#the man who lives to dissect anything and everything

[bcbdrums]

Little meister Stein, new student to the DWMA, it’s time to choose a weapon and he chooses A GREAT BIG KNIFE a nice, respectable scythe.

I wonder if his teachers should be concerned about him, hmm.

#i feel so dumb #the man who lives to dissect anything and everything #chose a great big knife as his weapon partner #at least he’s consistent #stein #soul eater #franken stein #death scythe #spirit albarn #professor stein

[gremlingottoosilly]

The Art of Hospitality (yan!Nanami x fem!Reader)

Nanami comes home to his favorite roommate. He is hurt and tired...but he knows who will instantly make him feel better. Tags and CW: Yandere, mild dub-con, non-consensual masturbation, Nanami is a panty stealer, light age difference, power imbalance, housewife kink, groping, praise kink AO3

You accidentally took his shirt from the laundry. Nanami thinks it’s an accident – he isn’t sure that you’re dumb enough to genuinely not realize that you were wearing a man’s clothes for a while already, but he doesn’t think you’re brave enough to flirt with him like this either. You’re stuck between being dumb and being too abrasive in your act – and honestly, Kento can deal with the dumb ones. Always a pleasure to spend some time with a person who knows when to shut up. 

You look simply divine like this – tugging a shirt that is too big for you in your tiny shorts, carefully rolling the sleeves up so they won’t get splashed while you are doing the dishes. Nanami never asked you to pull up with so many domestic responsibilities – but it was expected. He already allows you to live here without paying rent, so…only natural you’d be his housewife in everything besides affection. He knows how careful he must be – you’re innocent, as some college dropout can be, and you don’t really think of him like that. At least, he thinks you aren’t – he is sure that were you a bit braver, you’d already sleep in his bed instead of a tiny guest bedroom. If you’d wear his shirt on any other day of the week, he would simply note this in his head and proceed with his day. Maybe stare a bit, imagining your curves hidden by the baggy fabric, catching glimpses of skin whenever you roll it up a bit too high. If it was on any other day, he’d just smile and proceed to go to his study.

But you had to pull his shirt out of the laundry on the exact day when he dragged his body home from a particularly nasty fight with a curse. The thing was defeated – something about fear of bug larvae, the sound it made while being dissected by his knife was something that Nanami wouldn’t forget for a long time, even with an ample amount of alcohol. You just had to be cute and adorable and domestic and wear his clothes on a day when he wanted it most. Where all of his desires of retirement amplified, pushing for a fantasy that was just out of reach. 

Until he saw you cleaning the dishes with the tenacity of a proper housewife. Nanami knew he had to keep himself in check – knew how much he’d scare you with this. Still, at that moment, he wanted nothing more but to push you on that kitchen counter, roll his shirt even higher on your body, and use you like a proper domestic wifey you are. 

— You did the laundry? 

He slips right behind you, hands on your waist. It’s a gesture that cannot be mistaken for anything other than affection – and you get stiff immediately, not sure of what to do. He hopes you’d be a smart girl and won’t defy him. He doesn’t have patience for brats right now – no matter how adorable they might look. You take a deep breath and release it, relaxing in his hold. He squints, a ghost of a smile appears on his lips. What a boedient thing you are. 

— I did the dark ones, yes. I wanted to do the whites as well, but there wasn’t enough, so… You trail off, your hands shaking just a little bit. Nanami notices and leans on you a bit, pressing you against his chest. Your breath hitches again, panic evident in your body. He wants you to relax – and so he slips one of his hands across your waist, pressing you even closer to him. You have to get used to the heat of his body eventually. Nanami isn’t known for charity work and you’d have to pay him back one way or another – and currently, you only have one way of achieving this. 

Nanami pressed his hand more firmly against your waist, squishing you between his body and the counter. You are forced to relax into his touch – with no way of getting out, it’s only obvious why you’d be this scared. Poor, dumb girl. No idea what is coming to her. — You washed my things as well? You put the dishes on the drying stand, wiping your hands with the nearest towel. There is a certain clumsiness in your actions – like you were trying to remember how to act properly on the go. Like you tried your hardest to be a perfect housekeeper without looking too desperate. Although he likes that air of eagerness around you. 

— I wanted to do something for you, sir. While I can’t get a proper job. The little snag didn’t go unnoticed. Every time you try to convince him that you finally got some part-time position, something minimal wage and extra working hours, he will always say that working like this would be useless – that you need a real job if you truly want to build up your experience. After some time, you stopped even looking for openings, instead marinading yourself in your meager savings and looking after the house. Sometimes you wondered if he just wanted to get a free house worker – but then again, he let you live in this big house without paying rent or even groceries. The only reason you’re still here is because he is generous…and you don’t want to think about the reasons behind it.

Spending time around so many people with loud personalities, Nanami craved someone simple. Easy. Nice and quiet – and a girl who is too helpless to survive on her own is just that. Some people are not meant to survive on their own, and there is a certain dignity in relying solely on help from others. 

He caresses your hands – you don’t understand why is he suddenly so affectionate after spending months not even bothering to learn your last name, but then you notice the smell of blood. Scratches on his hands. Something that smelled like wet dirt and metal. 

You turn away, bumping your nose into his chest. Kento looks…disheveled. With his tie lost, a few buttons were torn off from his perfectly ironed – you ironed it just a few days ago – shirt that was now covered in soil and blood. He looks like he just got into a fight – with no indications of who was on the winning side. You weren’t sure where he worked exactly – something corporate, you think, some cushy position that allowed him to escape overtime and get home at 6 PM sharp every day. Corporate people usually don’t return home looking like something tried to chew on them. 

— N…nanami, what…what happened? He sighs, rubbing his forehead. It seems like your question somehow irritated him – you don’t want to be like this, don’t want him to hate you. Yet, it’s almost like your worry is making him insanely angry somehow. You bite your lips, face scrunched in a worried expression. You don’t want him to die – or even just get slightly more injured. 

— Got into an accident. There is nothing to worry about. 

You’re definitely not buying it. Kento likes seeing you gushing over him – but knowing how anxious his little roommate can be, you’re certainly not going to let it go so easily. And he has no intentions of showing you the secrets of the world of jujutsu right now. If ever. 

— You got run over?! — No. 

— A dog attacked you?! — No. 

— Oh. You were robbed..? He sighs, thinking of how he still hasn’t come up with an excuse. He should have – but the fight was hard already, and the energy he spent working overtime on that curse didn’t make anything better. He loves your worry and your kindness, but he can’t deal with it right now. Somehow, he has to divert your attention. Somehow, he has to take this comfort he wanted from you and your body. 

— You’re wearing my shirt. 

Your eyes widened, heat spreading across your face. He sees that he has successfully distracted you – your hands are coming to cover yourself immediately, tugging on the wrist of the shirt as if trying to see if he is right. Seems like you really didn’t notice you were wearing something that belonged to him. God, what a dumb thing you are. What did he do to deserve such a blessing? You take a step to the side, trying to escape the trap of his hands – but Nanami is not having it. With a grunt, he is forcing you in front of him again, making sure you’re set here, nice and comfortable. Trapped close to him – like he’d ever let go of someone as precious as you. He might be a lot of things – a workaholic, an extremely tired individual with love for useless and dumb sunshine girls, but he is not stupid. Letting you go now will only increase the gap between the two of you – and not even in a sense of age. 

— I’m…oh. I’m really sorry, sir, it must have been mixed in the laundry and… He snorts. The sound is weird, alien to someone like him – you look up, surprised he even bothered to listen to you. You really got him acting so weird…it’s almost an achievement. Somehow, you don’t feel like you won something. 

— You didn’t even notice it was too big? 

— I have some oversized clothes. — Something that your ex left you? 

You find yourself wordless at the accusation. It doesn’t sound too weird at first – but the harshness in his voice is making you shiver. His hands are on your waist again, holding you in a gesture that can’t be platonic – and this is the first time he paid so much attention to you. You feel uncomfortable. You feel desired, somehow. Nanami smells of blood and you find yourself aroused at it. Are you really that weird of a person? Fighting the urge to press your nose in his shoulder and breathe in his musk, mixed with blood, sweat, and that wonderful perfume he is using? The scent of which was traveling with you the whole morning ever since you took the shirt out of the laundry. Did you truly not know it was his? Somehow, you aren’t so sure now. 

— I…I guess I just wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry, sir, I will…

You insist on calling him “sir” despite your age gap being not that terrible. He couldn’t be your father – yet he has this aura about him that makes you a bit afraid. Just a little nervous whenever he raises his voice or hums disarmingly. You don’t want to disappoint him, anxiety filling every bit of your existence when you think about this – he is doing so much, he has serious work and all you do is gush over housework and trying to play a role you were not made for. Never thinking how hard being a housewife might be. 

— You’re going to just take off it now? 

You freeze in place, not sure of how to answer. Nanami chuckles. You don’t want him so close to you, touching you like you’re in love – but he is hurt, stressed and covered in blood. He is  lonely man, you can understand this – who else would invite a girl to live with him because he spends so much time working outside of the house, he’d disappear for days on end and someone had to take care of the house? if he had a partner then, surely, you wouldn’t be here. It must be hard, for someone like him – but he seems so nice, so hardworking, despite the initial strictness…why is he single? 

You don’t feel comfortable with his chin resting on your shoulder, but you’re forcing yourself to relax. He had such a hard day, and he is still hurt. You might as well indulge him a little. 

— I don’t think it would be polite.

— Why not?

His hands slowly unbutton the lowest part of the shirt, the one that is hanging way below your stomach. He is not revealing any skin – but the feeling of his calloused fingers even through the fabric is a bit much to handle. 

— I’m a guest at this house. Wouldn’t want to embarrass the owner, right? His hand goes to grasp a few more buttons, making you stiffen. You don’t…don’t particularly want his hands in that area – almost under your chest, with a single brush of fingers enough to make you feel hot. Throbbing. Enough to make you question everything you know about him and…other things. You want to be a good guest, to not overstay your welcome – but it seems like the lines are getting more and more blurry each time. — I wouldn’t mind seeing you without it. — I’m really sorry I took it without asking you…

— You can get punished for it later. But…

Nanami presses his mouth on your neck, inhaling your scent. You smell like him – his cologne, his shower gel, the fabric softener he uses for his shirts, all the expensive things he knows you don’t have money for. You’re relying on his kindness and, well, he can be kind…if you’re willing to be good to him, of course. Good, obedient, and pretty girls deserve their rewards, after all. He has the perfect idea for just the one right now. You whimper when you feel his lips on your skin, when he nibbles on the sweet spot at the back of your neck. It can’t be mistaken for normal affection now – not with the way he keeps unbuttoning your shirt until there is barely enough to cover your breasts. His hand lays on your stomach, warmness spreading across the skin…there isn’t a lot you can do now. Your thoughts are mixed now, not sure of what to do to make him stop or to let him keep going. — Nana…no, Kento, I’m not really sure about… — Quiet, sweetheart. Just a few more minutes, okay? 

You sigh, allowing him to just…touch you. Get sated with the feeling of your body in his arms – you don’t know how much time had passed, but he just rubs soothing circles into your stomach and breathes, occasionally peppering your neck with kisses. 

You want him to go further. 

You want him to stop. Maybe, it was just a few more minutes. Maybe, he took his time – you on;y woke up from that hazy, dream-like state when he suddenly yanked the rest of your shirt off, revealing your braless chest to the cold air of the house. You wanted to cover yourself – but your slow motions didn’t do you enough justice, as he easily grabbed your wrist in one of his hands. 

He kisses you again, and you move your head to the side to meet his lips. You don’t know what you want – you want to help him, to make his worries go away, but he is still smelling of blood and rust and you’d like to draw him a bath first. Maybe take care of him there. Maybe grab your things and run even though it would mean you’d be homeless. You can feel his erection pressing to the curve of your ass and you move involuntarily, sliding up and down – maybe in an attempt to escape, maybe in an attempt to allure. You want for him to say something, to command you to do something – be more forceful, be more kind, make everything better, and then do it much, much worse. You sigh, trying to just…

The phone is ringing. 

You manage to read the name. You wonder who the hell is Gojo Satoru. — I apologize for this. – Nanami whispers in your ear, getting away from you. Still keeping a hand on your waist, holding you down as firmly as possible. Not that you have any strength left in your legs to go anywhere. You’re waiting for Nanami to finish the call. Something is telling you that he just found a way to make you pay for staying with him for so long.

#nanami x you #jjk nanami #nanami smut #yandere nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #kento nanami #yandere jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu nanami

[thesamoanqueen]

Owner

Raiting: 18+

Warnings: smut, jealousy, my bad english as always.

A/N: It should have been my gift to @harmshake for her day but I didn’t made it in time and here Im, posting it anyway *delusional smile*

He was getting a headache, a bad one because Y/N was unbeatable at driving him crazy. He always tried to control himself, freaking out during arguments didn’t fit him well and he could successfully have done it, at least until she got involved or decided to press that button, the one she had claimed from the first second Roman laid eyes on her. Thank God she wasn't the kind of woman who liked drama or kicking her feet, but if she decided to go down that road...

Roman could count their arguments on one hand, exceptions, extraordinary events, but every time it happened from one moment to the next, escalating in a few seconds and for reasons that weren't even real reasons. And it had been like that that time too. The night before Y/N had gone out with the girls, they had gone to have fun, there was nothing wrong and he had even been fine with it, because now that his schedule was no longer so oppressive they spent more time together, both didn't have to work hard as before. The next morning she got up and he had left himself speak, a comment about alcohol that she had clearly drunk, not about her, not even trying to scold her, but from there to chaos it was a short step.

Standing in the kitchen for who knows how long, he lowered his head in exasperation, exhausted, the idea of getting something to drink to go and relax, perhaps with her now only a memory, while Y/N marched through the living room, taking random stuff and dissecting that story as only she was capable of doing.

- I can do whatever I wanna do ‘cause you my daddy when I say you're, not every moment of ma life – she crashed into him at the other end of the huge room and Roman raised his head as if someone had slapped him.

She could do what? He wasn't what?!

- What did you just say?! – he snapped, not at all intending to let that time pass.

He had never tried to stop her from doing anything, he knew well who he had decided to be close to as a partner and it had never crossed his mind to treat her otherwise. He had made a comment, a comment because he cared about her, he was always worried, even if they were together and she came up with that story? He was a man, he didn't need to control her to feed his little ego.

- Thought it was me tired, but now the one who cannot hear me is you? - she insisted stubbornly, refusing to let go and Roman gave her a warning look, his gaze dark.

- Y/N stop running that mouth

- Well if you don't like my attitude anymore, go find someone else and I'll do the same – she pointed at him and Roman knew that she was throwing everything on the table by now, but she had to slow down because he had enough now.

He wouldn't have gone anywhere, above all she wouldn't have found anyone else. She could put it out of her head to play those games with him and above all to turn around and leave him there as she was trying to do. He quickly crossed the living room, before Y/N could even disappear and grabbed her by the waist, hearing her let go with a thud all the stuff she had in her arms, struggling.

- What-Get your hands off me, lemme go-

- You better calm down- don't kick! - he warned her, taking blow with a grimace as he dragged her with him across the room - don't… no… babygirl-

- Roman put me down, ain't joking! And don't call me that! – she struck again, convincing him to put her down on the coach, to grit his teeth, irritation growing.

- No more babygirl, ain't your daddy, you can do whatever, what's going on huh?!

Frozen, Y/N stared back at him. Her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, legs curled up on the couch where she still had tried to escape him at first, even though he was literally towering over her. He had raised his voice, he never did it, except when they got to that point, but every time it happened he ended up regretting it the same instant just by looking at her. He couldn't stand those moments, because they didn't belong to either of them and for sure wasn't what he wanted for their relationship.

- You don't own me – Y/N said, refusing to lower her head and Roman ran a hand over his dark beard, inspiring, before looking back at her deadly serious.

- I own you

He knew what was going on in that head of her, because Y/N thought and thought even late at night when she should have been sleeping, she was dangerous. And that argument had been the reason she had struggled to have relationships in the past, the same one that had led them to chase each other for a year before giving a name to what was between them. It had been a stupid comment, said with a completely different intention, they both knew it, and yet she had snap.

-I do – he repeated, seeing her physically stiffen when he crouched down in front of her – as you own me – he admitted without shame.

He knew what he wanted from his life and he knew what he was willing to risk, he had never been the kind of person who liked to be led, but since she had entered his life, his vision had changed. It was like this from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to bed, it was his law, it was what he chose and what Roman committed to. He wasn't a kid, he could make sacrifices and he wanted to bear them.

-That's how things work – he explained, eyes running over her figure without forgetting a single piece, while hers studied him.

They were doing this together and there was no "whatever" for it to work. They had each other's backs, they belonged to each other and there was no one else who could replace either of them in that mission. No plan B, no alternatives, it was all or nothing, she was the one who told him first and Roman stuck to that. He could keep his mouth shut, ignore if he wanted, he had no problems, but what they were had to be clear, for better or for worse, during arguments or not.

Y/N insisted on not moving, legs still bent on the coach, shoulders still tense and her gaze fixed on him who hadn't moved an inch too, ready to take yet another blow that never came. She only needed a few words, if the right ones, to send those moments away and Roman knew he had said them to her or she wouldn't have given up. An arrogant and slightly softened grin was struggling to show itself, but he just frowned, tilting his head a little to look at her inch by inch again.

-May I touch you now? – he asked, his voice now low, soft.

- What if I say no? – he heard her ask immediately, stubborn and without mercy.

Firm in his purpose, Roman did not give up, completely unimpressed by that attitude which had single-handedly eliminated any competition long before him.

- Please – he begged hoarsely and Y/N once again didn't move.

She didn't even answer, but her dark chocolate eyes did it for her, wavering for a moment at that plea and he reached out with both hands, slowly pulling her legs off the couch by ankles. He slid one on the carpet, placing the other on top of his knees, caressing the caramel-colored skin, soft calf, her eyes pointing at him in religious silence as he went up higher, touching behind the knee to spread his hand on her gorgeous soft thigh. He felt her body vibrate imperceptibly, responding to that contact and Y/N immediately push her foot against his chest, stopping him from going any further.

-Babygirl...- he called her back, looking up again.

Still no response and Roman took the opportunity to slide her leg over his shoulder, making his way between her. His hands began to caress her again without waiting any longer, going up, taking the opportunity to take care of the other leg in the same way and in the same way, even with the other, Y/N stopped him. Roman looked at her in silence this time, he placed a kiss on her skin, pinching it with his beard, breathing in the scent of coconut and vanilla lotion, receiving a new push in return. He waited a second, just one, to collect himself, before also pulling the other leg over his shoulders and bending her on the couch, without asking or negotiate anymore, crashing his mouth onto her to get a moan.

Y/N under him struggled, trying to push him away, refusing to let him win that fight as useless as the argument they had was. He stopped her from the wrists, bracing them with a little force against the couch backrest, pressing them with some of his weight, heat rising quickly and her complaints, muffled, slowly turning into hot moans. Roman knew that she was ready to not make his life easy and repay him in some way, but he was fine with that.

He liked challenges and if she was the prize, he could take more than a couple of pushes.

Slow and unstoppable, he made his way over her. Feeling her mouth slowly indulge him, her hands stop shaking and her legs squeeze him to have his body closer, to have him where he belonged. He still refused to let go, keeping her pinned beneath him, sliding only one large hand, first around her throat and then further down, under her oversize shirt, over her breast free from any constriction. His thumb automatically went to play with her nipple and Y/N mewled into his mouth, panting hotly when Roman finally abandoned her to move down, licking her ear and jugular before biting and sucking that soft skin with the only purpose to leave his mark.

- Mmh! – a moan, strangled, still a little freaky, teeth closing on her swollen lip to stop it.

Annoyed, he looked up at her, studying her focused, breathless, cute expression. He pushed a little on her wrists, feeling her body soften and pulled her white shirt up a little more, to go down to kiss her between her round breasts, inhaling her scent, dipping his face there to devour her hungrily. Her shivers, her heartbeat dangerously close, even the sound of her swallowing while trying to catch her breath, had quickly turned that exchange into something more and bossy Roman rubbed himself against her, his cock now hard inside his gray jumpsuit. He watched Y/N bite her lip again, try to hold back, belly tense and eyes finally searching for him as he began to suck and bite on one of her dark salty buttons.

Her back always curved into a delightful arch when he paid her that kind of attention. An almost unnatural, desperate and needy arch, which Roman get never tired of holding in his hands and admiring, often asking for more, demanding everything.

He watched her throw her head back, almost hiding between cushions and his arm slid behind her back, pulling her against him, grabbing her hip so her center was in place. Y/N struggled again, breathing short, her gaze liquid with excitement and Roman tightened his grip on her wrists, freeing her breasts shiny from his saliva and quickly place a kiss on both her legs that were resting onto his shoulders. Quickly, he fumbled with his clothes, pulling them down with his only free hand, immediately feeling his erection jump to attention and Y/N gasp in anticipation.

- What do you say sweetheart huh? – he asked hoarsely, pressing it against her perfect ass, while also freeing her too – do you want me to ask nicely or not?

-Lemme-e go- he heard her repeat, but this time he knew that her intention was not to run away.

- Please babygirl? – he chanted into her ear, almost crushing her beneath him.

- Please… daddy – a meow more like a moan and Roman released his grip on her wrists.

Her hands grabbed his face instantly, forcing him into a kiss he would never refuse and then wrapping around his torso, scratching his solid neck with demand, as he thrust into her without waiting any longer. Her folds were soft, welcoming and every single time he ended up searching for the bottom, that exact point that made her tighten around him in a vice from which Roman always hoped not to escape. His body was shot through with every sigh of Y/N, every single moan and prey to an uncontrolled reaction his hips moved reflexively, thrusting and pinning her down.

They hadn't fucked like this for a long time now, since they were nothing and their encounters seemed more like a desperate attempt to leave their mark on each other so that no one else could get in the way or hope to. Now those thoughts, those doubts were far away, but Roman still felt in the bottom of his chest the urge to claim her, to give her everything and because of that, he took advantage of his strength to turn her onto her side, leaving one of her legs down. From that position he could push at another angle, holding her round buttock, straightening his back.

- Like tha-aht, yes-

-Yeah, let's strech my pussy good…-he growled hungrily, giving her an appreciative slap on the ass and the moan that Y/N let out was accompanied by her throbbing walls.

- There-yes there!

Quick, rough, he knew that neither of them would last long, but he put a hand on her belly anyway, touching his bulge, hitting that spot and observing, satisfied, the whitish ring that had already formed around his cock. He saw it spread across his entire length, back and forth, again, while Y/N tried to hold him between her folds, inside her sweet cave. He licked his lips, savoring her moods from a distance, pressing with his fingers where her mound welcomed him, feeling his own hardness, his thumb sliding further down to play with her swollen button.

A couple of thrusts and Y/N exploded beneath him in a succession of gasps, hands gripping the coach cover, eyes closed tightly and that wonderful arc that Roman moved again, to take her from behind, pushing himself onto his knees to have her into a press. Frantic, he let his head loll, pounding frenetic through his orgasm, refusing to give in until Y/N slapped her hand against one of his arms and he pulled out quickly, missing her warmth instantly.

A growl left him, but just as he had felt that unpleasant absence, he welcomed Y/N who had sat up to take him into her soft mouth, licking both of their juices with a moan of appreciation. With one arm resting on the coach backrest and the other hand holding the back of her head, he watched Y/N wrap her lips around the tip, suck until she tore the soul out of his lungs and then swallow him almost in his entire length to allow him to empty himself inside her.

- F-Fuck, open wide, so warr-rm-

He held her in place, moving on impulse, feeling the heat of his own body mix in Y/N's throat, her tongue pampering him until the last drop dirtied her mouth and his long fingers extricated themselves from the curls that he had pulled away from Y/N’s bun, stroking it affectionately, feeling the pop of that dangerous mouth that released him after having swallowed and cleaned up the mess of both of them. Breathing heavily he let himself fall down, pulling her against him as messy as he was, realizing only after long, infinite minutes of silence that at the end they had both managed to relax there together even if how, they had gotten to that point, had not been what he imagined.

He tilted his head, seeing her clinging to him with that tired look that he was responsible for this time and he couldn't help himself, leaving a kiss on her forehead that made her lift her chin to look up.

- We made it again – he noticed, seeing that adorable pout that she reserved only for him.

She who would have eaten alive anyone out there without a second thought, with him instead every now and then she gave into the temptation to behave like a little one and as long as it was her, Roman could handle anything. She owned that right and privilege.

Tag squad: @sunnyfleur23 @racerchix21 @alyyaanna @angelreigns444 @romanreignsdefencesquad @romanstheory @claymorexpunisher @keybladeofsteel @msbigredmachine @nayys-world @gobbersworld @utika151209 @cumxxslutt @civildawn @romanmydaddy @triscillal @papireigns-05 @helensanders92 @darqchilddaydreamz @meggylynnloves @unfriendly--blvck--hottie @nicolewoo @reignsx @reigns-central-blog @kianaleani @daguenoire @extra-11 @thedonsfactory @snowpanda18 @brattyfics @mzv11 @romanreignseater @tribalchiefdaily @2baddies2furious @vebner37 @depressedneedingrevenge @cyberdejos2 @usosthetics @mahi-wayy @jxtina-86 @harmshake @harlem11680 @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns oneshot #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns x y/n #roman reigns x female reader #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns x you #wwe smut #wwe fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic

[peachsayshi]

heyy idk if you're still doing ex husband nanami etc but here goes nothing!! maybe after the new year's party nanami finally meets the guy she went on a date with?? you're free to write anything on that ♥️

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ A Reason To Celebrate ⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ minors / ageless / blank blogs (dni) ↬･tags: ex husband nanami x reader; angst; mostly fluff; nanami has a son; angy nanami; kissing ↬･ wc: 6,740

↬ notes: I was supposed to post this in honor of kento's birthday, but better late than never! here is a highly requested update for you all x there is a bit of a time skip from the last part!

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Nanami regrets agreeing to this divorce.

He knows that he shouldn’t have conceded to you so easily. He understands that he shouldn’t have turned his back on you when you confessed that you wanted out of this relationship. He hates that he allowed his pride to get in the way of your true feelings, and is ashamed for cowering into a corner when what he needed to do was fight even harder to keep you by his side. He’s sorry for the terrible words that he threw at you early on, when he placed the blame entirely on you for ruining what was so, so perfect.

When you said “I do” it was because you accepted him wholeheartedly, but he broke his a vow by not leaving his job as he intended the minute that pregnancy strip turned pink.

The trials and tribulations of a jujutsu sorcerer never ends, but nothing he’s ever experienced compares to how hollow he feels.

That’s why he’s been spending every hour dissecting the current status of your relationship. He’s struggling to figure out his balance now that he’s turned his entire world upside down.

All he wants to do is rekindle the flame of what he lost.

“Be honest with me…are you truly happy with how things are between us?”

Your eyes revealed the softest, most vulnerable parts of yourself when he posed that question. He saw how quickly you buried the weight of your emotion into his chest, could see that it was a desperate attempt to hide from confronting the truth.

Months have passed since that night.

Your relationship with your ex-husband is the best it’s ever been - the two of you have finally figured out how to construct your lives in these two separate parts.

You get to have him in doses, and he no longer burdens you with worry.

This arrangement has been working out swimmingly, but Nanami still can’t ignore the feeling that if you could just meet him halfway, then maybe there might actually be a chance for a real reconciliation.

Things took a turn last week when you surprised your ex-husband with a call while he was at work, asking him if he had the time to take Hiroki off your hands for the rest of the afternoon.

“I just need a little bit of time for myself,” you reluctantly blurted, the unusual statement sounding foreign on your lips.

Nanami’s concern wouldn’t stop him from prying. “Is everything alright? Are you feeling unwell?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine!” you squeaked. “I just…uhm…I just really need the quiet today. I know this is very last minute, and of course I understand if you’re too busy-”

“I’m not busy at all,” he immediately interjected, his heart screaming that he would willingly jump at your every command if you asked. “I’ll just inform Gojo that I’m taking the day off. He won’t have any problems with it…”

Later that evening, while running a quick errand with his son, Nanami saw you stepping out of his favorite bakery.

His heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of you in your summer green dress, the heat already rushing to his cheeks as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He was already contemplating with an idea on how to swing you out of your alone time to indulge him for a quick bite to eat, but that blissful plan was rudely interrupted by a gentleman who followed your footsteps soon after.

Nanami blinked his brown eyes in disbelief, staring with his mouth slightly apart as you spoke to the man with a level of familiarity that made your ex-husband nauseous. He saw the stranger reach for the tip of your fingers to help assist you with one of the many, many shopping bags in your hands.

The radiant glow blooming from the deepest parts of his chest collapsed in on itself upon seeing your flustered expression from the contact.

Dread overcomes him when he recalls that the last time you had asked him to watch over Hiroki was when you decided to go out on that stupid date.

Nanami had allowed the center of his own feelings to distract him from the current state that his marriage is in. Just because he is willing and ready to reconcile, that didn’t necessarily mean that you felt the same way. He’s just been trying so hard to stop you from pushing him out, and after the recent events that transpired between you both, he actually thought he was making some kind of progress.

You didn’t even seem interested in the guy when you relayed to him how your date went. The little incident that happened at the Gojo’s New Years Eve party suggested that maybe your feelings for Nanami weren’t so far out of his reach. Nanami rarely ever remembers his drinking sessions with Shoko, but what remained perfectly etched in his brain was the question that he boldly asked you - the one that continued to haunt him as the weeks passed by, and which he prayed that he would eventually get an answer to.

Did he misread the signs?

He wondered if you thought his question was simply the ramblings of a disoriented drunk, even though it was the most honest he’s been about his feelings in a while.

The longer he stood there watching you with this other man, the more he could feel his heart shattering.

His logic contradicted his apprehension with a gentle reminder of the words that you shared with him - of how your intimate and close relationship with him will always mean something to you…

He hesitated approaching you both at first, but you are still his family after all and he wasn’t about to pretend like couldn’t visibly see what was playing out before him.

If you were, in fact, seeing somebody else…then the man had every right to know about it.

Anger and betrayal guided him towards you and he greeted you with a cold and polite, “hello”.

Despite his stoic expression, he was barely holding it together watching your eyes widen in a state of shock. He instantly knew that he was the last person you were expecting to run into.

“K-Ken!” you gasped, flickering your pretty irises between your ex-husband and the man beside you. “uh-what…what are you doing here?”

Nanami’s eyes never left yours; he’s studied every reaction out of you like they were written out as sacred texts. He memorized the tempos of your breath, counted the blinks, and interpreted the many ways in which your lips could speak without ever making a sound.

“I ran out of bread. So, I decided to take Hiroki for a little walk and pick some up,” he replied before shifting his sharp and scrutinizing gaze towards the man.

The gentleman seemed equally as taken aback by Nanami, and your ex-husband could see an uneasiness washing over him.

“Hello,” he firmly greeted, introducing himself without any consideration over the thick tension that suddenly manifested. “I don’t believe we’ve met…”

The man parted his lips to speak but you were quick to cut off his answer, your suspicious behavior only fueling Nanami's anxiety.

“This is Matsuda-san! Matsuda, this is Kento Nanami…he’s my…uhm,” you fumble but quickly recollect yourself to avoid anymore awkwardness, “he’s Hiroki’s father…”

That nearly split the sorcerer in half.

You took a second to catch your breath, unreasonably winded from the explanation alone.

“Ken, Matsuda-san is an acquaintance of mine. We actually had dinner a while back…I think you might remember me telling you about it?”

Nanami’s face turned to stone, hardening every muscle to stop himself from reacting.

Of course he remembers, he grumbles to himself, just like how he can still feel you on the tips of his fingers when his hand was between your legs while you were telling him all about it…

So, this is the guy, he acknowledged, a slight tremor shaking down his spine.

“Yes that’s right,” Matsuda confirmed with giddy amusement, but it only made Nanami want to knock the teeth out of that smug grin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nanami-san....”

“You as well” Nanami responded bitterly but tried his best to remain cordial. He quickly averted his attention away from the man and back to your skittish self.

“Are you heading back to your place? I’ll gladly walk you home…”

“Actually…” Matsuda interrupted, and the cold stare Nanami shot at him was enough to shut him up before he could even pose any kind of bold suggestions.

“Well, you see…” you stammered nervously, “I’m actually not heading home just yet. I…uh, wanted to stop by this new boutique shop that just opened! You know, the one where I got my body wash from? They apparently have a great sale going on, and I really don’t want to miss it…”

“If I’m not mistaken, isn’t that shop just around the corner from your place?” Nanami pressed, slightly annoyed over the fact that this guy has not taken the hint and scampered off somewhere else.

“Oh, yeah…it is,” you wince unsuccessfully , “but the things is, I don’t know how long I’m going to be, and…uh…”

He can see you panicking, notice the way you were crafting a brand new story out of thin air to play it off as the truth.

He couldn’t hide the hurt on his face which softened at your desperate attempt.

You’ve always been such a terrible later.

“The thing is,” you carry on , “I actually made plans to meet with my co-worker…and, and… Matsuda-san is joining us as well! But…But, I’ll call you once I’m done to pick up Hiroki, okay?”

He hated how formally you sounded when speaking to him, like he was just another friend and not the man who was your former husband, not the man who you shared your body with or confessed your unconditional love to.

“Of course,” he conceded with resent, “I guess I’ll see you later this evening…”

He turned on his heel and walked in the other direction, refusing to look back to where his broken heart had remain fragmented.

When you picked up Hiroki that evening, Nanami couldn’t help but remain frigid towards you. He didn’t extend the usual invitation of welcoming you to his home, nor did he care to engage in any small conversation.

He was tired of having you drag him around with absolutely no consideration of his feelings.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

On any other day, Nanami would have the patience to deal with his superior’s animated personality. He closes his tired eyes for just a second in an attempt to tune out Gojo’s boisterous tone, and reluctantly releases a long, drawn out sigh.

“Nanamin,” Gojo lectures, “don’t frown on your birthday or you’ll be miserable until the next one…”

The blonde felt his eye twitch, noted the sudden tension pinching in the space where his brows furrowed together and he quickly glances over his shoulder to see the flash of a pearly, white grin looking right at him.

He can’t help but grimace.

Gojo raises his eyebrow, taken aback by the disdain on his subordinates face. “What? Are you really that upset because we decided to do something nice for you?”

Despite their best efforts to keep it all a secret, Nanami knew that Gojo and his band of students were planning out something special for his birthday.

Itadori wouldn’t stop pestering him with questions over what kind of gifts he likes, and what his favorite treats are. He would run off in secret with the other students and nearly flew across the room whenever Nanami caught him alone with Gojo.

For Itadori’s sake, Nanami attempted to display a level of surprise when he walked into the break room earlier today and was welcomed by a small party which everyone had pitched in to put together for him.

“I-…no…that’s not it…” He replies to Gojo’s initial question with a somber tone. Dropping his shoulders in defeat, he continues to carefully pack the array of gifts that have been left for him. “Although I find it quite unnecessary, I am very grateful for this, for what you all did…”

“How unfortunate for you to be so loved and cared for…” Gojo sassily remarks with a click of his tongue.

“Let’s not ruin a good thing, shall we? That’s probably the nicest compliment you’ll ever receive from me”

His superior laughs, “I’m sure I can drag another one out of you”

The echo of Gojo’s boot surrounds the room as he slowly approaches Nanami to stand by his side. “Seriously though,” he presses as he slides his hands deep into his pockets, “anything you want to share with me?”

“Not particularly,” Nanami huffs as he places the last gift into the paper bag.

“Not that it’s news, but you’ve had a particularly displeased scowl resting on your face for over a week…”

The blonde pauses what he’s doing to exhale with frustration, and it only prompts Gojo to quirk a curious brow.

Nothing Nanami could say would make him feel better about the fact that he saw his ex-wife with another man. Nothing will ease the wariness in his chest that you two have barely spoken to one another since that god awful encounter, and the one thing that Nanami least expected to happen on his birthday was for you to forget to call or text him a wish.

Instead, he swallows the hurt that lumps in his throat and glosses over Gojo’s concern over him.

“Nothing’s wrong”

He glances at his wrist to check the time. The festivities of the afternoon has him running late, which means that he’ll have to rush home and get ready quickly to make it in time to your place.

He picks up the two paper bags laying out on the table, “I have to go. I have to pick up Hiroki…”

His superior pouts his lip while complacently nodding his head, and taking into account the sudden sensitivity around the subject. His knowing eyes hidden behind his blindfold can tell that Nanami was avoiding the discussion entirely, but the blonde refused to stay behind and give Gojo anymore ammunition for him to pry even further.

But before he walked out the door, he could hear Satoru yelling from the back room.

"Cheer up, Nanamin! You never know if the day will take an unexpected turn!"

As he made his way out onto the grounds of Jujutsu Tech, Nanami considers that there is always a reason to celebrate one’s birthday, but for whatever reason, none of them seemed good enough for him this year.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

On his way home from work, Nanami tries to show gratitude to the small pockets of joy in his day.

He begrudgingly sent Gojo a follow up text to thank him for what he put together with the students after feeling a tad bit guilty about his rude responses earlier.

He was soon met with a bombardment of annoying pictures and I love you posts from his superior, to which he immediately muted the chat to in order to stop getting harassed with endless notifications.

He can feel the exhaustion settling in by the time he arrives to his place, slowly turning the key to his front door. Carefully taking off his shoes, he neatly places them on his shelf by the entrance before dragging his tired heels down the hallway.

He can’t stop thinking about the way the students showered him with such affection, and it is a conscious reminder of why he continues pursuing being a jujutsu sorcerer.

He cares for every one of them deeply, and would never allow the archaic practices of the society to strip them of their golden hearts and pure minds.

Things have to be different with them.

He places the paper bags filled with gifts on the floor, thinking that he’ll get around to opening them sometime tomorrow, then proceeds to loosen the tie around his neck. He steps out into the open space of his apartment, only to find himself walking into a sea of golden strings that were tied to round, blue balloons.

Nanami freezes.

You’re in the middle of his living room, wearing a pair of denim jeans and an embroidered white top that he specifically remembers buying for you while you were both dating.

You’re holding his son in your arms, the two of you beaming a very similar smile, and wearing an obnoxious pair of frilly party hats.

“Wha-”

Hiroki interrupts him by blowing into the party horn, the silly noise making him giggle as he repeats the action for a second time.

“Surprise!” you bounce with a little excitement, and Hiroki mimics your phrase as he attempts to speak out this new word.

Your ex-husband stares at you in shock.

He’s still absorbing all the elements around him, taking in the new details of the colorful, piped cake resting on the dining table, along with a full spread of dinner when the aromatics finally envelop his senses while also recognizing that there is music playing as low, mellow beats surround the room.

“We got your daddy good,” you adorably whisper into Hiroki’s ear, and Nanami swears that he can feel his heart beat for the first time in a week.

“What…” he rasps, snapping himself out of the disorientation and breaking the silence. “What are you doing here? How…How did you even get in?”

“I used the spare key you gave me…” you explain.

“But you’ve never used the spare key…” he argues back courteously.

You step closer towards him, and Hiroki immediately extends his chubby arms out to his father while dropping his party horn in the process.

Brown eyes stay watching you as Nanami reaches for his son, he secures him in one arm while the other searches for your waist to stop you from crouching down to pick up the insignificant object.

He squeezes you affectionately, begging for answers.

“I know, but today is different…It’s your birthday, Kento!”

“But…”

“But, what?” you question with a raised brow, your eyes glancing away for only a minute to look at how Hiroki mirrors his father. “Did you really think we weren’t going to celebrate this together?”

He slips his arm around your waist, resting his large palm flat against your the small of your back.

“I just thought that…I just thought that you were busy. I haven’t really heard from you this week…”

His voice is small, cautionary almost, like he’s too afraid to let his woes slip out.

You giggle sheepishly, and it sends goosebumps to run all over his skin.

“Well, I’ve been running around planning out a little something for somebody special,” you admit with a sly smile, “plus, I’ve also been helping out Yuji and Gojo with their secret surprise for you…”

Nanami can’t help but crack a smile, sensing the frustration of his stress dispersing.

“Don’t tell me that was your idea too?”

“Not necessarily, but I offered to help them out after Gojo called me. Besides, Yuji was struggling with ideas because he couldn’t swing any decent answers out of you…”

His fingers lightly tense around the fabric of your top, scrunching the material just a bit. “You knew about it but you weren’t there today,” he points out.

Your heart shivers from the innocent contact, but you hold your unwavering grin before replying, “I was thinking of stopping by at first, but I told Gojo that I would rather do something more cozy. I thought-I thought you might have appreciate if it was just the three of us celebrating together…”

Nanami smiles and it brightens his whole face. His eyes gleam with pure, unfiltered joy and he tenderly tugs you closer into his frame as he pulls you in for a much needed hug.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he murmurs into your hair.

He keeps you there, the stillness only disturbed by Hiroki’s slightly fidgety state. He strokes his thumb up and down against your back, and rests his chin on your temple as he allows you to meld into the contortions of his frame when you return his embrace.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Nanami was the one who always cooked.

In a way, your former husband spoiled you from ever wanting to go back into the kitchen by yourself because he always put together the most delectable meals.

Tonight, you decided to take on that role.

Gojo managed to keep Nanami distracted enough with their own party which gave you enough time to put together the spread of dinner. You sliced up fresh bread that you picked up from his favorite bakery, prepared homemade garlic oil which you used to cook down pieces of steak, and assembled a hearty salad.

The look of appreciation on Nanami’s face was more than enough to make you happy.

Content and stuffed with delicious food, you can’t help but admire him as he holds Hiroki’s cheek. The comparison of their size shows you how much time has already passed. Your son was no longer a tiny bundle with a pink nose wrapped up in a little blanket, he was growing into a whole new form of cuteness. He laughs with comprehension, and looks at you and Nanami with a recognition that reassures his safety.

“Da da da da…” he sings mindlessly, and Nanami chuckles as he swipes his thumb over Hiroki’s cheek to pick up a streak of pink buttercream.

“He’s covered in frosting,”

Your eyes immediately drop to your ex-husband’s lips, and you can’t help but tuck the bottom of your mouth between your teeth as you watch him suck off the frosting from the pad of his finger.

Your stomach coils, a tight band forming deep in your core, it’s so easy for you to get wound up whenever you’re around him, but lately that feeling has been much harder to fight off.

You sink your fork into your half-eaten piece of cake, picking up a tiny amount of vanilla sponge and moving it closer to your son. “Hiroki, you want another bite?” you ask, but you watch as he scrunches his nose in disdain.

His big, curious eyes catch the pretty color bordering the sponge, and he mindlessly reaches his fingers onto the plate to grab a fistful of cream.

“Ah! Hiroki!” you laugh playfully, as you pull the plate away and place it down onto the coffee table, denying him a second chance to do the same thing with his other hand.

“We should probably get him cleaned up…”

He’s already devouring the buttercream, and a deep, rumbling laughter erupts from right next to you.

“He’s fine,” Nanami shrugs off, lightly pushing his son’s blonde locks away from his face.

“Yeah, but I don’t want these sticky fingers getting all over your presents…” you insist.

You stand up from your seat and reach your arms out to grab Hiroki, but to your surprise Nanami simply gets up from the couch as well.

“Alright, my darling, you heard your mother…let’s get you cleaned up…”

He follows you into the kitchen. You immediately turn on the faucet to the sink, checking to make sure that the temperature is neither too hot or cold. Nanami leans forward, keeping his thumb and index finger around Hiroki’s wrist and directing it towards the water.

He rinses off the mess while you look around for some hand towels, to which your husband informs you that there are some extra ones folded in the bottom drawer.

You reach down to grab them, but by the time you return upright you see that your son has already found another way to dry off his wet little hands. He’s smoothing it all over Nanami’s blue shirt, leaving damp patches across his chest.

“Mama!” Hiroki calls out, turning his body within Nanami’s grasp to reach for you.

You press your mouth together as you look at your former lover with sympathy, but he nonchalantly just shrugs his shoulders.

“I guess he’s done with me now that he’s dried himself off”

You place the hand towel back on the counter, and carry your son in your arms. He flashes you the most angelic expression in the world, a look of such innocence that makes it impossible for you to hide your smile. You press you forehead against his own, and leave a peck on the button of his nose.

“Ready to give your daddy his present?”

Nanami leans his hip against the counter, keeping only a short distance of space between you both. You don’t have to face him to know that that he’s looking at you both with eyes dipped in pure devotion because you can feel the sheer intensity of his gaze from standing right where you are.

“Dinner, cake, and now presents? I’m truly a spoiled man today…”

You gaze at him from underneath your lashes, aware that you’re allowing your heart to speak on your behalf before replying, “you deserve to be spoiled, Ken”

He takes another step closer, narrowing the gap, and your entire body tenses up. You breathe in the faint scent of his lingering cologne, a fragrance of smoked wood and spicy herbs, and for whatever reason you can’t stop thinking about pressing yourself into the source.

“Alright,” he teases with flirtatious grin, “spoil me.”

The three of you are soon back on the couch, with Hiroki seated comfortably on your lap.“The first present is from Hiroki,” you announce as you pass the gift towards your husband, “he even wrapped it up himself.”

“I can see that,” Nanami acknowledges and starts to peel away at the messily folded paper to reveal the what is underneath.

The ceramic plate is hand painted. In the middle was the palm print of Hiroki’s right hand, and the detailing consisted of uneven brushstrokes in various colors. You spent a whole hour with your son to guide him with the design, practicing the motion of how to paint over and over again. Nanami smoothed his finger over his son’s imprint, focusing specifically on the letters right in the center which read: “I love you”.

“My, my, Hiroki…” he beams with pride, but his ears were turning pink knowing whose true hand wrote those words. “I didn’t know you had such artistic talents…”

His son smiles despite not quite comprehending his father’s sentiment. Nanami leans down to kiss his cheek, before leaving a second on the top of his head.

You don’t know why you’re so nervous to give him your gift but your hands tremble slightly as you pick it up, and a spark of electricity bolts up your left arm when he deliberately brushes his fingers on yours as he takes it from your hand.

“I know you have a whole stockpile of gifts to go through, but this is another that you can add to the list. You don’t have to open it now, you can save it for later if you like-”

Nanami unravels the tiny ribbon wrapped in the center, “it’s okay, I don’t mind opening it now.”

Your hands clasp themselves around Hiroki’s belly, and you bite the inside of your cheek as you keep your eyes focused on his face in anticipation of his reaction.

Nanami holds the vinyl record in his hand, his brows lifting almost instantly.

“You always mentioned how much you loved collecting cds when you were in teenager, and that you wanted to invest in having your own record collection one day. So, I thought this might be a good place to start! I remembered you saying that this band in particular was your favorite, so I wanted to make sure to get one by them…”

“This,” he interjects quietly, “This is a very rare vinyl…it’s not easy to get your hands on an original…”

Your cheeks grow hot, “yeah, well, it took me a while to find it but the search was worth it!”

“This is very sweet of you…”

Your mouth stretches from ear to ear, your cheeks pinching with delight. “I’m so happy you like it, Ken!”

When he looks at you this time, you’re completely captivated by the warm tones of his eyes and slight dilation of his pupils. His attention dips to your parted lips, before returning back to meet your heated stare.

He places the vinyl carefully onto the counter.

“I love the present,” he confesses, “I loved the cake, the dinner, having you both here…everything was…perfect.”

“Good, good,” you nod with approval, all the while trying to ignore your throat suddenly feeling tight. “You know, when I ran into you last week, I was genuinely worried that I might have given it all away…”

“Right, when you introduced me to Matsuda…”

His face grows sullen, and you’re caught off guard by his sudden indignation. Just as he found a moment to get a closer, Nanami decides in these fleeting seconds to pull himself away. He clears his throat as he shifts down, “thank you so much for the gifts,” he repeats with a stiff tone, “I think I’ll just get a head start with cleaning up…”

You look at him peculiarly, unsure of what triggered your handsome ex to shut down so suddenly around you.

“Don’t worry about cleaning up, I can do that-”

“I don’t want to keep you,” he harshly remarks, but the way he cuts off you makes you crinkle your eyes in frustration.

“Wait a minute,” you shoots your hand out to grab the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m not-I’m not in a rush to leave or anything…”

Nanami shrugs off your touch and it feels like a slap to the wrist.

"It's alright," he adds, "I don't want to intrude on you if you have other plans..."

Confusion gets the best of you, you can't seem to figure out what exactly set him off so quickly. You know this man well enough that you can tell that he's visibly upset, except he's doing everything in his power to hide it from you.

He picks up the plates on the coffee table before proceeding to head towards the kitchen.

You glance down at Hiroki for some level of consolation, but your son just looks back up at you with equal uncertainty.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

You settle Hiroki onto his play mat before making your way over to a very disgruntled Nanami. Your brain replays the last five minutes to decipher what it was you said that set him off, and you slide your hands into the back pocket of your jeans as you hesitantly approach him in the kitchen.

He's placing dishes into the sink, the warm light illuminating his face and highlighting the tips of his sharp cheekbones. You can see the twinge in his jaw, notice the tight knot of tension resting between his brows as he keeps his lips pressed into a firm line.

"Ken?" you speak softly, a wary smile forming on your lips. "What's wrong?"

He stops what he's doing, his hands reaching the edge of the counter and he squeezes the surface until his knuckles turn white. He's still trying to keep a level ahead, drawing out another exhale until he finally motivates himself to face you.

His eyes darken and your body shivers.

"Is this supposed to be test?"

"Test?"

"You need more proof to see how far I'll go just to make you happy?"

"What proof? I don't even know what you're talking about-"

He shakes his head in disbelief, standing upright before taking two long strides to close the gap of space so he's looking down right at you.

"We're just going to sit here and pretend like I didn't interrupt you on a date with your dear friend, Matsuda-san..."

"Date?!" you blurt in shock, taking in your ex lovers odd accusation with full surprise. "Kento-"

He folds his arms over his broad chest as he shifts his weight from one foot to the next.

"Look, I get it. We aren't together anymore, but you're still...very, very Important to me. I regard you so highly..."

"As do I-"

"I haven't asked anything of you in all this, not a single thing. I've said yes to whatever it is you have asked me. I did that all for your sake, not mine. The least I expected was some decency in return, and for you to be honest with me when you decided to jump into another relationship..."

"Kento!" you call out, reaching your hands up to his cheeks to stop him from rambling on any further.

The act renders him silent.

"I'm not...I'm not dating Matsuda," you state with a slight laugh like it's the most comical idea to cross your mind. "As a matter of fact, I'm not seeing anyone right now...I...I haven't even considered the idea...."

"But last week..." he insists with a panic that makes your chest ache.

You drop your hands to his shoulders to give him a reassuring squeeze.

"Kento, I asked you to watch over Hiroki because I was trying to sort this out," you clarify, glancing your eyes towards the party decorations and the entire set up that you had worked so hard to put together. "You never go to the bakery on a Wednesday, so I thought it would the perfect time to reserve all the stuff that I needed. I ran into Matsuda while I was there. The last time I saw him was when we...when I agreed to have dinner with him..."

Nanami breathes in softly, steadying himself as he hangs on attentively to every word that you have to say.

"Matsuda couldn't take the hint that I wasn't interested. I was about to decline his offer of walking me home when you showed up, and I...I really didn't expect to run into you. I overreacted because I was worried that you might catch onto my little plan. I just came up with a random excuse to lead you off the trail. I didn't..."

You sigh with remorse, shifting to look up at your ex from underneath your lashes as you finally piece together the source of his contention.

"I didn't even realize how that must have looked to you. I'm so sorry, Kento. I would never do anything to hurt you like that. Ever. You're too...you're too important me...and all I was thinking about...all I wanted to do was to make your birthday special for you. I really wasn't giving Matsuda any consideration..."

A wave of relief washes over him, all the while you can't stop thinking about how cute he looks all flustered.

"Shit," he murmurs, bringing two fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose as his cheeks turn a subtle shade of pink. "I feel like an idiot..."

You purse your lips into another small grin, "you're not an idiot, it's just a misunderstanding..."

He stays silent for a moment, returning his sights back on you as he nips at his bottom lip.

"I'm...I'm never going to be okay with it..." he boldly admits, his voice dropping another octave as two hands settle against your sides. "I'll tolerate everything else between us, but I'll never be okay watching you move on with somebody else..."

His words make your heart shrivel like a piece of fruit bathing underneath the golden sun. Heat rushes to your cheeks as the band in your belly twists into another knot.

When you part your lips to say something, no words come out.

"Are you really that shocked?" he questions, clenching his hands around the waistband of your jeans. "Put yourself in my shoes, how would you feel if you saw me with someone else?"

You feel a catch in your throat. You don't want to admit how often you've thought about it, considered what he does in his spare time when you and Hiroki weren't in the picture. Whenever your mind spirals with the idea that he was with another woman, it would bring tears to your eyes every. single. time.

"I don't even like thinking about it," you disclose, your voice cracking slightly as your throat goes dry.

"I guess," he whispers, tugging you forward so that you were both now chest to chest, "we can at least agree on one thing..."

Your hands trail to his pecs, your eyes growing heavy as you feel the weight of his forehead press tenderly onto yours. His fingers find your chin, the featherlight touch tilting it only slightly upward so your lips can brush over his.

He doesn't stop himself this time, doesn't consider the laundry list of reasons as to why this will only complicate things further. He's tired of this divorce, tired of not having you around, so fucking tired of not kissing you whenever his heart desires-

So, he presses his mouth delicately down onto yours and throws caution to the wind.

Your knees buckle, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt as your eyes fall close like you've been cast under a spell. A surge of adrenaline rushes through your veins, making your body buzz from the tip of your fingers down to your toes. You can feel Nanami's heart race from beneath your palm just as he parts his lips to invite you to taste him even further and you can't help but sing sweetly into the kiss as you allow your tongue to slip through.

"hmph, Ken," you mumble, attempting to draw your spit slicked lips away but the man simply captures you back with ease.

He can hear the resistance in your voice, but there was no way he was letting you go that easily again.

"Stay the night," he requests with a gentle snag of your bottom lip.

Your shaky arms circle around his neck, your body melting into him as he daringly draws his hand from your lower back to dive straight into the back pocket of your jeans.

With a kiss to the corner of your mouth he follows up his demand with a loving "please?"

"I don't know...mmph," you sigh, but in between Nanami interrupts you with another peck.

"I don't know..." you repeat again under your breath, only this time you find yourself searching for his mouth.

The exchange carries on, light smacks and tender licks distracting you both and Nanami drops his other hand to circle around your throat.

The blood rushes between his legs feeling the vibrating flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers.

"Hiroki's staying" he insists as he nuzzles the tip of his nose over yours. "We'll have some more cake, get him ready for bed, and then you and I..."

Your fingers thread between the strands of his blonde hair, your neck falling to the side as he travels to the spot that makes you go weak.

"can keep talking."

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

regarding ex husband nanami requests - requests for this series are still open, I feel like I'm building the story with you guys so I'll keep it that way until it's complete. please note that not all requests will be fulfilled - I do get some that are quite similar so I'm selecting based off of how the story progresses xo

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

let know if you would liked to be tagged! x

@hisheadismountfuji @clara-geekhime @moonmalice @bibemiiu @nutheadgeenat @satoruhour @i-be-teff

#nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami angst #nanami fluff #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #jujutsu kaisen fan fiction

[skk-fan-page]

I promise I took my meds, hear me out: this

Can give us insight into this

So: before we get into what it means, I'm going to tell you why these things are related. 15 is probably the best text we have when it comes to dissecting their relationship, and in 15, dazai says 2 things that relate to both raging romantic tension and also dogs.

This, as well as an arguably more loaded section:

This. Now bear with me, I really did take my meds, this second excerpt is almost a one to one copy of the dog treats panel. For those of you who have read 15, you'll know that this scene is the set up for chuuya being forced into the mafia. They duel, the "treats" (the sheep) appear, and then they disappear, and only when dazai walks away do both the dog and chuuya realize theyve been ensnared in a weirdly elaborate trap for someone who's supposed to not want anything to do with them.

Not only that, but it establishes that not only does he call chuuya his dog, but "his dog" is part of his future plans, and part of the reason he even has future plans.

Part of the reason that dazai wants to live at that point is to spend time with chuuya.

Now: with that we get back into the dog treat "duel".

First, I'll let you read it and draw your own links, as long as you promise to leave them in the notes

As a bsd reader, you'll probably know that dazai's plans often revolve around knowing what the other party will do. This is easily reflected in the dog encounter, because dogs don't know anything, and thus their behavior cannot be influenced to an unpredictable point. If you offer a dog a treat, you can count on that dog eating the treat. The problem is that dazai can't connect that motive to the dog's actions, because he specializes in dealings with egotistical people who rank highly in organizations who have massive flaws they overlook. Take him outside of his comfort zone, and he struggles to tilt things in his favor.

This analysis overlooks one teensy massive character trait that shapes the character: Dazai is the type to step on a rake, hit himself in the balls, and stick the landing so well that everyone thinks it was on purpose.

You can only tell what's "the plan" versus what is just improv by how hard he tries to sell that he's in control.

With this new lens, seeing how hard dazai tries to assert "the difference in [his status]" with the dog almost entirely colors the interaction as some sopping wet loser loses at his own game that he started against a small animal.

And now: how does this effect the skk reunion and how does it reflect on their previous relationship?

Well, I'm going to pull out some "oh holy shit... I mean, I meant to do that!" Moments

This man is going back and forth like it's his job. He doesn't know what to expect because chuuya is far beyond his comfort zone. Hes everything that should make him predictable, and yet he never is. Every time he's taken aback by his target not reacting the way he "should" he pulls another trick out from his sleeve. Even literally, in the lock picking case. Whenever he needs to try to assert that he totally planned this, he goes for another trick.

As with the dog, when dazai walks away, the only thing chuuya was left with was a distinct sense of "this guy needs friends." They're both low stakes interactions that are born from dazai not expecting something and not knowing how to regain control of the situation.

This implies that dazai just doesn't know how to deal with a straightforward person and thus can never predict what chuuya will do, because he runs on an unswayable internal logic that makes him as difficult to manipulate as a human can possibly be.

As a partnership, they're constantly confusing the fuck out of each other, because dazai is weird and eats dog treats, and because chuuya cannot be understood with the logic dazai excels in.

They know each other but they can never hope to understand each other.

#skk #bsd chuuya #bsd dazai #bsd skk #soukoku

[liliesinrequiem]

Obedience

A/N: The way I'm obsessed with this man isn't healthy. Fell in love when I saw him for the first time and haven't recovered since then. Hoping he's playable in the future! Thoroughly enjoy him as a character.

Pairing: Yandere!Sunday x Reader

Summary: Sunday doubts your honesty and proceeds with doing a trial on you.

CW: Unhealthy relationship, psychological distress, use of religion to manipulate, and briefly mentioned obsessive behaviors. Overall, not great relationship. Also, spoilers for 2.1 if you haven't completed it!

You knelt before him. He sat on his office chair with an expectant look on his face. It’s just that you weren’t sure what he wanted. “Now, is there anything that you’re hiding from me?” he asked. The iciness of his voice pierced your heart and you looked down at your hands. 

“No,” you answered quietly. A gloved hand gently grabbed your chin and tilted your face to force you to look at him. Brilliant, golden eyes stared back at you. He was dissecting every aspect of you. The perfectly crafted smile on his face hid his disappointment. Sunday was always so meticulous with how he appeared in front of others. 

“I’ll give you one final chance,” he said. “Do you have anything to admit?” The weight of his expectations made your lungs feel like they were going to be crushed. 

“I don’t,” you answered. His gentle grasp on you tightened slightly. Your heart began to sink. He didn’t believe you. Had you done something wrong? Maybe you had without realizing it? You just couldn’t think of anything.

“I thought that we’d been getting better. It seems that I need to teach you once more what happens if you lie to me,” he said. You shook at the meaning of his words. “Remember, my dove. Honesty makes the Great One happy and lies only mark the soul for damnation.” His mantra lived within your mind. You’d become incapable of lying to others even outside of your relationship with him. You didn’t want to upset the Great One. More importantly, you didn’t want to upset Sunday.

“Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear their tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that they will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.” The world around you seemed to warp as you felt the intense pressure from the Harmony in your mind. It’d been a very long time since Sunday had used this method to get you to confess something. At first, you tried to fight against it, but you soon saw what could happen to a person if they weren’t honest. So, you gave him what he craved: absolute control. Everything you did must be able to be watched by him. Even movement in the waking world. Eventually, there had been little reason to ever use it on you as you did all that he ordered of you. “Let us begin the questioning, my dove. Are you ready?” 

“Yes.” It didn’t matter if you were or weren’t. The countless voices of the Harmony were already wrapping around your mind like a suffocating hug. You sometimes wondered how much a human body could sustain this sort of thing. You’d had the consecration done very few times. But you couldn’t help but wonder if that had left some permanent mark on you.

“First question: who did you speak to in the Golden Hour near the Clockie Statue?” One aspect of being with Sunday was knowing that he’d scrutinize every detail of what you did. Even the smallest thing could be seen as potentially insulting the Great One’s image.

“A guest that was visiting the Golden Hour for the first time,” you answered. The guest had a confused expression when he approached you. 

“What did he ask you?” asked Sunday. The sequence of questions always started innocently. It was to delve deeper into your mind. By the time he reached the thing he actually wanted to ask, your mind was already being unspun by the Harmony.

“What the best sights were in the Golden Hour. I offered some places such as Dr. Edward’s and some shops that I knew were popular,” you answered. He’d gone on his merry way once you’d pointed the right direction for things.

“What is your favorite sight to see in all of Penacony?” His voice was much sterner with you during questionings. Even when the question wasn’t anything deep.

“Dream’s Edge. I like the shooting stars,” you said confidently. He nodded as if he already knew the answer to that. In all likelihood, he did. Everything about you was neatly written down and maintained somewhere within his archives. That was all you knew, though. Where and how he maintained them was unknown. 

Your head was starting to hurt. “A Bloodhound told me that he saw you speaking with a woman at Dream’s Edge,” he said. “He told me that the woman was telling you that she felt as if something was missing in her life. What was your response?” 

“That she should check in with a dream nurse when she wakes up,” you said. Her panicked state had made you panic a bit. You hadn’t seen someone who was suffering from such a severe case of missing memories like her in a while. You hadn’t had enough courage to go back to Dream’s Edge alone.

“Why did you spend a whole night in the Moment of Blue Hour?” Through the excruciating headache, you’d started to wonder why he was only asking about the people you were speaking to. Was he investigating something? What could it be?

“...An old lady. She wanted company as she waited for her lover to return. She said that he promised to return from war and that she’d been waiting for him since then…I couldn’t leave her alone.” The emptiness in her eyes reminded you of other visitors who desperately sought out their lost ones in the realm of dreams. It seemed that the old lady might have to wait longer.

“She seems to know how to keep promises. Next question: who are you most loyal to?” he asked. Did the question even have to be asked?

“I’m most loyal to you, Sunday.” No one else had such power to swing you between life and death so carefully.

“When I asked you if you were hiding anything from me, were you honest with your answer?” The sound of the Harmony’s voices had gotten progressively louder. You dug your fingernails into the palms of your hands. The pain was the only thing keeping you steady as you drowned in thousands of voices. Meanwhile, your beloved merely looked down at you.

“..........I was.” It was getting more difficult to respond. The weight was collapsing on you. Even if you were being honest, you wouldn’t feel free until liberated from its power.

“My dove, did you know that every single person who you’ve spoken to recently wound up dead in the dream?” he asked. Your eyebrows furrowed. What was he talking about?

“No.” People come and go. How could you keep track of what others did post your interactions with them?

“The final question: can you swear to me that you haven’t been working with the killer?” he asked. 

“.................I swear.” You knew that the killer had been filling his mind recently. But how could you have anything to do with that? You rarely even interacted with people. Was that why he was interrogating you? Couldn’t he corroborate with his servants to see that you hadn’t done anything against him? Why couldn’t he just put his faith into you?

You were on the edge of tears. The power that he had placed on you made you feel as if you were burning up against the cool of his glove. Their united voices had started to sink into your psyche. How much more? Through his usage of the consecration, he knew whether you were lying or not. He had to know that you were being honest.

Sunday smiled at you and it felt like a light at the end of the tunnel. “You’ve done well, my dove. You haven’t uttered a single lie,” he said. “The Great One has chosen to show you mercy once more for being such an honest person.” He let go of your face. You could feel the power leaving your body as you laid your head on his lap. The exhaustion was something else. Your head swam with too many things at once. 

His hand gently patted your head as a method of calming you down. The shaking of your body gradually stopped through his touch. “I have one final question,” he said. Another test. Something easy to do when the other party was still vulnerable. 

“What is it?” you asked quietly. 

“Do you love me, (Y/N)?” A simple question. He was your lover. A man who held a lot of power in all of Penacony. The one who had promised you a beautiful dream as long as you followed him. Even though you feared the use of the consecration, if you were honest, he’d save you from it. Just as he had always done so. It only further proved his point, didn’t it? As long as you did as he said, Sunday wouldn’t bring real harm to you.

“Yes.” He was the one who could condemn you to the eternal abyss of damnation and the only one who could save you from it. He was your judge and your savior all in one.

#honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail x reader #sunday x reader #sunday imagines #hsr x reader #hsr imagines #hsr x y/n

[basilf1res]

Memento Mori - DPxDC

What was beyond death. Was there anything at all? Was there nothing?

That was what he always wondered.

When Clark was a child, he looked up to his fictional hero: Danny Phantom. A half-dead guy in a comic book series that led to the most bisexual awakenings in the century.

Clark liked to go back and reread the comic books from Issue #1 (they were fairly short, but all parts of an “episode”, almost like those ads on shows, but the wait time was every two weeks). He tended to read them all in one sitting, and yet oddly enough, never disturbed as he murmured the made-up summoning spell under his breath.

He could’ve sworn he had been going through them for over an hour and not twenty minutes.

It was Phantom who inspired him to continue being Superman in his darkest moments. He also considered himself physical proof that Danny’s palette swap was enough to hide his identity.

The glasses ARE enough.

When Clark found out he had a clone, he was ecstatic to be able to teach Conner anything everything, to answer any questions his little brother had.

Danielle “Dani” Phantom and her awaited return in “Issue #46 D-stabilized” caused him to become a mama bear to Conner out of the fear he would melt within a few weeks. But it wasn’t like anyone at the Watchtower had to know that small detail.

Getting married to Lois was the best day of his life, the day of Jon’s birth also fighting for that first place spot in his mind.

He had a clone brother, a wonderful wife, a beautiful son, and an amazing group of friends that work together to protect the planet he calls home.

But everything started to fall apart when a protest against metas took it too far, Jon’s powers started to develop and he was seen accidentally tripping, falling, and catching himself by hovering a few inches above the pavement.

Jon said he considered himself lucky nothing scarred. He laughed everything off when it came to the topic.

But it shook Clark, Lois, and Conner to the core.

Memento mori.

It reminded Superman that despite his impenetrable skin, Death can come at any moment. Even for him.

—————————

When Danny was a little boy, he dreamt of reaching the stars, he wanted to be able to touch the moon, explore Mars, and roam the galaxy he resides in and beyond.

He read these comic books of a league of heroes, a team with space cops, super powered humans, a man dressed in a bat suit that was more effective at capturing rogues and villains than some of the powered members, aliens, and so much more.

He flipped through the weekly published comics, learning to read better than most at a young age. He had two favorites, Superman and Martian Manhunter.

Danny wanted to explore the stars like his heroes. He wanted to be able to fight as well as the big Bat. He wanted superpowers. He wanted to help people. He wanted to fight his own set of supervillains. He wanted to be able to succeed and be loved.

Oh how he got everything he wanted but the last.

Tucker and Sam were the only reason he hadn’t broken yet, the reason he was still standing.

The anti-ecto acts, the GIW, Vlad, Pariah Dark, and his- Jack and Maddie’s sadistic comments about ghosts were the last straw.

The hero always wins… they don’t die to the evil they want to stop… right..?

Right..?

…

The sound of a scraping scalpel, the buzz of the lights, and the squeals of pleasure - as his ghostly heart was found again and again and prodded again and again - filled his ears for an unknown length of time.

His cries for help were never answered until a summoning pulled at his core, it was a personal calling, someone had managed to find his calling card.

The tears of relief stung his eyes as the dissection table with his body strapped down to it was sucked into a summons portal.

He was spat out in front of kids, most likely teenagers, due to the shrieks of horror and surprise.

Oh… oh how he prayed to the Ancients that he’d live to see another day as a tears slipped out of his eyes.

Memento mori.

——————————

Jon found out about his comic book collection and wanted to show Damian.

Clark hummed as he typed up an official report on a rogue attack to send to the Watchtower.

His blood ran cold when he heard his son scream from over in Gotham.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc prompts #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #dc universe #dp #dc #danny phantom #giw #guys in white #ghost investigation ward #clark kent #lois lane #jon kent #damian wayne #superman #justice league #danny is not having a good time #ice core danny #memento mori

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

It’s one in the morning let’s talk Six of Crows analysis - it feels like it’s been ages since I did any analysis, which is like the entire point of this account so sorry about that but here we go: We should talk more about Adem Bajan you guys okay because first of all he effectively comes to represent the vast majority of everyday people in a clear juxtaposition to both Inej and Van Eck, but he also is in a position of far less choice than I think we give him credit for.

As a reminder, Bajan is a young Suli boy (presumably somewhere around 19 but we have no confirmation of that) working in the Van Eck household teaching Alys music. He is highly implied to be having or to have interest in having as affair with Alys, and was Van Eck’s chosen jailer for Inej at the beginning of Crooked Kingdom. Van Eck claims he made this choice because he thought “a Suli boy would be most conspicuous” when he was attempting to lure Kaz into a trap to save Inej, but it was also an inarguably smart decision in that, as Inej even comments herself, Bajan was easy to talk to, made her feel nostalgic, homesick, and alone, and very nearly succeeded in drawing information out of her without having to restore to torture. If anything, resorting to torture was Van Eck’s major mistake at this point but that’s really a conversation for another time. Bajan is a really interesting character because he doesn’t want to hurt Inej and specifically encourages her to tell him things so Van Eck won’t escalate things further, but when Van Eck does escalate things Bajan is unable - or possibly unwilling - to stop him. For this Inej calls him a monster, and when he claims he did nothing replies “no, you’re the man who stands idly by congratulating himself whilst the monster eats its fill”. She draws a Suli phrase on him that effectively means he’ll be rejected by the community forever and his spirit/soul won’t be accepted, and she describes it as the worst fate or something along those lines sorry I can’t remember exactly. But what’s the most interesting thing is that even though he claims not to believe in any of it Bajan gets noticeably upset by this and says “that’s not fair”. Inej is surprised that he’s this soft, and there’s a very clear juxtaposition between the lives they have lived.

BUT - let’s look at this from Bajan’s perspective. And remember - this is important - Bajan is not described as an employee of Van Eck’s, but an indenture. An indenture. So Bajan is a young boy indentured in a foreign country to a man as high up in the country’s government as you can get and who has clearly been illustrated to the reader as a terrible person on several different levels that I won’t dissect in too much detail right now. He appears to have acclimatised himself to Kerch surroundings and acts with elevation above his status, because that’s what he has to do to survive in the upper echelon of a deeply classist society that actively diminishes and disapproves of his culture. (<<if anyone wants references for that let me know and also I’ve written about it quite a bit before so that’s kicking around on my page somewhere) He refuses to speak to Inej in Suli because “it makes me maudlin” and my question to you is: is he rejecting the language to further attempt to fit in and as a product of internalised prejudice, or because it’s so incredibly painful to be half-connected to a culture not only that he has forced himself to reject but also that he feels he can never safely return to? Probably both. He tells Inej he doesn’t believe in Suli superstition, religion, or culture, and yet is deeply upset when she uses it against him. Is this because he actually does believe, or wants to believe, in the Saints and the Suli interpretation of them but has rejected them for survival and the supposed betterment of himself? Possibly.

Bajan strikes me as very similar to Jesper in the way he presents himself as free, flirty, and casual, but had a considerable weight to almost everything he says and considerable pain hidden closer to the surface than he may have realised. I think there are parallels between him and Inej if we want to see them, but also a very stark difference in the way Kerch and Ketterdam have treated them. Bajan may not be privileged but even as an indenture he has - or at least as far as we know has had - a far safer and kinder experience than Inej has. This could be related to gender since the hyper-sexualisation of Suli culture is mostly centred on women - “the Menagerie always stocked a Suli girl” (I’ve intensely analysis this quote before so I won’t now but ugh there’s so much to say) - but we do know there are young boys captive at the pleasure houses as well although less commonly and it’s also possible that this difference is linked to Bajan’s decision to turn his back on Suli culture in order to appeal more to Kerch society whilst Inej continually embraced her culture and arguably became more religious in response to her experiences.

This is complicated because I’m not entirely sure how I feel about Bajan. I understand and support Inej’s perspective and everything she saw whilst in a far more dangerous position that he was, but is it possible that this was a lonely boy who saw someone he thought was like him and tried to communicate with her the only way he thought was safe? You are completely isolated in a foreign culture and hate yourself for having suppressed your own upbringing in order to survive, but now you meet someone else who yes, is in more danger than you, but who you might be able to help so that she can help you in return. You aren’t safe to speak freely and so you subtly tell her that you are an indenture, hoping she acknowledges that none of this is of your free will and because you know that she was indentured too (and remember from a societal pov there is very little understanding of what indentured girls at the pleasure houses actually go through and although that doesn’t excuse ignoring Inej’s trauma it may explain why he doesn’t fully acknowledge that their positions aren’t equal), you tell her that speaking your own shared language makes you feel maudlin, hoping she realises that you desperately miss your homeland and using your language makes you feel even further from your family than you already are because you can’t share it with them. She doesn’t seem to be taking any of it in, your employer has every intention of hurting her and you don’t know what else to do, so you make a last plea: you ask her about home. You think you’ve already made it clear that speaking about home is painful, so you ask her about it to invite that pain, to share it, so you both understand. But it fails, because she only sees your employer puppeteering you. You openly beg her to tell him the truth so that he won’t hurt her but she refuses to comply, and after all of your efforts and your desperate attempts to connect and beg her to help you both go home, her response is to turn your home against you and banish you from it for eternity. So when you see her the next morning, how could you possibly look her in the eye?

Bajan did not make all of the right choices in his brief time on the page. He didn’t. But maybe he was trying really hard, and he had no other options left.

Anyway I’m not saying this is definitive one way or the other it’s just an interpretation but I find him a very interesting and very sad character and I although I support all of Inej’s actions in these scenes from her point of view I do find myself wondering how she appeared to Bajan and how he felt in the aftermath.

#I’m at it again with the hyper analysis of minor characters #I’m so tired and I may have made mistakes in this or misremembered stuff or something idk but sorry if I did #grishaverse #six of crows #crooked kingdom #leigh bardugo #inej ghafa #kaz brekker #jesper fahey #nina zenik #wylan van eck #matthias helvar #adem bajan #bajan #kanej #Wesper #helnik #six of crows meta #six of crows analysis #crooked kingdom meta #crooked kingdom analysis #grishaverse analysis #soc analyst #soc analysis #save shadow and bone #save six of crows #Soc #soc inej

[jester-lover]

do you have to let it linger?

Dorm leaders and their greatest insecurities in a relationship (part 2 with some fluff)

cw- angst, de@ th, image issues, slight hurt/comfort, just a lot of sadness gn! Reader

Riddle

With his temper, and his need for justice, Riddle is feared amongst his fellow students

His insecurities in your relationship largely revolve around his inability to understand calmness and his lawful nature

Riddle fears that one day, one horrible day, you will find someone more easygoing, who won’t live with such stern rules

He fears that you will deem him a tyrant, someone who holds you back from your future potential, someone who holds you back from having fun in your youth

Riddle is scared of you fearing him.

Riddle is scared of you hating him.

Leona

Growing up, Leona was always a afterthought

His most important moments have been diminished for his brother’s, he just wants someone who puts him on top

But deep down, Leona knows his achievements are mediocre compared to the brilliant, energetic minds around him

Leona knows he will never be at the top of anything, including your priorities

He clings to you when you’re alone together, wondering if you would prefer a more lively person

Leona knows you don’t deserve to be married to a second-best prince, you are the light in his eyes and the breath in his throat

Leona knows he needs you, he doubts that you need him.

Azul

Azul keeps his eyes on every mirror he can find, looking for any irregularities or marks

If he finds one, he feels dread fill his stomach, as he desperately tries to hide away any imperfections from you

Azul is a deeply complex young man, he cares a lot about his appearance, and controlling those around him

He has fears of abandonment that run deep, so he tries to keep himself ‘perfect’ in your eyes

But when those cracks slip open, the scared little boy who hides inside of him is open for you to see

Kalim

Kalim throws wealth around like it’s nothing almost every single day

He has such little respect for savings or otherwise, and he often gets comments about being ‘out of touch’

He often fears that one day you’ll get bored of him and drop him

He tries his best to relate to you, but at some point he’ll have to realize how privileged he is compared to the common person

Vil

Vil can be critical of practically everything, including you on the occasion

He fears being second best, and he fears you seeing him as such

He has this inferiority complex around other beautiful people, and he is desperately afraid that one day, you will simply find someone more beautiful

Vil keeps himself set to a high standard of beauty, knowing that it’s one of his only advantages in your relationship

Idia

Idia truly can’t understand why you would want to be with him, a greasy nobody who sits in his room all day

No matter what positive traits you show him about himself, his underlying feelings of unworthiness will always be there

Idia disassociates for long periods, just thinking about what he’ll do once you finally understand your worth and leave him behind

Malleus

Malleus is so excited to have a partner, but there is always a sense of urgency to your relationship

Malleus will live forever, and you will live for a fraction of that time

He tries not to dwell on it, but in the late hours of the night, when he’s walking beside you as you ramble on, he can’t help but think about how fragile you are

His heart sinks.

All malleus can imagine for a brief moment is the passage of time, how quickly you will grow grey hair and wrinkles on your face, and how quickly you will slip away from him

Sebek

Sebek has struggled with his sense of self for a while, he’s caught in the middle of two very different identities

His loud boisterous nature has caused people to stay away from him, except for you

He fears that one day, you will also see him as annoying or rude, when he’s stuck trying to dissect his human identity alongside his fae one

Sebek is most afraid that you will see him as a weak minded young man, unable to decide what his role is, even if that’s the least of your concerns

I added my favorite boy as a bonus, also I’m sorry for the Kalim part, he’s literally so chill idk what he’s be insecure about. I’ll most definitely be working on a sequel to this.

#reader insert #fanfic #fanfiction #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #kalim al asim x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #sebek zigvolt #sebek zigvolt x reader #vil shoenheit x reader #vil shoenheit #gn!reader #gn!mc #back from hiatus #twst #twisted wonderland sebek #twisted wonderland riddle

[1800titz]

Hi friends! This one came out to 19.3K — the longest part yet! Whew.

WARNINGS do apply to this chapter — once again, we touch on fear play with our kinky couple. Please do remember that everything between the characters is consensual, safe, and has been discussed in depth. Features mean H with a soft touch. I hope you love this one, and if you do, I'd love some feedback! (✿◠‿◠)

FOR WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE CLICK HERE PREVIOUS PARTS

You're sixteen minutes late. What do you think we should do about that?

For a moment, Isla just stares at his feet numbly. Harry Styles; Eros. Serpentine loafers. These are all ...very ...intense revelations, and, oh, wow, is it — is the room getting smaller, or is the air just casually being sucked out like the head of a vacuum's been slung through the light fixture?

She needs to sit down, Isla decides. She's already sitting. Okay.

Okay, okay, okay, okay. So she wasn't insane to draw correlations — and that's, like, a relief? Right?

Her palms press to the chill of the linoleum, and her heart thunders like a storm looms behind her ribcage. Eros — no, Harry says nothing.

Sixteen minutes of apprehension and distress over her absence are sixteen minutes too many, Harry thinks.

Generally, there's little that winds the man up into a state of restless concern. He's a pretty do unto others, golden rule sort of fellow, and so far, his karmic ramifications have mirrored the belief system he lives by. So there's nothing to feel tense over, in that department.

But when Isla Cleery doesn't show up for an entire sixteen minutes — when he usually finds her kneeling in the room, waiting for him, in the same time frame he enters tonight, only to discover an empty room... well. That's a bit of a cause for concern. Just a smidge.

And the thing is, it wouldn't be so abhorrently concerning had he not just suffered through a house showing, leading her through a scantily furnished shell of a home with scantily seamed composure. He couldn't say anything to her about it — he just couldn't take the burden upon himself to crush obscurity, and she'd grown so odd with him towards the end. Like he'd done something to upset her. She was still all friendly smiles and chatter, but the grins didn't reach her eyes, and those same eyes wouldn't hone on his stature in quite the same manner they had prior. As if something was throwing her off. Like she knew, the way he did.

Isla Cleery was a smart girl. He'd no doubt she'd piece the puzzle together in the same manner he had. And it wasn't like, (despite his hesitancy on breaking the wordless code that'd been set in the dynamic), he was going to go on this complex venture all in hopes of shielding her from the knowledge. He just didn't want to be the one to bring it up.

His change of clothes, or lack thereof, hadn't been this intentionally drawn out gameplan of hinting — the dominant just hadn't had the time to change, and partly...

Well, maybe just partly, he wanted her to know.

He wanted her to know that he'd just spent the better part of the last hour showcasing a house to her, and that after, he'd driven down to Indulge — that the next few would be spent walking her through things far less pure.

But then she just wasn't there. He'd sat down in the chair, gears grinding in contemplation.

Okay.

She was late. She just happened to be late. That could be chalked up to coincidence, entirely. But then five minutes turned into ten. Within fifteen, he'd wound himself up into an over-analyzing cycle, mentally walking through their interactions with critical inspection, gaze pinned to the door in unfocused daze. Had he said something?

Half an hour. Harry would give her half an hour, and then he'd go out and sit at the bar, and probably stare at the swirls over the countertop with doleful jade, and then he'd call it a night. Because who the fuck liked being stood up?

But then his detail-oriented dissection morphs into worry, because why the fuck was she suddenly late, when she'd never been late before, when he definitely hadn't made any sort of implications to reveal his status. He started worrying if the drive had been alright for her.

By the time Isla does show, slipping through the door quietly like a late pupil to a class in session, Harry's buzzing on the edge. He wants to feel relieved when she slips to her knees ahead of him, taking her typical spot over the linoleum, but all he feels is ...vexed. She's so nonchalant about it — no instant apologies rolling off her tongue as he'd expected.

Why was she late?

That's fine. He's fine to be the one to bring the elephant in the room to attention. In fact, it's his first course of action.

"You're late," he'd told her, no sugarcoating to his tone. He's had his time to stew.

No, how was your day, darling? No jesting to his cadence. No preamble of small talk.

And now, Isla Cleery is silent, keeled over with her hands pasted to the marble like she's already sorry. Good.

Harry prods into her silence, "Hm? Any suggestions?"

"Whatever—" she swallows, her pupils plastered to the rouge tips of the snake tails over the toes, "Whatever you find to be suited, Sir."

"Whatever I find to be suited..."

In the reticence following his echo of her statement, Isla deliberates. She doesn't ponder over punishment suggestions. Instead, she mulls over what sane reasoning there is to be so mortified.

So what? Her dominant also happens to be her realtor.

Yeah, he'd just walked her through the property on Sweeger, and he'd made jokes and showcased charming divots on either side of his smile. So what if she knew his name, and had his phone number at the top of her iMessage history? These are all astronomical things, Isla recognizes, in the realm of Indulge, but she glosses over the intensity of her emotions.

Harry Styles was good looking. In all honesty, she'd deem him to fall far beyond the realm of her own league. Ludicrous allure to the man, honestly. And she finally has a face to her mysterious Eros, afterall. A face she knows lies beyond the latex — a face she'd seen only an hour prior. And slowly, from mortifying, these things become ...exciting. Like a cliche taboo — she feels that she knows a secret she shouldn't, because she does.

And in the same cycle of processing, Isla decides she can't say anything. She can't just dismantle the sacredness of their arrangement — it's, like, cardinal sin to out anonymity. It's all a lot to process. She needs to sit down and just process.

But when she peers up at Eros, his face, and finds his own gaze intent upon her through the unzipped slit in rubber, Isla finds that it's difficult to process much of anything. What normally glints with profound inklings of mischief and teasing is void. He's ...indecipherable. Just as she'd begun to find him more decipherable than she could have prior imagined. The male takes in a breath and sits back.

"Come here."

Isla pushes her sticky palms off of the tile and stands. Her gait is slow, like she's nine again and she's just broken a lamp in the living room with an imprudent toss of a ball. When she's stood between his parted thighs, her hands fidgeting in their interlock ahead of her, Eros — Harry places his own colossal palms onto her hips.

He tips his chin up at her, like he's ...ogling through the lace, and says, "Tell me why you were late."

Her throat flexes with a swallow, and the young woman tells him, an uncharacteristically timid note to her cadence, "I ...didn't have my mask to take with me straight from where I was, Sir." 

The dominant just stares at her for a moment, like he's weighing her words in his mind, and then his line of sight flickers to her waistline. Though he hadn't altered his apparel, she had, in her apparent detour by the apartment — now, instead of denim and white, she's shaped by dark biker shorts and a matching skin-tight tank that showcases a line of skin on her tummy. Comfortable to climb in and out of. He digs his thumbs into the shorts, on either side, and tugs down. Beneath those, white lace clings. He wonders if she'd been wearing the same pair as he'd escorted her through the property. As the spandex slips, she steps out of it. But he doesn't go for the strings of her underthings. Instead, jade irises flick back up to her face, and the man tells her, "Sit."

She takes a seat over one of his thighs, her denuded feet crossing, one over the other, and her arms mirror the cross as she seems hesitant to nudge against his chest. Harry wraps an arm around her, the opposite palm resting on her bare thigh.

"Are you," Isla starts, her hands still to herself and body language somewhat frigid despite the warmth of his touch, and her tongue peeks out and brushes over her strawberry lips as she restores the beginning of her statement, "I'm sorry, for upsetting you. I didn't..."

Her words die off, then. Harry's own tongue sticks out to glide over pillowy pink as he muses. He finds that it's irrational, when he thinks about it – to be upset with her for something that they hadn't even discussed. The time frame of their meetings was unspoken – it had just occurred over time, and they had stuck with it. But it wasn't as if she was contractually obligated to be present when the clock struck a specific number.

"It wasn't a rule," he tells her, finally, soft to combat her obvious discomfort, "It's not fair for me to be cross."

"But you are," she lifts her chin to face him, a morph from what'd prior been a downcast gaze to her hands.

The male chews on his bottom lip, and tells her, earnestly, an assurance to caress over the tension, "...I was just worried, is all."

A pleather-coated hand pets over the smooth expanse of her thigh as he tacks on, "You've never been late before."

"I'm sorry," the submissive responds, fingering at a button over linen, "I can't imagine — you must have thought I'd stood you up."

Something like that, Harry thinks wryly.

"It wasn't a rule, and it's not fair for me to be upset, but I'm going to write it in," the man says, after a moment, and lifts his hand to trace a gentle touch over the sculpt of her cheekbone as he shoots her a look through his lashes, "New rule; you are to be on time, a prespecified time."

"Okay."

"Okay?" he nudges with his chin — a motion clearly meant to coax her into a self-correction.

Isla obliges, "Yes, Sir."

So, they're all good.

"Then, we're all good," Harry tells her, awarding a delicate squeeze to her thigh.

But — no. The thing is, they're not, Isla decides with gallantry that (she's aware) will likely haunt her later. The White Room with Eros was no space for pluck, she'd learned, time and time again. Despite vivid reminiscence of these instances, the young woman tells him, a pinch working over her brows beneath the shroud of crocheted netting, "But ...I think you should punish me."

The man's eyes just glimmer in response, narrowed as they wordlessly probe.

"You want to," she supplies, her pupils skidding to ogle the plush of his pink mouth — it parts open as he catches his bottom lip with his teeth, and her own teeth do the same. It's ludicrous, the amount of sexually charged tension there is between the mutuality of lip biting. It conveys what words do not.

And he does, Harry thinks. He wants to punish her for her little ankle antics first and foremost — the concept had floated to the forefront of his mind even then. He wants to punish her for flashing the bangle at him, again and again. He wants to punish her for making him wait. Wants to do it because she's been winding him up through one unwitting deed or another, unintended and innocuous on her end, for the better part of the evening.

But these are all just... Well, they're all just that — unintended and innocuous, and punishment can't be warranted where warnings haven't spawned to begin with. Aside from the ankle thing — that was just annoying, but he supposes, just as he had back at the showing, it's not exactly an area of jurisdiction for him.

"I mean," the young woman's shoulders jump and freeze as she ponders over her words. And then she just ...gives him an in, "it wasn't a rule — but, it was still ...very irresponsible that I didn't plan accordingly."

The dominant's head cocks a bit. Isla bites into her cheek, her shoulders still raised and her mouth twitching sheepishly in a clear attempt to bridle a grin.

"If you want me to spank you," he tells her, after a second, his own strawberry mouth curbing visibility of amusement, "you can just ask."

She can just ask. She knows that. But, it's not just ...that, Isla thinks. It's — her heart's still walloping behind her ribcage like its intentions are to overheat her circulatory system, and the man's hand — Harry's hand is on her thigh, squeezing, petting, caressing, and she knows what lies beyond the rubber hood — she knows his name, his phone number, the color of his hair. And he was charismatic, and kind, and as playful in an out-of-Indulge setting as he was cracking lewd jokes with her post a scene, sprawled over sweaty sheets, and he was so ...weirdly wholesome, with the mask abandoned. Eros — with his dimples and his glinty gaze and soft curls. The clash of his unprofaned atmosphere, the range she'd observed, when Isla knows his capabilities, is jarring. Today, Harry Styles pushed her on a rope swing, and last week he had made her crawl to him on all fours, stuffed his cock down her throat, and clamped her tongue with a clothespin when she hadn't called him Sir. The spectrum, evidently, was boundless.

And the thing is, it's not like Isla had assumed he'd be this chains-and-buckles-man in an out-of-club context, straddling a Harley in skimpy dishabille like a debauched porno ad. Or that he'd be this stoic business tycoon who had an assistant that would bring him his coffee every morning Secretary-Circa-2002-style — Dan Sever certainly wasn't either of those. Dan Sever liked books and walking through abstract art galas, and he had a golden retriever named Lucky. He'd go for morning runs in battered Nikes and listen to Depeche Mode, and his favorite movie was Casino. Dan sold insurance and worked from home. He had a handsome smile that could light up a room, and he was the same man who'd cradle his palm over Isla's pulse and press as he rocked his hips against her, that same smile crooked and obscene as he told her she would only breathe if he was feeling particularly nice.

Isla anticipated, when she'd ponder over and imagine what her mysterious Eros was like, who he was behind the mask, that the dominant would be a seemingly wholesome man in a normal setting. Because that was the thing — the scariest were always, for some reason or another, the nicest. The ones who would smirk down at your pleas of mercy and laugh were the same ones who'd spend weekends volunteering in homeless shelters, or something equally virtuous and good-natured. Isla's not totally sure if it has to do with a Purge sort of inner turmoil, like the kind where someone is so nice that eventually they just have to snap — she has her sneaking suspicions, but whatever. For some reason, it always seemed to work out like that. Like a maidenly adult that was forced into attending a Christian college. How's that saying go? Lady in the Streets, Freak in the Sheets? Nice is to streets as sadistically vile is to sheets.

Isla knew he'd be attractive — she knew based off his build, the pillowy plush of his mouth and the vibrant jade of his eyes, the length of his eyelashes through the slits of unzipped rubber, alone. She knew that he had taste based off the stretches of his skin with artistic character she'd managed to lay her eyes upon in incrementing episodes, personality based off his sarcasm and quip. Isla could piece together artifacts like no other — seamless details sewn by her imagination like a bird harvesting trinkets in the process of building a nest. She had her analysis.

But musing and daydreaming was vastly different from the real deal. And Harry to Eros? That was like whiplash. And Isla wants to see Eros ambidextrous — his devil on one shoulder and the angel on the opposite, two sides of the same coin. She doesn't want to ask him to spank her. She wants Harry to punish her, because she wants to bask in the reversal of the poles. She wants to know that only a short hour ago he'd walked her through the shell of a house, made jokes on her cherry infatuation, and pushed her on a rope swing. Now, she wants to see the devil.

But of course, Isla can't tell him any of this. He couldn't possibly know that she's ...stumbled upon this information. Isla hopes that her not-so-mysterious Eros hasn't struck upon the same conclusions. And Isla Cleery thinks, thank God she changed.

"I know," the young woman responds, voice soft, "But," and then she groans and cranes her neck back, "Why do you have to make me say it, why can't you just jump on the opportunity?"

"Because that's not how this works," laughter suffuses Harry's words, "We talk first, right?" his thumb brushes over her bottom lip.

Isla nips at it. With the glove-coated digit between her teeth, she tells him, "Let's cut the middleman."

His mouth crooks.

"You want me to punish you?"

"Desperately, Mr. Eros. Be mean to me."

She's — she's ...Harry's gaze narrows. His tongue digs against his cheek.

"Be mean to you," he starts, musing, and his lips purse as he nudges his thumb further in her insolent, muted cherry mouth, "Maybe I just won't let you cum at all tonight. How's that sound?" his gaze, laden with frustrations pent up and glazed over by lust, watches her lips wrap over the digit, "S'pretty mean, innit? Get you all worked up just to send you home."

Rather than a whine of protest, as he'd anticipated, when he suggests, "I can think of loads of cruel and unusual things that'd be mean," as he withdraws his thumb, his submissive gnaws into her lip and exhales.

The Executioner, she'd called him upon introductions. She'd felt the sobriquet unfitting, but now...

The young woman repeats her prior words, "Whatever you find to be suited, Sir."

Isla practically watches the gears turn behind his skull, and anticipation slinks down the knobs of her spine, chilly like ice sliding over her skin. He pats her hip.

"Whatever I find to be suited. O-kay," he tells her, finally, "Hop up."

When she stands, Eros does the same, and wordlessly, gaze speaking volumes in lieu of his tongue, fiery hot, he physically moves her around and coaxes her into a kneel on the same cushion he'd been sitting on prior. Isla can only fix her hands onto the back of the chair and turn her head over her shoulder. And he's wordless, until his vision slips to her backside, and then back up to the side of her face. Instead of discarding the white lace altogether, he just tugs it up to expose more skin — it's already a fairly cheeky pair.

"S'gonna be a long night," he — warns? tells her? Evidently, it's leeway into advice, because the man tacks on, "M'not gonna be nice, per your request. It'll be in your best interest to be a good girl from here on."

And — there he is, Isla thinks. Her eyes slip shut as his words seep into her brain, spoken with the same pleasant cadence that'd discussed gorgeous ceilings and ensuites and gardening. His tone's a little darker now, but there's no denying the syrupy inflection, smooth as molasses, belongs to the same man that'd discussed square footage and budgets and seller motives.

Isla most certainly will not be a good girl, but she appreciates his words of wisdom.

The man makes his way over to a row of implements, and Isla peers over at him, curiosity growing as he lifts objects, ogles them, and discards. Eventually he seems to settle on a strap — sort of like a fancy alternative for a belt, reinforced leather folded, but rather than a mere grip holding two ends together to keep its shape, a wooden handle holds its form. It swings like a flimsy paddle.

Isla knows the sensation well — she's felt it a plethora of times, and even a handful of weeks prior with Eros wielding it. Her recollection happens to be that he wasn't very nice with it, but she supposes she deserved it. It's a fuck, this sucks sensation, at first, but there's more thud than there is sting to it, and eventually, it just begins to scratch an itch deep in her bones. Harry places it beside her, on the cushion, and winds one hand over her hair, bundling it into a makeshift pony. He wrenches her head back gently while the opposite palm pastes over her throat. And his gaze is ...it's captivating. Soft, hard, fiery with want. He holds her like that for a moment, just pressing over her skin with his palm and his shrouded face hovering over her own, like he's contemplating. Irises settle over her mouth and stick and meddle — like he wants to kiss her.

"Gonna be a good girl for me, tonight?" he says, instead, voice low.

Isla doesn't answer. He doesn't say anything, for a moment, either, and the palm that's pressed over her throat slinks up for a thumb to graze over her mouth. And then his own lips quirk, and he removes his touch, altogether, taking a step away. Isla's heart pumps blood desperately. She's getting lightheaded.

Harry's eyes roam over the slope of her figure from the side view. His hand draws over her hip, "Stick this out."

The young woman complies, shuffling on her knees a bit. In response, Eros fondles over her flesh and squeezes a handful of her backside in his grip. The sensation is biting enough for Isla to gnaw into her cheek, all to bridle a sound she knows would be much too pathetic to slip this early on.

"You've got a pretty arse," he tells her, shamelessly ogling. It's his to ogle, anyhow. There's no shame to be had in that.

"Thanks," Isla tells him, chirpy despite the clear edge to her voice when Harry digs his fingers in harder, "Grew it myself."

Despite the serious demeanor he'd taken on, he can't help the subdued sound of amusement the quip wrests from him. He shakes his head, digging his teeth into his cheek to curb a grin. His touch retracts and returns as a smack. And then a second, and a third. A fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eighth. When his eyes disconnect from her bum and paste onto her hands, he notices they're clenched over the back of the armchair — not quite white-knuckled, but not lax, either.

"S'heavy?" he ponders aloud, referencing her complaint from the week prior. At least she's smart enough not to complain about it, now. Her answer comes in the form of an exhale on the ninth blow and a hum of concurrence.

"I know, so mean," he jokes, drawing a palm over the flesh he's sure is turning heated beneath his touch — he can't exactly feel it, but he can certainly witness the shift in color, "Such a horrible, mean man — making sure you don't bruise."

He gives her a smattering more, just until he's sure he's siphoned enough blood to the surface to ward off bruising, and by that point she's slumped forward a bit, with her ribcage resting against the back of the chair. The dominant eyes the pleasant glow of pink he's managed to draw in such a short expanse of time, winding a finger over the skin and then opting to smooth over the globes of flesh with a palm.

"All warmed up," he tells her, sighing and giving her a definitive pat before harvesting the strap, "I think sixteen will do — one for every minute you were late, little miss."

Sixteen? Only sixteen?

Isla's unable to bridle her disbelief, "That's it?"

Harry's head nudges back a smidge, and he blinks as if her amazement is a clock that's stunned him a bit.

"Okay. We can do thirty-two, then. Two for each," he smooths the leather tail over her backside as he tacks on, "Or would you prefer we triple it? Forty-eight work for you?"

"No, no," Isla appeases, nervous laughter teeming her speech, "Sixteen sounds wonderful. I mean, punishment's gotta fit the crime, right?"

"Right," Harry narrows his gaze against the back of her head, "See, but I have a sneaking suspicion you were trying to dictate how this was gonna go."

"Oh, I'd never," Isla chimes, feigning seriousness. The man's irises roll up in exasperation. He hums.

"Of course you wouldn't," the way he huffs has Isla gnawing into her cheek in restraint of curling corners over her (nearly smiley) mouth.

He instructs, "Alright. Easy stuff. You will count, and you will thank me, and you'll ask for another, so," the dominant takes a step, approximating a good position for a swing, the handle of the strap in his gloved grip. Harry clears his throat and provides an example for her to mirror, "S'gonna go, 'One, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir," he rolls his shoulders, and bobs with his head as he drones into the following number for sequential clarification, "Two, Sir, thank you, Sir,' yada, yada. Yes?"

It's simple stuff. Pretty elementary shit. His instructions are crystal, and yet, somehow, Isla still manages to find a way to entangle some form of lippy something into the mix. He shouldn't have put it past her.

The young woman says, after a moment of lull, "What happens at three?"

She bites into her cheek and purses her mouth. Harry can't see her face, but he knows she's either smiling or making a poor attempt to stifle it. The mirth is pretty short-lived. That part sort of follows the trend of his patience. A crease works its way over the dominant's brow bone, the predecessor for another eye roll. Isla doesn't expect it when, after a beat of silence, the strap makes contact with her backside. Instantly, she winces, her hips canting forward.

"Cheeky," Harry scolds, placing his free palm onto her hip to coax her back into position, "I hope you got it out of your system."

"You love when I'm cheeky," she quips under her breath, sounding a bit miffed despite the strain of her voice, no doubt from the strike.

He smacks her again.

"Two, Sir—"

"Ah — no," Harry shakes his head, "Skipped a number."

There's a pause and then a high whine of complaint, just as he'd expected, "But that was two—"

"How d'you count?"

"What?"

"How do you count?" the male repeats, this time enunciating each word, slow and crisp, like she won't comprehend it otherwise, "From one to five. Count, for me." He twists the stem of the leather paddle in his grip, gaze cast upon it, and his tone only varnishes the words as he tacks on, patronizing, "Surely you know how to do that."

"Of course I know how to count — what kind of—"

He folds his arms over his chest as he steps over to the side of the chair, resting his hip against it to peer down at her, "So, do it. Count. From one to five, out loud."

For a moment, Harry just watches her jaw set, a minute motion that gives away everything he needs to know, and he's aware that she's probably ogling the tilt of his head through the lace with venom. Begrudgingly, Isla complies, "One, two, three, four, five."

"Lovely," the praise, in response to her half-hearted compliance, doesn't lack its typical notes of condescension, "Little less attitude next time, but. S'one, two, three, innit?"

Isla chews into her lip.

"Not two. Doesn't start with two. So now, we're starting fresh," he pushes off of the chair and winds back around her, and the dangle of the strap from his priorly crossed arms morphs menacing, "Clean slate. Start from one."

The reinforced leather falls, and her breath hitches, but her voice is impressively even. "One, Sir. Thank you, Sir. May I have another, Sir?"

"Absolutely."

She asks, and so he gives.  And the thing with Isla — Harry thinks, perhaps his most favorite quality about Isla in play, is that she has this nonsensical moxie, this unwavering resolution. It's sort of admirable, but mostly just a headache — in a good sort of way. She's like a sexy headache, which is a first among many firsts. Because Harry likes that he has to manually chip at her stubborn resolve — he likes that she doesn't just fall in line. It's not a very sensible decision, on her part, because it could go so much easier for her if she were to just follow the rules.

But that's no fun, according to her.

Harry gets it.

So when she says, "Two, Sir, thank you, Sir," and it's followed by a pause and then a quieter, "yada, yada," he's not entirely surprised.

He digs his tongue against his cheek. "Excuse me?"

Isla chimes, a bit louder, and this time with no break, "Two, Sir, thank you, Sir, yada, yada."

In response to his obnoxious sigh, the submissive bursts into a string of self-satisfied snickers. And then those snickers morph into a gasp of helpless pain as Harry places his arm over the small of her back, holds onto a love handle to keep her in place, and gives her three hard ones in succession.

"Yada, yada," he scoffs.

"That's how you told me to count!" Isla complains, shrill and (characteristically) incorrigible, "That's how you counted two!"

"Your smart mouth is going to keep you here all night," Harry advises.

"You know what, that's fine. Thank you, actually. It's a very smart mouth, just like the rest of me is smart—"

She twists when another blow lands, a soft, resentful sort of "mmph" plucked from her vocal cords. She follows that up with a steely, exaggerated, "Ow." Like he's supposed to feel bad about it or something.

"Ow? Good," Harry tells her, instead, "Seems that's gonna be your favorite word for the night. If you were smart, you'd start counting proper."

He waits a moment, and then smacks her with it again.

Isla screws her eyes shut behind onyx mesh and netting, her voice riding the edge of strained, "Seven—"

Never has she heard him sound more incredulous.

"How in the world did you get from two to seven?"

It's ridiculous. She's ridiculous, Harry thinks.

"With the five in between!" the young woman defends.

"If you haven't counted it, it doesn't count," the male tells her from behind, features surely in a miffed assemblage beneath rubber, and he promises, "I will keep starting over — you will spend all night on this chair if you make that choice. And I've got a wonderful view, so I wouldn't complain if I had to do this all night long."

Isla weighs his words behind her skull. Eros is nothing if not the type of man to follow through on his words.

His steely reminder coaxes her into some form of compliance, "You've gone from sixteen to twenty-three, already. D'you really wanna keep pushing it?"

"Okay, okay, okay, I'll count right!" she smacks the back of the armchair with the heel of her palm softly in resolve. Her toes curl.

Harry's tongue peeks out from his mouth to swipe, "Will you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

Isla's head twists over her shoulder, "...Yes, Sir."

He lifts the strap and gestures at her threateningly, "Yada yada me one more time. I dare you. Eyes ahead."

She doesn't say anything, for once, and her head pivots back towards the wall obediently. Harry steps back, pleased.

And then he hits her with the strap just as she starts to say, "yada, yada," so her insubordination morphs into a squeal, and that's just divine timing, Harry thinks.

Isla blows out a breath, starting over, "One—" and grunts when he smacks her again.

"Just couldn't help yourself, could you? That doesn't count," he tells her, tone firm, and if Isla wasn't in her current predicament, she'd laugh at how sober and dark he sounds when he tells her, "You yada yada'd me."

"You dared me to—" her breath practically gets punched out of her with another blow. The submissive grows awfully quiet.

"Count," Harry reminds her.

Isla swallows. "One, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

Another strike.

"Two, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

Two more — "Three — Four! Sir!" Isla rocks forward, ducking her chin and hanging her head as she seesaws over the cushion on her knees, "Thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

"That's nice," Harry tells her, "I'll let it slide this time — but you're going to say the whole thing for each one."

Her knees shuffle, "Okay."

She gasps when he smacks her again, "Five, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

"'Okay' is not the answer I wanna hear. It's 'yes, Sir.'"

"Yes, Mr. Eros," Isla tells him, shaking her head and morphing her voice into ceremonious enthusiasm.

The next strike is considerably harsher — right across her sit spot, hard enough for her to press the front of her hips against the back of the armchair, "Six! Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

He tuts and leans forward, placing a pleather-clad palm onto a hip to fix her (now, nonexistent) arch, "I'm gonna give you a friendly word of advice, darling. Only words out of your mouth from here on out need to be numbers, if you'd like to cut down on time."

Numbers. Okay. She'll do just numbers, Isla thinks, despite the way her backside seethes.

When he hits her again, she grits her teeth, finger pads drumming over waxy verdant, "...Seven."

Harry blinks and his chin sticks out with expectation, "Seven...?"

"Seven," Isla blows out a breath, rolling her shoulders, "That's the number."

She's — it's beyond amusing, honestly. It just makes him want to smack the heel of his palm square between his own brows, because it's not even entertaining. There's just no sense to it — her resolve. Bad choices, bad choices. Harry sighs.

When Isla hears steps, her eardrums perk. If she were a dog, her ears would twitch and rise. Her head turns, and her eyes follow his frame in motion. When he makes his way to the wall of implements, a bud of worry does sprout.

And then he culls a cane. He doesn't seem to weigh the variety of options — he just swipes one off a rack with nonchalant, apparently nonexistent deliberation, like harvesting the first available box of cereal rather than sifting through apples for bruising. It's thin, and long, and terrifying.

If she were a dog, her ears would slump in a cower.

Isla swallows, nervous laughter plucking at her vocal cords, instantly, "No — hey. Don't grab that. We don't need that. Look—"

"Oh, but I think we do."

"Oh, but I think we ...don't," she can feel the lump growing in her throat, is the thing, can sense the spell of rain looming, instant, despite feigned bravado. As he nears, she sinks onto her haunches, slipping out of position, and buries her face in her folded arms over the back of the armchair. She can't bear to watch him walk up to her with it — she'll really cry. So early on, too. What a shame, Isla thinks, bitterly.

When Harry steps ahead of her, gaze narrowed, the display makes his eyes nearly roll. He takes one of her arms and manually unfolds it back out, and the limb goes without a fight, limp like a puppet. Her face rolls on its cheek, facing away from him, against the other, still folded.

"You're not crying. Stop."

It's true. Isla is, in fact, not crying. She does give a shaky exhale, though, as his fingers wriggle in between her laxly coiled palm to nudge the other arm out straight, as well.

"Sit up," Harry demands, fondling at her side with the hand that's free of the hellish implement.

Her arms rest up against the wall, braced on the arms of the chair, just as he'd settled them, but her cheek presses to shiny forest fabrication, and she doesn't make any indications that she's inclined to move.

"M'gonna tell you once, and I'm not gonna tell you again, sit up," he tells her, cadence low and gentle despite the thing he's holding.

Oh, what big teeth you have, Isla thinks, pitifully.

Reluctantly, she shuffles and clambers back into position. Her ribcage presses to the back of the armchair, and her forearms press to the wall, and her cheek presses to that, too. Still faced away from him.

Harry cocks his head and his mouth settles into a line as he lifts the cane and slides it against her open palms. Isla's shoulders jump and freeze, much like they had in her sheepish shrug perched upon his lap prior, but this time it's body language of discomfort.

"Hold it," he tells her, "You can stare at it. Motivation."

Her fingers gently clasp over it, twitchy as if the stick will make to bite her at any moment. There's just a smidge of space between the chair and the wall — just enough for her palms to wrap over the horrid, wooden thing comfortably. The dominant hears the young woman sigh as if she's in absolute woe.

"Look at me," he frowns.

Again, her motions are sluggish, but she submits and lifts her cheek to pivot in his direction. Her mouth has formed a pout. Harry tuts, and a gloved thumb drags over her bottom lip.

"Can't hit you with it if you're the one holding it. Save those tears," he tells her.

Isla holds it. She screws her eyes shut. Eventually, he smacks her again with the strap. Her palms squeeze over the cane.

"Eight, Sir, thank you, Sir, may I have another, Sir."

And despite her mishap with the seventh, Harry lets it slide. Which he thinks is very nice on his part. It sort of defeats the whole basis of the being mean thing, but. They have plenty of time for his cruel and unusual antics. By the time they're done, her grip is white-knuckled over the wood of the cane and her cheek is pressed back to the wall as she huffs like she's run a marathon.

They end with twenty-seven, all in all, which is a beautiful number according to the hues over her backside — he'd even gotten the backs of her thighs a bit towards the end, and those smart with soft pinks. The dominant traces a forefinger over the abused flesh, and a streak of white runs and trails abaft his touch like breakless, milky footprints dragging through sand. Isla's breath hitches.

It just looks too good not to gawk at, Harry thinks — the contrast of bright pinks and ruddy tinges against the lily white of her lingerie. He wants to bite into her — to sit back and ogle imprints of teeth. Wants to feel the heat of her skin against his own. It's all sort of very primal and sick, but what is for, at Indulge, if not to indulge? Contemplatively, Harry slips to his knees and grazes his palms over her, from the top of her panties, smoothing down the backs of her thighs. Isla sighs, but it's sort of dreamy this time rather than a by-product of acceptance of terror.

There's just this thing — with the marks, that gets to him, and it gets to him good. And, God, he just wants to feel her. He flexes his hand, dragging it down, like clawless claws, just to see more of that gorgeous aftermath. Her hips nudge back.

Fuck.

He gives. Harry's grip withdraws. He takes the fingertips of a glove in one palm, and tugs with the opposite. His palm wriggles. The glove slips off. And when he introduces his touch to her skin, warm, the furnace that meets his palm is — Christ.

Isla tenses. Because that's his hand, that's definitely his hand, without a fucking glove. Which, in reality, shouldn't be all that jarring — but he's never done that before. His stroking, despite its inherent warmth from the confines of the glove, is cooling in comparison to the heat that seeps from her pores. It's lovely. But then she feels something that nearly has her craning her head back to face him — a different sensation, beside his bare hand, on the opposite cheek. Wetness, lips, a mouth, a tongue. Kisses, over the flesh, down her thigh, open-mouthed with a tongue that winds in lines that have her toes curling. Like he's laving at the bruising. The muscle slips and dips against her sit spot, just — so close. Close enough to incite sparks at her core and send a warm wave of bliss rupturing through her cunt. God — what the fuck is he—

Isla squeaks — something sharp, something like... her eyes screw shut and she squeezes over the cane helplessly. Is he — did he just—

Harry hums, pulling back tracing with his bare hand over wet imprints of teeth. Dental records — against her skin.

"Fuck. Sweetheart, wish you could see," the dominant tells her, well aware he sounds a bit wrecked himself. He could stare at it for hours — at the colors that bloom over her skin post his affections. Alas, there's more fun to be had (for him, particularly — maybe some parts not so fun, for her), and that thought inspires him to rein his composure.

He's going to wreck her tonight, he thinks. He's going to wreck her, he's going to destroy her and make her melt, and the marks will be fallout for his admiration as he pastes kisses to her sweaty hairline and glues soft hands to her skin. And for her, they'll be sweet, little souvenirs to take home — traces for her eyes to rivet on in the mirror in the morning. He imagines her ahead of a full length mirror, hands tugging up the back of a sundress as pupils pore and delve. It's a weekend, so she certainly won't be in slacks and heels — the thought of her in a sundress, to begin with, sends a nice, fresh wave of arousal plunging through his veins, enmeshed with blood, like raging river rapids.

Just a little longer, Harry thinks — he'll oblige to his yearnings just a little longer.

His zippers graze over her skin and his mouth puckers and presses, and then he pastes a latex coated cheek to one globe and squeezes the other and Isla just. She just—

Processing is becoming a trench through murky waters, the young woman finds.

His hand slides. The backs of his bare knuckles brush over her cunt, still in the confines of her underwear. Isla's hips arch, and Harry sits back, mouth crooking. The man traces the wet spot over her panties with the pad of his finger.

"Sir."

The dominant tuts, and then Isla feels his gentle touch withdraw in lieu of awarding her with a stinging smack. A soft sound hums out through her lips, pressed together. But then he gives her another, and another, and another—

"Please," her hips twist, cadence pitchy and desperate, "Why?"

"Why?" Harry blatantly stifles snickers, his own voice low and lewd and tantalizingly condescending, "Did you just ask me why?"

"Yes," Isla whines, her cheek squished against the wall.

"Because—" Isla grunts when he spanks her again, "—I want to. So I'm going to," he asserts himself with another swat. The grin he wears is openmouthed, lips wrapping over teeth and a tyrannical tongue that torments, "You're wet — and it was supposed to be a punishment."

"It's — you— you touched me," the submissive protests, gasping when he digs the pads of his fingers against her bruised backside, the sensation sharpened by his short, bare nails as opposed to the dull softness of a glove. Harry hums in mock understanding. "And — and before that you were kissing me and — and licking me."

Isla's eyes squeeze shut behind lace when, as if to taunt her further, the man leans forward and glues his plush mouth back against her sweltry skin.

"Oh, is that right?" Harry teases between the paste of kisses, and fingertips draw scratchy white streaks on the opposite side, "Because I think," he bares his teeth to scrape over her, "you're lying." The dominant sucks a patch of skin between his teeth, and pillowy lips coax while teeth skim and a tongue strokes.

From her, the motion incites a soft, hummy moan that falls through flared nostrils and locked lips. Harry gives her another swat and pulls off. There's a pretty love bite left behind. Quite peachy, a bit darker of a shade than the rest of her skin, but it matches the palette of colorful marks he's accessorized her with.

"Are you lying to me, darling?"

"N— No," Isla fibs through the cracks of her teeth.

"No?" his mouth purses as he takes his palms, one clad with pleather and the other denuded, and fondles over the globes of her bum. His thumbs skim and dip, crooking into the nooks of her thighs — so close to where—

"You're a naughty," Harry's bare hand collides with the opposite cheek this time, the one he'd focused his oral affections upon only moments prior — and it's as if the smack is meant to drive the love bite further, to make it stick, "dirty, little thing."

Isla's hips cant back on their own accord, and the cane trembles in her grip, and his hand is on her skin, and—

His touch retracts. The young woman picks up on audible shuffling. The dominant's chest brushes against her as he propels himself up with a brace on the arms of the chair — linen of his shirt grazing over bare fragments of skin where her tank doesn't cover.

"Wouldn't you agree?" he croons against the shell of her ear. Isla's heart thunders wildly — there is no steady beat to the mess left in his wake. "Hm?" teeth nip at her earlobe. The ghost of his soft breath, the featherlight kiss of zippers, the velvet of his cadence, drenched in dire intent facading; it all sends chills down her neck, down her shoulders, down her arms. A heat teems over her cheekbones.

Harry lets himself bask in her shuddery breaths, her tensed muscles, the view of her head hung. Then, his mouth quirks, and he pushes off the chair, off and away from her, from the pleasant, little detour he'd entertained.

Isla seems opposed to his absence. Her head twists over her shoulder, like she wants to know what he's doing — why he's detached from her when she was sure he'd nudge his cock up into her, or slide his bare fingers into her hole, or, or, anything. Anything but make a beeline for his duffel. God, that scary duffel. All sorts of horrors encompassed by the onyx travel bag, like a kinky carry on. She watches Eros crouch before it, and the sound of a zipper has her wishing she could see over the frame of his back. Then, rummaging.

When he stands back up and turns toward her, he's got what looks to be a little bottle of lubricant wrapped by his bare hand — the other, the gloved, cradles something small and vividly fuchsia. Two objects — or perhaps three, all small, over the pleather — the little fuchsia egg-thing, something shiny and blue, and something ...else. Something mysterious. Though, she doesn't know what any of the three are.

"Missing me already?" the dominant quips. The soles of his fancy serpentine shoes pad against the linoleum in ambivalence. His return, Isla thinks, is enticing. His unpredictability, that serves as a side dish to the entree of that return, however—

"Eyes ahead. So nosey," Harry instructs, an undeniable, firm quality to his statement, one that demands obedience, despite the lighthearted tone on the phrase. Isla turns back to the wall and gnaws into her bottom lip.

"Well, you didn't tell me to keep my eyes ahead."

"Well, M'telling you now," the male sets the objects down (whatever the two mysterious ones she wasn't able to make out) between her parted calves, on the cushion. It's clearly intentional — deliberately done so that Isla is unable to turn back over her shoulder to see.

"Well, sorry, I didn't know," Isla tells him, notes of attitude interlacing the syllables despite the warning in her palms, which, until Harry steps around and braces his palm against the back of the armchair, has evidently been forgotten.

That's fine. He'll remind her.

"You wanna talk to me like that?" His words are soft-spoken. Gentle, in their contrast to the underlying threat.

"Like what?" Isla's eyes hone ahead. She hadn't even noticed the walls had marbled texture, swirls of faint gray patterns over white. What a nice touch.

"You know what," Harry tells her, a little less gentle and a little more firm.

"I'm not talking to you like anything, Sir. I think you're misconstruing."

He ducks his chin, fingers drumming over shiny emerald over the back of the armchair, and sardonic dimples rise awake beneath the latex of his mask, "Misconstruing."

The man shakes his head, and Isla blinks. She tacks on, "Simple case of misinterpretation."

His face lifts, and for a moment, in her peripherals, there's nothing but shiny latex and lull. An inhale that packs things unsaid.

"What are you holding right now?" he lifts a digit to tap over the wooden, "Hm?"

Her hands tighten over it, and as his pupils bounce from the cane to her side-profile, he notices the way her jaw sets a smidge. She takes a deep breath, and tells him, with that same resolve still keeping her voice clipped, "A cane. Sir."

"Right. And what does it mean, when you're holding it?"

Her jawline flexes as her mouth parts, and for a moment she says nothing, like she's bridling the plummet of her courage at the insinuation.

"It means that you were ...mean ...and made me hold it."

Pink curls through a parted slit, and he shakes his head, "Not quite," his head tilts, "Means I can't hit you with it, right? When you have it? Means you're," his gaze drives over its length, over the noticeable tremble in her fists, "recklessly brave," his eyes bounce back up to her, as he tacks on, "because you know I can't use it on you. Not when you're the one holding it."

Isla says nothing. Harry's palm wraps over the thicker end, right ahead of him, and he tugs slowly. It slides from her grasp with little resistance. The young woman's head turns away from him, just a smidge, and Harry tells her, his priorly soft spoken voice only dropping in volume further, until the phrase is nearly a whisper, "And what about now?"

He leans with his shoulder against the wall, the same wall Isla's forehead presses onto as he nudges her shoulder with the end of the cane, "Hm?"

When her tone, morphed from insolent to cowering, comes in the form of a soft, "please," and a subsequent, pathetic sniffle, the dominant physically has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes and letting the corners of his mouth buckle into a wicked grin.

"Oh, poor baby. D'you think I'm gonna hit you with it?"

He's met with silence. He contemplates sliding the cane back into her hands, but, no. She'll need those. Feigning pity, Harry sighs, "Peitho, Peitho, Peitho. I think I'll keep this little stick with me—" with her head turned away, Isla's bottom lip wobbles, "—just so we don't have any more ...misconstruing or misinterpretations."

He winds around her, cane in hand, and then sets the implement onto the linoleum beside him as he kneels ahead of the armchair, just as he had prior. Only now, he has his goodies — equipment he's set in a neat little pile between her calves that will aid in his agenda for the night. Isla goes easily enough when he glues his palms onto her hips and tugs to fix her arch, like a warm puppet with blood pumping, muscles agreeable and compliant. He sticks his digits into the strips of lacy fabric, on either side of her hips, and shimmies those down, just about until they rest mid-thigh. He pats over one of her nude, pinky cheeks and she jolts in reflex, as if she expects the worst of him. Good.

"Hands. Back here."

Again, the submissive obliges with little hesitation, no doubt spurred by the custody situation of the cane, though her movements offer insight that she's bemused by the request. When she interlocks her wrists behind her back, he nudges at them with his own palm, clarifying, "On your arse." 

Behind her, Isla hears a soft click — like a cap popping open. She thinks, the lube. Her hands settle back over her cheeks, elbows bent. And then the dominant tells her, "Spread."

"Sir..." she tells him, her voice small, not exactly a protest of insubordination, but...

"What did we just talk about, darling?" Harry tells her, tone distracted as he spreads lubricant over the middle digit on his bare hand.

It's — she feels the humiliation flood through her when she accedes, when she feels the cool air over her hole, when Isla knows he can see everything. The arousal that wracks through her nervous system, subsequently, is absolutely perverse. And the thing is, it's not that he hasn't seen it before, or that she's insecure, or something of the sort. But it's one thing to give an unwitting view in doggy, and another to just ...bare herself like that. Despite the doubts in her brain, the embarrassment is delicious, according to her body. She's pulled from those thoughts when she feels the pad of a finger, chilly and wet, brush there. The steady position of her hips jolts in surprise, in reflex, but she snaps back like an elastic. At first, there's only rubbing. A soft press, a graze, slick on her, like the prompt to test the waters.

"Gonna stretch you out a bit," Harry tells her, but that part, she's already gathered. She bridles her witty quip. Her own digits twitch. The fingertip nudges, just a smidge, not quite entering but no longer simply grazing, either.

"Pretty," his cadence is absentminded, admiring, as he dips just the very tip of his digit past the rim, "little holes. All mine."

"Isn't that right, sweetheart?" his free hand comes to stroke over the back of her thigh, where her muscles strain and tremble, as he delves just a smidge further, just to the first knuckle, before he fucks in out of her slowly, "Hm? All mine to use?"

"Yes, Sir," she tells him, breathy, and her breath hitches as the hand on her thigh withdraws and draws closer to her core. "Oh, Sir," Isla keens, whiny when he buries a digit on the opposite into cunt.

"I know, baby," his mouth crooks, and the finger in her cunt slips in, to the hilt, while its counterpart makes gentle, shallow prods, "makes you so desperate to have both your little holes used at the same time, doesn't it? All full of my fingers..."

He draws the digit out from her cunt and slips it, slick with arousal, down to play with her clit. The young woman absolutely loses it — her forehead knocks against the wall as a garbled curse slips from her mouth, and Harry uses the opportunity to twist the finger, from the first knuckle, just a little further in. That earns him a little "mmph" and the view of her own splayed digits pressing harder into her own skin. He fucks in and out of her for a bit, drawing slow circles over her clit, featherlight — a tease to work her into a pliable frenzy. Then, he pulls the digit out and stuffs it just up to the second knuckle — it's the thickest part of his finger, and it rests just beyond the breach of her rim. He nudges.

"Oh, God," is Isla's response, her hands clenching over handfuls of her own rounded flesh. Her hips punch back subtly to take more, rock forward to run away (though there's not much leeway for that option), she doesn't even know what she wants. The stretch is — it's intense, and his fingers are lengthy and thick, just one feels like so much. He intends to stretch her out a bit, and Isla's unsure if she'd even be able to handle anything beyond what he's already given her. But then he slinks it in the to the hilt, fucking in little motions that are deep, and all she can think, as Harry's pleather-clad finger pads roll circles over her clit, and Harry's bare digit wriggles fluidly in her, is fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

The withdrawal of the digit, is perhaps, the most uncomfortable sensation of all. He's slow, and gentle, and careful, but it's not exactly a pleasant sensation, regardless of his attentiveness. Isla uses the short recess to stall her hammering pulse.

"Christ, you're a sight," she hears him say darkly over the rush in her ears, and all she can really manage is a pathetic whimper — the man's muted berry lips twitch at the sound, and he swipes lube off his finger onto her backside, a shiny trail illuminating the flush of her skin.

Harry uncaps the lube to drizzle a bit over his first article of the night — her first accessory. A plug — a pretty one, small and metallic, silvery with a tapered shape that melts off into its most eye-catching detail — a little cobalt gem that'll peek out from between her crack.

"S'gonna be a bit more than my finger, pet," he presses the rounded point of its tip to her hole, and his cadence is so firm, so sure, that Isla would wholeheartedly believe any words that come off his tongue, then, "But you're gonna take it like a good girl."

His hand squeezes at her thigh when he prods with the plug and lets it sink in, so her rim swallows around it like it's just heavenly. Meant to be.

It's cold, and rigid, and as the plug settles in her, there's no give that comes with her clench. No flexibility of silicone for her to clamp over, no give for settling. Just sturdy pressure with a heaviness that's not the most comfortable sensation, at first. The dominant behind her draws his fingertips over the end, and tugs, and oh.

"Oh," the moan slips from her mouth, melty as he prods it back into place and digs his thumb against the flared end, is followed by a hum from the man.

"Gorgeous," his thumb strokes over the gem, because she is, "all plugged up," and Isla thinks of gorgeous ceilings.

There's lull, and then a huff, a creak, shuffling. Isla finds the dominant has stood back up, because then she feels fingers in her hair, a yank that cranes her neck back like a pez dispenser. The opposite grapples over her cheeks harshly from behind. Isla gasps.

"Pretty, little thing."

She thinks she makes out, vaguely, through the flutter of her lashes, and the crowding of lace upon her sight, and the upside-down perspective she's been subjected to, that Eros has dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Part of his palm presses flush to her mouth, smushing her lips, and they're parted enough for her to flick her tongue out tentatively, to reap the treasures of his bare skin against her taste buds. In response, the man's mouth jolts.

"You," he guides her back with the grip until she's forced to shuffle back on her knees, "are gonna get on all fours for me. Just—" he walks her back in a mandhandle, her hips flush to his own in the arch, and he drives her into an unwieldy clamber off the cushion, "—Right here, on the ground."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Sir," her lashes flutter and dance frantically beyond lace as Harry presses his mouth to her temple and unhands her roughly. The young woman sinks to her knees, palms pressing to milky tile and figure stretching and arching, succumbing to his whims. She still has the panties clinging to her thighs.

The fuschia trinket, Isla learns, comes next. He slots it to her entrance, the caress of the silicone tantalizing, and then he prods it into her. It's sort of like those small egg-things with a unsightly tampon-like string for withdrawal (those things always look a little funny to her), except its method of extraction offers a flared little limb that nudges to her clit. Either side of her clit, actually — two silicone rabbit ears that envelop the bundle of nerves in a soft pinch. The dominant situates those, drawing soft, breathy sounds from Isla in the process, and then sits back to admire. He gives her backside a pat, still pleasantly ruddy, tugs the lace back over her, and stands.

And then he picks up the cane. Isla grows stiff. Her voice sounds awfully sad when she tells him, "Please."

"Please?" his mouth curls, and he ambles back over to her with it in hand, "What a nice word. Dunno what you're asking for, though, love."

The submissive ducks her head, looking a bit forlorn, and Harry squats beside her face, cane braced between his thighs like a post. He clears his throat, and tells her, "You've been a good girl for me, haven't you, Peitho?"

The muscles in her neck strain in his view as she turns her head away from him a smidge.

"We've had our hiccups, but," he reaches a hand out to grasp at her chin and twists her face back in his direction, "let me play with you the way I wanted. Got on the floor when I told you to. Right?"

A pout has illustrated its way over her mouth, but she nods in his grip after a second, small and jerky.

"So why would I punish you for being a good girl?" he traces a thumb over her bottom lip, almost as if to smooth the frown away,  "Hm?"

She wouldn't put it past him — but he just sounds so gentle, then, so kind. Like a wolf dressed in sheepskin — and despite the automatic allusion her mind creates, Isla melts into his touch.

Eros, Isla had learned time and time and time again, had an unpredictability to his character. A delicious sort of instability that kept her on her toes in the best way, his intentions never quite fully explicable. Even after scene and scene and scene with the man, Isla feels she never knows what to expect. He has this way of always catching her off guard — sometimes he'd let her comments slide, sometimes he'd tease her back, and sometimes she met something ominous, something that would loom behind his stature, a shadow greater in size than he. But then, other times, despite laughter and lecherous beams as he procured whatever sadistic urges came to the forefront of his mind, sweetness would reign, and he'd give her caresses and kisses with whips and soft words. It was always sort of flip-flopped — where she'd assume there would be darkness, he was soft. When she assumes she can push, she finds she can't.

Despite her awareness of this quality, when he stands and steps away, his casual, small-talk-seeming dialogue catches Isla off guard, "S'a great room, innit?"

Isla blinks. Her head winds, slowly, to face him, where his menacing stature, with the equally menacing cane, looms ahead of the armchair.

"What?"

"Nice decor, comfortable chair," his mouth purses, and he flops back into the verdant seat unceremoniously, huffing out a breath as if it's a conclusion to his strenuous workday. The dominant glances about himself, wall to wall over ceilings, and then his gaze focuses on her.

"But, y'know," eyes narrow as he bridges into foreshadowing, "there's just something missing."

"A ...sex swing?" Isla offers, her cadence still a smidge jesting despite all that's been endured. She's a bit confused with his sudden nonchalant nature, with his withdrawal, with the bizarre nature of the conversation topic. 

Harry hums and drums his fingertips over the arm of the chair, and his tongue clicks as he jerks with his chin, "No, s'not quite it."

"Y'know," he sits up a bit then and snaps with bare fingers — her pupils flit to the motion, "I've got it. I'm thinking, an ottoman."

Isla swallows.

"An ottoman?" she parrots.

"Sure," Harry sits back and splays one arm out over the back of the seat. The other cradles the cane, propped against the floor. "Nice chair," as if for emphasis, he lays his legs out laxly and crosses one ankle over the other, "and nothing to kick my feet up on."

Isla stares down at serpents and jet leather. She ogles as he tells her, "Don't you think I deserve to kick my feet up after all of my hard work, darling?"

A pinch works between her brows, and then he lifts a foot, sets it onto the small of her back, and follows with the other, like she's a fucking coffee table.

Oh. OH. The young woman tenses, and she hangs her head as (sordidly, unsurprising) arousal ripples through her. She is a woman plagued. What kind of twisted desires would prompt her into the reaction— honestly, Isla thinks. The warmth between her legs pulses into a fire. Harry digs the heels of his dress shoes in a little harder, eyes glimmering and strawberry mouth buckling into a grin, "Dealing with an incorrigible brat s'quite exhausting."

"Sir..."

"What?" the dominant pouts, mimicking her tone, cadence pitied and painted with condescension. All Isla provides him with an exhale with a bit of tremble to it.

"S'getting you awful bothered, isn't it, sweetheart?" his lips twitch with knowing, "I know, darling. Feels good to have a purpose."

Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck.

"Sir," she rocks back a smidge, a little more desperation to her voice. She feels like her entire body's been dipped into a tank of sex — chills envelop her, her stomach wracks with want, and craving slips and pulses lower, and as she literally, physically pulses, clenching, she's greeted with the reminder of the plug, and the other toy in her cunt, and—

"Ah, ah, ah," in her peripherals, she makes out that the dominant has brandished another little object, a small, dark rectangle, lax in his grip. Harry tells her, "you are going to be a quiet, little girl, and the only time I wanna hear anything from you—"

A click.

A smirk.

The fuschia trinket comes alive, buzzing inside of her, against her clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her. Isla rocks forward, jostling his feet a bit, and he plants the sole of his right shoe against her side until she straightens back out.

"—is when you're begging to cum."

Isla bites into her lip — he's the devil. The vibrator hums gently over her, but she's been so worked up over the course of the session that it pulses through her nerve endings and sends the entirety of her system on overdrive. So good, it's so good, she's so sensitive, and this is the lowest setting?

The LOWEST setting?

Like clockwork, the dominant chimes, "Shouldn't take too long to get you there, but, let's amp it up a bit—" and then the toy buzzes harder, firmer, and he tacks on as she hangs her head, chest rolling and hips rocking in minute motions, "Wanna see those little panties soaked all the way through." 

The panties — she realizes he'd left them on to keep the toy inside of her as her muscles spasm. He'd thought ahead. Regardless of the precaution, Isla clenches over the toy, desperately, to keep the buzzing from the appendage enveloped about her clit. It's just right — it feels so good — teasing in the best way. But her efforts only make the pleasure so much more intense, and it's not long before she's making quiet little sounds involuntarily. Not long before the pressure builds and builds and builds, like a jenga set just waiting to topple.

"Sir, Sir — Sir—"

"Yes, yes, yes?" the dominant returns, cheerily lilt-y on the former, "This better be good. M'trying to relax."

The disinterest weaved in his inflection only spurs her further. Isla gasps, "Please, Sir — it's — can I—"

"Any day now," Harry drawls, and despite his feigned demeanor of disinterest, he keeps his thumb hovering on the off switch and a careful gaze on her figure.

"May I cum, Sir?" she cries out, but the cry that spills upon the toy just ...shutting off puts the volume of that first one to shame.

"Absolutely not," Harry tells her. Isla's heart hammers so intensely she can feel it in her throat, in her temples, in the tip of her tongue. Her body freezes in the state of shock the shut-off has induced. Eventually she lets a whine consume her vocal cords. A block ripped from the tower.

As she harvests composure, bridling a complaint in lieu of fixing her obnoxiously uneven breathing pattern, she doesn't even have the time to properly bounce back before the toy comes back alive, on its lowest setting. Higher, higher, flitting like fruit on a slot machine, and then it settles on a pattern that pulses. One that doesn't really satisfy — just tantalizes. It sends bursts of pleasure through her clit with every buzz, in intervals, and follows up with pauses that serve as come-downs. Those split seconds of nothingness, (that feel as if they last forever before the rumble returns), have her sweaty body struggling to comprehend the onslaught of sensations. Because just as she crests, sinking into enjoyment, it stops. And then it comes back. The cycle repeats, an everlasting inferno reaped upon her.

And even then, the pleasure swells. The blocks expand, higher, higher, higher, and then he flips it to a setting that just rumbles, unremitting and powerful in a way that teems deep and settles into her, twining over her bones. She knows what the answer will be. She knows it, and still—

"May I cum, Sir?" the words are spoken through an exhale, like she'd been staving off the pleasure by holding her breath.

Harry hums as if deliberating. Something naively hopeful churns in her chest.

"No," he settles on, and Isla hangs her head, her entire figure jittering as the toy shuts off. Harry snickers as she rocks, his feet following in their placement over her back. After a moment, he holds the button over the remote, and he can tell it's turned back on based on the jolt in her muscles, the way she straightens out.

"Soaking through yet? I'd get up to check, but I'm quite comfortable, I'll be honest with you."

"Sir," she screws her eyes shut, and the electricity that zaps through her at the reminder that she's serving as a fucking ottoman for him renders her immobile. Harry twirls the stem of the cane in his hand — it spins, dancing over the floor. The time span between the third ignition of the toy and her crest is ludicrously short — enough so that it draws a cheeky smirk over his strawberry mouth. Harry waits patiently for her mantra of pleas. It comes soon enough.

"Sir, may I—"

"You wanna cum?" the dominant interjects, shifting his feet over her back in a way that's more comfortable for him, nonchalantly, as if it's the most casual thing in the world.

Isla's jaw sets, her teeth gritting and breaths escaping through flared nostrils. Does she want to cum? What a stupid fucking question. She's just about to give him as much courtesy with her tone as he's been giving her with his actions, but the sound of the cane scraping over the tile jars her. The young woman shudders through a potent wave of pleasure that cascades, not quite ebbing.

"Yes, Sir," the docile statement leaks through the cracks of her teeth.

"Convince me," his statement brushes over eardrums wracked with the racket of blood pumping, "Why do you deserve it?"

At first she balks. Tenses as the fire licks at her. And then her tongue moves on its own accord, a desperate showcase of her conviction, despite her muddled thought processing, "I — I was good. I did what you told me to do, Sir."

"And?"

"And — and," her stomach clenches as the seams of composure start in subtle fissures, "And you — you want to see me cum, and, and — Oh, God, please—"

"I want to see you cum?" his eyebrows jolt, "That's your brilliant reasoning?"

Isla can't contain it. Her mouth parts, ready to warn him, but it's all sort of too little, too late. Joints of suture burst as her body becomes launched into the sea of bliss, just spiraling as flares of ecstasy absorb her senses. Her thighs tremble, and her elbows nearly give, though they stay determined in their structure, and she spasms over the toy as it keeps up its rumble through the aftershocks. Vaguely, over her own heartbeat, she makes out that he says something, something that doesn't sound hungry as he typically does when he coaxes her through climax. The heels of his shoes withdraw.

"Did you cum?" Harry prods, sitting up a bit as the submissive finally gives in to the bend that'd been begging at her elbows, sagging forward, "You came, darling?"

Regardless of her lull, he shuts the toy off — her body language and the sudden cease in pleas is confirmation enough. Weakly, Isla nods against the floor.

"You came?" he repeats, incredulity leaking into his tone and coating the underlying, audible frustration. They enmesh in his sigh. He drags the cane over the tile.

And despite Isla Cleery's disposition of exhaustion, her muscles come right back to life when he strokes the tip of it down her back.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tells her, voice firm, "Still."

"Sir..." Isla sounds absolutely destroyed by it — by all of it, by the sudden orgasm, the switch from bliss to terror, in the blink of an eye, while her senses are still pliant and weak.

"Did I give you permission?" he tuts, jerking with his head once, tone hard, and as he drags the tip of the implement between her shoulder blades, Isla crumbles.

Permission to cum or permission to speak, she's unsure. Though, Isla's positively certain that she wants nothing to do with that wooden thing he's holding, and fear climbs in place of what was prior rapture. Her silence quirks his mouth.

"What is it with this thing?" he ponders aloud, corners of his mouth jolting as she whimpers and quivers as he slips it over the back of her thigh, "Hm?"

He'd been fully intent on terrorizing her with the thing solely to make a point — that he is to be listened to, and that her actions have consequences. He wasn't keen on hitting her with it, not now, but if she got a little freaked out by him harmlessly trailing it over her figure, Harry supposed that would suffice. Dirty, little thing got off on it, anyhow. But now, curiosity peaks. Because they never did talk about the root of her fear with it, did they? He'd inquired after the second scene, in the dungeon, brushing her tears away with soft thumbs and soft croons, beckoning for answers, making sure that she'd actually enjoyed the introduction of the implement, despite (she'd warned him, to be fair) her ...vigorous reaction.

Harry had dabbled in fear play before. That vicious sadist in him did quite get off on fear, after all. It was always intense. There had been a submissive he'd played with a couple of years prior, fairly regularly. Hedone had been her name, and she no longer attended Indulge — huge fear of balloons. Globophobia it was called; a pretty small-scale niche of those affected. She had a thing with the anticipation of the popping — it'd make her hairs stand straight. Something stemming from childhood trauma, antics of older siblings, something vaguely along those lines. But anyways, it wasn't about what the fear was, or exploiting the fear in a way that made her feel genuinely upset. It was always about the endorphins. The adrenaline. She'd expressed her desire, and he got it. And, man, did she get timid with fright and soft when he brought one around. As unsexy as the idea of dragging a dark, latex balloon over someone's bare body sounds — the reaction she had was... well it made missionary in the dark sound well beyond dull.

But that play partner didn't have quite as ...intense of a reaction as Isla had. Hedone would just shriek, and then grow still and awfully quiet, with soft pleas spilling from a soft mouth, at most. She hadn't been a crier.

Isla was.

And Isla had warned him.

Still, that first scene in the dungeon had been fairly severe on the senses, to say the least, emotions concerned, and Harry had made well sure that Peitho was alright with everything they had explored. Isla told him she was. That she'd loved every minute of it — of the view of him standing over her with it, threatening her with the rod.

But they never discussed the history.

"Why..." he lifts it, gaze slipping over its stem, before he returns to drawing over her tank-clad ribs with the end, and Isla squeaks, "Are you so scared of it? S'just a stick," he reasons, and tacks on, half-jesting, "Can't bite you."

"Because it hurts," she tells him, inflection trembling incredulously.

"Yeah but that's the point, innit?"

Isla sobs as he traces her spine with it, and he speaks over her shuddery breaths, tone nonchalant, "The clamps hurt, but you're not scared of those. Hm? The strap," he emphasizes by stroking the end over her curvature, where her flesh has grown ruddy under its abuse, "hurts," and his eyes wander over her skin, ogling the marks like they're part of a scenic view. He shakes his head and feigns a wince, leaning over to draw a line of white with his forefinger and siphoning a gasp in the process. Harry turns his head, mouth crooking, "Hm? S'pretty rough, innit?"

When she doesn't respond, he sighs, and sits back, wandering over the vale of her side with the tip of the implement casually.

"But you're not scared of that. So why," he pokes her shoulder with the end, and he sees her mouth physically form into a grimace as she restrains herself from jolting away, "are you so scared of the cane, darling?"

His cadence is low and condescending, in a way, Isla finds, as he reiterates, "What's so scary about the big stick, baby?"

When she doesn't give him an answer, he purses his pillowy mouth and grazes it over her underside, gliding it over her fabric-covered tummy. Isla hangs her head with a sob.

The chair creaks as he retracts the cane and sits up again. Instead of tracing lines over her with the tip, he places it onto her back, vertically, keeping his hand on the handle as her breathing starts to quicken. He tells her, with no-nonsense to his tone, "I can't hit you with it when I'm not holding it, so stay still, if you'd like to keep it that way."

Despite the minute tremble of her ribcage, Isla maintains a composure as still as a statue. Well — a statue with twitchy muscles.

He tells her, ducking to scratch at her scalp, with a voice soft like melted butter — a contrast to the prospect of the unspoken threat, "If you can stop crying long enough to tell me why you're so scared of it, I'll put it away."

And if you can't, we can keep playing the Mean Cane Game all night long.

The young woman seems to weigh his words then, her audible inhale shuddery through her nostrils. Finally, she responds, her voice impressively even, despite the fact that she sounds right back on the edge of bursting into tears, "It just hurts."

She sniffles, and Harry purses his mouth, patiently waiting on her to expand. She does, this time, evidently understanding that he's not keen on circling back to the same point he's already made.

"I don't — I don't know. Like, it just ...hurts ...really bad. Worse than — than anything," she ducks her chin and blows out a breath.

He tuts, and tells her, voice coated in sweetness that makes her feel much like she's a little fish swimming through a beautiful enclosure of vines, only to find that she's swam through the teeth of a whale, "Mm. Played too rough with it?"

After a moment, the young woman responds, her voice small, "Yes," and despite the terror of the implement resting over her spine like a second layer of bone, his soft touch, his soft croon of understanding, it makes her feel ...melty.

The dominant hums, with that same sense of understanding to his demeanor.

"So it's a bad association," he reaches for the cane, "that you have with it."

Isla freezes up. She stops melting, like a pint of ice cream that's been stuffed back into the freezer. Eros doesn't instantly stand to put the cane away, as he'd priorly implied, and Isla suddenly feels that those teeth don't belong to a benign whale who'd simply become entangled with her as an unintended predator — she feels she's swam past the teeth of a shark; a shark who'd intended to bite.

"Sir?" she says, her heart thundering when she hears him sit back. She's unsure of what she's asking, but she is sure that she can't look. She can't — she can't watch him wave that horrifying thing at her.

"Let's fix it," he tells her, sadistically eager, as if he's just invited her to come along on an insightful adventure, like he's found a project for himself to tackle. Her whole body tenses when the dominant reintroduces the tip of the cane, and when it bumpily cascades down her thigh, her knee jumps and bends, skidding over the smooth flooring.

"Oh, Sir," she sobs, her cadence hopeless. There's no pluck left to her fragility — no desperate attempts to argue. But she does tell him, her voice small and shaky, "You— you said you'd put it away. I was good, I was good."

"I did say that, didn't I," he says over another stifled cry, like he's ruminating on it, "but you're crying over a stick," he says it like it's ridiculous, open-mouthed grin showcasing shark teeth with no visible sharpness, "and — I know, pet, I'm just such a horrible, mean man," he bites into his lip, "But you're just so pretty when you cry."

She shakes her head at the linoleum, wordlessly, and surprises him with a whimper rather than a shriek as he bends forward to menacingly tap against the sole of her foot with it. It's pretty painless — they're love taps, but her toes curl and she whines sharply. He tuts.

"This isn't so bad, is it?"

Isla doesn't respond, her entire silhouette tensed like lifeless marble and her breathing shallow as he prods, "Right? Doesn't hurt?"

Perhaps, what surprises him more than the restraint on her vocal cords, is when she speaks up. Her voice is hard with determination, but it's riddled with what's blatantly a mask of pluck (all puns aside). She's going to keep crying, Harry thinks. She's going to keep crying, and it'll happen any second, and as Harry contemplates over this fact, he finds that he wants nothing more than to see Isla Cleery's pretty eyes brimming with pretty tears.

"Sir — I'm sorry I came," she tells him, and tacks on, after a moment, "without permission. ...But—"

Isla finds the intrigue of her own surprise, severing through the terror and peaking when he cuts her off with a sound of mirth. Like her apology amuses him. She feels ...ridiculed, and small. So small. And perhaps most mortifying of all, is that she feels small ...and it makes her fuzzy. It makes her mellow and biddable, and she feels, in that moment and in every, entrapped by his claws, that he knows best. She wants him to make all the choices. She wants to be his ottoman, and she wants to jump when he says jump, and if he wants to hit her with it she wants to let him. Wants to feel the apprehension melt away because it's his whim. And she's wet — she's so wet. She feels that too, it's undeniable. She's terrified, and she feels small, and she's gushing between her thighs because of it all.

His huff brings her out of her own head, and when he speaks up through the amusement, she can tell that he's wearing a grin, "S'not a punishment, little Peitho."

Little Peitho — he hasn't called her that in ages, not since the first scene in the lounge, and she hangs her head, basking in the affectionate moniker, the tip of the cane pressing to the middle of her sole, nearly forgotten.

"Or maybe it is — I suppose it's however you take it, darling. But—" her breath hitches as he takes the cane from the sole of her foot, and strokes over her calf with it, his cadence low and tantalizing, "Someone was very mean with a cane to you — and now you have a bad habit, don't you, baby?"

His pupils flicker to her skin, to her thigh as he draws with the cane over the back of it, smoothing it over her flesh. Her toes curl.

"You cry when the cane comes out. But it's not scary — s'just a big stick," he tells her, "Right? This doesn't hurt. Does it?"

She doesn't give him a verbal response, and he presses it to her skin a little harder, "Hm?"

Her answer comes as an exhale, a string of words nearly meshed together by a breath, "No, Sir."

Her muscles turn to stone as the cane slides over her with his lean forward, and when he speaks close to her ear, chills run across her skin and something wracks down the knobs of her spine. "If it doesn't hurt, why are you still crying?"

She's still crying — she's still crying, he's right. Isla stares through the muddled lace, her face is itchy and wet, and her mouth is sopping and puffy, and he's right, she is.

"I don't— I don't know, Sir."

"You don't know," he sits back on the echo, sliding the cane down the expanse of her skin rather than taunting her with a side-to-side, "Are you scared that I'm going to hurt you with it?"

Isla chews into her swollen bottom lip, only swelling the cushiony flesh further by the ministration of her teeth.

"Tell me."

Is she scared that he's going to hurt her? It's one of those ...complex questions, one that an answer can be altered for based on the emphasis on wording. Is she scared that he's going to hurt her? Genuinely, really hurt her; that he'd mar her in a way beyond play — no. Is she worried that he's going to break a limit? Isla breathes. She's not. That answer comes just as easily as the first. She trusts her Eros more than anything. But is she terrified that he'll hit her with the cane? Yes.

She's not scared of him — she's scared of it. And the thing is, she knows that it's irrational — she's made far too many jokes about it in settings out of play, because she's aware that the reaction she has to a thin, wooden pole is ludicrous. But—

"Yes, Sir," she finally responds, her head drooping between her shoulders.

His mouth purses — she's ducked her head like she's ...disappointed with her own answer. Harry isn't. She was candid, and that's all he can ask for. Partly, her admission makes something soft turn in his chest for her. And partly, well — the other, darker part of him suffuses with wicked desire.

"M'not going to hurt you with it," he finally supplies, promise interweaving the syllables as he summons that first chunk of himself to the forefront of his exterior, because he's aware she'll need him to be soft with her for this next part, because he knows his little Peitho like the back of his hand, despite so little knowledge tucked away on Isla Cleery.

"We're going to make new associations," as he draws the cane off from between her jutted shoulder blades, Isla worries her bottom lip between the bite of her teeth, shying away.

"We're going to learn," Harry strokes the side of it over her cheek as he buries the bare fingers of his opposite hand into her hair, "that the cane's not inherently bad."

"Because my sweet girl," he tugs her head back softly and the cane slips to press against her throat, "doesn't need to be scared of silly sticks."

It drowns her chest with something warm, his softness peeking through harsh motives, chips at her heart a bit, the notion. But more than anything, it douses Isla with desire, the carnal, tinged-with-adrenaline kind, when he stands, sits back in the chair, toggles the vibrator back on, and strokes the cane over her silhouette like an artist sketching effortless lines and shapes.

Because she's scared, she's still so scared, that sense of fear engraved in her mentality like scarring, but the fear heightens her arousal, heightens the softness of the pleasure at her core, heightens it all. And as Eros strokes the cane over the vale of her arch, down over her lace, drawing a streak over her sore, marked thighs, she feels rapture spring upon her, unforeseen.

"You're going to cum again," the dominant commands, though his inflection is gentle, "you're gonna give me one more, and it's not gonna matter that the cane is there, because you're not even gonna think about it. You're just gonna think about the buzzing in your desperate, little pussy," he slides it, vertical, to press between her cheeks and coaxes a soft gasp from her, "you're gonna think about the pretty plug in your tight, little arse, and you're gonna think about how good it'll feel to cum because I told you to."

And Isla does — she thinks of all those things, despite the kiss of the horrid implement dragging across her skin. Honestly, his insightful suggestions are all a little difficult to ignore, anyhow. The incessant buzzing at her core is just that, it's incessant. The plug is rigid when she clenches, a constant, sturdy reminder that it's there, a perpetual inspiration to recall the way he'd put it there, and flashes of delectable humiliation spawn at the memoirs as if he's doing it all over again. And the cane — she half-expects him to whack her with it as she peaks, to leave a singular, pretty, little stripe over her thighs, just beneath the love bite he'd previously pasted as another token. The anticipation only drives her further wild. She finds the tears, as if her ducts are magnets, siphon to the surface with the thought, but they come in delicious bliss. It's cathartic, as they gather over her waterline, as her nervous system's wrung through tides of primal euphoria, and when he starts drawing side-to-side lines over her thighs, like he's fixing to hit her, Isla feels herself doomed to that inevitable crumble.

"Please— may—"

"Cum for me."

And that's really all the encouragement she needs. She whimpers and sobs as it tears through her, muscles taut and straining in preparation for something.

But the cane just draws soft lines over her, just as it had been prior, smoothing and gentle in its caress.

And that makes her cry harder. She cries as he pulls it away and braces it against the arm of the chair. She cries when he slips his fingers over the remote and switches the rumbling toy off. She cries when he stands over her and hovers, when he bends to dig his fingers into her hair to coax her into a kneel, when he wordlessly draws a bare thumb over her bottom lip.

They start to stifle and wind down a bit when he disentangles his fingers from her tendrils, though, when deft fingertips work to unbuckle a belt, and unbutton a button, and unzip a zipper. They die off into hiccups and stuttery breaths when he pulls his shaft out through the opening, when he strokes himself over her upturned face, when he taps at her puffy mouth with a tip that leaks precum. Like clockwork, her lips part with intent to envelop him in warmth, but the dominant just tuts softly.

"Spit on it," Harry tells her, the cracks in his own resolve finally, finally evident with the breathiness of his inflection, "Go on. Make it messy."

So she does. Her lips pucker, through tethered sniffles, and Isla leaks saliva onto his tip, onto the thumb of his glove, and it dribbles off and lands onto the marble before he starts to stroke.

"Stick that tongue out," Harry demands, fondling over the head of his cock teasingly — both to his senses, and to her gaze. Isla obliges, her tongue slinking out, until he instructs, "wider, wider, wider," until it hangs and her strawberry mouth illustrates an empty inlet of potential. He taps with his head over her tongue — one, two, three times, enough for the taste of his precum to stick, salty to her taste buds, but he doesn't stuff himself into her mouth. He doesn't slide himself against her tongue. Instead, the man strokes over her with his bare hand, squeezing at his tip, a tantalizing sight of dark eyes staring lewdly through shadows, of his own lips parted with pleasured breaths, as lashes flutter.

"Gonna cum all over that pretty face—" his jaw sets as he promises, "Gonna give it all to you."

Isla Cleery, Isla Cleery, Isla Cleery — he pictures doe eyes behind lace, the slope of her nose, the flutter of wet lashes.

Her tongue flexes, and her cheeks burn from her tears, and her whole body sort of aches in that pleasant, welcomed way. She just wants to mouth over him, wants something, wants to give her Eros more, more, more. A sound slips from the back of her throat, a desperate one, as his fist slides, slick over his shaft, and sends his tip bumping over her tongue with each hungry motion. And then he sticks his free fingers into her hair, tugging harshly at her scalp, and groans out a deep string of curses as he paints ribbons over her. They land in spurts, some on her tongue, some over her lips, her chin. A smidge lands over the bottom-most hem of her mask, and it — it—

Isla whines, his cum pasted over her tongue, over her face, on the onyx lace, but she doesn't close her mouth — not yet. Not until he instructs her to do so.

Once he's done milking himself through the aftershocks, squeezing at the tip and canting his hips forward for a droplet, like an afterthought, to bubble out and slide over her tongue, his hands withdraw as he sighs and draws a thumb over a bit of his artistry. He'd aimed well enough, he decides then, because he'd gotten it just over the hem, as he'd intended. And as the man drags his thumb over milky white, over her swollen lips and pastes that same thumb to her tongue, Isla keeps her jaw slack. She keeps her tongue out. He thumbs more of it on, and then more. Like a perverse cleaning routine. His cock, spent, still pulses at the sight. She's stayed the most clothed in this scene than ever before, and yet, somehow, the sight of her now, kneeling beneath him with faint remnants of cum that he's thumbed off onto her eager tongue, is still the filthiest.

"Swallow. Every drop, sweetheart," he tells her, and she does. His fingers plaster to her cheeks, rough in their purpose initially, but then they mutate in intent. The squeeze and dig turns to soft petting, soft thumbs. And then, the tone that'd priorly taken on such firm notes shifts and morphs. It turns to a treacle of sweetness when he praises, "Such a good girl."

Isla sighs like his words have fed her with bliss. They sort of have. She watches him tuck himself away, the taste of him still fresh on her tongue, in absolutely untethered bliss. He glides his palms over her cheeks softly, cupping either side of warm skin, and tells her, "Stay here, just for a mo', baby."

She does. She waits, patient despite the urge clawing within her to press herself into his touch, against his chest, to curl up small and be coddled, all while he gleans whatever he must from about the room, winding. It's all familiar — an electric water jug grinding, the sounds of tissues being culled, of soles of shoes padding over tile in ...power. God — the sound of his dress shoes over the ground is eroticism in and of itself.

And then he comes back to her — her Eros, and he draws soft, cool tissue that leaves wetness in its wake over her skin, and gives her soft praises all the while.

He helps her up onto achy legs with achy joints, and then he literally, physically picks her up, like she weighs nothing, which is also a turn on, in and of itself — if Isla had the strength, she'd squeak in response to the motion. He cradles her to him like he's her own, personal, deviant Prince Charming.

Harry sets her onto untainted, tucked sheets, running his palms over the sultry expanse of bare thighs before he settles his palms over her hip and physically manhandles her onto her tummy with a smooth movement and a squeezing press. Isla is gone. She is a puppet, a vessel, her mind a blip in a boundless sky of stars. His hands rove and roam, fondling down the ruddy backs of her thighs, slinking back up — one palm gloved, the opposite denuded. She could fall asleep, Isla decides, she could fall asleep, like this.

"Prop your hips up, darling," Harry tells her, patting at a hip and snapping her out of her daze, "Gotta take the toys out."

Isla clenches. Oh, she thinks, greeted with the pressure and the stretch she'd become well-accustomed to. Yeah. Vaguely, she's aware that those are still there, but her lack of care is far less vague. She doesn't want to move. Maybe, ever. The man seems to pick up on this, huffing with a cave up at the corners of his mouth, and he presses kisses up her thighs, then sets his palms back on her hips and drags her down over the edge of the mattress, just so she's forced to bend at an angle for him. He shimmies the lace over her hips, just enough to where they expose what he needs and rest just below the rounding of her flesh. His hands spread, and his fingers prod, and all Isla can really do is press her cheek against the sheets and sigh. The one at her core goes first. He tugs it out, slick with her arousal, and sets it aside.

The dominant pets over one of her cheeks and tells her, "Alright, just relax for me, baby."

Right — one more. She nuzzles her face into the comforter, screwing her eyes shut as his fingers prod and twist. He's quite careful with the plug as she tugs it out of her. Slow. But there's still that sensation of discomfort and she bears down on the emptiness. His mouth crooks and he presses his lips over a curve as a token of his affections, "All done."

Then, the man tugs the lace back up (haphazardly — back dimples and just a smidge below peek from the hem) and tells her, his inflection soft as warm, syrupy honey, "Scootch back up. Need to love on my sweet girl a bit."

Love on his girl a bit, he says. Her heart swoons dreamily. Isla can certainly go for some of that. With sluggish limbs she clambers and scoots, just until her ankle dangles off the bed and the opposite leg crooks and bends over the mattress. Harry knees his way onto the bed, settles just beside her, and buries a hand in her hair at the back of her scalp, the pads of his fingers scratching at her like one of those bizarre, short clips Isla stumbles upon scrolling through tiktok — the weirdly erotic massage videos (ads?) that definitely go against the community guidelines of the social platform. She'll scrutinize the videos, thinking, there's just no way this thing ends without a happy ending, off-camera. The chat logs always brim with phrases like, "if someone did this to me, I would simply fall in love."

And Isla kind of gets it now.

His opposite hand trails blunt nails delicately over her back, slipping beneath her tank. He's tender in his touches. It incites chills that crawl up her neck, over her shoulders, trails of goosebumps rising over her arms.

"I'm proud of you," he tells her, and the sincerity, the softness of his cadence nearly causes a fresh wave of tears to flow to the surface. Her mouth quivers, her cheek squished to the sheets as the dominant leans forward and speaks low against her ear, "You were so brave for me, weren't you? Always make me so happy. Always so good for me."

Her dreamy sigh coaxes the corners of his mouth to buckle, and he presses a kiss just behind the shell of her ear. Isla says something indecipherable, something small and garbled. He hums against her neck in question.

"Hold me," she clarifies, almost sounding a bit miffed that he's not already doing that.

Cushiony lips quirk, and his hand slides down the nape of her neck. He leans over her, pasting kisses down from her nape to the top of cropped elastic fabric, skimming past as his hands withdraw, and then lower, lower, lower, all down the line of her spine and just between the dimples in her back. His bare hand fondles her backside, and then he sits back, trailing the pad of his forefinger over a faint, little bloom of purple-y red amidst a sea of pink. His teeth marks have faded, but the love bite lingers, and Harry knows Isla will be able to admire it over the course of the week until they meet again. He imagines that she will.

"Mm. Okay. Sit up, then."

Move this way, move that way, do this, do that. What an overbearing load of requests, Isla thinks. Despite this, she does, as he slips off of the mattress and winds around to untuck corners of bed sheets. He throws a corner of the blanket over her as she slides over the bed, and then the mattress dips as he crawls over and settles beside her against the headboard. Isla crawls into his lap like the spot was made for her.

For a while, he just holds her. Smushes kisses to her hairline, swaddling her in the blanket and swallowing her up with his arms. He makes her nurse her little cup of water, and then drinks his own as she nestles her face into the nook between his neck and his shoulder. He whispers soft words until she starts to get back to him, until gravity starts pulling her down from the airy float that'd taken over her.

"You always surprise me," she tells him, finally, her cadence muffled against his collar.

"Hm?"

"When I came without permission, the first time," she lifts her head, casting her gaze onto his eyes, "You didn't punish me. But I thought you would."

Her pupils jolt to his mouth, it twitches in the parted slit of rubber. She watches it move as he talks. "You don't think that last bit was a punishment?" He tucks her hair behind her ear, and then leans in to nip at the same ear with his teeth. It evokes chills and she shudders, her shoulders scrunching up in the blanket.

"You told me it wasn't," Isla lifts a shoulder to bridle his playful nipping, smile blooming over her mouth. She meets a burst of air from him, soft and warm over her neck, traces of amusement. Harry sits back, his eyes wending over her face.

"Mm. I guess I did say that," then tacks on, only half-teasing, "Suppose I should still punish you for it, then, right?"

Isla sighs and digs her face into the smooth cotton of his shirt — he smirks, and adds, "Don't get ahead of yourself. I fully intend to."

The young woman groans and wriggles a hand out from the confines of the blanket to stick her fingers through a gap between buttons — to feel the warm skin of his chest against her fingertips. "You can't just—" her brows pinch together, "hang it over my head all week long. That's just ...mean."

"Oh," he raises his eyebrows, nudging with his chin as his arms tighten around her, "is it mean? Is it, really? Because, well, the way I understood it—"

"It is mean, yeah—"

"—you wanted me to be mean. Asked for it, in fact."

"Oh, is that what you recall?"

Lashes sweep as eyes blink, soft at the reference of the inside joke of sorts. His tongue sweeps out and glides over his strawberry lips, before he takes her bottom lip between the pad of his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, squeezing gently. She teeths at his thumb, playful.

"I'll be nice — won't hang it over your head all week long," and before she has time to voice her bemusement, Eros tells her, "M'gonna tell you to do something, and you're gonna do it. Easy enough?"

Slowly, Isla nods against his hand.

"Good. You can," he thumbs at her bottom lip, irises lingering on the motion, "stare at the pretty marks I've left. Think about me, all week long. About my hands," as if to make his point, the thumb delves past her teeth, resting on her tongue, "My cock. My voice," behind lace, Isla's lashes flutter. When her eyes settle open they meet his own, jade and intent, "And you're not to touch yourself, all week long. Not until I see you again, next Friday."

The next morning, Isla Cleery googles Harry Styles and pores through nearly every web page linked that the search engine has to offer.

She scrolls through linked-in, through forums of dashing headshots, through company pages. She finds his facebook. It's horrifically stalker-ish of her, but she can't help swiping through, her pupils flitting across words and columns of answers to typical ice breaker-esque questions — mentally drinking in every tidbit of insight she can. Things like February 1st, 1994 and Keller Simpson Realty. Friends, tagged photos. This page isn't much in use, she finds. There's promos and inklings of professional shoots for appearances, but there's not much to scroll through besides that — no candids in sand on the beach showcasing stretches of skin, no reckless tags of college party nights with embarrassing, blurred, drunken photoshoots from years prior. The latest post hasn't been updated in well over a couple of years.

And then, Isla Cleery hits a goldmine.

She finds his instagram.

She scrolls through @harrystyles, pupils flitting over headshots and ads with blocky, colorful phrases and lengthy captions, and she scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls. She finds old posts — selfies, pictures of tattoos, tags with friends. Long hair — what is this masterpiece, Isla thinks, eyes engorging. Further, further, further. Dimples, scenic views. One word captions with abstract photos of random details. She scrolls and scrolls. Isla does the unthinkable. She likes.

It's an accident. A horrific, mortifying mishap. The post is from 2013. Eyes widening, she frantically unlikes.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Isla blocks Harry Styles.

Isla breaks on a Monday night. It's pathetic, honestly – not even three full days, she makes it, before hungry fingers dig past the fabric of her underwear.

And the thing is, she wants to listen. She wants to be good for Eros. She wants to submit. But it's a ludicrous thing to request – for her to stave of her sexual desires for the entirety of the week, when all she's (nearly constantly) plagued by, are the thoughts of his hands sliding over her skin, of his voice in her ear, of ropes, and cuffs, and gloves, and zippers, and belt buckles. She spends Saturday admiring her marks. It's not an intentional venture – she'll catch sight of herself walking past a mirror, roaming about the house in a cheeky set of shorts and turn, just to be faced with the reminder; a patch of skin that stands out in shade, where he'd suckled and dug teeth in. On Sunday, she works over her laptop at her dining table, ogling the golden bangle manacled onto her wrist that beseeches in her peripherals. The charms brush with every motion of her wrist. On Monday, she goes to work, for once pleased to have a proper distraction. And even then, all she can think of, as she sits in her swivel-y office chair, is the thought of how sore she would be if she disobeyed his command. How, next week, she'd be squirming over the same seat she sits in now, as a consequence — and that only winds her up more.

She thinks of how good it would feel to just give in, how she'd finally be able to breathe and function if she were to just get off, how mean the dominant would be at the end of the week when she told him of her infraction.

That's how she finds herself sprawled over her bedsheets, gaze cast to the ceiling as her vibrator rumbles between her thighs as the TV blares in the background. It feels good — it feels so good, too good. But it's nothing compared to the touch of her Eros — to Harry whispering filthily against the shell of her ear, to Harry's touch gliding over her flesh. She sets the setting up a level and digs her short nails into her thigh to feel a burst of pain, imagining it's his hand, his nails.

It's not enough. Nothing is enough. She craves his voice against her eardrum, a velvet caress — even droning about something mundane, anything.

And it's — it's a spur of the moment decision, a frantic idea brought on by a brain that's mushy with lust, and lust only. She keeps the handle of the vibrator poised between her legs with one grip, and scrolls through her phone with the opposite. She finds his contact. Her thumb hovers. Isla makes a last minute decision, and tucks the phone to her ear.

The line rings. A click.

"Hello?"

Fuck. His voice, low and raspy through the line. 

"Hey!" Isla shifts over the sheets, her heart hammering and her voice overly chirpy, "Harry. This is Isla Cleery."

"Isla! Hi," his cadence is pleasant, and friendly, and warm, like it always is when they manage to interact outside of Indulge.

Her eyes screw shut, "Hi," and she moves again, the phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder, "Listen, I'm so sorry to be calling you so late but — ah," she hopes the TV blocks out the rumble of the vibrator between her legs, "So, you sent me this other property, and I wanted to — I wanted to see that one. The one on, Mul-Mulner, was it?"

"Mulnich," he supplies from the other end of the line.

"Yes, the, uh, the Mulnich property. I wanted to see that one. So," her tongue sticks out past her lips to swipe before she expands, "Can we set that up?"

A pause. A shuffle on the other end of the line.

"Sure. Yeah. Let me just check," another break in his dialogue. Her eyes squeeze shut and her hips grind over the toy, "Does Wednesday at two work for you?"

Isla grits her teeth, hopelessly on the wire, "Can't — can't. Wednesday, at two. Anything — can you do anything later? In the evening, maybe?"

There's a beat of silence in which she absolutely prays he's analyzing his schedule and not pondering suspiciously over the reasoning of her choppy, poorly concealed cadence.

"Yeah," the man responds after a moment of lull that, (combined with the rumbling of the toy, the risky nature of the situation, and her absolute gall), leaves her heart hammering behind her ribcage, "I can do ...five? If that works for you."

"Yes! Yeah," Isla clears her throat, hips canting in little motions over the wand. She gnaws into her lip and wills herself to have some form of restraint, "Five. Wednesday. Yes. So, I can — I can come?"

It's shitty wording. A poor excuse of a masked request. A beat of silence follows it.

"To see the property?" she tacks on, feeling a bit like her ribs are ready to crack open and barbarically part, as if she's sprawled on a medieval doctor's table amidst surgery — her heart's ready to burst, and it'll need an aisle, after all.

Another moment of toe-curling lull. Her thighs tremble.

"Yeah, yes. Of course," Harry returns from the other end of the line, voice rasped by tinny interventions from the phone line, and Isla bites into the back of her hand. It barely covers her moan of relief as the beginnings of the wave lick at her.

When it crests, only a short second later, the young woman can't garble her helpless, soft squeak, irises lolling back. She squeezes her eyes shut, hips canting, and whatever is said from the other end of the line just blends in with the television, the subdued buzz from the vibrator — enmeshing and morphing into frivolous, insignificant background noise. Once the wave ebbs, she tosses the vibrator to the side of her, and it rolls over the mattress. Her heart is racing, pumping, hammering as she breathes deeply, shifting her laxed muscles.

"Isla?"

Mortified, her eyes widen, and she frantically shuffles over the bed to shut off the toy, attempting to cover the noise with a cough. She feels like a — a horrible, filthy sexual deviant. Shame spirals through her veins as she plucks the phone back up off the sheets and says into the priorly discarded receiver, "Yes, sorry, I'm so sorry. God, I just saw the time — I'm sorry, it was so unprofessional of me to call so late. I hope I didn't—" she licks her lips as words fail her, and the batter of her heart only spurs at the silence (and honestly, the entire situation, as realization dawns upon her), "Thank you for taking my call. Wednesday at five. Have a good night."

Isla hangs up the phone before Harry can respond and buries her face in her hands.

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

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

[sasukesgucciflops]

Here I am back on my John Marston BS.

I pointed this out before ab how ppl loved calling John “watered down” but I’m also seeing people forget that he was also put on a very high fucking pedestal and had no idea how to handle it. In other words; he was the gifted kid who got burnt out after everyone expected everything from him. John never expected to be seen as such. He actually preferred to not be held to such a degree. I’m sick and tired of people feeding into the “John’s a golden boy” “John’s a piece of shit” narrative. Clearly these people have only seen RDR2 and have no clue about everything in RDR1 and yes I’m giving an attitude so y’all better catch it.

Here’s my John Marston character analysis and this is only about one aspect of him. (Wait until you see every other aspect bc I’ve literally dissected this man like a frog oops)

He never fucking asked for it. In fact, he didn’t expect jack shit from anybody. If anything, people used him. People used him up. You see it plainly in rdr1, he’s being used to hunt down his old partners. To find his old partners he’s gotta ask the sheriff, what does the sheriff do? He uses him to handle some lowlife gangs around the county. The sheriff ACCIDENTALLY—not even voluntarily—reveals someone that ends up somewhat helping him out. West Dickens—and what does he do? Uses him. Seth? Uses him. Travels over to another country, what do they do? USE HIM!

Okay, so rdr2—if you couldn’t get the picture already—John was one of Dutch’s MAIN PAWNS. That man raised John to USE HIM. John was young and had lots of energy and he was gullible enough to let Dutch do whatever with his naivety. The most fucked up thing about all of it, not only about how (almost) everyone saw him as a pawn, not as a genuine friend, saw him only for his uses;

John didn’t care. He knew he was being used but he didn’t care. Yes it bothers him and again he’s fully aware he’s being ran around in circles by all these people; it doesn’t matter. He sees himself as someone who is replaceable. He’s expendable. It’s whatever. He was always made to think this and perhaps he knew that it was his fate to be all used up and thrown out like it was nothing. And that’s what ended up happening.

No, he wasn’t a perfect father. He SHOULDVE done much much better about that. Just for that I let anti’s breathe a little because in Jack’s younger years, hell no John wasn’t a good father! John was in denial, busy trying to live up to his dreams of being someone he isn’t. On that note, John slowly realized that Abigail and Jack were probably the only ones that didn’t see him as a pawn; they just wanted him to be present and that causes him to do a 180. To him, it was worth dying for them. Maybe he felt as if he owed them a debt that could never be repayed—it’s almost like he expresses this to Jack a dozen different times. “I’m sorry, Son. I’m not going anywhere.” And “I know I wasn’t around a lot for you but I’m trying to make up for that”. He becomes viscerally aware of the damage of his absence (as he should) and it becomes something he fears he’ll never get to make up for.

Abigail never wanted to use him. She just wanted HIM. Jack—OF COURSE never wanted to use him, he wanted a FATHER. Honorable mention, but Arthur never saw him as a pawn either. In fact, he was well aware of how John was being treated, even mentioning it to him canonically, along the lines of, and I’m loosely quoting this, “At first you’ll be a prize pony until you become a work horse”. These people become so important to John—among others such as Bonnie, Charles, Sadie, even Uncle—because they never tried to use. him. John was more than expendable to them, he was worth something to them and for that he loved them and felt as if he would owe them for eternity.

I truly can’t believe some of y’all completely miss that whole point because it’s written EVERYWHERE it’s literally how John’s story goes and we experience it with him. His story is so fucking tragic and yes, while Arthur was the prime example of “having a doomed narrative from the start”, people don’t talk about how John is literally in the same boat. That man was always doomed, by his friends, the people he would try to call family—he was raised all the way up just to be put down…. THAT’S the story of John fucking Marston.

#sry Dutch Stan’s I didn’t even mean to shit on him like that I actually love y’all #I saw a post saying wild shit ab John and I just had to clear the air #John anti’s dni #number 1 John Marston defender and protector beside Arthur Morgan #john marston #rdr #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #text #character analysis

[makeitastrength]

Hi! Missing your fics and wondering if you wanna tease anything you've got coming soon?

Hey anon! Thanks so much for dropping by 😊

I didn't mean to go so long without posting but life has just been super busy lately. As usual, I have a bazillion and one WIPs I haven't managed to finish. I also have a fic I've been writing as I rewatch the series and it's basically a complete dissection of chenford's feelings for each other from 1x01 up through 4x22. It's been a fun challenge to write and it's turned into a 45k word monstrosity and it's finally almost done and I'm so excited to share it!

For now, here is a sneak peek from season 2.

Lucy is fine.

Despite what everyone else seems to think, she’s fine.

But deep down, she knows she’s not. She’s been white knuckling it since the moment they pulled out of the station yesterday, and she knows, despite her denials, that Harper and Lopez understand what happened last night. She knows she overreacted, and she knows that visceral instinct probably isn’t going away for a while.

And she really does appreciate Harper’s support and her willingness to help.

But the truth is, the first semblance of safety Lucy feels is when she turns around to find Tim standing behind her, tossing a compliment at her in a way that only he could pull off.

She thinks that’s the end of it, turns back to the bag, but then Tim is speaking again, telling her about his own scars and giving her a glimpse into a childhood she knows nothing about. And she knows what he’s trying to do, knows he’s trying to show her that he can relate to what she’s going through. She appreciates his attempts to help, too. She does. But his scars are different, and she doesn’t want to push him away, but she needs him to understand that it’s not the same.

She went on a date with a serial killer who tattooed her and buried her alive, and despite her psychology degree and months of training as a cop, she somehow missed all the signs that could have prevented her from ending up there in the first place. Instead, she now has a permanent reminder of her failure inked into her skin.

Lucy opens her mouth to fight back – to tell Tim that she appreciates his attempts to help but that he’s missing the point – but before she can he’s speaking again, and this time he’s saying everything she didn’t realize she needed to hear.

But you didn’t die.

I see it as proof that you’re a survivor.

It was the first day of the rest of your life.

And then he tosses her ring back to her and smiles softly, and Lucy is hit by so many emotions she can’t even begin to decipher them all.

Her feelings for Tim have gotten… complicated. She likes him. Not like that. Just… as a person.

But it’s more than that, because now he’s not just the guy she spends twelve hours a day with, sometimes navigating all kinds of complex and often dangerous situations and sometimes simply talking about any and everything. Now, he’s the guy who has her back without question. He’s the guy who is willing to share painful pieces of his own trauma just to help her come to terms with hers. He’s the guy who pulled her from the ground and breathed air back into her lungs and spent the night at her hospital bedside.

She owes him her life.

She owes him… everything.

And she’s not quite sure how to reconcile the man standing in front of her with the one who used to make her life a living hell in every possible way.

#anon ask #asked and answered #chenford #chenford fanfic #the rookie #sneak peek

[overtaken-stream]

Begging for more king the wildfire smut like groveling and sobbing

I'm tearing my hair out bc I have no motivation to do anything besides play genshin and lvl up Wanderer (I am still in Inazuma and had only one interaction with the said man). Also don't think too much about what readers going to wear after this bath, I have no idea. AND THANKS FOR 50 FOLLOWERS GUYS!🥹🥹🥹

Yandere!King The Wildfire x Reader Pt3

! !NSFW! !

Warnings: female reader, invasion of privacy, non-con, bathroom, grief(???).

EVERYTHING IS FICTIONAL! I don't support these actions IRL!

The water felt suffocating against your skin, it felt heavy with the remnants of your old isle, the home you'd grown up in nothing but ash at this point, stuck onto your garb long forgotten on the stainless vanity.

The claustrophobic feeling continued to claw up on your sides as you scrubbed your skin under the watchful eye of your captor, the sponge dug into you, leaving scratch marks in its wake, and the rough exterior failed to bring you the feeling of cleansing you desperately needed, the raw burn marks on the skin made you even more anxious in the face of a monster, who used the same instruments to ruthlessly mutilate the innocent lives, whether or not you knew them didn't matter, their soulless eyes that begged for help still followed you, who saw them every time you close your eyes.

He was the same, whether or not he was under the same roof, the walls had his eyes, his ears, and the haunting aura, even as he sat just a couple of feet away from you, outside the bathtub, his eyes pierced your defenseless self until you could feel every shift they'd make, over your hips, hair and back they'd travel, sizing you up while your hands shook under the warm and dirty water, how could he... How could he humiliate you to such an extent?

(you wish you had a power of some kind, to deny him and get out of his iron grip, let alone the entire ship. His eyes looked down on you as he pulled your stubborn body into the bathroom, with one command.

``Wash up.``

What words could get through a man, a creature that merciless?)

You flinched at every move from him, your every scrub and burn did not relieve the shame and guilt that came from your spare time thoughts, even as you bled from the scrubbing, your people had it worse, so why, why did he drag you into it? what did he drag you into. What could you have possibly done to get the attention of this beast? You already have an answer, Nothing.

The dense atmosphere clogged your thought processes as you sat in the water that lost its heat. Looking down at your reflection, he continued to monitor you. You hated him, you hated how he started at you like a creature whose existence he couldn't comprehend, eyeing you like an animal with an unknown glint swimming in his blood-colored eyes, almost like he was trying to dissect a metaphor set in stone.

You could only bite your moist lips and leave a crescent-shaped mark on your thighs while hearing his footsteps close the distance between your frames. The bubble of simple emotions sways beneath your skin, shaking your resolve under his shadow.

Fright, alarm, loathing, it all made you quiver.

His hand, free of his leather glove, bothers with slow and sensual touches across the canvas that you are, his silhouette is visible in the discolored water, despite not coming into it himself, and that's the last sight you see before shutting your eyes.

You can't stop his arm, long and muscular from years of experience trailing over your ribs and down your belly, into the water, Despite your knees and hands trying to push against it in vain, the limb proceeds to slither without any obstacles until it meets its destination.

Your grip loses its strength, clinging onto his muscle as you drop your head, letting your hair hide you from his unwavering gaze, Your blood boils, yet you take your anger out on your bottom lip.

His thumb hovers over your nether region, pregnant pause from him falls upon you. Has he finally decided to stop his intolerable actions against you?

The thought gets relinquished as soon as he eagerly entangles his fingers with your sex, an unexpected action leaving you breathless as he digs and digs and digs.

Your back arches off of him, trembling knees trying to find leverage as your hands once again tighten around him, though you don't open your eyes, you can almost feel the glare, an unknown emotion rolling off of him in thick waves. Your teeth aren't enough to muffle the groans and panting that escape your bloodied lips.

He rubs and rubs, fast and slow in no particular rhythm, thumb pressing against your clit, he places a pressure you were never able to on that bundle of nerves, before kneading, hard. Whimpers bounce off of the walls as your body shakes. It hates.

His fingers spread your rose apart and you've never felt more caged. More helpless and disgusted with yourself.

The tears slide down your cheeks, combining with the blood gushing out of the bitten lip and it trickles down towards the reflection of the water.

Your body contracts with the pleasure, closed eyes rolling back into your skull as your mouth hangs open, a wave of pleasure leaves you helpless, taking away the shame before it dwindles and handles the pain like a weapon, slamming into you full force as soon as his heat leaves your back, hand now out of water.

You close your knees, the tears flow like a waterfall across your face, wails that don't leave you shake your body in quiet prayer. You're scared to open your eyes. Scared to see the revolted faces of the deceased staring back at you, spewing words of shame you surely deserve.

His footsteps fade, yet his absence goes unnoticed.

#Yandere!King AU #one piece #anime #king one piece #king the wildfire #one piece x reader #yandere x reader #king the wildfire x reader #king the conflagration #.my writing. #yandere x you #yandere x y/n

[acourtofserpents]

Rambling ahead about Humans and Fae and their nature, please be warned it's messy and very pure stream of consciousness-y.

It's interesting that for Fae, humans are fleeting fancies with short lives but... humans are the same for each other too.

Like, as a species, we are obsessed with liminal spaces, of lines that cross once and never again, we are always aware of our mortality, we have deities and religions and intellectual movements dedicated to the concept of time and crossroads and liminality and meaning of life, we build, destroy and rebuild border and kingdoms and countries and inventions, we invented obsolescence, we have fleeting fancies, we have crushes, we marry, divorce, remarry, we can disappear from a previous life and go start a new one elsewhere, we have relationships that always hang in the middle...

Humans are more like Fae than they would think. Yet in a way, I find the former more resilient and unique.

If anything, Caerus is the living proof of how FRAGILE the Fae is. He gets dumped and he immediately loses all sight of logic and morality, succumbing completely to his emotions. He attempts to justify this moment of weakness with tradition and nature, but who is he trying to fool. Even to this day, he is stuck in that moment, he cannot let go of the "betrayal".

When you can compare him to MC's mother who saw how she was being treated and said, no, I refuse. I will not stay where I am mistreated despite all my efforts. And she escapes. She sees nothing wrong with that— she knows love existed but it's not enough, it's not worth the withering of her soul. She rebuilds her life. She finds love again. She forms a family. She finds happiness and meaning to her life. She is no longer consumed by the thoughts of Caerus. He was a moment in her life— lovely and horrible, and it passed.

Of course, humans commit atrocities at the event of a broken heart too, but such things are rare in the grand scheme of everything, and they require certain defects to pre-exist to come to where they are in the first place. When our heart is broken, we cry, rage, wallow... then we get up because "more fish in the sea!" We get support by friends and family, we have books for comfort and understanding— every moment of the human life is liminal.

In a way, I can understand why the Fae are so fascinated and disgusted by the Humans— because they have all that magic and long agespan and riches beyond belief, but humans don't, yet they drive far richer and more colorful lives than they do. Humans find meaning in everything they look and dissect, they get knocked down and they get up, they leave marks with or without meaning to, they can forget and move on. They can heal.

I dunno, man. Human vs Fae in fiction is fascinating to think when you (as in, general, not specifically you the writer) constantly portray the Fae as hedonistic creatures bound to their nature and rules and consumed by moments past, and that's what Humans not only are not, but actively rebel against such bonds, even if we know we might not be there to enjoy the fruits of our labour, but at least the ones after us will.

“He was a moment in her life— lovely and horrible, and it passed.”

#i will never recover from this #i want to tattoo this on my forehead #what a beautiful and interesting way to think about it!!!! #and i definitely agree!!! #you put it so beautifully #no because i can tell you’re rlly smart just by this analysis alone #thank you so much for sharing with us!!! #please let me pick your brain #what #who said that #not me #thank you for the ask <3 #asks #a court of serpents #acos #venus rambles

[a-la-campanella]

Finally got a chance to watch Ruan Mei's Myriad Celestia trailer! What a beautiful video. I hope I win my 50/50 while pulling for her.

A few thoughts:

She says "plum blossoms (梅花) bloom and wither", and I can't help but think of the double meaning where the plum blossoms would refer to her, Ruan Mei (阮梅). In her eyes, life is transient and to live is to be lonely... though the way I see it, that's part of what makes life so beautiful. It's what you make out of life that makes your life meaningful.

We all saw the connections to Shuhu, or if not Shuhu then at least some other kind of abomination of the Abundance on "No Man's Land" right? That is undoubtedly a reference.

Other people have already pointed out that these look like Blade's eyes, and it's pretty well established among people that Mihoyo/Hoyoverse does not play around with stuff like coincidences. It's definitely intentional, and there's absolutely a connection.

The design reminds me of the eyes from the Herrscher of the Void in Honkai Impact 3rd, though I don't know enough about that game or its lore to comment anything else there.

"I understood the vastness of the universe too early[...] birth, growth, death... lamenting the process of life is the origin of my thinking." A lot to unpack here.

More importantly to me, I get where she's coming from. Her train of thought follows, if life is meant to die anyways, what's the point of existing/living? It's too hard to comprehend. There's no simple answer for something like that, and people dedicate their lives to finding answers or making satisfactory responses of their own.

The "pure" thing she's trying to achieve, the "fundamental" research she's looking for, the "mysteries of the universe" and "deeper answers"... it's likely something above the realm of life and beyond the laws of nature, born out of her laments.

It becomes quickly obvious that Ruan Mei's research is investigating the Abundance Propagation, especially given her interest in biological sciences.

"It is born of wonder, does not resist, and does not grieve." Is... is she talking about the fucking critters? My bet's on "it" being kind of artificial life-form, and the critters are the only thing I can think of right now that's relevant to her character and what we know about the next update.

In quotes: "It asked me... where does the research end...?" Why is the "it asked me" part quoted too in the subtitles? Is this going to be a line in a quest? Regardless, Ruan Mei's pursuit of that which transcends mortal bounds is... probably where her research will end. Depends on if she'll ever make it that far, who knows?

In pointing out the color in life then saying "it has nothing to do with me", she establishes distance between herself and her mortality. Which. I mean. When you live in a universe where what must have been long thought to be impossible has become probable, and an individual can outlive the rise and fall of civilizations, I guess she's not wrong. She could be effectively immortal if she wanted to; think of her colleagues, Herta and Screwllum. But that's such a sad way to look at life, detaching yourself from caring at all... nothing to lose, nothing to gain, so she says. What an objective approach to everything. No care for the details at all.

The part I think that caught the most attention: "dissect Remembrance, control Equilibrium, deconstruct Beauty, and reproduce Permanence" via manipulation of life. A lot to say here too, but I can workshop that in another post.

Obviously, these refer to the various Aeons, in order being Fuli, HooH, Idrila, and Long, the latter two of which are dead.

The subtitles censor the word, but it's rather clear she says "perhaps I, too, can become an Aeon". At least, it's clearly heard in the English version.

In the Chinese video what I ended up hearing was "成为星" (literally means become a star) but the subtitles say "成为██", which indicates she actually meant to say something else and is missing a second character. Aeon in Chinese is 星神 (star god), so it's more likely than not that the word she said here is Aeon.

I don't even know with the Japanese dub, man. I turned on subtitles and saw the ██, but thought I heard 「イーオン」 (aeon, but with a Japanese accent). I don't play in Japanese dub so I have no clue if they say 星神 as Aeon read with katakana or as the way it's intended to be pronounced in Japanese.

I'm of the opinion that Ruan Mei doesn't actively want to be an Aeon. To begin with, her interests don't have to do with ascending to the position of one anyways, but rather, being an Aeon brings her a step closer to what she actually wants to achieve: finding the secrets within the universe. She can work towards that goal even without becoming an Aeon.

She points out that children behave better when given rewards, and at the end of the video mentions she'll reward her "assistant"/the Trailblazer. I get where she's coming from, but that is such wild whiplash to end on.

Great video, 10/10, would watch again. I did. In three of the four languages the video was officially released in... I don't understand Korean. The people casted for her voice did a fantastic job. Looking forward to seeing her soon, and good luck to everyone pulling!

#honkai: star rail #hsr #recall and retrieve #ruan mei #love her but fell in love again #this video does a good job at highlighting the charm of her chatacter #awaiting the next update and her release! #put the read more thingy there to make scrolling easier #for the people who don't wanna deal with annoying long posts

[crowncrown]

MORE GENLOSS BRAINROT LETS GOOO

!!!MAJOR SPOILER WARNING!!!

Generation loss’s ending is so incredible I can not STAND IT OH MY GOD I need to write out my thoughts before my brain explodes because I haven’t been able to think about anything else since.

The first episode was an absolute curveball to everyone who’s been keeping up with the spooky ranmail and everything and I’m not gonna lie I was a little nervous about what this show was really gonna be when I was watching it. But the thought process it took behind every detail to make something so goofy actually be horrifying once you understand the context of the next two episodes WAS BRILLIANT. Every piece of the puzzle just adds more and more to the storyline and it makes me want to dissect every detail of the vods for hours.

But I think the most bone chilling part of this-very intentionally I must add- is the final sequence. We witness every one of the characters sacrifice themselves for GL!Ranboo and GL!Slime isn’t any different spending his last breaths being killed by the wire creature (for lack of better words) to make sure Ranboo hits the finish line. But as soon as you feel any level of triumph you realize that Slime is just like Sneeg in the episode before sacrificing himself to ensure the show goes on.

Because it was never about the hero.

Ranboo isn’t special. He’s just another pawn in the game with the illusion of being the protagonist to make it more interesting for the desensitized viewers watching these people die over and over.

He was never meant to win.

And then that leads to us.

The audience.

Given the illusion of choice.

Do you publicly execute this man? Or do you let him live to be tortured the rest of his miserable existence until he is inevitably killed by Showfall for breaking the rules. If you spare him, is it a fate worse than death? We fight with this moral dilemma, trying to decide if it’s our decision whether people live or die.

But he’s a murderer! He killed people and showed no remorse! Showfall metaphorically whispers in our ear that he earned this fate for the terrible actions he committed. But was it him? Did he have any control over the actions he committed throughout the show or is he a victim?

He begins begging to be let go. To just escape from this snare he never asked to be trapped in the first place. The audience heavily leans towards letting him live because maybe being alive in this horrible show is better than the execution. But he knows that was never an option for him. He watches as a cartoony figure jokes about his demise and a audience poll decides his fate. And in that moment he realizes his choices were never his own.

So he gives up.

Begs to just be put down because being part of the cast means he will hurt more and more people the way he’s been hurt. That he will be the cause of more and more pain, and very likely more murderers.

And the audience decides death is the best route for him to take.

Maybe he died believing this is his fault. That the audience decided he should be dead for the horrific things he chose to do. But did he ever really choose?

His story was a tragedy before he could even pick up the pen.

And then there’s Showfall. Once again the ever present voice in our ear. Whispering that we are just the same as he is.

You just chose to murder a man. Is that not any different than him killing the innocent to progress in this game? Showfall now has the audience in the same grip as the man in the guillotine.

Your story as an audience is a tragedy long before you will ever pick up the pen.

#crown drabbles:) #genloss brainrot #genloss #generation loss #ranboolive #looking way too deep into things because it’s late at night #Ranboolive is rotting my brain