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sharionpage · 7 years ago

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The Art of Failure: If You Don’t Fail, You Won’t Learn Anything

The Self Improvement Blog | Self Esteem | Self Confidence

It’s strange to me how afraid of failure we are as a society. It is almost uniformly seen as something bad. To fail, the idea seems to be, is to fall short, not succeed, desert or let down. Very rarely do we hear about how failure can be an opportunity to learn, grow or understand. And that’s a real shame because as a result, we have created a culture where we askew even trying. For it is better not to try than to fail when you do.

This has infected all parts of our society, from our schools on upwards. That’s terrible, as at school is when our children should try to fail as much as possible. After all, they might succeed at some pretty outrageous things as they do so.

Also in our working life, there are plenty of examples of people who are so afraid of failing that they end up being failures – never having left their comfort zone, never having tried anything different. And that while failure has so much to offer!

A freelancing friend of mine has set it as her goal to get a rejection a week. This has entirely changed her frame of reference. No longer is failure something to be feared, but instead, it’s something she has embraced. And the best part? As she works so hard to send out enough applications to actually get rejected that often, she actually gets her work accepted plenty of times as well. As a result, she’s far more successful than most of the freelancers I know who follow a more regular strategy. That, right there, is the power of reimagining failure and seeing it as a stepping stone to success.

The road to success

Life isn’t easy and there are almost no shortcuts to success. In fact, this idea that there are people who are famous overnight turns out to be a myth. The reason is simple – for while you might claim the spotlight for a little while – how can you keep it if you don’t actually have anything that sets you apart from the world at large? Despite this idea that we can become famous with little or no skill, the truth is that this isn’t really fame. It’s only a flash in a pan.

Those people who do end up getting lasting fame or lasting success, on the other hand, often have made skill and have been slaving away, trying new things and – yes – failing in near obscurity for a very long time. But we don’t really hear that much about that as we only hear about them when they are suddenly catapulted into the spotlight. We don’t find out about the life before their fame, or when we do we reimagine it as an inevitable journey, whereby they must have deep down always known they were going to be successful, so their failures weren’t really that. They were just preparatory lessons. We even have a name for that. In psychology, we call it ‘hindsight bias’.

But of course, it doesn’t work like that. Yes, it’s easy to see the hand of inevitability when the journey is done. But when you’re there, in the middle of it, you don’t know where your tries will end up. Failure then feels like a failure for everybody else – like you tried something that didn’t work.

Then, suddenly, somewhere down the road something you tried works or – more often – something that you thought was a failure at the time turns out to have just taken longer than you expected.

And overnight, you’re successful. You turn from an unnamed writer to somebody who works for Buy Prof Essays or your business gets the attention it deserves, or you get to act in a film, or whatever else your dream may be.

It takes a few tries

Interestingly, there are people who are aware of the power of failure. Very often, if you’re trying to get money for an investment, the investors will look at what other things you’ve done in life. Sure, successes will impress them, but often failures will as well. Because ultimately somebody that’s dealt with failure is more valuable than somebody who hasn’t dealt with anything at all.

After all, every career is a rollercoaster where things go up and down and take all sorts of unexpected turns. If you’re going to give money to somebody, then you want them to be capable of dealing with those swerves and curves. Now, success isn’t that hard to cope with. Most of us can manage that. But failures? Those are the tough ones. They’re the moments when you need to see that somebody can pick themselves back up again and turn the situation around.

Somebody that has a few failures under their belt is far more likely to be able to do that than somebody who has always played it safe. After all, every time you fail you’ll (hopefully) say, ‘okay, we shouldn’t try that again’ or ‘maybe we should have done that differently’.

So what is the difference between failing and being a failure?

As I’ve already pointed out, those who don’t try are more likely to be failures than those who do. So that’s one way that you can end up being a failure – don’t even take a shot. Are there any other ways to end up a failure?

There sure are. You can fail and be a failure if you refuse to learn the lesson you should. And how do you know you’re not learning that lesson? Because you keep making the same mistake. Does the same thing keep happening to you over and over again? Do you make enough money but not have enough at the end of the month? Do you keep sending out mix tapes but never get a response? Or do you keep ending up with partners who are bad news?

Well, now you’re on the road to being a failure. Of course, you can still turn things around. All you need to do is learn the lesson that’s in front of you. What is that lesson? Do things differently, of course. Because that’s what failing teaches us better than all – what we’re doing wrong and should do better the next time.

And if we can keep doing that over and over again, then eventually somebody will say of our lives ‘well, that they were going to be a success was inevitable’.

About the Author

Jeannette Hooten is a content writer at BuyProfEssays.com, a private English tutor, and an avid reader of news and literature. She helps students to stay motivated, be more productive and complete their writing tasks. Jeannette frequently speaks and writes about education, lifestyle, mindfulness, motivation and productivity tips.

The Art of Failure: If You Don’t Fail, You Won’t Learn Anything published first on http://ift.tt/2wQcX5G

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chrism02 · 2 years ago

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Hello friend!

If I may request some fics…

- More Oswald

- More Robert Aldrich

- More Harding Hooten

- More Ricardo Morales

- More Otto Octavius

- More Harold Lindsey-Jones

- More Chandler Manning

All smut, all delicious, all ruining my knickers.

Pls thx heart eye emoji xoxoxoxo <3

Tag list: @purplelupins @eroticaplush @unitedfandomsoftheworld

@reuripotte @overlookedfile @randomfandomtrash28 @littlethief78

@belladonnaaura @wolfe171 @movieexpert1978 @yesalwayswelles

@jembug28 @iobsessoverfictionalmen @benedicttcumberbabe

@whateverthecostner @redlektor

@imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky

Tag for Oswald: @lovesick-on-the-loose

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chrism02 · 1 year ago

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May I make a suggestion? Would you write about a female version of Stephen Strange with Harding Hooten? I was thinking a fem! Strange, a complete idiot and super arrogant and obviously doesn't get along with Harding, but that all changes when she gets into the car accident that damages her hands. This is suggestion, feel free to reject it. Hope you are having a great day!

Tag list: @purplelupins @eroticaplush @unitedfandomsoftheworld

@reuripotte @overlookedfile @randomfandomtrash28 @littlethief78

@belladonnaaura @wolfe171 @movieexpert1978 @yesalwayswelles

@jembug28 @iobsessoverfictionalmen @benedicttcumberbabe

@whateverthecostner @redlektor

@imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky

#alfred molina #harding hooten #dr. harding hooten #harding hooten x reader #monday mornings

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writingsofhubris-a · 2 years ago

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And all I can do is pour some tea for two

[AO3] Rating: Explicit WC: 5362 Tags: Wax Play, Rope Bondage, Japanese Rope Bondage, Rope Suspension, Knifeplay, Food Kink, Porn with Feelings, Cameras, erotic art Fandom: Monday Mornings Ship: Harding Hooten/Reader Disc: Hel oves Art in all forms, right? Why wouldn't he love suspension? Beta'ed by the wonderful @weenis-beenis and plotted with the amazing @chopstickpizza THank you for your help, dears <3

Harding Hooten had well earned his right to your trust at this point. He was half convinced if he asked you to perform a burn excision with only his words to guide your movements, you would be on par with the day you’d first left Chelsea; you would do so with efficiency and with minimal questions. Harding knew that as much as you were ensnared in his webbing, you had snared him. The years of separation had only cemented one fact to the surgeon; he had missed his chance when you emailed your resignation in. He'd long since accepted your loss to the unit; your skills had rivalled even Dr Wilson, though few people would have dared to tarnish the other doctor's ego like that. No, the truth was found in whispered comments in the halls during consults.

Harding still remembered walking down a hall one day, just to hear your name spoken around the corner.

"...would manage to retain the brain function Ty would overlook. And the patient will never trust Ty as much…" the conversation floated away as the doctors began walking. His heart still swelled when he thought of the accidental eavesdrop. They'd be correct, and when you were asked to perform the surgery, you managed a flawless no shave operation. The patient had even dared to ask Hooten if he could be released early, as he claimed to feel better than ever. Despite even Harding's assessment, the patient stayed for a few more days.

Harding reached his fingers out, and took hold of the rod your arms were tied to. Your body stopped spinning, and you could feel his eyes on your body, almost akin to his fingers drifting over your body. It was physical, despite no skin meeting his. The hitch of breath that fell from your lips echoed in the silent room. You were entirely on display for only him. Tied over your table, he had a perfect view of your entire nude body, scars and all.

It'd taken Harding slightly longer than normal to ensure the ties wrapped around your body, knots that rested neatly against your skin. You were trussed up for him, arms wrapped over a thick, smooth, straight wooden length. Ropes crossed your back in complicated patterns, spreading the support of the ropes over your body. Your chest was left as free as Harding could manage, but your shoulders held crossings of knots.

He'd taken great care with your thighs, binding your calves to thighs, disallowing any attempt for movement. Your legs were the highest part of your body, spread to frame your pussy, in full view. You didn't know how much space was between your head and the table, the blindfold cutting off most of your vision, and the dim light from the candles unable to leak through the edges. You were entirely at Harding's mercy, not that you minded one bit.

His rule was simple. Once he hoisted you around, the only reason the rods could touch the table was to help turn yourself for his viewing. If they rested too long, you would receive a punishment. One rule, that was it. You'd agreed; still on your back and spread, waiting for him to attach the final ropes to you, and pull you to the ceiling.

Harding returned with a fragrant plate of food, before he decided to hoist you. And you had been spinning since. Slow, silently, with only your slow breathing to mark the revolutions. Every twenty breaths, your rod would tap against the hardwood of your table, a quick reminder before they straightened once more, level with the wood for Harding to watch.

And watch Harding did. He was silent, other than the soft slumps of water, interspersed with his own tap of metal fork against ceramic plate.

It was delicate, soft tapping from you both, starting a comforting rhythm to lose yourself to.

Harding stood almost silently. At this point, you were hyper aware of any change in your surroundings, and his taps against the floor were in a cadence he'd used for years.

"Open." The order threw you for a loop, trying to remember what words were, and what they did.

Your lips opened for him, tongue sticking out and pressing against your chin, wide as you could spread. A small piece of strawberry was placed in your mouth, his finger trailing over your top lip. "Close."

The flavor pulled a soft moan from you, texture just right. Then, he started slowly spinning you, watching your body in the dim light again.

The rhythm changed.

19 breaths, Harding's fingers pressed between your lips, a tap of the rod your arms were tied to. He'd shock you on some of the refrains, pressing a kiss to your cheek, arm, lips, anywhere he could manage to throw off your counting. Morsels of fresh fruits, deep chocolates, each were pressed into your surprised, waiting mouth. Even at one point, Harding urged your mouth open with his fingers, only to seal your lips together, a taste of wine flooding into your mouth. Not nearly enough to need to swallow, just a mixture of dry wine and Harding's saliva coating your mouth.

When Harding pulled away, he was greeted at last with your first break; a long whine and an attempt to arch against the suspension.

"H..Harding…"

"No." His voice was resolute. No argument would be allowed, even as you squirmed for seconds more. As soon as you settled, his hand moved to your throat, warm fingers ran over the hard cartilage of your throat. "Colour?"

"Green." He was proud of how breathy your voice sounded. He'd already wrecked you, and all he'd done was kiss you a handful of times, and play with your tongue when he fed you.

"Needy. You need to understand what patience entails, pet. When we get too excited, too eager to run before we walk…" and the truth behind his hand was revealed. His hand grasped down and cut off any air that you could have pulled into your chest. "We stumble." The only sound was crackling candles and choked gasps. "We loosen ourselves from established patterns, and open ourselves up to mistakes. What did you forget?" His hand released your neck, just to stroke it gently. Your mind raced in fear before you realised. Your arms jerked to steady the pole once again, tapped down onto the table top in the midst of your begging.

"Keep them level," you whispered, trying to press your face against his arm, a contort of your neck that strained the muscle.

"Keep the pole level. Did you?"

"No, sir." His middle finger stroked up your pulse point just then, and you knew he was counting each beat against the pad of his finger.

"Continue, pet." And continue you did.

The rhythm changed.

20 breaths. In and out, and a tap on the 20th exhale.

The water in the kitchen started to run, the distinct click of dishes being cleaned. You didn't try to keep track of how long he was in there, instead focused on your twenty breaths, and the tug of the ropes against your body.

Harding was quiet when he returned. You didn't realise that he had even finished cleaning his dishes when you felt a sudden, hot pouring of liquid over your sternum. The hot liquid didn't run off like water, instead cooling slowly on your skin. It wasn't hot enough to be painful, but the liquid congealed against your skin and didn't budge.

Wax. Drips from a candle fell, high enough to only sound menacing. It wasn't overly hot yet, just a warm sensation that reminded you of how Harding would tap your skin to get your attention during scenes.

The trails of fire only began on your chest, though. You could never accurately guess what Harding was planning on doing at any given moment during a scene, his movements quick and assured.

The rhythm changed.

A few drops of wax would fall from Harding's fingers, only to feel his fingers run through the wax, taking his time to draw something onto the thin skin of your stomach, patterns and lines appearing and disappearing from your mind before you could realise them. Harding was sure in each swipe, sure in each movement, sure in just how to tease each spot on your body.

From his own view, it was a poor attempt at beauty. Nothing could ever hope to match your skill, your own innate beauty both from your hands or what was in the mirror. No, Harding knew better than to try and find a perfect recreation of the newest painting you'd just unveiled, but an impressionist imitation could be feasible. Simple colours swirled just so, wax replacing pigments, sure finger replacing brush, canvas of skin instead of fabric. A work of art, painted with wax on your stomach, offering the reasoning behind the way he had you tied. A perfectly angled canvas to allow the wax to drift from your belly button down towards your collar bone. Colours mixed and matched, swirled by his fingers.

He let one of the taper candles dip close to the pools of wax, melting a small portion and sending a small shock of heat through your sternum. A softer heat pressed near your hip, and you cried out, trying to curl despite the ropes.

You felt his hands on the outside of your elbows, holding onto the extended joint. His thumbs worked into the small area between elbow, rope, and pole, resting and stabilising you. Harding's hands didn't shake, didn't falter as he guided your left arm down, allowing the tip of the pole to rest against the table. His left hand slid from your elbow back to your neck, trailing his fingers over the skin he'd so recently grabbed tight. Or perhaps it had been a half hour since then. At this point, time didn't mean anything to you, and hadn't since you lost your weight to the ropes.

"New rule." Harding’s voice was deep, gravely from the disuse during dinner. "No lifting the rod. Do you understand?" You nodded, his hand squeezing for just a second against your neck, before smoothing both hands over your shoulders, to your back, and up your thighs. The movement rang through your body like the peels of a bell.

And then, his hands were entirely gone from your body. Suspended, held still by the pole, and now you weren't even able to count the rhythm anymore.

Harding let his fingers slip between your folds, though he didn't deign to flick against your clit. You might have chalked it up to the angle, until you realised his fingers were circulating just a centimetre around it. He refused to offer you that touch of pleasure. Harding knew exactly where you wanted his fingers, and refused you the barest bit of pleasure.

He was playing with your body, bringing you the most frustrating sensations he could possibly manage. You tried to tilt your hips closer, so his finger slipped, but he was too sure on his skills. The warm digit explored each crevice, before a new sensation started; ice, placed directly on the hood of your clit, freezing and nearly painful. But a pulse of pleasure shot from the connection of his fingers.

The ice wasn't stationary, manipulated to slide over your thigh. You lost track of the ice, simply enjoying the feel of cool against your skin. It moved over spots that previously had felt too hot, spots that now chilled, heat leeched from your body. He was playing with you, nearly toying with you, trying to get your sounds to ring too loudly in the dining room.

Heat and cold started to alternate on your body, splashes of wax falling into rivulets over the ropes wrapped around your calves and thighs, ice trailed after a splash of wax on the bottom of your stomach; it turned the wax brittle effectively, and tugged lightly at the hair on your stomach. It was just a taste of pain, just a suggestion of what he could do.

Harding’s hand finally pulled away, leaving the thin sliver of ice cube rested against your clit. It was cold, much colder than you'd expected to feel tonight.

"Do not let that drop. Be a good pet, and hold it just there." The command was soft, a demand that asked for your submission. Another cube of ice once again found the wax on your lower stomach, and when it ran over your skin, you were proud of the fact you didn't jerk at the unexpected sensation.

That pride disappeared moments later, when the heat from your pussy finally finished melting the ice.

Harding could tell the exact moment the melted ice ran between your folds. He saw your thighs shake, you pussy clench down, and the sliver of ice that was left clattered to the table. Everything stopped; the ice in his hand, the heat from the candles, your breathing. Nothing moved. It wasn’t until Harding’s palm rested on your hip, and his first two fingers tapped three times on your hip that you allowed your lungs to expand again, pulling in the air harshly. It was noisy, messy, and you whimpered when the air escaped again.

“You almost managed, pet. So very close to meeting my expectations, but you fell short.” The words rang right through you, finding a grip and refusing to let you go. Shame echoed deep, and you were glad the blindfold was able to catch the tear that slipped out.

Your whimpers turned to a shout, next. All at once, everything seemed to be thrown into motion. The air, too cold, your breathing, almost too fast, but most importantly, wax poured directly onto your nipple, a sharp spring of pain. Your back tried to arch, to pull away from the pain, but it was futile. The patter of dripping wax was consistent, a painful, hot punishment.

Your other nipple was offered the same treatment, dripped and collected on the bud, trying to cover every sensitive inch. Your skin was sensitive to each droplet, needing the ice to press against your skin and soothe the ache the wax created.

Instead, you only received a repeat of the treatment, but it felt even hotter this time. He was your comfort, and you desperately wanted to arch into him, to press your face against his chest, his stomach, even his lap to find some kind of comfort in him. First and foremost, he would be your comfort. You weren’t sure just where he was standing, and trying to arch into him would be futile. Your only attempted offering was whines that almost sounded like Harding’s name, almost sounded like pleas.

Harding took pity on you at last.

The wax started to drip onto the underside of your breasts, a sensitive spot still open for his eyes. The shell of wax from earlier finally was extended to the wax covering your nipples, hiding your body from the air.

The last drop of wax was finished with a pass of an ice cube, trailing over the edges of the wax. The wet line trailed over your sides, pressing quickly against skin uncovered for his view. Harding lent forward, and blew a stream of air over one of the trails. A kiss was pressed to the skin, comfort in that second that was needed more than breathing.

Another whine, and his strong, cold, and slightly damp, fingers found their way between your legs, once again playing with your folds, exploring and nearly massaging. He knew how to play with the need that almost felt like a monster between your legs. You were lucky enough this time; Harding’s pity seemed to extend to your needy hole, slipping two fingers into you immediately.

“You’ve been very good for me, sweetheart.” Those fingers are slowly working into you, slipping open and trying to spread. “Loud, begging for me… You’re desperate and that’s no way to see you.” A sharp push into you, stretched around his fingers. “Can you say that? Can you say you’ve been a good slut for me?” The question took a few moments for you to figure out, enough time for Harding to slip another finger into you, spreading you and making it even harder to think.

“I’ve been a good slut for you, Sir,” you whispered, thrashing as much as you could in those moments. The rod tapped on the table, giving you away before you could’ve even tried to not. Harding’s fingers slipped out of you with a soft tsk.

“Open, pet.” Harding’s fingers were again in your mouth, and whilst strawberries had been on his fingers before, all you could taste was your own wetness. No more natural sugars, only the taste that Harding swore was better than the nectre of the gods. You did just what he’d wished; licked between each finger, cleaning and swirling your tongue as much as you could.

Harding’s fingers pulled out of your mouth, even when your teeth tried to catch his fingers with a small bite. You knew better than to bite hard, and keep him caught. It was only enough to try and keep him close. His fingers found themselves back between your legs again, pulling your lust back to the centre of your attention. A sudden wave of pleasure, entirely unexpected, ran over you. All it took was Harding’s fingers to slip into you, thumb still on the sensitive bud, and you were clenching around him, a sudden orgasm that left your thighs trembling.

His fingers worked you through the pleasure, allowed you the needed come down from the unexpected orgasm, before his heat entirely disappeared. His footsteps were too quiet to place, Harding was simply too prepared to be able to be found out. The silence settled into the room around your breathing, a cocoon of security.

Until the click of a camera shutter reached your ears, the whir of a photo printed immediately and the tap of the photo being set down on the table.

“Though you are the one skilled with a brush, I do tend to know something about art as well.” Another click, this time you could place it to the head of the table, where he had been sat. Another click, from behind you. “I’ve never questioned your skills as an artist, from the first moment I saw your work in an exhibition. Of the names I had been expecting, I didn’t ever expect yours to be on the wall. It spoke for you, clearly from you, in ways I had never been able to see before. It showed sides of you that I didn’t realise existed, ones that were so explicit to who you are, I didn’t believe that I had ever missed such elements to your person.” You heard the click of a shutter again. “Once you left Chelsea, I accepted my mistake; I’d let you go without even an effort at keeping you here.” Click. “It was fortuitous to me that Scott forwarded me an email in regards to an art exhibit. An art exhibit to celebrate an artist who’s name I hadn’t seen in… How many years was it?” The math rang through your mind in a flash, faster than you’d normally manage it.

“Ten.” Your voice was cracked, disuse clear in the effort.

“Ten years, pet.” You heard the squeaky floorboard press down as he walked closer. “I went ten years without seeing your name, just to receive an email.” You felt his fingertips press against a clean spot of skin, between two ropes. He took a short pause, just to admire the way his hand looked on your body. His other hand moved to your hip, open palm resting with two fingers tapping against you. A deep breath was pulled into your lungs, and wax pulled against your body, the hair caught making it painful. “When I walked into our bar, and saw you already laughing…” There was a pause, a second of inaction from Harding, before he pressed a kiss to your thigh, one of the few spots without wax on it. His tongue darted out with the sound of your moan, his cold tongue pressing against your hot flesh. It only lasted for a moment, and one of his hands pulled away from your body.

The next contact was still just as cold; the icy metal of a blunted knife. Careful, dedicated strokes started at your knees, separating skin and wax. Flakes fell over other spots of your body, chipped and messy.

“To state I was shocked would be quite an understatement.” The knife and his hand left your body, only for you to hear another click of the camera. He was doing that just for your benefit, you knew it. A showman, through and through.

The knife once more found your skin, slipping between layers and cleaning you off. His trained hands were unwavering as he drug the edge over your skin, careful to not press any further than needed. His hand was expert in cutting the wax off your breast, up your sternum, dancing patterns over the shape of your body. It was soothing, welcome in a way that you hadn’t expected after the pain and straining of the candle. The blade ran over your body slowly, oriented just so against your skin. Harding allowed his hand to follow, flicking off the small bits of wax that were still waiting on your body. He cleaned you as well as he could, ignoring the ropes coated in the substance.

A kiss was pressed to your knee, and Harding was gone in the next moment. You could hear his steps now, clearly not trying to hold them back. Then, you felt yourself start to lower, slowly descending until your shoulder first tapped the wood, then your back, and your legs. Your arms were pinched slightly in this position, but you could manage it for now.

Another rhythm sounded around the room. The intonation of a vibrator, humming jovially against flesh already. Harding's sigh rang through the room, and the lewd image of his cock against a hard piece of vibrating plastic flashed into your mind. Your hips canted off the table for only a moment, trying to find that pressure that you needed in you, against you. The thought of Harding already needing to touch himself, needing some kind of release that only you could really give made a pulse of lust rush through you.

Harding finally moved to you, and his hands first connected with the skin of your thighs, ensuring the spread for what he needed to do. The vibrator, now turned lower, was placed against your clit, humming flooding your senses. Your moan was choked off, the sudden wave of pleasure shocking your system. It was painful, and your hips were hitching closer, trying to find more, receive more pleasure. The sound of tape unspooling hit your ears, familiar to you; he’d gotten a roll of medical tape, and secured the small bullet against your clit, leaving his hands free to do what he might.

“You can beg all you would like, sweetheart, but you only receive what I am willing to give you.” You whined, knowing he was right. Harding guided your body carefully, though he was forceful. He positioned your body with his large hands, flipping you over effectively, the vibrator still secured against you. The moment allowed you enough time to try and offer yourself more to him, give him a view of everything he was allowed to take. One hand still on your hip, and he pulled you back, guiding his length into your hole, slowly dragging you back to him. He didn’t falter in the motion, didn’t hesitate to press deeper into you when you started whining at him. His hand shifted, palm once again opened on your hip, and first two fingers tapped against you.

It was the simple motion that made you realise you were tense. A deep breath in, and with only Harding in your mind, you were able to take a breath, and relax. Harding let himself thrust in and out of your wetness, allowing the strokes to wet his entire cock with your slick, gliding against you. He pushed you against the wood of the table, pressure hard. You couldn’t move an inch if he didn’t want you to.

Then, his lips were on your shoulder blades, kissing and breathing hard as he tried to manage the composure he’d been maintaining this entire time. His hips stilled, fully thrust into you. The only sound was the vibrator, which only got louder when he reached around and turned it up further. Pleasure and pain spiked at the action, and you forced yourself to listen to Harding’s voice.

“Who owns you?”

“You, sir.” He nuzzled against the skin on the back of your neck.

“Say it.”

“You own me, Harding. Just… Just you.” You tried to push back into his face, any more affection that you could manage. His face pressed into you regardless, muting his moan. The groan still vibrated through your body, even through the clothes you could still feel him wearing.

It seemed to take him a monumental effort for Harding’s hands to move from your hips to the rod your arms were still tied to. He pulled you up, now only supported by your knees, and his hands. He started slowly, allowing the vibrator to press between his balls and your clit, pressing just a little harder into you. It brought forth that bit of pleasure you needed, rocked between the need to be filled, then to be filled to the brim, ricocheting through you.

It was too much, and not nearly enough all at once. Everything combined together, the blindness, the sensitivity of your skin under his hands, the strength he had as he pulled you back and forth over his cock just by the rod.

your orgasm rushed over you, tightening around Harding’s dick, clenching down with a shout. If it wasn’t for Harding as he thrusted into you, you would’ve thought you passed out for a moment. But the overstimulation of his cock in you forced your attention on him.

Feeling you tighten seemed to have cued something into Harding, as he lowered your shoulders back to the table, taking a pause for just a moment. His hands moved to rest on the table, leaning his weight onto your ass and pushing your body into the unyielding wood.

“Such a good pet, so well behaved for…” His words cut off into another moan, and he pushed his face into your neck, harsh breath fanned over your skin. “Me. Just mine, just for me.” Harding nuzzled into your neck once again, before he took his chance to bite your trapezius, leaving a mark just from him. It hurt, just as much as it always did, but your attention was taken over by the feeling of Harding cumming, pressing deep in you.

Harding only took a few more moments to enjoy your warmth, stilled and perfectly buried in you.

Once you started to whimper, the pain in your hip vastly too much to ignore, Harding kissed your neck, and pulled out. His hand reached around you, to slip off the vibrator, the tape tugging against your pubic hair. This was always your least favourite part; slipping out of the roles, the shift back to reality.

Harding's hands were soft on your skin, rubbed over the spots where the rope had sat. The ropes were easy to his hands, his mind. First your right arm, then your left, the overly long pole slid to the free side of the long table.

“I’ve got you, darling,” Harding whispered, a kiss pressed against a red mark from the pole. With your hands at last free, you made an effort to grab at Harding, hold onto something, anything, but your muscles screamed in protest.

“H..”

“Right here, love.” He shifted you around, pulling you from the table, and onto his lap on one of the chairs. As one of his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your body against his fully, the other worked at the ropes on your legs. Bits of body hair stuck into the wax, pulling harshly. Your face pressed against his neck, trying to stifle the whimpers of pain. You used his body to shift the blindfold off your eyes, only to see the muted light from candles burn down almost to their holders.

Harding didn’t need to hear your words to know what was happening; His fingers slowed, sliding off the hardened ropes without thought, only to slide his hand over your legs, soothing any more distress the hair follicles might have.

He moved your hand to rest against his chest, curled up comfortably, and just rested against his collarbone.

“Pet? Can you sit up for some water?" You had to take your time, processing those words, before you nodded, trying to follow the command, but entirely unable. You shifted your head to the side, and a glass of cool water was pressed against your lips. A couple sips of cool water was all it took, and you sighed softly. Throat wetted again, you were able to breathe easier, more confidently.

“Can I bring you upstairs for a bath?” It took a moment for you to understand the words, before you nodded, curling into his chest. Harding would take care of you, that much you were certain of. He was a good man, a man who would support you whenever you needed him. He would be there, that was sure.

Most of the evening tapered into a hazy drone, Harding holding you, getting you to eat some food, some water.

Cleaned as well as possible, and the only issue being your sore muscles, you were laid down on the bed with him, He was prepared. Hardy was always prepared for you, well prepared In advance when he would try such involved scenes.

Harding's arm was around your shoulders, pulling your torso to rest against his chest, pressed just securely enough to tilt your head into him.

"Water, darling?" His voice was soft. Harding's voice was softer than the finest blankets, warmer than a fire roaring in front Of you. Your head managed to nod, and he guided the glass of water to your lips once more. You learnt back in the bed, curled into Hardy’s arms, secure in your bed. He was warm, he was comfortable, he was the one that you wanted to find yourself in the arms of every night.

“Can I show you something before you go to bed, darling?” Your eyes cracked open, confusion clear on your face.

“What’s that?” Hoarse voice, even still. He offered you a small rectangle, and you realised quickly it was a picture of the wax he had poured onto your body. A moment more of looking, and clarity pinged into your head.

“My…” You looked up, brow furrowed.

“Your newest painting. I recognized myself quite quickly when I first saw it hanging up.” It was an imperfect recreation, but as close as he could have managed with the wax. it was beautiful, and you looked into his rich eyes, before your hand cupped his cheek. You pulled his lips close to yours, and the press was all you needed to relax fully.

“Can you hold me?” His response was shuffling around, and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Of course.” Your head pressed into his chest, smelling his scent, the clean pyjamas, and the security that Harding offered you every day. “Happy anniversary, my love.” Your left hand was taken into his, and his lips pressed against the ring that had sat there for five years. You sluggishly copied his action, before rubbing his hand over your cheek.

“I love you, Harding.”

“I love you, too.” Your name was a caress in his voice. “Sleep well, my pet. I’ve got you.”

You were glad you’d taken him up on his offer for the spare room those years ago.

Tags! @randomfandomtrash28 @emotrash1 @unitedfandomsoftheworld @arandomnerdsblog578 @overlookedfile @yesalwayswelles @niffysboxers

#dr harding hooten #harding hooten x reader #x reader #reader #.w #original #monday mornings #bangd this bitcho ut in like 3 days #fuckin hot

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writingsofhubris-a · 1 year ago

Text

Portrait of a Lady

↞ | ← | Master | AO3 | →

Ch 4. And four wax candles in the darkened room, Rating: E WC: Tags: Lovecraftian Monster(s), Human/Monster Romance, Oviposition, Tentacle Sex, Cancer Ship: Harding Hooten/Reader Disc: You'd met Harding elsewhere, even though you'd never talked for more than a few minuets. When you'd stopped into his emergency room, when you'd visited Chelsea, you found yourself looking at a man you'd known only in passing heading your care. He'd led you through tumultuous questions, opened up as easily as any of the surgeons could open up a person. Somehow, you'd been drawn to Harding, and he was willing to take you up on your offer.

“Just tonight, a movie in.” Harding’s offer wasn’t a normal offer; staying in would normally begin with dinner, move to a card game, and would find a way to end physically. Very rarely, it would even end productively. Whatever the night would bring, staying in rarely stayed just on the sofa.

“Fine, but we’re getting candy and popcorn.”

“Just that?”

“And some overly processed butter topping. Something that doesn’t cost more than the change in the sofa.”

“A topping that would clog every artery, is it?”

“At least.” The common conversation really drove home the change in your relationship. Harding wouldn't have even considered such a choice for a movie months ago, but even he was in a good mood. Without allowing your hesitation to take over for you, you proceeded to lean up to Harding, and kiss him gently on the lips. His hand moved from resting on your lower back to sliding up to your cheek, thumb once more brushing against your cheek, soaking in the moment of just connection. The thoughts of picking out candy and toppings, movies or genre were far from your mind right then.

It was hard to focus on anything when his hand was so soft on you, much less what movie you were going to attempt to see.

"Do you have any idea what you'd like?"

"You." The unthinking answer filtered from your lips before you could stop it. His laugh was gentle, well meaning. "Your pick," you tried to cover your ass with, already knowing it was futile. His thumb brushed against your cheek once more, just admiring what you looked like in your flushed state.

“I have an idea.”

Honestly, you weren’t sure just what it was that made it so hard to watch the movie. Sure, you had your tendencies to daydream about the creatures beyond your ability to see, who didn’t? But it wasn’t as though Harding could have picked this movie with that knowledge. You watched as Eliza and the Amphibian Man fell for each other, learning a world more intimate than you’d ever seen in love before. You weren’t sure if it was the skill of the actors or the director, but it certainly didn’t take long for you to be sucked into the world of a new creature, something other than human, offering this human woman something more, a deeper love than she’d have ever hoped for.

Harding’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you close when your eyes would get misty, his chest vibrating when you’d both laugh. Under his arm, you felt safe and secure, you felt as though nothing would happen. You ended up sinking further into his arms, not quite falling asleep, but relaxing so deeply any horror that might have provoked another just guided you to lay your head closer to Harding’s.

When the final frame flashed across the screen, you’d found yourself much more comfortable than before. Your legs had been pulled onto Harding’s lap at some point, and his arm was layered over your back. You were comfortable under his arm, and when his head turned, his lips brushed against your hair.

“Enjoy yourself?”

“That was a really good movie, Harding.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it thoroughly.” That smile you’d become addicted to showed up on his lips, and you mimicked it.

“That much, I did.”

“Shall I make us something light before bed?”

“Not yet. You’re too comfortable.” As if to prove your words, you pressed your body closer to his, his arm wrapping tighter around your back. With surprising strength, Harding managed to shift both of you, your back pressed onto the seats of the sofa, and his large body pressed into you.

“You won’t get away with that,” he replied, joy in his eyes. Despite his words, your arms wrapped around his neck, and pulled him closer, trying to lean up and kiss him. He indulged you for only a short amount of time, before pressing a kiss to your chin. “Not tonight.” Not even the pout on your lips stopped him, even as you caught a glance of the smirk he’d try to hide from everyone.

The sounds from the kitchen were soft form your vantage in the room, but you could hear the fridge opening, plates moving about. A dull ache had settled in your head, nothing even noticeable at the late hour. You were tired, and headaches didn’t scare you quite as much after brain surgery. Getting up from the sofa, you found your way back to the kitchen. Perhaps the snack would be enough to get the headache to fade, and allow you both to fall asleep that night. Between the book release, and the stress of recovering, you didn’t even have time to talk about the traveling you’d be doing without him.

Idly, you wondered if Harding had even had time to read the book, to see how you’d written about the head of surgery that’d guided your hand easily through the stressful times.

The sandwich that he’d offered sounded like the perfect meal to round out the night.

Getting up from the sofa after a few minutes, you started after Harding, looking for where he could have disappeared to. The kitchen was found shortly through the living room, a lovely alcove away from a sunroom. Art adorned the walls as you walked through the rooms, finding more and more opulence as you disappeared further.

Though it seemed Chelsea was hurting for additions, Harding seemed to have his connections. Art you were sure you had recognized from miscellaneous articles were offered on his walls. But as you walked through them, you were confused by the array. You hadn’t paid attention to the Signatures on the canvases in the past. You were shocked by the vast majority. Every single signature on the canvases; right or left; spoke to a deeper connection than you were privy to. You couldn’t piece together if it was a personal connection or family, how he could have lucked into some of these pieces.

Regardless, the art spoke to a peace you’d strive for. Peace you were sure that Harding didn’t find often, a softness to humanity that the pain of the emergency room didn’t allow.

After a few ignored turns, including his music room with a piano that seemed to be ignored these days, you did find the man himself. Harding was preparing a simple sandwich, two plates prepared with plenty of vegetables.

“And here we are,” Harding at last said, offering you the perfectly sized plate filled with a sandwich, sweet peppers, pickled sweet onion. You took it, just to bite in, filling the hunger in your belly just as he took a bite as well. Flavorful as you’d expected from his purchases.

Harding held you all of that night, his firm arm wrapped around your waist, middle finger drawing a small pattern over your navel every moment of the night. You weren’t entirely sure what it could possibly mean to him, but Harding found importance in it.

That was reason enough for you to relax into his arms, his soft breathing repetitive on the small of your neck.

Not even the slight headache could stop that simple joy. You drifted off into a wonderful sleep, pushing Harding onto his bed to wake him up with a blowjob. He hadn’t expected it, but the moment he had realized, his hips canted further into your mouth, searching for that pleasure you’d already offered him.

#.w #harding hooten #x reader #harding hooten x reader

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