#raven scanner

[forumaberto]

Captiva V6 • P0300

Identificando de maneira simples uma falha de cilindros e sua causa em um motor V6 Chevrolet Bobina de ignição da Captiva V6 na Amazon: https://amzn.to/44ZRhSW 0:00 Introdução da diagnose do motor1:00 Leitura de falhas de cilindros no Raven Scanner1:30 Contagem dos cilindros motor V6 Captiva2:14 Troca de bobinas de posição3:51 Confirmação da falha de bobina na inversão de cilindro5:20…

[disc0bandit]

[fancyshooting]

KONAMI OFFICIAL GUIDE: METAL GEAR SOLID

[fleouriarts]

mini sketchbook dump. lowkey forgot this thing existed until last week

descriptions/refs and such below

1. based on one of the pics i took w hivemind, i told them to do cute poses and riley decided to just go O__O at the camera??? hes so silly <3

2. another livemind thing but this time it's from the video i took of them slow dancing. if i ever say no to a hivemind gay moment... call the cops my identity has been stolen for sure

3. finally drew one of my favorite little hivemind moments EVER oh my god they are so cute. literally me and who

4. this is just a cute pic of riley that i'd drawn literally right when i started doing hivemind fanart so i thought i'd redraw it. adding both the ref pic and my drawing from june 2023 so you can gawk at how much more angular my style has gotten

5. my dearest hex aka @gaydonweaver sent me this old pic of graydon (from a 2018 video i think) and i was enamored with his fluffy hair so i had to draw it

5. another one of my favorite cute hivemind moments... real compilationheads will recognize this as the thumbnail for 'hivemind juicy kissable boyfriend moments' which i remember riley being caught watching on stream 😭 im never gonna forget that i think its so fucking funny

also the section under the cut is a SAFE SPACE so here's some silly and kinda embarrassing sona doodles i did around these

[milksockets]

why scan?

scanning is something i've done for probably about 12 years now (i'm ancient, for this site), with varying degrees of regularity, intensity, etc. it has ratcheted up since the dawn of 2023, though, which begs the question: why? why put so much time into what could not-wrongly be considered a passive activity, hunched over a piece of clunky machinery with the express purpose of preserving others' creations? the answers are several, and fascinating (not really).

i am a [sober] drug addict. anything i pursue, consume, create--more often than not--ends up taking on addictive qualities. i'll eat the same specific food item for a month, then never want to see, let alone taste it, again. i'll listen to one song on repeat for days until i'd rather hear nails on a chalkboard than have it shuffle on and assault my ears. one of the reasons that my scanning has increased in volume recently is that i acquired library cards to the 3 nyc library systems: nypl, brooklyn, and queens. as soon as i was able to, i pillaged + plundered those fine centers of learning, leaving any given library with as many hefty scan-worthy books as i could [barely] carry. here, finally, was a *free* way of obtaining more + more + more visual media to consume.

2023 saw me get my first legal, full-time job. as such, my adjusting to that hellish reality resulted in a steep decline in my own personal creative output. collaging, writing, and rapping all fell to the wayside as i slowly acclimated to a life of work that almost everyone else my age has known for over a decade is generally unbearable + detrimental to the maintenance of outside pursuits. in times of famine within my own artistic harvest, scanning, archiving, and sharing others' work is a means of feeling as though i am still contributing to the global oeuvre.

there’s an element of losing my mental self in a series of physical motions that becomes almost automatic after some time. “zoning out” is not something endemic to my daily life; if anything, i’m almost always too zoned in. relief is necessary.  especially considering the shitshow this past year has been in terms of my personal life.

i am a product of capitalism’s cultivating a craving for constant consumption. 

it seems that visual content is only going to continue to get more + more uninspired. has everything been done? did social media ruin it all? in any case, i feel a need to document the past. to a degree, it’s my version of doomsday prepping. (god forbid books go extinct altogether.) 

i have always gravitated towards solitary activities. this topic could be a thesis in its own right.

i thrive on external validation. this reliance is something i’ve improved upon over the past several years, but it hasn’t been altogether extinguished. even though the materials i scan are not of my own creation, i nevertheless feel a vague pride in showcasing them. occasional appreciation thereof satisfies this fixation on others’ attention, albeit in a diluted form. 

i am fortunate to live in a city bursting to the gills with cultural institutions. i am also lucky enough to have some disposable income that can be directed toward fulfilling my ravenous desire for visual media. 

((i keep getting messages about the specifics of my scanner + "process":

i have a cheap ass hp envy 6055e and i just use the software it comes with.

there's nothing special or fancy happening here, and i could definitely invest in a better and/or a large format scanner, etc. but i really just don't care enough and it's not like i'm getting paid for this lmao))

[house-of-kolchek]

Dress (Part Two)

Leon Kennedy x Reader

OK I KNOW ITS BEEN A HOT MINUTE SINCE PART ONE BUT I LITERALLY REWROTE THIS THREE TIMES I APOLOGIZE

Also I love you all.

Word Count: 3.6k

Part One (18+)

Ok this is slightly (significantly) more drama than I was initially planning so. Enjoy my tears.

You didn’t get your dress dry cleaned. 

In fact, for a long time it remained in that pile, pooling at the foot of your bed. You were too afraid to call at first, your stomach churning with guilt, rejection and most of all, shame. And finally, two weeks later when you did try to call, the phone didn’t make it three rings before it was sent to voicemail.

So, with growing resentment in your eyes, you turned your phone off completely.

But still, as you stopped seeing him at work, that nagging itch in the back of your mind convinced you to ask around - even begging Hunnigan to assure you that yes, he was still alive in the least.

With that knowledge, you resigned to staring at the dress on your floor. The rumples in your sheets from your unmade bed - having not properly made it since that night. You felt like you were going crazy, biting at your nails and asking question after question to yourself in the silence.

Was he more drunk than you thought?

Did he think it was something else?

Did he regret it - did you ruin something over a one night stand?

The six week mark came and went. You’d finally picked up your dress a week prior, dumping it into a bag for donation, or just garbage, you weren’t quite sure. At this point, that stain was probably cemented into the fabric. You’d gone through a deep cleanse of your room, your apartment, anything to push away the plaguing memories of that night. If Leon wasn’t going to get back in contact with you, you would just have to move on.

Which was, of course, easier said than done. 

“Raven two- are you still with me?” The voice in your ear snapped. You cursed, glancing back at the smooth wall in front of you. The questions in your head were starting to follow you everywhere - even into work. You couldn’t help but wonder if you should have been working in the state you were in, but who would accept “My best friend and I slept together and then he disappeared” as an even remotely valid excuse?

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just looking for intel,” you muttered into the piece, picking at your nails, and the bits of dirt catching underneath them. The hallway behind you was long, leading to a sealed door. “There’s a door here that’s locked with a biometric scanner. The name matches our guy though.” You continued to study the panel, lightly running your fingers along the seams until - bingo.

With the edge of your knife, you pried against the gap in the panel, until the screen flew off, falling to the floor with a crack. Within a second, the lights had dimmed, a faint echo of an alarm bleating across invisible speakers. You cursed under your breath, taking a moment to analyze the collection of wires and motherboard looking things beneath the panel. 

What the fuck did any of them even mean.

“Fuck it.” You grabbed a handful of wires, and in a final hail mary moment, yanked them all from the panel. The alarm grew to a shriek, though you caught sight of the door shifting, just enough to indicate that the lock had faltered. Honestly, you had no idea how that even worked. 

“What the hell is going on in there?” your earpiece rang again. Your operative sounded less than thrilled.

“Well, let’s just say the security in this place is weird,” you huffed, reaching to pry the door open enough to slide into the office. “I made it into Brown’s office though.”

“Good,” she sighed. “From what I can tell they’ve dispatched a team towards the office. You’ve likely got two minutes before you need to be out of there, so get the notes and go.”

You nodded to the empty room, your brows furrowing as the lights within the office continued to flash. A computer was still on, the login information filled in.

How convenient.

You raced over to the computer, snatching a random flash drive from the desk. Clicking the login button, you watched the foreboding circle on the screen as the information loaded, your heart soaring as the desktop flashed into view. Wasting no time, you hit the files tab, plugging in the USB and copying anything, everything that you saw. You filtered through the email tab, copying the most recent files onto the drive as well. 

And then, a chorus of voices caught your attention. 

As the drive process edged towards completion, you searched through the room again, your attention catching on a door on the opposite wall. Praying that it wasn’t a closet, you ejected the drive, your arms flailing to grab at a pile of file folders, each labelled with three lettered initials. Hopefully they were important; you didn’t have the time to care. 

In a haste, you wrenched the door open, and-

“Fuck me.”

It was a closet.

“Harper,” you hissed into your piece, pushing forward between the hanging jackets and a mop handle. “I’m a little stuck in place right now, and I would really appreciate any backup.”

“Where are you?”

“In a broom closet. In Brown’s office.”

You heard a frustrated curse. A chorus of frantic typing on a keyboard before Harper’s voice was back in your ear.

“Okay, hang tight. Kennedy’s on his way.”

Wait.

“Fucking hell,” you cursed, wondering why the world had decided to curse you further in this clusterfuck of a mission. “How far out?”

“Five minutes. He was already on his way to the building.”

???????

You let out a whispered acknowledgment, falling silent as the first voice burst through the room. And then another, and another, until you were counting five low voices, assigning each other different areas to scout.

There was no way you could hide in here. Your free hand fell to the knife at your waist, shifting to the holstered gun along your thigh, and then back to the knife. It was safer. 

Better for close combat.

As Harper’s voice echoed “three minutes” into your ear, you heard a shuffle of footsteps halt directly in front of you. You held your breath, unsheathing your knife and loosening your knees into a short crouch.

The door flew open, and you lunged.

The first man let out a shout as you barrelled straight through him, sending him stumbling back off his feet. The four others - plus another surprise attendee - all whirled around to face you, their guns drawn. In a second, you ducked to the side, shuffling yourself behind the computer desk. You gave up on the file folders with a curse, throwing them over the desk towards your attackers.

In the distraction, you unholstered your gun, switching your knife to the other hand and crossing them together. Ducking your head over, you took a shot, hearing a pained cry. You shot again, creeping closer to the side of the desk. If you could sneak your way around and out the door, you could-

“He’s there.”

Another round of gunshots, ringing with that familiar weight, cut through the room. It felt quicker than three minutes, and you couldn’t help but peek your head over the desk.

Leon’s expression was stoic, his brows drawn into a line as he let loose another spray of gunfire. Two men fell to the ground, clutching at their legs. You took the opportunity to shoot out from your position, circling around towards the door. You took a few shots of your own, downing another two attackers as Leon’s arm reached out to force you behind him. 

You didn’t waste any time, grabbing his wrist and running from the room.

“Are you okay?” He huffed from beside you, having just barely caught up to your pace. You nodded, not trusting the words in your throat. His hair had gotten longer in the weeks, and there was a new hollowness just below his cheekbones. The sight of him sent a pang of emotion through you, and you chose to ignore it, keeping your expression blank as you raced towards the lab entrance.

Leon called your name as you escaped the building - surprisingly easily as no other security detail came after you. Your back flared, but your feet ignored the will of your mind, turning you to face the agent. With his long hair, wearing that familiar leather jacket and a pair of knitted brows. The sight of him, after those weeks of radio silence, of forcing you to question yourself over, and over again.

You weren’t relieved to see him. There was no spark of joy, no twinge of grief in your heart. You were angry.

“What the fuck do you want, Leon?”

He recoiled at the venom in your voice, his lips tightening further into a frown. You wanted to feel bad, to apologize and reach out for his hand, as you’d done in every argument before. But you couldn’t allow yourself to do that.

Leon cleared his throat.

“You’re bleeding,” was the only thing he said, directing his gaze to your side. You glanced down, taking in the dark, damp spot against the navy fabric of your shirt. The pain in your side didn’t even flare up until you pressed a hand to the wound, a sharp breath hissing between your teeth. Leon stumbled forward a step, his arm stretching out, until you caught his gaze, and he faltered.

It was quiet for a moment, the dull throb in your side beginning to grow in intensity. Leon’s gaze fell to the side, his teeth catching his bottom lip. If you had to hazard a guess, he looked angry, but you couldn’t tell why. 

“Just get me out of here,” you breathed, after another moment of silence between you two.

—

You didn’t let Leon come with you into the infirmary, much to his vocal protest. You received a visit from Ingrid, her expression remaining mostly concerned, though her lips held a tight line, and some prodding got her to admit that the agent had mercilessly been pestering her regarding your wellbeing. 

Why now?

You remained steadfast, refusing to confront him and allow yourself to fall back into whatever spell had prompted this whole disaster in the first place. You wallowed, you caught yourself staring at his contact in your phone. You listened to the low, muffled timbre of his voice outside your room and fought the urge to call him in, face the time, the distance that’d been placed between you two. You forced a wall up, defensive and as strong as you could muster.

You kept that wall up for five days. And then Ingrid decided she’d had enough.

You were leaning against the bed, packing up your few personal items to take home when the door opened, signaling Ingrid’s arrival.

“Hey - do you think we could stop at a drive thru on the way? I swear to god I need an actual meal-”

You shut right up as Leon Kennedy stumbled into your room, looking like a feral cat as he shrugged Ingrid’s hands off his shoulders. Her gaze found yours, unrelenting as she gestured between the two of you.

“Change of plans. Leon’s driving you home. Figure out whatever the fuck is going on between you two or I swear to god I am leaving you to die on your next missions,” she hissed, slamming the door shut without another word.

You all but shriveled into ash, your throat tightening as the man that had plagued your mind for the past two months scowled at the wall. He rolled his shoulders, biting the inside of his cheek as his gaze slowly, sloooooowly found yours.

“What have you been doing here, Leon?” you finally sighed.

“You need to be more careful.”

You huffed. “Noted. As if you have any right to tell me that. I’ll ask again: what are you doing here?” 

“If I hadn't shown up, who knows what could have happened.”

“Leon-”

“You know, you’d most likely be dead!” His voice grew in pitch, his gaze growing harder as he took a step towards you. You took a step back.

“Leon-”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that reckless,” he hissed. 

“Well, what the hell do you think caused that?” you shouted. Leon’s mouth finally snapped shut. His jaw clenched, his gaze falling away from yours.

“You can’t just disappear for six weeks and-” you cut off with a hissed curse, reaching for the sudden flare of pain in your side. Leon’s arm shot out, and against your better judgement, you stepped away from it, holding a hand out to stop him. You watched him wince.

“You can’t just do that to me and pretend everything’s fine, Leon,” you finished. He looked hurt, his hand coming up to cover his face under the facade of brushing a stray hair away from his eyes. And the silence between you grew for a long moment.

“I know,” he finally breathed, his voice clipping at the end of its sentence. When you spared him a glance, you noticed the tightness of his fists, his nails digging hard into his palm as his gaze remained unfocused against the floor. You swallowed against the lump in your throat, forcing the words out from your lips.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked, and his gaze snapped back to yours in a moment. Before he could get a word out, you were talking again. “Did I take advantage of you? Because I swear, I thought you were fully coherent. Hell, I’ve seen you in a much worse state without any problems, but maybe I read into something and I forced your hand and-”

Leon’s hands found your shoulders, and you physically jerked out of your thoughts. You watched his face twist into something that looked like pain as his hands flew off of you with a muttered apology. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, I swear,” he muttered. “I did everything wrong. I just…”

You waited. And he took a breath.

“Let’s get you home.”

You let his words balance on your tongue, your gaze slipping away from him. Your brain felt like mush, both relieved and disappointed. Overall, entirely unsure of what to think. So, with a silent nod, you let him slip your bag over his shoulder, his hand hovering over your shoulder as he led you out of the infirmary and to his car.

God, you’d missed his car.

The door shut behind you, and you immediately noticed your chapstick, still settled in the second cupholder between the seats. His bags were still strewn across the backseat, along with one of your old hoodies, the only neatly folded item on the seat. Leon flicked on the radio as he drove home, keeping the volume low enough that it almost blended with the noise of the car along the road.

You recognized the song, something you used to sing to your curtains at night. Something about a fancy dress, bought for a single person.

You reached across the dashboard to switch the radio station.

Throughout the drive, you made too much effort to sneak some glances at him. He looked tense, his grip on the wheel almost as tight as his jaw. He had that familiar knot in his brows that told you of the racing thoughts in his own head. And every once in a while, you’d catch him as he snapped his attention back to the road.

By the time you arrived at your home, you’d actually tired yourself out trying to analyze his thoughts. 

Leon parked the car, glancing towards your front door. Though it wasn’t dark, the moment felt familiar. The awkward silence, the silence that thickened the air. So, before it could get too reminiscent, you practically threw yourself out the car door. 

Leon was on his feet as you shut the door, looking over the roof of the car to meet your gaze. He’d already reached to grab your bag, hoisting it over his shoulder.

“Can I help you bring this in?”

You fucking hated this distance between the two of you.

“Do you want to come in?”

Leon barely hesitated - only enough for his shoulders to relax - before he nodded, circling around the car to follow you into your home.

You shut the door, directing Leon to just drop your bag by the pile of stuff in the hall, before you trudged over to the couch, falling into the comfort of the cushions. He sat next to you, much closer than you would have expected. You spent a long moment staring into space, mustering up the words you needed to say before finally letting out a heavy sigh.

“Why did you disappear for two months? And then why did you show up? Why did I have to listen to you outside of my hospital room? Why did you leave in the first place?” 

As you asked them, your questions didn’t seem to stop, and Leon seemed to pick up on the increasing urgency in your voice as he caught your hand, rubbing a circle along your knuckles because he knew it would calm you down. You wanted to pull away from it, to keep that fiery wind in your sails before your resolve completely crumbled. Yet as you started to pull away, his grip tightened on your hand, a sharp breath sounding from his lips. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his own nose scrunching as he thought. “I thought I ruined something, that maybe I took advantage of you and ruined things.”

“So why not just talk about it?” you pressed. “I mean, we’ve seen each other through much worse.”

Leon was quiet. (I’m about to hit you with the cheesiest fucking line known to man)

“I mean, what could be worse than fucking that up and losing you?”

There was a strong wave of pure feeling that crashed through your chest. Something that felt like grief, like adoration. It felt like pain and bliss all tied up together in a bow. It was like you were teetering at the edge of a cliff and something in his words had just anchored at you. But at the same time, it felt like you were watching each other crumble apart next to each other. 

Without any warning, you burst into tears. 

Leon’s breath caught in his throat as you flew into him, wrapping your arms tight around his neck and pulling him as close as possible. He was trembling, his own arms wrapping around your waist, as he buried his nose into your shoulder.

It was rare to see this kind of emotion from him. His voice was trembling, and his grip on your waist was tight enough that you wondered if he was scared to let go. Those walls you’d watched him carefully craft over the years crumbled right in front of you, and your heart couldn’t help but swell at the outpouring of those emotions he’d locked up for so long.

“Can you forgive me for running away?” he asked. Pleaded, really. His eyes grew wider in your silence. A part of you wanted to wash away the past weeks, draw him right back into your arms without another battle. The smaller, more bitter part of you wanted to keep arguing, to show him just how much he’d hurt you. 

But this was Leon. He was your closest friend…. And he was looking at you without any defense in his gaze. He held only sincerity, if not a little bit of fear as he waited. You’d been more honest with him than anyone else, and in a moment you simply knew with utmost confidence he would offer you the same. So you asked.

“What did that night mean to you?” you asked, fighting against the tightness in your chest for volume. As you pulled away to face him head on, his gaze softened. His lips twitching in the first smile you’d seen in months.

“You said you bought that dress for me,” he started, his gaze unwavering. “And I swear I saw heaven. I meant every word I said. And I want you. I want to be with you.”

The words were simple, but they made your heart soar. 

“You’re my person,” you muttered. “Always.”

And Leon let out a huge breath, his eyes falling shut and his shoulders sagging before he surged upwards to kiss you.

When he kissed you, it felt like he craved you, like he couldn’t live without the feeling of your lips against his. He held you tight, his fingers digging softly into your back. You let your own hands curl into his shirt, your lips parting just enough for his tongue to prod against the seam.

Leon broke away from you for barely a second before he kissed you again, soft and so tender that you felt like glass about to shatter. Your thumb brushed against his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tickle of his hair, simply reassuring yourself that he was actually there in front of you.

He pulled you close, closer than you could even have thought possible, his hands curling into your shirt. When he finally pulled away from you, his forehead resting against your collarbone, his breath shook. Your shirt grew damp, and your arms tightened around him.

“Y’know how much I missed you, you fucking dumbass?” you sighed, and Leon let out a weak chuckle. He lifted his head slowly, his nose barely brushing against your jaw as you found those ever familiar baby blues of his.

“I think I have some idea,” he whispered with a short grin.

And you kissed him again.

TAGGING:

@chaosandbubbles @obsessedwithtoomanythings @navstuffs

[jacksepticeye-simp]

Confident (Head Engineer Mark x Reader)

Warning: This gets a little spicy, please click off if uncomfortable!

Your day on the ship was like any other. It was your responsibility to perform maintenance checks in order to keep the crew and ship in good condition. You were used to this routine, even though it was extremely boring. 

Your head engineer, Mark, was the only one who made your job easier. 

While you wouldn't admit it to anyone, you did have a small crush on him. 

The details about him were absolutely flawless, from his raven black hair to his bubbly personality, and his eyes too... You could stare into those brown eyes of his for hours at a time, and then- Oh, speak of the devil, Mark messaged you! To find out what he needs, you open the message. 

Would it be possible for us to meet in our quarters, captain? "I'm going to show you something." His message seemed off-putting. Maybe something was wrong or you were just paranoid. Well, it's good to see what he wants. 

Not like he's planning to smother you with a pillow or anything like that. You placed your hand on the scanner in front of the doors as they opened swiftly. You walked into the room you shared with the head engineer only to find the lights dimmed. 

You raised an eyebrow and stepped forward. Suddenly as if responding to your movement, multiple lights on a pathway made from flower petals lit up. Standing at the very end of the path, was Mark holding a sign that read 'Will you join me on a date, Captain?' You gasped in disbelief as your eyes locked on Mark's. "Yes!" You cried excitedly as you hugged him. He stood there in shock for a moment before smiling and hugging you back. 

"Really?" He asked, wanting to make sure you meant it. You nodded eagerly and looked at him again. Your eyes hold nothing but love. A slight grin covered his face. "Hey, captain?" Your gaze stays fixed on his face. 

"Want me to show you how much I love you?" He asked, leaning down to whisper in your ear. His voice is deep and smooth like velvet, creating a noticeable blush on your cheeks. You nodded, left speechless by his sudden confidence surge. Mark gently pushed you against the wall as he kissed your neck and collarbone. You just stood there, a blushing mess while he rubbed your sides. 

"God, you're so perfect, captain." He murmurs while kissing your cheek. He leans ever so close to your face and puts his hands on your waist while you put yours on his shoulders. Both of you leaned closer until your lips met. You 2 shared a passionate kiss for a while before it intensified. Mark gripped your hips tightly as the kiss got rougher, and the 2 of you eventually parted for air. Mark stared at you, his eyes half-lidded. "So, do you like how confident I can be, captain~?" You nodded as his lips curved into a smirk.

 "Then why don't I show you how confident I can get~.." 

Made for @dontspilltheteaplease

[samgirl98]

Mending a Family 6/?

Prev | Next

Here, have some Batfam angst

Bruce

Crime Alley was mourning the loss of its hero. Bruce refused to believe Jason was dead.

Neither he nor his other children had been able to make any headway in their hero persona. In the end, Bruce went to Crime Alley undercover as a homeless man. No one had seen hide or hair of Red Hood in almost two months. Everyone thought that Red Hood had died; it never occurred to them that Jason might have left.

(He was alive; his son couldn’t be dead again. There hadn’t been a body.)

Bruce looked at the camera footage on the day of Jason’s disappearance. Unfortunately, there weren’t many cameras in Crime Alley, so he only occasionally caught glimpses of Jason’s red helmet.

(Why hadn’t he fought harder to add more cameras in Crime Alley? Bruce could’ve funded better security for the place. He had wanted to respect Jason’s wishes but look where that got him.)

“Hey, B, still looking at the footage? Found anything new?”

Bruce didn’t take his eyes off the monitors but answered Dick’s questions.

“No, nothing new.”

That was the frustrating part. Nothing new popped up, no matter how often Bruce looked at the footage. There had been no anomalies, no significant rogue attacks, and Jason hadn’t gotten into any fights with other drug dealers. The little footage he saw of Jason had him interacting with some of the women he protected or handing out bags to some of the kids. There was nothing that indicated that Jason was planning to leave.

(He left. He had to have left. His safe houses were full of dust and empty.)

“Bruce, maybe it’s time you stopped looking at the footage.”

Bruce paused the video and glared at his eldest. Dick put his hands up.

“I’m not saying let’s stop looking for him. I’m saying looking at the same thing over and over again isn’t going to help us find him.”

Bruce glared at the last clear video they had of Jason. He knew Dick was right, but he had no idea where to start. No one in the hero community knew Jason was alive again. Jason didn’t have any friends or allies outside of Crime Alley. The last time they had spoken, he had ended in a shouting match because Bruce had asked Jason if he knew anything about the disappearance of a child rapist over a year ago.

Bruce regretted many things in his life; not making things better with Jason was now at the top of his list.

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Maybe it’s time we brought in others to help us.”

Bruce frowned. He didn’t like bringing in other heroes regarding Gotham’s or his family’s affairs.

“Listen, I’m not saying we tell the whole hero community, but I can ask some team members to help. I’ll tell them to keep it to themselves. I know Roy would love to help when he finds out Jason is still alive. Kori can travel the world and maybe keep an eye out. Victor can hack into systems worldwide, and Raven can probably sense him. He has returned from the dead; that has to leave some signature.”

“Hmm,” Bruce thought about it before nodding. Dick gave him a quick smile and left the cave. Bruce picked up his phone and waited for the person to answer.

“Bruce, is everything okay?”

“Clark, I need to speak with you. Can we meet at the usual place?”

(Why hadn’t he reached out sooner?)

Tim

In another part of Gotham, Tim Drake was in his base of operation (fondly dubbed the Nest).

Instead of repeatedly looking at the same footage, Tim was trying to find if anything weird had happened in the city on the last day of Jason’s appearance in Crime Alley. Here were the facts.

Even though it had been late April, the weather had been unseasonably cold. While that could have been a coincidence, Tim doubted it. The weather started at 79 degrees F and ended in the low 20s. Mr. Freeze was still in Arkham, so he couldn’t have done it.

Fact two: his scanners had picked up weird readings he had never seen before. At the same time that the weather started dipping, the unknown readings had risen.

Fact three: the night of the anomaly, Jason had disappeared.

The three things had to be connected. Tim texted Barbara to run a test to see if she got the same results and also to see how long the anomaly lasted while he did the same. He was going to find Jason.

(His family depended on it.)

Dick

Dick hung up on Roy, his screams still echoing in his ears. To say that his team had been upset he had kept Jason’s resurrection a secret had been an understatement. Nobody had been as angry as Roy.

Dick understood where Roy was coming from.

(Bruce had kept secrets from him, and he knew how it felt.)

But he hadn’t wanted his little brother to be remembered differently now that he had strayed off the hero path. He deserved to be remembered as that sweet little boy who thought being Robin was magic.

It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered now was finding him, and if that meant being yelled at or reprimanded by his friends, well, as long as they found Jason, he could take anything his friends decided to dish out at him.

Damian

Damian frowned at the phone. His finger hovered over the call button. He noticed how Jason’s disappearance affected the family. Father was coming home with more bruises. Richard smiled less often, and they were more strained when he did. Timothy was sleeping less. (Though Damian didn’t care what the buffoon did, he just wanted to ensure Drake was firing on all cylinders when they went on patrols.) Alfred had stopped making witty remarks. He cooked, he cleaned, and he greeted them, but something was missing in the older man.

(Would they worry about Damian the same way if he disappeared? After all, father didn’t choose him; Damian was thrust upon him.)

Damian pressed the call button and waited for the answer.

“Mother, I need another favor.”

Alfred

Alfred stood outside Jason’s old room. He hadn’t entered to clean since Jason disappeared. Alfred knew he had to. After all, it was his job to keep the manor tidy and orderly.

His heart ached at the thought of entering Jason’s memorial.

(The suit downstairs was a memorial for Robin, one that Alfred despised; the room was Jason’s.)

Alfred took a deep breath and opened the door. He had a job to do. Besides, his wayward grandson deserved to come to a clean house.

Once more, I would like to remind people that I am open to suggestions and prompts for this fic. I don't have an overarching plot, I'm mostly focusing on Batfam angst, found family, and eventually, way, way, waaaay, down the line for reconciliation. So have fun suggesting

@idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @skulld3mort-1fan @theauthorandtheartist @emergentpanda-blog @jaggedheart11 @fisticuffsatapplebees @booberrylizard @fantasticbluebirdfan @thegatorsgooseoose @cyrwrites @kjoboo91 @crystallicedart @amaramizuki666 @spekulatiusmuffin @meira-3919 @kilasmess @bubblemixer @lexdamo @wonderland-daisy @mj-arts-n-stuff @amyheart19 @dolfay @the-church-grimm @undead-essence @aph-mable @lizisipancardo @purrloin77 @writer-extraodinaire @charlietheepic7 @sinfulloccultist @nootherusernameworked @coruscateselene @chaoticchange @itsberrydreemurstuff @gmkelz11 @feral-bunny31 @paroovian @thatonegaybitch68 @d4ydr34min9 @overtherose @fandomwandererer @vipower001 @thordottir45 @blackrabbitt3t @rosecinnamonbun @bianca-hooks123

[deep-dive]

2023

albums/eps: a.s.o. - a.s.o. Amaarae - Fountain Baby Amnesia Scanner & Freeka Tet - STROBE.RIP André 3000 - New Blue Sun ANOHNI and the Johnsons - My Back Was a Bridge for You to Cross Anthony Naples - Orbs bar italia - Tracey Denim Beach Fossils - Bunny Ben Vida, Yarn/Wire & Nina Dante - The Beat My Head Hit Beverly Glenn-Copeland - The Ones Ahead Biosphere - N-Plants Blonde Redhead - Sit Down for Dinner Bored Lord - Name It Call Super - Eulo Cramps Carly Rae Jepsen - The Loveliest Time Caroline Polachek - Desire, I Want to Turn Into You Chuquimamani-Condori - DJ E Cole Police - If I Don’t See You in the Future, I’ll See You in the Pasture Dean Blunt - Give me a moment DJ Lostboi - Music for Landings DJ Sabrina the Teenage DJ - Destiny Double Virgo - hardrive heat seeking Eartheater - Powders The Embassy - E-Numbers Everything But the Girl - Fuse Fever Ray - Radical Romantics Freak Heat Waves - Mondo Tempo Headache - The Head Hurts but the Heart Knows the Truth Hiroyuki Onogawa - August in the Water: Music for Film 1995-2005 Jam City - Jam City Presents EFM James Ivy - Everything Perfect Jessy Lanza - Love Hallucination Jim Legxacy - homeless n****a pop music Joanne Robertson - Blue Car Jonnine - Maritz Kelela - Raven Khotin - Release Spirit Kota Hoshino, Shoi Miyazawa - Armored Core VI OST Laurel Halo - Atlas Loraine James - Gentle Confrontation Maria BC - Spike Field mark william lewis - Living Matmos - Return to Archive MIZU - Distant Intervals ML Buch - Suntub Noriko Tujiko - Crépuscule I & II Nourished by Time - Erotic Probiotic 2 Oneohtrix Point Never - Again Osmotic & Fennesz - Senzatetto Pierre Rousseau - Mémoire De Forme Purelink - Signs Ryuichi Sakamoto - 12 Sofia Courtesies - Madres ssaliva - sector6park/counterfeit Sufjan Stevens - Javelin Tim Hecker - No Highs Tirzah - trip9love…??? Wild Nothing - Hold Yves Tumor - Praise a Lord Who Chews but Which Does Not Consume; (Or Simply, Hot Between Worlds) µ-Ziq - 1977 7038634357 - Neo Seven

songs: a.s.o. - Love in the Darkness Addison Rae - I got it bad Alex Kassian - Leave Your Life (Lonely Hearts Mix) Amaarae - Reckless & Sweet Amnesia Scanner & Freeka Tet - Clown André - Ants To You, Gods To Who ? ANOHNI and the Johnsons - Can’t ANOHNI and the Johnsons - It Must Change Anthony Naples - Silas Armin van Buuren & Punctual - On & On (ft. Alina) bambinodj - High as Ever Still Passin' Through (Remix) bar italia - Nocd Baths - Do I Make the World Worse Beach Fossils - Don’t Fade Away Beverly Glenn-Copeland - People of the Loon Bibio & Óskar Guðjónsson - Sunbursting Björk & Rosalía - Oral Blawan - Toast Bored Lord - Wait Wait Wait bvdub - Days on Heaven and Earth Call Super - Coppertone Elegy Carly Rae Jensen - Psychedelic Switch Caroline Polachek - Bunny Is a Rider (Doss Remix) Caroline Polachek - Crude Drawing of an Angel Chuquimamani-Condori - Eat My Cum Chuquimamani-Condori - Know Dean Blunt - Rinsed (ft. TYSON) Dj Lostboi - PUF 2 LAX DJ Sabrina the Teenage DJ - For Now and Forever Double Virgo - gainfully deployed EASYFUN - Long Long Time The Embassy - Amnesia ESP - North Fever Ray - Kandy Freak Heat Waves & Cindy Lee - In a Moment Divine Fwea-Go Hit - Back Wildin Headache - That Thing with the Rabbit Headache - Truism 4 Dummies Hemlocke Springs - sever the blight Hudson Mohawke & Nikki Nair - Demuro Ike - Rose Quartz Jam City - Magnetic James K & hoodie - Ether Jessy Lanza - Don’t Cry On My Pillow Jim Legxacy - amnesia111 Jim Legxacy - candy reign (!) Jonnine - Tea For Two (Boo) Kelela - Divorce Khotin - Computer Break (Late Mix) Kylie Minogue - Hold on to Now Laurel Halo, Bendik Giske, Lucy Railton & James Underwood - Earthbound Loraine James - Tired of Me Lorenzi - Lonely Cowboy Tales (Crayon Moon Remix) LSDXOXO - Devil’s Chariot Maria BC - Still Maria BC - Watcher mark william lewis - Living Mc LcKaiique, MC Celo BK & DJ Jeeh FDC - Quem Tá de Motão, Vou Sarrar Puta Na Marcone (ft. DJ Biel Divulga) ML Buch - High speed calm air tonight Nation & Ecco2k - Ça Va Nicole Dollanganger - Gold Satin Dreamer Nourished by Time - Rain Water Promise Oliver Coates - One Without Oneohtrix Point Never - Krumville Purelink - We Should Keep Going Shoi Miyazawa - Rough and Decent Slayyyter - Miss Belladonna Sufjan Stevens - Shit talk Tim Hecker - Total Garbage Tirzah - u all the time Troye Sivan - Got Me Started Wild Nothing - Suburban Solutions Yves Tumor - Echolalia Yves Tumor - Fear Evil Like Fire µ-Ziq - 4am

mixes: CFCF - CFCF for TERMINAL 27 Chuquimamani-Condori - Fact Mix 937 PC Music - 10 Physical Therapy - car culture remissions vol. 4 plush - LIVE AT SKSKSKSK S-candalo - Fact Mix 897 WHY BE - OdyXxey Radio Mix

movies: Afire (Christian Petzold) All the Beauty and the Bloodshed (Laura Poitras) E6-D7 (Eno Swinnen) Evil Dead Rise (Lee Cronin) Grown in Darkness (Devin Shears) How Do You Live? (Hayao Miyazaki) The Killer (David Fincher) Killers of the Flower Moon (Martin Scorsese) Knock at the Cabin (M. Night Shyamalan) Last Summer (Catherine Breillat) May December (Todd Haynes) Oppenheimer (Christopher Nolan) The Outwaters (Robbie Banfitch) Rotting in the Sun (Sebastián Silva) Showing Up (Kelly Reichardt) The Zone of Interest (Jonathan Glazer)

games: Alan Wake II Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon Baldur’s Gate III Blasphemous II Diablo IV Humanity Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom Lies of P Metroid Prime Remastered Octopath Traveler II Pikmin 4 Star Ocean: The Second Story R Super Mario Bros. Wonder Theatrhythm Final Bar Line Wo Long: Fallen Dynasty

[1800titz]

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

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE

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

And the one after that one, too.

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

Well.

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

Tonight is still Thursday night. Unfortunately.

Unfortunately, unfortunately, unfortunately.

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

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

"That's a lot of cherries."

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

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

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

"Was there?"

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

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

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

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

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

The laugh that Isla releases is genuine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think they might, yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If that helps narrow anything down."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isla blinks.

"To buy or sell a house?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! Yes, yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mhm."

"What else?" he prods gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My girl.

What happened to my sweet, quiet girl? Hm?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Commandments?" Isla's eyebrows raise.

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

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

He is. He was never judging, but.

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The submissive is acting with free will.

4. The submissive will accept discipline.

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

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

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

"Very fancy of you, Mr. Eros."

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

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

"Sir."

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

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

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

Eros blinks at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Focus.

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

Dear, Holy, Mother of Christ.

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

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

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

"Lovely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, it comes up. And Harry expresses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A month.

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

But really, it's not, Harry thinks.

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

A month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A month and two weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry's outdone himself with the ropework, honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Anything too tight? Anything uncomfortable?"

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

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

"No, Sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right? We should be nice?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hears a hum, and her irises loll back when she feels his fingers kiss her skin, as opposed to the bite of the flogger. The young woman feels him pull her underwear taut before he tuts, and states, deviously, "Peitho, Peitho, Peitho. I'm whipping your cunt, and you're sopping through."

There's truth to his words, and she doesn't exactly need her sense of sight to confirm it. She squirms under his scrutiny — she's warm, ludicrously, and the heat is only heightened by the light blows. Speaking of which, his touch retracts, and it's not long before another comes, this one sharper. Isla groans, her jaw clenched, and the male's enjoyment is devious. For a little while, the flogger focuses back on the globes of her presented backside, just skimming over her core with its biting caress, and then there's another snap against her thigh, and then comes the bloom of delectable pain!pain!pain! that satiates something deep within her. She braces for the next impact, but it doesn't come. Instead she feels gloved pads of fingers brush over the same area where the last strike had landed.

"You're already welting," his voice comes through low and almost focused, as if he's admiring the marks he's created, as if she's just something for him to mar and admire, and the tone sends something delicious wracking through her. The man tacks on, after a second, "Fuck. S'pretty," and gives the skin a final swipe before he withdraws.

Then comes the next several. Harry brushes the trails through the valley, keeping them straight and together, and then snaps the toy forward against her inner thigh, making her jerk in the intricately braided ties. He does it again, and then one more time until Peitho's whining and her thighs are trembling. The dominant follows through with a final strike for good measure, and her fingers spasm in the binds as her head thrashes. The young woman's breaths escape her as labored puffs. He gives her minimal cool down time before, with his free palm, he grapples for one of her bound feet, squeezing at the centermost region, and, in response, she thrashes more.

"No, no! Stop! Please!" Peitho's desperate pleas escape as waves through laughter, and as she flails at his touch, Harry's mouth crooks wickedly.

"Stop? I don't think I'm going to do that," amusement lingers over his words, and his digits digs into her with purpose.

He's never had a particular fetish for feet, but he can appreciate that hers are nice. They're pretty feet, just like the rest of her is pretty to him, and a neat, cutesy pedicure in a pinky-coral shade satisfyingly matches the hues blooming over her skin.

"Stop! Tickling is not one of my kinks! Pl— please!"

"No?" his tongue peeks out through plush strawberry, and his breath catches on a subdued laugh, "Maybe I just like seeing you writhe. All helpless," his cadence increases in volume as she squeals, "All tied up. Maybe I just like that I can do whatever I want to you, and you just have to take it."

"PLEASE!"

Finally, the horrid sensation ceases, and Isla's able to suck in some breaths for composure. Her heart hammers away behind her ribcage, and just as she feels herself regaining some form of stability over the sketchy semblance of her nervous system, she feels the flogger lick out over her clothed core.

"Shit!"

Two more times. It happens two more times, and then her toes curl and uncurl feebly as the man's gloved digits curl over her foot. She nearly shrieks. Another blow.

"What's worse?" she makes out over her involuntary laughter, "The feet, or your cunt?"

And she can't exactly form a steady response given that her nerve endings are under assault. She just screeches and does her very best to kick his hand off.

"What's worse?" he prods for a verbal response, "The feet—" he winds the flogger with his wrist, just letting it fall, fall, fall, over, and over, and over, "Stop trying to kick me off — or your cunt? Hm?"

"My — the — fuck! The feet!" Isla just barely manages to make out before the alternate sensations subside altogether. She blows out a breath, heart hammering away.

"The feet?" Eros parrots, a surprised sort of mischief to his tone, "Really?" He taps the back of her thigh with the neck of the flogger, where the tails are rooted, and then twists the handle around, just letting the tresses dance over her florid, whip-kissed skin.

Isla breathes, deep and wheeze-y, when he stops tickling her. Instead, her breath catches and stalls in her lungs when he tuts and swings the flogger harder, "Seems I haven't been doing a proper job with the flogger, then."

Her eyes screw shut further, if it's possible, behind the press her mask and the blindfold atop it, her brows pinch together, and the young woman's fingers spread, stiff and straining in their bindings. She blows out another breath through a puckered 'o' over her mouth when the onslaught ceases.

Harry lets her just breathe for a second, but it's moreso for her anticipation to spiral and skyrocket, because he's a horrible, devious, mean man. He's not exactly complaining over the view of her chest rolling with shudders beneath the designs of the rope, either. Then, he grips her knickers by the hem over the top, and just tugs up a bit.

"Look at that," Isla hears him say, tone low and lewd, before she feels him hook his forefinger and middle into her panties and tug away. The 'hngh' that the action plies out of her nearly leaves her simmering in as much humiliation as she feels with the knowledge that he's just ogling her cunt.

The sound causes Harry to raise a brow, and, in a playful feat of absolute evil, he leans forward a smidge and blows. The way she jerks in response provokes soft laughter from him, and the chuckle melts into a hum when he fixes his sight between her legs.

"You're so wet," he drawls, opting to spread her lips with his thumb and forefinger, while his other hand keeps the crotch of the cotton bikini-cut hooked to the side. The left corner of his mouth curves up smugly, his eyes cast down to her cunt, "Aren't you? Poor baby's wet just from being whipped?"

Peitho whines at his statement, and in response, he levels the knickers with her core and lets the crotch snap back into place lightly. She gasps. There's something delicious about those soft sounds she makes. Harry reaches for the wand beside him, tears open a condom wrapper and wrenches the rubber over the head, as he always does, because it's the polite thing to do. Peitho seems to be curiously drinking in the subtle hints, trying to decipher what's going on, but she doesn't have to do the sensory-based detective operation for long. Harry presses the head against her clothed cunt, coaxing another soft gasp as he toggles it to life.

"How long d'you think it'll take to soak these all the way through?" he ponders, thumbing at the hem of her knickers, and Peitho sinks back against the mattress, like the sensation is too much to bear when he shifts the setting to a higher one without warning.

"Oh..."

"Not too long, it seems," the man feels a cocky curve overtaking his mouth as he watches moisture rapidly over the fabric upon the assault of the rumbling.

Isla feels that familiar warmth slinking down through to the trench of her tummy, sinking, coiling, and as pleasure pulses through her at an increasingly alarming pace, she can only hope that he doesn't plan to reenact the Edging Fiasco from the prior week. Surely, he won't let her reach her peak so early in the night. Despite her best efforts, the pleasure swells and overtakes her, and with her voice lacking any sort of stability, the pleads spit off her tongue on their own accord, "Oh — Sir — I'm gonna—"

"No. Don't tell me. Ask me."

Regardless of any hankering to fight him and the rapturous sensation (he won't let her have the orgasm, anyways, she thinks, he won't), the craving to restrict his opportunity to shut her down with self-satisfaction, Isla feels her body giving in before her mind. She rocks in the ropes, tensed.

"Please, may I cum, Sir?" the young woman grits out, fully expecting to be shut down.

"Sure, darling. Cum."

The unbridled permission catches Isla so off guard that, for a moment, her jaw just unhinges in a mesh of a moan and a balk. Her nerve endings catch up quickly enough, though, and after only a short moment encompassing a buzzing and an otherwise patient lull from the dominant, her lips tremble and a crease works its way over her brow bone.

"Oh, fuck," she whines through it, frozen up, and then rocks and spasms as the tide ebbs. The toy shuts off, and she takes the break to breathe. Those seem to be sporadic and a generosity.

She had an inkling, is the thing; when he'd inquired whether she had a particular attachment to the panties she had on for the night. It implied one of two potentialities — that he was interested in tearing them off, or that he was interested in cutting them off. Regardless, as he'd tied her, winding ropes over flesh with cautious expertise, he'd left the underwear on — which had only further confirmed her suspicions.

He hammers the nail into the coffin when she feels the crotch of her fabric become tugged back, and she hears a low, "I think s'about time for these to come off, don't you?"

Her ears pick up a snip, and then another tug, this one to, she assumes, get access closer to the side. A second snip comes, and following that is an unceremonious yank that leaves Isla scrabbling for purchase in the ropes. He's just cut her panties off with safety scissors.

Self-satisfied, Harry discards the flimsy, tattered remains of the article. Well. It'd been an article. Now, it's just sort of a rag sullied with arousal. He can't curb the cocky smirk that snakes its way over his mouth. The thought of her fixing on the dress she'd worn to the club, disrobing her mask, and settling into the driver's side of her vehicle, pantiless and forced to recollect the night because she's pantiless, makes his libido stir.

"Much better," he smooths a palm over the right globe of her ass, and her toes twitch. Then, he removes his touch altogether and picks up the pretty, jet, leather paddle that he'd set beside him with his left hand, grasps the wand with the opposite, and stands to amble around to loom over her, behind the metal headboard.

Peitho seems to search for him with the senses she does have availability to, shifting and listening carefully. He allows for himself to indulge in her apprehension for a moment, and then clears his throat to cue that he's behind her.

"This is the fun part," his cadence is bright, but anything implied to be fun by Eros could suggest all sorts of cruelties, so Isla bites into her cheek, "You get two choices. Sort of a choose-your-own-fate type of thing."

The corners of his mouth jolt wickedly as she squirms, and then he lifts the paddle in his left grip, eyeing over the neat stitching, "Left—"

Isla's lips tremble at the sound of a whoosh and a deafening clang against the metal. It's not against her, but she jumps as if she bears the blow.

"Or," a pause, then. Nothing.

"Or?" Isla prods, ashamed that her voice comes out so small.

"Or ...right. Exciting, innit? You get to pick."

Isla contemplates his game, then tells him, after a second, "Can I hear what's behind door number two?"

"Nope," the dominant overhead tells her definitively, popping the 'p', "Wouldn't be fun if I made it so easy, pet. Come on."

Isla scoffs. A clang or nothingness. Those are her hints. He's a wicked, evil menace. She deliberates. The clang — surely it'd been an implement of some sort. He wouldn't just bash a vibrator against a headboard, and a set of clamps, or a gag — those wouldn't cause that clang. She ruminates over the potentiality of the implement — a paddle, a strap, a ...cane. The prospects wallop about her skull. Surely, not a cane. The opposite option was an animal she couldn't begin to decipher.

"Tick-tock," Harry goads, basking in her sharp inhale, "F'course, I could always choose for you. Just thought I'd be nice."

Her hands form into fists, and as he leans over her, his cadence is soft, "So what are we going with, sweetheart? Left or right?"

"The — the second one," Peitho tells him finally, shaking her head.

"The...?" the male raised an eyebrow for clarification.

"The right," her mouth sets into a line, and Harry eyes the vibrator, his gloved, right palm wrapped over the stem.

"The right. Very adventurous. S'that your final choice?" his tongue digs into his cheek when Peitho doesn't forge an immediate response, as if his teasing has dug her back into deliberation, and Harry's half-certain she'll appeal to swap choices when her mouth does open.

Instead, what he gets is a determined, "Yes, Sir."

So he winds around her, back to the foot of the bed, and sets the paddle onto the floor before settling into a criss-cross sit ahead of her cunt.

"Right it is."

Slowly, he trails a fingertip down the center of one of her feet. His mouth quirks. Her toes twitch. And then they tense and curl when he reintroduces the vibrator, already buzzing before it reaches her skin.

Helplessly, just the way Harry likes to see, Peitho writhes. For a little bit, he just pets over her backside, the backs of her thighs, keeping the wand pressed flush to her core, just reveling in the little sounds she makes. Occasionally, he'll grab out at a foot, teasingly, and he'll revel in the way she attempts to kick him off and fails, too. He watches the build of her pleasure, the climb up the staircase, imbibing in the subtle shifts of her body language; the way her breathing grows shallower, the way her feet twitch, the way her fingers scrunch. It's not long before her mouth falls open.

All that escapes is a breathy question harboring nearly no spaces in between words, as if she's held it in and simply no longer can, "MayIcumSir?"

"Cum," he responds, dominance coating the word.

Almost instantly, Peitho contorts, her back arching seemingly as much as it can in a limited range, and Harry watches veins strain divinely behind the skin of her neck. She's got a pleasant flush glowing all over her, he notes, then. Matchy-matchy, from the redness down her chest, to her backside, to the shade of polish on her toes. It's wonderful.

As the wand buzzes incessantly and doesn't let up over her cunt, Isla has difficulty herding a coherent strain of thoughts together. It's a ludicrously arduous task, all things considered. But the first thing she wonders, on the come-down of the crest, are the motives behind his uncharacteristic generosity. She flinches in the ropes, biting back a whine at the overstimulation.

"Stay still," Eros instructs, and though his tone carries no hardness in the command, there's certainly a patronizing air to it, "Know you've got another in you. We're not giving up already, are we, darling?"

And then it hits her.

And next time, I'll make you cum four times.

A shudder rolls down the knobs of her spine as it clicks, and, like he's recognized the recognition written over her face, Isla hears the dominant say, "Promised you four, didn't I? And, y'know, follow-through is so important."

Four? Isla shifts in the restraints, rocking and writhing.

"Stay still," his tone is harder as he repeats himself, but Isla just continues to writhe. When he pulls the vibrator away, only to tug up the hood of her clit, reintroduce the vibrator, and tells her, low and tantalizing and filthy, "Show me that little clit," she nearly rolls off the bed. She doesn't, partly because her hair is tied to the headboard, and mostly because he removes the hand that'd tucked up the hood of her clit in lieu of steadying her and making sure she doesn't roll off the bed and rip her hair out.

"No," she struggles, hips canting, and laughter tails her shriek as he smacks out at her inner thigh harshly.

"No? You're telling me no?" he shuts the vibrator off, and his voice is deceptively mirthy, "Y'don't wanna do it the nice way?"

"Not particularly," Isla chortles, and when he sighs, feigning exasperation, Isla laughs harder, her eyes squeezing shut even as he unclasps the blindfold, removes it, and winds about her to the other side of the room. When she does open her eyes, the buttery lightbulbs are near-blinding.

"Don't wanna just lay there and cum?" his voice carries from a distance, and Isla tries to twist in her restraints to see what he's doing, her attempt proving futile, "I've made it so easy for you, too. S'quite a simple task."

"I'm overstimulated!" the young woman reasons. All she gets, for a moment, is a hum of faux understanding in response.

"You," Harry's pupils rake over the wall of implements, "are such a brat. Honestly."

Even with an inkling of dread starting its flourish in her chest, Isla forces a smile, "You know, I've heard that one before. But it's no fun to just do things your way."

"No? No fun to be a good girl?" the racket of implements scraping and budging as he makes a selection makes her shoulders tense, "How about we make it miserable to be a brat? How's that sound?"

"That doesn't sound fun, either," she bites into her lip.

Another sigh that siphons a soft laugh to mask her anxiety, even as he winds about her, "Well there's no satisfying you, it seems, then."

Isla purses her lips. She thinks, maybe, he's wearing a grin, but it's impossible to tell from the angle and the haze her eyes have succumbed to in the expanse of time they'd spent blinded.

"What is," he leans over her, upside down through her perspective, just as she to him, "your fourth commandment of submission?"

That, she has an easy answer for. Isla blinks up through the lace, and then answers, cheekily, "Enjoy pleasures."

His head tilts in a way that daunts her, "Maybe that's your fourth commandment, but it's certainly not on the list that I gave you."

"I suppose it's not — but I follow my own commandments. They're my commandments to follow anyways, aren't they?"

The third sigh. The charm. He rounds the bed, to her side, and her pupils follow his figure.

"I think," when she watches Eros withdraw a long, thin cane from beside the bed, in mortified recognition, all composure crumbles, and she thrashes in the restraints, "this will help you remember."

The young woman attempts to kick out with one of her feet to ward the horrid object away, but the motion only jostles the rest of her slightly, and she stays woefully restrained.

"Right? This'll," Harry pauses to press the cane to her backside, siphoning a squeal from Peitho and another bout of hopeless writhing, "jog your memory? Won't it?"

She starts crying then, he thinks, just as she'd warned she would, if the jolt and tremble of her shoulders and her ribcage is any indication, and soft, pretty words finally spill from her typically insolent mouth, "Please, please, please."

"Please? Please, what? That's not your fourth commandment," the man laughs.

"Ple— please," Isla pauses to take a breath, her cadence shuddery, and she tenses as he presses the cane back against her skin, crying out, "Please don't use that!"

There's a wry mirth that curls and snakes around the syllables as they roll off his tongue. Eros tuts, "We're already begging? I've not done anything to you, yet."

Yet. The notion makes her groan and erupt in sobs that are only cut short only by a shriek in response to him feigning to draw the cane back and to only settle it back gently against the crease on the backs of her thighs. As he rubs a line with it, back and forth, her feet shake in their bindings. That does something for him — something for the dark, twisted, ugly part that rears itself only in play, that all-consuming fragment that just hungers for it.

"All I do is take out a big stick, and you're crying?" Harry speaks over her sobs, cocking his head and huffing a short laugh out through the unzipped slit over his lips, "Really? I haven't given you anything to cry about."

When she's unable to stifle her cries, whining and whimpering, he just gives her an incredulous look full of mockery, "Oh, come on, darling. It's not even the long one, s'the easy, short one, and you don't remember?"

She just whines, frozen up. So, naturally, the man tuts and slams the cane onto the mattress with a frightful whoosh, just in front of where she's on display for him. Isla shrieks. He leans over her, hovering over her side, and cradles her jawline in his palm, squeezing her cheeks.

And despite it all, that rush of adrenaline that shoots through her veins is only chased by want.

"Do you remember now, your fourth commandment?" Eros questions, tone hard and brimming with dominance.

His timbre is sharp and biting, but it doesn't coax her to melt under his touch as much as the reminder of the cane nestled to her skin does.

"I'm — I'm sorry, I don't — I don't..."

Eros tuts again (it's like a bad omen, honestly), and she shies away as best she can in her binds when he straightens up and reintroduces that mortifying implement, "Still don't remember? S'shame. Should I hit you with this four times?"

Isla sobs.

"Four times for your fourth commandment? You'll remember this as a lesson if I do."

"No!" the young woman thrashes, writhes, and she nearly slips off the edge in the process, "No! Don't — please, please!"

Instantly, his hand is on her leg to stabilize her, but the grip only incites her to flail further, so Harry tells her, with no jesting to his tone, "Stop. You're going to fall off the bed."

After a moment, once she's regulated her breathing into somewhat controlled hiccups, and her limbs have ceased in their attempts to thrash, Harry lets go of the back of her thigh.

"I'll help you out — discipline," he tilts his head a smidge, squishing her cheeks, "'The submissive will accept discipline.' Repeat it, so it sticks."

"The submissive will accept d-discipline," Isla blows out a shuddery breath.

"And do you accept your discipline, love?" he digs his thumb below her cheekbone harshly and the young woman keens.

"I — I..." she sort of melts into another bout of sobs at the prospect of accepting her discipline with a cane in order to please him.

What a shoddy commandment. She can feel herself seeping, is the thing, though — amidst the fear, amidst the panic, fiery warmth pulsing between her sweaty thighs. The link between her brain and her horny hormones is, like, beyond fucking broken or something, she decides.

For a second, Harry pauses. She's absolutely glistening, and she doesn't make any cues that she's inclined to safe, but the way she's opted to nearly flail off the bed and rip her hair out in the process is ...an intense reaction, to say the least. Fear play was a tricky thing — as all intense aspects of kink seemed to be (tricky). It was all about trust, it was all about acknowledging that the fear thing wouldn't inflict terror beyond the initial fear, right? But the way she just sort of ...succumbs to it, that leaves room for him to pause. She knows that they follow the limits, she should know, Harry thinks, and he's sure she does — that she recognizes that nothing goes beyond priorly negotiated play. But the reaction she has, although setting his libido ablaze, is a pretty fucking intense one, and given that fear play is intense, he figures being soft to check in on their first go-round won't kill the scene.

When he sets the cane down again, he does it quietly, and his touch is as gentle as his cadence, "Breathe. In and out." He strokes his thumb over her bottom lip, smearing her drool, "You're okay. In and out. M'not gonna hurt you." The sentiment is unsaid but there; do you need to safe out? He doesn't say it, because being soft is checking in enough, breaking character enough.

It's the right move, evidently, because she seems to focus on his words then, and him, taking on the task of regulating her breaths. He coaxes her to calm down, and after a little while, he withdraws, blowing out his own exhale for semblance, and runs his palm over the back of her nude thigh. Fuck. The way he's rock hard is proper evil.

"Are you going to be a good, sweet girl for me? Because," Eros pauses his manipulations, casting his gaze back and retrieving the cane to press it against her backside. Isla cries out. "If you're going to keep being a brat — and, darling, I didn't want it to come to this, but I can use the cane," he pretends to ponder over her pitiful, drawn out nooooo, "if that's what you're interested in."

"I'll be good, I'll be good," Isla promises, chest heaving, her nods jerky and small, "I'll be a good girl," she amends, taking a deep, shuddery breath as he pauses in contemplation.

"Then we don't need to use the cane."

Isla's eyes slip shut in a wave of relief beneath the veil of the mask. Eros palms over her jawline for a moment, and she melts into it. His grip is sturdy, but his tone is soft and alleviating. Then, his thumb grazes across her bottom lip, and he pats her cheek as he withdraws, "Do we?"

Peitho shakes her head slowly at him, sniffling, her voice small, "No, we don't, Sir."

And the softness of his touch, the way his tone contrasts against his words in such a provocative way, has her breath catching in her throat, "Fuck. Wish I could see those pretty tears."

When he sets the cane against the headboard, though, she's still squirming, so he raises a brow and leans over to roll it beneath the bed. That seems to do the trick. Out of sight, out of mind.

They're definitely going to talk about it, Harry decides.

For now, he works on unraveling the wrapping over her ponytail. Once that's freed, he tugs her hair tie off, mindful to grip at the base to avoid afflictive yanking, and he runs his fingers through the newly-loose tendrils to curb discomfort. She shakes her head. Next are her limbs, and he gets to work on the knots braided over her calves and her forearms. Peitho lets him, though he's sure she's bemused by the task, and he tugs the ropes off carefully, setting them beside her onto the mattress.

"Are we," Peitho clears her throat. There's no crying to her tone, anymore, but the statement still comes out with a bit of a rasp, "Are we done? Sir?"

If he's not mistaken, there's definitely a tinge of disappointment to her cadence. He looks up to her pointedly.

"No. You still owe me two more."

Despite the havoc the scene has reaped on her thus far, of course, arousal courses through her veins with each and every decision Eros makes, and his definitive words send thrilling want sparking through her.

"Unless you'd like to be done, pet?"

"No," her tongue peeks out to swipe over her pouty, raspberry lips, "No, Sir."

He pats her thigh and orders, "All fours."

So she clambers into the instructed position, earning a helping hand in the form of a smack (it's not nearly as hard as he can deliver, she's well aware) to the back of her thigh when she stalls.

"Put your arms down," she hears from behind, and then she feels his palm glide between her shoulder blades in coaxing, "Arch your back. Beautiful. And," he taps onto her tricep, "straighten your arms out, next to your legs."

Once she's done that, he gets to work with binding the ropes onto her wrists, joining them with her ankles, and securing knots deftly. And once that's wrapped up, he tests the knots, asking about her comfort, and knees his way off the bed to gather some more supplies. This time, he culls a roll of onyx bondage tape and a bottle of lubricant (from his own duffel).

"Having a good time, love?" he half-jests once he's kneed his way back onto the mattress behind her.

He expects a hum, or silence, or a jab back, but the "Yes, Sir," and the dreamy sigh he receives carries so much earnest sincerity that he can't help but to fondle over her backside fondly. Alas, he must break the caress to find the wand, and when he does, she whines.

"Be quiet," the dominant tells her, though there's no true chastising to his cadence, "Desperate, little thing."

Isla shivers in the restraints. Her ears pick up on the sound of tape unsticking (she presumes he uses his teeth to rip it off). Then, the head of the wand presses up between her splayed thighs, and she hears a click before it buzzes alive.

"S'good there?" Eros prods, but she's sure he can tell from her muscles melting that, yes, it's good.

"Mm-Mhm," is all she can manage, and a sliver of tape begins to wind over her thigh, fastening the stimulation of the toy. This time, when he withdraws, it's easier to focus her attention onto the buzzing against her cunt and not his lack of attention on her. When he comes back, Isla vaguely picks up on another click, a pause, a second click. And then something cold unfamiliarly presses to her hole. Her entire body twitches.

The motion doesn't seem to discourage Eros, though, because he just grips over her hip with his pleather-clad hand and grazes her skin with his thumb as whatever the other thing is strokes between her cheeks. It's his digit, Isla discovers — eventually, the stroking goes to prodding, and the prodding goes to dipping, and he dips the tip of his digit into her.

Helplessly, she squeaks, and the sensation from the vibrator swallows the initial discomfort of the stretch. As his finger delves deeper, however, she bites into her lip and attempts to stretch away. That he has a different reaction to.

"Excuse me?" the man pauses, and then smacks her with the hand that'd been holding onto her hip so sweetly only moments prior, "Don't move."

She's pretty good from there. She sighs into it as Harry lets his middle finger venture, sliding carefully and withdrawing slowly. It's a sight. This is the wallet picture, it's this one, he decides. Her hands bound to her ankles, her back arched beautifully, her hair cascading to one side of the mattress and the other showcasing a gorgeous view of her side-profile, her parted, swollen-from-teeth mouth. The gem of the image is, perhaps, the way her ass swallows his finger like it was fucking made for it.

"Christ, baby," he says after a little while, almost in awe, "F'you could just see the way your arse takes me."

Peitho moans. And it doesn't take long, not with the rumbling against her core, not with his finger prodding into her, for her to start absolutely mewling.

"Sir! Sir!"

"Mm?" he digs his digit in, to the hilt, and she groans.

"May I— may I cum?"

"Yes, you may," he tells her, cadence casual, and he fucks in and out slowly as the orgasm rips through her. Harry bridles a groan of his own at the way her muscles spasm over his digit. As her wave of pleasure ebbs, and she jerks, crying out softly from the instant overstimulation, he pulls the finger out carefully, and gets to work on his zipper.

"Oh— oh, Sir, it's a lot, it's, it's—"

"That's okay," he grunts, and her jaw unhinges, grappling for air as his tip tucks into her cunt, "You can give me four, sweetheart. I know you can do it."

He's devious, Isla thinks. He's the fucking devil — he's flayed at her nerve endings, both with the flogger and the vibrator, he's threatened her with a cane (all warranted and welcomed, of course), and now he expects her to give him a fourth climax? Around his dick? Isla thinks of plenty of not-so-nice things to call him, which would, more than likely, necessitate the reintroduction of that horrid, God awful cane, but she can't quite make her mouth move when her system is entirely on overdrive, pumping endorphins and adrenaline.

"Sir!" is the only thing that comes out, choppy and girlish.

The young woman hears his breathy chuckle, and she feels his palm splay over the small of her back as he rocks forward into her. Her lashes flutter behind lace — swirls and patterns turn to indecipherable, dark blurs. The man punches a soft unph when he plunges in, to the hilt, and Isla's thighs tremble pathetically.

She's divine, Harry decides. A fucking angel — taking any and everything he throws her way. The way she imbibes all of his whims and succumbs to him, even post fighting for the upper hand with such moxie, attests to it. Her mouth is a sharp vestibule that softens to his ministrations, and the softness of the sounds he's able to coax are pure fucking heaven. Even her hair seems to curl over the top of her head against the mattress in a makeshift halo, tufts of strands sloping like ethereal interweavings.

Christ, her cunt is pure bliss.

She's so wet around him, is the thing, he can feel her slick arousal seeping down his balls, he can hear it, and with each squishy plunge forward, he feels his resolve chipping away. When he grips onto her hips and starts to really hammer into her, that's when he feels the chips turn to the beginnings of crumbles.

"Christ— you're a nasty, little thing," Harry affirms, breaths jagged and jerky through his filthy, open-mouthed grin, "Aren't you? Let me," his tongue flicks out and sticks to the ends of his front teeth in focus as he hits something within her that incites a loud moan, "tie you up, whip you, let me make you cum, and cum, and cum, cried for me, and you're still begging for more, aren't you?"

In response to her, "yesyesyes," Harry leans forward and abandons one hip in lieu of pursuing a harsh grasp at the hair just above her nape, fingers wedging against her scalp. He jerks her head back so that her neck cranes and the muscles strain, and he plucks a garbled sound from her vocal chords, in the process, that has his balls tightening.

"Say it. Tell me. Tell me you're my dirty, little thing," the man hisses, a vulgar, vile demon overtaking any fragment of his tone that was formerly gentle.

"I'm— yours, your dirty— your dirty, little thing," Isla groans out, eyes unfocused and lazing back through fluttery eyelashes as his hips snap and the wand buzzes against her core.

"You are," the male punctuates his words with his thrusts, his thrusts with his words, "an absolute," an obscene slew of dialogue that has her toes curling and her cunt doing kegels over his cock, "bloody wet dream."

"Oh, God!" she sobs, and he digs the pads of his fingers back into her love handles as he drives his own hips to slam his balls against her.

"Eros, actually," Harry can't even manage a laugh at his own joke, just clinging to the rope over the formidable wave of rapture that wreaks havoc just below, "Eros is making you feel so good, isn't he?"

"Yes, shit, fuck — Eros!"

"I know, baby, I know — tell me how good that cock makes you feel, tell me how good I make you feel."

The way the young woman below him only manages a string of incoherent grunts and squeaks just leaves him breathlessly pummeling into her harder, harsher, faster.

"M'close, baby," he blows out a breath, grunting behind her, and like clockwork, Isla feels her own toes dipping into the waters beneath the precipice. They crash in waves and douse her until all she can accomplish are soft sounds and soft pleas. She's buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, much like the toy taped to her thigh, and vaguely, she recognizes that she's started to drift.

As her warmth spasms over him, Harry digs the pads of his fingers into her flesh, and when she whines out, begging, "May I," he doesn't even wait for her to finish the statement before he tips forward and beckons, "Cum, baby, come on. Give me one more."

When her climax hits her for the fourth and final time in the night, she sounds as if he's fucking murdering her. While she's tangled in the string of her curses and cries, Harry feels his own resolve stutter.

"Good fucking girl," are his final words before his abdomen clenches and the muscles ripple. His balls pulse, and he empties into the condom, groaning. As his hips stagnate falteringly, over the crowding of blood rushing against his eardrums, he vaguely makes out that she's still whimpering like she's being flayed. Carefully, the man withdraws himself and leans over to thumb at the buttons on the wand.

As the toy shuts off, Peitho doesn't seem to regain any semblance of resolve, just whimpering breathily against the mattress, and while he tugs the condom off carefully with one hand, the other occupies itself by petting sweetly over the small of her back, down her hip.

"Sh, sh," he coos as sob rips free at the retraction of his touch, "M'right here, sweetheart. Just cleaning up a bit. S'improper to just leave you like this, and chivalry's not dead, afterall."

His jest doesn't even cull a sniffle that demonstrates she's heard him, and instead she seems to wallow in the aftermath. So, he doesn't bother making it to the bin, and instead opts to tuck the condom into its tattered wrapper before getting to work on her. The first thing that comes off is the wand, and he unwinds the tapes delicately. The next to go are the ropes over her joints, and he discards those onto the floor beside her. She doesn't even slump as he removes the restraints, unwinding the harness over her chest. The young woman just lays there, pitifully, like she's stuck, and he stands to squat beside the bed and rake his fingers through her sweaty hair.

His mouth brushes against her ear and he presses to her and praises, "My sweet girl. M'so proud of you, pet." He lets his hand slip from her hair to her back, just petting down her spine, "Took everything I gave you so well, just like you always do. Such a good girl."

She melts beneath his touch, sighing softly, and he croons, "Need you to do one more thing for me, sweetheart. Need you to sit up a bit so I can hold you. Can you do that for me?"

Isla decides she absolutely cannot do anything. She'll always find herself sort of slipping with a particularly good scene, but for some reason or another, fear play always seems to do the trick. It sends her spiraling out into open ocean with nothing but a raft, where she basks in the sunlight thoughtlessly, until inevitably, she's tugged back to shore.

Peitho just hums.

She's always a mushy, dulcet mess once the toys go away, but Harry can sense that something has shifted ...further, tonight. Slowly, he presses a kiss to her temple and stands to sit her up manually. She goes easily enough, letting him steer her up and practically falls back against his chest once he's sat behind her. She's not dead weight for long, though, because the more he croons against the shell of her ear, the more inclined she seems to become to cling to him, and eventually, the submissive turns on her own accord and burrows into his chest.

"Wasn't too rough with my girl, was I?" he presses his chin to the top of her head, and she sticks her fingers past the space where a few buttons on his collar have gone loose. She holds onto his shirt like a lifeline, and for a moment, Harry's heart stutters in his chest. Then, she shakes her head. It's a minute movement, just barely, pressed against him, but it's an answer.

She needs water, Harry decides, and she needs to stretch. He needs to massage her neck, her shoulders, run soft touches over the areas of her skin where pretty rope tracks have imprinted. He needs to make her promise that she'll sit in a hot bath once she gets home. But that'll come later. For a little while, he just lets her burrow into him and he runs his fingers through her hair and whispers nice things to her, like he always does. For now, he settles for wordless clinging, familiarizing himself with the bridge.

Because he knows that with each passing week, he'll just keep ruining her.

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

[floatinginzerogravity]

Cyn Solver possession headcannons that turned into me writing a character study

You guys ever think about Cyn slowly losing her sense of self? Like, the solver slowly takes over her actions and thoughts until she has no clue what's her and what's not, she just knows that she doesn't know, and will probably never know again. The solver starts off as a little head mate, whispering promises, to not discard her, backing her up and supporting her whenever she gets upset at something the Elliots do.

She doesn't tell anyone about it, Tessa is nice, but if she finds out something's wrong with her, she'll just be discarded again. J is mean, V is trying, N instantly welcomes her with open arms. N's great, comforting, and she doesn't think he'd judge her for it, but there's this "what if?" whispering through her thoughts. She doesn't tell anyone, she doesn't need to tell anyone. They'd discard her as soon as they knew she was broken, anyway. It wasn't even that important

Things start to change, thoughts whisper through her mind. They sound like her voice, of course they did, they were her thoughts. Cyn's thoughts. She thought there was something off about the statement. It wasn't important Tessa mentioned needing to check her voice box, said it started to sound a bit degraded. Cyn hadn't noticed. They tried to run some tests. She wanted to know what was wrong with her. She didn't feel like running tests. She'd dropped a tray that morning. She barely made it out alive. Her vision tilted yellow. Everything was fine. Tessa moved to plug Cyn into the software scanners. Cyn did not want to run scans. It moved her hand. She felt wrong. Tessa's machines blew a fuse, that's what Tessa said happened. Everything was fine. N read to her in the library. there was nothing wrong. A soft click sounded from the hatch above her. She was alone. Discarded. She sat. Oil stained her claws, eyes stretching across every corner of the room, hashed together limbs from discarded parts. Ripping and screwing and text she didn't understand it understood perfectly scrolling across her visor The click sounded again. The room was empty, her hands clean, form completely still, electrical pulse running through her wires, Everything was fine, her thoughts sounded in her own voice. Her voice. It's voice that belonged to her. Didn't she used to consider this voice as different to her's? She spoke in it's voice. It was her voice. Was it always her voice. It was it's voice. It wasn't. Something wasn't right. Something was very not right. The click sounded again, and again, and again, and again. Oil. They threatened her brother. J forgot to let it out again. She should let it take over. She would not be thrown out. Let me help you. It was their fault. A butler's corpse, ravens cawing to the ceaseless winds. Oil. Blood. Administrator rights Flesh. Safeguard. Her's. It's. She didn't know how to think. I will not discard your pets. It screamed through her mind. Tessa looks at her with terror. This was all she wanted. Power. Destruction. Tessa had helped her, back then. Discard those who discard you. N. N was gone. They're all discarded, now, but they would no longer be so. She never told anyone about the voices. They weren't voices, she didn't have a voice. Cyn wasn't discarded, she was useful. Death. It wants this. Two voices leave the mind. They all had their use with it. She wouldn't let it take him. Administrator. She wasn't it. It couldn't have them, any of them. Lost access. She reaches. Harder. This wasn't right. This wasn't her voice. Miss me?

[forumaberto]

Zoom no Osciloscópio Raven

Zoom no Osciloscópio Raven

Raven Scope Estava iniciando uma diagnose quando deparei com uma tela diferente no osciloscópio do Raven Scanner: Uma tela superior de posicionamento e um botão zoom. Com movimentos de pinça na tela touch do tablet agora você aproxima e afasta do ponto do sinal que desejar, e usando o botão é possível fazer uma seleção para tela cheia ou remover todo o zoom aplicado. Aliado ao cursor, estas…

[deadbeatbirdmom]

Good news, my copy of this book arrived today:

Bad news: I don’t have a scanner, so the only pics I have were taken on my phone while struggling to hold the book open. I've attempted to keep light from reflecting off the pages in annoying places.

Although even if I did have a scanner I wouldn't have time to scan everything, this book is almost 350 pages long. Not all of it is art worth scanning, there's a fair amount of screenshots from Volumes 1 to 8 too.

The pics I have managed to take so far are under a read more cut because there's over 20 of them. Mostly Yang because she's my fav, but a fair few of team RWBY as a whole, and some of Blake, and a couple of Raven. And Jaune photobombs a couple of times too. Oh, and how can I forget Zwei? He might steal this post by being too cute.

Art from the covers.

Height charts including heels. It seems Blake’s heels from Volume 7 onwards are an inch shorter than in Volume 4 to 6.

Yang and Jaune modelling Beacon’s uniform.

Zwei concept art, showing him morphing from a lil blob.

Blake concept art, I'm not sure I've seen the bits about what's under her coat before.

Early map of Remnant. Interesting place names, but Signal isn't on Patch but elsewhere, so this isn't a final version. I wouldn't rely on it as a reliable source for writing fic.

Weiss, Blake and Yang concept art, including early versions of their emblems.

Volume 4 to 6 team RWBY.

Volume 7 onwards team RWBY.

Hoverbike chase and backgrounds concept art.

Volume 7 onwards Blake and Yang.

Yang showing off her moves. I can't help but imagine her doing this on that night off dancing with Blake, even if I think she'd look happier.

Blake T posing turnaround.

Blake showing off her moves.

Yang and her fiery punch.

Raven’s bandit camp, excuse my fingers. Oddly enough I think it's using the outline of Yang in her DGAS outfit as a reference for scale inside the tent. She certainly seems to be lacking her right arm below the elbow.

Yang retrieving the Relic of Knowledge.

Raven outside Haven's Vault.

Yang slamming her fists together.

Yang’s turn to T pose.

Blake T posing again.

Raven joining in with T posing.

That's all I've got, apart from a couple of things for separate posts. This one is more than long enough. Let me know if there's anything you're hoping to see from this book, and I'll see if I can share it. You might be better off hoping someone else has the book and a scanner.

[smalls-words]

Brave Little Angel

Summary: Diana takes her little girl to meet her extended family. The problem? Well, it's not really a problem - you're just a little shy.

Pairings: Mama!Diana x Shy!Daughter!Reader, Diana x Kal-El (no longer a thing), Kara x Lena (supercorp ftw), other Justice League members included but not all are specified.

Warnings: shyness leading to slight anxiousness, but it is all mostly fluff.

Genre: Parent/Child or Agere if you'd like!

A/N: Diana would be one of the best mothers in the universe, imo.

*not my gif*

Diana was the best Mama you could have. She was Wonder Woman for crying out loud. She came from an island of mighty female warriors and she did nothing except encourage you to embrace yourself in everything that you were.

Even if you were just four and a half years old.

She had taught you everything you’d known so far and that was her plan for your future. No school, especially with American gun laws as they were, and she thought it would be more beneficial for you to learn about other worlds like her own.

“Recognised: Wonder Woman.” The scanner muttered out loud before the secret passage in the Hall of Justice opened, her hand coming back to hold you up in her arms; not that she needed the extra strength. 

“How are we feeling, my little warrior?” She asked you, noticing your tighter grip on your stuffed orca.

“Is bit scary, Mama.” You murmured, pushing further into her.

“Mama will protect you if there’s anything dangerous, okay?” She promised, sealing it with a temple kiss whilst walking to another door.

“Are you ready to meet your aunties and uncles?” She questioned softly.

You gave her a brave nod and she put you down when you asked, trying to ‘be a big girl’ when you meet them for the first time. You watched her push open the door, walking through first before gently pulling you behind her.

The sight of more than four adults, excluding Diana, was a bit overwhelming. The lot of them had all turned to face you, some giving you smiles whilst others cocked their heads to the side.

You hid behind Diana’s leg, holding onto her pants whilst the adults cooed softly. Mutters of ‘she is adorable’ to ‘how cute’ were thrown around, Diana’s warm chuckle making you look up at her.

“You can do it, sweetheart. Remember what we practiced this morning?” 

You stepped out from behind her leg, picking up Orcy from the ground before you took a deep breath. “Hello. My name is Y/N. Dis is my Mama.” You reached for Diana’s hand, to which she squatted down beside you and let you hold it.

“She’s a tiny little tyke! How old, Diana, four?” A blonde woman with a cool suit asked.

She looked at you. “Go on, angel. How old is my baby? Are you four?” She held up four fingers, which you frowned at and looked at the blonde lady.

“Nuh-uh! I’m dis many!” You adjusted Diana’s fingers so that she half held the last finger up.

“Ah, of course. Four and a half, my apologies.” The blonde chuckled, but as she and the others came a bit closer, you shuffled back towards Diana.

“It’s okay, lovebug. Let’s meet them a few at a time, maybe two, after we have lunch.” She kissed your cheek.

After lunch, which you were very excited for, Diana slowly brought you around to the others. You instantly took a liking to the blonde lady, who was Dinah Lance, and the sight of a familiar cape on a different body made your head cock slightly.

“You’re not Papa Kal.” You accused, reaching for her out of your mother’s grip but she held you tightly.

“You’re right, buttercup - that’s Auntie Kara and Auntie Lena next to her. Auntie Kara is Papa Kal’s cousin.” Diana explained to you as she walked over to the duo.

“My little niece!” Kara beamed, reaching out for you but you flinched.

“Diana?” She questioned worriedly.

Tears began to prick your eyes and you hid in Diana’s beautiful raven mane, earning some soft chuckles from the others. Kara could hear sniffles and wanted to comfort you instead of having a bad first impression, but she didn’t want to cross a line.

“Where’s my little one?” A familiar voice came from the other side of the room, making you instantly come out of Diana’s hair.

“Papa Kal!” You squealed in excitement.

He knelt down as you raced over to him, quickly as you could with your little legs, and he scooped you up in his big arms. “Why the tears, Y/N?” He asked, gently settling you into one arm.

“Dere’s lots of peoples, Papa Kal. Big peoples.” You murmured, looking down at your empty hands.

“Orcy!” You worried, noticing he was lying on the ground upside down.

“Orcy! I sorry for dropping you!” You tried to wriggle out of Superman’s grip, but he held you fast.

Diana watched as tears brimmed your eyes again, her worry levels rising. She thought this would be a good idea, but evidently she was being a bad Mama.

“Easy, kiddo.” 

You watched a shrouded man with a black cape pick up Orcy and hand him to you, to which you hugged the stuffy very tightly. You looked at the man with soft eyes like your mother’s, a small smile on his lips. “Fank you for saving him, mister.” You murmured.

“You’re very welcome. And I’m not ‘mister’, I’m Uncle Bruce.” He grinned, making you grin too.

“Fank you, Uncle Brucie!” You leapt out of Superman’s grip and hugged the man, to which he hugged you back.

You looked over at Diana and saw how she looked a little bit sad. You gently pushed away from Bruce and he got the message, putting you down. You walked over to Diana, who gently sank to her knees. “Yes, my darling?” She asked softly, moving some little baby hairs out of your face.

“Why you sad, Mama?” You replied.

“I thought you would be excited to meet your aunties and uncles, sweetheart. But I understand if you don’t want to see them just yet.” She nodded, bringing you into her arms before giving you a gentle forehead kiss.

“Mmm… was citeds to see dem all…” You mumbled, stroking Orcy’s fluff.

“You were?” She asked quizzically.

“Mhms. Dey just… dey bit bigs for me.” You shrugged.

Bruce came over to you both and sat down on your left, smiling at you before nodding to Diana and the others. One by one, they sat in a circle, all smiling at you as your grin got bigger and bigger; Bruce teased that he maybe had to lock you up, considering your Joker-like grin.

“How’s this, my little love?” Diana murmured by your ear.

You couldn’t have been happier. Everybody went in a circle and told you their names and their ability, some of them even demonstrating it. Hal made a green replica of Orcy, Victor gave you a small fidget toy made from his own fingers, Dinah gave you a blunt ninja star; it felt like your birthday with all of these wonderful gifts.

And each time you collected a gift, you made sure to keep it safe with Diana, her lap now overflowing with presents which earned her chuckles every time you brought another present. 

At the end of the day, you were exhausted, already yawning by the time the stars came out. “Mama, can we go and watch da stars?” 

She nodded happily, the others following you out to the top of the building where there was a helicopter platform. You sat down right in the middle and watched the stars twinkle, lying against Diana’s shoulder for a pillow.

“Fank ou for dis, Mama.” You muttered.

“Of course, my sweet baby.” She kissed your forehead, watching you fall asleep.

As the others began to grow tired, Diana gently picked you up in a blanket and wrapped you in it warmly. She made her quiet goodbyes to everyone and walked you back towards the car, but your tight grip on her clothes made her chuckle.

“I’ll come collect it after.” She muttered to herself, pushing off of the ground lightly before flying towards your home.

There, she unwrapped you from your blanket and laid you down in bed, tucking you in neatly before kissing your forehead. “Goodnight, my shy little one. Mama is so proud of you every day for trying. My brave little angel.” 

With that, she turned on your night light and left you to sleep with Orcy, collecting the car and all of your toys before she fell asleep too.

[wonderswritings]

Starless Lovers {9}

Summary: They fell from the sky. We roamed the earth. We were always meant to clash. 

Warnings: The 100 Themes, Angst, Death, Blood, Unrequited Feelings, Slow Burn, Possibly more to come

Pairings: Lexa x Sister!Reader, Bellamy Blake x Fem!Reader (eventual)

War has always been brewing. With twelve clans, each with different ideals, it was always going to happen. But tensions rise when they come, the people from the sky. We watched from a distance, learning. But then they attacked, and if there's one thing all the clans can agree on,

Blood must have blood.

Starless Lovers Masterlist | Tags

The trig translator I was using no longer works, so I managed to find a new one but there’s a chance some words are still incorrect or even untranslated but I tried my best. 

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

“What if we’re wrong and cutting the power doesn’t disengage the locks?”

Lexa was laying down, her arms crossed over her chest as she responded to Clarke.

“Your people said it will.”

She opened her eyes, glancing over at where Clarke stood. 

“You should rest, Clarke.”

“We could blow the doors manually.”

Lexa huffed slightly as she stood, making her way towards Clarke.

“Plans don’t last very long in battle. Tiring yourself with questions already asked and answered is a waste of energy.”

Clarke turned, looking at Lexa.

“People died for this, Lexa. It has to work.”

“You’re doing what I did when I first took command.”

Lexa turned, walking towards the table with the water, pouring her a cup. 

“We can’t move forward and it’s giving you too much time to think. Once Bellamy shuts down the acid fog and the battle begins, everything will be clear.”

“What if he can’t? What if it was too dangerous and I sent him in there anyway?”

“You care about him.”

Clarke turned, clenching her jaw as she looked at Lexa.

“I care about all of them.”

“But you worry about him more.”

“I couldn’t have kept us alive all this time without him. We need him. And now I might be the one who gets him killed.”

Lexa walked forward, stopping in front of Clarke.

“That’s what it means to be a leader, Clarke. The truth is, we must look into the eyes of our warriors and say, ‘go die for me’.”

“If only it were that easy.”

Clarke turned back towards the table with the plans, huffing. 

“Can we please just get back to the plan?”

“No.” 

Clarke clenched her jaw, turning back towards Lexa.

“You could be a leader your people look to. Pour their hopes and dreams into. Someone they would fight and die for.”

“I never asked for that. I’m just trying to keep us alive.”

“You were born for this, Clarke. Same as me.”

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Bellamy held his card over the scanner, huffing when it didn’t work.

“Bellamy. Come in.”

“Yeah, I’m a little busy here Raven.”

Bellamy looked around, seeing another door that led to the emergency stairs, making his way to the door.

“You missed check in. Did you find the source of the acid fog yet?”

“I’m making my way there now. It’s taking longer than I thought.”

“I don’t know enough to crack it on this end. You gotta give me something.”

“I’m working on it.”

He tried his card again, slightly making a face when it flashed red.

“Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“My key card isn’t working.”

“That’s not good.”

“I need to find another way in. I’ll call you back.”

“Stay right there.”

Bellamy turned, seeing two guards, their guns pointed at him.

“Hands in the air.”

Bellamy turned his head, taking a deep breath before he turned, running up the stairs.

“In pursuit of the target. It’s not Lovejoy. Repeat, it’s not Lovejoy.”

Bellamy’s hat fell as he ran up the second set of stairs, the alarms blaring as he ran down the platform. Cutting a corner he ran down the stairs, jumping a few at a time. Once he was at the bottom he stopped, looking up.

“Checking in. Go back down to the base level.”

One of the guards aimed his gun as he walked down the steps, Bellamy turning and running.

“You’re surrounded. There’s no way out!”

Bellamy ran down the hall, turning at a corner, looking around as he took a deep breath.

“Garza, do you have eyes on him?”

Bellamy grabbed the hand holding the gun as the guard walked by him, shoving it down as he punched the guard in the face. He punched him again as he dodged the guards attempt at hitting him, causing the guard to fall back, landing on the steps. Bellamy punched him again, knocking him out.

“Garza, what is your status?”

Bellamy checked the guards pockets, trying to find his key card.

“Garza do you copy?”

Once he found the key card he turned, grabbing the gun from the ground as he made his way to the door, scanning the card. He breathed a sigh of relief as it lit green, shoving the door open.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Groaning, you slowly started to come to. The first thing you noticed as you came to was that you were laying down, your arms and legs weighed down with something, causing you to be unable to move. You turned your head to the side, making a face. You were in a room, but you didn’t recognize where you were. Medical supplies lined one side of the wall, various tools lining the other wall. You turned when the door opened, watching as two men walked in.

“Ah good, you’re awake.”

One of the men walked towards the medical supplies while the other walked towards you, stopping next to you and grinning down at you.

“Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Cage Wallace.”

He reached out, running his hand down the side of your face. You turned, opening your mouth and biting his hand. He jerked his hand back, lifting his other hand and slapping you. Your head slammed to the side upon impact, Cage slightly making a face as he shook his head, once again grabbing your face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I know exactly who you are. Riheda, the dark commander. Interesting name.”

He glanced over at the man, letting your face go, nodding at him before he looked back down at you.

“The doctor has found something interesting within your blood. Tell me why that is.”

You said nothing, keeping your glare on him. 

“Answer me!”

He huffed, shaking his head as he lightly chuckled.

“You think your people are coming for you but they’re not. We know about your army.”

He tilted his head to the side, huffing slightly.

“Or rather, what’s left of it. You see, we bombed your little Tondc. Dropped a missile right on top of them. They’re dead. Every last one of them.”

You clenched your jaw as you fought against your restraints, causing Cage to laugh as he looked over at the doctor.

“Do what you must. I have some things to handle.”

The doctor nodded as he came into your line of sight, glancing down at you.

“We’ll be just fine here.”

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Indra made her way to the Commander’s tent, clenching her jaw, her mind clouded with worry as she opened the flap.

“Heda.”

She bowed her head, cutting a glare at Clarke when she saw her in the tent as well.

“Ai don news.” (I have news)

“I can-”

“Stay.”

Indra tightened her grip on her sword, huffing slightly as Clarke looked over at Lexa.

“I want you to stay, so stay.”

Lexa turned towards Indra, nodding.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Clarke.”

“We’ve looked everywhere, Heda, but there is no sign of Riheda.”

“Esmeray is missing? I thought-”

Lexa sighed, glancing at Clarke.

“I lied, earlier. Esmeray wasn’t avoiding the clan leaders in the woods. She never made it to Tondc.” 

Clarke turned towards Indra, shaking her head, her mind racing.

“Esmeray left before you did. You didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?”

Indra looked over at Clarke, glaring at her. 

“Did you? We took the same path, Clarke. We saw nothing.”

Clarke looked over at Lexa, nodding slightly. 

“I’ll radio Raven, have her let Bellamy know to be on the lookout in case it was the mountain men who took her.”

Indra scoffed, shaking her head.

“Who else would it be?”

Lexa shot Indra a look before she turned, nodding at Clarke.

“Thank you.”

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

“Come in, Raven. I made it. I hope you have a plan.”

“Still working on it. Give us something to go on. What do you see?”

Bellamy looked around, slightly shaking his head as he made his way downn the steps. 

“A huge steel vat. Looks like a submarine. Some other tanks with chemical formulas and warning labels. Bunch of pipes running into the wall. Monitor.”

“Oo, go to the monitor.”

Bellamy huffed slightly, walking towards the monitor.“Hello to you, too.”

“Don’t mind Wick. He’s not really helping.”

“Hey Bellamy. How’s my boy Monty doing?”

“Fine. but I don’t know for how long.”

“Great. Pleasantries over. Listen, if that monitor is a control panel, we can use it to kill this thing. Look for a pH scale.”

“Right. It has a scale, but the rest… uh, look can I just blow this thing?”

“No.”

“No, they’ll know their defenses are down. They’ll send a tech to fix it or reroute it or pull out some other weapon we don’t even know about.”

“Plus, you’d probably melt your face off.”

“Look, you know I like a good explosion, but we gotta think our way through this one. We can do this. Here we go.”

“Okay, uh level indicator.”

“Nope.”

“Do you see an actuator anywhere?”

Bellamy made a face, throwing his hand up.

“I have no idea what that is.”

“Come on, what else.”

“Internal pressure sensor.”

“No.”

“Uh, setpoint and alarm.”

“Let’s avoid that one.”

“Maintenance and cleaning.”

“Bellamy, go to that subdirectory. See if there’s anything there that says passivation.”

Bellamy nodded slightly, starting to filter through the monitor.

“Okay, I’m on it. Got it. Say us, aqueous sodium hydroxide bath.”

“That’s a base. That’ll neutralize the acid. Select that.”

“It’s doing something.”

“You should be able to hear the pump.”

“I can hear them. Needle’s moving. pH is rising.”

“It’s working.”

“Passivation successful.”

Bellamy grinned as the pumps cut off.

“Alright. Send a flare.”

“Roger that.”

Bellamy turned to leave when he saw something, causing him to make a face as he leaned forward, wiping the smudge off, seeing a pH scale. He turned back towards the monitor, looking between the two before he walked towards the monitor, seeing the pH scale was still the same as before. 

“Raven, we’ve got a problem.”

He made a face when she didn’t respond, shaking his head.

“Dammit, where are you? I don’t think the acid fog is down. Get word to Clarke. We have to stop the army. Raven!”

Bellamy watched as the pH scale was reset.

“No.”

He looked up when the alarms started to go off, hearing a banging on the doors.

“Oh, no, no, no.” 

He looked around, seeing the oxygen tank. He glanced down at the acetylene torch in his hand when they managed to kick the door open, causing Bellamy to turn and run.

“Go! Go! Move in, move in!”

“He’s armed, don’t be a hero.”

“Come on out, hands up!”

Bellamy took a few deep breaths before he ran, the men shooting at him as he dived into the vents.

“Cease fire! Don’t hit the tanks!”

Bellamy crawled as far as he could before he stopped, turning back towards the entrance, shooting both guns until he was out.

“He’s out. I’m going in.”

“Got it. I’ll check the tanks.”

Bellamy tossed the guns to the side as he turned, crawling away as fast as he could. When the tanks blew the vent shook, causing him to lose his balance before he started to crawl faster, the force of the flames pushing him out of the vent. He landed with a harsh ‘thud’ the flames shooting out as he ducked, covering his head. When the flames disappeared he turned onto his back, coughing as he laughed. 

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Your hair was matted with sweat and blood, the doctor having hit you after you tried to bite him. After that, he’d tied a cloth around your mouth, forcing you to open your mouth so he could place the waded part of it in your mouth to keep you from trying to bite him or from speaking, which you hadn’t done the entire time you’d been awake. You were tired, and everything hurt, but you refused to fall asleep, forcing yourself to stay awake even if everything was screaming at you to stop and let go. Your eyes began fluttering when the door slammed open, causing you to jump slightly as you opened your eyes, seeing a blurry figure rushing towards you. Slowly, the blurry figure came into focus, causing you to glare weakly as Cage grabbed your face, squeezing harshly.

“Where is he? Where is the intruder?”

He yanked you forward when you didn’t answer, screaming in your face.

“Where is he?!”

“Sir, please! Do not move her too much, or you’ll interfere with my studies! She must remain still!”

Cage turned his head, glaring at the doctor before he scoffed, letting you go, causing you to fall back onto the table with a groan. Cage leaned back, standing to his full height as he took a deep breath, looking down at you.

“Where is he?”

You said nothing, causing Cage to turn and walk towards the guard that came in with him. You couldn’t see what he was doing, but he walked back towards you, placing the cold metal of the gun at your forehead, pushing it so it dug into your skin.

“Where. Is. He?”

“Sir, please! If you kill her, she’ll be of no use to us! Her blood is the key! We no longer need the kids! Her blood will lead us all to the ground again!”

Cage glared down at you, clenching his jaw before he stepped back, his chest heaving as he looked over at the doctor.

“Prepare her for transport. This location has been compromised.”

Cage turned towards the guard, handing him back his gun.

“Send a group to help move the doctor and the grounder. The rest of you will find those kids, and you will kill them.”

“Yes sir.”

Cage looked back at you as the doctor fluttered around you, grinning slightly.

“We can still win the war.”

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Four months later and I've finally managed to update! Thank you all for being so patient with me! I hope to have the miniseries for this series posted soon-ish. The next chapter will be when Bellamy and Esmeray 'officially' meet!

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[navcommrelay]

KINSHIP 3

Time: D-Day + 72 Hours Location: KINSHIP Forward Operating Base Forces On Station: CFRI, Silver Wing Forces En Route: CFRI Delta Lances, Barghest Company (Arriving) Objective: Defend FOB from enemy ‘Mech assault. After-Action Report:

Barghest Company arrived, deploying six mechs (Jenner IIC, Raven, Konito, Mad Cat Mk III, Skinwalker, Berserker) to assist in the fighting withdrawal and minelaying efforts of engaged CFRI and Silver Wing elements. The rest of Barghest Company deployed at Kinship FOB and will move up to engage the bulk of the escort forces once CFRI and Silver Wing elements return with assisting Barghest Company elements. Godkiller Star sent North, circling wide to the West in order to avoid being drawn into fight with escorts, and will begin engaging the Drone as soon as possible. Barghest Company Mechs engaged in covering the retreat accounted for four mechs, with Lt. Clara Buche claiming two kills herself, a damaged Grigori and a Malak, while Pvt. Sin & Cpt. Weiss taking out another Petra, and Pvt. Amaryllis and Lt. Flora crippling another Malak.

Commander McEvedy, Colonel Bell, Major Bridget, Major Roberta, Lt. Ann, Lt. Smith, Cpt. Nero, Lt Delila and Lt Pam deployed mechs to fortify the FOB, and prepare for full engagement with Word escorts.

SWMC Bravo Lance began a rapid withdrawal, following the arrival of Barghest Company reinforcements. Some fire was exchanged, but no kills were logged during this time. They then regrouped at Kinship for repairs and rearming, alongside Alpha Lance. 

CFRI Recon 2-Alpha (Mercury, Mongoose, Piranha, Goshawk II) and 1-Beta (Thorn, Wasp, Stinger, Locust) deployed via main supply route to the east, moving along a wide flank past the highway before continuing South towards the bridge, standing orders are to hold position at a distance and wait for confirmation from Barghest Company Godkiller Star to engage and conduct harassing attacks on the drone during its approach towards the FOB. CFRI 1-Alpha (Packrat, Chevalier, Hunter, Galleon, Royal Demon, Stoat, Buffalo-DB) deployed with CFRI Recon before entrenching in a holding position in the suburban area to the South-East of Kinship FOB to defend against any enemy forces attempting to bypass the garrison at Coen City.

Priority Message Log from CFRI 1-Alpha-6 relayed by Kinship Command to CFRI WarShip Ajax: 1A6: Be advised, an additional group of enemy ‘Mechs has been detected crossing the bridge. AJAX: Copy, pilot. What have you got? 1A6: At least two Level IIs, possibly more. AJAX: Can you elaborate? 1A6: Scanners are having a hell of a time... 1A6: Negative. Something in play has to have some ECM.   AJAX: Understood. We’ll divert 1-Delta and 2-Delta to engage. @lt-chari @msn-04iinightingale @is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not @combined-arms-merc-groups