#he had a tear in his beak that i had to sew back together

[1800titz]

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

[vianthegryphonart]

I don’t normally do horror themes, and I don’t think my art style really suits it, but I’ve really been enjoying @hootbon's Freakshow!AU, and I wanted to try my hand at putting Grif into it. I actually had been struggling trying to figure out how I wanted Grif to look normally, and took a break from it to sketch an idea for this AU. I ended up loving the sketch that became the full-body image here, and then I worked backwards from it to make the regular Grif design. 

There’s more info about Freakshow!Grif under the cut. As well as a little sketch of him interacting with Freakshow!Gangle.

-Instead of a plush, he’s based on the fake taxidermy that freakshows would sometimes display, claiming that they were mythical creatures. 

  -Compared to his normal form, this Grif is made up of more parts, the front half of his body, the back half, the tail, his forearms and his head all being separate. And unlike how his normal form is fairly uniform over all his parts, each of Freakshow!Grif’s parts are different with things like fur length, fur texture, and the shades of grey varying. Other differences are as follows:

Instead of furred forelegs and cat-like forepaws, this Grif has scaled bird legs and talons.

The claws on Grif’s front feet are now actual claws, curved and sharp, and he also has them on his back feet too.

His beak isn’t plush and is instead a hard material with a serrated edge.

He also has teeth inside his beak. These teeth are almost like a second jaw, he can bite down with them while still keeping his beak open. The teeth themselves are needle sharp and slightly recurved.

Instead of embroidered eyes, he now has glass taxidermy eyes, with black sclera and pupils that are always elliptical.

-He doesn’t have much damage to his body because generally if something attacks him it will tear him apart by breaking the stitches holding him together, rather than by making new holes in him. He does have a notch in his left ear though.

-Grif is often used in shows where they need a wild animal. Sometimes that could mean acting like a circus big cat, balancing on objects, leaping through hoops of fire, that sort of thing. But it could also mean being a danger for others to face, for instance I could imagine someone having to walk a tightrope with Grif prowling underneath ready to maul them if they fall, maybe even him jumping up to snap at their feet.

-He used to only do the bare minimum in shows, not really feeling motivated to do them, and generally just not wanting to bother. Caine punished Grif for this by having his wings torn off. After all, if Grif was going to be lazy and not use them properly, he didn’t deserve to have them. Grif puts as much effort as he can into his performances now. He still does the bare minimum when he isn’t in front of the audience, though.

-When not performing, Grif is generally very chill. He prefers to lounge around and not do much. Grif doesn’t really socialize with anyone, he’s not one for conversation, but he also doesn’t like being on his own, and will often just flop down near where other people are and watch or listen to whatever they’re doing. Outside of performances, Grif isn’t particularly aggressive, however he will defend himself if someone tries to hurt him or annoys him too much.

-Grif despises being restrained, and anything that makes it hard for him to move normally will put him into a panic-induced rage. He will fight tooth and nail to free himself, even if that means injuring himself to escape, he absolutely would chew his own foot off to escape from a bear trap. He will also lash out at anyone that gets close to him, even if they are trying to help him, everyone is a threat to him when he's trapped.

-Relationship with other cast members: 

Likes Ragatha (she sometimes helps sew him up when his stitches get broken). 

Neutral with Gangle, Zooble, Kinger, Pomni, and Kaufmo. 

Dislikes Jax and AIngle (since I think both would have tried to mess with him by restraining/trapping him at least a couple of times).

Hates Caine (for obvious reasons).

-And here’s a little sketch I did of Gangle and Grif fighting after Grif accidentally broke AIngle’s mask. Grif is not going to win this fight, it’s fairly easy to tear him apart, but he won’t go down without a fight. Gangle will probably be nursing a shredded ribbon or two afterwards.

#Grif #gryphon #tadc oc #freakshow!au #Gangle #personal art

[skeletalheartattack]

favorie animal?

opossums if i had to wager!!! just look at these beasts... they're the sweetest little beeboos you ever done did see i say...

#ask #anon #theyre so precious... #they got they little fingerless gloves... they fuzzy coats... and they dark eyeshadow... #plus they look very silly when the whites of their eyes are shown #plus they can hold things in their hands cause they got thumbs :) #hard to say what my second fav animal would be #i love big dogs. lova saint bernard.... #OH perhaps platypus #i love those beasts too. theyre so weird its cool... #you got a duck bill. a beaver tail. you lay eggs. and youve got poisonous claws? #dude omg youre so animal.... #i have an old purple platypus plush from looong ago #basically my brother went out with his friend to some place and won it from a crane game #but the friend left it at our house and never came back for it so i kept it #he use to be very fuzzy appearently. i looked up what he originally looked like and. yeah hes been through some things #he had a tear in his beak that i had to sew back together #i was around the age of 9 or so... so my sewing job wasnt the best #like the fabric is pinched in with how i sewed it back together #i used some pink string i think so it was very noticable #THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!!! #i almost typed ''thank you for the possum'' #theyre in my mind girls... the opossums.... #all i can hear is snif snif snif snif snif snif snif snif snif snif snif

[teaandgames]

The Summer of Demos

As summer gets into its stride and the heat begins to rise, it’s nice to know that Steam at least is looking out for us. It started a Steam Game Festival this month, full of demos to try. I had a flick through the pages and picked up six, mostly at random, to try. It’s quite a mixed bag so I thought I’d give my thoughts. First up is…

Ghostrunner

Not sure what the ghost part of Ghostrunner is going to turn out to be (presumably the protagonist or the big scary face at the end of it) but I’ll be damned if it didn’t feel like the ghost of Mirror’s Edge. Five seconds in and I was wallrunning all over the place. It felt pretty good, particularly as you can naturally chain together wallruns. It was pretty satisfying to jump, wallrun and then slash.

Speaking of slashing, the combat is pretty nifty too. Despite being first person and full of parkour, the thing it reminds me of most is Hotline Miami. You die in one hit but so do your foes, so it’s a case of getting your sword to flesh before your robotic bodice is riddled with bullets. Parkour plays a big part in that, as enemies are firing flashy futuristic bullets that move a little slow, plus you can slow things down even more while in the air. You can even dodge left and right, which is a bit funky.

It presents a pretty nice image of a man firing desperately at a blur only to be sliced into ribbons. Rather perplexingly though, you can only use this power while in the air. That leads to a lot of bunny hopping in combat, particularly when more than one opponent is in the mix. What doesn’t help is the rather drab level design. It’s cyberpunk but in the Hard Reset way of being set in rather dull surroundings. Hopefully that’s just confined to the demo and things get a bit more interesting in the main game. Ghostrunner Developer: One More Level, 3D Realms, Slipgate Ironworks Release Date: 2020

For The People

Bit of an odd one this one. For The People puts you into the shoes of a politician who’s just been installed as the mayor of an eastern bloc city called Iron-1. As you might expect, it’s an old industrial town that’s fallen on hard times, mostly due to the previous mayor's actions. It’s your role to bring it back up to code, especially now that the party is going through some restructuring. While I doubt our new mayor’s role is entirely voluntary, he seems to take it in good spirits.

His day is a busy one. He starts off sitting down with lobbyists from various sectors of the city: police, firemen, health, etc. Of course, budgets are not going to stretch to shoring up all of them so your first being decision is who gets the bucks. I went with the police - figuring that they’d be good to have on my side - and the fire service. Because a burned down city is not worth being a mayor of. After that, you make a number of smaller decisions each day about where to divert funding, whether to allow this or that and general decisions that keep things ticking over.

It’s a promising start but For The People is very rough around the edges. The translation from Russian isn’t foolproof, for example, leading to many awkward sentences and others that straight up don’t make sense. It’s a little worrying to see in a demo, which is after all supposed to sell your game. Hopefully they get a bit of cash to spend on the localisation aspect. It also has a few design issues, for one thing it’s hard to tell who’s speaking at times. The art style - being the requisite grey - also doesn’t excite much. The cutscenes are done in an odd, drawn-by-hand style that doesn’t quite fit. Interesting premise, wonky execution it looks like. For the People Developer: Brezg Studio Publisher: 101XP Release Date: 2020

INMOST

If you’ve followed me for any length of time then you’ll have noticed that I’m a pretty pretentious guy and so tend to navigate towards pretentious games. Truth is, I very rarely have any idea what they’re on about. I feel like that’s going to be the case with INMOST, a game ostensibly about loss but is mainly full of scary black goo monsters. In its defense though, it is doing a lot more with itself than throwing around goo.

It opens with a girl escaping a room. She falls out of a grate and hobbles her way to the front door, while light bursts through the room behind her. Then, before we know it, we’re in the shoes of a bloke exploring a goo-filled nightmare world. At one point we see him as an old man, hobbling down steps and petting cats. What’s going on? Who knows. But I do know it’s genuinely unnerving. Both in setting and because of the weird things that happen. Like the spindly bloke with a mask for a face. Didn’t enjoy my time with him.

The INMOST demo doesn’t give too much away but it seems to juggling quite a few balls. We end the demo playing as a bloke with a sword and grappling hook, which was rather unexpected. Presumably it all ties together and, I must admit, it does have me rather hooked. The platforming, however, is a bit awkward. You jump in a fairly rigid arc, which led to a lot of trial and error when trying to navigate the heavily goo filled levels. Still, I imagine in a title like this, we’re in more for the atmosphere than for the sick jumps. INMOST Developer: Hidden Layer Games Publisher: Chucklefish Release Date: 2020

Hello Guest

You know it didn’t click for a long time that this is meant to be a companion game of sorts to Hello Neighbour, a game about breaking into our neighbours house to find out what’s in the basement. I’ve not played that game but it did explain why Hello Guest has some impressive visuals to it for an alpha. It’s even got an intro cutscene where our doofus protagonist clocks into his job as night watchman at an abandoned amusement park. It may not seem like a necessary job but apparently everyone hates this park.

Your job is to patrol around scaring away the masked vandals who will drop down into the park with the express mission of kicking it to pieces. They must’ve made the stands out of the ends of matches because they burst into flames real quick. You basically have to jog around with your torch and flashlight, scaring them away and using your paycheck to buy more supplies. All the while avoiding the creepy beak man who runs around the park. He’s your biggest threat and where the horror comes from.

It’s a self-learning AI, supposedly, so the more you chase him away the smarter he gets. Certainly, he got better at hiding from me, culminating in a moment where I placed a camera, checked the screen and just got the chance to see him tearing up behind me. Sounds nice but the truth is that I really don’t find Hello Guest scary. It could be the screechy, static-like sound that bird boy emits - ensuring you know his location at all times - or it could be that the core gameplay loop is just kinda dull. It’s a midnight stroll full of booting vandals and staring at birdboy. I ended up rather bored, I’m afraid. Hello Guest Developer: tinyBuild Release date: Unknown

Touch Type Tale

I went into Touch Type Tale with a huge amount of skepticism. It billed itself as a typing-based RTS and that was a strange marriage to me. RTS games require you to think of about three things at once and the mouse is the perfect conduit for that. Quick click and you’re done. Typing is a more laborious process and requires you to think about the word. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work though. So well that it’s the only one of these games that I added straight to my wishlist.

Touch Type Tale’s missions are split between resource gathering and battling. To gather resources you have to head to the mine, start your cart and then type out the words on the veins. Then you gotta type more words to hire workers or sew the farms to make money during the night. All while the enemy is bearing down on you. So you better type up some barracks. There’s a lot to do but Touch Type Tale simplifies things. The only resource is money and troops build automatically once you have enough cash. That simplification allows you to keep on top of things.

Warfare is similarly streamlined. Once you have your guys, you type the word on the road you want them to go to. Pitched warfare really racks up your words-per-minute as you coordinate your front line while trying to get reinforcements on the move too. Units such as cavalry also bring in flanking bonuses, so you can split troops up for the pincer movement. For such an original premise, Pumpernickel Studio seemed to have pulled it off rather well. It’s even got an interesting plot, though things like writing polish and voice acting are still waiting for completion. They’ve got time. I’ll be waiting!

Oh and this is quite possibly the pettiest gripe I’ve ever indulged but the title to me is so dry. It’s a bit too on the nose. Better to have an exciting title as the bait and the intriguing core mechanic as the hook. Touch Type Tale Developer: Pumpernickel Studios Release Date: 2020

Trepang2

Now I know every person who played the Trepang2 demo said the same thing but I’ll add my voice to the crowd: it really does feel like F.E.A.R. Whether or not you found F.E.A.R scary, you have to admit it had pretty sexy gunplay. Bullets felt like they propper impact both on the enemies and on you. Not many games really captured that after F.E.A.R - at least ones where you weren’t fighting demons. The Trepang2 demo does it pretty well, with a reasonable selection of guns to do it with. I love the shotgun, I love it a lot.

It also has the slow-mo gimmick from F.E.A.R which is just as fun here, especially combined with the fact that you can grab people to use as human shields. Add in the cloaking mechanic and boy you have some good gunplay. Go invisible, sneak behind a guy and grab him as your human shield then slow mo. Shoot all of his friends at your leisure, with the measly few bullets they can get out thudding into your human shield. Then, when you’re done, snap your meatshield’s neck and go about your day. Nice.

Unfortunately, the gunplay really is all the demo has going for it. It’s set in boring, white painted rooms for the most part, with very little divergence unless you count a few offices. It feels like it’s been constructed entirely out of stock assets, which doesn’t give me much hope for the full game. Nor does the enemy AI at the moment, which often has bad guys staring into walls, snappable necks exposed, or bundled up on a door. It also, at one point, pulls a hallucination section out of its arse which also worries me. I hope it doesn’t fly too close to F.E.A.R. Trepang2 Developer: Trepang Studios Release Date: TBD

Well that’s the demo round-ups and honestly, it was (mostly) all good. I’m more excited for some than others but it’s good to know that, despite everything going on, there is still a lot of talent doing good work out there.

#Trepang2 #Touch Type Tale #Hello Guest #INMOST #For the People #Ghostrunner #Demo #Steam #Article #Gaming #Games #Video Games #Tea and Video Games

[riviae]

@domusaeternitatis requested angsty hansa headcanons so i am here to deliver (but i also did sneak some fluffy hc’s in too!!): 

Geralt: 

geralt’s ability to use a crossbow in tw3 is due to training he received from milva in the books 

he lost his headband during the stygga castle fight. & even after he regained his memories, he didn’t want to style his hair like that anymore... angouleme used to tease him about his headband/hair-style even tho she wore a headband too. it’s just another one of geralt’s old aches from the past that he tries to ignore.

the first night he crawled into his bed at corvo bianco (so pre-regis reunion), he had a dream that the hansa visited him. he saw milva & regis in the meadow, basking in the warm summer weather, a book between them as regis taught milva to read. milva looked confused at some points, but was earnestly trying & geralt saw a spark of excitement in her eyes when she was able to read an entire page in common speech. he saw angouleme petting one of the cats that made the estate its home--which turned into about 30 stray cats when she pulled out a few pieces of leftover fish from her rucksack, causing a general ruckus as she was so apt to do. he saw cahir sitting in the shade of the tree that overlooks geralt’s property. his hair was shorter, the scars from his incident with the hatchet peeking out from underneath his dark locks. he looked a bit older, perhaps even wiser as he watched the clouds float by. when he makes eye contact with the witcher, cahir gives a small smile. he even sees dandelion. between them there is a small wooden table and a few empty wine glasses. it looks like they’re in the middle of a game of gwent, which ends with dandelion forfeiting the match before he loses, opting to pull out his lute & sing. it’s a silly toussaint nursery rhyme, something geralt had heard children singing as they played in the fields, but soon, the gentle melody washes over the estate as everyone joins in--including geralt himself. when he later wakes to an empty house, a deep sense of melancholy burrows itself into his chest. a longing for something that could never be...

stress is the #1 trigger for his knee injury to flare up. despite the warm climate of toussaint otherwise helping with his general aches & pains, if he comes across a place where he & his hansa had visited before, it often sends him into a fit of sudden & blinding pain. on his worst days, he has to use a cane to get around. 

Regis: 

regis really did all the odd jobs as the barber-surgeon of the group. from haircuts to dressing wounds, regis also found himself mending clothing (with geralt’s help--as he too was able to assist in sewing holes shut or fixing busted chainmail). which suited regis just fine; he preferred domestic tasks over fighting, having seen enough bloodshed at the battle for the bridge. it wasn’t until stygga castle that he truly fought again

while he didn’t fight often, he did spar & train with the rest of the hansa (minus dandelion of course). given his agility, stamina, & regeneration, he acted as a great sparring partner. with milva, he stayed mostly in his smoke form, only reappearing for a few seconds to give her a chance to hit him w/ an arrow as they both ran through the forest to work on her accuracy & stamina. he often sparred with geralt & cahir at the same time, letting both swordsmen lunge at him. it helped them learn to fight & cooperate together as well as improved their general ability to communicate w/ others in the midst of battle. angouleme was more curious about regis’ vampiric powers than anything else, knowing full well that she was much more of a sneak-behind-someone’s-back-and-stab them kind of fighter--something that would be otherwise impossible when sparring with a higher vampire. instead, regis taught angouleme about different powers that higher vampires could possess & was the only one who saw regis’ bat form before stygga castle. 

the first thing regis did upon regenerating enough that his mental faculties returned was to determine the fate of his friends. the ravens we see in the base-game are regis’ & upon hearing that, at the very least, geralt, yen, and ciri survived stygga castle (and that dandelion was still alive too), immense relief washed over him. it was only later that he let himself mourn--& he mourned in the most human way he knew: despite having abstained from alcohol before, he had a drink for each of his fallen comrades. alone, he spoke of his favorite memories of his friends. times that bonded them together, that made it so they were family. he reminisced for an entire night, voice growing hoarse as the sun rose & he gave his final farewell. 

definitely a headcanon i’ve seen floating about, but during his period of regeneration, regis begins using his ravens more often; they become his eyes & ears in toussaint as he recovers since he can’t move around much at first. the ravens he is closest to he lovingly names after the hansa members who fell at stygga castle. perhaps even more bittersweet, but the 3 ravens (milva, cahir, and angouleme) become a family unit of sorts. while they still remain with their flock, the 3 corvids are the only ones that remain close to regis & are the first to answer his call. he always gives them extra chin scratches & fruit or grain. sometimes he even thinks he can see a spark of their personalities in the birds’ eyes. milva tends to lead the group & isn’t afraid of any of the other animals in the forest. angouleme is the most playful of the three, often pulling on the other 2 corvids’ tails or cawing loudly & repeatedly in a manner that reminds regis of laughter. cahir is generally quiet & brings up the rear of the trio, but when he senses danger, he’s the first to go swooping in, recklessly attacking whatever threatens them with his beak & claws. 

Milva: 

during their travels, milva & cahir were mostly in charge of hunting for food. while milva caught wild game, cahir fished. it became a ritual of sorts; milva would return first, then cahir. the rest of the hansa would then help prepare the food, often making soup or skewering the meat & roasting it on an open flame. despite the often meager rations split between 6 people, the food still tasted better than anything milva ate when she was alone. 

milva was also the first to readily accept regis as a friend after his true nature was revealed. when she accidentally sliced her hand a few days after regis returned to the group, she didn’t even bat an eye when regis appeared before her, having smelled her injury. “well, vampire? am i gonna live?” she asked, holding her bleeding hand out expectantly while she pressed her other hand to her hip. it was a wound she could have easily cleaned herself, but she trusted regis enough to let him tend to the cut. one bandaged hand later, milva apologized for having recoiled the first time she saw his teeth. she squeezed his shoulder in apology--the first time she had initiated contact with him since he was revealed to be a vampire--and she rolled her eyes when she noticed regis’ hand hovering at her back. “tell anyone we hugged & it’ll be the last time you get to use that hand,” she said, no real malice in her voice as she pulled the vampire into a hug. she didn’t get to see the wide, fanged grin that regis gave in return. 

as mentioned above, milva taught geralt how to better use a bow. along the way, she ended up teaching cahir, angouleme, & even dandelion too. geralt was the best at hitting far-away targets, but angouleme was downright dangerous in that she was enthused about using a bow. angouleme somehow convinced regis to let her try & land a trick-shot (an apple perched on the poor vampire’s head)... & to everyone’s surprise, she landed the shot with ease in front of the group. it was only later that milva noticed the absurd amount of holes in regis’ cape & he later confessed that he had secretly practiced with angouleme beforehand so she could make her trick-shot easily in front of everyone. 

a few weeks after her miscarriage, milva woke from a frightening nightmare--but couldn’t remember anything about it except she knew she had seen an arrow flying through the air. it was still dark when she woke, but being unable to sleep, she carefully slipped out from her bedroll & went deep into the forest, far from where they had set up camp, & climbed the tallest tree she could find, going up until she reached the uppermost branch. staring up at the stars, she took a deep breath & screamed. all the emotion she had been holding in since the battle for the bridge poured out of her in a flurry of anguished screams & angry tears at the unfairness of the universe. she screamed into the dark until she no longer felt sad--only tired. that morning, she approached the group & chopped off her braid. it was time for a change. the group needed her just as badly as she needed them--the world had never been kind to her, but she’d be damned if she gave up now, not when there was still a child that could be saved. 

Dandelion: 

dandelion often acted as the comedic relief for the group--& he knew it. did he ham up some of his actions & words to rouse a chuckle or two from his friends? yes, but it was something dandelion chose to do. he wasn’t a fighter. he couldn’t brave the fray the same way everyone else could. he was a minstrel, a bard, a poet, & he vowed to use his talents to improve morale & bring some joy to the hansa as they traveled through treacherous lands to find ciri. 

most nights he ended up playing his lute as the final embers of the campfire smoldered away. assuming he wasn’t drunk, he usually played until he was sure that everyone was asleep, though he could never quite tell if regis was truly asleep--or if the vampire even needed sleep at all. regardless, despite the selfish facade he often wore like a second skin, he did know the importance of a good night’s rest. & though he couldn’t stop the nightmares that his friends often woke from in the dead of night, he hoped his music could at least give them a few hours of blissful, dreamless sleep. 

dandelion was completely prepared to sacrifice his life to save ciri. he owed geralt that much--the witcher having been both is best friend & one of the few people who saw past his exaggerated persona. he’d even saved dandelion’s life more times then he could count. so why did he remain in toussaint when everyone else traveled to stygga castle w/ geralt? simply because geralt asked him to. before leaving, they had one final private conversation where geralt asked dandelion to stay. to remain safe. he’d gone far enough, braved enough bloodshed to last him a lifetime. geralt knew it was likely no one in the hansa would survive the events at stygga castle & he wanted, at the very least, for dandelion, his oldest friend, to survive. to survive & tell their story, no matter how it all turned out.

when regis showed up at the Chameleon one night, looking as frantic & pale as a nightwraith, dandelion actually passed out in fear & shock. when he awoke & saw that regis was truly alive, whole, & still had all his memories, dandelion cried. it was the first time he had ever hugged the vampire, but he couldn’t help it; he had accepted the fact that only geralt had survived the events of stygga castle, but regis was here, looking a tad worse for wear, but as solid & corporeal as he had been before. once regis explained why he had come to visit, needing help to get geralt out of jail & out of what would likely be a death sentence, dandelion rose to the occasion. though regis had said his help was indispensable, something that definitely stroked his ego, dandelion had been prepared to face the duchess. prepared to finally make good on his vow that he’d die for geralt if he had to--but he didn’t need someone as keen & perceptive as regis realizing that dandelion could be brave, ‘lest he be asked to perform even more heroic deeds. furthermore, dandelion had plenty of practice hiding his true intentions/feelings since he had been working as a redanian spy for some time (even if his loyalties to political powers waned from time to time). 

Cahir: 

in a perfect world, one where destiny & war did not care to know his name, he’d have lived a simple life. he never would have had as much blood on his hands, never would have used a sword to cut down people in the first place. he would have been a fisherman, selling his wares at different ports while he traveled the seas, charting his way by the stars. he would be able to have a blissful, dreamless sleep, no longer confronted with prophetic dreams about an ashen-haired woman. his name would have been left unknown, no legacy to speak of, no longer associated with the White Wolf, but it would have been worth it, if such a peaceful universe existed.

cahir was surprised to learn that dandelion and geralt weren’t fans of fishing. “it’s a long tale better suited for another night,” dandelion would say, geralt grunting in agreement. it confused cahir, as he had never seen someone so skittish of fishing like dandelion was, but he didn’t pry, knowing better than to do something that could disrupt his already tumultuous relationship with geralt. instead, he found himself teaching angouleme to fish, who took to catching fish with her bare hands surprisingly well for someone of her stature. it was like fishing with a child, cahir noted, bc every time she caught a fish, she’d holler with glee... even if she caught something as small as a minnow.

cahir appreciated how readily milva trusted him--while geralt had still insisted on seeing him as an enemy, milva had offered a metaphorical olive branch. unbeknownst to her or the rest of the hansa, cahir always tried to keep sight of milva during battle, hoping to lend a hand when he could. it was after a few months of traveling together that cahir stopped keeping track of her, believing entirely in her near-supernatural archery skills... something he regretted moments before he died at stygga castle. 

there are many times in the books where cahir is completely silent as the rest of the hansa banters. my interpretation? cahir, while being well-versed in common speech, & having the ability to speak it w/o too distinct of a nilfgaardian accent, still had some trouble understanding the group at times. regis already made translation difficult as he often said words that cahir had never heard before despite being trained in proper common speech, but then angouleme made it so much worse. her use of slang & weird phrases confused him beyond belief. so, when it got too confusing, cahir just pretended to follow the flow of conversation. sometimes he even just decided to take a nap if it got to be too confusing. 

Angouleme: 

angouleme wasn’t used to trusting people. in her life as a bandit, & even before that--when she was being raised by distant relatives who took every chance to let her know that they didn’t love her & then her hellish nightmare at the orphanage--no one had given her a reason to truly trust them. but geralt had. he asked for her freedom & allowed her to travel with him & join his hansa despite her past, despite how if they had met only weeks earlier, she would have tried to kill him without a second thought. so while she hadn’t trusted the rest of the group at first, she did trust geralt implicitly, which was enough. it was partly why she tried to raise the rest of the group’s hackles--wanting to see just how they would act towards her if she didn’t play nice. she was surprised to see that they still accepted her as a part of the hansa, even when she continued to purposefully annoy milva & regis. 

after getting to know milva, angouleme immediately started to see her as an older sister. she had been an only child, but having spent time at an orphanage, she knew the merit of creating a family for yourself--a family you choose rather than one bound by blood. similarly, she genuinely saw regis as her uncle & was delighted whenever the vampire slipped in one of her sayings into his colloquial speech. he took extra time to teach her about higher vampires since she joined the hansa much later than the others & was kind enough to answer any of her questions about vampires, no matter how personal they were. as for milva, angouleme took to the archery lessons with exuberance because she wanted to both impress milva and also just enjoyed spending time w/ her. one time after a particularly fluid shot, angouleme got so excited that she squeezed milva into a tight hug w/o thinking. she was surprised to find milva return the hug with a similar intensity, stroking her hair. & if angouleme openly cried at knowing milva also saw her as family, at being given the sort of physical affection she didn’t realize she was craving, milva never mentioned it to the rest of the hansa. 

in toussaint, angouleme became a cat magnet. she spent her extra coin on fish from the docks &, true to her family crest, she would hand out pieces of fish to the stray cats in the city. at the sound of her boots hitting the wooden docks, scores of cats would come racing to her in search of free food & affection. they were the hardest thing about toussaint to leave behind

before they made it to stygga castle, geralt pulled her aside to make sure angouleme really wanted to participate in the battle. he also tells her the truth about how he originally had mistaken her for ciri--but now trusts her & sees her as a member of the hansa from her merit & courage alone. “you’ve come with us far enough, angouleme. i don’t want you doing this just because you think you owe me. you don’t. you can walk away now. return to toussaint. live a happy & long life.” in response, angouleme flicked him off & stuck out her tongue. “no one’s ever forced me to do anything before & it’s too late for you to try & scare me off now. we’re comrades, remember? a hansa. family. besides, i’m not gonna die here; i’ve got a high-class brothel to open in beauclair, remember?” her words ring hollow when she collapses to the ground, bleeding out in ciri’s arms. she asks to be made a countess before she dies, a characteristic smirk still on her lips at the thought of finally having her royal bloodline acknowledged in some way. 

#geralt of rivia #emiel regis #milva barring #dandelion #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #angouleme #angoulême #witcher headcanons #sorry this took so long!! i kinda.... went off on this post lol #// long post

[fabricatedsoldier]

♡ + sea salt

Send me ♡ + a word, and I’ll write a headcanon.

☆ ━━━ When he was a boy, he asked his mother if he could go to the beach.

He was bigger then, he thought, at the age where he knew absolutely everything there was to know. When his mother went to work (she was a tailor and adored sewing things together, pieces of mismatched fabrics she could spin into a quilt seemingly with ease) Cloud would march into the sparse forest behind their house and pick up the very biggest stick he could find, then he would practice his “sword-fighting”. Such practice was, of course, him just flailing about a little humorously.  He thought he could take on fiends all by himself… if only his mother would let him away from the watchful peak of Mt. Nibel.

A beach was a foreign thing to him then. Mt. Nibel was a desolate place. The only foliage that could persist at their small height were various dense ferns and the boring pines that were usually encrusted with snow most months. He’d never even seen a fiend with his own eyes. Nibelheim had a whole bunch of nothing. Going to a beach was akin to going to paradise (which is what he pictured then–golden sands and lapping waves and salty breezes).

Of course his mother said no. And she kept saying no whenever he asked. 

“You never let me do anything!” He shouted at her one night. 

Cloud was a quiet child, he rarely had any sort of outburst. The fact that he was so sullen and whisper-quiet as a child had always worried his mother–but hearing him yell made her wish he was back to his watchful, isolated ways.

“I’m looking out for you Cloud,” she said gently, never letting her son see her ruffled. She took her duties very seriously. “There are fiends outside the village–”

“I can fight them!” Cloud puffed up his little chest pathetically, then shook his head at his mother’s simpering lips suppressing a laugh. 

“I’m sorry Cloud, maybe I can make the time to take you in Summer, when it’s nice and warm,” she compromised, reaching to stroke his hair. 

But he stepped neatly away and didn’t say anything at all.

…Of course, when his mother left for work the very next day, he decided he would go to the beach, screw her! And, of course, no one in town said a word as Cloud loped away down the mountain path strewn with crags and large boulders. Not even the squirrels acknowledged his loud, flopping steps as he hurried away.

Within the hour he became hungry. He was proud, though, that he couldn’t see the village anymore. His stupid determination kept him going, he hummed very softly under his breath, a large stick grasped in one hand. Honestly, he could barely lift it, the wooden stick was a little too large. It looked amusing next to him–it was nearly as tall as himself!

“One day,” he told no one in particular, babbling like children do. “I’ll have a real sword and no one will make fun of me then.”

He glared at the ground, grasping the knobby wood so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“I’ll hit them if they do,” he decided with a whisper. “Just like they hit me now.”

And then: an odd flapping sound, like leather beating the wind. He turned with his feet and stick dragging along the coarse dirt beneath his tattered sneakers.

It was a fiend just like he wanted to see. But after seeing it, he immediately regretted the wish. The thing was a bit like a bird–it had a round midsection and a wingspan of eight feet, and a long neck with a tiny head atop it. It even had a purple beak Cloud saw. However, it wasn’t a pretty bird, as its hide had scales and it bore red, glowing eyes. And that beak was filled with over-sized teeth.

It gave a horrible, dry screech and began to flap over to little Cloud. He could only stare in horror for a moment, before adrenaline pumped through his bloodstream and screamed at him: run run run! He gasped and sprinted, still carrying that silly stick, dragging it through a puddle that splashed cold water over him. He cried out, swinging the stick above his head and launching it into the air a surprising two feet and even banking the large object off the bird’s ribs.

He was crying, tears streaming over his round, dirty face. Snot dribbled over his mouth. He hated fiends! He never wanted to go to the beach! 

The bird fell, stunned, still flailing around madly. Cloud took this chance to run as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. He had enough time to scramble back home, which took only a half hour this time, as he never stopped running, not even when he got the stitch in his chest. 

When his mother came home that night he sobbed into her skirts. She didn’t question it, having an inkling of what might have happened. She didn’t want to make it worse or more shameful for him.

She simply bandaged a scrape on his knee he received after falling into the dirt in his mad rush home. 

Cloud would later go to a beach–after he was much older, a Shin-Ra infantryman posted at various small forts. 

But it wasn’t how he wanted to see those lapping, jewel-like waves.

He wished, even now, he had experienced the sweet sea-salt breeze with his mother by his side.

#✦┇ ask #✦┇ headcanon #banorablackbird #{ o gosh thank u for sending this in!! <3 } #{ i thought it would be simple and i would just ramble is cloud liked the beach or not } #{ then this happened instead lma o } #{ im sorry xD } #{ i like imagining a young cloud tho! hes a brat c: }

[lotus0kid]

Happy 5th anniversary!!!! 🎆🎆🎉I have a prompt, Belle is pregnant and while out on a date( or just out of their house) with her husband Rumple, her water breaks.

OUaT: Anniversary Fic the 12th

((Thanks for prompting!  Hope this works for you.))

“Are you warm enough?”

 It must be the sixth time he’s asked, but Belle’s endlesspatience allows her to reply, “Perfectly.”

 Rumpel still peers over the top of her head at the smallspace heater placed on the back porch, where they sit beneath a blanket ofstars.  It’s growing colder at thebeginning of October, but he’ll do whatever it takes to allow Belle tocomfortably venture out into the open, breathe fresh air and feel the wideworld around her.  She’s been in far toomany cages.

Moderately assured that all is well, he settles beside her,curling his arm a little more firmly around her shoulders.  His other hand hovers near her hip.  Without even looking, she catches his wristand lays his hand over her round belly. An automatic smile lights Rumpel’s face, even as an undercurrent of fearcontinues to flow, whispering that this won’t last, it’s too wonderful, it’llget snatched away, he’ll ruin it, just wait and see.  He draws in and releases a deep breath, anddrowns the whispers in a bath of stars.

 A cloud sails by and slowly reveals a shining crescentmoon.  Beside him, Belle lets out a smallhum.

 “What are you thinking about?” he asks, filled withcuriosity.

 “Just an old story, from home.  About where stars come from.”

 “Yes?”

 “They’re the children of Umera, the goddess of night.  She places them in a cradle, which is thecrescent moon.  When the moon grows full,they go out into the sky, as stars.”

 “A child every month, that’s a large family.  Is there a father?”

 Belle smiles and dips her chin.  “Yes. Vinaos, the god of the day.” Belle turns to fix her eyes on Rumpel. “He brings light to Umera’s darkness.”

 Beneath Rumpel’s hand, he feels the tap of a tiny kickingfoot.  He grins, “I think the little onelikes that story.”

 Belle’s chuckle is full of warmth and love as she pressesher hand over Rumpel’s.  “Not long beforewe get to meet them.”

 “No, not long.”

 Belle rests her head on Rumpel’s shoulder, and they wait forthe future to arrive together.

 ---

 Rumor has it that Rumpelstiltskin is working on some new objectof terrible dark magic.  The shop hasn’tbeen open for days, though a brave soul snuck around back and peeked through awindow to see him bent over his arcane work. The spy could only say it seemed to be made of black fabric and that hewas sewing something into it with fierce concentration.  It was decided that no move would be madeagainst the sorcerer, not yet.

 Currently, said sorcerer is having a cup of tea and readinga book one evening when his wife returns from the library.  At this point in Belle’s pregnancy, Rumpel isready to beg her to stay home, but she simply promises not to do any heavylifting and goes her own way.  He mustadmit that the library is her first child, and she will care for it as long asshe’s able.

 She joins him on the couch and holds out a small rectangleof stiff paper.  “Look what Snow droppedoff today.”

 It’s an invitation to a Halloween party, Rumpel reads.  “Well,” he says, “I’m not sure why shethought you’d be interested in a party that late in the month.  Or that shewould, for that matter.”  Thequeen-turned-bandit-turned-teacher has already had one child and will soon bewelcoming her second, so she ought to know better.  She and Belle have actually bonded somewhatduring their nearly concurrent pregnancies. Rumpel and David have tried not to make much eye-contact with eachother.

 He looks at Belle, but doesn’t find the agreement heexpects.  “What if I am interested?” sheinquires.

 Feeling metaphorical tremors in the ground below his feet,he swiftly replies, “Then I’d say have a lovely time, dear.”

 It’s not the correct answer. Her face falls into a pout, “You wouldn’t come with me?”

 “I, well, that is...” Rumpel sputters, “No one’s ever beenhappy when I’ve turned up at a party.”

 “And they never will if you don’t try,” Belle counters,“We’re all in this together now, Rumpel, we need to make an effort to geton.  Besides that, Snow and David arefamily now, thanks to Henry.  Can I writeyou down as my guest?”

 Well, if nothing else, Belle’s looming due date must betaken into consideration.  He’ll likelybe a bundle of nerves, but he won’t leave his wife’s side.  “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

 Belle gives him a brilliant beam, only for it to quicklyfade.  “Hm, well, now I have to think ofa costume.  Gods, what would evenfit?”  She gestures at her ponderousabdomen.

 “Actually, about that... Hang on.”

 He climbs to his feet and heads for his office to fetch the gifthe luckily just finished today.  He’sspent hours upon hours fussing over it- it’s probably for the best he can giveit to her now.  He strides back to theliving room and sits down, presenting Belle’s gift with a flourish.

 Her mouth falls open as she carefully takes the black dressfrom him.  “Rumpel, this is amazing,” shebreathes as her fingertips explore the minutely detailed embroidery of acrescent moon that decorates the stomach area of the dress.  Every crater, mare, and rill is represented,until all fades into shadow.

 “I did what I could,” he replies humbly, “I liked your starstory too.”  He leans over to kissBelle’s cheek, only to find it wet with streaming tears.

 At his concerned hum, she gives him a wide if waterysmile.  “It’s so beautiful, Rumpel.  Thank you.” She leans in for a kiss he is happy to collect, despite the tang ofsalt.  Then she’s levering herself offthe sofa and marching away, tossing over her shoulder, “I’m trying it on rightnow.”

 Rumpel holds his breath until she returns, then lets it outin a sigh of relief as he sees the dress’s perfect fit, especially in thedecoration, which cradles the curve of Belle’s stomach on the lower right side.  “I love it!” she cries, spinning to make theskirt flare around her thighs.  Then shepauses and faces Rumpel.  “What aboutyour costume?  Vinaos might be a littleobscure.”

 “Not to worry,” he replies. A purple cloud bubbles up in his hands and dissolves to reveal anastronaut’s helmet, complete with a visor coated with opaque gold.  He puts it on and flicks the visor down,hiding his face.  “In case anyone getsannoying,” he explains.

 Belle giggles even as she shakes her head at him, then goes totake off her new costume and put it away until it’s needed.

 ---

 The final few weeks before Belle’s due date are even worsethan Rumpel imagined.  He hardly sleeps,which is more of a problem than he anticipated. Back home where the Dark Curse is strong it sustains his everyneed.  Out here amidst the imported magicof Storybrooke, he needs to help it along. But that’s becoming steadily more difficult as the days go by, and thevicious whispers command him to be on guard every second for someto-be-determined doom.

 Belle is restless as well, but in a surly, frustrated wayRumpel knows he can’t begin to understand. He does catch her whispering furiously at her stomach, “Get out, justget out, I know you’re ready, so get on with it!”

 By the time Snow and David’s Halloween party rolls around,Belle’s raring to go just to burn off excess energy.  Rumpel is too addled from lack of sleep to domore than trail after her in his astronaut helmet and a gray jumpsuit.

 They’re fashionably late mostly because of Belle’s two emergencybathroom visits.  When they reach theapartment building, she marches stolidly up the stairs, though she needs torest on Rumpel’s arm halfway up.

 “If you’re tired...” he begins, stopping when Belle giveshim a severe glare she belatedly twists into a smile.

 “I want to do this. Let’s go.”

 They make it to the landing, where Belle takes a long momentto collect herself before pushing the doorbell. The door soon swings open to reveal Snow White wearing a ring of brownfrills around her hips with her belly painted robin’s egg blue complete withspeckles on top.  Her jumper has a row offeathers down each arm and a construction paper bird’s beak is tied over hernose.  She smiles wide and cries, “Belle,you made it!  Come in!”  That smile shrinks as her gaze moves overBelle’s shoulder and lands on Rumpel.  “Oh,hello, Rumpelstiltskin.  Thank you forcoming.”

 As if she never locked him in a subterranean prison andthrew away the key.  As if he neverconspired with her greatest enemy to ruin her happy ending.  Life is a funny thing.  “Good evening,” he responds, and sidles inbehind Belle.

 “I love your costume,” Snow exclaims at Belle, “The moon,that’s so great, why didn’t I think of that?”

 Belle finds a true smile as she looks down at herdress.  “Rumpel made it.”

 “Oh,” Snow says, a shadow flickering over her face beforeshe brightens again, “Oh!  Okay, so that’s...  Anyway, this detail is amazing.  What kind of spell does that?”

 “My two hands, dearie,” Rumpel can’t help sniping, “You knowI can actually breathe without using magic, if I concentrate.”

 Snow shrinks back with wide eyes and a pinched mouth.  Belle gives him a very subtle jab in theribs.  “Rumpel, she’s being nice.”

 It’s always been his opinion that Snow being “nice” is halfher problem, but he clears his throat and says, “Indeed.  Apologies. And thank you.”

 “You’re welcome.  I,uh, I sewed this too.”  She plucks at abit of brown frills.

 He has to smile at the tiny gleam of hope in her eyes, anddeigns to look over her handiwork.  “Verynice,” he decides.

 Snow beams, “Thanks. So, anyway, we’re all in here, really informal, just family.  There’s snacks, and wine and beer, andsparking apple juice for the two of us...”

 She leads Belle and Rumpel toward the living room area,where the sofa and a few chairs are occupied by David, Emma, Regina, andBae.  Agonizing though it’s been, Rumpelhas given Bae total control over how much contact to have with him.  They see each other fairly regularly, thoughboth are naturally preoccupied with their unique fatherly duties.  It still feels like a miracle to see Bae turnto him and smile- not as warm and bright as before, but an unspeakably vastimprovement to the ragged hole he left in Rumpel’s life for so long.

 When Rumpel can expand his attention beyond Bae, he findssmiles of varying degrees of friendliness all around the room directed at himand Belle.  Wearing his own featheryjumper and bird beak, David says, “Hi, guys! Great costumes!”“Yes!” Snow chimes in, “Isn’t Belle’s great? With the black fabric and the sewing?”

 There’s a round of thoughtful nods Rumpel chooses not tointerpret.  Emma scoots closer to Reginato let Belle sit at the far end of the sofa. David sets a chair for Rumpel between Belle and Bae.

 “Thank you,” he says as he sits, and notices Bae eyeing himfrom beneath a Yankees cap.

 He twists the grip of a lowered baseball bat between hispalms and murmurs, “Please tell me you aren’t wearing a suit under there.”

 The fact that Bae knows how he customarily dresses is enoughto make Rumpel’s heart glow.  He gives hisson a smirk and quips, “Just a linen, very light.”

 Bae snorts into his chest and Rumpel feels like a hero.  It’s somewhat easier after that to sit andchat a bit, or just listen to the conversations floating around him.  Snow hands out ghost-shaped biscuits andpumpkin cupcakes.  Rumpel actuallyrelaxes a little, even finds his eyes drifting shut a bit.

 “Okay, everyone!” Snow’s cheery declaration startles him tofull awareness.  Belle shoots him anamused look as Snow continues, “I was thinking to wrap up our evening, we mightwatch a scary movie.  How’s that sound?”

 “Fine, as long as it isn’t Rosemary’s Baby,” Regina replies, painted cat’s whiskers curling asshe sneers in Belle’s direction.

 “As long as it isn’t TheWicker Man,” Emma retorts before Rumpel can take Regina’s head off with afireball.  She adjusts her cowboy hat andleans back so light glints on the silver star pinned to her plaid shirt.

 “I was gonna go with Jaws,”Snow pipes up.

 “That’s barely ahorror movie,” Regina says, “But it’s acceptable.”

 “Why thank you, Your Majesty,” David mutters on his way tothe television.

 Belle leans over to Rumpel and whispers, “Do I even want toknow?”

 “Ignore her, sweetheart,” he replies, lacing his fingerswith Belle’s firmly.

 “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

 He winces, remembering that while Snow and David haveapparently forgiven and forgotten Regina’s wide array of sins, neither of themlanguished as her prisoner for years on end. And Belle wouldn’t have, if you’dbothered to look for her.  Ah, that’sright.  Rumpel’s sins make Regina’s looklike the mischief of a playground bully. And yet Belle, the best person he knows, has willingly become his wife,and the mother of his child.  Life is sovery funny.

 While Sheriff Brody is attempting to save his picturesquetown from a killer shark, Rumpel feels Belle’s fingers tense sharply betweenhis.  He glances at her and sees she hasher other hand pressed to her stomach.  “Belle,are you all right?” he whispers.

 “I’m... fine.  I justneed to use the toilet.  Help me up?”

 He leaps to guide Belle off the sofa.

 “Excuse me, sorry,” she murmurs to the rest of the group asshe eases out and down the hall to the bathroom.

 Rumpel takes his seat, but watches her go with worrychurning his stomach.  Eventually hemanages to refocus on the film.  He’salmost comprehending dialogue again when Belle’s cry of “RUMPEL!” strikes hisbrain like a bolt of lightning.  He’s atthe bathroom in a literal flash.  “Belle,I’m here, open the door.”

 For an awful moment there’s nothing but a low, torturedmoan.  Then the door cracks open.  He pushes it open to see Belle hunched over,gripping the sink with a puddle of liquid between her feet.  She gives him a tremulous, agonized smile andsays, “Oops.”

 “Okay,” Rumpel breathes, attempting to force his paralyzedbrain into functioning.  “We need... toget to the car.”

 Dismay fills Belle’s face, “Oh, I don’t know if I can do thestairs ag- AH!”  Her body tenses hard andRumpel imagines if she were any stronger she’d tear chunks out of thesink.  All he can do is lay careful handson her arm and back and let her lean into him until it passes.

 “Belle, we need to be home,” he tries to explain, “That wasthe plan, wasn’t it?”  Quite honestly, atthis moment he has no idea what their plan was, despite the hours of work thatwent into it.  He holds up his hands andpurple smoke starts to swirl around them. “Can I just-?”

 “No magic!” she cries, “Not now, I don’t want to travel likethat, when I’m like this.  Please?”

 The smoke vanishes under her desperate gaze.  “Of course, but...  I just...” He glances around and notices the group of people standing four feetaway, staring like this is another scene in the film.

 Snow steps forward, slipping past Rumpel and moving toBelle’s side.  “I guess the baby isn’t afan of Richard Dreyfus, huh?” she remarks gently.

 “Who?” Belle asks, but another contraction steals Snow’sanswer as she moans louder than ever and doubles over.

 “Okay, it’s okay, just keep breathing...” Snow murmurs asshe rubs Belle’s back.  To Rumpel, shesays, “So, poofing her home is out and the stairs are a problem.  What does that leave us?”

 “How about the tub?” Emma suggests, peering over Rumpel’shead.  “Like a water birth.”

 The words snap Rumpel’s brain back into action.  “Yes! That was the plan.  Good.  Belle, w-?”

 “Let’s do that!”Belle wails.

 With a great sweep of his arm, Snow’s narrow tub is replacedby a wide, deep Jacuzzi filled up three-quarters with warm water.

 “Wow,” Snow briefly marvels, “Okay, yeah, great.  Belle, let’s get you, uh... Oh, hey, I thinkwe need a little privacy now, please?”

 To Rumpel’s surprise, Regina turns to the rest of the partyand declares in her most imperious tone, “All right, gawkers, back off. Rumpeland Snow only, let’s give them some space, come on.”  She herds Bae, Emma, and David back down thehall.

 Snow says to Belle, “We’ll get you in the tub soon,okay?  It’ll be nice and warm and you canrelax.  Let’s take off these shoes, andget out of the underwear- just lean on Rumpel, that’s fine...”

 While Snow does the necessaries, Belle’s head droops towardhis shoulder, only to bump against the bloody astronaut helmet he only just nowrealizes he’s still wearing.  “Sorry,sweetheart,” he mumbles, banishing the thing to oblivion where it belongs.  Belle presses her damp forehead into thecurve of his neck, and he smooths a hand over her hair.

 “Okay, we probably want to get that lovely dress offtoo.  Rumpel, if you could unzip theback?”

 They ease Belle out of her costume.  In a moment of whimsy, Rumpel sends it tohang over the curtain rod by the tub where she’ll be able to see the crescentmoon.  He also replaces Belle’s bra witha softer bikini top.  With one last wavehe replaces Snow’s costume with dark blue nurse’s scrubs.  She shoots him a startled look, but wiselysays nothing.  They don’t quite manage toget Belle into the tub before the next contraction hits, and she sags betweenhim and Snow with another bone-deep groan.

 “Almost there, Belle,” Snow croons, “A few more steps- canyou take a few more steps?”

 “I... okay...” she whimpers.

 “I’m here, love,” Rumpel says, “Come on, follow me.”

 They inch up a smooth ramp to the edge of the tub where itparts into a short stairwell.  Bellesighs as soon as her foot enters the water. Snow has her sit on the edge and part her legs so she can take a look atwhat’s going on.

 Holding Belle steady against his chest, Rumpel asks Snow, “Youdo have a fairly clear idea of what you’re doing, yes?”

 “Sure.  I’ve done thisbefore, albeit from Belle’s end, and anyway we’ve been sharing all ourbooks.  I knew she was leaning toward awater birth.  Really, they’re so natural,as long as there aren’t any complications my job’s basically just to standthere and catch.”

 “And if there are- complications?”  Even thinking the word sets off sirens in hishead.

 Snow looks him in the eye, “How about you go and call yourmidwife now, just in case?”

 Cursing himself for not thinking of that sooner, Rumpelgently shifts Belle into Snow’s waiting arms and steps away from the tub andout of the bathroom.  It takes a specialperson to even consider delivering the Dark One’s child, but Mistress Oggseemed downright cheerful about the idea when their paths crossed at thehospital.  She seems cheerful about mostthings, but Rumpel and Belle detected a core of iron in the old woman that wasencouraging enough to bring her on.

 Once he fumbles his way through phoning her, it takesseveral rings and a strange burst of static until a voice sings out, “Coo-eee,Rum, how are things?”  Mistress Ogg’svoice sounds a bit distant, perhaps he’s on speakerphone.  Mountain wind whistles down the line.

 “Belle’s in labor,” he replies shortly while Snow sneaks outaround him and walks down the hall.

 “Ah, a bit early but not bad.  How quick are the contractions coming then?”

 “I... I’ve no idea.” He curses himself once more for letting panic conquer him so completely.

 “To be expected,” Mistress Ogg says breezily.  “I’ll be on the road then.  Could be a little while though, I’ve a longway to go.  She’s in the water now?”

 Rumpel wonders just how far away she can be in Storybrooke,but regardless pokes his head into the bathroom to see Belle leaning back withher arms laid along the edge of the tub, eyes closed, face pale but calm.  “Yes, she is. And we’re not at home.  We’re ata... a friend’s place.”

 “Right, I see.  Bethere as quick as I can, love, not to fret.” She hangs up before Rumpel can give her Snow’s address.  He’s about to call again when a small cryfrom the bathroom has him stuffing his mobile into a pocket and rushing toBelle’s side.  She grips the edges of thetub with her face twisted into a grimace. Rumpel sits behind her and smooths his palms down her tense arms.  “Deep breaths, love,” he reminds her softly.

 Belle drags in and blows out air at a slow, even pace.  She relaxes as the contraction passes.

 “Mistress Ogg is on her way.”

 “Good.”

 “How are you?”

 “Better, now.”  She tiltsher head back and peers up at him to murmur, “Sorry about this.  I know we wanted to be at home.”

 Rumpel just smiles and cradles the back of Belle’s head inhis palm.  “This is perfectly fine, sweetheart.  We’re... we’re with family.”

 That wins him a smile. He dips a hand in the water to check its temperature, stirring in a bitmore heat.  Belle hums and takes a fewmore deep breaths.  Her gaze wanders tothe hanging dress and she inquires dreamily, “We still like the name Lucy,right?”

 They considered every option in the book, and in severalother books, and that was a particularly strong contender.  Though they opted not to learn the genderbeforehand, as her due date has neared Belle’s become thoroughly convincedshe’s having a girl.  “I like it if youdo.”

 “How about Estelle as a middle name?”

 A corner of Rumpel’s mouth curls up.  “Lucille Estelle.”

 “Our starlight.”

 He bends down to kiss the top of Belle’s head.  “Sounds perfect to me.”

 All that’s really left to do is wait.  As the contractions quicken, Snow returns tolift Belle back onto the edge of the tub and check her readiness.

 “I... I feel like I might need to push,” Belle whimpers,twisting clenched fists in Rumpel’s jumpsuit.

 “Well, I think that’s because you need to push,” Snowreplies, “I can see the head.”

 Belle lets out an anxious moan, “But Mistress Ogg isn’there- ah!  I have topush!”

 “Okay, come back in the water, here we go...”  Snow and Rumpel guide Belle into the tub andlet her position herself kneeling with her elbows braced on the edge.

 Snow crouches behind her in the tub while Rumpel comes toface Belle on the outside, letting her grab his hands in a vice grip.  “It’s too soon,” she whispers, “What ifsomething’s wrong?”

 Rumpel rests his forehead against hers.  “Then we’ll handle it.  Everything will be fine, Belle, Ipromise.”  In this moment, despite allevidence, he actually believes that.

 Belle manages a tiny smile before it contorts into a grimaceand her whole body strains.  After amoment, Snow announces, “The head is out! I don’t feel an umbilical cord. Let’s work on the shoulders now.”

 “It hurts...” Belle grits out.

 “I know, but keep going, you’ll get through it soon.”

 “You can do this, sweetheart,” Rumpel murmurs, “I’m righthere with you.  I love you.”

 Belle’s eyes lock on his and don’t break contact even as shegroans and pushes with all her strength. Somewhere far away, Snow says one shoulder is out.  Belle’s groan intensifies into a powerfulbellow.  “That’s it!” Snow cries just asthe bellow stops and Belle’s left panting and trembling, her head falling toRumpel’s shoulder.

 Rumpel looks in wonder as Snow gently lifts a tiny, wrinkly,squirming creature out of the water.  Shewipes at its nose and mouth, it wriggles a little more and releases a plaintivewail.  Belle’s whole body shudders at thesound and she lets out a sob.

 “It’s a girl, Rumpelstiltskin,” Snow says with a beam, “Aperfect little girl.”

 “She- she’s... okay?” he quavers, halfway to sobbinghimself.

 “Seems like it,” Snow replies, wincing a bit at anotherrather piercing cry from the baby, “Let’s have her meet Mom, huh?”

 Rumpel helps Belle carefully turn over.  She’s still shaking, but her arms are steadyas Snow places the baby in them.  Thewailing stops instantly as she snuggles into Belle’s chest.

 “She is perfect,” Rumpel whispers in awe, his chin onBelle’s shoulder.

 “Hello, Lucy,” Belle murmurs, “How nice to meet you.”

 “Our starlight.”

 Minutes or perhaps days later, someone bustles into thebathroom saying, “Cheer-o, ducks!  Lookslike the little mite beat me to the punch. Let’s see what’s left for me to do.” Mistress Ogg makes quick work of tying off and cutting the umbilicalcord.  “There now, how about we have thehappy da bundle up his girl while the afterbirth comes?”

 Rumpel has never wanted to do anything more, or been soafraid to do it.  Belle shifts Lucy intohis arms like she’s made of glass. Mistress Ogg pops off her boots and socks and climbs into the tub whileSnow lays out a clean, soft towel on the floor. Rumpel kneels down and lays Lucy on it, where she immediately frowns andsquirms against the cold.  “Don’t worry,dearest, I’m here,” he whispers while wrapping her up snugly, “There you are, safeand sound.”

 He picks her up and holds her to his chest before moving tosit on the closed toilet seat.  They gazeat each other with tired eyes.  When hersslip shut, he manages to tear his own away and notice Bae standing outside thebathroom, looking more like a nervous teenager than Rumpel would think possible.

 “Baelfire, would you like to meet your sister?”

 His eyebrows jump and he stuffs his hands into his pockets,but he pads into the room and hunches over to grin down at the baby.

 “This is Lucille Estelle Gold.  You can call her Lucy.”

 “Hey, Lucy.  I’m Bae.  Or Baelfire. Or Neal.  Or whatever.”  He and Rumpel chuckle quietly.  Lucy’s eyes crack open and blink a few timesbefore closing again.  “She’s beautiful,Papa.  I can’t believe I’m a bigbrother.”

 “Life is very, very funny, son.”

 Mistress Ogg has drained the tub, swathed Belle in a severaltowels, and delivered the afterbirth before she suggests Lucy try nursing.  Rumpel carries the baby to Belle, and eventhough she seemed quite deeply asleep, she latches on to her mother’s breastquickly.

 “Hungry one, isn’t she?” Mistress Ogg remarks, “That’sfine.  She doesn’t like wasting time, weknow that much.”

 After a while, Belle lets Rumpel perform some very gentlehealing magic so she can get out of the tub at last.  He transforms her bikini top into a looseblack dress that shimmers with silver and blue sparkles.  Her original dress gets bundled up and pushedinto a pocket of Rumpel’s jumpsuit.  Hekeeps one arm firmly wrapped around her waist as they leave the bathroom, Lucyheld close to Belle’s chest.  They findthe rest of the party sitting at the kitchen table, looking on curiously.

 A wide smile stretches across David’s face before he all butbounds over to them.  “What a night,huh?  Are you all okay?”

 “We’re fine,” Belle replies, “Lucy, this is Prince David,your...” Her gaze jumps to the ceiling as she puzzles out the family tree, “Nephew’sother grandfather.��  Emma and Regina havestood and come to flank David.  Belle’sgaze moves over them as she says, “And that’s Princess Emma, your nephew’smother.  And- Regina, his other mother.”

 Emma peers over David’s shoulder and smiles warmly, butdoesn’t seems too interested in getting closer. Regina gives Lucy a smile as well, this one more wistful thananything.  “What a sweet little girl,”she says, her voice softer than Rumpel’s ever heard it.

 “We’ll be going home now, I think,” Belle says, heading tothe door where Snow stands.  “Thank you,”she tells her, “I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

 “Anything you want is yours, Snow,” Rumpel says, “And I domean anything.”

 “Oh, no, please, it was the least I could do...” sheinstantly demurs, up until she bites her lip and mutters, “Can we keep thetub?”

 Rumpel snorts. “Yes.  And you can send me thewater bill.”

 “Deal.  Thanks forcoming to my little party, guys.”

 “We had a... an interesting time,” Belle saysdiplomatically.  Rumpel snickers, thenguides his wife and daughter through the door as Snow holds it open.  Mistress Ogg follows, coming along to helpthem settle in at home.  The small familyheads into the future together.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #fanfiction #once upon a time #poca-staks

[1800titz]

Fifty Shades who? (ಥ‿ಥ This is not Fifty Shades. I promise he’s not a psychopath.)

Teaser for the third part of TDIAG

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 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 expels 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, 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-headed 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 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. She takes a deep breath then 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 her shoulder, and Isla 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 ludicrous 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.”

#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 writing #harry styles x oc #hs edit #hs fanfic #hs one shot #harry blurb #harry blurbs #harry styles dirty imagine #anon ask #harry smut #dom harry styles #harry edits #harry edward styles #dom!harry

[kffandom]

so @theglowqueen and i literally went on for hours the other day continuing this post where i talked about gabe w/pokemon, so i’m going to try to do a graceful summary for each topic we covered and she can call me out if i forgot anything

the first text had to be in its entirety because it’s #perfect and what started everything but I’m just going to summarize the rest and quote sparingly. kara’s quotes, after the first one, are in italics and mine are in bold~ 

text that started it all, from kara: 

“Yo you know your headcanon about Gabe’s Mimikyu? Like what if when everything goes to shit, he loses her. Like Ms. Beak knows to get out of dodge until things settle, but Sweetie wouldn’t let go. So then later on as Reaper, he senses a shadowy thing that originally [he was] wary of, but then he’s just like, “Sweetie?” and it is and she’s so excited that her boy recognized her even though she won’t let him see her. She knows the rumors that people die when they see a true Mimikkyu form, and she’s not taking that chance. 

So he tears up his cloak. Sewed it into a costume like the Pikachu one she used to haev. Except now it’s black. And instead of doing a pikachu face he uses some white favri to sew the likeness of his own mask instead. 

He gives it to her, and he has his Sweetie back. He feels bad that he doesn’t have anything [to] let her hold, but she’s okay with it. 

Rumors begin about the tiny ‘Reaper’ that signals the arrival of a very real one. 

I kind of want her to pick up one of his guns as her carry item, but at the same time all I can think of is ‘This is my Mimikkyu OC Mimigun. She’s a Mimikkyu, but with a gun.” 

Sweetie, post-swiss HQ: 

--Afterward, gabe is uber, uber protective of Sweetie and I argued that he’d flip on even widowmaker if they talked shit on his raggedy lil girl, and kara went on to say that “The reason people die after seeing the Raggedy Reaper is because they laugh at her and Reaper is just like Y’all dune fucked up my guys”, like they don’t take him seriously at first with this itty-bitty Raggedy Reaper following it around--until someone hears him call her Sweetie, and they say, “I thought ‘Raggedy Reaper’ was bad” and he doesn’t get much farther than that before they all start taking the mercenary seriously. 

--Sweetie wants a gun so she can fit gabe’s new #aesthetic even more, but gabe’s like “no that’s okay” until she is sad she’s ruining his #aesthetic, so he goes to his gun supplier and is like “Hey, you know mimikkyu? Could you make one of my guns, but so she can’t hurt herself? I keep telling her no, but you know how they are.” Cue confused but willing supplier. 

--heard on the field: “That pokemon has a gun!” “Relax, she’s not gonna hurt anyone with it.” noticeably absent: explanation that the gun is incapable of firing.... ever 

Ms. Beak, post-swiss HQ: 

--Ms. Beak is more of a reconnaissance agent than a fighter, because she’s a really common pokemon and therefore blends in real easily. we argued that she’d be trained to retreat whenever a situation went FUBAR, so that’s why she wasn’t in the explosion at all 

--She was a giant, mournful pest in the aftermath until Gabe found her and she “disappeared” while overwatch fell apart. 

--sadly, she’s also the reason they figure out gabe’s identity so quickly. cloaked man + custom Mimikkyu? not easy to identify. a giant pidgeot, combat-ish-trained and with familiar markings? much, much easier. Ana, in their first confrontation where Ms. Beak is there, is like, “waaaaait a minute” 

--”Throws the whole mission on its head because she’s pulled out snacks for the enemy’s Pidgeot. 

*deep voice from a distance* 

‘Ms. Beak, no!’ 

‘I know it’s you Gabriel!’ 

‘shit’”  

Post-discovering Gabe’s identity: 

--in the past, gabe’s pokemon have always loved ana. she has the best snacks! ( “Ana has best pokebeans?? how turn down Gabe. How.”) and she’s so nice! good pets, good compliments--she even compliments Sweetie on her new outfit that gabe made for her, so that’s like. mucho bonus points. gabe’s a little annoyed that they go running to her right away, a little wary, but ana wouldn’t use them against him-- “she may have done some sketch stuff in her day, but she finds it wrong to use a pokemon’s trust like that” 

--Jesse, too, was the weird kid that gabe liked, so they’re cool with him too. “Sweetie goes running up to him because she’s like, “Gotta show Jesse my gun. He likes guns” and Gabe is like yeah go for it. It’s a terrifying 5 minutes for Jesse before he recognizes Sweetie”. he shows her his own gun in response and she’s v v excited, and gabe’s relieved because that’s still his boy, underneath the gruffness and exhaustion 

^^after that, jesse sort of ‘debriefs’ with ana like, “What was that?? is gabe back what’s going on” and she basically goes, “you’ve never seen that pidgeot or mimikyu in your life. understood?” so it’s like their lil secret 

--Sweetie does /not/ like 76. at all. rumor has it that he thinks mimikkyu’s aren’t impressive and they’re just knock off pikachus and she doesn’t forget that sort of nonsense. would gouge out his eyes given the chance, and since those are normally covered, she tends to go for the throat when they have missions against him 

Ana + reaper + his pokemon: 

--She won’t use his pokemon against him, but she thinks that they’re a tool to use to get gabe back. part of her wants gabe, her best friend back, and that’s a good portion of her motivation. but the other, agent-side of her recognizes that overwatch would do more than survive if they could get commander reyes back. 

--so that’s part of the reason she keeps extra poke-snacks in her kit, from then on, and she’s the one who starts using Ms. Beak to get messages to gabe--sends over his favorite type of tea, one time, and it’s a sentimental move that does move gabe

--”’If we’re good to Miss Beak, he’ll remember that when talon does something awful’ --Ana”  her hoping that they can sway gabe back to their side, but understanding it’s contingent on circumstances rather than any type of emotional moves. but stacking the emotional deck in their favor? not a bad idea, in her opinion

--it’s a very calculated approach

--these interactions are easier for ana, almost, because she has that calculating side, though it hurts when sweetie comes bounding across the field with a flask of her favorite kind of rum and she’s reminded of them as stupid kids--Ana, gabe, and jack, who thought they were the world. 

-- (”She doesn’t miss commander reyes, she truly misses gabe,”) 

Jesse + reaper + reaper’s pokemon: 

--jesse sends sweetie over with a note and gabe’s blackwatch beanie after ana starts sending messages. it’s hard for gabe, because it makes him want to start caring about them again and he knows that can only end badly. at the same time, it makes his pokemon happy to see the two, soe he doesn’t want to stop them from visiting 

--gabe sends ms. beak over to jesse’s in return and has her trash his liquor cabinet while depositing a (Really nasty, actually) note that basically says, “stop drinking you’ll get sloppy and lazy here’s a help hotline get help u fuckin loser” . and while it’s p nasty jesse’s like, “he still cares!!” 

--which is really rough for jesse, because like. one minute they’re talking through his pokemon, and the next gabe’s completely ignoring him on the battlefield. not even looking his way, brushing him off, dismissing him.

--every response gabe gives him gives him hope, but every time he’s ignored crushes him all over again. 

--(Gabe doesn’t want to fight him, is the problem. doesn’t want to hurt the man he loved as a son, and he definitely doesn’t want overwatch to know they’re in contact. in old overwatch, it’d be a death sentence to talk to the enemy without attempting to bring them in. he has no reason to believe that new overwatch is any different, is the thing. they’ll hurt him, he thinks, a little manically, and so he ignores jesse) 

--(He thinks that new overwatch might even be worse, because they have so many enemies and won’t stand for any leaks. it’d be a firing squad. he has no idea that they don’t have any “warhawks” outside of ana and jack, that it’s a small organization that can’t afford to lose anyone, really--he just knows what old overwatch was like. so he deliberately acts obtuse and ignores and ignores, despite the hurt he can almost feel radiating off of jesse) 

--jesse is not having a #GoodTime, basically 

jesse + dealing w/hurt from reaper’s ignoring of him + bastion: 

--”It gets bad enough that even though he and Ana decided to act like nothing was happening, Jesse wanted so bad to talk to someone about it. He knows that Ana obviously would be the best choice since she’s already in on it, but she’s so detached. He knows that they were good friends, but he also isn’t stupid enough to not see what she’s really doing. 

He wants to tell Genji. They were all Blackwatch together, but Genji has moved on with his life. He’s found peace, and Jesse doesn’t want to fuck that up. He wants to tell Angela. He knows how close she and Gabe were. It was like she and Jesse were siblings for fuck sake. But she’s also Jack’s girl. Gabe was not her only support. And judging by the way Sweetie reacts to Jack, he’s not sure how she’d react to Angie.

Somehow, he ends up with Bastion. Bastion, who for some reason has Miss Beak sitting on her head.” 

--jesse takes miss beak’s presence as a sign and info-dumps the fuck onto bastion, and bastion doesn’t really mind--she likes when they treat her like an equal/person, so while her communication methods are limited, she’s a good listener and she can be sympathetic and give him a pointy but nice hug when he gets upset. so jesse talks about gabe, about how it’s unfair because he’s always been gabe’s man, always been his right hand. and if gabe had gotten to him before the recall--well, he doesn’t know. bastion doesn’t fault him for admitting that

--bastion attempts to get across that jesse has much more support now with new-overwatch, that angela and genji love him, the younger agents think he’s great and look up to him, and winston in particular is so relieved that jesse is on their side with how skilled he is. unfortunately, her vocabulary isn’t the best with english even when she tries to type a message for him 

--Ms. Beak croons and grooms his hair through it, and when jesse starts to feel better and thanks both of the ladies kindly for being ears for awhile, she leaves and pecks the shit out of gabe when she gets back. she’s pissed for daaaaaaaays, will leave him deliberately on the field to go groom jesse, and gabe gets the hint 

--but. well. he doesn’t really change anything because what can he do? 

jesse + reaper + snail mail snapchat:  

--after this, gabe sends a letter to jesse asking about bastion and whether Ms Beak is safe with her or not. he gets a picture back of bastion covered in all kinds of bird pokemon. he also gets another one of jesse flipping him off, “but he doesn’t take it too harshly”  

--it takes like 3 back and forths before gabe sends a selfie (Ms. Beak covers most of him, but it’s more skin than anyone’s seen since he ‘returned’) and jesse has an “oh” moment. because he didn’t just go off after swiss hq. He was actually really fucked up. he's a little forgiving of his initial hurt b/c part of him was assuming gabe was hiding and pretending to be dead like Ana was, for weird ambiguous justice-moral reasons Jesse still doesn't really get, but gabe didn’t. the pic soothes the old hurt of "gabe?? You're still alive??" “Because something that [rough] would need recovery and if deadpool has taught us anything, it's hard to face loved ones after being remade” 

-- “Like seeing how Gabe was actually /fucked up/ really helps. Gabe didn't choose to leave him. His mom died, the gang left him, Genji left, and with the return of Reaper, he had been convinced that Gabe had left him too. But he gets it. He remembers having such a hard time facing everyone after he lost his arm. Gabe lost most everything. So it doesn't hurt as bad.” 

-- “Exactly yes that. Gabe didn't leave willingly, so he's more in the category that his mom is in I'd imagine. So he's able to think of him fondly and still love him without that justified betrayed-feeling that he's still working out w/genji and the other overwatch members that just. Left when everything went downhill” 

happier note: snail mail snapchat onto real snapchat! : 

-- “Jesse sends him a picture of Angela and Genji. Gabe sends him back a picture every time he makes Sweetie a new outfit. Jesse manages to send him a picture of Widowmaker who had fallen asleep in her hiding spot, propped up against her rifle. Gabe sends back a picture of Miss Beak dive bombing Jack. Jesse sends him a picture of him flipping off his fucked up liquor cabinet. Gabe sends him back a picture of himself flipping him off” 

--after ms. beak gets ticked and exhausted at being used like a post owl from harry potter, “Sweetie comes skipping over with the next message to Jesse's surprise and it's just a phone number. He saves it in his phone as Dad. They never message each other, but their Snapstreak is 50 days long. (Lena goes through his phone once and now thinks Jesse has a weird daddy thing going on but is too nervous to actually put it in his phone like that. So she changes it for him)”  

jesse + his pokemon: 

--jesse has 3 pokemon: a cubone named Kit, a growlithe named Cassidy, and an ampharos named Fluffy Spark. 

--jesse found kit shortly before he joined the deadlock gang ( Kit’s backstory, up to this point, was basically >> Kit: *falls into a trainer's carry-on luggage* *sneaks off the plane* *wanders into a car because she smelled food* *ate a pizza man's delivery and was chased out* *ended up on a train, like a nice one with a food cart and was assumed to be one of the passenger's ones* *somehow ends up near jesse* ) on the side of the road trying to eat a rock. she’s his bb. she’s also an alolan one, which he doesn’t know, so when she evolves boy howdy is that a hot adventure i’ll go over below 

--he gets cassidy when he joins the gang, and everyone wants him to evolve her right away (big, intimidating arcanine? much more useful for their needs than a smol pupper) but he keeps “losing” the fire stone they got him. he knows that cassidy isn’t ready and she doesn’t want to evolve yet, so he gets into some trouble and gets a reputation for being forgetful/for misplacing shit, but it’s all good. even at blackwatch, she doesn’t want to evolve, and gabe’s like “k whatever but i have extra fire stones if you need them” because he’s collected a lot over the years but never had to use any since none of his pokemon need them 

--Fluffy Spark was originally just Fluffy, and cassidy basically herded him into jesse’s arms right after they went to blackwatch and they’ve had him ever since.  (Gabe’s like “the fuck kid” and jesse’s like, “cassidy won’t let me put him back!” then when fluffy evolved, jesse was sorta like “Well, you’re not fluffy anymore, so. spark!” but fluffy won’t respond, so he tries to be sneaky and call him fluffy spark and transition to just spark, but. didn’t happen. 

cassidy + fluffy spark : 

--basically your typical teasing-sibling relationship. will destroy each other but only they are allowed to do so, anyone else will be destroyed MORE 

-- “People talk to Jesse like "Your Growlithe and Ampharos don't seem to like each other at all. Are you sure you should keep them together like that." Jesse looks over to see Fluffy Spark bopping Cassidy on the head and she nips at the ball on his tail. "Nah, they love each other!"”  

--cassidy doesn’t want to evolve yet (”Cassidy is best pupper?? 1 out of 1 pupper agree. Best pupper is me. Don't listen to Fluffy Spark. He is full of lies.” ) and fluffy spark’s like “okay cool but you won’t be bigger than me until you do. so.” and thwacks her in the head and nibbles because he can and cassidy gets all riled up 

-- “They're actually siblings. Cassidy steals Fluffy Spark's favorite pokebeans all the time and Fluffy Spark takes the treasured spot on Jesse's bed at night just so Cassidy can't “ 

--Ms Beak is the only one who really stops them when they get riled up together and are at each other’s throats. she likes to pretend she’s an old woman and make gabe carry her around, but jesse’s pokemon are to her what jesse is to gabe. 

-- Sweetie is a little intimidated by Fluffy Spark, just because he has Much Personality and Sweetie is shy, but overall they get along and Sweetie can roughhouse a little rougher with Fluffy Spark than she can with anyone else. And Cassidy likes to give Sweetie piggy back rides because she's one of the only Pokémon on base smaller than her

Kit: 

--so jesse has no idea that kit’s an alolan cubone. looks like a cubone, acts like a cubone, is a cubone! so when she starts to evolve, he’s like “oh cool” and then very quickly is like “WHY IS SHE ON FIRE” 

--we didn’t have a concrete timeline for when she would evolve, but if it was during blackwatch-era it’d go like this: jesse bursting into gabe’s office/room/whatever with a weird-looking marowak yelling, “IS THIS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN”  while kit’s just cuddling into his chest and basically being like “you’re so weird, human, it nap time because evolving is hard work.” (if it was post-recall, it’d be the same but it’d be a snapchat video instead of in-person, and gabe would respond a few hours later with a picture of a map of alola, acting like he knew right off the bat [he didn’t, he had to look it up and do some digging b/c no one really goes to alola or knows much about it]) 

--gabe’s hella confused how jesse got an alolan cubone (”did you get her on the black market or something?” “no? i found her on the side of the road?? trying to eat a rock??” "why was she trying to eat a rock" "I don't know! She was a baby! I think. Regardless, she was hungry. Oh no. Do you think she'll want to eat fire things now? What do you eat now baby??" Kit, true to form, just nibbles on Jesse's pants pocket where she knows he keeps snacks, but he's a little too freaked out to get the obvious message. "She's eating my pants Gabe!" "Is there something in your pocket?" "Some Pokebeans but I don't know what that has to do with- oh.")  

--in conclusion: Kit: happily nomming on pokebeans Jesse: still freaking out, would like to know what happened to his ground type Pokémon Gabe: long suffering, a tired dad

--Miss Beak thinks Kit's kinda weird and sometimes has to peck her hand so she doesn't eat things that aren't to be eaten, but at least she doesn't cause much trouble and lets Miss Beak sleep when she wants to. 

--Sweetie and Kit are closer, because Sweetie never really acts like the age she is, like she's not that much younger than Miss Beak but she's more in the maturity range of Kit. They like to hold hands (or in Kit's case, hold one of Sweetie's tendrils that act as hands) and they chatter to each other, are much more "talkative" than the other Pokémon.

so yeah! the end. may do more with this some day because this is a lot of world-building to not continue imho, but we’ll see. huge thanks to the best roommate ever for spending nearly 10 hours hashing this out and being as enthusiastic as i am about a kinda out-there crossover <3 <3 <3 kara, u r my fave and i miss u already and you are the #best for starting this rollercoaster i took a week to actually write up and get on here 

#theglowqueen #overwatch #pokemon #mccree #reaper #jesse mccree #gabriel reyes #kf fandom #ana amari #bastion #very fun!!! i loved every minute of this discussion tbh #typing it up afterwards too was interesting b/c it made me realize how eclectic our conversations get #very long i'm sorry #i quoted kara more b/c i didn't want to misinterpret what she was saying and most of what she said was liek #quote-worthy anyway #anywaysssss! hope u all enjoy #we spent many hours on this #@kara u rock