actually," he prompts, glancing over Isla's shoulder, and she twists.

"Oh! Yes, yeah."

"And I won't be eating any more of these, so y'don't have to babysit me, anymore," he jokes, gesturing with the bag of grapes.

"Yes — Yeah, no — yeah. Okay. Thank you. Yes, I will definitely look into — this," Isla motions with the business card, slipping into an awkward sort of back-walk towards the check out, "Harry Styles."

Dimples create little divots in his cheeks as Harry grins, "Yes, please do..."

"Isla Cleery," the young woman supplies, caught between stalling the rest of the lane with conversation and paying for her ridiculous supply of discounted cherries.

"Isla Cleery," Harry parrots, a rasp to his pleasant cadence. He clears his throat, stuck in the front of the line with his lone bag of dwindled grapes, "Give me a call."

"Let's talk," Eros says, and Isla lets herself be wrangled into his lap.

He didn't even have to waste his breath trying to convince Isla to nurse the beverage he always brought her in their sessions of aftercare — she'd downed half of the little cup in nearly one thirsty swallow. Now, she sits over his thighs, legs curled around him, and his gaze is ironically gentle through the slit in his mask, as it always is post whatever heinous things he does to her on Friday nights.

"What did we like," he tucks a stray bundle of hair behind her ear before Isla tucks her chin over his shoulder, "What didn't we like?"

"We liked ...the vibrator," she starts off easy, the clarity of her words somewhat muffled with the limited ability to move her jaw in the position. She doesn't really care to move, though.

Ever.

She will stay hooked onto him forever, like a little koala, Isla decides.

"Mm. Right, that one seems to be a fan favorite," even with his face out of view, she can make out traces of a smile in the statement.

"Yes," Isla agrees. The trusty vibrator, always a safe bet. Always pleasing. She ponders for a moment, which, honestly, is a little difficult to do given the mushy condition of her brain. The dependability of processing thoughts by the end of a Friday night, for her, always tiptoes into shoddy territory.

"We liked the — when you did the, the thing. With the — your hand, on my neck. The position."

Her explanation is ripply and vague, but it makes enough sense to Eros apparently, because he hums in acknowledgement. She means, of course, the slick little shift they did in the midst of doggy, as he'd grappled her up from the sheets by her arms from the back, until he'd only leaned over her slightly and her back pressed flush to the front of his dress shirt. He'd hammered into her from behind, (she's unsure how he'd managed given the limited range of motion), but whenever he'd slipped his gloved palm to hug over her pulse, cumber over her airway as he'd murmured filth against the shell of her ear, that was something magnificent.

"Did we?" his murmur carries notes of similarity, voice soft and teasing against her ear, and grazes of warm breath send chills running up her arms.

"Mhm."

"What else?" he prods gently.

"We liked ...the tape?" she says slowly, after a moment of reflective pause. He'd utilized bondage tape to restrain her tonight, rounding it over her skin in a handful of orbits rather than opting for their usual route of braided ropes or leather cuffs. It was new and exciting. But with Eros, new and exciting seemed to be a common theme.

"Did we like it, or did we like it?" the male pauses, questioning the questioning of her tone.

Anyways, this is all getting very confusing, Isla decides. She needs to lay under a blanket, get pet like a kitten, and think about nothing.

"Liked it. Loved it. It was good," she promises, voice soft and somewhat moony.

"Didn't get too bunched up?" she feels his hand skim down her side, "You wriggled a lot, tonight."

She answers, after a moment of exhaustive contemplation, "It did ...but I liked it. You're very safe with everything, I wasn't worried about, like, losing circulation, or anything."

The man squeezes the same side his palm had previously caressed over as an emphasis that her answer has pleased him, and Isla doesn't even have the energy in her to jolt at the tickle-inciting motion.

She does tense a bit, and Harry smirks into the yonder knowingly.

"Didn't like waiting to cum," she tells him after a moment, sounding sleepy, but he's well aware that she more than enjoyed the tear away from the precipice each and every time.

He pets her back in response as his mouth quirks, "Mm, why am I not surprised? We are quite impatient."

"Impatient is hardly the word I would use. Sane, maybe," Isla puts on a facade of griping, "You edged me four times,"

"And next time," he squeezes at a love handle sweetly, "I'll make you cum four times." The young woman barely has time to recover from the shudder that slinks down the knobs of her spine and the warmth that coils in her tummy at the ...promise? warning? (four??), before Eros inquires, "What about the strap, how did we feel about that?"

The strap. A window to tease and feign woe to cull more cuddles.

"Ooh — we did not like that," Isla answers decisively, squirming as the pad of his finger traces along her hip, just about around where the skin is heated and flushed. She's well aware, however, that the man is well aware there isn't all that much truth to her statement.

And tinges of this suspicion mingle in his voice as he tells her, a sadistic sort of smile dancing over his lips, "No? Not even a little bit?"

"Well," Harry feels Peitho jerk with laughter, amusement tugging at his own mouth as she admits, "Maybe a little."

They melt into soft laughter, then, with Harry's touch gentle on her skin in contrast and Peitho practically purring over him like a little cat. It's a nice sort of middle ground — personal in the sense of hormone floods and all sorts of happy chemicals that would bring two partners in kink together, but impersonal enough to where there are no breaches of any sort of intimate, privy boundaries of the real world. There's fictitious strings attached, fictitious based on anonymity, and they slow-dance along them like funambulists over tightrope.

"I want to make a contract," Peitho's confession, not the least bit small or vulnerable in its tone, nearly sends Harry flying hundreds of feet off the cord in pleased surprise.

"A contract?" he says after a second, " A just you and me sort of contract?"

"Well," Of course, Peitho wastes no opportunity in giving him good-natured lip, and the window seems to give her some life, "Like a — you, Herc, Cybele, and Faunus type of contract," Harry's sigh is exaggerated, "you can alternate rocking my shit — Oh! We can throw Felix in there too while we're at it. He doesn't say much, but you'd think someone who worked at a fetish club was into fetish, do you think he prefers to dom or sub—"

She squeaks when his fingers dig into sore flesh, a disparity from his priorly soft fondles, and Harry imagines her brows pinching indignantly behind the lace when she pulls back and chastises, whining, "Hey! T-L-C. I am a broken damsel in distress, who, may I remind you, you broke."

"Broken," he scoffs, and instead opts to pinch at her bum and send her jolting forward against him with a helpless gasp, "I think you're far from broken. Didn't fuck you proper enough? What happened to my sweet, quiet girl? Hm?"

Eros just had ...this thing to him. This thing that no other dominant she'd played with had. It was a particular characteristic, an air. It was the way he talked, the way he held her. The way he made her feel unique, like the only. His only.

My girl.

What happened to my sweet, quiet girl? Hm?

She loved when he talked like that — like he was talking down to her, condescension wrapped over the syllables like honey-coated barbed wire. He'd reassure her, promising through touches and words that she was all of the opposites and none of the mean words he'd call her in scenes, and in the same breath, he'd say things that made her feel useless and small in the best way. It made her feel like he had all of the control and all of the answers, and honestly, when she was all melty and mushy post a session, even when she had it in her to be joke-y, all she wanted to do was get cradled and talked down to like a she knew nothing and he knew everything.

"Your touch is truly rejuvenating," Isla tells him simply, feigning deadpan, but the corners of her mouth cave up when he pokes her side.

"Why in the world, darling, would I want a contract with such an incorrigible brat?" he pretends to ponder, but there's teasing to his cadence.

"You like me incorrigible, Sir," her following statement encourages Harry's eyebrows to raise, and she seems to sense the statement would cull a similar reaction, because she heads into it giggling, "So you can keep trying to break me."

The way he contemplates aloud, "Trying?" his tongue sticking to the inside of his cheek, jade eyes narrowed, has her laughter increasing in decibel. After a moment, he smooths his hand down her back, pinky lips curling in soft pleasure.

"I'll draw one out. We'll talk about it next Friday. Unless," Harry rounds his gaze on her, "you've got plans to alternate someone else rocking your shit, of course. Wouldn't want to impose."

Peitho winces, putting up an obvious act of deliberation over her schedule, and his gaze hardens when she jokes, wincing, "Ooh — you might be right, I'll have to check that."

Another pinch incites a squeak and she appeases, quickly, "I'll make room for your appointment."

She makes room. She makes room for him, and he takes up the entirety of Friday night, every Friday night.

"Commandments?" Isla's eyebrows raise.

They're back in the therapist office-esque negotiation room for (ding! ding! ding!) a negotiation. Which is funny, all things considered. They seem to do plenty of negotiating, both in play, with Isla making attempts to top from the bottom (to which, of course, the man never falls victim to), and afterwards when Eros interrogates her with a plethora of questions. But a big, fancy contract (evidently) requires a big, fancy room to sit in and discuss. They would be discussing first, not fucking, Eros had told her (Which Isla had followed up with, "But we already do so much discussing." She'd gotten pinched on the waist for that and was easily enough persuaded, just to stop the Torture by Tickling, which was not a particular fetish she had). So — fancy room, fancy chairs, it is.

God. She loves these chairs. Isla tucks her legs up and sits in the cushion all curled up because she can. She's sure Eros is far past judging.

He is. He was never judging, but.

"Issue?" the dominant returns, sounding vaguely unimpressed.

"No. No issue, just," Isla nods down at the print, "commandments."

"Mm. Learn them, live them, love them," the male returns, the whites of his teeth highlighted by the jet of the latex.

It's a simple list. There are only six; and they're entirely reasonable. In fact, they seem to be sculpted with the entire purpose being to appease her role and her best interests in play.

1. The submissive will endeavor to keep an open mind.

2. The submissive will abide by all rules and requests.

3. The submissive is acting with free will.

4. The submissive will accept discipline.

5. The submissive will communicate honestly, clearly, and respectfully with the dominant, even if this means they do not agree with a rule or request, are unable to abide by rules or perform requests, or otherwise worry about disappointing the dominant.

6. The submissive will utilize a safe word when necessary.

7. The submissive will use preferred honorifics in the presence of the dominant.

"Very fancy of you, Mr. Eros."

His gaze flashes up to her, and, with his tone showing inklings of mirth, he corrects her, "Sir."

"Oh, come on, I said Mister — that's so respectful. Added touch of formality, just for you," Isla pokes at him verbally, and she watches the feigned exasperation leak into his features, even with the majority hidden behind latex.

"Sir."

His voice is considerably harder on the second correction, and she sticks the end of the pen past her lips and shifts, her knees folded and feet planted against the cushion of the armchair, "O-kay, Mr. Eros."

"Number seven," his gloved digits drum over the arm of the chair, "Read number seven for me, aloud."

Isla's mouth purses and her pupils flit. She clears her throat, and ceremoniously reads off, tone ceremoniously exaggerated, "Number Seven; The submissive will use preferred honorifics in the presence of the dominant," the young woman casts her gaze up to him as she addresses, "I got that part."

Eros blinks at her.

"But — look, the thing is, you didn't emphasize whose preferred honorifics, right?" the cheeky loophole has the corners of his mouth jolting, "And maybe Mr. Eros is my preferred honorific in your presence. Fine print is a tricky thing," She tuts, waving her pen at him.

"The wellbeing of your arse is a tricky thing," Eros clears his throat, sitting up a bit, and Isla backtracks, nervous laughter suffusing her cadence.

"Hey, well — no, I think it's pretty simple to keep the wellbeing in the condition of well," the young woman tacks on, "and unbruised."

"You'd think so," the male ruminates aloud, amusement coating his voice, "But you just don't ever seem to learn. And you need reminders, over, and over, and over."

His grin is easygoing enough, but there's a wolfish quality to it, a lewd one, one that's off-color when he tells her, after she offers no response, "S'alright, sweetheart. We're not all quick learners. M'happy to oblige in reminding you," the man adds, pointedly, "Over, and over, and over."

Isla swallows, shifting in the seat. It's quite a comfortable armchair, in all honesty, but the combination of his words and the look he gives her leaves her lungs with difficulty expanding given that her legs are tucked up and she's all sort of smushed. Screw him and his stupid sexiness.

He cocks his head, tone still good-natured despite its implication, "You know I will."

"Yes. We are aware," Isla drums the pen over her mouth, then, once she's cast her gaze up at him and caught the expectant look he gives her, she gives in and tacks on, "Sir."

He sits back then, seemingly pleased, yummy arms draped over the back of the chair in a way that has her yearning to cut the middleman of conversation in lieu of getting bent at a ninety-degree angle over the back of her own and getting railed into next week to do it all over again. It's heinous, honestly, that he does these things to her. Just from ogling him, too. She wants to scrub her brain with a loofah to tame the untimely impurity of her thoughts.

Focus.

Her focus is interrupted by the dominant speaking, "I wanted to add some things on, clear some things up. How d'you feel about facials?"

Dear, Holy, Mother of Christ.

"Facials?" her toes curl and uncurl in her shoes.

"Facials — cum on your face," he tilts his head and jabs lightheartedly, "I'd hope you're not new to the concept."

"Yes," she clears her throat, unperturbed by his sarcastic dig, "Please."

"Lovely."

"I will return your question with a follow up," Isla shifts, intrigued by the topic, "Creampies?"

Eros purses his mouth, like he's pondering on the topic of creampies, and Isla can only blink blankly, somewhat stupefied, when he answers, with a rasp to his tantalizing voice, "Depends on the flavor, I guess. But generally, too sweet."

Once his joke clicks, like a plug stuffing into a slot, she kicks out with her foot in an impressive show of grace, "Come on, I answer," she glances to the paperwork, "'clearly and respectfully,' why don't you do the same, you—"

Upon witnessing the subtle warning dancing in his rises, Isla tucks her foot back against her, and the look he gives her seems to morph with each word, "You — you — very nice, Mr. Eros — Sir."

The great thing about Indulge, amongst a series of great things regarding Indulge, was that all members were subjected to varying series of STD testing throughout their memberships. It made the club exclusive, in a sense, but it was also safe in that it discouraged the club from becoming a petri dish stuffed full of chains and gags and HIV. Which was great. It was great for Indulge. Very safe sex of Indulge.

And It is a valid question. He hadn't listed it as a limit, initially, and hadn't brought it up during the first negotiation simply because it hadn't come up — the young woman hadn't expressed interest, and he hadn't felt the need to convey a limit that was unlikely to come up, until it came up.

So, it comes up. And Harry expresses.

"S'a limit. It's too ...personal," the man tells her.

Which, that's totally fair, Isla thinks. Coming in someone — that's, perhaps, as personal as it gets. Her limits involved kissing on the mouth, which, arguably, was a much more impersonal option than coming in someone. She nods in uninhibited understanding. His thighs are splayed, and Isla imagines herself between them, his cum painted over her face. A little droplet smudging over the hem of the lace—

Fuck. Focus. She steers her sight onto the contract in hopes of staving off the hyperfixation. Eventually, a crease works in between her brows.

"There's no dates here," Isla points out, blinking up at him, "For date effective and date of termination."

"Reading truly is a wonderful skill to possess," the man responds after a moment, good-natured in his sarcastic jab, "I'm glad we know how to do that."

Upon her tight smile and, Harry imagines, the bitterly narrowed gaze behind the lace, his bark of laughter catches in the back of his throat. It escapes him as a cut-off sound before he clears his throat and tells her, with a soft note to his statement, "That's a two-to-tango decision, pet."

They all are, really, but a time frame — that's something he can't just guesstimate, fathom, and print up. Harry can do loads of things. He can juggle, he can stay quite well in the lines when he paints his nails, he can charm just about everyone he's ever met out of a frown, he can sell just about anything with a few words and a showcase of dimples, and he can utilize a flogger just right, just enough, gauging that sweet spot expertly. He can do loads and loads and loads of things, but unfortunately, he can't read minds. He can't read her mind. He can't guess whether she'd requested a contract in hopes of pursuing a year of play with him, or a month, and he can only sort of hope that her intentions are closer to the former. Despite his own wants, numbers for time frames are a fragment he'd entirely left out of the document; too short would disappoint, and too long — well, that would perhaps be worse.

Peitho just sticks the end of the pen between her lips like she's contemplating, as if, maybe, she's having the same dilemma. His suspicions ring true when she withdraws the writing utensil and says, like she needs his guidance, his approval before she answers, "What do you think?"

The chair creaks as Harry shifts. He thinks six months, at least, and then more, because the play with her tastes too good to have a last bite. Regardless of what he thinks, he volleys the ball back into her court with a soft voice full of sincerity, fully intent on drawing her own interests into the spotlight of the topic, "S'up to you, really, darling. Just throw out a number, we can always alter it, if it comes down to it."

That seems to do the trick, because the young woman pauses as if in reflection, and then settles, "What about a month?"

A month.

A month is, generally, a generous hunk of time. It's an entire moon cycle, from new moon to waning crescent, all encompassed. It's a third of a season. A month is a plentiful time frame.

But really, it's not, Harry thinks.

Because they'd just done a month, and that month had flown by like a view driving through a rural landscape, of individual little pickets in a fence barring an endless grass plain from a car window, flying by at sixty miles per hour. Blurred and dissipated in a blink. A month is a ridiculously short hunk of time — it's four Fridays, which means four scenes, and if he's being entirely candid, four scenes cut far shorter than he's intrigued to explore with Peitho. Something coils dimly in Harry's chest, something like faint traces of disappointment, but he swallows whatever the sensation is down and clears his throat. A month is plenty reasonable to share time.

A month.

Isla could do far more than a month, she thinks. In fact, she could probably spend the rest of eternity wrapped about his finger, her hunger satiated by his touch and only his, but something within her bucks her to curb the enthusiasm. At least a smidge. She doesn't know him. She doesn't know this man beyond Eros, beyond a latex mask and whatever inches of skin she's managed to catch sight of in a strike of luck, so to have thoughts like the fact that she'd be satisfied with serving to his every command for the rest of eternity is beyond jarring.

"We can — like you said,'' the submissive, (who, more often than not, fights the actual submission part tooth and nail), gestures with her hand, "change it, if we want to. But I think that's a good place to start, right?"

A flicker of hope emerges from the heart of the fizzle at her expansion, and Harry tries not to let it show in his tone when he tells her, "Sure, darling. A month."

Just as he lifts his own respective pen in to scribble the dates over the lines of his copy, Peitho shifts, her voice obnoxiously loud, given that the space they're in is only a few square feet roomier than a broom closet, "Wait."

Harry blinks up at her, pen frozen comically, mid air.

"Can we—" she bites into her bottom lip, "Can we do, like, a month and two weeks? Or something?"

The bizarre request has the pillowy, muted berry of his lips curling up, "A month and two weeks?"

"Yeah, you know," the young woman shrugs, sinking down in her seat now that she'd grappled his attention and the ink is not near the papers, "A month is just so ...I don't know. It goes by fast. It's only four Fridays, but a month and two weeks would give us six."

His mouth twitches and he shakes his head down at the papers a bit, pen poised, "Okay. A month and two weeks."

A month and two weeks.

"Actually, I do have a question for you, regarding the scene tonight," he casts his gaze up to her, tone brimming with seriousness.

Isla looks up and listens. She discovers traces of a smile in his question, though.

"D'you have a particular attachment to the knickers you have on right now?"

"S'nice and easy with you, we can just put a blindfold on," he secures it snugly over her mask and clicks the buckle in below her ponytail to prevent sliding, "over this. Convenient, innit?"

The young woman can tell that he draws closer because hears his voice louder against her eardrums, a quality she notes because she has to focus on utilizing other senses, "Nice and snug? Can you see anything?"

Isla's mouth parts on an inhale as her sense of sight, typically already somewhat opaque through lace detailing, is veiled by dense darkness. It's nothingness, like staring up at a sky with no stars, and she's sure her own lacey mask aids in the total disconnect of light, even when she tests the theory and strains her irises around. "No."

So far, the extent of the scene hadn't gone far. They play in all different rooms, and she knows nearly all of them well from prior experience. Last week, they'd held a scene in the Neon Room, which Isla had deemed a limit all on its own, afterwards, solely based on its headache inducing qualities. The week before that had been the Red room (pretty literal title, it was like a Fifty-Shades-esque replication suffused with red from ceiling to floor). Each room harbored its own unique touches and pieces of equipment, from X crosses, to cages, to those that simply mirrored hotel room decors with a bed and an eyesore of tacky wallpaper.

They're playing in The Dungeon tonight, which Isla has fondly, internally dubbed the Torture Chamber — which isn't a tag with all that much individualism. Eros finds a way to uphold the moniker for every room they play in, but The Dungeon has these innate Torture Chamber qualities. The kind of character to a room that, upon first glance, sends a shudder prickling over your shoulders and slinking down your neck.

It's a set, is the thing, and Isla knows that. A really, very accurately handcrafted set, comprised of an eerie palette garnering neutral tones, from the scuffed concrete, to the marred brick along the walls, to the rusted detailing over the door (that looks as if it was taken straight off of an abandoned bar restroom door frame, after a lengthy lifespan enduring insobriety-spurred violence). It's as if screenshots of the infamous Armory featured on kink-dot-com were the primary basis in the design process. The ludicrously uncomfortable-in-appearance, twin-size spring mattress atop a metal bed frame (centered in the room) doesn't have sheets, and the seedy detailing of stains over the ticking are definitely, probably, she hopes fabric paint and dyes. There's all sorts of cleaning and sanitation protocols for these things, and Indulge is really thorough, so she knows they're not real stains. Despite this, the prospect of laying over a dubious, unsheeted mattress in a room made up to entirely incite fear and suspicion definitely spurs the unease. She's half-convinced she'll hear water dripping onto the floor from a stray, leaky pipe, at some point in the evening.

Regardless of the Torture Chamber, Eros hasn't taken part in much torture thus far — the only torture being in that he's afflictively knotted her ponytail and strung it up with a rope to one of the metal bars caging the headboard (evil, he's fucking evil for that one). The rest of the bindings are secured onto limbs in ways that don't otherwise incite discomfort (besides a raw, exciting sensation of anticipation and the commonplace humiliation that always comes along with having her legs tucked up), and she knows that he's deliberately tied in these ways so that she is comfortable for the duration of the scene. That fact soothes something unnerved in her chest.

"Good," he hears his voice, satisfied, and then makes out the sound of shoes over the floor as he walks ...away? Around? She's unsure.

Harry's outdone himself with the ropework, honestly.

Shibari is amazing. Intricate artworks of cords criss-crossing over skin are incredibly fun to tie and look at, and the way she's showcased, contorted by the ties he's created, is art. She looks like fucking art, and if he could save a picture of her tied like this and store it in his wallet, he fucking would.

He's opted for a simple enough crab tie, anchoring her calves behind her stretched forearms, and her legs are tucked up with the intent of exposing all the fun bits. The true pièce de résistance of the ensemble, though, he'd probably carve up to be the harness over her chest. It's composed of simple columns and patterns — simple, being that he's worked on knots for years — but they hug her body in such a way that emphasizes her tits, as if the body part is the star of the show. It's not meant to be, tonight, but he does quite enjoy looking at those, so he's pleased with the touch. And because he's such a gentleman, he's graciously allowed the panties to stay on, for now, particularly because it allows her to wallow in anticipation based on his question back in the negotiation room. He's sure she has her suspicions for what he plans, though.

Harry kneels ahead of his duffel against the wall on the opposite side of the room, tugs open the zipper, and rummages through for a flogger from his personal collection, unworried about the safety distance that would otherwise be required had she been standing with her arms tied. The male culls a wonderful elk option, running his fingers through the tendrils, partly to diffuse the tanglement situation, (which distresses him beyond words — he always hangs these things up on hooks at home as soon as he gets home — but he bites that back), and partly in consideration. He always preferred floggers from his personal collection. The play was definitely worth the sanitation process in his own time. Indulge offered a broad variety of implements, from paddles to crops to gags, which were always heavily sanitized after each usage, and getting away with a paddle was easy enough. Floggers, though — they were a tricky thing. An entirely different animal, altogether, because the options for variations essentially created entirely different toys, almost fabricated for entirely differing sensations.

The thing with the Indulge community catalog of toys was that the options were always the easiest to sanitize. And with floggers, easiest to sanitize didn't always entail the best fitting. Because floggers were — well, there were so many types. Thinner tails generally stung worse, and stiffer, leathery materials had a more brutal kick. Smaller, rubber floggers were ideal for more intimate areas, and Indulge offered plenty of those — rubbers, and silicones, easy to sanitize. But sometimes, perhaps, those didn't allow for a fitting warm up, nor did they allow to further work up the staircase of pain. Leathers — like elk, deer, moose (a personal, heavier favorite to throw), buffalo, all offered varying degrees of pain, but unfortunately were not so simple to disinfect. The cut of the tails, of course, played a part in the level of bite; V angles like forked tongues and flat cuts generally had a more intense effect, and nicely rounded falls carried that thuddier sensation. As he contemplates the rounded edges of the elk falls, he finds it suited. It's a reliable option for a warm up. Buttery enough for what he plans for her.

Once the toy's been culled and proper deliberated over, he gleans a few other objects for the night from various spots around the room; a dark, leather paddle, a cordless wand (he'd come in and manually changed the batteries himself prior to her arrival to avoid the unfortunate mood-killer of a vibrator dying mid-scene), a pair of safety scissors, a handful of condoms. Finally, he makes his way back to the bed. Harry sets the toys onto the floor and the flogger down beside her, just out of touch. He runs his fingers over various areas where the ropes dig into her flesh.

"Anything too tight? Anything uncomfortable?"

Slowly, Peitho shakes her head no in response, the motion within a limited range given that he's tied her hair to one of the metal bars, and a smirk plays at his mouth with the notion. He runs his digits over the ropes on her hips almost absent-mindedly.

Harry clears his throat, coaxing for a verbal response, "Pardon?"

"No, Sir."

Good. Very good. Great, even. He leans over her and his hand traces the binding over her ponytail thoughtfully, "Let me know if your neck starts cramping at all, yeah?"

"Will do," Isla tells him, but there's a degree of anticipation that comes with a blindfold in a Big Scary Torture Room that dampers her typical cheek, "Sir."

When the bed dips and nearly instantly bounces back, she assumes he's plucked something off the mattress.

"What are you planning?" she questions after a moment, adding on a tentative, "Sir."

Silence. She gets silence at first, which she doesn't think is all that fair considering he always expects a response from her, but then she makes out what vaguely resembles a wry huff of amusement, like he's enjoying her anticipation, because he is, and that makes her squirm.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Eros tuts, and there's amusement garbling his low cadence.

"I would," she tells him, bridling a laugh at her own brazen words, considering her vulnerability in the circumstances, "It's why I asked."

He sighs, then, as if to ward the mirth off, and his next words nearly have incredulous laughter bubbling from her, despite her anxiety that crowds her chest, "Want to guess what I'm holding?"

It's a ridiculous thing to make an attempt to guess with no sight, no sensation, no sound, no scent. He could be holding a riding crop or a fucking ice cream cone, so Isla tells him, the bizarre statement flooding her with some form of her usual sarcasm, "An ice cream cone, Sir."

"She's a comedian. We'll see how long that lasts," is not exactly the response she hopes for, but expects. There's some mirth to his tone, though, still, which she thinks must be a good sign, "I'll give you a hint."

When a strike falls onto the back of one of her exposed thighs, it doesn't hurt, but it does startle her enough to jolt a smidge. Whatever it was, he certainly went light on it. Her toes curl as she contemplates perceptively.

"A flogger?" Peitho hypothesizes after a moment, tentatively.

"Good girl," Harry praises, his voice brimming with pride and his mouth tinged at the corners with a playful beam, "It is a flogger. S'nice and easy, I think. Elk. The tails, here," he pauses to drag the ends of the toy over her stomach, and the motion siphons a soft gasp from her, "are about a centimeter thick. So it's nice and thuddy. Soft hits. It's not a stiff leather and the tails aren't thin and stingy. This one's good for warm ups, usually — why are you smiling like that?"

"Well aren't you just a lovely, little pamphlet on impact play?"

The self-satisfaction in her voice fizzles out into a laughter-infused grunt when he bunches at the tails from the root, drawing the tails through the U-shaped dale of his fingers, and rolls his wrist in a way that makes the falls snap against her skin in, considerably, a far more stingy sensation than the first had been. Because, despite the buttery sensation the elk tends to dominate with, he can make it sting with the proper technique. His lips curl smugly in response.

"Better be nice to the mean man with the flogger," Harry sing-songs, and he watches her fingers flex and unflex in their bindings uselessly, as if yearning to rub over the afflicted area. When she doesn't formulate an immediate response, he hooks the root of the falls between his thumb and forefinger and focuses on another bite, this one aimed on the opposite thigh. Again, Peitho jolts, but the motion is futile in her restraints.

"Right? We should be nice?"

Her head falls back a bit, though that movement is also limited and causes the rope wrapping her hair to bundle, and the concurrence slips through cracks of gritted teeth, "Yes! We'll be nice! Jesus Christ."

"Fantastic. Glad we can be on the same page," Harry tells her, before stepping around to wander against the side of the bed and drag the tails of the toy over her skin slowly, from the back of her thigh, to her stomach, over her exposed breasts. Under the softness of that sensation, Peitho seems to melt, jerking slightly only when encountering particularly ticklish areas. The corners of Harry's mouth buckle.

He does that for a short while, just letting the tresses caress her, before he takes a knee ahead of the foot of the bed, which is footboard-less, mind you — a nice touch, and Harry thinks it works wonderfully for his intentions. When he sticks the end knot between his middle and ring finger, and starts drawing pretty, little figure 8's all over her ass, just letting his wrist work off the momentum, the young woman's breathing grows shallower as the sensation fails to abate.

"So, did we have a good day today, love?"

His cadence is airy and entirely nonchalant, and the inquiry has her nails gnawing into her fisted palms. Only a question Eros would ask her mid flogger warm-up. And the thing is, he's not just gliding the ends of the tresses over her backside — it's her cunt, too. The sensation is muffled by the underwear that cling to her, somewhat, but on each figure 8, the tails just manage to graze. That probably coaxes her soft, "Oh," far more than the rest does.

"No?" Harry's tongue digs against the inside of his cheek. There's thorough amusement to be had at his own jokes, sometimes. Especially when it entails Peitho mewling helplessly.

As the figure 8's slow, Isla finds that he hones the sensation exactly where she dreaded he would. At first, it comes as a tantalizing, fuck, this sucks snap against her inner thigh, too close, and then again, another, on the opposite, to mirror the first. Apparently, her hiss incites amusement, because, through the thick blood rush crowding her eardrums, she picks up that he's chuckling. And then the flogger falls against her panty-clad core — not nearly as stingy as it'd been against the bare skin of her most inner thighs, but it certainly causes her to jolt and squeal.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and she feels another snap between her legs, a prod from Eros, "Hm?"

"What do you mean?" Isla squawks incredulously, her abs aching from the consistent core workout of the position, "You're whipping my cunt!"

She hears a hum, and her irises loll back when she feels his fingers kiss her skin, as opposed to the bite of the flogger. The young woman feels him pull her underwear taut before he tuts, and states, deviously, "Peitho, Peitho, Peitho. I'm whipping your cunt, and you're sopping through."

There's truth to his words, and she doesn't exactly need her sense of sight to confirm it. She squirms under his scrutiny — she's warm, ludicrously, and the heat is only heightened by the light blows. Speaking of which, his touch retracts, and it's not long before another comes, this one sharper. Isla groans, her jaw clenched, and the male's enjoyment is devious. For a little while, the flogger focuses back on the globes of her presented backside, just skimming over her core with its biting caress, and then there's another snap against her thigh, and then comes the bloom of delectable pain!pain!pain! that satiates something deep within her. She braces for the next impact, but it doesn't come. Instead she feels gloved pads of fingers brush over the same area where the last strike had landed.

"You're already welting," his voice comes through low and almost focused, as if he's admiring the marks he's created, as if she's just something for him to mar and admire, and the tone sends something delicious wracking through her. The man tacks on, after a second, "Fuck. S'pretty," and gives the skin a final swipe before he withdraws.

Then comes the next several. Harry brushes the trails through the valley, keeping them straight and together, and then snaps the toy forward against her inner thigh, making her jerk in the intricately braided ties. He does it again, and then one more time until Peitho's whining and her thighs are trembling. The dominant follows through with a final strike for good measure, and her fingers spasm in the binds as her head thrashes. The young woman's breaths escape her as labored puffs. He gives her minimal cool down time before, with his free palm, he grapples for one of her bound feet, squeezing at the centermost region, and, in response, she thrashes more.

"No, no! Stop! Please!" Peitho's desperate pleas escape as waves through laughter, and as she flails at his touch, Harry's mouth crooks wickedly.

"Stop? I don't think I'm going to do that," amusement lingers over his words, and his digits digs into her with purpose.

He's never had a particular fetish for feet, but he can appreciate that hers are nice. They're pretty feet, just like the rest of her is pretty to him, and a neat, cutesy pedicure in a pinky-coral shade satisfyingly matches the hues blooming over her skin.

"Stop! Tickling is not one of my kinks! Pl— please!"

"No?" his tongue peeks out through plush strawberry, and his breath catches on a subdued laugh, "Maybe I just like seeing you writhe. All helpless," his cadence increases in volume as she squeals, "All tied up. Maybe I just like that I can do whatever I want to you, and you just have to take it."

"PLEASE!"

Finally, the horrid sensation ceases, and Isla's able to suck in some breaths for composure. Her heart hammers away behind her ribcage, and just as she feels herself regaining some form of stability over the sketchy semblance of her nervous system, she feels the flogger lick out over her clothed core.

"Shit!"

Two more times. It happens two more times, and then her toes curl and uncurl feebly as the man's gloved digits curl over her foot. She nearly shrieks. Another blow.

"What's worse?" she makes out over her involuntary laughter, "The feet, or your cunt?"

And she can't exactly form a steady response given that her nerve endings are under assault. She just screeches and does her very best to kick his hand off.

"What's worse?" he prods for a verbal response, "The feet—" he winds the flogger with his wrist, just letting it fall, fall, fall, over, and over, and over, "Stop trying to kick me off — or your cunt? Hm?"

"My — the — fuck! The feet!" Isla just barely manages to make out before the alternate sensations subside altogether. She blows out a breath, heart hammering away.

"The feet?" Eros parrots, a surprised sort of mischief to his tone, "Really?" He taps the back of her thigh with the neck of the flogger, where the tails are rooted, and then twists the handle around, just letting the tresses dance over her florid, whip-kissed skin.

Isla breathes, deep and wheeze-y, when he stops tickling her. Instead, her breath catches and stalls in her lungs when he tuts and swings the flogger harder, "Seems I haven't been doing a proper job with the flogger, then."

Her eyes screw shut further, if it's possible, behind the press her mask and the blindfold atop it, her brows pinch together, and the young woman's fingers spread, stiff and straining in their bindings. She blows out another breath through a puckered 'o' over her mouth when the onslaught ceases.

Harry lets her just breathe for a second, but it's moreso for her anticipation to spiral and skyrocket, because he's a horrible, devious, mean man. He's not exactly complaining over the view of her chest rolling with shudders beneath the designs of the rope, either. Then, he grips her knickers by the hem over the top, and just tugs up a bit.

"Look at that," Isla hears him say, tone low and lewd, before she feels him hook his forefinger and middle into her panties and tug away. The 'hngh' that the action plies out of her nearly leaves her simmering in as much humiliation as she feels with the knowledge that he's just ogling her cunt.

The sound causes Harry to raise a brow, and, in a playful feat of absolute evil, he leans forward a smidge and blows. The way she jerks in response provokes soft laughter from him, and the chuckle melts into a hum when he fixes his sight between her legs.

"You're so wet," he drawls, opting to spread her lips with his thumb and forefinger, while his other hand keeps the crotch of the cotton bikini-cut hooked to the side. The left corner of his mouth curves up smugly, his eyes cast down to her cunt, "Aren't you? Poor baby's wet just from being whipped?"

Peitho whines at his statement, and in response, he levels the knickers with her core and lets the crotch snap back into place lightly. She gasps. There's something delicious about those soft sounds she makes. Harry reaches for the wand beside him, tears open a condom wrapper and wrenches the rubber over the head, as he always does, because it's the polite thing to do. Peitho seems to be curiously drinking in the subtle hints, trying to decipher what's going on, but she doesn't have to do the sensory-based detective operation for long. Harry presses the head against her clothed cunt, coaxing another soft gasp as he toggles it to life.

"How long d'you think it'll take to soak these all the way through?" he ponders, thumbing at the hem of her knickers, and Peitho sinks back against the mattress, like the sensation is too much to bear when he shifts the setting to a higher one without warning.

"Oh..."

"Not too long, it seems," the man feels a cocky curve overtaking his mouth as he watches moisture rapidly over the fabric upon the assault of the rumbling.

Isla feels that familiar warmth slinking down through to the trench of her tummy, sinking, coiling, and as pleasure pulses through her at an increasingly alarming pace, she can only hope that he doesn't plan to reenact the Edging Fiasco from the prior week. Surely, he won't let her reach her peak so early in the night. Despite her best efforts, the pleasure swells and overtakes her, and with her voice lacking any sort of stability, the pleads spit off her tongue on their own accord, "Oh — Sir — I'm gonna—"

"No. Don't tell me. Ask me."

Regardless of any hankering to fight him and the rapturous sensation (he won't let her have the orgasm, anyways, she thinks, he won't), the craving to restrict his opportunity to shut her down with self-satisfaction, Isla feels her body giving in before her mind. She rocks in the ropes, tensed.

"Please, may I cum, Sir?" the young woman grits out, fully expecting to be shut down.

"Sure, darling. Cum."

The unbridled permission catches Isla so off guard that, for a moment, her jaw just unhinges in a mesh of a moan and a balk. Her nerve endings catch up quickly enough, though, and after only a short moment encompassing a buzzing and an otherwise patient lull from the dominant, her lips tremble and a crease works its way over her brow bone.

"Oh, fuck," she whines through it, frozen up, and then rocks and spasms as the tide ebbs. The toy shuts off, and she takes the break to breathe. Those seem to be sporadic and a generosity.

She had an inkling, is the thing; when he'd inquired whether she had a particular attachment to the panties she had on for the night. It implied one of two potentialities — that he was interested in tearing them off, or that he was interested in cutting them off. Regardless, as he'd tied her, winding ropes over flesh with cautious expertise, he'd left the underwear on — which had only further confirmed her suspicions.

He hammers the nail into the coffin when she feels the crotch of her fabric become tugged back, and she hears a low, "I think s'about time for these to come off, don't you?"

Her ears pick up a snip, and then another tug, this one to, she assumes, get access closer to the side. A second snip comes, and following that is an unceremonious yank that leaves Isla scrabbling for purchase in the ropes. He's just cut her panties off with safety scissors.

Self-satisfied, Harry discards the flimsy, tattered remains of the article. Well. It'd been an article. Now, it's just sort of a rag sullied with arousal. He can't curb the cocky smirk that snakes its way over his mouth. The thought of her fixing on the dress she'd worn to the club, disrobing her mask, and settling into the driver's side of her vehicle, pantiless and forced to recollect the night because she's pantiless, makes his libido stir.

"Much better," he smooths a palm over the right globe of her ass, and her toes twitch. Then, he removes his touch altogether and picks up the pretty, jet, leather paddle that he'd set beside him with his left hand, grasps the wand with the opposite, and stands to amble around to loom over her, behind the metal headboard.

Peitho seems to search for him with the senses she does have availability to, shifting and listening carefully. He allows for himself to indulge in her apprehension for a moment, and then clears his throat to cue that he's behind her.

"This is the fun part," his cadence is bright, but anything implied to be fun by Eros could suggest all sorts of cruelties, so Isla bites into her cheek, "You get two choices. Sort of a choose-your-own-fate type of thing."

The corners of his mouth jolt wickedly as she squirms, and then he lifts the paddle in his left grip, eyeing over the neat stitching, "Left—"

Isla's lips tremble at the sound of a whoosh and a deafening clang against the metal. It's not against her, but she jumps as if she bears the blow.

"Or," a pause, then. Nothing.

"Or?" Isla prods, ashamed that her voice comes out so small.

"Or ...right. Exciting, innit? You get to pick."

Isla contemplates his game, then tells him, after a second, "Can I hear what's behind door number two?"

"Nope," the dominant overhead tells her definitively, popping the 'p', "Wouldn't be fun if I made it so easy, pet. Come on."

Isla scoffs. A clang or nothingness. Those are her hints. He's a wicked, evil menace. She deliberates. The clang — surely it'd been an implement of some sort. He wouldn't just bash a vibrator against a headboard, and a set of clamps, or a gag — those wouldn't cause that clang. She ruminates over the potentiality of the implement — a paddle, a strap, a ...cane. The prospects wallop about her skull. Surely, not a cane. The opposite option was an animal she couldn't begin to decipher.

"Tick-tock," Harry goads, basking in her sharp inhale, "F'course, I could always choose for you. Just thought I'd be nice."

Her hands form into fists, and as he leans over her, his cadence is soft, "So what are we going with, sweetheart? Left or right?"

"The — the second one," Peitho tells him finally, shaking her head.

"The...?" the male raised an eyebrow for clarification.

"The right," her mouth sets into a line, and Harry eyes the vibrator, his gloved, right palm wrapped over the stem.

"The right. Very adventurous. S'that your final choice?" his tongue digs into his cheek when Peitho doesn't forge an immediate response, as if his teasing has dug her back into deliberation, and Harry's half-certain she'll appeal to swap choices when her mouth does open.

Instead, what he gets is a determined, "Yes, Sir."

So he winds around her, back to the foot of the bed, and sets the paddle onto the floor before settling into a criss-cross sit ahead of her cunt.

"Right it is."

Slowly, he trails a fingertip down the center of one of her feet. His mouth quirks. Her toes twitch. And then they tense and curl when he reintroduces the vibrator, already buzzing before it reaches her skin.

Helplessly, just the way Harry likes to see, Peitho writhes. For a little bit, he just pets over her backside, the backs of her thighs, keeping the wand pressed flush to her core, just reveling in the little sounds she makes. Occasionally, he'll grab out at a foot, teasingly, and he'll revel in the way she attempts to kick him off and fails, too. He watches the build of her pleasure, the climb up the staircase, imbibing in the subtle shifts of her body language; the way her breathing grows shallower, the way her feet twitch, the way her fingers scrunch. It's not long before her mouth falls open.

All that escapes is a breathy question harboring nearly no spaces in between words, as if she's held it in and simply no longer can, "MayIcumSir?"

"Cum," he responds, dominance coating the word.

Almost instantly, Peitho contorts, her back arching seemingly as much as it can in a limited range, and Harry watches veins strain divinely behind the skin of her neck. She's got a pleasant flush glowing all over her, he notes, then. Matchy-matchy, from the redness down her chest, to her backside, to the shade of polish on her toes. It's wonderful.

As the wand buzzes incessantly and doesn't let up over her cunt, Isla has difficulty herding a coherent strain of thoughts together. It's a ludicrously arduous task, all things considered. But the first thing she wonders, on the come-down of the crest, are the motives behind his uncharacteristic generosity. She flinches in the ropes, biting back a whine at the overstimulation.

"Stay still," Eros instructs, and though his tone carries no hardness in the command, there's certainly a patronizing air to it, "Know you've got another in you. We're not giving up already, are we, darling?"

And then it hits her.

And next time, I'll make you cum four times.

A shudder rolls down the knobs of her spine as it clicks, and, like he's recognized the recognition written over her face, Isla hears the dominant say, "Promised you four, didn't I? And, y'know, follow-through is so important."

Four? Isla shifts in the restraints, rocking and writhing.

"Stay still," his tone is harder as he repeats himself, but Isla just continues to writhe. When he pulls the vibrator away, only to tug up the hood of her clit, reintroduce the vibrator, and tells her, low and tantalizing and filthy, "Show me that little clit," she nearly rolls off the bed. She doesn't, partly because her hair is tied to the headboard, and mostly because he removes the hand that'd tucked up the hood of her clit in lieu of steadying her and making sure she doesn't roll off the bed and rip her hair out.

"No," she struggles, hips canting, and laughter tails her shriek as he smacks out at her inner thigh harshly.

"No? You're telling me no?" he shuts the vibrator off, and his voice is deceptively mirthy, "Y'don't wanna do it the nice way?"

"Not particularly," Isla chortles, and when he sighs, feigning exasperation, Isla laughs harder, her eyes squeezing shut even as he unclasps the blindfold, removes it, and winds about her to the other side of the room. When she does open her eyes, the buttery lightbulbs are near-blinding.

"Don't wanna just lay there and cum?" his voice carries from a distance, and Isla tries to twist in her restraints to see what he's doing, her attempt proving futile, "I've made it so easy for you, too. S'quite a simple task."

"I'm overstimulated!" the young woman reasons. All she gets, for a moment, is a hum of faux understanding in response.

"You," Harry's pupils rake over the wall of implements, "are such a brat. Honestly."

Even with an inkling of dread starting its flourish in her chest, Isla forces a smile, "You know, I've heard that one before. But it's no fun to just do things your way."

"No? No fun to be a good girl?" the racket of implements scraping and budging as he makes a selection makes her shoulders tense, "How about we make it miserable to be a brat? How's that sound?"

"That doesn't sound fun, either," she bites into her lip.

Another sigh that siphons a soft laugh to mask her anxiety, even as he winds about her, "Well there's no satisfying you, it seems, then."

Isla purses her lips. She thinks, maybe, he's wearing a grin, but it's impossible to tell from the angle and the haze her eyes have succumbed to in the expanse of time they'd spent blinded.

"What is," he leans over her, upside down through her perspective, just as she to him, "your fourth commandment of submission?"

That, she has an easy answer for. Isla blinks up through the lace, and then answers, cheekily, "Enjoy pleasures."

His head tilts in a way that daunts her, "Maybe that's your fourth commandment, but it's certainly not on the list that I gave you."

"I suppose it's not — but I follow my own commandments. They're my commandments to follow anyways, aren't they?"

The third sigh. The charm. He rounds the bed, to her side, and her pupils follow his figure.

"I think," when she watches Eros withdraw a long, thin cane from beside the bed, in mortified recognition, all composure crumbles, and she thrashes in the restraints, "this will help you remember."

The young woman attempts to kick out with one of her feet to ward the horrid object away, but the motion only jostles the rest of her slightly, and she stays woefully restrained.

"Right? This'll," Harry pauses to press the cane to her backside, siphoning a squeal from Peitho and another bout of hopeless writhing, "jog your memory? Won't it?"

She starts crying then, he thinks, just as she'd warned she would, if the jolt and tremble of her shoulders and her ribcage is any indication, and soft, pretty words finally spill from her typically insolent mouth, "Please, please, please."

"Please? Please, what? That's not your fourth commandment," the man laughs.

"Ple— please," Isla pauses to take a breath, her cadence shuddery, and she tenses as he presses the cane back against her skin, crying out, "Please don't use that!"

There's a wry mirth that curls and snakes around the syllables as they roll off his tongue. Eros tuts, "We're already begging? I've not done anything to you, yet."

Yet. The notion makes her groan and erupt in sobs that are only cut short only by a shriek in response to him feigning to draw the cane back and to only settle it back gently against the crease on the backs of her thighs. As he rubs a line with it, back and forth, her feet shake in their bindings. That does something for him — something for the dark, twisted, ugly part that rears itself only in play, that all-consuming fragment that just hungers for it.

"All I do is take out a big stick, and you're crying?" Harry speaks over her sobs, cocking his head and huffing a short laugh out through the unzipped slit over his lips, "Really? I haven't given you anything to cry about."

When she's unable to stifle her cries, whining and whimpering, he just gives her an incredulous look full of mockery, "Oh, come on, darling. It's not even the long one, s'the easy, short one, and you don't remember?"

She just whines, frozen up. So, naturally, the man tuts and slams the cane onto the mattress with a frightful whoosh, just in front of where she's on display for him. Isla shrieks. He leans over her, hovering over her side, and cradles her jawline in his palm, squeezing her cheeks.

And despite it all, that rush of adrenaline that shoots through her veins is only chased by want.

"Do you remember now, your fourth commandment?" Eros questions, tone hard and brimming with dominance.

His timbre is sharp and biting, but it doesn't coax her to melt under his touch as much as the reminder of the cane nestled to her skin does.

"I'm — I'm sorry, I don't — I don't..."

Eros tuts again (it's like a bad omen, honestly), and she shies away as best she can in her binds when he straightens up and reintroduces that mortifying implement, "Still don't remember? S'shame. Should I hit you with this four times?"

Isla sobs.

"Four times for your fourth commandment? You'll remember this as a lesson if I do."

"No!" the young woman thrashes, writhes, and she nearly slips off the edge in the process, "No! Don't — please, please!"

Instantly, his hand is on her leg to stabilize her, but the grip only incites her to flail further, so Harry tells her, with no jesting to his tone, "Stop. You're going to fall off the bed."

After a moment, once she's regulated her breathing into somewhat controlled hiccups, and her limbs have ceased in their attempts to thrash, Harry lets go of the back of her thigh.

"I'll help you out — discipline," he tilts his head a smidge, squishing her cheeks, "'The submissive will accept discipline.' Repeat it, so it sticks."

"The submissive will accept d-discipline," Isla blows out a shuddery breath.

"And do you accept your discipline, love?" he digs his thumb below her cheekbone harshly and the young woman keens.

"I — I..." she sort of melts into another bout of sobs at the prospect of accepting her discipline with a cane in order to please him.

What a shoddy commandment. She can feel herself seeping, is the thing, though — amidst the fear, amidst the panic, fiery warmth pulsing between her sweaty thighs. The link between her brain and her horny hormones is, like, beyond fucking broken or something, she decides.

For a second, Harry pauses. She's absolutely glistening, and she doesn't make any cues that she's inclined to safe, but the way she's opted to nearly flail off the bed and rip her hair out in the process is ...an intense reaction, to say the least. Fear play was a tricky thing — as all intense aspects of kink seemed to be (tricky). It was all about trust, it was all about acknowledging that the fear thing wouldn't inflict terror beyond the initial fear, right? But the way she just sort of ...succumbs to it, that leaves room for him to pause. She knows that they follow the limits, she should know, Harry thinks, and he's sure she does — that she recognizes that nothing goes beyond priorly negotiated play. But the reaction she has, although setting his libido ablaze, is a pretty fucking intense one, and given that fear play is intense, he figures being soft to check in on their first go-round won't kill the scene.

When he sets the cane down again, he does it quietly, and his touch is as gentle as his cadence, "Breathe. In and out." He strokes his thumb over her bottom lip, smearing her drool, "You're okay. In and out. M'not gonna hurt you." The sentiment is unsaid but there; do you need to safe out? He doesn't say it, because being soft is checking in enough, breaking character enough.

It's the right move, evidently, because she seems to focus on his words then, and him, taking on the task of regulating her breaths. He coaxes her to calm down, and after a little while, he withdraws, blowing out his own exhale for semblance, and runs his palm over the back of her nude thigh. Fuck. The way he's rock hard is proper evil.

"Are you going to be a good, sweet girl for me? Because," Eros pauses his manipulations, casting his gaze back and retrieving the cane to press it against her backside. Isla cries out. "If you're going to keep being a brat — and, darling, I didn't want it to come to this, but I can use the cane," he pretends to ponder over her pitiful, drawn out nooooo, "if that's what you're interested in."

"I'll be good, I'll be good," Isla promises, chest heaving, her nods jerky and small, "I'll be a good girl," she amends, taking a deep, shuddery breath as he pauses in contemplation.

"Then we don't need to use the cane."

Isla's eyes slip shut in a wave of relief beneath the veil of the mask. Eros palms over her jawline for a moment, and she melts into it. His grip is sturdy, but his tone is soft and alleviating. Then, his thumb grazes across her bottom lip, and he pats her cheek as he withdraws, "Do we?"

Peitho shakes her head slowly at him, sniffling, her voice small, "No, we don't, Sir."

And the softness of his touch, the way his tone contrasts against his words in such a provocative way, has her breath catching in her throat, "Fuck. Wish I could see those pretty tears."

When he sets the cane against the headboard, though, she's still squirming, so he raises a brow and leans over to roll it beneath the bed. That seems to do the trick. Out of sight, out of mind.

They're definitely going to talk about it, Harry decides.

For now, he works on unraveling the wrapping over her ponytail. Once that's freed, he tugs her hair tie off, mindful to grip at the base to avoid afflictive yanking, and he runs his fingers through the newly-loose tendrils to curb discomfort. She shakes her head. Next are her limbs, and he gets to work on the knots braided over her calves and her forearms. Peitho lets him, though he's sure she's bemused by the task, and he tugs the ropes off carefully, setting them beside her onto the mattress.

"Are we," Peitho clears her throat. There's no crying to her tone, anymore, but the statement still comes out with a bit of a rasp, "Are we done? Sir?"

If he's not mistaken, there's definitely a tinge of disappointment to her cadence. He looks up to her pointedly.

"No. You still owe me two more."

Despite the havoc the scene has reaped on her thus far, of course, arousal courses through her veins with each and every decision Eros makes, and his definitive words send thrilling want sparking through her.

"Unless you'd like to be done, pet?"

"No," her tongue peeks out to swipe over her pouty, raspberry lips, "No, Sir."

He pats her thigh and orders, "All fours."

So she clambers into the instructed position, earning a helping hand in the form of a smack (it's not nearly as hard as he can deliver, she's well aware) to the back of her thigh when she stalls.

"Put your arms down," she hears from behind, and then she feels his palm glide between her shoulder blades in coaxing, "Arch your back. Beautiful. And," he taps onto her tricep, "straighten your arms out, next to your legs."

Once she's done that, he gets to work with binding the ropes onto her wrists, joining them with her ankles, and securing knots deftly. And once that's wrapped up, he tests the knots, asking about her comfort, and knees his way off the bed to gather some more supplies. This time, he culls a roll of onyx bondage tape and a bottle of lubricant (from his own duffel).

"Having a good time, love?" he half-jests once he's kneed his way back onto the mattress behind her.

He expects a hum, or silence, or a jab back, but the "Yes, Sir," and the dreamy sigh he receives carries so much earnest sincerity that he can't help but to fondle over her backside fondly. Alas, he must break the caress to find the wand, and when he does, she whines.

"Be quiet," the dominant tells her, though there's no true chastising to his cadence, "Desperate, little thing."

Isla shivers in the restraints. Her ears pick up on the sound of tape unsticking (she presumes he uses his teeth to rip it off). Then, the head of the wand presses up between her splayed thighs, and she hears a click before it buzzes alive.

"S'good there?" Eros prods, but she's sure he can tell from her muscles melting that, yes, it's good.

"Mm-Mhm," is all she can manage, and a sliver of tape begins to wind over her thigh, fastening the stimulation of the toy. This time, when he withdraws, it's easier to focus her attention onto the buzzing against her cunt and not his lack of attention on her. When he comes back, Isla vaguely picks up on another click, a pause, a second click. And then something cold unfamiliarly presses to her hole. Her entire body twitches.

The motion doesn't seem to discourage Eros, though, because he just grips over her hip with his pleather-clad hand and grazes her skin with his thumb as whatever the other thing is strokes between her cheeks. It's his digit, Isla discovers — eventually, the stroking goes to prodding, and the prodding goes to dipping, and he dips the tip of his digit into her.

Helplessly, she squeaks, and the sensation from the vibrator swallows the initial discomfort of the stretch. As his finger delves deeper, however, she bites into her lip and attempts to stretch away. That he has a different reaction to.

"Excuse me?" the man pauses, and then smacks her with the hand that'd been holding onto her hip so sweetly only moments prior, "Don't move."

She's pretty good from there. She sighs into it as Harry lets his middle finger venture, sliding carefully and withdrawing slowly. It's a sight. This is the wallet picture, it's this one, he decides. Her hands bound to her ankles, her back arched beautifully, her hair cascading to one side of the mattress and the other showcasing a gorgeous view of her side-profile, her parted, swollen-from-teeth mouth. The gem of the image is, perhaps, the way her ass swallows his finger like it was fucking made for it.

"Christ, baby," he says after a little while, almost in awe, "F'you could just see the way your arse takes me."

Peitho moans. And it doesn't take long, not with the rumbling against her core, not with his finger prodding into her, for her to start absolutely mewling.

"Sir! Sir!"

"Mm?" he digs his digit in, to the hilt, and she groans.

"May I— may I cum?"

"Yes, you may," he tells her, cadence casual, and he fucks in and out slowly as the orgasm rips through her. Harry bridles a groan of his own at the way her muscles spasm over his digit. As her wave of pleasure ebbs, and she jerks, crying out softly from the instant overstimulation, he pulls the finger out carefully, and gets to work on his zipper.

"Oh— oh, Sir, it's a lot, it's, it's—"

"That's okay," he grunts, and her jaw unhinges, grappling for air as his tip tucks into her cunt, "You can give me four, sweetheart. I know you can do it."

He's devious, Isla thinks. He's the fucking devil — he's flayed at her nerve endings, both with the flogger and the vibrator, he's threatened her with a cane (all warranted and welcomed, of course), and now he expects her to give him a fourth climax? Around his dick? Isla thinks of plenty of not-so-nice things to call him, which would, more than likely, necessitate the reintroduction of that horrid, God awful cane, but she can't quite make her mouth move when her system is entirely on overdrive, pumping endorphins and adrenaline.

"Sir!" is the only thing that comes out, choppy and girlish.

The young woman hears his breathy chuckle, and she feels his palm splay over the small of her back as he rocks forward into her. Her lashes flutter behind lace — swirls and patterns turn to indecipherable, dark blurs. The man punches a soft unph when he plunges in, to the hilt, and Isla's thighs tremble pathetically.

She's divine, Harry decides. A fucking angel — taking any and everything he throws her way. The way she imbibes all of his whims and succumbs to him, even post fighting for the upper hand with such moxie, attests to it. Her mouth is a sharp vestibule that softens to his ministrations, and the softness of the sounds he's able to coax are pure fucking heaven. Even her hair seems to curl over the top of her head against the mattress in a makeshift halo, tufts of strands sloping like ethereal interweavings.

Christ, her cunt is pure bliss.

She's so wet around him, is the thing, he can feel her slick arousal seeping down his balls, he can hear it, and with each squishy plunge forward, he feels his resolve chipping away. When he grips onto her hips and starts to really hammer into her, that's when he feels the chips turn to the beginnings of crumbles.

"Christ— you're a nasty, little thing," Harry affirms, breaths jagged and jerky through his filthy, open-mouthed grin, "Aren't you? Let me," his tongue flicks out and sticks to the ends of his front teeth in focus as he hits something within her that incites a loud moan, "tie you up, whip you, let me make you cum, and cum, and cum, cried for me, and you're still begging for more, aren't you?"

In response to her, "yesyesyes," Harry leans forward and abandons one hip in lieu of pursuing a harsh grasp at the hair just above her nape, fingers wedging against her scalp. He jerks her head back so that her neck cranes and the muscles strain, and he plucks a garbled sound from her vocal chords, in the process, that has his balls tightening.

"Say it. Tell me. Tell me you're my dirty, little thing," the man hisses, a vulgar, vile demon overtaking any fragment of his tone that was formerly gentle.

"I'm— yours, your dirty— your dirty, little thing," Isla groans out, eyes unfocused and lazing back through fluttery eyelashes as his hips snap and the wand buzzes against her core.

"You are," the male punctuates his words with his thrusts, his thrusts with his words, "an absolute," an obscene slew of dialogue that has her toes curling and her cunt doing kegels over his cock, "bloody wet dream."

"Oh, God!" she sobs, and he digs the pads of his fingers back into her love handles as he drives his own hips to slam his balls against her.

"Eros, actually," Harry can't even manage a laugh at his own joke, just clinging to the rope over the formidable wave of rapture that wreaks havoc just below, "Eros is making you feel so good, isn't he?"

"Yes, shit, fuck — Eros!"

"I know, baby, I know — tell me how good that cock makes you feel, tell me how good I make you feel."

The way the young woman below him only manages a string of incoherent grunts and squeaks just leaves him breathlessly pummeling into her harder, harsher, faster.

"M'close, baby," he blows out a breath, grunting behind her, and like clockwork, Isla feels her own toes dipping into the waters beneath the precipice. They crash in waves and douse her until all she can accomplish are soft sounds and soft pleas. She's buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, much like the toy taped to her thigh, and vaguely, she recognizes that she's started to drift.

As her warmth spasms over him, Harry digs the pads of his fingers into her flesh, and when she whines out, begging, "May I," he doesn't even wait for her to finish the statement before he tips forward and beckons, "Cum, baby, come on. Give me one more."

When her climax hits her for the fourth and final time in the night, she sounds as if he's fucking murdering her. While she's tangled in the string of her curses and cries, Harry feels his own resolve stutter.

"Good fucking girl," are his final words before his abdomen clenches and the muscles ripple. His balls pulse, and he empties into the condom, groaning. As his hips stagnate falteringly, over the crowding of blood rushing against his eardrums, he vaguely makes out that she's still whimpering like she's being flayed. Carefully, the man withdraws himself and leans over to thumb at the buttons on the wand.

As the toy shuts off, Peitho doesn't seem to regain any semblance of resolve, just whimpering breathily against the mattress, and while he tugs the condom off carefully with one hand, the other occupies itself by petting sweetly over the small of her back, down her hip.

"Sh, sh," he coos as sob rips free at the retraction of his touch, "M'right here, sweetheart. Just cleaning up a bit. S'improper to just leave you like this, and chivalry's not dead, afterall."

His jest doesn't even cull a sniffle that demonstrates she's heard him, and instead she seems to wallow in the aftermath. So, he doesn't bother making it to the bin, and instead opts to tuck the condom into its tattered wrapper before getting to work on her. The first thing that comes off is the wand, and he unwinds the tapes delicately. The next to go are the ropes over her joints, and he discards those onto the floor beside her. She doesn't even slump as he removes the restraints, unwinding the harness over her chest. The young woman just lays there, pitifully, like she's stuck, and he stands to squat beside the bed and rake his fingers through her sweaty hair.

His mouth brushes against her ear and he presses to her and praises, "My sweet girl. M'so proud of you, pet." He lets his hand slip from her hair to her back, just petting down her spine, "Took everything I gave you so well, just like you always do. Such a good girl."

She melts beneath his touch, sighing softly, and he croons, "Need you to do one more thing for me, sweetheart. Need you to sit up a bit so I can hold you. Can you do that for me?"

Isla decides she absolutely cannot do anything. She'll always find herself sort of slipping with a particularly good scene, but for some reason or another, fear play always seems to do the trick. It sends her spiraling out into open ocean with nothing but a raft, where she basks in the sunlight thoughtlessly, until inevitably, she's tugged back to shore.

Peitho just hums.

She's always a mushy, dulcet mess once the toys go away, but Harry can sense that something has shifted ...further, tonight. Slowly, he presses a kiss to her temple and stands to sit her up manually. She goes easily enough, letting him steer her up and practically falls back against his chest once he's sat behind her. She's not dead weight for long, though, because the more he croons against the shell of her ear, the more inclined she seems to become to cling to him, and eventually, the submissive turns on her own accord and burrows into his chest.

"Wasn't too rough with my girl, was I?" he presses his chin to the top of her head, and she sticks her fingers past the space where a few buttons on his collar have gone loose. She holds onto his shirt like a lifeline, and for a moment, Harry's heart stutters in his chest. Then, she shakes her head. It's a minute movement, just barely, pressed against him, but it's an answer.

She needs water, Harry decides, and she needs to stretch. He needs to massage her neck, her shoulders, run soft touches over the areas of her skin where pretty rope tracks have imprinted. He needs to make her promise that she'll sit in a hot bath once she gets home. But that'll come later. For a little while, he just lets her burrow into him and he runs his fingers through her hair and whispers nice things to her, like he always does. For now, he settles for wordless clinging, familiarizing himself with the bridge.

Because he knows that with each passing week, he'll just keep ruining her.

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

#dom harry styles #harry styles #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles edit #harry styles edits #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles wattpad #harry styles x oc #harry styles writing #domharry #dom!harry #harry styles angst #1800titz #1-800-tits #TDIAG

147 notes · View notes

orcasoul · 4 months

Text

Twelve Days of Christmas

Summery: Joel hates the Christmas period in Jackson. Too many memories of Christmases with his late daughter weigh down on his grieving heart. He wants no part of something so pointless in a broken world, that is until a chance encounter helps him to begin healing.

Warnings: Angst, grieving lost loved ones, no specified age of reader, fluff, no use of Y/N.

Italics indicate inward thinking.

The delicate dance of fluttering snowflakes pervaded the frigid air, a definite reminder of Winter's icy reign. But for the residents of Jackson the air held more than just frozen ice crystals. Hope and love infused the very atmosphere and the metaphorical warmth that comes with them can thaw even the most hardened and closed off hearts. This is a time when the thriving community can really appreciate the life they have created in this decimated and cursed world. Here within the safe walls of Jackson a remnant of the past lives on with twinkling fairy lights, stretching from one side of the main street to the other, the aromas of different festive baked goods drifting on the breeze and the joyous laughter of children and parents congregating around the brightly lit Christmas tree. The spirit of Christmas had managed to survive despite the devastating ravage of Cordyceps and the people of Jackson would never take this for granted, everyone filled with the determination to embrace the festive season and the joy and magical element it brings. All except for one quiet and brooding man.

*****

The welcomed amber liquid slid down Joel's throat, warming every inch it touched on it's way to his stomach. After a freezing cold patrol shift there was no better way to unwind than with a glass of fiery bourbon and a quiet conversation with his brother. "Another?" Tommy asked as he got up from the table and grabbed both glasses. "Sure," Joel replied while stretching back in his seat. While Tommy waited at the bar Joel's eyes wandered around the room. Holly wreaths, garlands, Fairy lights and handmade paper chains graced the Tipsy Bison, along with some old and tatty Christmas ornaments and decorations that had been found over the years. It still seemed like a foreign concept to him; Christmas, in this world. For twenty years it had been a distant memory of another life, another reality. In the QZ's Joel had lived in no one had the time or energy for such trivial celebrations. Just getting through each dreary day was enough of a challenge.

But for the first time in two decades he has no choice but to begrudgingly endure the 'festive cheer' that thrummed through the town. He'd been dreading this time all year, if he was being honest with himself. Watching parents and children get excited brought painful memories to the forefront of Joel's mind; Sarah's little hands, oh so carefully placing ornaments on the tree, a gleeful giggle as he would pick her up to place the star at the top, soft hair bouncing as she would excitedly race down the stairs on Christmas morning with Joel rushing behind her, warning her not to trip. But as soon as these memories began he'd shut them down, try to focus on something, anything else other than the soul crushing sorrow and anguish that came from losing his baby girl. Joel is snapped from his thoughts as Tommy places the glasses down on the table with a thunk and sits down.

"Merry Christmas," Tommy smiled while tilting his tumbler in Joel's direction. "Hmf..." Joel scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Really?" Just hearing that sentence again sounded so absurd. "Really," Tommy asserted. "We're really lucky here, you know that? The rest of the world has gone to shit but we're thriving out here. To outsider's it probably would seem pointless, even frivolous, but to have some semblance of normalcy is more important now than it ever has been." Joel looked at Tommy as if he'd grown two heads! Tommy let out a small sigh and smiled. "This..." he waved his hand at the decorations, "means so much more than Christmas to everyone here. It's a chance to appreciate who and what we have left after.... everything." "Mhmm..." Joel grunted while chugging back some of his whiskey, wishing he could have the same optimistic outlook on life that his baby brother has. "Which reminds me..." Tommy slapped Joel enthusiastically on the shoulder, "Maria and I would love to have you and Ellie over for Christmas dinner."

You've got to be kidding, was Joel's immediate thought and even though he tried to hide his thought's he knew his face was betraying him right now. "I'm not sure-" Joel began but Tommy cut him off, "If not for you, then do it for Ellie. I'm sure she's never experienced a real Christmas in her life and that kid deserves it." Oh, Tommy knew just how to soften Joel up (if you could call it that). Joel knew Tommy was right. Even if he wanted nothing to do with the holiday, he owed it to Ellie and damn it, he's gonna make sure she has a great first Christmas. With a huff Joel relented, "Sure, we'll be there." "Great!" Tommy was beaming like a Cheshire cat and it was more than Joel could tolerate. He downed the rest of his whiskey, reaching for his coat as he stood. "See ya tomorrow, little brother." "See ya," Tommy chirped as he made his way over to a table with some of his fellow patrolmen. Joel normally wouldn't leave so early but he'd genuinely had more than enough 'Christmas Spirit' to last him the rest of his life.

At least at home he could keep it away, shut it out like it's not even happening. A blast of cold air hit Joel's lungs like an iron fist as he made his way onto the street. He instinctively zipped his coat up tightly around him, shoving his hands into the deep pockets. Snowflakes gently fell on and around him, soaking into the thickness of his winter coat, his hair starting to feel a little damp, while the cold pinched at his nose and cheeks. The lights of the Christmas tree were unmissable as he strolled closer towards it on his way home. Trying his best to ignore it, he trudged on through the freshly fallen snow, noticing how the crunch of ice under his boots filled the air. Soon, however, the crunching was accompanied by..... singing? One lone voice, full of depth and emotion, sweetly serenading the night air. As he got closer the word's became clear.

"Oh holy night The stars are brightly shining It is the night Of our dear Savior's birth Long lay the world In sin and error pining Till He appeared and the soul felt it's worth a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn......"

Joel subconsciously slowed his pace until he came to a complete stop. The longer he listened to you the more captivated he became. He doesn't know why but he longs to hear more, so he stays stock still, absorbing every emotion emanating from you. Puffs of warm breath collide with the cold air as well as your words. This is your favourite Christmas carol. Even though you weren't sure if you even believed in any kind of deity anymore, this carol always held a special place in your heart. Maybe because it was your mother's favourite too, and you can still feel a connection with her every time you sing it. Every word, every note resonating deep within your soul, filling you with both the warmth of past memories and the sadness for all you've lost. As you finish singing, you slowly step toward the tree, delicately holding the star shaped hanging plaque, dangling on the branch in front of you. A warm tear slips down your cheek as you kiss it tenderly and whisper "Merry Christmas." In the distance you hear the crunch of boots on snow and turn in the direction of the noise, but all you see is a man walking away into the night.

******

Another patrol done and another evening at the bar to 'warm up my old bones' as Joel once put it. As Tommy babbled on about the various activities the town had organised throughout the month, Joel's mind wandered to you, the woman with the ethereal and delicate voice. A voice with so much conviction, that had embedded itself into his very essence. If truth be told, he hadn't thought about much else all day. He would have been able to sense your longing and sadness, even if it hadn't been evident in your tone. And the way you kissed... whatever that was .... it clearly held a poignant and significant meaning for you. He can't explain why he feels this pull towards you, and he hopes you'll be there again tonight. Making his way down the quiet street, he listens carefully and sure enough a sweet voice drifted on the chilly breeze, beckoning him once again.

"O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree, How lovely are your branches. O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree, How lovely are your branches. Not only green in summer’s heat, But also winter’s snow and sleet. O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, How lovely are your branches..."

Joel hadn't realised he'd moved closer to you until you'd finished. You were like a siren, drawing him to his melodic death. He watched you place another heartfelt kiss to the tree ornament and utter those same words from the night before. But before he could gather his thoughts and walk away, you unexpectedly turned, locking eyes with him in the dim light. "Oh crap!" you jumped, placing your hand on your chest, surprised by the audience you unknowingly had. "Oh, you scared me," You laughed, lightheartedly. Joel was like a deer in headlights! "S...sorry," he began, his heart racing, "I didn't mean to scare ya..... I .... shouldn't have been.... sorry!" He awkwardly looked at the ground and turned to leave. "It's okay," You reassured him. "I just didn't realise anyone was listening." You smiled at him and his heart literally skipped a beat. Not only is your voice serene, you are breathtakingly beautiful, too. Soft eyes, welcoming him to share your space, a smile so pure and dazzling, he almost forgot to breathe. "I wasn't.... uh.... I mean .... I was but .... I shouldn't have. M'sorry," he stuttered as he felt his face flush as red as the Christmas lights.

"No, really, it's okay," you repeated as you walked a little closer to him. The poor guy seemed so uncomfortable and embarrassed that you instantly warmed up to him. Upon closer inspection you thought you'd recognised his face. "Your Tommy's brother, right?" you asked softly, hoping to ease his nerves. "Joel," he nodded. You introduced yourself and held out your hand. Joel looked a bit taken aback at your kind and civilised gesture. Most people greeted him with gunshots or threats of violence before coming to Jackson. After a moment he took your hand and shook it. It was cold but so soft and small in his palm. "Nice to meet you, Joel," you beamed. Joel didn't know what had come over him. He suddenly felt like he was back in high school, talking somewhat awkwardly to his first ever crush. What the hell! Get it together, man. "Listen...um...again I'm sorry-" "Why do you keep apologising?" You asked him with a slight smirk. "I dunno.... it just probably wasn't right of me to listen in like that." He felt like a child trying to explain his way out of trouble.

"Then why did you?" you quizzed in mock admonishment, arms crossed over your chest and one eyebrow raised. Joel's words became lodged in his throat and he just stared at you. You'd better cut him some slack before he has a damn heart attack! "I'm kidding, Joel. Honestly, it's fine. Please stop apologising." Joel swallowed thickly and nodded his head. You turned back to look up at the tree and Joel stood beside you. "Is this your first Christmas in Jackson?" you enquired, curiously. "Yeah," Joel answered quietly. "Must be strange for you after so long..." "Yeah, you could say that," Joel drily stated. "I suppose it'll take some getting used to, the way we live here. It was hard for me at first, but eventually, you get used to it." You hope you words can offer some sort of comfort. "I just don't think this whole Christmas thing is for me anymore." Joel's confession surprised him. He doesn't even know you and yet he feels compelled to reveal a part of his heart to you.

"You'll be with your family though," you began with a warm smile, "your brother and your daughter." Joel's expression slightly hardened at your last word and you feared you had overstepped. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry," you apologised but Joel offered a reassuring smile, knowing there's no way you could know that Ellie isn't actually his and he's still very much in mourning for his daughter. "It's fine. Ellie, she's.... she's like a daughter to me," he affirmed with an affectionate smile at the mention of her name. Joel could see you physically relax at his clear adoration of her. "Has she ever had the chance to celebrate Christmas before?" you asked while looking at the snowflakes reflecting the different lights from the tree as they fell past it. "I don't think so." There was a hint of sadness to his voice. "Then she's very lucky to have family around her now, especially for her first Christmas." Joel could tell there was pain in your words, even though you tried to sound casual.

He doesn't know what possessed him but the question passed his lips before he could wonder weather or not it would be appropriate to ask, "Is your family here with you?" You sighed, wistfully, and pointed to the wooden star hanging from the tree. "In a way," you whispered and gently cupped the decoration for Joel to see. Moving closer to get a better look, Joel could see several names written on it. His heart sank as he read every name, it becoming evident that you've lost so many people. "When I was little, for twelve days before Christmas my parents, my brothers and I would gather around our tree every night at bed time and sing a Christmas carol." Joel listened intently to you, hanging onto every word you spoke and soaking up the image of your sorrowful expression, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around you to comfort you. You continued as he stared, "I always make sure to celebrate our tradition with them every year. As long as you remember those you love, they never truly leave you."

Images of Sarah flashed across Joel's mind, bringing the same crushing grief to settle in every part of him as it always does, but at the same time your words had struck.... something within him. She deserves to be remembered, and not have her memory buried under a blanket of despair. If you could find the strength to embrace the memory of your family, maybe he could try and do the same for her. After a moment of comfortable silence you spoke, "Well, it's getting pretty cold now. I'm gonna head head home. Goodnight Joel, it was nice to meet you." "You too, darlin'. G'night," Joel replied, his southern twang emphasising the word 'darling', and making your freezing cheeks flush warm with blood. You fought the urge to look back, but Joel remained on your mind for the rest of the night.

*****

The next night as you begin your beloved tradition you hear the crunch of boots once more as Joel slowly stops beside you. While still singing you look over your shoulder to him and smile. He answers with a nod and a genuine smile that almost stops your heart. After honouring your family with another heartfelt kiss and 'Merry Christmas' you turn to fully face Joel. "I think I have a fan. Maybe I should start selling tickets," you chuckled with a wink. "I'd definitely buy one," Joel bantered back, giving you a wink of his own. You grinned and dropped your eyes bashfully. "In all seriousness though," Joel began, "Your voice is.... soothing, calming." Raising your gaze again you're so glad it's dark right now because Joel's compliments have you blushing like a schoolgirl and your tummy dancing with butterflies. How can a man you hardly know make you feel so sure and unsure at the same time? The more your eyes study his face, the more you realise just how handsome he is, even in the dark. That one dimple that appears and eyes that crinkle as he smiles.

The weathered lines that make his ruggedness all the more alluring and the mop of wavy locks that accent his face so perfectly. Does he even know just how handsome he is? Over the next few nights you found yourself enjoying Joel's company more and more. You did most of the talking (mostly about childhood Christmases and the upcoming events for the town) while Joel listened attentively. You giggled at a few of the stories Joel shared about Christmases when he and Tommy were kids but you noticed he hardly mentioned past Christmases as an adult. There was a definite air of sadness in regard to those times and you wouldn't dream of prying, but obviously something had happened that he just couldn't find peace with and that made your heart hurt for him. Everyone in this world has lost someone and Joel is no exception.

And so the nights went on; You sang and Joel listened. It was obvious that you both found comfort in each other's company, so much so that for the past few nights Joel had insisted on walking you to your door, maybe just to prolong the interaction that much longer. One night you plucked up the courage to offer Joel a coffee and to your relief he'd accepted your offer. You both drank leisurely, sipping the rich and fragrant brew on your front porch, accompanied by the dark canopy of twinkling stars and the silvery glow of the moon, illuminating the fresh blanket of snow dusting the ground. It was strange how over the course of a few nights you'd both fallen into a comfortable routine, feeling so at ease around one another, almost as if you've known each other for years. A part of Joel still couldn't believe this is his life now. He'd been so accustomed to the grim realities of the world, smuggling and scraping to get by, constantly looking over his shoulder, assuming the worst about people and trusting no one.

And yet here you are. Someone so warm and kind, so out of place in a world that doesn't deserve you, someone who'd lost so much and yet hadn't been tainted by bitterness and hate. He wished he could be more like you. You are both opposite ends of the scale; Light and dark, hot and cold. Maybe that's why you both seem to be drawn to one another. It's as if you balance each other out. On his way home that night Joel's mind couldn't deny it any longer. He cared for you, more than just a friend and he hoped there was a chance you felt the same way. Apart from Ellie, you are the only one who'd managed to crack the icy walls encasing his heart. It's because of the love you have for your family and your willingness to remember them fondly, no matter how painful it can be, that Joel has began to allow himself to visit past memories of Sarah. Of course it still hurts, but instead of finding only darkness and desolation, he's now beginning to find comfort and fleeting moments of happiness and it's all thanks to you. You had unearthed and breathed life into a part of himself that had died and been buried long, long ago. He know's he can never repay you for unknowingly teaching him to open his heart and embrace the love and happiness of the good times he had with his baby girl. He will forever be in you debt.

*****

It's Christmas eve and the last night of your tradition. Just like the past eleven nights Joel had joined you, seemingly lost in bittersweet reminiscence as you sang Silent Night. After wishing your family a 'Merry Christmas' and gracing them with another kiss, you turn back to Joel, who's standing behind you, holding a plaque of wood he had carved into the shape of angel wings. He slowly stands next to you and places a drawn out kiss to to the decoration and hangs it next to yours on the tree. You read the names; Sarah, Tess. Without having to ask Joel began, "Tess was.... a friend. My dearest friend. She was like family." You offer a small smile and an understanding nod and in a quiet voice you ask, "And Sarah? Who was she?" A moment of silence passes and a tiny smile tugs at the corners of Joel's lips, while his eyes glisten with unshed tears. "My daughter." His voice was barely a whisper at that point. His smile disappeared altogether with his next sentence. "She died on outbreak day.... in my arms." "Oh Joel....," you reached for his hand to give it a comforting squeeze. "I'm so sorry."

Every fibre of your being longed to take him in your arms and comfort him. No parent should ever have to watch their child die. He squeezed your hand back and then looked into your eyes which are now filled with tears for him. "I'm sorry for your loss, too." You both just smile softly at each other, still holding hands. Joel clears his throat. "Ya know, if it wasn't for you I would never have been able to honour their memories like this. You given me the strength to remember what I feel for them and not push them away." His voice is slightly quavering as he turns back to look at the plaque. "It's like you said, as long as you remember those you love, they never truly leave you. And now when I think of them I feel closer to them. You have no idea what you've given back to me and I just want to say.... thank you," He gushed the last two words out, feeling that just saying thank you would never be enough. A tear slips down your cheek, all the while your heart feels like it's going to burst with the warmth and affection you feel towards this man. You smile and close your eyes, only to open them again in surprise as Joel's thick thumb faintly wipes the tear from your cold cheek.

His own eyes look ready to burst but he manages to hold the tears back. You can't help but focus on his eyes, feeling like you could get lost in them for eternity. "I'm glad I could help you, Joel," you smiled fondly. "You deserve some peace." And with that you wrap your arms around his waist and hug him tightly, pressing your head into his thick and soft coat. Joel returns the gesture, wrapping one arm around your upper back and the opposite hand cradling the back of your head. You both stay interlocked for a few minutes, enjoying the comforting and intimate embrace. A shiver runs up your spine, which Joel feels and mistakenly believes is a result of the brisk winter air. Oh, if only he knew! "Let's get you home where it's warm, darlin'," he insisted in a low rumble beside your ear. He held your hand the whole way to your house.

As you both reach your front porch Joel gingerly tugs your hand to make you face him. He suddenly seems a little nervous. "I....uh... I'd like to invite you to Christmas dinner tomorrow at Tommy's .... if you'd like," he quickly adds at the end, looking a bit flustered. Joel notices your eyes light up for moment before you try to hide it behind a cool facade. "Oh, thank you, but I wouldn't want to impose-" "You could never impose," Joel states passionately. "We'd love to have you." His expressive eyes are enough to convince you that he means every word and it makes your tummy flip. "Well in that case, I'd love to join you," you replied with a beaming smile, stretching from ear to ear and Joel realised in that moment that he could never see enough of your beautiful smile. "Great. I'll call for you just before noon tomorrow." His own smile now reflects your own. "Sweet dreams," Joel whispered softly and released your hand. "You too," You blushed. "Goodnight Joel."

*****

You're greeted by the tantalising aroma of turkey and roast vegetables as you walk through the door of Tommy's house and you are instantly transported back to the days of your childhood Christmases. Your mother fussing in the kitchen, your dad setting the table while you and your brothers excitedly play with your new toys. You vividly remember the smell being exactly the same. Joel takes your coat as Tommy and Maria greet you both and thank you for coming. Not knowing what presents to give to everyone, you'd decided to bake some cookies and mince pies, and even had enough fruit left over to make a small Christmas cake, hoping they would be well received. "I wasn't sure what everyone liked so I baked some festive treats. My gift to you all." you offered with a kind smile. "Thank you," Maria replied opening the lids of the containers you brought, "They smell amazing!" "Well I for one can't wait for dessert now!" Tommy declared, while eyeing up the goods enthusiastically. Joel leads you into the living room as Tommy leaves to get you a drink and Maria checks on the dinner.

You smile as you notice a teenage girl sitting on the rug playing with Joel's niece. "Hi," Ellie beams at you as she gets up and walks towards you. "Hi," you reply cheerfully. "You must be Joel's..." you trail off, uncertain of how to finish that sentence. "Ellie," she interjected happily. "I'm Joel's Ellie." She looked at Joel with a playful grin. Joel smiled back at her with the adoring look only a parent can give. "I'm happy to finally meet you. Joel hasn't shut up about you," Ellie revealed with a wink. You feel your cheeks heat up as Joel gently chastises her. You can't help but quietly chuckle as you hear the eye roll in his voice. Christmas dinner couldn't have been more perfect; The table adorned with a gold coloured runner, old and faded Christmas themed place mats (obviously a scavenging find that had seen better days but that just made them all the special in your eyes), but what really surprised you was the addition of Christmas crackers.

"Where did you get these?" yous ask in wonderment. "I made them," Ellie stated with pride. "They don't crack but I made some paper crowns and wrote down some of my favourite shitty puns." "I'm impressed," you declared with a grin, to which Ellie smugly accepts your praise. The Dinner was nothing short of sublime and the company was just the 'cherry on the top'. It had been a few years since you got to share Christmas day with another soul, after the death of your mother. She was all you had left in the world after the outbreak. In a way you were thankful that she went peacefully, instead of being taken by cordyceps or raiders, but you still missed her deeply, especially at Christmas time. Looking around the table you feel blessed to be a part of this family's celebration. Everyone seemed to be revelling in the festive spirit. Even Joel seemed.... lighter. He laughed with Tommy, shook his head amusedly at Ellie as she entertained the baby and smiled at you endlessly. Oh, that smile made your heart leap every time!

He came across as quite reserved and brooding when you first met him but tonight the conversation between you both seemed to flow like smooth honey. You'd noticed at one point how Tommy and Ellie kept looking at you and Joel and then to each other with sneaky grins that showed that they both knew something you didn't, and you hoped that maybe they were right in their assumptions. After Dinner, Maria put the baby down for a nap while Tommy started the washing up. Both you and Joel offered to help but Tommy insisted that as his guests you were to go and relax in the living room. You sat next to Joel enjoying the warmth that naturally radiated off of him. His arm stretched over the back of the settee, you subconsciously lean into his side, slightly. It's intimate and cosy and Joel doesn't seem to mind the closeness. In fact, your sure you'd felt him move a fraction closer to you. "This has been so wonderful, Joel. Thank you for inviting me today," you purred, feeling the most at ease you have in a long time.

"It's been lovely having you here, darlin'," Joel found himself taking in every minute detail of your face now that you were so close to him. Beautiful just isn't enough to describe you! His eyes momentarily flicked to your lips and he couldn't help but wonder if they'd feel as soft as they look pressed against his. A moment of silent looking passed between you both before he cleared his throat and reached over the arm of the settee. When he turned back around he was holding a small present in his hands. "I hope it's okay, I got ya a little somethin'," Joel said in a delicate whisper as he held out the wrapped gift to you. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise for a moment and you then felt your expression soften at his thoughtful gesture. "Oh, you didn't have to do that...," you begin as you slowly take the gift and begin to unwrap it. After removing the paper you open the lid of a small rectangle box and find a pair of thick, cream coloured gloves. A smile instantly creeps across your face as you look up at Joel who's watching you with soft eyes.

"All those nights I noticed you never wore any gloves and were always rubbing your hands to try and warm them up, so I wanted to make sure you had a good thick pair. I know it's not much-" "Joel it's perfect," you cut him off with a wobble in your voice. It has been so long since anyone had done anything so nice for you. If truth be told you'd been desperate for a new pair of gloves and the fact he'd noticed brought an emotional lump to your throat. "I love them! Thank you." You gave Joel a hug, hoping he could feel every emotion you were throwing into it just for him. Before another word could be spoken between the two of you, Ellie called out from the passageway, asking you both to come and 'see something'. As you approach next to Joel you look up to see what has caught Ellie's attention. "Can either of you remind me...," she started but couldn't keep the obvious amusement out of her voice, "isn't there a kind of tradition with mistletoe?" "Uh...," Joel faltered. You shook your head and laughed quietly at Ellie's not so subtle attempt at matchmaking. "That's right!..." she clicked her fingers and pointed at it dramatically. "You kiss under the mistletoe!"

She looks at you both with a huge shit eating grin. "What's that Tommy?" she shouts a second later, "you need help with the dishes? Coming." You can hear her giggle as she walks towards the kitchen. You turn to Joel trying to hide your mirth. "I'm uh... sorry if she embarrassed you," Joel mumbled, while twitching his fingers as if he didn't know how to diffuse the awkwardness. You suddenly felt a surge of boldness and decided to take the plunge, so to speak. "Well, she's right. It is tradition and I for one would hate to break it." Joel's whole uncertain and awkward demeanour appeared to melt away as he realised exactly what you were saying. You both turn to face each other, chests almost bumping. You lightly run your hands up his arms until you reach his shoulders. At the same time Joel gently wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to his body. God, he really is the most handsome man you've ever seen. Your eyes rove over his salt and pepper curls, down the strong curve of his nose and settle on his plush, bow shaped lips.

Lips that are screaming to be kissed. Joel leans in, his eyes never leaving yours until the moment they close. You close the gap and shut your eyes. His lips feel like a warm breeze, dancing delicately over yours. You bring your hands up to his neck, playing with the wavy locks at the nape. Joel's hands grip your hips slightly firmer as if he never wants to let go. He'd never imagined you would ever reciprocate his feelings. He knows for sure he doesn't deserve such a sweet and caring woman like you but now that he's found you he wants nothing more than to make you happy, keep you safe and protected, make you his. He deepens the kiss, 'testing the waters' to see if you'd allow him more. You happily part your lips to receive his tongue, albeit modestly as you remember there are other's in the house. After a few more moments of tender exploration you hear two hushed voices exclaim "Yesss!" and the telltale sounds of palms slapping a 'high five'. You and Joel pull away at the same time, laughing at the childish antics of Ellie and Tommy, while keeping an ardent gaze on each others faces. "Merry Christmas, Joel," you gush as your heart and pulse continue to race. Joel strokes the side of your head, following the length of your hair down to your shoulder, looking at you with eyes full of adoration. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

#pedro pascal #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller x you #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fanfiction

13 notes · View notes