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ceilidhtransing · 3 months ago

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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.

#politics #us politics #american politics #us election #election 2024 #2024 elections #2024 election #us elections #2024 presidential election #project 2025 #agenda 47 #antifascism #please vote #your vote matters #voting matters #harris #kamala #kamala harris #my posts

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ciboriaadastra · 10 months ago

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calling people "slacktivist" but you tag your posts with i/p...unserious behavior...

#idc what white gays have to say on brown folks' issues but if he can criticize barbie movie outrage and point out the real feminist issue #and you're out here using the i/p tags. i'll take his opinion over yours #'he didn't link anything' the onus on finding ways to help is on you actually. it's just *nice* when other people do that work for you #god forbid you have to look up something instead of an influencer handing you everything to think and do #as if atp there aren't tons of helpful links #ciboria grumbles

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bobardo · 1 year ago

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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

#evelyn speaks #like f*cking flabbergasted over here folks #my brain feels like mush and he’s not even REAL #UGH

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strawberrymatchawhore · 6 months ago

Text

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?!"

4K notes · View notes

alnilaem · 12 days ago

Text

coyote head and the body of a man — (e)

ghost/fem reader There's a killer on the loose. But your logging town is small and quaint and doesn't even appear on maps, so you know you're safe. That all changes when a gruff, big, taciturn man shows up at your workplace one day. Or; Simon is a fugitive serial killer, and you're the housekeeping girl that caught his eye.

cw for explicit content, graphic violence, possessive behaviour, size difference, cunnilingus, stalking

pinterest board | ao3 | for @spidehpig <3

Sometimes, you believe you were born in the centre of a dying star.

Born on the crest of death and fated for a bleak life. Dead, before you even had a chance.

The universe sweeps before you. Infinite. Expansive. Hungry. You float at the mouth of the galaxy and it swallows you whole, but doesn’t seem to like the taste of you—too bland, too trite—so it spits you back out and sends you tailspinning.

You land with a lack of courtesy. Tossed between trees and dropped in a basin. You find yourself in nowhere, Oregon. In a town flecked by a lake inlet and a clement fjord, where the moose population outnumbers the people population. It has a maritime allure but strangely enough, isn’t commercial enough to be a tourist hub. It’s too hidden in the thicket. Too deep in a borehole.

Every day here is the same. It's an abyss that yawns before you with no end in sight, lacking undue entertainment and vividness and excitement. There’s no light pollution so far off the beaten track, so oftentimes, you’ll wish upon shooting stars for someone to come for your deliverance.

There’s a reason they say be careful what you wish for.

The day isn’t even halfway over and your bone tips already ache with hard work.

It isn’t to say your workplace is busy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. A cut-rate motel with more vacancies than residents found far-removed from the highway, taking only cash, no card, which is good for deterring paper trails and welcoming the transient but is bad for providing records when the police come knocking.

You’ll get the occasional trucker, the sparse backpacker. In any case, folks stay here when they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll drive past the splintery welcome sign and stop at the diner for earthy, full-bodied coffee and a slice of famous rhubarb pie. They’ll recuperate in the motel and leave before sunrise, and you’ll be there to clean up what they leave behind, scrubbing the memory out of the fibreglass bathtub for whoever’s next.

It’s a place where time fleets away. Hallucinatory. Where people pay their due and you hang your head because after all, you’re nothing more than the housekeeping girl. Cottony pinafore and a black dress. Mary Jane flats. Fingers desquamating from years of bleach and vinegar stuck in your nail beds. You get handed dog-eared tips and in return, you don’t ask questions. But maybe you should have.

You’re sliding the window cleaner back into its compartment on the cleaning cart just as your boss scales the veranda. He’s grinning and sporting sweat stains across his armpits. A patchy beard. A loose tie.

Your nerves lock up tight when he grasps your shoulders. His razorous fingers and the pinchbeck of his wedding band saws under your skin. The dregs of his afternoon drinking knocks into you, and you try not to let your body betray you. Despite that, your eyes water and your nose crinkles. You white-knuckle your dress and almost pop the fabric of your pinafore.

“How’s my favourite employee?” he grins. “Is she workin’ hard?”

There’s an irreverent innuendo somewhere in his smile. You ignore it and opt for a stale smile.

“I’m working,” you eke out. “I've got to restock the bathroom, then I’m done.”

“That’s good, peach. Real good,” he watches you collect toiletry essentials, then tacks on, “there’s a man in the lobby.”

You falter. The travel-sized shampoo bottle almost slips between your forefinger and thumb.

“An outsider.”

It’s an observation, not a question. If the man in the lobby were a local, Phillip would have given you a name because in this town, everybody knows everybody. The fact that a name was bereft tells you your new guest came from elsewhere. Maybe he’s cutting through the main road on his way to Yachats for your town’s cascade mountains and bigleaf maple, or for the diner’s famous rhubarb pie. In any case, he's in need of a rest stop.

“Mh. I’m gonna check him in. Just wanted to let you know I’m givin’ him this room, so try to hurry it up, okay peach?”

You blink slowly. This motel holds twelve rooms—there’s never been a need for any more—and currently, nine of those are occupied. That leaves three. There’s no reason for your boss to put up the new guest in Room 11, especially when you’re still cleaning it.

Phillip reads the question in the bend of your eyebrow. He smiles knowingly and pats your head. “He requested a room on the higher level. Room 9’s aircon is busted and Room 6 shares a wall with the Pettie’s. They’re loud.”

You sigh. “Ah.”

“Sorry peach,” he smiles like he’s apologetic, but you don’t think that’s the case. “Just get it done, alright? And add some extra coffee packets."

You furrow your lips. Displeasure flutters over you but you wash it away with a smile, refusing to irk him. You nod and pivot, bones bending against your skin for an escape as his hand whispers against your bum in an encouraging caress.

Anger simmers in your marrow. Phillip simply chuckles, disparaging.

“That’s a sweet peach.”

His voice gets muted by the tinny, rattling radiator as you make it to the bathroom. You stock it up dutifully—perhaps taking extra long to ensure he's not waiting outside for you—and spritz air freshener around the room when you finish. It’s a flaky, expired bottle of Platinum Ice which barely masks the town’s deep-seated smell of old-growth forest, petrichor and woody debris. You hope the new guest doesn’t have a sharp nose.

You make sure to stuff the coffee station with extra packets before stepping out of the room. Off the mysteriously stained carpet, onto the veranda. You putter around with your large keyring, thumbing through the nickel-brass since you also have a key to the elementary school, post office, and city hall (aptly titled shitty hall by locals, since this town isn’t much of a city and the building’s roof is held together by nothing but rusty rivets and tassels of sprig collected in the corners). You’ve got so many keys because again, everybody knows everybody, and it isn’t rare to see the housekeeping girl at the motor lodge supplementing her income as a part-time teaching aid.

Finally, you find the master key. You lock the room and roll the cleaning cart into the utility room before locking that too. Your wrist drags across your forehead, wiping away sweat, and you tug on your dress because perspiration has pasted it onto the pert curve of your breasts, the squish of your thighs. You furtively glance down your bodice and watch how the sweat pocks your skin, knotting your nipples against your cheap bra. Lament catches you in regards to your shower after work—it’s going to be freezing since the heating system here is so fickle—and in the paroxysm of your grief, the sound of heavy breathing eludes you.

You don’t hear his footsteps. He’s an ambush predator. Stalking and shadowing in the tall grass, waiting for the moment your hackles melt to bite into your neck like an unripe stone fruit. You don’t see him, but you feel him. His breath tickling down your neck. The erogenous zone behind your ear.

A gasp parts your lips and you whip around, coming face-to-face with a paunchy chest plated by moth-eaten flannel. You heft your head up, exercising the hinge in your neck. Paling at the sight that greets you.

He has a Cabela’s cap on. It’s pulled over his eyes, but a few blonde curls peek out from under the crown of his hat. He has a damaged, blistered face. A cauliflower ear. Nicks on his cheeks that distend from his skin and have turned pallid with time, rippling like seafoam petticoats on waves as he flickers his jaw. He wears jeans and mud-clogged boots and holds a duffel bag.

His gaze unties you. You slowly find words, fitting them in an orderly queue in your mind as you avert your gaze and stare at the floor. Squirming. Preening. Sweltering.

“Welcome to Sockeye Inn, mister…”

Silence. He lets your words awkwardly trail off. Doesn’t do anything to belay the discomfort in your belly. The man simply stares at you with brown eyes.

Humiliation crawls up your spine and settles on your cheeks. It burns through your skin, withering you away, to which you fidget with your fingers and baldly nod towards the door.

“Your room is ready,” you murmur. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Uh– if you need anything just give us a shout. Phone’s on the bedside table.”

Foolishly, you wait for a response again. Nothing. He towers over you, owlishly blinking, one slower than the other because he seems to have a lazy eye. You clench your skirt and softly shoulder past him, heading for the stairs as you hear him putter with the keyhole.

You’ve halfway scaled it when a rasp distorted by what seems to be years of cigarettes stops you dead in your tracks.

“Bring me a BLT and root beer.”

You burn up at the muscle in his voice. The drag. Just as you’re about to reply, his room door slams shut and rocks across the veranda.

Your dress is stickier than it was before. Perhaps an ice cold shower isn’t so bad after all.

The end of your shift slowly arrogates.

After delivering food to Simon Riley—you glinted at the logbook while waiting for his order, reading his name—you left his room as soon as possible. You set the food down and found yourself plugging your nose. The Platinum Ice you sprayed before didn’t accost you— instead, it was pomade. Lucky Strike cigarettes. Decaying heartwood. Bleach.

You pointedly breathed through your mouth. It didn’t actually help though, since you could taste it then. The ethanol in the air drizzled over your pockmarked tongue and glided down your throat. Collected in your stomach.

You almost retched it back up at the sight of him.

Through the foggy shower wall, the colour of his hazy contour was striking. It seemed to be a tight fit for him, hemming in his lumberjack build. The shampoo bottle looked like a damn accessory in his large hands and his chased shoulder blades pressed soap against the glass pane, sudsy.

Your curiosity pulled your gaze lower. Down to the heavy mass between his thighs, thick and fat. Bulbous.

His spine suddenly went erect, straightening like a chary animal. As if by the agitated pappus of his skin, his chin lifted in your direction, and that’s when the earth collapsed under your feet and you beetled for the door.

You distract yourself in the kitchen. Emptying the dishwasher. Taking the garbage to the bear-proof receptacles. Putting the oven on steam clean. Kate, the kitchen supervisor, stares at you oddly under her hairnet but she isn’t going to reject a set of helping hands.

You scrub at a pan hoping it will erase the image burned into your mind. Hoping that the steel wool will have the same effect on your temporal lobe as it does on the pan. You don’t realize your hands are chafing and the pan is flaking, not until Kate is passionately complaining beside you, her spit dashing onto the side of your face.

“—fuckin’ freeloaders. They drain our taxes but can’t even do their damn jobs. Wait until one of their family gets butchered, you’ll see, that’s when they’ll start taking this seriously.”

She waves a newspaper in your face. The paper stack fans in front of you, blowing you with cool air. You’re just barely able to read the big, blocky headline.

Connection Made Between Ventura, Gilroy and Eugene Serial Killer — Aptly Coined the Ghost.

“Eugene!” Kate slaps the newspaper, frazzled. “Not even three hours from us!”

You scarcely listen to her, her voice ripening into white noise as you scrutinize the police sketch on the newspaper’s margin. The offender is drawn with an overripe balaclava and probing eyes. Dark brown, as if his corneal opacity has laid claim before death. His eyelids have no tension, but a furl of crow's feet gather at the corners. It’s uncanny. Eerie. And even though he’s pressed on paper, you can’t help the unease welling inside you.

A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to manifest and crawl out of the paper, dripping ink and viscous tar, ruining your Mary Jane flats and the floor you’d just mopped.

Hemlock hits the back of your throat. Lemony, sedgy. Your eyes fixate on the information detailing his crimes. Spines broken and necks snapped with inhumane strength. Pieces of flesh carved with the precision of either a surgeon or a butcher. Rigour mortis locking the victims in a scream, nail beds caked with skin which implies a struggle, but leads nowhere since the Ghost’s DNA hasn’t been found on any database.

(He’s as elusive as his name suggests. Investigators say he could be foreign, or that he has a clean record. The latter seems unlikely for the violent calibre of his crimes.)

There’s also his modus operandi—slicing off his victim’s ring finger, taking it with him. A cruel reward.

“They say he’s taking Route 101,” Kate tacks on. “That he’s a long-hauler. How the hell will they catch a long-hauler?”

You shake your head, shrugging. Your tongue is too heavy and your gums rub against the round of your cheeks when you try speaking. The sentence gets snagged on your molars, and all that comes out are sparse words, lamely falling to the floor with how out of breath you are.

“…They’ll catch him.”

“They better,” she shortly huffs. “I don’t want this town making the paper for all the wrong reasons.”

Death comes to you in a cornfield.

You’re sprinting through the crop, barefoot and scantily clad and pricked by thorns. Your clothing catches on thistle and corn husk, slowing you down, but the quick-footed trampling at your tail keeps your pace steady and stable.

Your lungs burn. Your bones rasp. Your eyes well up with how fast you’re moving, with how your retinas strain to see more in the pitch black than just reflective corn silk and the crescent moon.

The midnight sky is close to swallowing you whole, but at this point that would be an act of mercy. The whistle of his cleaver slicing through the air and the stomp of his boots are promptly catching up, heckling you, barely whispering against the flowy cotton of your dress.

By a cruel twist of fate your foot catches on a tiller and sends you flying. Your nose softens the impact, the crack of cartilage reverberating through your skull, glutinous red spurting down your chin as you try scrambling to your feet.

But true to his name, Ghost, he slips through matter and suddenly, he’s standing in front of you.

Black, sweaty tank top. Freshly sharpened meat cleaver. Stout arms. Predatory eyes. Rotting balaclava—which at this point, you’re starting to believe was grafted onto his face, fitting him like skin.

You raise your hands for mercy.

But you should know dead stars have exhausted all their luminosity—that after death, they hold no power. That space is a graveyard. That’s why the Ghost poises his cleaver behind him. That’s why the last thing you see is his cleaver handle swinging towards you, about to collide with and shatter your cheekbone into a million pieces—

—but daylight strikes you with no clear trajectory.

It’s your alarm that rings, waking you up from a nightmare, telling you to brush your teeth and scrub yourself down and pop your supplements before biking to work. You do so sluggishly, standing under the shower spray as you massage your cheekbone. Burning your toast as you scour the news for developing details on the Ghost case. Ordering a cup of coffee from the local diner and gulping it down behind the motel lest Phillip catches you.

Your nightmare—omen, prophecy, portent of death?—pursues you like the persistent stench of fish on an angler’s hands all morning. You flinch at the slightest noise while scrubbing toilets, you constantly look over your shoulder while sweeping floors.

Malaise builds in your blood vessels like creosote. It doesn’t thin into fluid, flowing in and out of your appendages and around your sex until you situate yourself in front of Room 11. Fluffing up your skirt and puffing out your chest.

You announce your presence and rap the door with your Mary Jane flat because your hands are occupied with new bed sheets. Your knuckles blanch around the linen, quivering, struggling to keep it in your grip. The sheets almost flutter to your feet when a voice penetrates the door, abrasive and husky. Rough. Grating against your spine and shaving down the vertebrae.

“Door’s open.”

You wait a few seconds before contorting yourself against the threshold. You try the handle and lo and behold, it’s unlocked, swinging open when you press your weight onto it.

You step inside and toe off your flats. Next to Simon’s boots, they look fit for a doll, and a dizzy spell ricochets through you at the size difference. At the stark reminder that he’s as big and packed as a thick tree stump.

You walk inside and heed the CRT television playing the news.

It does nothing to soften the scream that rips out of you as you round the corner.

Simon is in bed, pulling on a cigarette. His pudgy tummy and bristly chest are bared, the steel wool of his happy trail disappearing into the bed sheets furled around his hips. The flat sheet is thin enough to outline something stirring. Something thick and pressed against his inner thigh.

He stares at you, eyes of Argus. It’s so intense you’re sure he can sense the slick running down your back. The dew that settles in the gusset of your panties.

You stutter. “I can come back later.”

Simon sits up with a groan. It rattles you. His joints must be fettered with age, or hard work, but in any case your head goes cottony with the picture of him splitting wood and hauling heavy bovine flanks.

You swallow thick as he shakes his head. “It’s no problem, sugar. I’m not even here.”

The pet name makes you squirm. You sure do feel like it—sugar, that is—with the way you could melt on his tongue, wedge yourself between his teeth. Turn syrupy and sappy at the back of his throat.

He takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch raptly as his jaw feathers around it, lips proffering another plume of smoke.

He blinks. “Well?”

You eke out an apology and fiddle with your hands.

“I’ll have to, um, change your bedsheets first.”

Simon shakes his head. He taps the ashy casualties off the tip of his cigarette and you watch as it sinks onto the bed sheet, almost burning through the floral motif. “No need.”

“Well,” you cough, forcing your eyes away from him, “if I don’t, my boss…”

Simon pricks up. The hind of his spine straightens the same way a dog would sit straight and plumb after hearing rustling in a bush. His muscles tighten, thick, and his face twists into a sneer. The bed sheet around him falls and you lock up tight lest it bare his pubic bone.

“Is he a minger?”

“I’m sorry?”

He huffs. “‘s he a bully?”

“Oh, no,” you blandly laugh. “Mister Graves isn’t a bully. He just…”

“Makes you uncomfortable?”

There’s a lapse between acknowledging his question and spitting out an answer that makes you kick yourself. Simon already looks dubious. You hug the sheets closer to your chest and smile, your cheeks feathering like beeswax.

“He’s a kind man.”

“Not wha’ I asked,” he says. The bed creaks as he leans forward, the sheets slipping lower, scarcely covering his sex. “I asked if he does stuff he shouldn’t be doin’.”

Your heartbeat quickens. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it. He probably can, albeit softly, due to his lumpy cauliflower ear.

“He’s a married man,” you mumble. “He doesn’t touch me if that’s what you mean. Not like that.”

“There’s only one way to touch someone,” Simon grunts. His chest starts churning a little, as if he’s agitated. “Does he put his hands on you?”

Your skin burns, remembering. A phantom scar runs through you, long and creeping, mapping all the places in which Phillip’s pinchbeck wedding ring has burned you. The suture of your spine, the pappy flesh of your neck, the rise of your hips where his palm has melted through your dress and smarted your skin.

Your silence makes Simon grunt.

Panic surges up your throat. You feel the need to defend Phillip, in some approximation of gratitude and fear since you’re on his payroll and you don’t want to reap the consequences should you rat on him and he find out.

“No!” you hurry. “Mister Graves isn’t like that. He’s a good man. Honest.”

Simon’s eyes push against your skin. He scrutinizes you, tests you. Waits to see if you’ll fidget too much and flake away and sink into the carpet.

He growls. “You fancy him, is tha’ it?”

Answering yes is the only way to shake him off your leg. You do so archly, so it seems as though the thought of your boss has you flushing when really it’s Simon. He’s fully upright, and now you can see the girthy base of his cock. Stirring, twitching. You suppress a moan.

“Yeah…” you murmur. You can feel your makeup turning blotchy, running down your cheeks. “It’s just a bit…embarrassing, is all.”

He lapses into it again. Staring at you. Razoring his way into your head and thumbing through your consciousness, searching for an Achilles’ heel. A crack he can break into a hole because he has the size for it—barrel-chested, stupidly thick fingers.

Simon slips out of bed and disturbs the coiled aches of the mattress. He holds a washcloth over his crotch. It’s crusty and keeps shape and covers almost nothing, confirming your inkling.

His bulbous cockhead winks at you from under the hem. It’s heavy. Leaky. Dripping precum that laves down his legs and gets caught in the wiry hair of his thigh.

Anxiety pools in your armpits and around your groin. Or maybe that’s just arousal. Brackish and sticky, rubbing your pussy lips together, hugging your clit.

Simon pulls on his cigarette once more and then folds it into the bedside table. You should scold him. You should tell him that he’ll have to pay for damages even though the wood is already degraded and mouldy. You should scuttle out of the room and call for Phillip, but that would be a crueler fate. Instead you stay fixed to the carpet as Simon steps forward. Cock swinging between his legs, tummy jiggling.

You don’t know whether he’s going to pull you in for a kiss or rip off your dress or—and you’re unsure why you think of this—take you by your skull and smash it against the television stand. He has the muscle to, surely, but somehow you know he won’t. And the thought of that makes your skin hot.

You’re at his mercy.

You gird yourself for his lips or for your dress to be torn off, but your preparations flux away as Simon steps close and crowds you against the television stand. The stench of Lucky Strike cigarettes and gamey meat impair you, as he reaches behind you and increases the television volume. You want to say something but cotton fills your mouth and the news report floods your ears. It’s fragmentary—you can only heed oddments of the news anchor’s latest updates.

The Ghost is still at large. Corpses keep popping up around California and Oregon, each with their ring fingers sliced off. The tipline has been leading investigators nowhere, shepherding them to the end of the earth and over the edge, floating, where they’ll move through molasses and will never be able to catch him.

White male. 6’4”. 196 centimetres. Brown eyes. Heavyset. Likely military background. Likely a surgeon, or a butcher. A dangerous, ruthless individual.

If spotted, do not approach.

Simon’s breath fans against your neck, rousing the bristles of your warm cheeks. He turns off the television and steps back. An ether opens up in the pit of your stomach as your gaze falls on his bulging pelvis, on the purplish veins and webbing muscle, sitting like a tuft under his navel, disappearing behind the washcloth where his cock stirs.

Simon tuts. “World’s goin’ to shite.”

You nod.

“You shouldn’t be out here anyway,” he tacks on. “Should be at home takin’ care of your man’s house. Keepin’ safe.”

You flash your naked ring finger embarrassingly fast. “I-It’s just me…and my cat.”

His eyes darken. His head tilts down at you. He purrs.

“Better get started on mine then,” he breathes. “Put yourself to good use.”

You shyly get to cleaning his room.

You try to ignore his hand disappearing behind the washcloth, pumping his cock. You can’t ignore the silk ruining your panties. Scarcely, you manage to ignore the caution creeping up your back. Your lower instinct that screams at you as you feel his stare tracking you across the room, burning. Smouldering. Warning.

Daylight scissors into you.

It melts the sleep in the corners of your eyes. It clears the haze in your head. It interrupts the sultry dream you were having. Your flesh is still pocked and your clit is still peaked, as you rehash the contents of it.

You can still feel Simon’s weight on top of you, sweat compressioning you, the sheets gathering under your slick back. Your underwear had dangled from one of your ankles, flapping and swaying as Simon pounded into you. Your head bobbed over the lip of the mattress. Your tits bounced, nipples caught between his gnashers. Your slick ran down your cunt and over your asshole, pooling onto the floral bed sheets. You just quit your job. You didn’t care about the sheets. Or the Pettie’s down the veranda. Phillip was on the other side of the door too, and he could hear everything. Your moans. Simon’s balls dragging over your furled hole. His groans—

—And the sudden tearing of cartilage and skin stretching, rubbery, as Simon shifted into something else above you. Something larger. Deadlier. His drool dripped onto your chest, and his cock was suddenly too big for your pussy, popping back out until only his tip managed to squeeze inside your puffy hole. He snarled down at you, but it got covered by a creeping balaclava. You still reached your orgasm, quivering around his cockhead. Watching him go spotty and graphite-like in your vision, as if he were a composite sketch.

You get out of bed and wash the absurd dream away under the shower. The nozzle hits your clit weakly, and you never reach your high. You show up to work pigeon-toed and sweaty. Pent-up. You scrub harder at bathtubs and almost snap at Phillip when he swats your bum. Almost. Simon is watching from the dining hall, and he makes you skittish.

The day rolls by sluggishly. There’s a Do Not Disturb sign dangling from Simon’s door, so you don’t get the chance to see him in his room. You huff and puff at the Pettie’s and give Kate attitude. It’s the peak of afternoon when you’re sent home, shoulders stiff because Phillip squeezed them and tacked on, ”I can always help out if you’re stressed, peach,” before shepherding you out the door.

You bike into town. Indulge in the diner’s famous rhubarb pie because the motel’s cherry pie is nowhere near as good, though you’ll never tell Kate that. You polish off your treat then ride to the beach (which is more of a graveyard for birds and braided, washed ashore sea meadow), and prop your bike against the wooden bollards.

The beach is familiar with you. It sees you when you're overwhelmed by the monotonous colour of your life. You never worry about meddling kids or loud teenagers or anything, because the stench of fish usually keeps them away anyway. It's your own Shangri-La. Your little Eden. Albeit overcast and greyscale, with an ocean spray that gets into your hair and dries out your mouth.

You slip out of your Mary Jane flats and wade through the sand dunes, breathing in salt and sulfur and tasting it on your lips. You maneuver around seawrack and driftwood and eventually find yourself seated behind a tussock of seaoats, watching as the waves lazily beat against the shore.

It's easy for you to lie down and get comfortable among the scent of iodine and the feel of pillowy granules. It's also easy to let your eyes flutter shut, lulled into limbo by the ebbing tide and murmuring waves.

You stir awake with flaccid lungs.

Presentiment hangs in the air, thick, like a blanket of smog. It interrupts your breathing pattern and makes you light-headed. Vertiginous. Makes you see things that aren't there…

…Such as the off-white scleras and twists of dilated blood vessels that stare at you from the foreshore.

They approach you eerily. Two pieces of driftwood floating over the waves, jolting slightly as it hits the sand, splintery and mossy and heavy.

The man feathers toward you from the blue glow of the beach. You squint through the darkness, because maybe it's the sheriff, but you know he walks with a drunken gait and he…strides like a bear on its hind legs.

The way he lurches for you says otherwise. Perhaps he's rather a panther or a coyote, or some crude backyard breed of all three.

A large palm splits itself over your mouth. An arm lays beside you and secretes a musk of sweat and iron. A knee digs into the plush of your cunt, agitating your clit, as a warm breath fans over your pulse point.

"Waited for me, didn't you?" he rasps against your neck.

In your stupor, you brace your hands against his shoulders. A sticky substance coats his skin, too viscous to be sweat.

Nausea knots in your throat. Tremors wash over your body. You dig your nails into his flesh, and when your hands don't fall through it like you hoped, you gravely realize he's made of muscle and skin instead of your drunken, sleep-inspired imagination.

You experience a cruel loss of equilibruim. If you weren't already lying down, you'd collapse to the ground. You go limp in the sand, thawing into his hands which you unwillingly notice are caked with that sticky substance too.

"There's dangerous folk 'round here," he grunts. "What if someone else followed you? A big, bad man?"

A chord of recognition stirs in your brain at his voice. That brash accent.

"Simon…?"

He chuckles. "It's me, sugar."

You squeeze your thighs together but it's abortive. He pries them apart anyway, and cups your pussy through your panties.

He rubs you through the gauze, knuckling your soft lips. Through the darkness you barely see the misshapen silhouette of his mouth. That snarl, curling off him as if he suffers from some chronic wasting disease, slowly atrophying and turning into some vestigal cadaver.

He kisses down your sternum. Grips your hand and forces it over his crotch. Your fingers brush over the solid mass. It's hard due to both stiffened denim and his thickening cock.

"All for you," he mumbles. "Take it out, sugar."

You fumble with the metal teeth of his zipper. You pull him out with both hands and your mouth goes dry. Tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deadly nightshade hitting the back of your throat. Despite you, your thighs squish together, and a rumbling chuckle slips through the seam of his lips.

He's huge. Fat and heavy, so much so you need both fingers to wrap around him.

"Give it a kiss, yeah?" he coos. "Like a sweet girl."

You spread your lips against his cockhead. You pull away and a string of precum chases you, but Simon is pushing your head back down and bucking his bristly pubic bone into to your nose.

"There it is," he grumbles. "Such a big girl, aren't you?"

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes.

The stiffs of hair on his pubic bone tickle your nose. You smell sweat and iron, but you can't tilt your head away, because the stout muscle of his arms keep you in place.

Fighting is futile. His cockhead hits the back of your throat like oleander and he holds your jaw in place, dimpling your cheeks with his rough fingers, letting his balls slap against your chin.

Just as you're getting used to his size, he pulls out, breaking the strands of saliva and precum between you.

"Take off y'panties, sugar."

You pull them off and squirm at the way the gusset clings to your pussy lips a little while longer. Simon takes it against his nose and sniffs it, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading your slick.

You don't get a warning before he's curling one of his fingers into you. Massaging your walls. Scissoring you open. Thumbing your clit.

He adds another and twists them deeper—meaner—into you. He swallows your whimpers but spits them back into your mouth when he empties his saliva down your throat. He keeps stroking the inside of your pussy, your sticky walls, and rubbing your clit.

He squeezes your cheeks together and gives you a big kiss. He coos condescendingly into your lips, and licks away your fresh track of tears. "It's supposed to hurt, baby. Don't be mad, alright? It'll feel good soon."

He gets deeper and deeper. Knuckle-deep, when he curls his fingers inside you. You lock up tight and thrust your hips through the bulk of your orgasm, trembling and quivering around him.

Your lips quiver around a plea when he pulls his fingers out. It's a lapse of judgement on your part—you know it—but you can't help it anymore.

"Please what?" He grins. It's ugly. Like a truss of stitching falling off his face, mangled and chewed up.

"Can you g-go…" you squirm when he rolls his tumb over your clit, agonizingly slow. "Can you go–"

"C'mon baby," he whispers against your lips, "spit it out. Big girls use their words."

"Canyougodownonme?" you gasp and grip onto him, bucking your cunt into his palm.

He chuckles against your mouth. He kisses down your chest. He crinkles his nose against the husk of your pussy. He deeply inhales and vibrates at your scent. He darts his tongue out and flattens it against your dewy folds, licking a stripe up your slit.

You writhe but he holds you in place with those big, thickened hands of his. They're wet but at this point you can't tell if it's your arousal or that mysterious substance on him. You can't even think about it, not with your thoughts melting away, escaping you like the humming waves.

Simon's a bit too aggressive in how he eats you out. It doesn't come from a juvenile attempt influenced by sex-on-screen with undue emphasis, but rather his tongue spelling devotion into the fat of your cunt.

Your fingers flex into his blonde head of hair. It's closely cropped, but you still manage to pull him closer, grinding yourself down on the bumpy bridge his nose. You pull on his hair and he growls and sends a quake up your spine. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue further into you, softly suckling your juices out.

The waves fold over each other, beating against the shore. They crest and crash and just as they race up the sand dune, teasing your flexing toes, your second orgasm crashes into you too. You twist and twirl Simon's hair in your grip and almost miss the feel of something cold being slipped onto your finger.

You're shaking, trembling, as you raise your hand. You're hazy and the moonlight is shrouded by clouds. It makes the mystery object look smeared across your vision, blotchy and spotty.

You hold it a little closer to your face, examining the twinkle as Simon massages your thighs to ease the quiver.

You turn your hand over and whisper your thumb over its curve.

You bristle when you realize what it is. It hangs off you a little loosely, burning your knuckle.

A pinchbeck wedding ring.

Stained with red, and still warm from the body it was pulled from.

Bile gathers in your throat and burns your mouth. Tears gather in your eyes. A small gasp parts your lips, billowing out of you like the mushroom-head of a flare just as realization fully commits itself to you.

You shiver. Both through realization, and your orgasm. "…What did you do to him?"

"Took care of him," Simon grunts, caressing your hair. "I'm supposed to handle the monsters under your bed, ain't I?"

You spare him a glance. You heed the white of his teeth and a smudge of—you know it's blood—across his cheek. His eyes, hidden in the shadowy canopy. His nose, bent out of shape and speckled with blood.

"You're not going to hurt me."

He brushes your hair back. "No."

You pant into him when he captures you for a kiss. "…Why?"

"I'm supposed to take care of ya," he grunts. "That's what couples do, no?"

He pushes something in your grasp—a folding knife. Your thumb slips over the two initials engraved into the handle—your initials.

"How do y'feel about Kate?" he asks.

Your coworker flashes into your mind. "I like her"

Simon—the Ghost—grunts. "And what about that bloke at the diner? What's his name?"

"I– Franklin?"

"Hn. Does he bother you?"

You thumb through your memory. Perhaps what you say is an embellishment, giddy of what Simon's going for.

"He did steal my bike once…" you mumble.

Simon pricks up. His chest puffs out and squishes against your arm. "He married?"

"Yeah, um," you swallow, "for about ten years."

"You want his pretty ring? Or his wife's?" Simon asks, then kisses you. "Anythin' you want."

Your lips stretch into a smile.

Simon cups your cheek, blood rubbing off on you. For the first time ever, you feel exhilarated at the thought of the future. At the thought of being taken care of. Doted on.

Suddenly the town doesn't feel so cold anymore. It doesn't feel like an invisible barricade is hemming you in. Simon is your ticket out of here, and a ticket to your new life.

You can abandon your pinafore and Mary Jane flats and maybe he'll spoil you with frilly socks and a cute sundress. Maybe he'll fuck you in his truck or in gas station bathrooms as the corpse of a man who wronged you rots in the truckbed. Maybe you'll get caught but at least you'll be together and at least your name will finally be known.

Not as the housekeeper girl, but Mrs Riley.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #cod x reader #cod mw2 #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod smut #orion writing

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foreverdolly · 8 months ago

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ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

word count: 4.5k

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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.

The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .

There’s you.

And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.

This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.

If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.

The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?

Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.

The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.

The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.

They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.

No one could save you.

“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.

How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.

“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.

Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.

“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”

You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.

The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.

“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.

He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.

“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.

You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.

“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.

“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.

A pause.

“Please.” And then he went back to eating.

So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.

“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.

Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.

“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”

Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.

“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.

For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.

“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.

He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.

“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”

He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.

“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.

Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.

“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.

“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”

That awful, ugly, no good-

“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed.

You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things.

‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’

You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics.

You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered.

“Do all women take this long to get ready?”

You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf.

He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring.

He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous.

“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms.

You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited.

You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have.

“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction.

Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away.

The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth.

You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm.

You waited. And waited. And waited.

“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand.

There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?

“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far.

You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket.

You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack.

“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm.

“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce.

“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement.

“No.”

“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.”

Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest.

“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . . spineless.”

You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he.

“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him.

‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you.

“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred.

“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice.

You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together.

“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . .

Aimed at his throat.

He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him.

And then he leaned in closer. And closer.

“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.

You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. . . the natural musk of his skin.

“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin.

He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it.

“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own.

Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in.

“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you.

He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole.

They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with.

When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain.

But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it.

‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ‘Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’

His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft.

“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair.

Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire.

And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood.

“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now.

“I wanted to.” You conceded.

“Then you should have tried harder.”

Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused.

There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone.

And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably.

There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land.

He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now.

Like the fact that he had almost kissed you.

Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you.

You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now.

Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating.

Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped.

“Atreides.”

The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized.

No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . .

Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger.

‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier.

He had been trying to warn you.

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the wonderful line “fear me, love me. do as i say and i will become your slave” is from the movie “the labyrinth”!

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune part 2 #dune #austin butler #austin butler x reader #smut #dune smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune x reader #dune x you #dune fanfiction #feyd rautha fic #austin butler fic

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