#a real he/they over here folks

[iateyourburrito]

I don't think anyone asked for more but you get more anyways

[vaguely-concerned]

I don't know what I love more, the fact that as rook you can make a statement in NO uncertain terms that you are NOT responsible one way or the other for the theological implications of the shit you're discovering in the 'regrets of the dread wolf' memories. not my jurisdiction. quite simply none of my business. not my chantry circus not my chantry monkeys. irrelevant to the matter at hand here we'll kill that god if we get to him he can get in line. or if the best thing about it is seeing the lone little 'lucanis approves' that pops up right after choosing it. corvid with a knife about to commit deicide keeping it real and sensibly, pragmatically, wilfully agnostic with me here in this magical lighthouse today

[bacchuschucklefuck]

you get riz gukgak so well 👍👍

thank u!! he really kinda is all of my favourite character things rolled into one package (negotiation of principles/investigator-truth seeker-negotiator with reality and the narrative/obnoxious character whose narrative reward for participating in the story is getting to be even more authentically obnoxious/deeply and hauntingly aroace

[lala-blahblah]

I will never make this because it would be for an audience of one (me) but ever since reading "If we Were Villains" (story about serious drama kids in college who perform shakespeare and deal with a murder) I have been entertaining the thought of a crack fic crossover with High School Musical The Musical The Series where the staff decides they will no longer put on shakespeare after the tragic accident that happened at Thanksgiving, because Shakespeare plays would only increase the tension and drama. So they hire Ms. Jen who decides their spring play will actually be High School Musical (which exists in the 90s in this universe) and it ruins the vibe so much that everyone gives up on being dark and mysterious because they're universally pissed at Ms Jen for making them learn choreoraphed basketball dancing.

[eggyrocks]

i think its weird that akaashi is brave enough to be a dick to the person who bullied him in the past, but not to tell a single of his friends about said past.

i also dont like how too many people act like bokuto is being manipulative by worrying about her. my man did literally nothing wrong. she stormed off after the rejection and acted like the world was ending, of course he'd worry. and now she's got the nerve to be all resentful towards him. like, what did she expect to happen? she's just entitled imo.

i actually dont blame yn on how shes acting towards akaashi. its not her fault that she doesnt remember him, and he shouldve said something. but the bokuto thing is driving me up the wall lol

i wanna see how this whole mess of a situation ends

another based take

[karlachismylife]

I saw your post about your gender feelings. Hang in there, bud.

If it helps, I was once told that no cis person ever questions "what they are", they just are. I get the imposter syndrome though, and the disconnect between your day to day and a small haven of peace where you can be yourself. I come from a conservative background, without any of the queer influences I enjoy today.

We're constantly growing, constantly learning new things about ourselves; I think that's part of the journey of being queer, rather than any indication you don't belong or aren't queer enough. You have a significant added challenge in exploring too and I hope one day they're gone. Much love and solidarity to queer Russians. 💜🤍💛💚

Already was on the brink of tears and now am crying, mate

Thank you, that thing about cis people not questioning kinda helped actually. I was told same about mental health issues (at least those can be confirmed with a paper and a stamp, huh). So i guess yeah. True. It's just the terf rhethoric about being confused and actually just seeking a way around patriarchy and all that bullshit that gets under my skin.

I'm happy you're free from those things in your past though, gonna live out my gay dreams through you and your art then, lol <3

I think another thing that is gnawing at me is that I am actually priviledged (and/or lucky). I had a lot of queer experiences that many other queer people here are absolutely robbed of. So it feels as if I'm kinda taking what they deserve more. Or that I can't be grateful enough for being able to have these things while others can't because I'm out here not even knowing what I am.

Anyway. Love wins. And we're here, proud and queer.

Love you 1969 times, thank you.

[friendofthecrows]

Happy season 17 everyone :))) i don't think this hellsite will ever escape

[spiribia]

My bugsnax player oc looks like this but imagine a striped gray silk scarf on them. Their name is Sable Florpington and they aren’t actually allergic to bugsnax it’s just not for them so they pretended to be. They’re the one guy at the party who doesn’t drink

[mariocki]

Larceny (1948)

"No hard feelings, Rick, I'm just doing a job. I had to check."

"OK, you've checked. Now check out of here. And don't let anybody notice you."

"Nobody ever does. I got an ordinary face."

[werewolfbneimitzvah]

vent post. There are two stories i was told in my teenage years that even before i had a real concept of trans issues made me uninterested in discussing the supposed sacredness and safety of separated sex-based spaces.

First, when i was like 13 or 14 my PE teacher told us about a time she went to a women's public restroom, some guy was hanging out outside the bathrooms, she didn't think anything of it, went to the bathroom, and he walked in after her and like, creeped on her over the top of the stall. She was ok, she wasn't telling us this to scare us, just telling us what to do in situations like that (and iirc she was telling the whole co-ed class this, not just girls, bc it's useful for everyone), but this taught me immediately and forever that there's nothing actually keeping these spaces separate really, that anyone can be a creep in any space, and that establishing a space like that as for women only isn't actually particularly useful for safety.

Second, when i was 16 i was at an anime convention, a friendly acquaintance of mine and i ended up in conversation outside, and he showed me his bare wrist and told me he'd been kicked out. A female friend of his had stepped in dog poop outside, and between that and the stress of the convention she'd had a bit of an emotional breakdown, so being her friend, he started comforting her and ushered her into the women's restroom so they could wash the poop off her shoe together. And because he was a man who went into the women's bathroom, he got kicked out, no matter that he was doing something that was actually beneficial to a woman. Punishing a woman's friend for supporting her was supposed to... protect her somehow? This made it clear to me that a no-exceptions rule separating the sexes like that wasn't actually inherently good for everyone.

And this isn't even getting into me as a child needing to accompany my younger sister to the restroom when we were out with just my dad because she had certain support needs past the age he felt comfortable bringing her into the men's room with him. And what if I'd been born a boy, or she'd been the first born? Who's helping her then?

And of course even putting all this aside, we should always prioritize compassion and support anyway. But i never even needed to meet a trans person to know that "keeping men out of women's bathrooms" is silly nonsense. But trans people also need to pee anyway and as humans they have that right, so leave them the fuck alone. your precious women's restroom is just a fucking room with a door, holy shit give it a fucking rest, if someone is attacking you in the bathroom that's bad and if someone is in there to pee that's good and it doesn't fucking matter what their junk is or was when they were born.

a woman could have done the exact same thing to my PE teacher and it would have also been bad no matter how "supposed" to be in the restroom she was, and no one should ever be punished for helping a crying friend wash their shoe.

Anyway i know I'm speaking to like-minded folks here, i just think about those two stories literally every time bathroom gender shit comes up and it pisses me off.

[ceilidhtransing]

The discussions around whether or not to vote for Kamala keep being dominated by very loud voices shouting that anyone who advocates for her “just doesn't care about Palestine!” and “is willing to overlook genocide!” and “has no moral backbone at all!” And while some of these voices will be bots, trolls, psyops - we know that this happens; we know that trying to persuade progressives to split the vote or not vote at all is a strategy employed by hostile actors - of course many of them won't be. But what this rhetoric does is continually force the “you should vote for her” crowd onto the back foot of having to go to great lengths writing entire essays justifying their choice, while the “don't vote/vote third party” crowd is basically never asked to justify their choice. It frames voting for Kamala as a deeply morally compromised position that requires extensive justification while framing not voting or voting third party as the neutral and morally clean stance.

So here's another way of looking at it. How much are you willing to accept in order to feel like you're not compromising your morals on one issue?

Are you willing to accept the 24% rise in maternal deaths - and 39% increase for Black women - that is expected under a federal abortion ban, according to the Centre for American Progress? Those percentages represent real people who are alive now who would die if the folks behind Project 2025 get their way with reproductive healthcare.

Are you willing to accept the massive acceleration of climate change that would result from the scrapping of all climate legislation? We don't have time to fuck around with the environment. A gutting of climate policy and a prioritisation of fossil fuel profits, which is explicitly promised by Trump, would set the entire world back years - years that we don't have.

Are you willing to accept the classification of transgender visibility as inherently “pornographic” and thus the removal of trans people from public life? Are you willing to accept the total elimination of legal routes for gender-affirming care? The people behind the Trump campaign want to drive queer and trans people back underground, back into the closet, back into “criminality”. This will kill people. And it's maddening that caring about this gets called “prioritising white gays over brown people abroad” as if it's not BIPOC queer and trans Americans who will suffer the most from legislative queer- and transphobia, as they always do.

Are you willing to accept the domestic deployment of the military to crack down on protests and enforce racist immigration policy? I'm sure it's going to be very easy to convince huge numbers of normal people to turn up to protests and get involved in political organising when doing so may well involve facing down an army deployed by a hardcore authoritarian operating under the precedent that nothing he does as president can ever be illegal.

Are you willing to accept a president who openly talks about wanting to be a dictator, plans on massively expanding presidential powers, dehumanises his political enemies and wants the DOJ to “go after them”, and assures his supporters they won't have to vote again? If you can't see the danger of this staring you right in the face, I don't know what to tell you. Allowing a wannabe dictator to take control of the most powerful country on earth would be absolutely disastrous for the entire world.

Are you willing to accept an enormous uptick in fascism and far-right authoritarianism worldwide? The far right in America has huge influence over an entire international network of “anti-globalists”, hardcore anti-immigrant xenophobes, transphobic extremists, and straight-up fascists. Success in America aids and emboldens these people everywhere.

Are you willing to accept an enormous number of preventable deaths if America faces a crisis in the next four years: a public health emergency, a natural disaster, an ecological catastrophe? We all saw how Trump handled Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico. We all saw how Trump handled Covid-19. He fanned the flames of disaster with a constant flow of medical misinformation and an unspeakably dangerous undermining of public health experts. It's estimated that 40% of US pandemic deaths could have been avoided if the death rates had corresponded to those in other high-income countries. That amounts to nearly half a million people. One study from January 2021 estimated between around 4,200 and 12,200 preventable deaths attributable purely to Trump's statements about masks. We're highly unlikely to face another global pandemic in the next few years but who knows what crises are coming down the pipeline?

Are you willing to accept the attempted deportation of millions - millions - of undocumented people? This is “rounding people up and throwing them into camps where no one ever hears from them again” territory. That's a blueprint for genocide right there and it's a core tenet of both Trump's personal policy and Project 2025. And of course they wouldn't be going after white people. They most likely wouldn't even restrict their tyranny to people who are actually undocumented. Anyone racially othered as an “immigrant” would be at risk from this.

Are you willing to accept not just the continuation of the current situation in Palestine, but the absolute annihilation of Gaza and the obliteration of any hope for imminent peace? There is no way that Trump and the people behind him would not be catastrophically worse for Gaza than Kamala or even Biden. Only recently he was telling donors behind closed doors that he wanted to “set the [Palestinian] movement back 25 or 30 years” and that “any student that protests, I throw them out of the country”. This is not a man who can be pushed in a direction more conducive to peace and justice. This is a man who listens to his wealthy donors, his Christian nationalist Republican allies, and himself.

Are you willing to accept a much heightened risk of nuclear war? Obviously this is hardly a Trump policy promise. But I can't think of a single president since the Cold War who is more likely to deploy nuclear weapons, given how casually he talks about wanting to use them and how erratic and unstable he can be in his dealings with foreign leaders. To quote Foreign Policy only this year, “Trump told a crowd in January that one of the reasons he needed immunity was so that he couldn’t be indicted for using nuclear weapons on a city.” That's reassuring. I'm not even in the US and I remember four years of constant background low-level terror that Trump would take offence at something some foreign leader said or think that he needs to personally intervene in some military situation to “sort it out” and decide to launch the entire world into nuclear war. No one sane on earth wants the most powerful person on the planet to be as trigger-happy and careless with human life as he is, especially if he's running the White House like a dictator with no one ever telling him no. But depending on what Americans do in November, he may well be inflicted again on all of us, and I guess we'll all just have to hope that he doesn't do the worst thing imaginable.

“But I don't want those things! Stop accusing me of supporting things I don't support!” Yes, of course you don't want those things. None of us does. No one's saying that you actively support them. No one's accusing you of wanting Black women to die from ectopic pregnancies or of wanting to throw Hispanic people in immigrant detention centres or of wanting trans people to be outlawed (unlike, I must point out, the extremely emotive and personal accusations that get thrown around about “wanting Palestinian children to die” if you encourage people to vote for Kamala).

But if you're advocating against voting for Kamala, you are clearly willing to accept them as possible consequences of your actions. That is the deal you're making. If a terrible thing happening is the clear and easily foreseeable outcome of your action (or in the case of not voting, inaction), in a way that could have been prevented by taking a different and just as easy action, you are partly responsible for that consequence. (And no, it's not “a fear campaign” to warn people about things he's said, things he wants to do, and plans drawn up by his close allies. This is not “oooh the Democrats are trying to bully you into voting for them by making him out to be really bad so you'll feel scared and vote for Kamala!” He is really bad, in obvious and documented and irrefutable ways.)

And if you believe that “both parties are the same on Gaza” (which, you know, they really aren't, but let's just pretend that they are) then presumably you accept that the horrors being committed there will continue, in the immediate term anyway, regardless of who wins the presidency. Because there really isn't some third option that will appear and do everything we want. It's going to be one of those two. And we can talk all day about wanting a better system or how unfair it is that every presidential election only ever has two viable candidates and how small the Overton window is and all that but hell, we are less than eighty days out from the election; none of that is going to get fixed between now and November. Electoral reform is a long-term (but important!) goal, not something that can be effected in the span of a couple of months by telling people online to vote third party. There is no “instant ceasefire and peace negotiation” button that we're callously overlooking by encouraging people to vote for Kamala. (My god, if there was, we would all be pressing it.)

If we're suggesting people vote for her, it's not that we “are willing to overlook genocide” or “don't care about sacrificing brown people abroad” or whatever. Nothing is being “overlooked” here. It's that we're simply not willing to accept everything else in this post and more on top of continued atrocities in Gaza. We're not willing to take Trump and his godawful far-right authoritarian agenda as an acceptable consequence of feeling like we have the moral high ground on Palestine. I cannot stress enough that if Kamala doesn't win, we - we all, in the whole world - get Trump. Are you willing to accept that?

And one more point to address: I've seen too many people act frighteningly flippant and naïve about terrible things Trump or his campaign want to do, with the idea that people will simply be able to prevent all these bad things by “organising” and “protesting” and “collective action”. “I'm not willing to accept these things; that's why I'll fight them tooth and nail every day of their administration” - OK but if you're not even willing to cast a vote then I have doubts about your ability to form “the Resistance”, which by the way would have to involve cooperation with people of lots of progressive political stripes in order to have the manpower to be effective, and if you're so committed to political purity that you view temporarily lending your support to Kamala at the ballot box as an untenable betrayal of everything you stand for then forgive me for also doubting your ability to productively cooperate with allies on the ground with whom you don't 100% agree. Plus, if the Trump campaign gets its way, American progressives would be kept so busy trying to put out about twenty different fires at once that you'd be able to accomplish very little. Maybe you get them to soften their stance on trans healthcare but oh shit, the climate policies are still in place. But more importantly, how many people do you think will protest for abortion rights if doing so means staring down a gun? Or organise to protect their neighbours from deportation if doing so means being thrown in prison yourself? And OK, maybe you're sure that you will, but history has shown us time and time again that most people won't. Most people aren't willing to face that kind of personal risk. And a tiny number of lefties willing to risk incarceration or death to protect undocumented people or trans people or whatever other groups are targeted is sadly not enough to prevent the horrors from happening. That is small fry compared to the full might of a determined state. Of course if the worst happens and Trump wins then you should do what you can to mitigate the harm; I'm not saying you shouldn't. But really the time to act is now. You have an opportunity right here to mitigate the harm and it's called “not letting him get elected”. Act now to prevent that kind of horrific authoritarian situation from developing in the first place; don't sit this one out under the naïve belief that “we'll be able to stop it if it happens”. You won't.

[nightingale-prompts]

Just your average coffee shop AU-DCxDP prompt

What do you do when you've been blacklisted from every coffee chain in Gotham?

You have to find other sources.

That is Tim's current predicament but he put out a few messages out and an informant got back to him about a new café that opened on the outskirts of the city.

There wasn't much else on it other than the fact that it was located in an old cemetery. No details or anything.

Desperate for the black icker that made up his blood by this point Tim went.

Walking down the cobblestone path Tim began to doubt if the shop was real. The decrepit tombstones seemed to be the only people here but as he passed the mausoleums he saw a single stone crypt that had a sign.

Hours:

Tues-Saturday 12pm-3:00 am

Sunday: All day

Mon: Closed

(Vlad Masters is banned)

Tim opened the stone door and heard the faint sound of violins and saxophones. A staircase led deeper to an aged wooden door.

The rusty door henge screeched as he opened the door like a doorbell. The room was a lounge with plush seats and smooth wood tables. A dance floor was in the center currently occupied by well dressed patrons. The scent of fresh dark roast coffee filled the air. A band played live music, it was a blend of gothic folk and Jazz. The booths were filled with a few patrons cheering for the performers as they drank coffee and played cards.

The counter where he could order his drink was a bar. Despite what you'd assume they weren't selling alcohol at least not yet. The man behind the counter beckoned him over.

The barista dressed in a white dress shirt and a black buttoned vest embroidered with a ribcage design. He had fingerless gloves with matching skeletal hand design. The man's face was a pale bit warm tone with a blueish green hue on his cheekbones. His lips were a dark ashen black with a subtle shine. It was probably just the aesthetic.

"Evening, traveler." His voice practically purred as he greeted the weary young man"The rhythm's alive, and the spirits are waiting—how can I make your afterlife?"

"Coffee. Black." Tim said gruffly despite to get it in his system.

"Oh, you got it bad, don't you? Let me get you something that will actually help." The bartender said turning to brew a cup.

Tim's eyes scanned the chalkboard menu that hung above the bar.

Hot Coffee Drinks:

Graveyard Brew – A rich dark roast with a hint of smoked caramel. (Tucker's pick)

Phantom Flat White – A smooth flat white with ghostly foam art. (Danny's pick)

Latté of the Damned– A spiced pumpkin latte with black cinnamon dust. (Jazz's pick)

Eternal Espresso– A bold, double-shot espresso.

The Velvet Casket – Mocha with dark chocolate and a touch of vanilla.

Sepulcher Spice – Chai-spiced coffee with a hint of nutmeg. (Val's pick)

Necromancer’s Nitro – Nitro cold brew with a dash of maple syrup. (Dan's pick)

Iced Coffee Drinks:

Cold-Brew Crypt– Smooth cold brew with a splash of sweet cream.

Chilled Cadaver– Iced coffee with coconut milk and a shot of hazelnut. (Dani's pick)

The Frosted Requiem – Blended mocha with chocolate drizzle.

Soulful Swirl– Iced latte with caramel and a swirl of blackcurrant syrup.

Moonlit Macchiato– Vanilla macchiato with activated charcoal. (Sam's pick)

Tim definitely sensed a theme here.

"I added a few shots of expresso and some dark chocolate liquor. It should get you right and some minor heart palpitations. I think I'll call it 'The Black Veil'." The barista smiled very cat-like.

"Am I getting my name on the board?" Tim quipped without thinking as he sipped the hot coffee. Actually, it was cooler than he thought it would be. It was the perfect temperature. And the taste was amazing.

"Only if you're a regular and I think your drink might be too much for anyone else." The barista laughed softly.

"So...this place is pretty um...gothic?"

"This place used to be just for the dead but we've recently over up to the living."

"Heh, I get it."

"Get what?"

Tim coughed awkwardly. He didn't want to stop talking to the goth barista yet and the quality coffee was convincing. Maybe it was the environment. It was like walking into a different world.

"So what's this place called? So I know what Im coming back to." Tim tried to sound cool but let's face it, he's been beat.

"This is the Catacomb Club. Where the spirits swing and the night never sleeps. You should come again soon, cutie. I think I got a good surge of inspiration just looking at you." He purred in delight as he leaned over the bar tapped Tim's cheek.

Tim felt his face burn, the touch felt like electricity tickling his skin. A string of babbling seemed to come out of this mouth as he tried to respond.

"Heh heh, don't keep me waiting dear," he laughed "Oh, and by the way. My name is Danny. Catch me in the early shift. My brother works the late shift mixing the alcohol. But if you want you can catch me on the stage or on the dance floor. I might even make you an extra cup or two." Danny said.

Tim found his footsteps on the way up lighter and only when he made it back the cematary gate did he notice.

He never paid.

[mariasont]

A Puddle in Running Shoes A.H.

summary: your boyfriend finds out you have a praise kink and is having way too much fun with that information

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: some suggestive content, hotch being a menace, reader having a praise kink, end suggests something may happen but nothing explicit in this one folks im getting my libido under control swear, also count how many times r refers to hotch's face as stupid im crying

wc: 1.9k

You hated running. No—loathed it. Detested it. Despised it with every fiber of your being. If there was a stronger word, one that captured the burning, irrational rage you felt whenever someone suggested going for a jog, Spencer might have known it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care enough to ask. Simply put, running was not your thing.

But when Aaron—your boyfriend and somehow the most persistent man alive—asked you to join you on a run, you couldn't exactly say no. He didn't beg—Aaron Hotchner did not beg—but his version of asking, that soft it'd mean a lot to me paired with an encouraging smile, was close enough to begging in your book. Besides, you figured there'd be some sort of reward when you got back home. Aaron was good at those.

So here you were, contributing absolutely nothing to your marathon-obsessed, fitness-loving FBI boyfriend's training. Sweat coated every inch of your body, your legs felt like lead, and your lungs burned with every ragged breath you managed to suck in. The sun blazed overhead, making you feel more like a roasting chicken than a willing participant in this so-called fun activity.

Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he'd stepped out of a fitness ad—shirt clinging to him in ways that felt outright scandalous. Even the sweat on his face somehow made him look even more attractive.

He was at least ten paces ahead of you and every few steps, he'd glance over his shoulder, probably checking to make sure you hadn't spontaneously combusted or snuck off to find an air-conditioned cafe. Honestly, both were real possibilities.

Aaron's pace slowed until he was running beside you, throwing you a smile so unfairly handsome it made your legs feel weaker than they already did.

"How are you feeling?" The question felt retorical—anyone, profiler or not, was sure to be able to read you like an open book right now. "Still alive, or do I need to start figuring out the best way to carry you home without breaking any traffic laws?"

"I think I'm alive," you managed between gasps, wiping sweat from your brow. "But if carrying me is on the table, I'm not above playing dead to make that happen."

"Not necessary—I'd carry you anyway, if only to reward you for keeping up this long. You're doing great."

You foot caught a crack in the pavement, nearly hurling yourself into it, but Aaron's hand was there quicker keeping you upright as you tried to ignore the terrifying way your body had reacted to his compliment.

"Okay you can't just say stuff like that while I'm trying to run," you blurted out, avoiding his gaze. "You're trying to kill me, I swear."

You planted your hands on your hips, still trying to catch your breath, secretly relieved to have a break—even if it almost involved a face-first meeting with the sidewalk.

"Stuff like what?" He tugged at your ponytail and you swatted his hand.

"Nothing," you said way too quickly, shaking your head like you could physically toss what you said aside. "Forget I said anything. Let's just... keep running."

You quickly realized your mistake as soon as you started jogging again. You would never willingly suggest to keep running. Unfortunately, Aaron was actively aware of this, moving to come up beside you. You didn't need to look at him to know he had the stupidest smirk on his face.

He didn't say anything at first, to your immediate relief, just kept jogging beside you. The silence stretched on, his calm breathing only seeming to make your wheezing sound worse.

"You're breathing too shallow," he said after a moment, his tone completely casual like he wasn't even winded. "Try to take deeper breaths—match them to your strides. It'll make it easier."

You glanced towards him out of the corner of your eye before attempting his suggestion. You had no intention of letting him know that it worked. His ego was far too substantial for that.

"See? You're a natural," he said, shooting you a sidelong glance. "Atta girl."

Your brain flatlined and you almost tripped over your feet again, every rational thought replaced by static. What was wrong with you? You vaguely remembered reading somewhere that people with unresolved daddy issues were prone to developing praise kinks. Was that what this was? Whatever the reason, hearing Aaron talk like that shouldn't make you feel all gooey inside, but here you were, a puddle in running shoes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yup, fine!"

You stared at the ground so intensely, it was a miracle you didn't bore a hole into the pavement. Your voice had betrayed you, far too shaky and way too rushed, and you knew Aaron was probably filing away every bit of your reaction.

"Hey," he said softly, his hand brushing against the back of your neck as he spoke. "Stop staring at the ground. You'll run better if you keep your head up—it'll open your chest so you can breathe easier."

His hand lingered for a second too long than what your body could handle, leaving you completely flustered and fighting every urge to do exactly the opposite of what he said.

"There you go," he murmured, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. "That's good, honey. Just like that."

His voice—his god forsaken voice—was like a jolt to your system, and not in a good way. Or maybe it was a good way, which was the problem. It was bad enough to hearing it out here, on the jogging trail, but your brain decided to replay it in an entirely different inappropriate context: one that involved you, him, and a bed.

Your face burned, and you couldn't tell if it was from the exertion, or the very real possibility that your body was too receptive to those words. And now, not only were you fighting for every breath, but you were trying to figure out if the dampness between your legs was entirely from sweat. Surely it was sweat. Right? Gods, you hoped it was sweat.

You stopped so suddenly that Aaron jogged a few steps ahead before he realized you were not longer beside him.

"Okay, I'm calling it. I'm done. Can we please go home now?"

He jogged back to you, an easy smile on his face, and placed his hands on your shoulders as he reached you.

"Alright, we can be done," he teased, thumbs brushing lightly over your collarbones. "You survived, and you did great. I'm proud of you."

He leaned down then, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips that made the ache in your body a little easier to ignore.

When he pulled away, you barely managed to keep standing.

Aaron let out a low laugh, his hands squeezing your shoulders. "Alright. What's going on? What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said over your shoulder, practically power walking towards the car.

Aaron's laugh deepened and you ignored the funny feeling curling in your chest.

"Sweetheart," he said, gently tugging your elbow to slow you down. "Come on, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about, I'm fine!" You avoided his eyes as you tugged your elbow free. "I'm just tired, and, uh, need a shower."

A cold shower, your brain screamed, but you shoved the thought down.

"I know, I know you're tired," he said, lips curving into a smile, "but that's because you actually pushed yourself. I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

You were pretty convinced you were you were about to go up in flames. Your obituary would read death by too many unnecessary compliments. When your heart inevitably gave out, Aaron would have to explain to Rossi and the others how his dumb smile and sweet words had resulted in second degree manslaughter.

But then you saw it—the smirk. The one that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.

"Oh my gosh, you know!" You groaned and threw your hands in the air. "You know, and you're enjoying this!"

Spinning away from him, you stormed to the car, and slammed the door like it might shield you from his stupidly smug face.

You barely had time to exhale before the passenger door swung open, revealing Aaron, casually leaning against the car.

"You know," he said lightly, his tone far too casual for your liking, "slamming car doors isn't a great habit. You could hurt yourself."

"And you know," you snapped back, pointing at him, "torturing your girlfriend isn't a great habit either!"

He leaned in slowly, his fingers brushing against your shoulder as he grabbed your seatbelt. As he clicked it into place, his face lingered close to yours.

"I wasn't trying to torture you, baby. Just wanted to give you the chance to admit it—that you liked it."

Before you could muster a reply, Aaron's hand slid up to cradle your face, his thumb moving along your cheek. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was so deep, leaving you no choice but to sink into it, even as the faint remnants of your annoyance tried to surface.

By the time he pulled back, you felt like you were under his spell. Then, without another word, he shut your door and headed to the driver's side.

"That's not fair," you muttered, crossing your arms and pouting as you stared out the window.

Aaron's hand found the back of your neck as he backed out of the parking spot, rubbing gently into smooth circles.

"I don't mean to be unfair," he said with a small smile. "I just needed to hear it, because sometimes people don't even realize what they need until they say it out loud. And I wanted to make sure I didn't misread anything—though I'm rarely wrong, as you know."

"Trust me, you remind me every chance you get." Your tone was dry, but you were well aware that the twitch in your lip was giving you away.

"Alright, smartass," he said, chuckling as his fingers pressed a little firmer into your neck. "Now tell me—how does it make you feel when I say those things to you?"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I don't know, okay? I just... like it! Do I have to explain it?"

"You don't have to explain it if you don't want to," he said, "but I'd like to know what it is you like so much."

Aaron's hand moved from your neck to your hand, his fingers sliding between each of yours while his eyes stayed glued to the road, a thing that only came from months of familiar motions.

You let out a long breath. "I don't know. I just like hearing it. It makes me feel good. Special, I guess."

"You are special, sweetheart." His eyes flicked to you before returning to the road. "You're my best girl."

Your stomach flipped violently. You shifted again, trying to disguise the way your thighs pressed together tightly as your face burned hotter than ever. The debate earlier in your head was officially over—absolutely not just sweat, you thought miserably.

Aaron let out a soft chuckle, fingers brushing over your knuckles. "Something I said?"

You swatted his shoulder, your glare losing all its bite thanks to the flush all over your body. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I can't help it," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to get you on edge. "But don't worry—I'll take care of my best girl once we're home."

You slumped in your seat, muttering something unintelligible that made Aaron chuckle again. And even though you wouldn't admit it, you found yourself smiling, already dreading and anticipating whatever he had planned when you got home.

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[bobardo]

there are no words to describe how f*cking amazing this is. like beautifully, BEAUTIFULLY written and then it’s js so FILTHY. oh god. i live. i love. i die. 🧍🏽‍♀️🧎🏽‍♀️🙇🏽‍♀️

Hi all! This is my story off of Wattpad, but I figured I would put it up on tumblr, too! The WC for this part is 9K ٩(◕‿◕)۶

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

When Harry was twenty two, if he'd been told by some freakish, time-traveling clone of himself that his Friday nights would be spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, garbed by a latex mask for total anonymity, he'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket.

Do himself a favor with that one.

But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably sit back in his arm chair and swirl his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. Afterall, he'd started drinking whiskey and opened his eyes to the allures and realm of kink. Very good year, that one.

Twenty-four, and twenty-five, and twenty-six were all sort of a blur, an incognizant reminiscence of whiskey and sex and work. Twenty-seven is today, in the process, in the flesh. Today, Harry is twenty-seven, and he spends his Friday nights playing dress up and sex up under a funny little pseudonym. That of the Greek God of love, in fact, (how fitting?), and he wields a leather flogger and dons a rubber hood. The flogger, sometimes — the hood, always.

On Monday, on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Harry is just Harry Styles; charming, eligible bachelor with the allure of eastern hemisphere roots, closeted pro nudist, valiantly contending realtor in the heart of San Francisco. On weekdays, he's the person who will always buy the homeless man with the sullied soles who's perched by the cafe a croissant with his own respective coffee order. He'll help the older woman with the walker cross the street. He'll pay for the person behind him in a drive-through. On Tuesdays, like clockwork, he'll wave from his mailbox, clad in his briefs, and say good morning to his neighbor, Ed, who comes out in wrinkly, plaid pajamas to snag his own mail in the mornings. Every morning, he'll drive to the office and pass three of the seven benches in the city with his pretty face and his pretty mouth and his pretty teeth plastered to it. A showcase, an innocuous illusion. An irony.

On Friday mornings he'll slip the black duffel back into his trunk. He'll drive to the office, make some phone calls, maybe show a house, grab a plastic kit of chewy cookies from Cal-Mart for prospective buyers, maybe eat one on the way. In the evening, afterwards, he'll park his Range Rover on a backstreet and take off his rings, one by one. He'll don his ultra-thin, ultra-stretchy, faux leather gloves. He'll grab his black duffel out of the trunk. He'll take a short walk to a shoddy-looking building on the corner, where the sidewalk has chips and weeds tuft between the cracks. He'll shroud the same pretty face that's pasted to a bench only a couple of blocks away and hide it beneath dark, smooth latex and zippers.

On Friday nights, Harry is Eros, and he makes faceless bodies bend and writhe under his will at his fingertips. Sometimes he watches, but he always plays. When he plays, he makes those other faceless bodies spill with pretty, little moans and cries. He makes them beg for his mercy. The latter always falls on deaf ears. Especially when he's wielding the flogger.

It's always safe, though. It's always fun, it's always sane, it's always consensual. It's cathartic; it's a release. On Fridays, he's the God of Love, and he gives unlove openly, for his pleasure and for the pleasures of his counterparts. He's cruel, and he's dark, and he's mean to those that are there for the same reasons as he is.

They love it when he's mean.

Harry loves Indulge. He loves indulging, afterall. The sobriquet is fitting. Of course, he loves playing. He loves watching the women squirm and thrash and twist under his attention, he loves that he can fulfill his desires through stringless mutualism. But he enjoys far less exciting aspects nearly as much as he enjoys playing pretend. He loves the anonymity of the club. He loves the barriers and the strict boundaries, the protective measures all for the sake of harboring true identities. A sorely lackluster quality; he loves the consent forms, and the rest of the lengthy paperwork. He loves that the club is inconspicuous and incredibly difficult to wheedle into the midst of. He loves that Indulge is his hidden gem. He doesn't love that he's someone else for the night, because that's not quite it, at all. That man with the latex mask and the man whose dimples are illustrated on the bus stop benches are the same man. The man with the line of zippers across the eyes and the mouth on Friday nights, is the same man who waves to Ed in the mornings. It's the same man who'll grin and chat pleasantries at an open house. Look at the crown-molding, isn't the character in this quaint, little slice of heaven on the water brilliant?

That man is Harry, and he loves that Indulge allows him to tap into that otherwise cached fragment of himself with no inhibitions.

Harry drums his lengthy digits against the bar top and observes the prolific nightlife that Indulge has to offer. He never drinks. It's all mocktails and alcohol-free beverages, anyhow. Alcohol stifles the senses — and Indulge leaves no room for error. But sometimes he plays the part of a little voyeur, poised at the bar, and tonight he focuses on a particular scene across the room through the unzipped eye slit in the latex disguise. A woman, whose hands are bound by the wrist to sturdy columns by shackles, wriggles and jerks, moaning under the assault of her partner. He tugs on the chain that dangles from her clamped nipples and she twists in a pretty little arch, pushing her tits forward. Harry hasn't seen her here before, at least not in the window of his weekly visitations. He knows them all by mask and telling body parts; there's masks with horns, and hoods, and cat ears, and glitzy masquerade guises with feathers and rhinestones. There's birthmarks and moles and scars. He knows them well. It's the same reason he doesn't play without clothes, the same reason his hood covers his face, his hair, the same reason he wears the pleather gloves. Harry covets full obscurity, especially under the inky telltales that blot over his skin and the widespread reach of his career.

But he hasn't seen this mask before. It's lacy, like a pair of knickers, and shrouds the woman's eyes and nose. There are no peepholes in her cover, just swirls of skimpy black fabric that are more than likely easier to see through than it is to see past. The only aspects of her face on display are her lips, which are a ruddy, natural shade of pink, and her chin. When her play-partner manhandles that same jaw between his fingertips, squeezing at her cheeks and imploring her to suckle at the thumb of his free hand, she keeps the muted berry sealed in a lack of subservience. Harry ogles, wryly amused as her partner yanks one of the clamps off by the chain and the young woman nearly shrieks. The dominant uses the opportunity to slip his thumb into her mouth and her keen morphs into a moan. He doesn't know what the man tells the woman as he dips his face against her hair, but whatever it is has the woman's cheeks hollowing and her hips canting. The man takes a step back and pats at her cheek. Harry's surprised to see, a few moments later, when the man attempts to slip his fingers into her knickers (her actual ones, not the flimsy article dubbed a mask), the woman clamps her glistening thighs together. The man says something, withdrawing his thumb entirely, and the lace-shrouded woman shakes her head and refuses to relent. Harry swallows, shifting in his seat. They go on like this for a while, a back and forth, with the woman attempting to siphon the upper hand with small misdeeds and acts of insubordination.

There's little to be disappointed with in the sphere of Indulge. Perhaps his only objection, an odd one at that, would be a lack of indiscipline. His partners in play were always satiating. They loved the way he played, and imbibed with open arms and open mouths and stuck-out tongues. They were good; obedient, and sometimes, just a smidge too much. At times, Harry would catch himself yearning for a partner in play who challenged him, goading him into the water a little further. It was satisfying to spank a girl for being unable to hold off an orgasm, but the infraction was an almost entirely unevadable body function. Though, at times he'd procure a demand and pine for his partner to defy him. Disappointed wasn't exactly the right term to describe what he felt when a scene went smoothly. It wasn't that at all. But he craved the power struggle. He found himself longing for a girl beneath him that wanted to disobey, that wanted to be put in her place. Sometimes Harry just wanted a brat to break.

Lacy mask, Harry notes, toys at the line, and at times like this, Harry wishes Indulge would allow him to nurse an alcoholic beverage. Wishes for drinks and a show.

Isla Cleery was a refined young woman. She'd grown up an only child under the aristocratic guidance of her father's guide and her mother's steely gaze of gray, judgment dancing in the irises like blue flecks of fire. Her habits and customs had been nourished by the outstanding prominence, the long lineage of encouraging perfection. She spent too much time juggling deadlines and working ahead, too much time organizing her bookcase, back and forth from alphabetical to chronological to colored, her desk, her calendar, her life. She'd graduated from UCLA a couple of semesters early, simultaneously gaining an otherwise impressive achievement and managing to garner disappointment from her parents that she hadn't opted for Yale, afterall. She'd interned under limited seating, a prestigious opportunity sought after by a multitude of her peers, and her transition from intern to paralegal had shifted smoothly enough. Life was short, live a little, her friends had always told her as she buried her nose in books and sunk neck-deep into research. Have fun. Enjoy pleasures.

Stress was inescapable, an obligatory, impending function under the wrath of adulthood. Bills, deadlines, meetings, appointments. As long as Isla could remember, she'd been granted limited control to garner and encompass entire control. Successful. Studious. Responsible. The perfect student. The perfect daughter.

Christ.

She had a plethora of scheduled-months-ahead therapy appointments, simply for the sake of evading succumbing to the urge to rip her own skin off, at times. Responsibility was pressed onto her from a young age, and as she'd bloomed under the looming cloud of her own dissatisfaction with achievements, there was little to find comfort in. She'd always been told her twenties ought to be a strange blip of frantic confusion melded with surefire assurance in her timeline. Sometimes, Isla felt the only thing that would make her happy was being a small child, again. If only for a moment.

The latest task pressed upon her schedule was finding a house. No more shoddy apartment for you, her father had jested, imploring her with a hefty donation. Despite her gratitude, the thought of milking mommy and daddy's pockets, even by their own volition, made something uncomfortable churn in her stomach. She was a woman! She was her own, independent woman, with her own career, and her own head on her shoulders, a solid one, and she wanted to cut that banner by her own means. Afterall, she'd been coaxed to strive for entirely independent successes. And despite all of Isla's successes, there was little to soothe that ravaging beast within her. The one whose knees buckled beneath the pressures.

Indulge was an escape. It was her escape. She spent her weekdays poring over tedious documentation and mind-numbingly developing reports, pupils weeding and flitting through word searches to build cases under notoriously long, underpaid hours. Isla enjoyed working. She enjoyed nourishing a task beneath her fingertips and aiding in its processes and growth. She enjoyed the sense of achievement upon completing a task. She enjoyed success, she enjoyed recognition, she enjoyed commendation. But it was stressful. Working in law was stressful, being a woman was stressful, being Isla was stressful. Her job spilled into her weekends, at times, and as of late, those weekends were spent toiling over legal paperwork and wrapping up loose ends. It's the same reason her Indulge rendezvous were transferred to Fridays from Saturday nights, and she gave herself Sundays to pore over her work, and Saturdays for the come down from Fridays.

When Isla had discovered the otherworldly, healing capabilities of kink, she'd been a bright eyed girl with anxiety over passing exams. Her world was far less mentally taxing, and her chrome search history had things like pain and crying sex and submission. She'd experimented behind closed doors with boyfriends her parents had no knowledge of, who'd touch her with fingertips that'd wipe the stress and tension away like gunk off a windshield. They'd please her, and they'd make her feel nice by taking away some of that control, but she was only experimenting and eventually, like a perceptual intake of a low-dose prescription, their gentle touch just wasn't enough. She remembers the first time she'd asked one of those boyfriends to hit her with his belt, vividly, and he'd gawked at her, mortified and wide-eyed, as if she'd grown three heads.

Perhaps one of Isla's most esteemed hobbies was research. Strange hobby to have, even stranger to excel at it, but her expertise at perusing and pondering documents not only allowed her to wax among the office, but definitely allowed her to delve further into understanding what exactly she was craving. So, then came the articles. The virtual, the physical. Wikipedia, forums, even some google scholar pieces. She used her library card to grasp and pore over everything from BDSM: How to Take Your First Steps to Playing Well With Others to The New Bottoming Book to Whips & Chains: How to Like Them Safely. Her first encounters with the actual inner depths of kink were a bit dicey, looking back. Play Luv, the dating app that catered to every interest, from swingers to paypigs to shoddy "doms" looking for "slaves" (their profile pictures were always a grainy set of abs and a veiny hand palming over a belt), was as dubious as it got. Which. No surprise there. It was called Play Luv and was readily available for download to every schmuck perusing through the app store, and the only proper safety measure implemented was a mandatory ID scan for age verification. Honestly, Isla was lucky that realization had dawned within a handful of swipes, and she wasn't naive nor nearly desperate enough to entertain the tens of horny private messages that flooded her inbox upon registration. So, Play Luv had been a bust.

Then, came Artemis. Her first, true interaction with a real dom (and not a horny blockhead in his mid-twenties with the sole aim of getting his dick wet post watching some kinky porno on xvideos) stemmed from a private internet forum. Which, arguably, just as questionable, but. Whatever. Dan Sever — that was his real name, and thinking back on it, even going as far as to meet up with him, a stranger from the internet, under the pretense of being tied down and whipped was beyond questionable.

Isla wasn't an idiot. Young, immature, naive at the time, certainly — but never entirely an idiot. She'd met with Dan Sever in a public location on numerous occasions subsequent to a lengthy session of internet stalking. Yeah, it was a little weird, a bit creepy on her part, some may say, but Isla was cautious, and if she had to be Joe from You for her own safety, it was the defining quality between her own young, foolish natures and an idiot. Their company, at first, was a set of platonic encounters entirely composed of conversation. Frozen yogurt dates, lunch in a bustling diner, two people talking with entirely pure intentions, keen to learn each other. Dan was a nice guy. He was in his late twenties, they shared common interests, hobbies, they meshed well. They talked about books. Dan loved books. And that was the thing — Dan liked books and going to museums and dogs. His favorite food was strawberry cheesecake and he spent some of his free time watching George Lopez reruns. He was a totally normal guy outside of a particular interest in tying his partners up and hitting them with a belt in bed, or something, just like Isla. All of these people were, and that made her feel a little less weird. He wasn't interested in anything particularly romantic, nothing beyond friendship and a mutualistic sexual relationship, but neither was Isla.

He had been her introduction into contracts, limits, palpable documentation beyond her own scope of research, and he had been the critical connection between herself and Indulge. They played together, at first, and solely with each other for a little while. But, they'd discerned, within only a few conversations, that they were not an idyllic fit beyond friendship and sex, so it came as no surprise that, eventually, their paths would delve into opposing directions when faced with a fork. Eventually, Dan stopped coming to Indulge and Isla didn't, but by then, she'd outgrown the need for mentorship and a set of shoes to follow, so it didn't really matter. And eventually, most of everyone who would regularly attend the club on the same days as her knew of Peitho.

That was Isla's handle on Friday nights — Peitho. Goddess of persuasion, deity of seduction, personification of desire. The submissive that would do any and everything to sway her partner, the one who would stop at nothing to play in her own interests. The sub whose pleasure was always mingled with pain, either by request or by consequence. Arguably, much more interesting than Paralegal Isla Cleery on the weekdays, in Isla's opinion.

It's a Friday. This is her fun. These are her pleasures.

Isla practically skips to the bar from the hallway. No. She makes her way, gait cool and composed, a sway in her hips as the pads of her feet roll over the laminate, heel to toe. Peitho has no clinging, childish characteristics. She's barefoot and wears an onyx matching set of lacy underthings that match her mask, and not much else, but the dress code ranges from button downs with cufflinks and slacks, remnants of a workday, sat at the bar in the lounge, to those whose masks cover far more than their pasties do. There's a nude woman tethered to a post in the middle of the floor, a riding crop wandering over her swarthy skin. Nobody bats an eye at Isla's garb. Her backside stings wonderfully, and beneath her mask, she glows. There was always a warmth that radiated from her after a scene, even post the gentle touch and soft croons and praises of aftercare. It's the same reason she opts for a full twenty four hours for the come down.

"A cherry mojito, please," Isla requests from the bartender, leaning against the counter on her forearms, "And, uh, as many cherries as you can." She tacks on, for good measure, "Please."

The bartender, like the members, wears a mask that obscures his eyes. His mask, however, has no tinges of character or personality, an echo of the simple black eye covering that the rest of the staff don. He's clad in all jet, and if Isla didn't know him as Felix, a stage name or not, she's unsure, she'd be intimidated by the combination of his attire and his curt nod as he turns.

Unlike Felix, the mysterious man sitting in the bar stool beside her seems to have an unwavering attention span, and the bore of his unfamiliar mask sends a rippling wave of endorphins climbing up her spine. He's spiffy in business casual attire, and she's not sure if his outfit clashes with the mask or fits it too well. It's a hood, it hides his face, his hair, his neck, and there are two openings — a zipper for his sight, and a zipper for his taste. Oddly, it's a very submissive sort of hood — one typically to be worn and zipped and unzipped at a dominant's discretion, but there's not a trace of submissive air to him. Weirdly, he looks more executioner-y than like a man who'd enjoy being locked in a cage. Isla side-eyes him a bit through her lace, well aware that he can't fathom the gesture through her disguise. Like a daunting villain from a film, the shadow beneath the thinly unveiled zippers offers no insight — besides his eyes. She can see those, faintly, glimmering in the lighting. If the openings showcasing his jade irises didn't offer her the perspective of his eye contact, brazen in their incessant peer, she'd think he was staring off past her. He's not. His gaze is curiously calculating, inspective, piercing. But he doesn't say anything. Isla twiddles her thumbs over the marbled counter. Felix sets her mocktail in front of her wordlessly. There's a heaping pile of cherries that mounts from the bed of the rocks glass past the lip, so much so that the apex of the mountain could overflow and send syrupy, bright red spheres rolling off with any trace of sudden movement.

"Thank you," the young woman cups the beverage carefully, intent on wandering a few seats away to enjoy it, but The Executioner suddenly opts to break the silence, coaxing her into conversation.

"I take it you like cherries?"

She blinks, surprised by the jesting warmth of his cadence, her head snapping to face him. It's not the opener she'd expect from a man donning such an intimidating mask, and his timbre is friendly. Sexy and deep, inflection carrying notes as evidence of origins from the opposite hemisphere. He's tilted his head at her, now, an obvious signal that he's awaiting a response. Isla clears her throat, eyeing her excessive mound of fruit.

"I - yeah. They're alright, I guess," she jokes, but there's no humor lacing the syllables nor a trace of a smile on her mouth. She's still a little caught off guard that The Executioner speaks and doesn't just obtrusively gawk as if he's fixing to peel her skin away, piece by piece.

His pupils stray to her mouth as she plucks a cherry and stuffs it past her lips.

Harry knows she likes cherries because he'd watched her order the same beverage exactly a week prior, the first night he'd seen her so copiously defiant, even tied by her wrists to the columns, curiosity outweighing his instincts to not be a stalkerish weirdo imbibing her habits. There was an allure to her. He'd watched her get the same rocks glass with the same plethora of cherries, so many that the mocktail concoction was just a syrupy bath for the fruit, and he'd watched her cull a few, one by one, before he'd torn his gaze away and gone off to play.

She wears a collar that conveys her preferred role of submission, but there is no lock on it, nor does she wear a bracelet that submissive members of the club would wear to symbolize solid, fixed partnership — the emblem of a contract with a dominant, or perhaps more. No partner had stuck to her side at the bar last week, and this week, she's still as alone as she was, then. It pleases him.

Harry watches her body language, carefully, then tells her, timbre soft and joke-y, "I don't bite," and then he eyes her through his mask, tacking on, facetiously, "Unless I get consent."

That comment culls the twitch of her lips, and her own head cocks with the breakthroughs of a grin ghosting, "Of course. I know. Your mask is just..."

"My mask?"

The young woman bites into her cheek in obvious attempts to ward off a simper, "Yes, well. It's just a little ...intense."

The Executioner makes a show of glancing about himself then, clear enough in his facetious intentions as his gaze boomerangs back on her, and he says, "Are we?...We're at the same fetish club, I think."

Behind her mask, Isla rolls her eyes. The Executioner, adds on, in good-natured teasing, as she purses her lips, "But — let me know. I might be totally off, love."

"Yes, okay, right. Sorry," she waves with her hands animatedly, giving in to his jabs, "Everything is a little intense at Indulge. It's just," Isla faces him pointedly, "having a stranger ogle you silently from behind a mask that looks like it belongs in a horror movie is a little daunting."

"And you don't like being ogled?"

There's a different note to his cadence then, one that's just as playful, but it's flirty, if she's not mistaken, and knowing, like he's personally ogled her during a scene out in the lounge, like the one she'd taken part in last Friday, and that sends a different kind of thrill through her nervous system. She bites.

"No, I do," Lacy Mask smooths her fingertips over the edge of the counter, and the corners of Harry's mouth buckle crookedly, dimples indenting where she can't see. He's not going to lie and tell her that he's not scary, because he's quite self aware and knows he very much can be. But that's post negotiations and paperwork and all kinds of motions symbolizing consent.

"Are you a regular, darling?" the man swivels in the bar stool to face her, fully then. Isla casts her gaze to his interlocked fingers, laid against the counter, and she catches sight of dark gloves that cling to large hands.

She strums a cherry with her index and thumb, nodding in agreement as she pops it onto her tongue. The sweet, fruity explosion on her taste buds is nearly as satisfying as the pleasant, dull sting that radiates warmly from her abused backside as she hops up on the seat beside him.

"Mm. I used to do Saturday nights, but work has been," her dialogue trails and dies off on the back of her tongue as the flesh of the cherry slides down. Talking about her personal life in the scenery of the club feels like the ultimate disharmony. She nods earnestly as she swallows, "Yes, I'm a regular." Isla swipes her mouth with the back of her hand before she motions toward him with her free hand, "What about you?"

"Friday nights have been my thing for a few years," The Executioner tells her, and Isla's brows jump, but the lacy disguise stays still, just loose enough.

She takes a sip of her mocktail and clears her throat, her tongue swiping out over her plush bottom lip before she says, "Wow, you're a regular, regular. How long have you been coming to Indulge, then?" Harry watches that tongue.

"I think," a crease works its way between his brows as he considers, and his thumb grazes over the knuckle of the opposite, "coming up on three years, now. I got into a kink a little bit before that, but it was a lot more intimate and had a lot less stage names." The corners of his mouth jolt upon witnessing her own do the same in response to his comment, "What about you?"

"A couple years," Isla replies, waving with her palm as she speaks, "But I wasn't a regular, at first. Just, every once in a while I would come when I needed a," she traces the lip of the glass with a thoughtful fingertip, and she casts her gaze back to his mask as she tacks on, "Release. I'm twenty five, so I've only been legal to come here for a little longer than you've been a member, anyways."

Harry purses his lips, noting her implication towards the twenty-one and up limit, "So you dabble a bit, then."

Lacy Mask lifts a wry shoulder, "Dabble. Engross. Live it as a regular, weekly routine like clockwork. Breathe it like oxygen," she melts into soft giggles as the unlikely comparison of hobby to need wrests a laugh from him, "Same difference. But," the young woman shakes her head as her girlish laughter settles down, and she evens her tone, "I had a similar come up into kink. Like," she pauses, wetting her lips, a shade of muted berry, "you know, behind closed doors with boyfriends, at first, and all that. I started really getting into it around twenty."

Isla thumbs at the glass in front of her, "Hopped through forums and dating websites for a little, but you know how that goes. And then," she takes a deep breath, "I found Indulge, and," her shoulders fall out of the shrug as she exhales, "here I am."

"Here you are," Harry states, giving her an unabashed once-over, his cadence low and irrationally sultry to her ears. There are no binds to constrain his interest. If his flirtatious nature wasn't enough, his pique of conversation, the look he gives her certainly ties any loose ends on any questions regarding the topic.

"Mm, just," she lifts her glass for emphasis, in which the pile of cherries has considerably decreased in size, "Getting spanked and eating cherries."

"Optimal way to spend a Friday evening, if you ask me," Harry jokes, and the young woman cranes her neck back, chortling, and nods in vehement agreement as she takes a sip of her mocktail. He grins, "I mean, I prefer to do the spanking, but the cherries I could get behind."

"You should," she tells him, "You'd be surprised, but they actually have really good cherries here."

The man laughs. He doesn't offer to buy the drink; he's aware that the price will tack on to her member fee, that it'll float to the forefront of her tab, and he does so simply for the sake of avoiding sending some sort of implication that would lead her to believe she owes him something. She doesn't. He'd love to buy her glass of cherries plus mocktail concoction, but he doesn't.

"I'm sorry," Isla says, then, chewing on one of her last pieces of the blood red fruit, "I have to get your name, because right now, you're just The Executioner to me."

"The Executioner," the man shakes his head, and she hears what sounds like a huff of laughter from behind the shroud before he states, "S'a bit serial killer-ish, innit?"

"Probably," Isla shrugs, amused, and teases, "It's a bit of a serial killer-ish mask."

Harry eyes her through the daunting peephole, obnoxiously serial killer-ishly, and huffs, playfully, words that aren't all that playful given the setting, "Maybe I quite like The Executioner. What makes you think you've earned my name?"

The latex crinkles as he cocks his head.

Isla juts her chin, "I've shared my company with you in these critical cherry-eating times. You know, usually, I do this in silence."

She giggles when he tilts his head again, "Sorry, are you implying that I'm bothering you?"

Isla teases, leaning forward a bit, "Sorry, are the — do I just tug the zippers when I'd like for you to be quiet?"

Harry digs his tongue against his cheek, amusement wry. God, how he'd love to put her in her place.

On the topic, the mask was an irony in and of itself. The latex hood, scaled with zippers, was definitely meant for a submissive to wear — and it definitely aimed for the purpose Lacy Mask had implied; to be zipped and unzipped at a dominant's whim. Harry thought it was funny, in a way. A man with a reputation at Indulge like him, wearing a mask with an intended purpose like that. Funny, scary looking, and it hid any and all distinguishable traces in a way that a mask with a clasp wouldn't. The zippers, even unzipped, offered little vision to his eyes or lips from an outside perspective. It covered his hair, only able to be peeled back by a third zipper on the back of his head. And he quite liked the feel of leather and latex.

Anyways, he narrows his eyes at her through the shadows, playing along and laughing, "I'd prefer you didn't, actually. You're a bit of a brat, y'know that?"

Isla lifts her shoulder, feigning an entirely nonchalant nature, even as her heart slams behind her ribcage in want and laughs, "Yeah, that's kind of my thing."

"Mm," he hums, and jests, "That's how you'd like to talk to The Executioner, then?"

He's certainly flirting. That's Indulge-lingo-flirtation if she's ever heard it. And again, Isla lifts a shoulder and bats her lashes as best she can under the constriction of the lace, "I've always liked to play with fire."

His laugh is wry, a huff, a mere burst of air, and he turns away and shakes his head down at his glove-clad hands, "Well. I can certainly take a hint and leave you to your cherry endeavors, if that's what you'd like?"

He's baiting. She bites.

"Not at all. I'm glad The Executioner has decided to strike up a conversation with me, and I'm glad I took a leap of faith in entertaining the conversation."

The young woman waves with her hand, attempting to stifle her mirth with another cherry, "See how weird The Executioner sounds? It'd just be so much easier if you decided to share your preferred name."

Harry contemplates, biting into his cheek. He supposes he's pulled her leg enough to nearly dislodge it, "Tit for tat, I suppose. You've shared your time, I'll share my name. Eros."

Her irises glint with amused enthusiasm that his stage name shares Greek origins, like her own. The aliases of Indulge had no true requirements, so many went by biblical variations, or Roman, or Germanic, or Slavic, or Norse. Mythological, even, and some just went by Josh instead of Bryce. Their stage names were their characters, up for absolute creative direction. Her own handle had been inspired by Dan's. Artemis. She'd followed in his footsteps, alluding to Greek origins, and although the name was purely an echo upon introductions, she had found no reasons to change it. Her identity had grown into Peitho, in the club, her persona swelling to fill the shoes as she'd grown comfortable. If someone called her Peitho in the real world her head would turn, and although that fact was a terrifying realization, it just went to show how ingrained the false identity had become. How enmeshed Isla was with Peitho.

"Eros. God of sexual desire," she says, finding no surprise that a man as seemingly bold as he would pair with such a bold moniker.

"Mm. What are the origins of Peitho?"

"Greek, as well," she tells him, smiling, "Means the personification of persuasion and seduction."

"Well," Eros states, thoughtfully, "You certainly live up to it."

Isla flutters her lashes coyly, a lauded warmth radiating in her chest. Often, she finds herself wondering what people look like behind their masks. It's a curiosity that lingers, despite her own sense of security in total anonymity, and that curiosity is especially piqued in the company of Eros. She wonders if his lips are plush, the shape of his brows, his nose, whether his facial muscles show any disfiguration in the form of dimples, whether he's got smile lines or freckles. As he talks, she witnesses his teeth, straight and pearly white. Besides that, the only window she has are to his eyes, which speak vibrantly, just as his tongue.

"Eros is more fitting for you, too, I think," the young woman jests, "Better than The Executioner, for sure."

Harry huffs in sardonic amusement, but reins her for the influx of compliments, regardless. He's always enjoyed having his ego stroked. Part of the reason he plays the part he does, after all.

"Why d'you think that?"

But the compliments don't come. Instead, Peitho shrugs, "The Executioner is so ...I don't know. You seem much too nice to be The Executioner."

"What makes you think I'm nice?" the corners of his mouth curl up a bit, deviously, behind the mask that, apparently, demonstrates a much more accurate representation of his role than his own conversational tactics leave up to the imagination.

Isla's gaze narrows in deliberation. She supposes the cruelest, meanest ones in private rooms are always the nicest people in regular settings, and she supposes the bar is the most non-sexual setting to be in at Indulge. Her heart hammers in her chest at the prospect of getting the opportunity to play with him and goading him into a session in which that dark side only gets darker as a repercussion to her words. Maybe he has a regular play partner, maybe he has no interest in pursuing beyond a friendly, albeit flirtish conversation. Regardless, an invisible light bulb enlivens over her head. Make him make you take your words back — the inner workings of Peitho.

She rests her chin in her palm, "I'm serious. You've got kind eyes, and you're way too friendly for me to be intimidated by your mask, now."

Harry's lips jolt beneath the same mask Peitho has apparently decided no longer daunts her.

"That's your impression?"

Peitho nods.

The man cocks his head, and says, after a moment of lulled heed, "Well. I'll have to prove you wrong now, I suppose."

There's little to see beyond a blindfold.

There's actually nothing to see, because you quite literally can't see, but Isla believes that's all part of the thrill. It leaves her wondering what the next sensation will be, whether it will be a featherlight graze or the sharp bite of an implement, it leaves her pondering over who the next touch will come from. Who will make her come — who won't let her, who will hit her — who will caress her. Whether she'll receive a fondle or a smack.

It's an open scene, tonight, in the lounge, just as it had been two weeks prior, but this time she's blindfolded in place of her commonplace mask, and the dark cloth has no sensory give like the lace. It's been negotiated that, alongside her primary play partner for the night, Hercules, others are free to join and meld her beneath their touches - to make her rigid, to make her melt, to make her moan, to make her cry. She doesn't know how many there are, she doesn't know who. The only information she'd been granted took place through negotiation, and all she's aware of is that they follow the lead of Hercules, and that any and everything that happens to her is under his discretion. She knows Hercules. She's played with Hercules. There's a series of dominants she rotates through commonly, a handful of those whose interests mesh so well with her own. She doesn't know the other men. They could be fragments of the systematic cycle, they could be strangers to her. That last little idea sends a dirty spike of fireworks erupting through her nervous system, and when someone smacks her inner thigh with something small, drawing a sharp cry from her parted lips post a series of silent, anticipatory deep breaths and exhales, pain mingles with pleasures and ignites like fire over her skin.

"Legs spread," a voice demands just as her knees attempt to buckle together. It's a futile bid — she's fastened by the ankles and the wrists, but the struggle comes as a reflex. A hand pries her knees apart, and a different one, she thinks, maybe, and that same palm holds one of her joints down with a firm grip.

"Keep them spread, I said," the same cadence orders, in front of her, over her, behind her, all around her. "Stay still. Or should I smack your cunt? Make sure you follow directions?" In response to her whines at the back of a hand, of lax knuckles, skimming between her legs, the voice prompts, "Is that what you want?"

It's Hercules, she knows his voice. But she doesn't know whose cinch holds her knee down, who's tugging on her nipples, who yanks her hair with a fist by her scalp. She discovers the latter when a familiar timbre croons, against her ear — Hercules, "You're a very difficult girl, Peitho, but don't you wanna be a good girl for our guests? Don't you want to show them you deserve their touch?"

Yes, she does, yes, yesyesyes — "Yes," Isla hisses, hips canting, and then a palm does smack her between her splayed thighs, and her hiss cuts off into a pitiful moan as she sinks back.

It's not Hercules, she knows that much, because his fingers are still tightly wound in her sweaty tendrils, and his free hand slinks over the vale of her side, petting, a contrast to the burst of short lived pain, and his timbre is still gentle and coaxing against her earlobe, "Stay still, take it like a good girl, be a good girl for our guests."

Oh, Christ. The young woman jerks when another smack comes, and her chest arches up as her hips bow away against the flat surface. There's nowhere she can run, pressed to the table, and whoever's distributing the blows has a clear sense of recognition of this. Someone laughs and hums, and her jaw is grappled and squeezed by a rough grasp. It's still not Hercules.

"Thought you said yes, you wanted to get smacked? Hm?"

Her head is maneuvered into a nod by the firm grip, and her lips part with a gasp of recognition as the familiarity of the cadence ignites some sort of spark plugs in her otherwise mushy brain. She knows that voice. It's the same voice that'd ribbed her over her strange infatuation with cherries last week.

"Didn't you? Poor, little Peitho asks for pain, but then cries when she gets it?"

And now she knows the palm that smacks her, how it feels, and her hips bevel up on their own accord. More, more, more, mean, mean, mean. The chuckle that Eros emits is dark. She knows it's Eros, even with her sense of sight constricted by the blindfold, and when his thumb swipes over her bottom lip and he tells her, duskily, "Pathetic," Isla whines.

"Told you not to worry about being soft with this one," the young woman's jaw unhinges a smidge in a muted gasp as the hand in her hair tugs back sharply. Hercules speaks from a distance, now, in contrast to his prior proximity, a shift in distance from the way his soft encouragement had caressed her eardrums. He's talking to the other people.

"This one," another, sharper tug that wrests a screechy, soft sound from the back of her throat, "Likes to play games. Doesn't she?"

Whether the question is rhetorical, whether aimed at her or not, Isla finds the pleas and denials spilling off her tongue on their own accord, now with a newfound eagerness to impress Eros, to wrangle more. More leverage, more incapacity. More control. Less.

"No, no games, I don't — Eros —"

Another smack, this time harder, sharper, and it nearly knocks the air from her already tight lungs as the burst of pain blooms with numb needles of aftershocks, zaps that have her endorphins on overdrive.

"She's still talking back? Little Peitho really is a slut for pain," an entirely diverse timbre comes from overhead. It belongs to whoever had been tugging on her nipples, and now, pinches and rolls the sensitive nerve endings between deft fingertips, harder.

"F'course she is, look how sopping she is for it. All to have that pretty, little cunt smacked, Peitho?" the filthy dialogue is plucked from the vocal cords of Eros, this time, and the reminder that she's splayed, open, on display sends a wave of delicious humiliation down through her chest, to the trench of her tummy, snaking lower, lower, pulsing between her legs where she throbs.

"All," she bites into her bottom lip, chewing desperately as a digit draws loose, little circles over her clit, and Eros speaks against her opposite ear, the one where Hercules isn't, "you have to do is ask. All you have to do is say, 'Please Sir, smack my cunt,' like a good girl, and I'll give to you."

It's a vulgar promise, a smutty statement, a bawdy demand. He wants her to ask for more, and her suspicions are confirmed when the pad of his finger delves and resurfaces, the circles tightening against her clit.

"Y'so wet, look at that. Proper messy girl, gushing all over the bench. If you could see the mess you've made. Christ, you love this, don't you? Love mean men playing rough with you? Love having your sweet little pussy abused?"

His speech leaves her mewling, her hips grinding, her tongue running on a desperate trail as her pleas rattle off, "Please, please, please, Sir, please smack my cunt, please, plea —"

The mantra fades into a quiet groan when he rewards her with exactly what she'd asked for, and there's hints of a smile in his speech when he tells her, cadence uncharacteristically gentle, "See? All you had to do was ask. What a good girl you can be when you want to, Peitho."

When the vibrator is introduced, buzzing on the lowest setting, and fingertips prod and spread one of her lips back for optimal access, the mush of her brain crumbles and pools into a puddle. When it presses onto her, she goes mindless and numb to everything but the pleasure rippling through her. It takes all of thirty seconds for Isla to initiate a mantra begging for release. That culls another dark chuckle, and the bulbous head of the toy pulls away, leaving her a sopping, floaty mess pleading for reprieve.

"Aw, darling, d'you wanna cum?"

The cadence that rolls from the mouth of Eros is littered with faux pity. He laughs when the low buzz is centered back onto the most sensitive fragment of her nerve endings and her neck strains, veins tightening at the surface like cords beneath her skin, only to take it away as soon as Isla starts begging again. "Poor little baby."

"Pl —" Peitho grits her jaw, desperate, and whatever she'd planned to say dies off as she clearly harbors all energy and focuses on stalling the impending climb towards her crest.

Her pretty lips part when Harry doesn't make any indications that he's keen to remove the toy. He cocks his head down at her, pupils roving and wending over her trembling silhouette through the slits in his not-so-scary mask. A telltale little sound falls from her mouth, a warning, and that's when he pulls back. She thrashes in the restraints, and despite this, Harry continues to loom over her, eyeing the string of arousal that links from the broad head of the toy to her cunt, lips crooking derisively behind the parted latex and the metal.

"You don't like that?" he ponders softly, condescension dripping from each syllable like honey off a spoon. The young woman's chest rolls and recedes, like a wave in flesh, ebbing and flowing with each breath she takes. He lets her catch it for a moment, before his eyes meet with Locust, the man who's assaulting her tits between pads of thumbs and forefingers, and then the curly-headed brunette brings the vibrator back between her legs, wrenching a cry so helpless and sweet his dimples rise awake.

It's a reward, it's a punishment, it hangs in the threads, leaves her dangling amongst the web. It leaves her tangled, flailing, falling, hovering, reaching, barely grasping, writhing. The vibrator is toggled to a higher setting.

"I'm — please," Isla flails in the restraints, her cadence rising a decibel, "Oh, fuck, please!"

"That's not how we ask," Hercules tells her, loudly, and a hand palms over her cheeks to stifle the jerk of her head, "Is it? How do we ask nicely, Peitho?"

Something traces the skin where her pelvis and thigh meet, close to where she throbs so desperately, a thumb, a thumb that belongs to Eros, and she can't stifle her sob as her hands ball into fists, as she refrains from attempting to ball her entire body into the fetal position, "Please, may I cum, please, please, please, I'm so — I'm gonna—"

"Cum."

The command is a simple one, easy enough to accomplish, and it comes from Hercules, who, despite seemingly taking a nonchalant backseat for the prior few minutes, ultimately mans the wheel, even still. Any disappointment that the permission didn't come from Eros himself is quelled by the wave swallowing her whole, the rapturous pleasure that leaves her crying out, a heaving, wracking mess as the tide ebbs and the bliss of the vibrator morphs into discomfort, terrorizing her senses. She thrashes for a different reason, then. The toy doesn't relent, not for a little while. It stays for a span long enough to have her jaw clenching and her teeth grinding. Another laugh, mirth at her struggles.

"What do you think, Peitho?" Hercules speaks against her ear, donning an open-mouthed smile, his face turned towards Harry.

And that's when Harry kneels to the opposite ear — his cue, teasing with the brush of the zipper to her lobe, voice soft-spoken, gentle, bordering on a whisper, "Think you can take all of us before we shut the toy off?"

And the way her chest rolls at the prospect, the way her teeth, which had previously so heavily honed on grinding, part to release her pornographic moan has Harry biting into his cheek to curb a groan of his own.

That's when the third winds around to work on the knots on her ankles — easy access and all, and Isla knows — she doesn't know that she'll get all three but she'll get something, someone, Eros, maybe, and her heart thunders and her thighs sweat and her cunt pulses.

"Hm?" Eros prods to her left, and she wants to yank him by his stupid zippers out of desperation, "D'you like that idea, then? ...I think you do. How about," she feels the vibrator shift between her legs as he stands, and for just a moment it pressed harder against her, "one in each hole? How does that sound, Peitho?"

Isla siphons energy to take deep breaths as the toy relents, if only for a moment, and then she grunts as she's yanked by the backs of her knees to, she assumes, the edge of the table.

"Hm. But I think," Harry watches Peitho's pretty mouth fall open in a gasp when he taps over her clit with the pad of his pleather coated index, "you haven't deserved all the attention, though. Maybe we'll just give you one, and maybe you won't know which."

Won't know whose cock it is, won't know who's groaning over her, who's fucking into her, who decides if she'll cum again — Isla moans pitifully and grinds her hips up. She's sure it's Eros who hums with amusement, Eros who grips onto her thighs, Eros who's stood at the edge of the table between her splayed legs.

"Or maybe," his tone gets sharper, sterner, heavier, "You don't get fucked at all," and she nearly sobs out of desperation. That reaction leaves him biting back a smirk, and he expands, "Only very good girls get fucked, and I think you've been doing an awful lot of whining and moving when you are supposed to be what, Peitho? Hm?"

Despite what course of action his dialogue suggests, Isla whines, again, but she's stifled by a grip over her face.

"You are supposed to be what?"

"Good, I'm supposed to be..." Isla licks her lips as the grip retracts. She hears a tut, and then a laugh beside her, Hercules.

A familiar burn settles in the backs of her eyes, a recognizable lump in the base of her throat, a welcomed sentiment of chagrin (in these settings, and these settings only). Isla likes to cry. She yearns for it, and there's a plethora of variations that can bring it about. Endorphins. Pleasure. In this context? That commonplace humiliation that triples her arousal and leaves her feeling small and weightless and light.

She feels gloved fingertips stroke over her cheek, and she nearly seeks to nip at them. Honestly, Isla's pleased with herself that she shows restraint, because the resulting cadence is gentle, albeit teasing, "I'll be very nice to you, love. Feeling particularly kind, tonight. 'Still' is the answer I'm looking for."

Peitho pouts when his hand withdraws, "And you haven't been particularly still, have you?"

"So," Isla groans when the vibrator makes its great comeback, a long-awaited encore. This time, the discomfort has ebbed and pleasure resurfaces, but her sentiment of reward is short-lived as who she's sure is Eros tells her, "Maybe you'll just have to cum until you're crying to prove that you're willing to be good. I think that's plenty fair, don't you?"

Harry squats, his grasp on the toy flippant. His tone suggests they're having any other, casual conversation, and not one that implies he's interested in overstimulating her to tears, "Fair for you to endure? To make us happy?" He doesn't wait for a response before he tacks on, "I think it is. So go ahead. Cum until you're crying, and we'll reconvene."

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

[14dayswithyou]

PSA ! Because I've seen it be brought up in YouTube videos, in the comments section on Itch, and in quite a few asks on Tumblr... Here are some common misconceptions about "14 Days With You" that I'd like to clear up!

14 Days With You is not an otome game; it's an amare game!! The main character (Angel) is not a female heroine/female protagonist, and they're not written to be female-coded. Yes, you have the option to customise your pronouns and how others perceive you, but there is no "default" or fixed narrative perspective for 14DWY (outside of a gender-neutral perspective).

If it isn't already obvious, Ren's characterisation heavily leans into the "dere" aspect of a yandere. He genuinely loves Angel... Just to a terrifying degree.

None of the cast members are heterosexual, so please don't assume that all of Teo's exes/flings were women, that Leon has only had girlfriends in the past, that Olivia is only attracted to good-looking men, etc. In a similar vein, I want to remind everyone that Jae-Hyun is gay and Kiara is a lesbian.

14DWY is also a romance game!! The whole point is to get to know Ren, grow closer with him, and ultimately romance him. So please stop asking me to include BTD, TDDUP, or W1WD mechanics in the game. It's completely fine if you like those types of genres — and I'm not here to yuck anyone's yum — but it's not the vibe I'm going for with 14DWY, and it's not something I want to write about.

Ren dyes his hair! He isn't wearing a pink wig.

Similarly... Violet, Jae, Moth, and Teo all dye their hair as well. But I'm happy if folks want to headcanon that "unnatural" hair colours can exist in the 14DWY universe.

Ren does not have DID or BPD. He's merely a desperate yandere who changes aspects of himself + creates different "personas" to appease Angel (and essentially become their ideal type). He definitely has a pessimistic outlook on his real self, though he does not identify or feel genuine in any of his created personas. I'm comfortable for those who have DID/BPD/etc to headcanon Ren as such, but I heavily discourage everyone else from doing so as I don't want to give them an incorrect or bad reputation.

The 18+ scenes are optional!!!!! The game is intended to be played without them — it's even turned off by default. Nobody is forced to sleep with Ren.

14 Days With You is a passion project that I work on in my free time for fun. I'm not making a profit off of it, I'm not looking to turn it into a career, and in the most /pos way possible; it's not important enough for me to make a priority. So... Please stop guilt-tripping me for updates when I already don't have enough time or luxury to work on it ;v;

(last edited: 19/101/24) — I may add more here over time!!

[strawberrymatchawhore]

p power

rafe cameron

“take it from him and i leave him with nothing”

summary- john b cheats on you with sarah cameron you get revenge by getting with her brother

warning- DUBCON, sex under the influence, raw sex (wrap it folks), drinking, smoking, partying, fighting, sex tape (reader knows hes recording but doesnt know he sent it to her ex), semi public beach house sex, meanish pussy drunk rafe lol

you took a hit of your pen, gently coughing from the amount you just inhaled. you were currently in your boyfriends room, confronting him. you had caught john b cheating on you with sarah cameron, kook princess and someone you thought was your friend.

“can you not do that in my room? take this seriously.” john b said swiping his hands in the air to get rid of the cloud puffs floating. you scoffed, the audacity.

“i dont give a fuck about what youre asking for me to do right now john b, you cannot be for real about me taking this seriously.”

“i dont know what to tell you, she was going through something. she needed me.” john b gave his bullshit excuse which made you even more angry.

“what about me, did you even think about me for one bit before you decided to fuck her ?” you screamed at him, getting up from the couch ready to leave the room. as you have your hand on handle, john b grabs it. his large hand covers yours.

“i love you.. please” he pleads, eyes getting wetter.

“dont touch me with that dirty ass hand john b, i shouldve known. no matter how much i showed my love for you, no matter how much i cared. you will always choose her.” you gritted through your teeth.

“i-”

“no, its okay. im done with this shit.” your voice cracks and you slam the door in front of john b's face, driving away with tears blurring your vision.

AT THE PARTY

you strut your way into the party, the annual bonfire that happens the same week every year. you grab a pink solo cup and fill it to the brim with jungle juice. you had already pregamed before and begged your friend to drive you here, laughing at yourself when you caught yourself tripping over the pile of beer cans on the floor. obvious that you were feeling the effects of the weed and alcohol combining.

you were tired, physically and mentally, you couldnt deal with anyones bullshit anymore. especially after what happened earlier in the day, you just needed a break.

“what are you doing here ?” you heard a voice question from behind, you turned and saw rafe cameron looking at you up and down.

“oh hey rafey, nothing honestly just trying to forget shit you know ?” you down the rest of your drink and turn again to retrieve another cup. before you can take a sip out of it, it gets knocked down by rafe. who angrily walks over to john b and sarah cameron who were conversing with each other in the corner.

oh shit

“the fuck are you doing bro? chill.” john b says and backs up. sarah tries to intervene by calling his name and you just stand there interested in what was about to happen.

“you feel good about yourself ??” rafe pushes john b, getting ready to instigate a fight. you fight the urge to run up and defend your man. but you stayed still.

this is what he deserves

sarah cameron stops her brother in his tracks and tries to stop him, he ignores her.

oh yeah try to get him to stop, cheater.

“looks like you got my sloppy seconds... good luck with that. shes a real handful” john b insensitively says, rafe continues his way toward him. and within a second throws a hard punch to his face. john b falls to the ground and rafe looks over him.

“you like that shit johnny ? huh ?” he moves and hovers over john b's body, and continues to beat him unconscious. kiaras dad finally pulls them apart, and you walk over to rafe checking to see if he was okay. sarah starts to angrily push rafe, but he doesnt budge.

“sarah you better stop that shit before you end up on the ground just like john b.” you glared at her angrily and pushed her away before gently grabbing rafes arm and walking away with him.

……..

“jeez rafe you really fucked him up…” you said while wiping the blood off his knuckles with disinfectant. he winces when you finishes it off with ointment.

“yeah i dont know what i was thinking, i just.. its just that he pisses me off so much an-” rafe drunkingly rambled, you hesitated. but then losing to your own thoughts you grab his face and kiss him. you quickly pull away fluttering your lashes, mouth slightly open. taking short deep breaths in and out, nothing but the sound of waves crashing could be heard.

“fuck im sorry.” your voice cracked, tears forming in your eyes. you even shocked yourself with that action, moving your hand from your face you fidget with your bikini top. rafe then gently grabs your face and makes eye contact, kissing back but with more passion. everything in the room starts to blur and your focus is only on him. he pulls away and begins to hover over you. cornering you further into the plush couch.

“nah don’t apologize.. just kiss me back” rafe whispers into your ear making his way down to your neck, giving it light kisses and sucks. his hands wander around your body, you begin to grow desperate and grind yourself onto his thigh, hands rubbing his back. you grabbed his hair to pull him closer to you, he groans in response.

"you dont understand how badly i want you.." he kisses you deeper.

"..how badly i wanted to do this." he backs up and takes off his shirt, his abs and buff body glistening from the ocean water combined with the low light of the moon. he lowers himself and his hands reach for your bottoms, untying them then tossing them onto the floor.

your breathing hitches when you feel his cool breath on your pussy, rafes arms grab at your thighs and spread your legs open.

"oh fuckkk" you lightly moaned when you felt his tongue on your clit making slow but rough licks. rafe laughs and moans into you, sending vibrations throughout your whole body. he looks up at your and makes eye contact with your glossy glazed over eyes.

"you taste so fucking good." he continues to lap at your juices, you looked at the blonde. dazed and memorized by how pretty he was. forgetting all your worries and troubles because of how good he worked his mouth. it was over for you when you felt his fingers prod at your entrance.

the combination of his long thick fingers sliding in and out of your wet pussy and his mouth on your clit drove you over the edge.

"fuck, you gonna cum f'me? please cum baby." he slurps and fingers you faster, your chest heaves up and down before you cum all over his face and make a mess. but rafe doesnt stop there, he removes his fingers and uses both his arms to hold your legs open. continuing to eat you out.

"oh my go- fu- please.. too much! rafe please sto-" you mewl trying to close your legs to no avail.

"uh uh stay still f'me" rafe tuts, eventually he stops and gets up, his mouth and chin dripping with your juices. he grabs your jaw and kisses you before taking off his shorts, the classic calvin klein banding accentuates his v line and you could see his bulge.

you sit up and your fingers hook at the band and pull his boxers down, immediately his cock springs up and hits his stomach. your eyes widened.

"its not gonna fit." you say, his tip is leaking with precum and you fight the urge to swallow him whole right then and there.

"dont worry it will." his hand pushes you back down and he uses his knees to spread your legs. rafe starts to rub himself up and down your pussy, circuling his tip around your clit. and you let out a satisfied hum. he was fighting the urge to just shove himself completely inside you and fuck you deep into the couch. rafe eyes your phone, and leans over to grab it.

he hovers the phone over your face and unlocks it, opening your messages app. he clicks on john bs contact and sees that he left 30+ texts, laughing at the idiot rafe then clicks on the camera feature.

“rafe w-what are you doing?" you asked, closing your legs shyly. your eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"dont worry, just trust me." rafe responds, leaning down to kiss you sloppily before he pressed record on the camera. using his free hand to push your thighs apart he moves the camera closer to your bodies, your lower body and his are in view. rafe then uses his fingers to spread your lips, showing the camera your slick. he slides two fingers inside you and gives it a few pumps before he removed them.

"open up f'me." he gently taps your cheek and slides the two fingers into your now open mouth. his long fingers caressing your tongue, automatically you start to suck his fingers. cleaning them.

"thats it... good job baby." he admires the way your plump swollen lips wrapped around his fingers, at this point his cock was aching in need to pump you full of his cum. he must have you.

"please rafe.. need you." you whined and looked up at him, watery eyed and pupils blown. you desperately moved your hips, and thank god he started to rub your aching pussy with his cock again. the both of you were hungry and needy. gentle whines filled the room, and rafe eventually slid himself in.

"oh fuck." rafe dragged out, slowly pushing deeper and deeper inside you.

"youre so tight, holy shit. mmmmm." bottoming out he stayed there for a moment to let you adjust. he was so long and thick, you felt every vein on it in your walls. you seriously had nothing to say, no words could have been let out to describe what you were feeling right now. pure ecstasy.

the both of you continued to say nothing as rafe sped up, drilling harder and faster into your wet pussy. his balls slapping against you ass, nothing could be heard besides moaning and the sound of his rough thrusts. you could barely see anything aside from rafes figure but you were sure that his back and biceps were now covered in scratch marks from you. the bright flash of the camera blinding you, you've never been filmed like this before. and the thought of you being slut out on camera made you even more wet.

"such a good fucking slut for me, youre takin' me so well." his free hand gripping tight on the fat of your hips to guide himself against your sweet spot.

"oh FUCK!" you let out a combination of a moan and scream when he continued to hit that spot, the knot in your stomach growing tighter.

"does your ex fuck you like this?" he slows down his pace, but you were too fucked up to respond.

"huh?" he asked and slid out just to snap hips back into you bringing you back to reality.

"no! oh fu- youre so much bigger.." you moaned, your pussy leaving a white ring at the base of rafes cock.

"yes yes yes. ah!" you whined when he sped up, which you didnt think was possible. rafe was pounding you so hard you were seeing stars. your hand went to cover your mouth but rafe slapped it away, and put it on your lower stomach.

"dont do that i wanna hear you moan f'me."

"you feel that?" rafe asked, you could see his cock bulging from your stomach.

"god- squeezing me so fucking tight..." rafe grunted, and lowered his hand to rub circles on your clit. your mouth slack and open, boobs bouncing up and down from rafes thrusts.

rafe wasnt even sure if he was getting all of this on frame, he was jackhammering into you like he hated you. he relished in the way your cunt clenched around him like you were made for him. and he was sure you were. all perfect, pretty and stupid for him.

"rafe i feel like im gonna pee, stop!" you screamed out and gripped his bicep. your stomach burned in pleasure and you felt like it was going to explode.

"pl-please oh my god, oh... my"

"thats it baby, squirt all over my fucking cock. youre so pretty like this." your eyes started water even more, he was fucking you so good you stared crying. overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions and feelings.

"so cute when you cry for me, if you keep doing that im gonna cum inside you." embarrassed you turn your head away and shake your head, the squelching and sight of your cunt was so sloppy and messy. rafe gripped your jaw and forced you to look at the camera.

"open your eyes sweetheart, keep looking at me." his fingers made their way down to your throat and squeezed.

"fuck." he whimpered, rafe has never done that before. the both of you were shocked but youve never been turned on this much.

"mmm keep doing that, you sound so fucking hot rafe." you urged him.

"im gonna cum, can i cum inside you? please baby" he begged, his thrusts becoming less controlled.

"yes, fuck. i need you to fill me right now. i wanna see your cum dripping out of me, breed me." the both of you were whiney, your cheeks were wet and your legs were shaking and sore.

"shit, you are so perfect.. this pussys so p-perfect." rafes body was tired, rutting into you like you were nothing but a fleshlight. his tip twitching inside you before he came deep into your cervix, making sure to push every ounce of his seed inside you before pulling out. and filming your dripping cunt before he ended the video.

rafe didnt have evil intentions but he wanted to let john b know what he lost, who would want to miss out on a girl like you?

*attached video*

"shes busy rn bro"

5 hours later you were laying next to a knocked out rafe, finally sobering up you went to check your phone. the most recent message being from none other than your ex.

why is he spam texting me?

"what the fuck? youre such a bitch" the text read, confused and curious you decided to scroll up. only to get surprised by a video of you and rafe from earlier. you dropped the phone in shock and turned to see rafe who woke up from the sudden sound. you picked your phone back up and shoved the phone into rafes face.

“what the fuck is this rafe?!"