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personasintro · 7 months

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Mutual Help | #35

↳ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; in order for you to pretend to be his girlfriend, he helps you with your sexual desires ⏤ he calls it mutual help

⇢ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jungkook x reader

⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fake dating au, fluff, angst, smut, slow burn

⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit language

⇢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.9k+

⇠ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯. | 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ⇢

It's been a little over a week since Jungkook has seen you, nine days to be exact. The lack of contact the two of you had, apart from the messages Jungkook spammed your phone with, suit you. You've missed him, especially on those lonely evenings you'd usually spend with him watching movies or one of his stupid games he loves to play in his free time. Of course, if he's not working out or doing something else as productive.

Jungkook has really tried his best, even asked to hang out during a week but you politely declined making an excuse which usually had been that you're tired or busy with work. It's not like you lied to him, you had been busy and tired too. But usually none of those things mattered when it came to you and your best friend hanging out together. Empathic as always, Jungkook completely understood your lame excuses and always made sure he texted you during the day. Even if it was just some stupid TikTok videos or meme picture that made you laugh.

As much as your lame excuses were partly right, there are two more reasons you've decided to spend your free time alone. One, is that your bruise hasn't been completely healed yet. You didn't need Jungkook to go crazy about the ugly colors your bruise managed to sprout into. Of course, maybe you're being just too dramatic over Jungkook's reaction, which would be just as equally dramatic, but you don't really yearn for his scolding all over again. The second reason is mostly about you and doesn't involve Jungkook at all.

Two days since you and Yoongi dishonored Yejun's office, nicely said, it took you some time to fully let it sink in, the fact you had Yoongi's dick in your hand while he went down on you. Who would've thought something like that could happen? You surely didn't. You both went in the same cab home that night and even though you felt a little bit weird about sitting next to him, considering he had his mouth on you just a few minutes ago, things went back to normal. The two of you never spoke about it, there's no reason to.

You were a little nervous about today, being the first day to see him since that happened, but today proved to you there's no reason to overthink it or worry about it. You went back to normal and at the end of the day, you're just two people who needed to get each other off. You drank, had fun and that's it.

So when Jungkook texted you today, wanting to hang out with you you agreed. Since you've settled your thoughts in your mind, you've realized you missed him and you don't want stupid things to keep you from living your life outside work.

Rather than Monday being one of those evenings that you just hang out, eating food and sprawling yourselves either on your or Jungkook's couch, Jungkook has prepared a fun evening for you. He's always been the one more adventurous.

Ice skating, it is for tonight.

God, you can't remember when was the last time you wore ice skates. Probably when you were around seven when your uncle took you to the nearest lake in the middle of winter. You can still remember him laughing at you when you fell on your bum, embarrassed since there were other people around. That was the first and last time you ice skated.

Quite frankly, it's hard to do any activities with Jungkook because he's good at everything and if he doesn't know something or has never done something before, he gets the hang of it quickly and is a pure professional. It's annoying. You're not sure if you're ready to embarrass yourself in front of him and everyone else. You wouldn't care (about the part of embarrassing yourself in front of Jungkook) but you already know he's good at ice skating. You can already hear his devilish laugh laughing at you, even though you know he's not evil at all. Maybe just a little bit.

From a distance, you can already see Jungkook leaning against the railing of the ice rink with a phone in his hands. He's wearing a black padded jacket, the same one he wore that night of your accident. However, there's a black bucket hat covering his hair and face, but still not enough not to let you notice the slight frown he's got. Just as if he could sense someone's eyes on him, he looks up his phone and scans the crowd of people. There are more people than you expected, considering it's Monday but Seoul never sleeps.

It's until you're a few meters away from him that he sees you, putting his phone into the pocket of his black cargo pants. He flashes you one of his gentle smiles, already outstretching his arms towards you as you chuckle, hugging him as soon as he's close.

"Waiting for me?" you laugh, voice muffled by his chest.

"Who else, I'm always waiting when it comes to you." he teases, poking you in your ribs as you pull away from him with a displeased frown.

Okay, maybe you're late sometimes. But not always! And it always is Jungkook who waits for you. It's his fault he's always on time.

Jungkook's teasing grin fades as a soft look spreads over his features. "Let me see," he murmurs, angling your head to the side so he can see the fading bruise.

You catch the displeased frown on his face again, his brows furrowed in worry but instead of saying anything else, he simply sighs. "Does it still hurt?"

It does. Not like in the beginning, but you can definitely feel it when you lay on the side, pressing the bruise on your soft pillow. "No," you tell him bluntly.

However Jungkook looks at you with an impressed look, swiftly touching your temple and the bruise as he presses his thumb against it. "Ow, are you insane?" you exclaim, slapping his hand away as he looks completely unbothered by your sudden outburst.

"Don't lie to me." he says simply, even has the audacity to shrug as if he didn't just hurt you. Okay, it didn't hurt that much but it shocked you.

"You didn't have to press so hard," you mumble, feeling like a little kid as you gently pat around the bruise. "When's Jimin coming?" you ask instead.

Jimin is supposed to hang out with you today but he's coming a bit later, so in the meantime you hope you'll get the hang of ice skating so you won't embarrass yourself in front of him too. Hopefully, Jungkook will teach you how to ice skate properly by then.

"Maybe in an hour? I don't know, he said he'll meet us here." Jungkook shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pockets to hide them from the cold.

The first step is to get ice skates, renting two pairs for you and Jungkook, in the nearby stall where you wait a few minutes in the line. You take that time to look around, admire the colorful lights all around the ice rink. It looks almost magical, adding just the right atmosphere for winter and sets everyone in the mood to ice skate. Scent of mulled wine and cinnamon flows in the air from the other stalls. When it's finally your turn, Jungkook is the one who speaks and tells your and his foot size, the two of you thanking the young lady who hands you the ice skates. You watch Jungkook pay, telling him you'll pay him back for your half but he dismisses you by waving his hand.

You both scurry to the bench next to the stall to sit down and put on the ice skates. There's a little girl sitting next to you, her mom crouching in front of her as she puts the little ice skates for her. She's mesmerized by the lights, her face glowing with excitement and interest as you can't help but smile at her cuteness.

"I'll suck at this." you comment, voicing out your thoughts especially when you look at people ice skating so effortlessly. There are a few struggling, most of them being children which sets your stomach into a nervous ball.

"We can get you one of those penguin aids, if you want." Jungkook says with all seriousness but as you look at him, you notice his lips twitching while he's trying to hide a grin.

"Fuck off," you nudge his shoulder, growing annoyed at him. He's making fun of you. He looks so excited while putting on his ice skates, almost like a little kid.

Remembering there has been one sitting next to you and you openly cursed at your best friend, you look beside you with breath hitched in your throat. You sigh in relief when you notice her mom already putting her in the ice rink, her innocent ears in a safe distance from your big mouth.

"You're annoying." you murmur, sulking in your seat as you prolong putting on your ice skates.

Jungkook notices that, cackling beside you as he's all done, putting his boots in one of the lockers. He takes your shoes, the only chance of you actually running away from here, and puts it in the same locker. You watch him locking it and putting the key into his pocket. He turns to sit down beside you and waits, noticing your puzzled look.

"Hey, I'm here," he says, smiling as he slightly nudges your shoulder with his own in encouragement. Oh, fuck you feel like a little kid. Even a little kid is more excited than you're. You're not sure why you're suddenly so unsure about this. And Jungkook already knows you need a little nudge and encouragement. "I'll teach you."

"What if I fall and break my... I don't know, leg or arm?"

He snorts at your question, seeing your little grin but he knows you're not just joking. "I won't let you fall." he says simply, shrugging as if it's not a big deal.

You glance at him skeptically before you tie your ice skates. Jungkook is the first one to stand up, grinning excitedly as he helps you to stand up too. He has a tight grip on your hands, slowly leading you towards the ice rink which takes just a few steps. You're holding your breath the whole time, watching Jungkook glide against the ice completely effortlessly as he turns to you, still holding your hand.

"Come on," he turns his head towards the ice rink, nudging you to move as people behind you are waiting to get into the ice rink as well.

There is no time to hesitate. Fuck it, you tell yourself as you get onto ice. You stumble a little, Jungkook luckily is there to catch you as he grins down at you, scrunching his nose.

"See? It's not that hard," he says, earning a roll of your eyes from you. What could you possibly reply to that? It is not easy either. "Come on, let's move a little further." he says, gently tugging you in the direction as you're forced to ice skate.

Your steps are a little too stiff, even you can tell but it's all because you're trying to hold your balance without actually falling. When you allow yourself to relax, Jungkook is still holding your hand firmly with his own, you find that it's not that hard and you're not too bad at ice skating. You grow more confident with each glide you take, fully realizing Jungkook is ice skating carefully and slowly to match your pace.

"See? You're doing great. You could be a little ice skater." he coos at you, stopping as you shoot him a glare.

"Stop talking to me like I'm a kid." you scold him, still gripping his hand as he looks at your hands and chuckles.

"You were pouting like one just a few minutes ago."

"No I wasn't!" you argue. You probably were. Jungkook had always noticed things about you you hadn't. But you keep that to yourself, fully aware that Jungkook probably knows that too.

He lets go of your hand, cackling when he sees your widened eyes. "You can do it. Just go slow. You're actually good at this." he encourages you, skating in front of you as he turns around to face you. He's outstretching his arms, silently telling you he's there and will catch you if you fall.

You adjust your beanie, just a reaction to deal with your unsureness. "Okay, here I go," you sing out lightly, chuckling at how nervous you actually sound. You're about to take your first step, stopping as you look at Jungkook who's been waiting for you to finally move. "Actually, can't we take a round before I go all by myself?" you ask, waiting for him to laugh at you.

All he does is smile in return as he outstretches his hand towards you again, nodding in response. You clasp your hand into his, letting your ice skates glide against the ice with Jungkook by your side. Him holding your hand gives you more stability and confidence, your steps bigger and much smoother. He distracts you by having a casual conversation with you and even though most of the time you're quiet, too focused on ice skating, it's working.

Just like Jungkook said, and now you believe his words, you're actually ice skating without doing it stiffly. It's not perfect, nowhere near his ice skating, but it's enough. The nearby cries of children that fall fills the place but you're too distracted grinning at yourself for doing an actual good job at this. You finish the round somehow quickly, Jungkook's hand letting go of you as he's standing in front of you, a good meter separating you.

The music playing from the outdoor speakers gives you more joy as you excitedly start dancing (or more like trying to), moving your arms and hips as Jungkook laughs at you. "Stop, you're gonna fall."

"I won't, I'm good at this." you joke, gliding against the ice as you skate forward.

Jungkook follows you, scolding you when he sees you wiggling your arms excitedly. "Y/N, you're gonna fall."

You roll your eyes, "I won't." you repeat, doing the same thing just because you're stubborn and excited that you're good at ice skating. Just as you finish your sentence, the right ice skate gets caught onto ice a little causing you to stumble, but you quickly hold your balance.

"See? I told you," Jungkook scolds you, ice skating next to you as he makes sure you're alright.

"I told you," you mock him, "I just stumbled, gosh, relax Jeon I'm not gonna--"

You probably got overconfident with your own skills, trying to prove a point to your best friend as you overestimated yourself. You're not sure what you've done, probably glid your leg wrong because you stumble too much, both legs stumbling as you prepare yourself for the hard impact. Instead, there are strong arms wrapped around you, your ice skates bumping into Jungkook's a little too harshly but he holds his balance and has a strong grip around your body.

"Stupid," he scolds you, "You could've hurt yourself."

You wouldn't die of falling. Maybe of embarrassment, yes.

"You said you'll catch me if I fall." you tell him stupidly, grinning while staring up at him. He's close, his warm breath hitting your face as he disapprovingly shakes his head at you, squeezing your waist a little bit too much.

"Just be careful," he murmurs as the two of you pull away, Jungkook eyeing you warily as if you'd fall any second. "Stupid." he whispers, shaking his head again as you give him a toothed grin.

Both of you ready for the second round while you'll try not to run over any kids, pushing one of those penguin aids. You look like a freaking amateur next to Jungkook, his feet practically flying on the ice as the blade of his ice skates brush perfectly against the clear ice.

You still find yourself to have more fun than you expected. The little you is proud of yourself for not falling on your bum this time. Unfortunately, back then you didn't have Jeon Jungkook to hold you when you were seven.

Jungkook was right. Ice skating can be fun. There's not much place for conversation, you keep it brief as you simply enjoy ice skating with your friend by your side. After a few rounds of your ice skates glazing over the ice, the two of you decide to grab something to drink and eat. You scurry to the very corner where a special stall is standing, selling some food.

Your choice is a warm tea called 'Christmas time' which should remind you of the very special holiday with its taste. The black tea is enriched with a hint of cinnamon, orange peel and safflower – indeed reminding you of one of the usual smells of Christmas. You and Jungkook decide to get out of the rink to properly sit down, rest your legs for a bit, and drink your tea in peace.

Jungkook hums at the taste of the tea as he has ordered the same one. You sit in silence for a bit, simply enjoying each other's presence as you're watching people ice skating with music playing in the background. The tea warms up your cold hands, your fault for not bringing gloves.

It's the moment when Jungkook takes off the bucket hat to ruffle his hair, that you finally notice the change that makes you dramatically gasp before you can realize your loud and natural reaction.

"You got a haircut?"

Jungkook's doe eyes crinkle at the end as he chuckles at your reaction. "Yeah, it got too long."

"I loved it." you pout not hiding your disappointment, staring at the fresh undercut and shortened hair that is parted in the middle, still showing his forehead. It's a little messy, considering it's been hidden underneath the bucket hat for some time. Still, Jungkook makes it work and looks annoyingly good.

"I can always grow it out," he says simply, tone light and a smile still attached to his lips.

This means no man bun. This is not fair.

"Don't I look good either way?" he jokes, nudging your side slightly as you snicker.

"Oh, shut up." He looks good and he knows it. His cocky and confident grin says it all. There's no need to feed his ego.

In times like these you wonder again, why can't your best friend be less handsome? You almost snort at your thoughts. During ice skating, you noticed a lot of girls staring his way – obviously appreciating how he looks even with barely showing his face. Even a few guys turned around. It's not annoying to you though. You've got used to people staring at him whenever you go out somewhere. He's always the center of attention. Actually, all of your good friends are. Taehyung is a freaking model, could easily do it as his profession if he wasn't so in love with art and working in an art gallery. Jimin can be cute and handsome at the same time, showing so many different sides of him. Deep down you know he's a flirty shit that loves all the attention. Both women and men. He enjoys catching someone else's eyes.

"How's working in the club going? How long are you planning to work there?" Jungkook changes the topic, reminding you that he hasn't been pleased with you working in a nightclub from the very beginning. It's okay, you were skeptical too and if you didn't have to (and your finance would allow you) you wouldn't have a part-time job.

Luckily, Yejun is an amazing boss and eased your nerves. Everyone working there is nice and you actually feel like you can do this until the end. It's always good to save up some more money.

"Good," you answer, "I'm not sure. Maybe a few more months." you shrug, still not sure about that decision yet. In two months, you could probably have enough money to buy a better car. And it's always nice to have your Saturdays free and not having to spend your Sundays sleeping it off, trying to relax at least one day without working.

"You were working on Saturday, right?" Jungkook asks, recalling one of your texts where you mentioned something about still working in a club too after your accident. He didn't comment on it but fuck, he wanted to tell you to take a day off to fully rest. Unfortunately for him and his usual care, he knew you wouldn't listen either way.

The mention of Saturday makes you dryly gulp, the face of Yoongi and his body pressed against yours pretty much clear in your mind. It's been only two days. You don't find your voice, simply nodding in a fear he could've heard the slight discomfort in your tone if you were about to speak. However, knowing you for some time he can easily tell when you're trying to play it cool. And you take the sight in front of you as a distraction. But Jungkook can see right through you and scans the side of your face that you're desperately trying to hide from him.

"What?" he chuckles, causing you to glance at him as you give him a look of confusion. Another way to play it off again. "What are you not telling me?"

The way your eyes widen is enough to tell him that yes, his suspicion has been right but he's already had a hunch.

"Nothing." you shrug, keeping your answer brief and short in hope he'll drop it.

"Oh, come on! Don't lie to me." Jungkook teases lightly, even lets out a light laugh but something snaps at you (maybe the discomfort of Jungkook knowing) that words and tone are spoken out of your mouth before you can control yourself.

"Me not telling you something isn't me lying."

He looks genuinely taken back by your outburst, doe eyes widening a bit before he clears his throat and recovers from the shock. "Okay, you don't have to tell me." he says softly, almost awkwardly staring at the floor.

You curse at yourself once again, feeling like an idiot for snapping at him. Jungkook is not the only one used to you telling him almost everything that's been going on in your life. You're used to it too and it goes the other way as well. It must feel weird to him to see you hiding something and not wanting to tell him that, but of course, as a good friend he respects it and drops the subject. Still, you see him slightly confused and a little bit baffled by your reaction which again, makes you curse at yourself. The reason behind your outburst is pure panic that you've felt and are still feeling.

Sighing, you shake your head and glance at Jungkook. You'd probably tease him and coo at him for looking like a lost little boy, sitting next to you with a slight pout and a soft frown.

It's not that you're ashamed of yourself for what you've done with Yoongi. You accepted that it happened and you don't regret it, even though you know you both acted recklessly. The alcohol and your conversation played a huge part there as well. As much as you're fine with it (because there's no reason you wouldn't be) you still catch yourself thinking 'Wow, have I really done that?'. You've never slept with anyone that's not close to you. You'd say with anyone that you weren't dating but you already broke that with Jungkook. You weren't dating him too (at least for real) and you both had sex, something more than you and Yoongi did. But there was a deal and it had been under different circumstances. You can't really compare that.

"I hooked up with Yoongi." You let it out of your chest, eyes already set upon Jungkook that seems to freeze for a second before he looks at you, letting out a light chuckle.

"Come again? I thought I heard you saying you hooked up with someone." Something about him staring at you like that tells you that he heard you perfectly, and looks alarmed. Almost as if he wishes you'd just burst in laughter and tell him you're joking.

"You heard me right," you murmur, eyes dropping to your lap. "I hooked up with Yoongi on Saturday."

You take this time to look at him again, wanting to see his face even though there's a part of you wanting to just stare at the floor instead, just in case you'd see something negative on your friend's face. Mostly, you don't care what others think about it. But it's different when it's Jungkook. Of course, there are things that you're determined about and no one can change that. Not even Jungkook. However, this current situation is in a way weird for you too.

"Yoongi? Isn't he that guy...?" he trails off, brows pinched in confusion as he recalls you complaining about him constantly teasing you and getting on your nerves. He looks nothing but confused. Trust me, Jungkook... you're not the only one who's shocked, you think.

You still can't believe you hooked up with Yoongi out of all people.

"Yeah," you clear your throat, scratching the back of your neck with a nervous chuckle. "We were just talking and I stayed to have a drink, but I wasn't drunk!" you explain quickly, not wanting him to think Yoongi took advantage of you because you just know that thought would cross his mind at the mention of you having a drink. "And then he joined me and we actually talked, like we had a conversation, without biting each other's heads off? Can you believe that?" you let out a nervous chuckle, already feeling yourself ramble. "And then--"

"Y/N," Jungkook chuckles, but it's so faint that you barely hear it. "I'm not sure if I wanna hear how you hooked up with him."

Oh.

Your cheeks flame with embarrassment, your throat tight as you barely can swallow your saliva.

"Okay?" you ask with an awkward chuckle. That makes Jungkook set his eyes on you, searching your face. "Don't look at me like that, please."

"Look like what?" His eyebrows lift up, confused again.

"Like you're judging me."

At this, Jungkook's features soften. "Y/N," he says softly, "I could never judge you."

You stare into his dark brown eyes, the lights around you shining in them as you see nothing but honesty and understanding in them.

"I guess, I'm just shocked. I didn't think you'd just... him out of all people. It's just too much to process for me, but I can assure you I'm not judging you. Hey, look at me," he calls out softly when he notices you staring into your lap instead, his fingers tapping you on the tip of your nose. "Do you regret it?"

You shake your head. You did get a good orgasm indeed and partly got rid of your sexual frustration which a man sitting next to you is kind of responsible for. It's his fault for showing you how good sex can be when you're doing it with the right person. Your standards for your future partner and sex life has gone way upwards thanks to him.

"Good," he says, "You're an adult. It's your choice and no one can judge you for that."

You're not sure whether he's telling you that because he feels like you need to hear it and is being a typical supporting and caring Jungkook, or because he really means it from the bottom of his heart. And you're not too eager to figure that out, simply just going along with his words because you do need to hear them.

You're an adult. It's your choice and no one can judge for that. That's right. Still, he doesn't need to hear any details about your sex life. It probably wouldn't be too comfortable for both of you. He doesn't talk to you about how he pounded Kiko into his mattress before they both went separate paths for tonight's evening. He knows it's not something you'd be interested in hearing, nor would he be interested in saying such a thing.

"Come on, let's drink this up. Jimin will be here any minute, I'm sure he'll want to ice skate as soon as he comes." Jungkook says, lightening up the somehow stiff and weird atmosphere.

Nodding in response, you rather take a sip from your hot tea than saying something. Still, you can't shake off how Jungkook seems to stay quiet for the rest of the time you sit, drinking your tea in silence.

Jimin really comes by the time you've finished your tea, flashing you with his toothy and big smile as he hugs the two of you. He squeezes your body tightly, ignoring your protests since you can barely breathe as he enjoys being with his friends. It's been a while since you got to spend some time with him as well.

"Tae's not coming?" you ask, curious about your other friend. Usually, where Jimin is, there is Taehyung too. Those two are like inseparable twins, always together.

"No," Jimin says once he pulls away from the hug, a frown settling on his face. "That idiot doesn't listen when I tell him he dresses in too thin layers. He got sick."

You and Jungkook chuckle at seeing Jimin so angry over Taehyung being simply irresponsible. However, you do a mental note to check on Taehyung later to send him a message.

Just like Jungkook said, Jimin doesn't want to waste any time and quickly goes to a rental stall to get ice skaters. And just like Jungkook, Jimin is just as amazing at ice skating, skating smoothly while you keep complaining about it for the whole round. Jimin's bubbly laugh resounds around the rink, his eyes crinkling at your grumpy face as he takes your hand to help you keep up with their pace.

After a couple of rounds, even Jimin has concurred that it's best to take a little break, so the three of you stand in the corner of the rink leaning against the railing. Jimin's cheerful personality and mood brought up a little light, especially after the conversation with Jungkook. You can't help but shake off the weird feeling inside you from telling Jungkook about Yoongi. You've this urge to clarify that you haven't had sex with him, not that it matters that much.

As if Jungkook could sense your thoughts and uncertainty on your face, he gives you a soft smile while Jimin is talking about upcoming Christmas and his stress to buy presents.

"Oh, is your car fine now?" Jimin asks as if he just remembered something, specifically you mentioning to him that your car got broken again, and just like that Jungkook's smile drops and he frowns.

"Uhh, yeah, it's getting fixed." you let out a nervous chuckle, avoiding Jungkook's dark eyes while Jimin looks at your bruise.

"Ow, you poor thing. I'm glad you're alright." Jimin says, eyes staying on your bruise for a moment, "Well, I'm gonna grab something to drink. You guys want something?"

The two of you shake your head, your non-verbal answer just enough for Jimin as he nods and makes his way towards the stall, ice skating effortlessly. Thanks Jimin, you think. You wouldn't tell him about your car (not because you wanted to keep it a secret or something) but because you don't need another person to worry about you. However, Jimin heard about your car accident from Jungkook and then somehow in the conversation, you mentioned your car being fixed because it stopped working again.

Obviously, Jimin is innocent in this. He thought Jungkook already knows about it and the thought of you not purposely telling that to your best friend hasn't crossed his mind. He expected Jungkook to be the first person you told him about your car.

"Your car, huh?" Jungkook breaks the silence, staring at you with raised brow. "It broke again?"

"Isn't that obvious by now?" you murmur. You already know what's about to happen.

"Y/N!" he exclaims, not even surprised by your ironic remark

"What? What?" you exclaim back, using your hands to show your frustration. "Why are you getting so worked up over this?" You know why, you just don't understand it. Some part of you may agree with Jungkook, yet you know he's being dramatic all over again because his judgment is clouded with worry.

"Because you're being reckless. How have you been getting to work? To the club?"

Fuck, you feel like a parent is interrogating you.

Pursing your lips for a while, you stare with a guilty look on Jungkook in hope he'll let go of this but his features only harden and cocks his brow at you. Sighing, you lick your lips before you say; "By bus? Sometimes I call a cab--"

"Jesus, Y/N," Jungkook exclaims, staring at the sky as he rubs his temples. "Do you know what could happen to you? Especially during the night?"

You'd rather not think about it negatively, even though you realize the risks. On the other hand... What is the big deal? Countless people are using public transport too because they've no other choice. It all depends on which side you look at it. Jungkook is obviously thinking about your safety and well-being, which warms your heart, but he's starting to piss you off with this neverending worry when it clearly doesn't help you.

"Worry about your girlfriend, Jeon." you snap at him, growing even more irritated by his attitude. You know he means no harm, yet he just keeps scolding you like a fucking kid.

"I don't have to, she's not this stupid." he snaps back, your jaw dropping as you gape at him before another wave of anger rashes through you and you act on impulse.

"Yeah, just stupid enough to cheat."

Rather than Jungkook looking angry at your jab, his features twist with hurt even though he's trying to hide it by just glaring at you. Guilt washes over you, knowing how sensitive this topic is for him. It doesn't matter you've a point, it was simply said out of purpose to anger him.

"Jungkook..." you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose with your cold fingers as it's not the only thing that got cold.

"You know, I just wish you'd stop bringing this up. I know you don't agree with me getting back to her, but at least you could be more considerate and stop bringing that up." he tells you coldly, scoffing under his breath.

"I didn't mean to--"

"No, you did mean it. I don't need you to keep reminding me of that," he snaps, shaking his head. "I'll leave the key from the locker room at the stall." he informs you, your mouth opening and heart racing.

"Jungkook, where are you going?"

"I'm gonna go home. It's late and it's getting colder." he mocks, ice skating to get out of the ice rink before you can utter a single word.

You see Jimin looking confusedly as he skates towards you, frown settled on his face. "Where is he going? What happened?"

Your face says it all. Something went wrong and your eyes filled with sadness is enough for Jimin to put a hand over your shoulder in comfort.

"Home," you sigh, "He went home."

"Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you two?" Jimin asks, staring at your widened eyes.

"I wish I knew," You know it's not what Jimin asked about, but for now it's the only answer you can give him. "I just said something hurtful to him while he was just being worried about me."

"You wanna talk about it?" Jimin asks softly, eyes scanning your saddened features.

"Can we get out of here first?"

"Of course."

Just like Jungkook said to you, he really left the key for you to get your shoes as you took it from the young woman at the stall with a tight and forced smile. You clearly hurt Jungkook and you knew you'd be hurting him by bringing Kiko, most importantly her cheating, into your conversation. Jimin stays quiet for most parts, simply walking beside you as your thoughts and guilt consume you. You admit to him what you said to Jungkook, not forgetting to mention you feel guilty because all he did was show you how worried he is about you.

Jimin's pitiful gaze says it all. He doesn't say it, but he surely thinks you fucked up. Everyone knows how touchy the subject Kiko is. Everyone out of those people who know about her cheating.

"You know how he gets. Jungkook has always been protective over you. I'm sorry for bringing up your car, I didn't know he didn't know about it."

"It's not your fault, Jimin," you sigh, "And exactly... I know how he gets and that's why I didn't tell him. He just doesn't understand that I had no choice and he's being so freaking irresponsible too. He offers me his own car, can you believe that?"

"I think I can do, actually," Jimin chuckles softly, "Jungkook always puts others first."

You know that. And that's why you feel guilty even more.

"I fucked up... he was so hurt when I said it."

"I think you should apologize and talk to him about it. You know he can't stay mad at you, it'd drive him crazy to be on bad terms with you."

"I was about to apologize but he stormed off." you reason, sighing as your shoulders sulk.

Jimin giggles, putting his arms over your shoulders as he pulls you closer and rubs his hand over your forearm. "You guys will work it out. It's just a stupid fight."

"Yeah, I hope so..." you murmur, "But when it comes to Kiko, I feel like everything changes."

"Oh, is that jealousy I hear?" Jimin teases, laughing when you roll your eyes at him.

"Piss off," He laughs even more. "Why would I be jealous?"

Jimin lets go off you, stuffing his hands into warm pockets of his jacket as he shrugs. "I don't know... because you dated?" He chuckles as if it's obvious but all he's met is your loud sigh and a little scoff that follows after.

"Okay, spill it out. What really happened between you two? One second you're acting like you weren't dating at all and the next you're arguing about something dumb." You were dumb in this. It's your fault that you and Jungkook had a fight but you're glad Jimin doesn't mention that.

There's really no way out of this. Jimin already knows something's up and you feel guilty all over again, knowing you've been lying to your friends. Even though Jimin seems to have caught onto something, he still gives you space to tell him the truth. You've got two options here. Either you lie again, make up some lame lie which he could see right through but just accept it, knowing you're lying. Or to tell him the truth.

"Y/N, you're okay?" He notices your puzzled look, stopping when you do the same thing and he's met with your too serious look.

"See... me and Jungkook," you start, gulping as he nods in understatement but you can tell how curious he is what you've got to say. "We never really... dated."

It's out. You finally tell him, those words coming out of your mouth freely and it's easier than you thought. You do feel some kind of relief now that he knows, his eyes widening as he stares at you.

"You what?" he laughs, genuinely confused. "You never really dated?" He keeps laughing, almost as if he can't believe it but then he notices your serious and guilty look that his smile drops, big eyes staring at you.

So you explain everything to him, the deal and how Jungkook found out about Kiko cheating in the middle of it. And by everything you mean telling him that the two of you were simply physical, and somehow became friends with benefits with this twist of the deal being involved. You don't go into much detail, simply informing your friend that yes, you've had sex with him. You purposely skip the part about how many times you've had sex. That's not important.

Jimin looks stunned for a second, if it weren't for his occasional blinks you would've thought he's not alive anymore.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he shrieks, mouth opened in horror as you cringe at his loud tone.

"Shhh, we're in public." you shush him, looking around just to find only a few people in the alley, barely paying you any attention.

"Oh, don't you shush me," Jimin scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You two are so fucking dumb. Why would you ever agree to that?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous--"

"Because it is," he interrupts you, met with your glare. "Sorry."

"I didn't agree at first but then I thought... why not. I know it sounds fucking stupid of us but we're fine!" you assure him, seeing him raising his brow at you.

"Yeah, I can see that."

"That has nothing to do with our deal. Our fight was because I mentioned Kiko cheating. Really, Jimin... me and Jungkook are fine and we're friends like we used to be. It's not weird between us, I know it's hard to believe but remember when we hung out? Or when we went to karaoke with Tae too? You couldn't believe we're just back to normal when we were 'dating' but that's the thing. We never were dating." you explain

Jimin looks exhausted, closing his eyes for a moment as he lets your words sink in. "Still... you and Jungkook hooking up. I don't know Y/N... I think you were risking a lot considering how protective you've always been about your friendship. Weren't you guys laughing in our faces when we mentioned you and Jungkook having sex? You both practically cringed at the thought of that."

You get it. He's confused and it's hard to process such information.

"We did... but we had a conversation and I mentioned Haechan and then the idea of our deal came up... it doesn't matter now. We can still be friends even if his dick had been inside me."

"Y/N!" Jimin exclaims in outrage, letting out a scandalous gasp as if he wasn't just devil himself underneath that angel-like face. "So, what? The two of you are just fine and went back to normal?"

"Pretty much," you shrug, "We were always normal, the difference was we were fucking at that time too."

"Freaking god," Jimin groans, looking at the night sky for a moment before glaring at you. "You've no filter."

"When have I ever had one?"

"Touché." Jimin murmurs, earning a punch to his arm from you.

"Oh, fuck!" you almost scream, head thrown back in pure ecstasy as your walls contract around his thick length.

"You like that, huh?" The deep voice meets your ear, the lips brushing against your earlobe as he keeps hitting the same good spot. You're so close.

Jungkook's pelvic bone keeps hitting your one, sweat trickling both your bodies but you don't care. Your hands are all over his muscular back, pushing him even closer to you as he grunts. It feels so good. But then it's like with a snap of fingers something comes up your mind and you're mumbling Jungkook's name, hands slowly pushing his chest to stop him moving.

You're met with those doe eyes staring at you innocently as he's nothing but curious why you stopped him.

"What are we doing?" you ask, chest heaving as you sit up, his length slipping out of you as you already miss the feeling of his thick cock stretching you.

"Fucking." Jungkook shrugs, ready to lean to kiss you but you push against his shoulders gently and shake your head.

"No... I mean, the deal is off. You're dating Kiko now. What are we doing?" There's panic inside of you, the instant disgust that it's not caused by Jungkook but the fact you're having sex with him when he's dating someone else. This is wrong. This is so wrong.

"What are you talking about, baby?" he chuckles, cocking his head cutely at you as he laughs with confusion written on his face. "The deal is not off. I'm not dating anyone."

He frowns but smiles at the same time, the same confusion still attached to his morning bare face as your heart starts beating fast. You can feel it pumping in your chest until Jungkook fades all of a sudden and you snap your eyes open.

The first thing you notice, other than the street lights slightly shining through your closed blinds, is how hot your body is. With breath quickened, you stare at the plain ceiling with your heart beating fast in your chest. You take a moment, replaying the dream that felt surreal and real at the same time, guilt hitting you when you realize that Jungkook came into your dream mostly from the fact you both fought. You've been thinking about him even until Jimin dropped you home, checking your phone just in case.

You had sent him a message, asking if the two of you could talk but he still hasn't replied which means you'll come to terms with the reality that he's simply ignoring you. Jungkook would always reply within minutes, there's no chance he hasn't checked his phone since he left.

Sudden blush creeps on your warm cheeks, embarrassed by the dream. Why did you have to dream about that exactly? Sighing, you check the time. Great. You woke up an hour before your alarm.

Damn Jeon Jungkook. He won't even let you sleep in peace. However, this time you're more guilty than he is.

You hadn't slept that much after that, kept tossing around in your warm bed which had become annoying and you had decided it's better to start your day. You still had a bus to catch.

The day has dragged slowly, keeping your mind mostly occupied but you'd lie if you said you hadn't checked your phone a few times, waiting for a message from a certain someone.

Not even the beautiful snow coating every surface outside has helped your soar mood. By the time you're clocking off with Yoongi by your side, ignoring his usual teasing, it's still snowing. As you're walking out of the building, your eyes are attached to the stairs in hope you won't fall on the slippery pavement.

"...we should get a raise, at least I should." Yoongi grumbles beside you, complaining about Junho's work ethic once again and doesn't forget to boost his own ego while doing so.

Simply rolling your eyes, you look at the dark sky while snowflakes fall down onto your nose. You've to hurry, you've a bus to catch and if you don't want to stand at the bus stop while the snow is getting thicker and thicker, you should move your ass. However as you look down, still walking with Yoongi you notice a car parked directly in front of you just a few meters away from you and Yoongi. Not just any car.

Jungkook's black Mercedes is hard to miss, the sleek black color catching everyone's eyes as Jungkook himself is standing and leaning against it. The hood of his jacket is draped over his head but you would recognize him anytime. It's a weird coincidence, Yoongi's car parked right beside his as you're walking to him with Yoongi by your side.

However, your co-worker seems unaware of Jungkook's presence until you're almost a meter away from him, his sharp eyes glancing at Jungkook who's already staring at you.

"Hey," You decide to say, not hiding your surprise and confusion by his presence. Jungkook just nods your way in silent greeting, your lips pressed tightly as you feel annoyed by the lack of greeting. It's just your ego acting up, you know that... yet, you wish he'd at least say hi. "What are you doing here?" you ask, stopping in front of him as you pull your coat closer to your body.

Instead of answering, Jungkook looks at Yoongi who seems to be standing next to you, watching the scene in front of him with almost an amused smirk. However, Jungkook looks nothing close to being amused and you see the slight glare he's giving Yoongi.

Yoongi decides to take the matter into his hands, chuckling underneath his breath as his monotone voice fills the awkward silence. "I'm Yoongi."

"I know who you are," Jungkook almost snaps, glancing at you as he's met with your furrowed brows. "Jungkook." he grumbles in return.

"I know who you are," Yoongi simply says in return, purposely provoking him maybe as he grins at you. Jungkook clenches his jaw, but keeps his mouth shut. "I gotta go. See you tomorrow."

All you can muster is a simple nod as you see Yoongi walking to his car from the corner of your eyes. It doesn't take long for him to drive from the parking lot, leaving the two of you completely alone as you stare at Jungkook who barely seems to look into your eyes, instead focusing his eyes elsewhere.

"Why did you come here if you're ignoring me?" Surprisingly, your voice sounds nonchalant as you stare at your best friend with a raised brow, not breaking your stoic facial expression even when he looks at you.

The truth is, it was never his plan to drive to your work. He's seen your message but wanted some time to think, mostly focused on the hurt your words caused him. It's certain you feel guilty, he knows you and saw the guilt on your face as soon as you said those words. That doesn't mean he's not hurt and should be okay with it. He was driving, thinking about your message and how guilty he felt for not replying. It's already dark, he thought, knowing you're about to take public transport. Bus or train, he's not sure. But he didn't, still doesn't, like the idea of you walking to the bus stop late and when it's dark.

Guilt eating him out, he started driving towards your work company knowing he has to put his pride aside for a moment. He cares for you. And you wanted to talk anyway. It's killing two birds with one stone.

He rolls his eyes, actually rolls his eyes at you as his tongue pokes his inner cheek, staying silent for a second. "You wanted to talk," he says simply.

"You haven't replied to my message." you point out, licking your dry lips.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are," you hum, staring at your friend who seems to be interested more in falling snow rather than you. "Jungkook, why did you really come?"

He averts his eyes to you, searching your face as you notice him trying to act as neutral as he can. "I told you, you wanted to talk so I'm here."

That doesn't make much sense. He didn't have to come all the way here just to talk with you, especially when he barely even glances at you. You can feel the hurt and battle he has with himself just from standing in front of him.

"You could've just texted back." you point out, corner of your mouth twitching knowing you're provoking him at this point. You could be glad he came to you. You're the one who hurt him. And you appreciate it, yet you want him to speak openly with you rather than being silent and ignoring your presence. What's the point of that, right?

"Is your car still not fixed?" He ignores your remark, glaring at you when he sees your lips twitch in amusement, realization hitting you like a ton of bricks. Oh, that's why he came at this time. He's worried about you going home this late, using public transport. It all makes sense and you can't find the smile off your face. Your heart warms up at the realization, even more when Jungkook is ignoring your obvious reaction.

You shake your head, confirming his thoughts as he clenches his jaw for a moment, before he says; "Hop in, I'm driving you home."

He doesn't wait for your reaction, turning around to go inside the car. You listen to him, biting your lower lip as you can't seem to shake off your smile. When you get into the car, Jungkook doesn't say anything and simply lets the music turn on. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, the other one resting against the arm rest as he picks on his bottom lip. Apology is ready to burst out of your mouth, but you stop yourself. You want him to look at you when you're saying it, there's a small part of you worrying you'll just make it worse. Still, you've to address the problem and apologize because you're fully aware you've hurt him.

Maybe Jungkook expects you to be the first one to say something. You feel like an idiot too. He came all the way to pick you up and drive you home, yet you're the one who fucked up this time. It makes you feel even more guilty.

As Jungkook parks in front of your apartment building, he stays in the car as you let out a loud sigh staring at him. "You wanna come upstairs?"

In other situations, the two of you would laugh at how bad it sounds and someone could get the wrong impression if they heard you. You can practically hear your and Jungkook's giggle but all you're met with right now is pure silence. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car. Sighing, you do the same thing as you walk around the car to stand in front of him.

"Jungkook, I'm sorry," you tell him, waiting for him to look at you. And he does. He looks empty, just his way of hiding him being hurt. "I know what I said was wrong. I shouldn't have done that, I know I hurt you. I also know you don't have to be reminded of what happened between you and Kiko," You try your best not to let her name sound bitter. "It was insensitive of me to throw that in your face."

"It was," he agrees, "Is this how it's going to be? Whenever there's an argument behind the corner, you'll throw that in my face?" He doesn't sound angry, a little bit bitter yes, but he also sounds curious.

"No, of course not," you sigh at yourself, "I know you care about me and it wasn't right of me to bring that up while you were worrying about me... or ever." you murmur.

He nibbles on his bottom lip, looking innocent and cute with his doe eyes.

"I don't deserve you, Kook."

"Stop," he sighs, "This is not about that."

"It is. If it helps, I've been feeling like a bitch ever since we fought."

At this, he lets out a light chuckle but it's not the same one he lets out whenever he's purely amused.

"I know you don't agree with me, Y/N," he starts saying. Something tells you you don't want to hear what he has to say simply just from the fact it'll make you uncomfortable. And it does. But the least you can do is listen to him, knowing he's right. "But I need you to respect my decision. This is why I was talking to you about her in the first place. I can't stand between you two, choosing only one of you."

You nod, biting your lip since you're not sure what to say. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

And you hug him, wrapping your arms around his frame as you inhale his scent. Meeting the soft scent of his cologne that you've missed more than you'd ever admit to him. You've never used to fight like this before. Like serious fights, not just the stupid ones that ended with the two of you cackling with one another.

"Hug me back." you whine, voice muffled by his sweatshirt as the zipper of his jacket brushes against your nose.

Jungkook's arm stays limp beside his body, not doing any movements to grant your wish. "I don't want to hug you." he murmurs childishly, causing you to slightly pull away with arms still around his frame.

You meet his eyes, your pout evident as you look at him with puppy eyes. He averts his eyes between yours as he nibbles on his bottom lip, letting out a loud sigh at the end as he pulls you closer. His arms are wrapped around you, hugging you this time too as he gently squeezes your body.

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that." he murmurs.

"I know," you murmur back, "I hate when we fight."

"I hate it too." he admits, rubbing your back slightly.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I should've been more considerate, I said it without thinking which of course doesn't excuse my behavior."

"It doesn't," he sighs, "But I know you regret it. I just need you to be more understanding. I'm aware of your opinion about me and Kiko, in a way I understand why you don't agree with it. You want to protect me, I'd do the same thing for you. I just really need you to trust me and be more understanding. I know what I'm doing."

Sometimes, we think we know what we're doing but it ends up being an exact opposite. However, you keep your mouth shut and just let him hold you. Maybe it's how vulnerable and hurt he sounds, or it's the way he's hugging you, enveloping your body with his big one, but you blink away the tears that spill away nevertheless. Jungkook is completely oblivious to a few tears sliding down your cheeks, until he hears a soft sniffle that makes him pull away to look at you.

You look at him defeated, embarrassed that he sees you crying. "No, why are you crying?" he almost cries out, cupping your cheeks as he wipes the tears with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry." you cry out, trying to push his hands away but he holds you firmly. He's looking at you with a frown but it doesn't take a long for his expression to soften.

"Don't cry," he murmurs softly, "I hate seeing you cry."

You know that. Yet, you can't control your emotions as you sniffle again.

"Okay." you whisper, looking down at your boots as Jungkook snickers at your current appearance. You look so cute even when you're crying.

"Why crying all of a sudden?" he giggles, wiping your tears again as he adjusts your beanie.

"I don't know," you shrug, "I think my period is coming."

"Well, that explains everything." he points out, chuckling when you punch him in the stomach.

"Shut up, I really am sorry." you sniffle, hating how cold your cheeks feel like when Jungkook pulls his hands away from your face.

He's grinning at you amusingly. "I know." he says softly at the end, poking your nose in the process while he earns another punch from you.

#networkbangtan #ksmutclub #ficswithluv #btswritingcafe #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts au #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #mutual help #personasintro

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martyfive · 2 months

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i lay in bed sick for two weeks straight. first there’s body temperature i never knew was possible for a human to have, then there are coughs that feel like they may be the last ones i could ever have in my life, then there’s weakness, then my five year old phone falls down from the bed ending up completely broken, then the bed sheets become something i couldn’t bear to see anymore. then i get up, go outside and unexpectedly find myself at the offer of a somewhat steady part job at this small italian restaurant we’ve been visiting every sunday sharp for the last year and a half except for these two weeks i spent lying sick in bed. we are leaving the bar for the night when R. asks me if i’d like to help her at the bar a couple hours a week.

“i have no experience or anything,” i say, feeling extremely daft. “i’m not even sure i can talk to people properly. i never really could.”

“it’s okay,” she says. “you’ll be polishing the glasses. it’s not hard. i’ll teach you everything.”

on our way home A. says, “it could be good for you, you know. being among people and trying something new,” and i feel like he’s right.

at this point this small restaurant already feels like another home i want to belong to. going there every sunday for so long totally helped with that. they have one of my works i gave them as a present for christmas on the wall. it hangs up above the table me and A. occupied the first time we ever came to eat there. the frame contains pages from a sketchbook i used to draw in while visiting italy five years ago. it feels too personal, but also somehow on it’s place. i hate to hoard the stuff i create. i want to be bolder.

regretting my life choices, i spend all what’s left from my last year’s salary on a new phone. it’s a first phone i bought without anyone’s help. it costs more than i deserve.

i can’t find any will to start drawing again after being sick for two weeks.

a couple days later i go to the restaurant to ask R. about the time i can get to work. she says, “this thursday, 6:30 pm,” and then adds, tugging on my star wars hoodie, “and put on a black shirt, if you have one”.

so i find one that looks like A. has been wearing it during his teenage years when he looked more like a stick than a human and i go for the job that for the first time in my life has nothing to do with any kind of art except the art of making cocktails i still keep messing up. a couple hours a week somehow soon turns into ten as normally as “polishing glasses” turns into “doing everything there is possible to do as quickly as possible”.

“would you like to do thirty hours a week?” R. asks one day looking hopeful as if i hadn’t broken ten of their glasses in the first five days of work.

“my back is gonna die sooner than you expect it to if i agree to that,” i answer. and it really is the only reason i don’t say yes.

i soon notice there is no time to think of anything else except the work to be done while i am behind the bar once again forgetting the difference between prosecco and chardonnay or picking the ice from the ice machine or freezing in the giant fridge while looking for the specific crate of beer everyone in this town drinks more often than water. the countless amount of crates are brought from and to the back room. the ten glasses are crushed, four of them in my own hands just from squeezing too hard on them. i cringe about every single one of them before falling asleep after coming home around midnight with my aching back and more money than i ever earned drawing pictures. i think about that one time my friend told me that once you start working in catering, there’s no way back. i haven’t talked to her in a while and i can’t ask her if she still thinks it’s true.

i still can’t draw. i guess it will pass. i still cough although i’m trying not to be loud when i’m behind the bar.

“you smoke?” R. asks. “i do. i just don’t have time.”

“i’ve been smoking since i was sixteen. but not anymore really,” i say to that. “when my mother calls me, then i smoke. but that doesn’t happen very often.”

M. laughs at that as if he understands what i’m talking about and says, “with this job, i either smoke a cigarette or kill somebody,” and i laugh with him.

M. is the chef and the restaurant is named after him. he cooks so good there is surely nothing better i’ve ever eaten in my entire life. i hear all about it from guests while picking the dishes from the tables, smiling and pretending my hands are not shaking. he and R. speak to each other in loud italian and i like how they sound even if i only understand a couple words from their dialogues.

“what’s allora?” i ask one time.

R. looks at me like i’m the only one who ever asked her a silly question like that, “huh,” she says, “i don’t know. it’s like here we go or something like that,” and she smiles.

i like talking to her. for some reason i like asking her questions and seeing the surprise on her face. she’s five years older than me but i feel like a child around her. she also has her birthday in november.

“all my family are scorpions,” she says after revealing the fact that there’s ten days between our birthdays. she names at least ten of the members of her family and all their november birthday dates in a row.

i say, “the parties must be hilarious when you all gather together.”

more often i feel like she’s my serious boss i keep disappointing with my every move but at the end of the shifts she turns into what feels more like a friend. i secretly hope i can be her friend one day even though it seems like she knows the name of every human being in this town and even some other nearby towns and doesn’t really need any more friends than she already has. but after all, i’m a part of this town now, too.

“what is your favourite thing to do here here at the bar?” i ask the other day.

she looks puzzled for a second, “maybe serving fish,” she says and this time it’s my turn to feel surprised. i saw how it’s done, and i don’t really know what she means.

“i thought it’s talking to people or something,” i say.

“nah,” she waves her hand, “it’s just my job, you know.”

i regret entering this territory but i still ask, “would you better like to do something else? some other job?”

“nah,” she says again, smiling, “i like it.”

and i like it too. horrifyingly, i like it too much. thinking about sitting at home and drawing stuff like i used to do all my life feels like a torture. it surely is one when i pick up my tablet and pencil and stare at the white canvas not knowing who i am anymore. there is nothing in my head i want to say. there is nothing my hands can do. i have no idea why. i want to go back behind the bar and ask R. what her favourite colour is.

“i’m proud of you,” A. says one night while we’re going back home from the restaurant where he got his two beers and one glass of whiskey i poured for him myself. he spent two hours sitting at the bar not far from these three teenage boys who have been drinking an enormous amount of beer and playing cards and then trying to guess where i come from according to my accent. “i’m proud that you’re doing good and you found something that you like so much.”

i buy two black shirts and jeans. i take my old black coat out of the wardrobe. i walk for two minutes from home to the bar and back looking fancier than ever. i feel happier than ever. i don’t look at my social media. i feel like this rotten sadness and loneliness that occupied my head for so long has nothing to do with my life now. i wonder if it’s just a phase. i consider finding a new therapist just to ask them if it’s okay to feel this good or i should be medicated before it’s too late. i want to go to bed at proper hour, wake up earlier, spend the day feeling good and then go to the bar and ask R. stupid questions and be stressed about the things i can control. i look at my workplace at home, at the white canvas that reflects nothingness in my head, at everything i have ever known, and i don’t know what to do.

i go back to work.

“you like it here?” M. asks almost every time. “is everything okay?”

“everything’s okay,” i say, smiling. and i mean it.

someone’s ordering an espresso at 11 pm. R. says, “tell them the coffee machine is already off,” turning it off while saying it. i laugh. i feel happy. i go home knowing there’s gonna be more work to be done tomorrow. i miss drawing stuff. i have nothing to say. i fall asleep thinking of the ten glasses i broke. in the morning, i can’t draw. i used to draw most of my stuff at the evenings and during the nights. now they are full of beer glasses and beer crates and adhd people who want an espresso before bed.

i ask myself if that really is how growing up feels like. i ask myself what i am going to do if i will not be able to draw a single piece of art ever again. i read the email of the person who wants me to draw an artwork for them. i wonder if they should know i’m an imposter who can’t draw anymore. i tell myself to shut up and stop being dramatic.

i go to work.

there’s a wedding at the restaurant. i once again bring what feels like an endless amount of bottle crates from the back room to the bar. i smile. i talk to people. i wipe the tables. i polish the glasses. i pour beer into them.

“my back hurts,” R. says.

“willkommen to the club,” i tell her, although for some reason my back doesn’t really hurt.

someone orders a beer and then changes their mind after the bottle was already opened.

“it’s yours if you want it,” R. says. “your shift is over anyway.”

and i stay. i sit at the bar as if i don’t really work there. i drink my beer, i talk to R. while she puts the new napkins on tables, makes sure everyone from the wedding paid what they had to and lets me ask her my questions. i pay for another beer, taking money from my fresh salary. R. rolls her eyes at that but allows me to pay anyway. she’s not a boss anymore. just… a friend. i tell her i don’t wanna go home.

“i can see that,” she laughs. “do you have friends here in town?” she asks.

i look at the bottom of my glass.

“no,” i say. there’s a lady on our street i sometimes walk our dogs together with. she’s as old as my mother. i always forget the names of her three kids although they’re all around my age. i wonder if i should mention her. “i have friends in other places. you know. not here.”

“i can be your friend here,” she says, smiling.

i feel like it’s the happiest day of my life. i’m also a little drunk on schwarzbier. even if my back would hurt i wouldn’t have noticed.

“if you need someone as me as a friend,” i say, “then. yeah. sure. uh. why not.”

we talk some more. the beer tests my language skills. i tell her i want a new tattoo. she says she got the first one when she was sixteen and it was a horrible butterfly.

“what is your favourite colour?” i finally ask.

she looks really baffled at that, then pulls out her phone. “i guess it’s red,” she says, showing me some of photos from her instagram where she’s younger than me now and is dressed up in red. “see, it looks good on me,” and she’s right. “but white is also good. and pink. and maybe purple. not black though. with my black hair, it doesn’t look good at all.”

we’re both dressed in black for work.

i come to the conclusion that colours are the least important thing in the world to her. that’s okay. i think about all the years i spent trying to make colours work. i wanna say something, but end up saying nothing.

she turns the lights off and locks the restaurant up. we spend a couple minutes walking in the same direction to our houses. i tell her about the name my friends from other places are calling me. i don’t tell her why it’s different from the one she saw on my id card. i’m not that drunk. she says she’s gonna use it from now on. she kisses my cheek before we part. i was at school the last time someone did that.

i go home. i sit at my workplace. i answer to the email of the person that wants me to draw an artwork for them from a new phone i spent enormous amount of money on. for a second i wonder if i should still tell them i’m an imposter and my career will be over by the morning when i wake up sober.

i think about the ten glasses i broke, then let myself forget about them. i tell myself to shut up and stop being dramatic.

i draw.

29/02/2024

#martyfive text #text post #text #diary

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storiesfromafan · 3 months

Text

Reflection

A/N: Hi, long time no post. My bad. Have had some writers block, which I can't say it gone haha. Will do my best to keep posting once I have done more writing.

This is a sequel to The Argument, for those patiently waiting. Sorry if it's not that good, been working on this for two days. This was the result haha.

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Fem!Reader

The first week without Mattheo Riddle was hard, left cold from his words. The second week without Mattheo Riddle was sad, missing his presence and affection. The third week without Mattheo Riddle you focused on your schoolwork and friendships. The fourth week without Mattheo Riddle was spent reflecting on your relationship, and all the red flags that now were so obvious.

But mixed in with the red flags and toxicity of your relationship were positive and good things. The notes he would pass to you, scribbled in his writing were words that made your heart warm. It wasn’t always his words per say, sometimes borrowed poetry to express what he couldn’t say in his own words. Or how he would always open a door and allow you to enter before him or pull out your chair for you to take a seat. Not to mention when walking the grounds, he would always be ready to put himself in harm’s way to protect you.

Besides all the good things of your relationship, you couldn’t forget the possessive and jealous nature inside Mattheo. Part of you understood the reasoning behind it. But you had chosen him, no one else. Wasn’t that good enough? Apparently not.

Sitting up in your bed, the rooms curtain’s open and allowing the morning light into your dorm room, you sleepily noted two of your roommate’s were already gone while the remaining girl was dressed, making her bed. Taking that as a sign to get yourself moving, you reluctantly got up and headed for the connecting bathroom. Slowly you woke up as you brushed your teeth and combed your hair, before returning to your room to make your bed and dress for the day. Once happy with everything, you made your way to breakfast.

Saturday mornings were always the best, for it was the start of the weekend. Which meant no classes. And you could travel into Hogsmeade! You looked forward to going into the small town outside of the school. It was a wonderful way to refresh yourself, and a butterbeer with Mattheo was always good. With that thought you froze, stopping in a hallway not far from The Great Hall. The ache returned to your chest at the thought of your ex-boyfriend.

How Hogsmeade trips together were what got you through the week. Casual dates at The Three Broomsticks together, cuddled up in a corner drinking butterbeer together. So many fond moments there together. Now it felt cold, gloomy.

No, you told yourself. He does not get to take that away from you!

Agreeing with yourself you ventured on to breakfast, before making plans with Pansy to go to Hogsmeade together. The walk to the town was mostly quiet, except for small talk. Pansy wasn’t sure what to say to you. After your breakup, you spent the night talking and crying to the dark-haired girl. Pansy did everything she could to be there for you; listening, cursing Mattheo, comforting you and holding you up. You might have pulled the pin, and Mattheo would have been hurting, but you were the one to have exploded, heart being blown to smithereens.

The sudden familiar sounding laughter hit your ears, and upon looking ahead of you and Pansy was Draco, his lackeys and Mattheo. Seeing him sent a cold shiver down your spine. You had done everything outside of classes and meals, to avoid him. But here he was now, before you as you moved closer to Hogsmeade. The Slytherin males were hanging out around one of the entrances to the town. You averted your gaze of your ex, while Pansy reluctantly stopped to speak with Draco when he called her over. You had planned to continue into Hogsmeade and wait for Pansy to catch up. But Draco had other plans.

“(Y/L/N)!” Draco called. “What’s the rush? Unless it’s Riddle, you’re avoiding” he laughed, along with his lackeys while Pansy scolded him.

You stopped, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. “Not at all Malfoy. Just wanted a chance to get a butterbeer or two before you lot pile into The Three Broomsticks and ruin the atmosphere”.

Yes, it was snarky. But he deserved it. Draco was always a pompous ass, but that’s thanks to his daddy. Yet you thought how worse Draco was to Mattheo. Your ex could be a pompous ass, but it wasn’t consistent. He was only a pompous ass when guys were around you, which still wasn’t a good excuse. Mattheo didn’t walk around like his shit didn’t stink, nor did he throw around his father’s name or anyone close to him with any shred of power. He was like everyone else.

“I’ll meet you in Hogsmeade Pansy” was all you said before turning from the group and continuing into the gloomy town.

Mattheo watched you walk away, again. And just like the first time it hurt. Any moment with you around, not talking to you or holding you, hurt his heart. He curses himself every second for what he did and said. His stupid mouth gets him into a lot of trouble, but this time it lost him the one person who mattered.

With a small comment of seeing them later, Mattheo put his hands in his pockets and took off to the Shrieking Shack. He wanted to be alone. He needed to catch himself before he did something stupid. This past month Mattheo spent his time in his own kind of hellish reflection. It was mostly spent recalling those words he said to you:

“Oh please. Any guy gives you attention and you’d run off with them. After all I showed the slightest interest, and you became a puppy that would follow me everywhere”.

“Y/N, you would let any guy have you if it meant not being alone”.

Leaning against a tree, hoping he was out of anyone’s line of view, Mattheo clutched at his brown curly locks and pulled them. The same curly locks you would mindlessly play with; twirling a curl around your finger, brushing back from his face, pulling when he made a smartass comment. Now they were just another reminder.

He felt himself cracking from the most interaction with you in a month. And he had no one to blame then himself. And blame himself he did, religiously.

xoxoxox

You finally caught up with Pansy some time after you ventured on. You both did some light shopping in relative silence, before retiring to The Three Broomsticks. Perched in a quiet corner, warm butterbeer in hand, you both savored your first taste of the reward at the end of a Hogsmeade trip.

“Why does butterbeer go down so well?” Pansy mused, not entirely hoping for an answer.

“Maybe its being out in the cool weather all day, and the warmth is a welcome comfort” you replied looking at your drink in thought.

Maybe it was the company too that decides how well a butterbeer goes down. Drinking with those you are close to makes it better, a social drink with good banter. But then there is sharing a butterbeer with someone dear to you, the person you adore more than anyone. Memories of cuddling up to Mattheo came back to mind. You stiffened, taking a sharp breath, that Pansy didn’t miss. She put down her butterbeer before placing her hand over yours, making you jump.

“I know” she said softly, voice calm with a touch of knowing. “It’s alright to remember the times with him. It can either be a reminder of what’s missing or a lesson to learn from. Ultimately, it’s your choice on which one it is”.

With that Pansy removed her hand and went back to drinking her drink. Not mentioning him again. She said her piece. For Pansy had seen the torment Mattheo was putting himself through. As well as your own heartache. She wasn’t fond of what Mattheo said, or how he acted. But she knew you both were meant to be together. Yet she wouldn’t get involved. You both needed to work through it yourselves and make the decisions yourselves.

No sooner had you finished your butterbeer did the loud voices of Draco and his lackeys came floating into The Three Broomsticks. They took to a set of tables across the room from you both. The somewhat comfortable atmosphere you and Pansy had been present for was now ruined by the loud chatting and laughter. And in the end, you both decided it was time to head back to the castle.

By this time there were a few other students on their way back to the castle, and you both had a couple other Slytherin girls join you on your walk back. As you came to the joining road that led to The Dark Forest, you decided to hang back and watch the lake. Pansy shot you a concerned look, but with a small smile from you, she nodded and let you be.

So, leaning against the wall, you looked out over the lake. After today’s trip you needed some processing time. You wanted nothing more than to push back the thoughts of Mattheo, push everything into a book that you would slam close and file on a shelf in your mind, putting it in the past. But its funny how the mind and heart work against that wish. Pansy words had stuck with you, shedding new light on it all. You did the only thing that you could think to deal with her words, mentally you made a Pro’s and Con’s list.

When you had completed the list, the Con’s had outweighed the Pro’s but two things. That meant it was best to leave Mattheo as a lesson learned. With that thought you felt the ache in your heart stronger then ever before. Why did it hurt to label him a lesson?

Because you love him, you told yourself. It’s hard to put that part away. Love is not something you can turn off or throw away.

You glared out at the lake, not so happy with yourself. Because you know its right. You love Mattheo, and you can’t put that away in a book on a shelf in yourself. And you also know that no one is perfect. Even thought Mattheo was a pompous ass, jealous and possessive, there was more to him. His action always spoke loudly, he cared and took care of you. He never made you feel scared of him, just angry by what he would say or do. You felt safe, secure and loved with him.

The sound of crunching snow caught your attention, standing up you turned and expected to see another student. Unfortunately, it was none other than Mattheo. He stopped in his tracks. You both stared at each other, eyes locked together. Neither knew what to do or say. Finally, you came back to your senses, and flight mode kicked in. Turning from the gorgeous male before you, you started to make a move to head for the castle.

Mattheo was quick to react, moving forward and grabbing your arm, stopping you in your tracks. You turned to look at him, silently asking for him to let you go. But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure why he did this; he had no idea what to say to you. Mattheo had decided to admit defeat. He slowly released your arm.

“Sorry” Mattheo said softly, voice a touch croaky.

Which for the first time led you to take a good look at the boy before you. His hair looked to have lost some shiny, while his curled looked droopy. He looked paler than usual, with light bags under his eyes, that also looked red. Had Mattheo been crying? There was another round of aching in your chest. Mattheo was hurting like you.

“I know I’m the last person you want to speak too…” he paused, silently giving you a chance to tell him to get lost and walk away, but you didn’t. “I don’t know why I stopped you, if I’m being honest”.

You nodded your head, not sure what to say. Or even if you should speak.

“Seeing you today, earlier…” he ran a hand threw his droopy curled locks, “it’s had me thinking…”

Again, you nodded. Now choosing to keep your lips tightly together. Something told you to stay quiet and listen.

“It hurt, its all hurt really. And I know it’s my own fault. Can’t keep my big mouth shut, ha-ha”. His hand dropped from his hair. “I can finally register that my words have consequences”.

Pro – can take ownership over what he did.

“For that…I am sorry” Mattheo said, eyes looking right into your own. “I am sorry for what I said…have ever said to upset you or doubt me or anger you. I am sorry for never seeing what I had before me; someone who chose me and wanted me. I am sorry that I got jealous and possessive, driving away any male around you”.

Pro – apologising for what he done, without any excuses.

“But I won’t say I’m sorry for loving you” his voice cracked. “Loving you is the only thing I won’t apologise for, because I fell in love with you. From Your kindness, caring, affection, smartass-ness, unapologetic self for putting up with me”.

Pro – loving you, all of you.

“So, I get it…if you want to slap me or punch me – just no kicking below the belt, please” Mattheo joked, or was it more concern you’d do it.

Instead of doing what he thought you would, you stepped up to him. You tilted your head up, eyes boring into his. The expression on your face was blank, which was slightly scaring Mattheo. Taking a deep breath, you slowly released said breath.

“Before you showed up, I had made a Pro’s and Con’s list. And the Con’s had won” you stated softly, watching the light dim in Mattheo’s eyes at your words. “But just now you provided with me three new Pro’s, which looks to have changed the outcome”.

Hope rose in Mattheo’s eyes, while he held his breath.

“If you can promise me to do your best to work on your jealous and possessiveness, I promise to give you all my love and would never have anyone but you”.

That was all it took. Without so much as a word, Mattheo pulled you into a tight hug. “I promise to do anything and everything to prove to you that I am worthy of you”.

Pulling back, you placed a hand on his cheek. How he had missed your touch. You lent in and placed a soft kiss on Mattheo’s lips. He wasn’t a lesson to learn from. He was the person you were meant to be with, plain and simple. Even if he drives you crazy.

A/N: as always, open to feedback. As well as requests :)

#mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x fem!reader

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railingsofsorrow · 4 months

Note

hiiiiii!!!! i saw your requests were open and i’m so excited i love your writing so much!! i was wondering if you would be willing to do a coffee shop au of spencer x barista!reader? i feel like it would be very fluffy :) <3

a healthy caffeine addiction

[spencer reid x reader]

summary: spencer finds a new coffee shop near work and he may be going there not just for the coffee...

pairing: s.reid x gn!barista!reader

w.c: 3K

warnings/content: a lot of flirting; mentions of case related stuff but you blink and you miss it; fluff fluff!! (you asked for it); swearing.

A/N: hi! I used gender neutral pronouns because you didn't specify so I thought it would fit best. the coffee shop is called “enchanted brewing” just do you don't get confused. one more thing! I mixed two of his best eras, glasses + long hair just because I was feeling a little silly. thank you for the request <3

navi

masterpost

cm masterlist

[requested] ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Oh, look, it's boy genius again.” You muse upon seeing a certain long-haired FBI agent next on the line. He's wearing a purple tie today which checks out your theory that it's his favorite color because he's always wearing something purple. It would be funny if it was an unconscious choice. “What's your order today, Dr. Reid? Maybe some coffee with your sugar?” You ask as if you hadn't seen him earlier in the day and had repeated the same thing.

You've met Spencer Reid when he walked in one day as the coffee shop you work in was still closed. He hadn't seen the closed sign. After spending five minutes straight apologizing, you delivered him his coffee order promising he wasn't bothering you. Especially if he was a cute guy with glasses. But you didn't say that last thing out loud, of course.

He's been coming to Enchanted Brewing for two weeks now. You have his order memorized from each early morning that he strides in through the entrance, his satchel hanging from his right shoulder as his bright honey-brown eyes scan through the menu on the wall. He always did that in spite of ordering the same thing from the first day.

Your timeline is slightly offbeat today. Your favorite costumer usually comes in on his way to work, once a day. Except that today he showed up twice. You're not complaining, you're currently trying to hide how happy you are that he appeared right on time for your lunch break.

“I want something different,” he says, adjusting his glasses as he looks at you with a timid smile. “Surprise me?”

“Oh.” You quickly recovered — did you? — from the spell he had you in and moved to prepare his drink. “I'll definitely surprise you, boy genius.” You already had one in mind. Your boss shots you a glare from the other side of the counter where he's delivering an order for a regular. He had reminded you of your lunch break an hour ago but you ended up attending clients and time passed by. You mouthed that it was your last one before lunch and he rolled his eyes with a knowing smile.

You take Spencer to a table outside. The day was good enough to not worry about a storm interrupting your afternoon coffee. Not yet, at least.

“So.” You utter after taking a bite of your sandwich. Spencer is sipping on the surprise he asked for and you are no profiler but your guess is that he liked it. “Aproved?”

“One hundred percent approved. What is this?” He makes a sound of satisfaction as he drinks it again. A smug grin reaches your face. “It's so good.”

You hum, “It is. From how much you like your sweets, I thought you'd like this one. Though, it barely tastes like coffee.”

Spencer silently agrees with you. “What's it called? I can taste caramel.”

“It's a caramel macchiato,” you reply, sipping your watermelon juice. “Caramel is all you can taste, boy genius.” You laugh at the way his cheeks turn pink at your nickname. Ever since he told you about his PhD's and his age. “To what do I own the pleasure of seeing you twice in a day?”

He takes his time putting the cup on the table, fingertips grazing the sides in half circles. When he meet your gaze, you were already staring, but you have the decency to look away, feeling your cheeks heat up. Thank god you were done eating or else you'd be blushing and attempting to swallow your food. Not a good view.

“Um, I... I didn't have a case today and I finished paperwork early so I thought I'd come, um.” He stammers, straightening his posture and exhaling. The middle of his forehead creased a bit and you find it incredibly endearing seeing him trying to figure out the words.

“...you were craving caffeine so you came to the best place near your work?” you complete his sentence with a playfully smirk dancing across your lips.

“Yes!” Spencer exclaims, clearing his throat realising his voice had failed. He offers you a sheepish smile, to which you respond with a grin of your own. “Yes, and... well.”

“It's okay,” you tap your fingers against the hard wood. “You can admit that I make the best coffee.” The convinced stance you had made him chuckle, eyes traveling over your frame discreetly. He could only hope he was being discreet.

“I wanted to see you.” He admits. “And for the coffee, of course.”

Sometimes you had the impression that he did know the effect he had on you, either that or he just didn't want to see it.

“Of course.” You nod as if it was obvious. “Sure.” He wanted to see me? Me?

He pulls his glasses up again, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. He was about to say something when he jumped on his seat, groaning as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“I have to go,” he says, disappointment lacing through his tone. You brush off his apologetic expression.

“That's completely understandable. Duty calls.” Both of you stand up. You still had half an hour left of your lunch, you guess you would have to resort to play your mobile game instead of flirting with a handsome FBI agent. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Hopefully,” Spencer picks up his work bag and the coffee cup you thought he had already finished. The corners of his lips raise a bit when he catches the boy genius written in a messy handwriting on the cup. “It's not a local case...”

“Oh,” you try to hide your lack of joy. “Alright. Be careful then.” Spencer nods, giving you a tight-lipped smile. “And don't betray me for another barista, boy genius.” That got you one of his short laughs that made his eyes crinkle in the edges.

“Never.”

──────────────

Spencer was back three days later. The case was a hard one, one of those were the unsub decided to not make their lives easier and kept moving across state lines to hide. He was keeping a victim hostage in the trunk of his car and thankfully, they were able to save her in time. Everybody was granted a day-off to get some rest.

It's not like Spencer was married to his work, in fact, he could enjoy a little alone time in the comfort of his home with a book and some coffee to accompany his quiet reading.

But that's the problem.

Routines are hard to create and they are hard to let go of. Ever heard the saying “old habits die hard”?

Ivan Pavlov researched about classical conditioning. According to him, you have a stimulus and a response in a given situation. It is likely that you'll keep repeating an action if it proves to be beneficial to you. If you like doing it, you'll barely notice it became an habit.

He's been visiting your coffee shop almost every day for the past weeks and that is an habit he's gotten quite comfortable with.

Therefore, in order to not disturb his routine that is very very important to him — honestly? Spencer can't handle changes — he drives down to Enchanted Brewing. The soft jingle of the bell alerted of his entrance.

Spencer gets in line. There's seven people in front of him, maybe because it's lunch hour and all of them are rushing to get their orders. Spencer waits. He still hasn't heard any flirting remarks or winks sent his way and he's not sure if you are not behind the counter today or if his lenses are just really blurried that he can't see your pretty face.

“Afternoon, sir. What would you like to order today?”

You are definitely not behind the counter and he's slightly confused before listing off his order. The clerk notes it down, then he stops midway, studying Spencer with narrowed eyes.

“You're boy genius?”

Spencer blinks, startled. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish and really, what is that question? How is he even supposed to answer that? You call him that, so is that a yes? Is he supposed to say yes—

“Sorry,” the guy says, shaking his head with a laugh, “they told me about you.”

“Oh.” Spencer doesn't know what to say, thankfully, he doesn't have to because he carries on.

“You two have kind of a system going on, right?”

“A- a system?”

The clerk's polite smile widened into a smirk. “Well, yes.” He says slowly. “You order the same thing and they make you an entire difference drink, isn't that it? They explained it and that's how I got it.”

“Uh, yes. I think so. But you don't have to—”

Your coworker waves him off, “I was just making sure you were the guy, really. They left a special order for you in case you appeared while they were still sick.” Spencer's concern is visible through his face. “Sore throat, I asked them to stay at home this week. You know, they don't care about day-offs so I forced it upon them to have it either way since they're sick. Really stubborn, that one. I'm Tim, by the way."

“Spencer.” He gave a little wave while introducing himself and was quick to add. “Are they okay?”

Tim turned to look at him in the middle of the beverage making. He nodded. “Yes, they'll be back in a day or two. Nothing serious.”

Spencer lets out a sigh in relief, leaning against the counter to wait for this order to be ready. He hopes you get better soon and that you were taking proper care of yourself. If he knew, he would have brought some jell-o and mint tea, they are great remedies to soothe a sore throat. After he paid for his surprise drink, he sat down on a table outside, there wasn't a lot of people and he enjoyed his alone time while mindlessly scrolling through his phone.

Maybe if he had gotten your number, he could ask how you were. But he didn't because Spencer doesn't think. He doesn't have game as Derek says, whatever that means. It's not his fault that he can't think straight around pretty people, is it? He can't help it!

He left the café that day with another great drink to add to his list and his mind set on one thing: he's going to ask for your phone number next time he sees you.

──────────────

Every person in the whole freaking world decided to appear at Enchanted Brewing today. Nothing wrong with people. You love people, really!

But your back is aching and your hand is cramping from how much you used the hand mixer. God, you needed to lay down for a month and wake up maybe never.

A costumer just left and you finally turn the sign to closed. Thank god. You're finishing cleaning up the tables when you notice the silence. Being around people all day long can be a little exhausting, especially if you have to yell a name in order for someone to pick their order. Your recently recovered sore throat does not appreciate that.

You're alone tonight. Tim left early to run some errands and you're in charge of closing. You don't mind, it's actually peaceful to close the shop and make your way home. You don't live far and the streets aren't too busy nor totally empty.

Boy genius didn't show up again.

You know his job is demanding, he's occupied being a hero and using his brain to solve difficult cases and catch bad guys. You feel bad complaining about your work, knowing what he does. He must get exhausted daily.

You miss him. And it's weird, you're not one to get attached easily. To be able to call Tim your friend took about half a year, you just don't trust people fast. Spencer just feels different. He makes you feel comfortable, despite not having the experience of hanging out with him outside of your work, he's that kind of person that has a safe ambience all over him. You could be wrong, you're aware of that, you don't really know the guy. He's a regular, he loves your surprise coffees, he's got a cute smile and an awkwardness that is endearing. You don't know more than that, but you'd really like to.

After placing your uniform in your assigned locker, you check one more time to see if everything is in place before leaving.

The doorbell scares the shit out of you and you grab the first thing you see to defend yourself, which is your phone.

It's closed. You turned the sign. The lights are off. Who the fuck is entering a coffee shop when all of the lights are off?!

“Uh, what... Why are you threatening to throw your phone at me?”

And there it is, the man you cannot stop thinking about materialising in front of you. Not a burglar.

Your shoulders slump in relief and you lower your phone back to the counter. “Fuck, genius. Don't do that. Why do you always ignore the closed sign?”

“Sorry,” he responded, bashfully, realising how the situation came out. “I saw you were inside and I just came in, didn't thought it through.”

“Mm. You scared the shit out of me.” A soft smile formed on your lips and it soon became a wide grin. “God, you're so...”

“Annoying?” he offers, grimacing as he buries his hand on his overcoat. Both his cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink, reminding you of how cold it is outside. “Sorry, I'll just— I'll leave you be.” The regret on his features is what puts you out of your dazed stare.

You sprint over to the door, blocking his exit. “I didn't say that.” You let out with bated breath. He halts right in front of you, big doe eyes staring down at you in surprise and you're beaming at him again. “You could never be annoying, boy genius. I was about to say amazing, actually.”

Morgan and Penelope are two people that keep making his life miserable by the amount of nicknames they make up for him. But this one? This one he doesn't complain at all. Boy genius. You could call him that every day and he would never dare be annoyed by it. The reason is because he loves your voice — which he realised it's a bit hoarse right now — but that's besides the point.

That is a nickname he missed dearly.

Were they about to call me amazing?

“I have a confession to make.” Emily is one hundred percent right when she said his IQ is slashed to 60 while around pretty people, because now that he's seen you he can't seem to remember what he came here for. “I betrayed you.”

You raise a brow, surveying him with amusement. “Oh?”

“Yes. I, I ordered a caramel macchiato on a cafeteria in Fairbanks.” He elaborated, lifting his hand to brush his hair behind his ear. You wanted to find out if it was as soft as it looked. “It wasn't good. I don't know, it wasn't the way you made so I didn't— I didn't though it was good.”

Your chest swells for a reason you're not sure.

“What I'm trying to say is that... Your coffee is better. No. It's not actually that—”

“Breathe. You're turning red like a tomato.”

That made him impossibly redder. He pushed his glasses up his nose, swallowing hard.

“Spencer,” you say, dropping your flirty facade in fear of him combusting in front of you. You nudge your finger against his hand, timidly. “I won't bite. You can talk to me.”

“Okay.” He croaks out, playing with your fingertips. And without looking directly at you, he lets out a sigh to muster some courage and says, “I like you.” He manages to say, pretending as if the way you said his name didn't affect him that much. You're smiling at him and suddenly he's fourteen again with butterflies in his stomach because his first crush just greeted him in class.

“I like you too,” you confess in a whisper. You're too close yet so far.

Spencer shakes his head, lifting his gaze to yours since he was staring at your hands. “Not like that. Not in a I like-your-coffee-and-your-flirting kind of way.”

You fear you're misunderstanding him and you don't want to make a fool out of yourself, so you remain quiet, getting lost in the twinkle in his brown eyes provided by the street lamp outside.

“I like you in a... I-want-to-spend-more-time-with-you way.” Finally, he says it. Could he have explained it better? Yes. Is he able to do it? Not with you looking at him like that. “I-Mm, I mean, I love your company and spending time here but I would like to take you on a date.” You were supposed to ask for her number first! What are you doing, you idiot?! “If you want to, of course.”

You can't hold back the giant grin taking over your features. “Boy genius,” you drawl out, doing what you've been fantasizing from the first moment you've seen him: touch his hair. You pull a stubborn strand behind his ear and from the way he almost flutters his eyes shut and leans into your touch, you assume he likes it. “When I said that I liked you, I didn't mean as a favourite-cute-costumer-of-the-month kind of way. But in an I-think-he's-cute way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” You laugh. “Spencer, I would love to go on a date with you. Preferably, somewhere where we don't drink coffee.”

The crinkles around his eyes show up as he chuckles, nodding. “Okay, yeah, we can definitely do that.”

“Cool.” And you can't stop smiling like an idiot.

Spencer not only got the number but a date with the cute barista. He'd say that's very cool.

#reader insert #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x gn!reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #requested #spencer reid fluff #this is the fluffiest shit I've ever written #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 years

Text

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [1.3k] prompt: "I'm just getting comfy." Cute boyfriend Steve, fall in Hawkins, horror movies and cuddles. Pure fluff. “You promised you’d watch this with me,” your boyfriend grumbled, voice trying to sound huffy but you could hear the affection there, warm underneath.

“I am!” You lied, wiggling further underneath the comforter that smelled like Steve, all mint and cedar, leftover aftershave and boy. “I’m so invested.”

Steve snorted, looking down at you from where he was propped against his headboard, remote in one hand, his other arm wrapped around your side and pulling you into him.

“Liar.”

It was already turning dark outside despite it only being six o’clock, fall settling over Hawkins quicker than summer had left, leaves turning the streets into an orange and brown walk way, the skies gloomier, the rain more frequent. Storefronts held pumpkins and the bakery on Main had the permanent smell of cinnamon, hot chocolate and spice floating from its doors.

But god, it was cold.

Everything had turned into woollen jumpers, knitted hats, too long scarves and more than one pair of socks underneath your boots. You accepted more lifts from Steve, happier in the front seat of the BMW than you were walking through puddles to get to and from town and you pressed yourself into the warmth your boyfriend provided and any given opportunity.

The kids said it was gross, Robin rolled her eyes but Steve adored the way you sought him out amongst the crowd of your friends, face pushed into the crook of his neck as you snuck your hands up the front of his sweater, cold fingertips pressing into the warm skin.

Work had dragged by, the bookstore quiet for the majority of your shift because no one wanted to go out into the rain. The skies had been heavy all day, a dark navy that looked ready to burst, and just after lunch, the heavens opened. It made the store seem smaller, the lights flickering from the wild wind outside and you sought comfort and warmth in the smell of old books and the countless cups of tea you made yourself.

Steve had picked you up at five, watching you through the car window as you wrestled with the key in the door, desperate to clamber into the BMW and warm yourself with a kiss. He gave you one eagerly, lips pushed to yours, parting with a sigh, barely wincing at the press of your cold nose on his cheek.

He’d patted the bag at your feet, stocked full of sweets and chips, the newly released video of The Return of the Living Dead, glaring from your from its case.

“We finally got it in,” he’d told you happily, “ready for a movie night, babe?”

You’d agreed readily, smile on your lips and your head tilted and pushed into the seat of the car, happy to finally be with Steve after what seemed like such a long day. You’d had this night planned for a week or two, Steve giddy with the news that some new horrors were coming into store in time for Halloween and he’d bought all your favourite treats.

You’d waited all day for one of his sweaters, gummy bears and kisses that tasted like sour patch kids and red vines.

You just didn’t expect to be so tired.

The day turned to evening and Steve’s bed was so warm, sleep was pulling you further into his pillows, the movie the only thing lighting the room. There was a soft buzz of static from the screen and Steve was a solid comfort pressed beside you.

You’d shared a pizza before you slipped up to Steve’s room, murmuring a goodnight to his parents who were home for once, watching their own movie in the living room. Steve had kissed away your quiet giggles as helped you out of your jeans, your shirt replaced for one of his own, too big and hanging over your bare thighs.

So you really couldn’t help it when you slid further down the mattress, head turning from the TV, body lazy as you curled into your boyfriend instead.

“You can’t watch it if you’ve got your face smooshed into me,” Steve commented mildly. “You alright down there?”

You hummed a response, content to push your face into Steve’s side, your arm thrown over his lap, your head resting almost on his lap now. His hand found your hair, pushing the stray locks away from your forehead and you groaned at the feel of it, body turning to mush and your lips pressing a grateful kiss to the middle of his palm as it ghosted over your cheekbone.

“M’jus’ gettin’ comfy,” you told him, and Steve grinned ‘cause he could tell by your voice you were getting more tired, your tone a little lower than normal, words slurring together.

“Is that so?” The boy's eyes were still on the screen, entranced by the bodies that were starting to come back to life, gruesome noises filling the room. “You sleepy, babe?”

You nodded, eyes closed and hand pushing up Steve’s shirt, fingers sliding over the muscles that created bumps and dips over his stomach. They tensed at your touch and you smiled, more happy noises slipping from your lips.

“You’re cute,” he murmured, the hand that was carding through your hair slipping to graze over the side of your face, thumb tracing over the highs of your cheekbone before skating across your lip.

Another kiss, pressed to the pad of it, another smile, another happy hum.

You tangled your legs with Steve’s as the zombie attacked on screen, the horror scenes making his walls glow red and it wasn’t long until Steve shuffled even closer, fingers trailing across the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck.

“You sure you’re comfy like that sweetheart?” Steve asked softly, cause your cheek was squished into his ribs, head not even on a pillow anymore.

You wiggled and lifted yourself, bones feeling heavy with sleep and you barely opened your eyes as you clambered to your hands and knees. You were clumsy as you moved, bare legs dragging over Steve’s until you were between his, warmth encasing you.

You sighed happily as you lay back down, head resting on his abdomen, stretched out on your tummy and your arms wrapped around his waist. You felt his stomach move underneath your cheek as he laughed quietly, his hand coming back up to smooth over your hair.

“Better?” He asked and even though you weren’t looking, eyes still closed and lashes fluttering against his shirt, you could hear the smile there, voice fond.

“Mhmm,” was all you could manage, and when Steve pulled the duvet up over your shoulders, you let the sound of rain against the window lull you to sleep.

You weren’t awake when the movie ended, the room fading into black as the credits rolled and the colours seeped away. You didn’t hear the click of the remote, the zap of the screen switching off, the crackle of static it left behind.

You didn’t hear the rain that still hit the window, a tap, tap, tap that went throughout the night. You barely shifted when Steve moved, touch gentle on you as he manoeuvred himself out from under you, hands grabbing his shirt to pull it over his head. You didn’t move when he curled back down beside you, his own eyes pulling heavy and his arms encasing you.

Your head found its way back into his chest, nose pushed into his sternum like it belonged there, lips parted with soft breathing and your hand pushed itself into his hair, making it wilder than it needed to be.

Steve was sure you were still asleep when he pushed a kiss to your cheek, when he murmured a soft “love you,” into the top of your head before his own hit the pillow, but he grinned when he heard you say it back, voice thick with sleep and unbearably cute.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fluff #stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington blurb

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ghostlygeto · 5 months

Text

back home | hinata shoyo

pairing: hinata shoyo x gn!reader

warnings: breakups, hurt/comfort, brazil era hinata, reader is too good for him...they deserve better...., hinata calls reader "baby", they make up!, not proof read

wc: 1.1k

“you’re coming home next week, right?” you asked hinata, smiling at him through the phone screen. he had been in brazil for close to two years now, and although you understood why he moved there, that didn’t make the distance easier. “it’ll be so nice to finally see you in person, shoyo. no more video calls, not for a long time.”

when you were met with silence from your boyfriend and you saw the guilty look on his face your stomach dropped. “shoyo?”

“just a couple more weeks. two months, that’s all,” hinata started, staring at you through the screen, “you understand, right baby? you know that this is a crazy opportunity.”

you sighed. yes, being able to uproot his life and move to brazil to focus on volleyball was a crazy opportunity, two years ago when it initially happened. now it just seemed so repetitive. hinata plans a date to finally move back home, he gets you excited and prepared for his return, and then he drops the bomb that he’s staying longer.

at first you couldn’t blame him, knowing how excited he was to be there and to learn and become better. you were excited for him, too, because that’s what it means to be in love. but now as you stared at his ginger hair and tan skin through the phone, you weren’t sure it was worth it anymore.

“shoyo,” you start, “i don’t think i can wait another two months. it was fine the first few times you added an additional month or two to the trip. but now…” you trailed off, seeing the hurt on his face. “two years is a long time to be apart. i’m tired of waiting.”

“wait but- i already agreed, i can’t take it back. and two months isn’t that long.” hinata rambled, trying to justify it to the both of you it seemed. “you can’t let this be it, i’ll be home soon baby.”

“i can’t, hinata.” it felt like both of you froze up at the use of his last name, but it was necessary. “i can’t keep waiting forever. this isn’t good for either of us and you know it isn’t. you deserve to spend as much time in brazil as you want, and i deserve a boyfriends that’s…”

“there.” hinata finished your sentence, no longer looking at the camera. you were sure you caught sight of tears already filling his brown eyes. you felt guilty, of course you did. you knew he loved you and you loved him, but you weren’t built for this kind of distance. “i understand. i just…wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

you nodded, wishing things could be different as well. but things didn’t always work out the way you’d wanted them to. and this was one of those times, it seemed. “when you’re ready to come home, i’ll be ready to try again. but for now i think this is best.”

hinata stayed silent for several minutes, trying to find the right words to say. but what could he say? he realized he had destroyed the only thing outside volleyball that mattered to him. you had been there for him through everything, the only person that had been by his side longer was kageyama (and even then, it was only by a year). and now you were going to be gone. back in japan by yourself like you had been for the last two years, but it was real this time.

“right.” hinata wasn’t sure what else to say. he wanted to beg you to stay, to please just hold out a little longer. but it was unfair, wasn’t it? and he knew that. you knew that. it was just hard to come to terms with. “so. i guess this is goodbye?”

“for now,” you nod your head, “yes, this is goodbye.”

“i love you, y/n.”

the video call ends.

“ah, hang on a second. someone just rang my doorbell,” you adjust the phone in your hand as you walked to the front door. you were currently on the phone with one of your friends from high school, asking if she could help you move out soon. it had only been a week since you spoke to shoyo, so you hadn’t had time to move yet. but thankfully you got everything arranged so you'd be out soon.

looking through the peephole, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the person on the other side. “i’m gonna have to call you back later, yeah? okay, bye.” you hung the phone up and checked the peephole one more time, just to make sure you weren’t seeing things.

“shoyo?” your eyes were wide as you cracked open the door. you were almost sure that it was a figment of your imagination, how on earth could he be standing in front of you right now? according to him, he still had seven more weeks in brazil.

“y/n,” hinata smiled widely, shoulders relaxing as his eyes landed on you, “thank god you’re still here. i was worried you’d be gone by now.”

“shoyo what are you doing here? i thought you were going to be in brazil for another two months?” you opened the door the rest of the way, ushering him inside and helping him with a few of his bags. it took everything in you to not immediately take him into your arms, kiss him on his face and cry tears of joy.

“brazil was amazing. the best time of my life, and i wish i could stay forever,” hinata started, looking away from you for a second before meeting your eyes again, “but nothing in the world is worth losing you. i’d quit playing volleyball tomorrow if you asked me to.”

you almost laughed at him. “well, i’m never going to ask you to quit playing volleyball. it’s the most important thing in your life.”

“after you, of course.” he quickly corrected. the smile fell from him face as quickly as you had seen it form. “i’m so sorry, y/n. i had been unfair to you for almost two years. i can’t believe i ever considered staying there for a second longer. please forgive me. i don’t want to break up.”

tears welled in your eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “sho,” you sniffled, taking him into your arms the way you had immediately wanted to, “of course i forgive you. the fact that you’re here right now means more than anything.”

“oh thank god.” hinata laughed, “i was really worried you wouldn’t forgive me. not that i’d blame you if you didn’t, ‘cause what i did to you was really shitty.”

you rolled your eyes, pressing kisses all along his cheeks and jaw, “it was really shitty. but i’m not sure i could stay mad at anyone who flew across an ocean to ask for my forgiveness, y’know.”

“i’ll have to keep that in mind for the future.”

just a short little thing bc i've been thinking about hina lately <3 reblogs, comments, nd likes apprecaited! <3

#mine !!#hinata shoyo x reader #hinata shouyou x reader #haikyuu x reader #hinata shouyou fluff #hinata shoyo fluff #shoyo x reader #shouyou x reader

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dimepdf · 2 years

Text

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑. + 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐊𝐎𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐄

masterlist. / taglist. / any request? synopsis. you have Kiyoko and Tanaka to blame for your boyfriend Kenma's raging baby fever part one

pairing. dilf!kenma kozume x reader

word count. 1.2k

genre and warnings. domestic fluff, literally tooth rotting fluff, family fluff, established relationship, parenthood, family fluff, mentions of pregnancy, kenma with baby fever, tanaka and his devil daughter, suggestive ending, NOTE BETA'D | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

"Ah, ah! No, spit it out, booger!" Tanaka demands, snatching his daughter Nami into his arms.

Taking the object she was chewing out of her hands after seeing her pick it up off the ground and place it in her mouth. The toddler writhes in his arms and even snarls as if she were a barbaric monster in resistance to being picked up.

After giving their episode a casual glance, Kiyoko went back to eating unbothered by her husband's and daughter's usual behavior. "And for that reason, Kenma, you shouldn't play zombie video games with a three-year-old."

When the toddler was last at Kenma's house, he let her stay up way past her bedtime so he and Harue could play a few rounds of their favorite first-person shooter game before bed.

Kenma stiffened guilty at the jab, realizing that he might have had some minor impact on the toddler's behavior from that time.

For Kenma, it had simply become normal for him to assume that all kids were like his son and had become desensitized to the violent video games they were playing together.

You replied, looking at Kiyoko and grinning, "I had to persuade this man that GTA wasn't a kid's game." Kenma visibly winced as he thought back to the lengthy conversation he had to have with Harue after the boy had been found in the virtual strip club receiving a lap dance.

"You're supposed to be on my side," he groaned, head leaning into your shoulder. Muttering under his breath about how at least Harue knew when to give a good tip.

It was the first week of spring, so it wasn't too hot to stay inside and whine about the air conditioning, and it wasn't too cold that you needed to put on a jacket to keep yourself from shivering.

You eagerly agreed when Kiyoko texted that you should leave the house for the day for a small hangout at the local park to get some fresh air (mostly so she wouldn't strangle Tanaka).

The boys need some much-needed sunshine, always glued to their screens inside, so you had to pry them away from their video games and drag them to the park in a bribe that you would spend the night the entire weekend and hang out with them.

Harue made use of his time at the park after taking Harue's away his switch and releasing him into the wild. You watched with a smile as he had already gathered a group of friends to run around with at the park.

Kenma was not so lucky at finding entertainment, not knowing how to make many conversations with Tanaka as the two men had drastically different hobbies outside of work.

So he did what he did best: glued himself to your side the entire time, watching the children play while remaining utterly silent and with a bored expression on his face, but it was clear that he was simply just lost in thought.

You choose to ignore him and shift your attention to Kiyoko, who was leaning against the picnic table holding a sizable red Tupperware bowl and a plastic fork. You had no idea what bizarre food combinations she was eating this morning.

She would often talk to you about the strange cravings she had developed after learning she had gotten pregnant.

To the point where you were almost starting to worry about the facetime calls, you would get from her scarfing down whatever she could grab in her kitchen or order from her phone.

"Hey lady, how are you feeling?"

She answers with a sigh."So fucking pregnant but mostly just hungry,"

"Well, you are eating for three now. Gotta feed those two little devil babies in ya." You light-heartedly tease.

Kiyoko hums, rubbing the front of her big belly. "Don’t speak badly of them too much, I'm convinced they smell fear."

★ . . . !

Once you've made it back to Kenma's penthouse, the rest of the day goes on as usual.

You took up your usual spot in the living room and made use of the 85-inch flat screen to catch up on a Netflix show you've decided to binge, the two boys immediately dispersed back to their respective rooms like addicts going back to playing their games.

It was a nice comforting moment alone that you would have until the boys got tired of staring at their computer screens and both scrambled into your personal space to watch the show without much complaint.

While Kenma occupied the other side of you and curled up in your chest, Harue was sprawled out against the couch, his head resting against your thigh. Both boys were the world's clingiest cuddle bugs, convinced they were the same person split into two.

After giving a small grunt and picking Harue up into his arms, Kenma shuffled his feet against the floor and left the room to tuck the child into the comfort of his bed. He returned, slouching back into his place, as you had to hold back your yawn letting him snuggle into you, his head resting against your chest.

He makes a humming sound that almost sounds like he has been holding back on speaking. Over the volume of the show, you hardly hear it. He finally hesitates before asking, "Have you ever thought about having a baby?"

Your brows had actually raised in surprise as you looked down at him after the question. You only needed to notice the slight gleam in his eyes to know everything.

Kenma considered wanting a second child, let alone having one with you. You gently answer back, "Oh, uh, I mean kinda," being careful not to answer wrongfully.

Kenma looks away from you while he plays with the sweatshirt's hem strings. "Kind of?" he repeats again in the hopes that you will clarify.

"Well, I mean, I wouldn't mind it," you sighed, losing all interest in the show. "It's just, I don't know, I prefer the whole tradition thing; getting married for love and then planting roots and starting a big family, you know."

"I could propose to you," Kenma admitted, his face glowing with excitement at the prospect of being married to you. "And then maybe you could move in. I’m sure Harue would love it—"

"Woah, Kenma, slow down," you interrupted, pushing away to give him enough space to sit up as you took his hand. "How about we just take it one step at a time, okay? First, I’ll move in, and then maybe much later we could have the marriage talk alright?"

Kenma smiles softly, interlacing your fingers with his as he brings your hand up to kiss your knuckle. "Okay, sorry, of course, we can take it slow," he agrees with a nod.

"Also, do you realize how much harder it would be to have two kids running around?" you input, snatching your hand away to push at his chest. "I just had to teach you how to do your own laundry last week."

"In case you’ve forgotten, I raised Harue all on my own," Kenma pouts, pushing you back. "And he is a perfectly normal four-year-old," he adds lastly.

"Yeah, I know you did an amazing job, and I am very proud of you for that," Kenma's eyes darken with a glint, the compliment going straight to his dick as he tilts his head to the side, glancing at your lips before smiling at you.

You groaned, head leaning forward into his chest, taking a minute to juggle the pros and cons before muttering.

"Okay fine, but you better get me a pretty fucking ring."

🔖 @yazmunson / @prblmtic / @zuuki / @awkwardaardvarkforever / @jadeisthirsting / @urlocaltannenbaum / @pidwidge / @thisbicc /

tap here to be added to taglist.

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howdoesagrapewrites · 11 months

Note

Pavitr and Gaytari anon back, I’ve kept thinking about Tricycle all week tbh. Since your requests are open, could I ask for a sequel to tricycle h.aha poking fingers?

(I hope you’ve been having good days as well!)

𝙈𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙨

Cw: fluff, poly!fem!reader x Pavitr Prabhakar x Gayatri Singh, probably inaccurate description of how the spider people spend their days off, the squad meeting Gayatri and Y/N

Notes: I'm delighted people were so receptive to that fic, I had a lot of fun writing it<3 thank you for your support!!

>Pavitr had of course told everyone about you two

>And while some were just touched by the deep affections of the lover boy, like Gwen or Jessica, others (Miguel) would appreciate if he shut up about his partners while important reunions

>"This is not the subject, please stop interrumpting, if it's so important to everyone to meet Pavitr's partners, please plan it outside of this and cut it"

>So the core four followed Miguel's advice and went to Mumbattan to meet the people his friend was always gushing about

>However, Pavitr had to find a good excuse to avoid telling you he was spiderman and explain where did he meet such a... Colorful group

>You and Gayatri knew he was Spiderman but honestly you wouldn't tell him, he's probably so proud he'd been able to keep it a secret:(

>So he said these are his work colleagues :3 you know, from the part time job he obviously has and always lines up with spiderman's public apparitions and never ever comes up? :3

>he's such a terrible liar omg

>"What do you think he means by work colleagues? More spidermans?" You asked, getting dolled up with your girlfriend for the meeting

>"Maybe, or maybe they're other heroes we don't know about" she uncapped the lipstick, a rich wine colour she bought for you so you could match (and kiss without the colour of your lipsticks clashing) "pucker up"

>you did as she said, waiting for the lipstick, but she gave you a quick peck on the lips before holding your chin and applying the product with a content smile

>You met your boyfriend on the park, like you scheduled

>You waved at his friends, and he leaped to hug you both

>"This is my girlfriend, Y/N, and this is my girlfriend's girlfriend, Gayatri, she's also my girlfriend" Pavitr announced, very proud

>Gayatri got along easily with Gwen, her undeniable kindness and accesible personality being great to ease Gwen's anxious first impression, Miles was also very outgoing, and asked a lot of questions about how you three met, and how you started dating

>Hobie wasn't as quick to start conversation, but it had a natural flow since it began

>You were very well received by his friends, but a couple hours of hanging out in, your boyfriend started to look at you with puppy eyes

>You were sitting close to Hobie, he was talking about his band and other things, you actively listened and made some comments, you felt something grab your hand, and saw Pavitr putting your palm in his face, cradling his face

>"It's alright everyone, I know they're wonderful, don't steal my girls away"

>Everyone laughed loudly, they've never seen Pav so legitimately upset over anything, and now he looks like a kicked dog

>"It's a'hight, we wouldn't, you'd threw yourself off a bridge if we did" Hobie said, only partially joking

>"It's getting late already anyway" Miles warned

>They agreed to leave, but Gwen lingered a few seconds on her goodbyes to you and Gayatri, Pavitr frowned and started moving his hands to signal her to leave

>"Challo, challo, you have work to do, we'll see each other" he said to his friends before they left, turning to you, and put each arm into your shoulders to hug you both tenderly, his hair tickled your face as he held you close, you and Gayatri held hands on Pavitr's back

>Gayatri let out a low, airy giggle, and you whispered reassuring words into your boyfriend's ear

>"I think we made a good first impression" your girlfriend winked at you with a sultry smile

#atsv pavitr #pavitr x reader #pavitr x gayatri #pavitr prabhakar #pavitr prabhakar x reader #pavitr prabhakar x you #gayatri singh #Gayatri x reader #Gayatri Singh x reader #atsv x reader #spiderverse pavitr

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collecting-stories · 8 months

Text

Sweet Nothing - Carmen Berzatto

Request: I love Taylor inspired fics!! And I adore your writing style!! Maybe The Last Time or Sweet nothings for Carmy X reader?

Summary: No plot really, just Carmy and reader hanging out.

A/N: This is really more of a drabble style without much depth outside of just fluff. I tried to make it longer there's just not much of a plot to work with to do that I feel like. Also I made a delicious vegan clam chowder the other night for dinner, on a side note.

TS Anthology Series | The Bear Masterlist

...you're in the kitchen humming...

The worst part of dating a chef was the one thing that everyone always assumed would be the best part. He could cook, naturally, and Carmy could cook better than a whole lot of other really talented chefs but that didn't mean he cooked at home. Running a restaurant meant being at work more than he was home and usually, by the time he got back at night, neither of you were particularly interested in cooking anything that required greater skill than boiling water. Sometimes even that was too much. Your family, and your friends too, always commented on how lucky you were to have a 'personal chef' as if Carmy was just in the kitchen 24/7, waiting for you to tell him what you wanted to eat. You always laughed and agreed but what you wanted to say was that sometimes he didn't even want to look at a pan or a knife when he was home.

This week, especially, felt like hell. You'd seen him for thirty minutes two days ago when you stopped in for lunch but otherwise you were what your grandmother described as 'two ships passing in the night'. You didn't think you could really count passing out next to his already asleep body on the queen mattress you kept meaning to replace an actual relationship. It wasn't always so bad, sometimes it was better, most of the time it felt worse. The Bear was getting ready to launch and Carmy's attention was hyperfocused on not failing before he started and you were busy with your own work load and neither of you had ever been willing to cave on work, even if it meant actually spending time with each other. Which was maybe why your relationship worked...or maybe it was some sort of 'once in a blue moon' that your relationship worked because at this point you were shocked that neither of you had called it off. Of course, that would require seeing each other...probably.

"You know my first thought was that someone broke into our apartment and was cooking dinner," you announced, stopping in the kitchen entryway. Carmy turned to look over his shoulder at you, blue eyes a little glazed over (either from lack of sleep or that happy sort of numbness that came from being home and not having to see anyone, Richie, for the rest of the day).

"Was this person like, a robber...like a robber just cooking you dinner?" He asked, a rare smile appearing. God, he couldn't remember the last time he smiled this week. Or last week.

"They weren't making me dinner, just in general, making dinner. They broke in, got hungry, made a sandwich or something, and then...like they'd steal my laptop or something." You replied, pulling your sweater over your head before crossing the small space the apartment provided to kiss your boyfriend, "granted I'm glad it's you and not a robber."

"You said you were home early today," he replied, turning back to the food he was cooking as you walked into the bedroom to change.

"I know, but that was like, one in the morning and you literally gave me a thumbs up without even lifting your hand off the bed in response so...wasn't exactly counting on you coming home," you explained, changing into sweatpants and a t-shirt, anything to get out of the clothes you'd been wearing all day, "besides I didn't mean it in a like, you have to come home because I'm home, just like a 'hey I'm actually going to be home today' kind a thing."

"Richie's training this week and everything else is pretty much getting there."

"Oh well, pretty much getting there? Call Cicero, you can open tomorrow," you teased, "since you're not a robber and you are making me dinner, what are you making?"

"Clam chowder," he said, sounding almost like he didn't believe it himself. He wasn't exactly a big fan of soups, mostly because he found them boring and limited, but you loved them. Especially when cold weather hit and then all you wanted was some soup and grilled cheese and extra bread. When he'd made fun of you for your tastes once you had shrugged and told him you couldn't help it if your tastes were basic ("I didn't go to the CIA or NOMA or whatever. I like what I like").

"Clam chowder? Are you shitting me?" You asked, peering over his shoulder into the pot he had on the stove.

"I am not, in fact, shitting you." He replied.

"Insane," you hooked your arms around his stomach and leaned against his back, not at all concerned about the fact that he was still technically cooking, "you're like the best boyfriend ever, have I ever told you that?"

"You tell me that every time I cook for you which seems like maybe you're only using me..." He joked. You kissed the back of his neck and then his cheek when he turned his head to the side, forcing another smile from him.

It was hard to comprehend sometimes, to the point that Carmy literally had to remind himself, that the home the two of you had created (though hectic and sometimes not occupied) was genuinely the most calming place he'd ever been. Growing up with his mom and dad, and even Mikey and Sugar, had been like living on a landmine, waiting for it to explode on him if he made a wrong move. It never felt like that here, even when the outside world started to feel like that.

"Do you need help?" You asked, letting him go and moving to the bar cart you had in the living room, in search of a good wine.

"Nah, I'm almost done," he replied, "did I tell you about the gas line?"

You held a glass out to him, taking a long sip of your own, "no, what happened with the gas line?"

Carmy started to retell the story, moving around the kitchen easily while you took a seat and listened to him, allowing him to capture your entire attention. The busy schedules and the barely seeing each other and the stress felt like it would crush you sometimes but it was entirely worth it to be able to come home early, at least every once in a while, and just sit there, listening to Carmy.

#carmy x reader #carmy x you #carmy x y/n #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x y/n #carmen berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto imagine #carmy fic #carmy fluff #carmy imagine #the bear imagine #the bear fanfiction #the bear fic #the bear fluff

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leviismybby · 11 months

Note

klara season 4 levi with baby twins

Ahhh Ackerman babies, pure fluffy headcanons below

When you told him you were pregnant, his expression didn't change much but on the inside, he was panicking in a happy way. Levi never thought that he was meant to be a father but at the same time having a child of his own excited him.

Sweats when you tell him that you're expecting twins, he was prepared for one but two? Oh boy he already knows that he will have a handful on his hands. And given his job and the situation, it won't be easy.

Levi is protective so when you're pregnant, he doesn't let you out of his sight. When he is working? You bet you have to be in his office so that he can attend to your needs.

Goes around the whole of Walls trying to find the fitting furniture and baby clothes. He doesn't like the thought of you being away so for now you two agreed to stay in the headquarters.

Hange is a mess, not only are they the commander now but two little Ackermans running around? That adds to their stress haha. They are happy for their friend tho, even have a list of names just in case you and Levi don't come up with anything.

When the babies are born, Levi will cry, he kept all the emotion inside for those nine months but when he sees his children and holds them for the first time, he melts.

Of course will make sure to take good care of you after you give birth. He found you four days after your labor trying to clean a bookshelf and you heard it from him. "Lay back down, you pushed two humans out of you not even a week ago, I'll do it."

He is quicker than you during the night, if they cry he is quicker than the speed of light to be at their cribs. He doesn't sleep a lot anyway, so taking care of his babies is not at all a problem.

Says he will discipline them but spoils the fuck out of both of them. Anything his child points at is brought immediately, he doesn't care about the price.

He makes sure that they are always comfortable, he didn't have the comfort he needed as a child but he will make sure his two sun shines do.

When they start to mumble and talk a little, he is over the moon and you best believe that their first words will be dada.

They bring a smile to his face more than anyone else, he often has them seated in his lap when he does paperwork. Their smell alone just makes him more calm. Always has toys in his office for them.

Levi doesn't like messes but given the two little Ackermans, he has no choice. Your room is almost always a mess especially when they start to walk.

Also, they are fast. You're always out of breath trying to catch them both and Levi finds it amusing.

They betrayed you too, came out looking exactly like him. Although there is still a hint of you in them, it's clear which genetics lead.

If he is away on a mission, he keeps two little plushies with him. He knows that there are times where it's hard for him with Marley and all the mess but Levi makes sure that he is a present father.

Forced his squad to baby-proof most of the headquarters because he isn't risking his children getting hurt. They still find a way tho, it's that Ackerman gene what else did you except?

Is worried when they get hurt or sick although they rarely get sick, he doesn't sleep until they are healthy again.

Will scold them but won't raise his voice, they are still so little and have so much to learn but he does scold them if they act bratty.

He knows them like the back of his hands sometimes even better than you do. When they are hungry, sleepy, or cold, he notices all of it.

In his free time, he is always playing with them, taking them to the stables to show them the horses, walking with them outside and showing them the outdoors.

Glares at strangers. Don't try to touch his kids, even when someone asks, he doesn't let them anywhere near the twins.

Overall, a good father, a way better dad than he thought he was going to be. He loves his twins over everything and would do anything for them.

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1800titz · 11 months

Text

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

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE

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

And the one after that one, too.

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

Well.

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

Tonight is still Thursday night. Unfortunately.

Unfortunately, unfortunately, unfortunately.

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

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

"That's a lot of cherries."

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

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

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

"Was there?"

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

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

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

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

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

The laugh that Isla releases is genuine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think they might, yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If that helps narrow anything down."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isla blinks.

"To buy or sell a house?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! Yes, yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mhm."

"What else?" he prods gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My girl.

What happened to my sweet, quiet girl? Hm?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Commandments?" Isla's eyebrows raise.

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

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

He is. He was never judging, but.

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The submissive is acting with free will.

4. The submissive will accept discipline.

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

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

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

"Very fancy of you, Mr. Eros."

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

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

"Sir."

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

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

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

Eros blinks at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Focus.

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

Dear, Holy, Mother of Christ.

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

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

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

"Lovely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, it comes up. And Harry expresses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A month.

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

But really, it's not, Harry thinks.

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

A month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A month and two weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry's outdone himself with the ropework, honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Anything too tight? Anything uncomfortable?"

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

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

"No, Sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right? We should be nice?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PLEASE!"

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

"Shit!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh..."

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure, darling. Cum."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or," a pause, then. Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right it is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hits her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isla sobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. You still owe me two more."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir! Sir!"

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

"May I— may I cum?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ, her cunt is pure bliss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, shit, fuck — Eros!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peitho just hums.

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

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

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

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

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

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