#there ARE people out there who blacklist that tag… this one’s for you

[housederiva]

Okay hi! This is going to be skewed if it's just the people following me voting, please reblog this poll If you'd be so kind so it gets as far away from my bubble as possible 🙇

No nuance! You gotta pick one, but feel free to talk about your reasoning in the tags xx (the clipboard I'm holding is for science and statistic purposes not moral compass or taste judging)

[astralleywright]

and if i said that part of the reason a lot of ppl aren't as into C3 is because of the dearth of truly mass appeal M/M options.

[seaslimes]

I've decided that Rose × Dave is both yuri & yaoi actually.

[thelien-art]

I say this gently and with respect but you have got to stop falling for scams. You post them constantly and it damages your own credibility. If you want to raise awareness for a cause, it's worth it to do a little research and find reputable places to donate to... but those ppl&bots coming into your inbox are grifters.

I thank you for the warning, I really do, but I want you to know I try to do research when I share a profile to see if the pictures are from other places, vetted etc, etc, sometimes I have to delete one of the asks. I am willing to take the chance to share one of those horrible people who are not from Gaza and use the money for themselves and their own greed, if I know that I can at least share one real person who needs help from Gaza

I have found a new anger towards people who use this situation to get money for themselves and I try to do research and I know sometimes they are better than I am but if it means I can help at least one person out, then I will do it

I am only sharing so that more people can see them and then they can choose for themselves if they want to believe it, I never want anyone to feel pressured as I know many have experienced, including myself as I have no money to donate and, as you have noticed, gets asks asking for money I don't have

[zymstarz]

how many variations of "x reader" does a man have to blacklist and users to block before tumblr stops giving him almost exclusively those posts

[hauntedfalcon]

("make the au more fucked up, I dare you" you say? well, who am I but to oblige)

marion hid the scar from his father for an entire year. a physical mark can be covered up, but how do you hide the absence of a daemon? a little kid wandering around, a dead canary clutched in his hands, and suddenly there's no more birdsong following him about. he has to hide her, because even if she's not moving she's gotta be alive, because he's alive, and he knows with a seven-year-old's certainty that if the adults notice then they might get rid of her. he finds an empty matchbox for when she's a butterfly and tries to keep her in his biggest most comfortable shirt pocket when she's a bird and he tells the finnerty boys - all three of them, with their shepherd dog souls nipping at their heels - that they've made a game of seeing how long she can stay hidden for, or that she's asleep in his pocket, or that she's right over there but she's pretty small so maybe you just can't see her, and ignores the sensation, the creeping dread, that something vital inside him is rotted. (sean finds out, and so do his brothers, and he swears them all to secrecy. in the end, it's his own slip-up that gets him caught.)

jinnah watches her father cut the boy away from the dead bird, and tries to remember the feeling of insect's legs walking along the back of her hand. he kicks and screams in all the ways she didn't, watching it turn from avian to insect to avian to nothing but dust, and she wonders - only for a moment - if the empty hole in her would have finally settled into a beetle, or a spider, or a maybe even a snake, like the great python winding about her father's neck.

okay all right okay you know what

I was just thinking about how maybe in this universe, maybe the first time Sean understands that a soul isn't the same thing as a conscience

isn't necessarily all the times that his Saoirse doesn't keep him from getting into trouble, what kind of daemon would she have been if she stopped him from doing stupid stuff

but maybe it's the time that he looks up after finishing that mission for Dr. Nero, and sees Saoirse returning to him with the remnants of blue and gold Dust on her jaws, already fading away to nothing

[shieldsurf]

out of the big 4 het/canon fairy tail pairings jerza is by Far the worst imo like. he needs to leave her alone i'm so serious and the fact that mashima wrote in a 7 year age gap for no reason is Not helping... erzas ass is NINETEEN the first time jellal makes an open pass at her i don't care that they used to be the same age it is fucking weird. gruvia is a close second though because while yes we objectify men here sir and i live to serve women juvia's creepiness is really just too much like at a certain point it starts to feel really gross and the fact that gray seems to fall for her by the end of the anime/manga just reeks of coercion. not even bringing up how genuinely awful juvia's character writing is she gets like 5 minutes of being interesting before getting instantly reduced to a creepy stan who completely revolves around gray and has less depth than the average bossfight of the week. i guess its equality that erza and mirajane are some of the best characters in this story (which is admittedly a low bar considering half of their personality is being subjected to the most voyeuristic shots possible) so mashima had to balance it out by making juvia one of the worst

[starbuck]

I honestly love that you talk about Tuco and Salamancas so much. it's partly the show's fault but they are such a fucked up chain of harm family, and nobody really talks about it much aside from memes

I really appreciate you saying this!

I remember specifically after my initial whirlwind six-day Breaking Bad bingewatch, i was doing a puzzle and listening to some music and I suddenly realized that, out of everything in the show, their collective tragedy had really affected me and stuck with me and thinking “hmm, well surely watching Better Call Saul will cure me of this…” and then I felt this absolute JOLT of delight upon unexpectedly seeing Tuco at the end of the BCS pilot and I was like “ah, okay, so I’m stuck like this!”

But seriously though, it’s been rewarding! I like puzzles! I like characters who the canon does dirty or who were clearly not the writers’ primary concern! I like to think critically about the media I consume and the way I interact with it! And I also ADORE inescapable cycles of tragedy! … So this whole thing was actually fairly predictable, in hindsight, haha…

And yeah, I’d LOVE to talk more about it… I’ve got another fic that’s fully done besides a final polish edit (which is gonna take awhile and I’ve been super busy with my new job, hence no progress in the past month or so!) - so I’m excited to get that out eventually as I prefer to share my more inference-heavy meta in fic form.

[musical-chick-13]

Genuinely I absolutely, thoroughly hate the way people have gotten in regard to "You can write fic about dark subjects, but don't ever go into detail about those subjects" (if they even concede that people are "allowed" to write about anything unpleasant at all).

Because I just read an excellent one that was...very fucked-up! Actually!!! But it was also a nuanced and gripping examination of abuse--switching between the POV of the abuser (who lies to themselves about the reality of their actions, making their POV sections all the more uncomfortable for it), their victim (who lies to themselves in a different way, by refusing both to acknowledge their own victimhood or to consider the ways they later come to continue that cycle) and, eventually, an outside party (who is the only one aware of the true reality, and tries (and fails) to help, through the comparatively powerless ways that are available to them).

And this thing was not reserved in any way regarding its depiction of all of this. It didn't cut away cleanly after a vague uncomfortable comment for the reader to fill in every single blank for themselves. There were even times where the victim themselves was under the impression that they were genuinely enjoying what happened, because they convinced themselves that they had control over a situation they never had control over!!! And I know that...certain people. Would absolutely accuse this fic of "romanticizing abuse" because of these things. Which I think is an INCREDIBLY unfair assessment of it, especially since most of the time the discussion of "romanticizing [x]" is less a discussion and more, "I don't care what the author intended, this story simply shouldn't exist because this is incontrovertible proof they are a horrible person in reality, also they should die."

[hashtagloveloses]

reminder for the twitter, reddit and tiktok migrants: please do not censor words here. if you censor them, people’s blacklists and mute functions wont work, especially for important content warnings (this goes for twitter as well altho that function is breaking over there). spell out the whole word in the post and the tags. do not use euphemism words like unalive. the algorithm here does not work that way (there is an algorithm. not everyone uses it, everyone uses the following tab).

the only time you should censor words is when you do NOT want them to show up in the tag, like if you’re saying something unkind about a ship you should not tag it or mention directly the ship name so it does not clog the tag, or if you’re mentioning a person or community who should not get attention or clout, or whose attention you do not want to attract, then censor it (the way one might on twitter to avoid term searching)

[caparrucia]

Full offense and pun fully intended, but I genuinely think the very existence of "dead dove, do not eat" was a fucking canary in the mines, and no one really paid attention.

Because the tag itself was created as a response to a fandom-wide tendency to disregard warnings and assume tagging was exaggerated. And then the same fucking idiots reading those tags describing things they found upsetting or disturbing or just not to their taste would STILL click into the stories and give the writer's grief about it.

And as a response writers began using the tag to signal "no, really, I MEAN the tags!"

But like.

If you really think about it, that's a solution to a different problem. The solution to "I know you tagged your story appropriately but I chose to disregard the tags and warnings by reading it anyway, even though I knew it would upset me, so now I'm upset and making it your problem" is frankly a block, a ban and wide-spread blacklisting. But fandom as a whole is fucking awful at handling bad faith, insidious arguments that appeal to community inclusion and weaponize the fact most people participating in fandom want to share the space with others, as opposed to hurting people.

So instead of upfront ridiculing this kind of maladaptive attempt to foster one's own emotional self-regulation onto random strangers on the internet, fandom compromised and came up with a redundant tag in a good faith attempt to address an imaginary nuance.

There is no nuance to this.

A writer's job is to tag their work correctly. It's not to tag it exhaustively. It's not even to tag it extensively. A writer's sole obligation, as far as AO3 and arguably fandom spaces are concerned, is to make damn sure that the tags they put on their story actually match whatever is going on in that story.

That's it.

That's all.

"But what if I don't want to read X?" Well, you don't read fic that's tagged X.

"But what if I read something that wasn't tagged X?" Well, that's very unfortunate for you, but if it is genuinely that upsetting, you have a responsibility to yourself to only browse things explicitly tagged to not include X.

"But that's not a lot of fic!" Hi, you must be new here, yes, welcome to fandom. Most of our spaces are built explicitly as a reaction to There's Not Enough Of The Thing I Want, both in canon and fandom.

"But there are things on the internet that I don't like!" Yeah, and they are also out there, offline. And, here's the thing, things existing even though we personally dislike or even hate or even flat out find offensive/gross/immoral/unspeakable existing is the price we pay to secure our right to exist as individuals and creators, regardless of who finds US personally unpleasant, hateful or flat out offensive/gross/immoral/unspeakable.

"But what about [illegal thing]?!" So the thing itself is illegal, because the thing itself has been deemed harmful. But your goddamn cop-poisoned authoritarian little heart needs to learn that sometimes things are illegal that aren't harmful, and defaulting to "but illegal!" is a surefire way to end up on the wrong side of the fascism pop quiz. You're not a figure of authority and the more you demand to control and exercise authority by command, rather than leadership, the less impressive you seem. You know how you make actual, genuine change in a community? You center harm and argue in good faith to find accommodations and spread awareness of real, actual problems.

But let's play your game. Let's pretend we're all brainwashed cop-abiding little cogs that do not own a single working brain cell to exercise critical thinking with. 99% of the time, when you cry about any given thing "being illegal!!!" you're correct only so far as the THING itself being illegal. The act or object is illegal. Depiction of it is not. You know why, dipshit? Because if depiction of the thing were illegal, you wouldn't be able to talk about it. You wouldn't be able to educate about it. You wouldn't be able to reexamine and discuss and understand the thing, how and why and where it happens and how to prevent it. And yeah, depiction being legal opens the door for people to make depictions that are in bad taste or probably not appropriate. Sure. But that's the price we pay, creating tools to demystify some of the most horrific things in the world and support the people who've survived them. The net good of those tools existing outweighs the harm of people misusing them.

"You're defending the indefensible!" No, you're clumsily stumbling into a conversation that's been going on for centuries, with your elementary school understanding of morality and your bone-deep police state rot filtering your perception of reality, and insisting you figured it out and everyone else at the table is an idiot for not agreeing with you. Shut the fuck up, sit the fuck down and read a goddamn book.

[buddyapologist]

sry for all the txt posts but i just remembered that line from stranger things s2 where hopper is leaving a note for eleven that says "i'm not mad, i'm just sorry" and im just. fucking essay in the tags

[diamondcitydarlin]

Just fair warning- I said on my personal post about this that I wasn't going to talk about Neil Gaiman anymore, but as it's becoming clear that him and his publishers and anyone else who makes money off of him is circling the wagons and trying to bury these allegations, as well as some fans still defending and trying to 'rationalize' this information, I feel like, actually, we need to keep talking about him (as much as I cannot stand him and feel physically disgusted now when I so much as see his face somewhere). Specifically, the fact that he's a liar, master manipulator and should not, under any circumstances, be given access to his fans like he has in the past. At the very least. (And if you need to blacklist his name or even unfollow me so as to not be triggered, I completely understand, but I will always try to tag these posts accordingly and I think it's crucial right now that the truth be put where people can see)

This post specifically is in response to those 'rationalizations' I've seen, some that have gone as far as to blame the young fans/groupies that hooked up with him for being 'golddiggers' or just making a mountain out of a molehill for something they now regret. It's not that simple, yall. (And, again, this requires some amount of completely ignoring the story about him extorting his tenant for sex under threat of eviction of her and her three young children, I'm not sure how you 'rationalize' that under the best of circumstances)

So let's be clear here. What we know is that NG has routinely, for possibly an upwards of 30 years, pulled sexual 'partners' from his fan groups, most of whom are 18-22 year old young women (though possibly younger, accounts are coming forward of 16 year olds having allegedly been inappropriately touched/flirted/propositioned by him, which ig is the age of consent in the UK but still?? 16 year olds!!). This wasn't one or two times in the course of three decades, this was a constant pattern of behavior for him and for a very insidious reason.

This isn't to try to infantilize those fans or young women/young people in general or try to suggest that they couldn't have consented to sex with an older person or famous person. In fact, the onus isn't on them at all. This is about an older guy with a lot of fame, power and wealth choosing to sleep with people that he had already conditioned to idolize him and using that power imbalance to coerce them into doing things they didn't want to.

Regardless of one's age or gender identity, it can be difficult to impossible to say 'no' to someone like that. After all, you've been 'chosen' by the chosen one, you're special and not like everyone else, and if you don't do what the popular person everyone trusts is telling you to do you could end up ostracized. Alienated. Or worse. And you know what? Gaiman knew that! He knew it when he was crafting his 'approachable dad' persona on tumblr. He knew it when he was cultivating a fandom of personality. He knew it when he was having huge meetups to try to ensnare more victims. I hate to even think it, but I'm starting to believe he knew it when he was writing children's books too.

It's been talked about again and again in separate issues, but needless to say something not being strictly illegal does not make it inherently, morally okay. It does not erase the fact that this man has been essentially grooming his fandom to feel safe meeting/speaking with him so he can coerce those he can snare into sexual acts they're not comfortable with. That is predator behavior, whether strictly 'illegal' in the eyes of a court or not (but ofc I think he should be criminally punished even if I'm not naive enough to think he actually will be, because this IS rape and rape should be criminally punished)

I'm not personally advocating for anyone to give up being in his related fandoms, but what I am personally advocating for is that people don't forget who he is and what he's capable of, especially when he tries to crawl back to where he was (I'm almost certain he will eventually, as I've said).

Again, at the very least, we need to use what little influence we do have to keep him from infiltrating fan spaces again. He should not be on tumblr yukking it up with young people, he should not be at public appearances hitting on teenagers, he should not be given the unrestricted access to fans that he's 'enjoyed' for the past 30+ years because he is not a safe person. While I wish there was more in the way of restorative justice that could be done, I think at very, very least we should do what we can to limit his proximity to people he could hurt in the future. Make sure no one forgets, because sweeping this under the rug means Gaiman gets to hurt more people.

Lastly, no one is the wrong for having been manipulated by him. Let's make that very clear. What we're NOT gonna do is blame ourselves, each other, the victims, etc, for evil acts that Gaiman chose to do himself, time and time and time again. It doesn't help the situation and it certainly doesn't protect future potential victims. We were all duped because we're human and we attach and a lot of us want to believe there are good people out there, particularly those who make art that means so much to us.

And there are. But let's also use this a teaching/learning tool about how much faith we place in famous people in the future, regardless of how 'approachable' and 'safe' they might seem. Let's remember to have a healthy suspicion of creators/famous people that are oddly immersed in fandom spaces- yes, even the ones you still currently like that seem fine, as difficult as that may seem.

At the end of the day, we don't know them or what they're capable of doing or what they might be plotting to do to us. Support victims. Amplify their voices. Don't forget.

[honestlyvan]

For a while I had a rule instituted that every time I wanted to complain about the lack of something, I had to sit down like I'm doing my damn homework and talk about why I liked the thing and wanted more of it. At least three full sentences, excluding the sentence "I like [thing X]".

It felt punitive, but a) it did get me to stop idly complaining and b) it also told me if I really wanted something different, or if I just wanted to be a hater. (There's nothing wrong with being a hater, but pissing in people's cereal just because you're mad is being a poor neighbour y'know? Keep it in the group chat.)

Fandom really could use more people just unabashedly being lovers. If other people cannot handle it, then block them, and continue to talk about the things that excite you or make you feel good.

I'm in a new fandom where the main tag tends to be filled with self-insert shipping and the most popular ship (which manages to be both super popular but is also considered problematic which feels almost unheard of these days lol). And people complain about these things in the tag but they never post anything they *want* to see? They could be posting gifs or meta analysis or headcanons or shitposts or screenshots but they don't. They expect other people to provide it for them. I think being a lurker in fandom is fine, but you can't then complain because the people not lurking are just doing fandom in a way you dislike??

[context]

Yeah. Honestly, I get it because I was just a silent lurker in fandoms for a long, long time (long time followers may remember that I didn't start really making my own posts and interacting with people until I got into TUA) and the only "content" I made was complaints and discourse posts.

I think a lot of people are in the same boat I was in, where they think that because they aren't an artist or a strong writer or something, then no one wants to hear what they have to say and they have nothing to offer to a fandom and that is so so so far from the truth. Even if all you're doing to create fandom content is making some tumblr posts or writing fics that took you 15 minutes, that's still something and if you keep doing that, then you're going to build up a nice little space for yourself with other people who like the same kind of stuff you do and like to hear what you have to say.

So like. Instead of making another post complaining about how the sort of content you like doesn't really exist, why not make a post about the thing you like? If you want more of a ship, make a post about that ship. If you want more of a certain trope, make a post using that trope. If all you ever do is put down what other people, then even the people who are into the same stuff you are aren't gonna want to be around you.

[kwanisms]

Kinktober 「10:25」 — l.minho

» stray kids menu | lee know menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ alien!Minho × fem!Reader wc: 5.4k summary: After Minho’s return to Earth, Y/N has spent the last year traveling the galaxy with her alien boyfriend. While exploring a tropical moon orbiting a massive planet in a binary star system, Y/N accidentally disturbs a cluster of bulbous purple luminescent flowers that release a glowing purple dust that sticks to her clothes and skin. She returns to Minho’s ship hoping that the dust isn’t toxic and will wash off but as she soon finds out, the dust is a very sparkly and very potent aphrodisiac and it has a profound effect on not only her, but on Minho as well. genres/themes/au: fluff, smut; supernatural, horror, thriller; non idol au, monster idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, supernatural and horror themes; sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglists! kinktober taglist is CLOSED! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you.  MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: *eminem voice* guess who's back, back again. That's right! alien!Minho from Ninsa is back! If you haven't read the first part, you don't have to but you can find it here! This is gonna make y'all soft but only at the beginning. Things are gonna get hairy for our favorite alien-human couple pretty quickly! So glad to be visiting this au again. I love alien!Minho so much )): tomorrow is the final piece for Stray Kids and is also a sequel for Han's part from last year! Thank you so much for reading and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only. 

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), sex pollen (f receiving, m receiving), breeding, mild dirty talk, biting (f receiving), minor cumflation (f receiving), impregnation kink, use of pet names (hers: baby, sweetheart, love, cute shit like my star, etc.; his: babe, Min, Minmin, etc.), dom!Minho, sub!Reader, slight brat!Reader. I think I got all of them, but let me know if I missed any! kinks: Sex pollen + breeding dialogue prompt: ❛❛ Baby… you need me that badly? ❜❜

═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════

A soft breeze blew through the trees, the leaves rustling and dancing overhead as you hiked through the dense grass. Glancing to the left, you noticed the sky starting to take on a darker hue. You pulled your sleeve back, checking the dial of your watch that read it was getting later in the day.

You should be heading back; you were heading back. It wasn’t entirely your fault that you kept getting distracted by the scenery. It was unlike anything you’d ever seen in any science fiction movie or show. The lush forest of the alien moon, orbiting a massive desert planet, wasn’t something you could have ever imagined. Minho had said the planet was called Kojar 6, orbiting a large star called Kojar which was part of the Kojar-Faline binary star system. There were 7 planetoids, Kojar 6 being the largest of the pack with two moons.

You had wanted to visit Kojar 6 but Minho had explained that there was nothing on the planet anymore. Nothing but sand being whipped around by the intense winds. Winds that could potentially rip a person to shreds. There were no people, no buildings, no animals on the surface. Only sand.

He promised the moons were much more interesting.

The first moon was an icy wasteland that reminded you of Hoth from the Star Wars series. Minho refused to land there, calling it a frozen and barren wasteland like Kojar 6 only instead of sand, it was ice and snow. That moon was called Ciyebos. The second, the one you were currently visiting, was a tropical world called Zocunia. It was a lush, vibrant jungle world not unlike that of Pandora in the Avatar franchise.

The flora and fauna were both incredibly unique, with very few predators. The few that did exist, you were confident in dealing with should you come across them. Since bringing you along to Ninsa, Minho had been insistent that you learn to defend yourself as he couldn’t always be around to protect you.

Much of the flora was incredibly beautiful, looking like something out of a fantasy world or a science fiction movie. Vibrants blues, purples, greens, and even turquoises, and pinks. Back home, on Earth, the more vibrant something was, the more dangerous it was. On other planets, that rule didn’t always apply.

As you continued to trudge through the knee high thick green grass, something round, bulbous, and bright caught your eye. You froze, turning your head to find nestled at the base of a tree that extended tens of feet towards the sky was a cluster of plants.

You carefully walked over, stepping over exposed roots and boulders. As you reached it, you knelt down, inspecting the plant. You’d long learned not to just touch things after contacting a rash from a flower that looked incredibly pretty and harmless. Minho luckily knew a remedy and was able to get rid of it with relative ease.

You instead raised the camera in your hands, a gift from your alien fiance from his world that he’d given you on your one year anniversary. Your phone could have worked for pictures but the device would only survive space travel for so long whereas this device was much better designed for space travel.

You snapped a few pictures, the shutter clicking as you pressed the button with the flowers in focus.

Looking up from the LCD display screen of the camera, you inspected the flowers with more scrutiny. 

They were glowing, having some sort of bioluminescence that a lot of flora on this moon seemed to exhibit. An evolutionary trait, Minho had explained when you first asked him about it.

“Much of this world’s flora has evolved to glow at night. It’s both a defense mechanism and a hunting tactic. Half of the lunar year, this moon is bathed in darkness, hiding behind Kojar 6. The bioluminescence lets the plants still feed and ward off predators at the same time.”

You loved listening to him as he seemed to be full of knowledge you’d never be able to learn on your own. He’d promised to take you to the libraries on Ninsa when you eventually landed there. Minho had promised that he’d take you to his home world, let you see his life and be part of it.

It took Minho three years to return to Earth and find you after you left Derry and your old life behind. He asked you to travel with him. To leave Earth behind and travel to Ninsa with him. He explained how the three years apart had been hell and he didn’t want to return to his home without you.

The opportunity to travel was one you wanted more than anything so you didn’t need much persuasion and readily agreed to leave behind your life to be with him. To see something far beyond what anyone could ever dream of. It was all you wanted more than anything in the universe.

It wasn’t long after you left Earth that Minho professed his love for you, asking you to spend the rest of your lives together to which you immediately said yes. You had been on an alien planet, enjoying the sunset when he asked you out of the blue. He didn’t have a ring to give you but he promised that the moment you landed on Ninsa, he would get you one.

You tilted your head, looking at the translucent membrane of the bulbous flower, a slight swirling inside, visible only due to the bioluminescence source deep in the center of the plant. As you leaned closer, the light started pulsating and you instantly drew back. “Alright,” you said softly. “Time to go.”

You snapped one more picture before shutting off the camera and pulling at the lens cover to place it back over the lens but no matter how hard you tugged, it wouldn’t come loose from the holder. “Goddamn it,” you grumbled as you tried to pry it off. “What the fu- oh shit!”

Just as you were pulling, it finally came loose but slipped from your grip and fell onto the flowers, bouncing off the bulbous membrane and falling to the ground. You scrambled to pick it up, snapping it onto the lens and looking up with wide eyes as the translucent flower trembled. Before you could draw back, the leaves popped open into a five petal flower, a cloud of sparkling purple dust exploding from the pressure trapped within.

You stumbled backwards sputtering as you waved your hand, trying to diffuse the dust and coughing. ‘Fuck,’ you mentally cursed, looking over your clothes, noticing the glittery dust had settled and as you tried to brush it off, it only seemed to spread more along the gray body suit Minho had given you.

You looked around and sighed before getting to your feet slowly. “Guess I’m gonna need to shower,” you whispered to yourself and started the walk back to camp where the ship was. You could use the outdoor shower Minho had set up for the two of you and hopefully he could grab you a spare suit from the ship.

You used your clean hand to rub your nose, a tickle settling in as you headed in the direction of camp, hoping whatever this dust was that it wasn’t toxic.

Minho took a deep breath, keeping his eyes forward as he watched the third bhunqoi hop closer and closer to his trap. He’d managed to capture two already and needed a third for dinner. The small lagomorph-like critter turned its head in his direction and Minho froze, hoping he hadn’t been made but when it took one more hop, falling into his pit trap, he knew success.

He sighed a breath of relief, getting up and pushing the leaves blocking his body from sight off and making his way over to look into the pit. It would seem the animal landed in a way that ensured it did not suffer. Minho hated hunting but sometimes it was a necessary evil for survival.

He collected the animal and moved back to his hiding place, grabbing the cloth bag with the wild fruits and vegetables he’d gathered before heading in the direction of camp. He’d allowed you to go off on your own and explore the perimeter surrounding their camp, making sure the stakes were still standing after the storm the night before.

He knew tropical storms on Zocunia were bad this time of year which is why he chose to pick a spot in the forest instead of on a beach or grassland. The trees provided an extra shelter over the ship, not that the hull really needed it. 

He’d upgraded his ship upon returning to Ninsa after leaving Earth the first time, ensuring that in the event of any more spontaneous crash landings, the hull would still remain intact. 

The Kojar was starting to set, bathing the landscape in an orange-ish golden glow, shadows becoming elongated and more pronounced as he finally reached the ship. His foraging hadn’t taken him far from camp, and hunting had brought him closer as he tried to stay within the perimeter.

Minho reached your base camp relatively quickly and immediately started a fire and prepared the meat for roasting while wondering where you could have gotten to that you would still be gone from camp. He tried not to fear the worst, knowing he prepared you for time on your own but he couldn’t help it. This was an alien planet and while most of the animals were docile, he really didn’t want another incident like the alien wolf encounter.

You had spent a couple days on a beautiful alien planet with him where he couldn’t hold himself back and asked you to marry him when you both returned to his home world. It had been spontaneous and spur of the moment but he meant every word when he said he never wanted to be without you again. 

He wanted to start a life with you on Ninsa, get married, buy a house, all the domestic things his friends were starting to do. He wanted all of that with you. Children was another topic you would have to have at some point because while he knew you were biologically compatible, there were other ways of having children. Other ways of starting a family.

As he set up the bhunqoi to roast in the flames, he sat in one of the chairs he’d set up and waited for you to return while he peeled and prepared the fruits he’d managed to forage. He was sure the conversation would happen sooner or later and when it did, things would be much clearer on where you both stood.

You were getting closer to camp as you walked, noticing the small signs you set up for yourself as you trudged through the forest. “When did it get so hot?” you whispered, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead. As you walked, your body started to feel hotter and hotter. Almost like you had a fever.

Maybe it was the dust you’d come into contact with but you couldn’t be certain. Minho would know more. You just needed to get back to camp. ‘Almost there…’ 

You stopped briefly to lean against a tree, letting out a pant as your breathing started to increase, your heart rate rising as well. You weren’t sure what was going on and you really hoped whatever was affecting you wasn’t some sort of toxin and that you might be able to sleep it off. 

Reaching up, you unzipped the neck of your bodysuit down to the top of your bust, letting out a sigh of relief as the cool air hit your skin, a thin layer of sweat starting to form. It wasn’t much but it was something. You pushed off the tree, starting your hike up again and hoping to reach the camp before the sun set, despite the very pretty bioluminescence.

Your panties were starting to stick to you and though you hoped it was just the sweat, the heat settling in the pit of your stomach told you otherwise. You couldn’t understand it. You were alone in the middle of a jungle on an alien moon. What could possibly have worked you up so much when Minho was somewhere else entirely.

You tried to push the images of your fiancee from your mind as your body started to burn and ache for his touch. ‘Just to help me feel better. Not because I want to fuck or anything,’ you told yourself. You just wanted the heat to end and your body to settle down. ‘Minho will know what to do.’ 

Minho’s ears picked up on the sound of twigs snapping and looked up, seeing a form moving through the shadow of the canopy, a smile forming as you entered his line of sight, ambling along. His silly, clumsy, little human fiancee. He watched as you finally emerged from the understory, a smirk on his face. “Welcome back,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

His smile fell immediately as you stumbled forward, nearly falling. It was then that he noticed the feverish look on your face. There was no way that was good. “Y/N, sweetheart?” he asked, voice laced with concern as he got up and started to walk over, crossing the distance to catch you as your knees gave out. “M’okay,” you murmured, fingers gripping his biceps as he held you up.

“Like hell you are,” Minho growled as he helped you back over to the ship. “What happened?” he asked, helping you into a chair by the fire. “I-I don’t know,” you breathed heavily, swallowing the lump in your throat. The burning sensation had spread, an ache settling between your thighs, the gusset of your panties was beyond soaked by this point and you knew it wasn’t from sweat.

Minho pressed his palm against your forehead, clicking his tongue as he measured your temperature in the most basic of ways. “You’re burning up,” he noted. “You need to get in the show--” his voice trailed off as he noticed a purplish glittery dust on your clothes. Glancing down, he could see that it had transferred to his hands and clothes. “What is this?” he asked, glancing up and noticing the dust on your cheeks and nose.

“I dropped the camera lens cap into this cluster of flowers,” you panted. “I took pictures of it,” you added, pointing at the camera case. Minho shook his head. “Don’t worry about that right now, my star,” he said softly. “Let’s get you into the shower.”

Minho helped you up, leading you over to the outdoor shower he’d set up and helped you peel out of your suit before heading for the ship’s entrance, taking your suit with him and putting it in the wash. He stripped himself, adding his clothes to the wash as well and changing into some spare clothing.

Once back outside, he returned to the fire, turning the roasted bhunqoi over and sitting back.

He was thankful he’d taken the suit off as he started to grow warm. He sat for a moment, the heat settling in his senses, spreading throughout his body. It was a burning desire unlike anything he’d ever felt before. ‘What is wrong with you, idiot?’ he berated himself. Was it the thought of you being naked in the outdoor shower? It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to being intimate with you. 

Since leaving earth and setting a course for Ninsa, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you at all. It was nothing new. So why was he so hot right now? His thoughts were interrupted as his eyes fell on the camera case and got up, crossing the distance to grab it and unzipped the pouch, pulling out the camera and pressing the button to turn it on.

The screen lit up, displaying the brand logo before going black, a little window popping up to remind him that the lens cap was still on. Minho ignored it, opening the gallery instead. He scrolled through the photos, a small smile on his face as he saw what you had seen.

He cleared his throat, feeling his pants tighten. ‘What the hell?’ he asked himself as he looked down. He tried to ignore the obvious tent growing in his pants, uncertain of what was causing it. It’s like his body was acting on its own accord. The thought of joining you in the shower crossed his mind and he grimaced. ‘This is hardly the time,’ he told himself as he tried to push the thoughts aside.

He returned his focus to the camera, scrolling through the pictures until he stopped on an image of the flowers you must have been talking about. They weren’t like anything he’d seen before. The bioluminescence was familiar, but the translucent milky membrane and the swirling purple glitter inside were not.

‘Is it some sort of toxin?’ he wondered, zooming in on the picture to inspect it. Minho turned the camera off as he heard the outdoor shower turn off and set the device aside, getting and grabbing the spare clothes he'd grabbed for you and walked over.

You pulled back the curtain, peeking out at him. Your eyes were glossed over, not unlike when he had you spread out underneath him. “I brought you some clean clothes,” he said softly. “And this.” He held up a clean towel. You thanked him, taking the towel and dropping the curtain back in place as you wrapped yourself up.

“Did you bring any shoes?” you asked, pulling back the curtain and looking up at him. Minho nodded, holding out the slides you'd brought with you from home. You thanked him, slipping them on and stepping out of the shower. The cool air felt nice against your burning skin, heat still coursing through your veins and pooling in your belly. 

Minho tore his gaze from the exposed skin of your shoulder, trying to ignore the way the droplets of water rolled down your skin. He handed the clean clothes to you before reaching his hand up to feel your forehead. His hand was warm against your skin as he pressed his palm against your head. “You're still burning up,” he murmured.

He took your free hand in his, raising it to press a tender kiss to the back. “Go inside and lie down. I'll come get you once it's done.” You leaned into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Mm,” you hummed. “Come with me.”

Minho chuckled, taking your face in his hands and raising your head. “I'll burn dinner if I do that,” he said with a grin before leaning in to press his lips to yours. He intended for the kiss to be soft, gentle. What he hadn't expected was your reaction.

You leaned into the kiss, pressing against him and moaning. It made his cock twitch against his pants and he had to force himself to pull back. “It's getting chilly out here,” he murmured, rubbing your arms. “Go inside and get dressed,” he added, gently pushing you in the direction of the door.

You grumbled, almost getting what you wanted before Minho took it away. Begrudgingly, you made your way into the ship, the door shutting behind you. You walked over to the bed, setting down the clothes and slipping off the slides. As you started to unwrap the towel, an idea planted itself into your head.

You'd just have to deal with it yourself.

Minho pulled the roasted bhunqoi from the fire, inspecting it carefully. Pleased with the results, he removed both from the fire and got up, setting them aside as he made his way to the ship. The whole time you'd been inside, he'd tried to calm himself, tried to will away the intrusive thoughts of following you inside and having his way with you. 

He still didn't know what had gotten into him but the longer he tried to ignore the intense burning desire to fuck you, the stronger it got.

The door to the ship opened with a soft hiss, allowing him to step over the threshold. Once he was clear, it shut with the same soft hiss and Minho walked further into the depths of his ship.

“Dinner's ready,” he called, turning the corner. “Are you feeling any--” he trailed off, eyes widening at the sight before him. “Better?”

You were sitting on the bed, towel still wrapped around you as you looked up at him, eyes wide. Your clothes lay forgotten on the floor. It wasn't just that what had made him freeze up. It was the fact that your hand had disappeared between your thighs.

He'd walked in on you in the middle of touching yourself. “What are you doing?” he asked, eyes dipping to your hand that was currently being squeezed between your thighs and back up to your face. Your glossy eyes looked back at him, a pout on your lips.

“M’sorry,” you whined. “I thought I'd be done before you came in. I'm just so hot. I couldn't take it anymore!” Minho felt his pants tighten as his cock strained against them, aching to be buried inside you instead of your fingers. He'd heard you, but his mind went blank as the scent of your arousal hit him, his rainbow irises flashing once before shifting to purple.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered. Your heart jumped into your throat before settling back in its place, hammering against your ribs. “Wh-what?” you asked as he walked over. “Spread your legs,” he repeated, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, eyes dipping down to look at your thighs and then back up.

“Now.”

You did as he said, slowly spreading your thighs. Minho grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your sex and inspecting your fingers coated in your own arousal. You watched as he glanced up at you and back at your hand before taking your fingers in his mouth, groaning at your taste. “You thought you'd just get yourself off in here when I'm right outside?” he growled, dropping your hand and grabbing your hips with both hands.

You let out a gasp as he scooted you closer to his face, your ass barely sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thought you'd keep all this to yourself?” he whispered, licking his lips as he eyed your pussy. “As if I wouldn't eat you out the second you asked me,” he added with a scoff. He leaned in, licking up your sex slowly, eyes shut as gently savored the taste. He groaned, pulling back to look at you.

“Lie back,” he said, bringing a hand up to push against your shoulder, dragging his fingers down to loosen the towel and free your chest. “M'gonna fuck that fever out of you.”

You leaned back, propping yourself on your elbows as Minho lifted your thighs over his shoulders. He buried his face between your thighs, making you cry out, head falling back as he immediately went for your clit. You were already so wet, your cunt clenching around nothing, aching to be filled.

“Min, baby,” you whined, moving one of your hands to comb through his hair. “You know I love it when you use your tongue, but I really need your cock.” Minho groaned, the lewd sounds of him licking and sucking your clit would normally make you shy away but right now, you didn't care. You really just needed to be fucked.

“Minmin,” you cooed, combing through his hair again, fingers knotting in his hair as he flicked his tongue against you. “Please, baby, please give me your cock,” you whimpered, hips moving in tandem with his tongue. He pulled back, looking up at you with those bright purple irises, his lips and chin coated in your arousal. “Aw, baby…” he murmured, fingers skimming up the inside of your thigh. 

“You need me that badly?” he asked. You nodded fervently. “Yes baby,” you breathed. “Please.” Minho couldn’t deny you when you begged so sweetly. He could get used to that. You, lying on your back before him, begging him for his cock.

“You think you can take it so soon?” he asked with a chuckle. You scrambled up, letting the towel fall to the floor as you turned away and bent over, knees spread on the mattress as you all but presented yourself to him. “Yes,” you replied breathlessly. “Want it so bad. Take me.” You could see your boyfriend's eyes gloss over as he was face to face again with your sopping cunt.

“Fine,” he growled, getting to his feet and ripping the shirt off over his head. “No prep, but I don't want to hear you whining about it later,” he added as he hastily unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them along with his underwear down.

His cock sprang free, softly hitting your ass as he grabbed your hips, the tip already leaking. He spat into his hand, coating his length with it before guiding the tip to your hole. Letting out a groan, Minho cursed in Ninsan as he pushed deeper into you, his grip on your hips bruising.

You whined, pushing back on him as sheathing more of his massive cock inside you. The stretch was unlike anything you'd experienced with him before. There was no pain though. Minho stopped and you groaned, finally feeling full. The satisfaction didn't last long though and soon the heat was spreading again.

You needed to be fucked and you needed it now.

“Minmin, please,” you whimpered. “Please fuck me.”

Hearing your soft cries for him spurred Minho on, forcing him to pull back, half of his cock sliding out before he thrust into you, filling your cunt in one motion. He choked back a moan, nails digging into your skin as he hissed and cursed again. “So fucking good,” he moaned, thrusting again, making your body shift forward, even with his tight grip on your hips. “Taking me so well.”

“Minhooo,” you whined as he set a steady pace, pumping in and out with measured thrusts. “Don't hold back,” you gasped, walls clenching around him. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

Minho groaned, head dropping as you squeezed him. His hips stuttered to a halt. “You can't be serious,” he panted. “Angel, I don't wanna hurt you,” he continued. You shook your head, your skin burning and a thin layer of sweat already coating your body.

“God damn it, Minho,” you snapped, looking over your shoulder at him. “Fuck me like you mean it. I want you to fuck me until I can't walk!” Your tone must have flipped a switch in your boyfriend and he let out a growl, one hand moving to your shoulder and forcing your chest down against the mattress.

Without answering you, he started to thrust faster, hips hitting your ass with renewed attention. He'd been holding back, not wanting to injure you but when you snapped at him like that, it made his mind go blank and the only thing he could think about was fucking you.

Well, fucking you and breeding you.

“Oh my god,” you gasped as he leaned over, now both hands on your shoulders as he kept your chest against the bed, ass up and bouncing with each thrust. “Fuck, feels so good,” you moaned. Minho said nothing, grunting in response as your walls gripped him tighter. “Shit, yes. Just like that!” you mewled, feeling the head of his cock bump into the soft spot inside you, making you see stars.

“Hng, right there! Don't stop, baby!”

Minho let out a growl, hips never faltering for a moment. “God, yes, holy shit!” you gasped, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave. A rush of euphoria swept through you but Minho wasn't done. He'd slowed down, fucking you through your orgasm but as you came down from your high, he kept going, hips smacking into yours, the sound of skin against skin drowning out his pants.

“Min, baby?” you moaned, sliding your arms under you to push yourself up. “No,” Minho growled. “Not done!” You let out a moan as he pushed you back down. “Breed,” he growled. “Need to breed.” You groaned loudly as he continued to thrust into you quickly.

“Gonna fill you up. Gonna breed you,” he hissed. Your fingers dug into the sheets, moans turning into cries with each harsh thrust. “Breed, breed,” Minho murmured. You felt his cock twitch inside you, letting out a wanton moan as he slammed into you from behind. “Mm fuck!” he cursed. “Breed, breed, breed,” he chanted softly.

Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes, the pleasure both overwhelming and incredible. Your thighs trembled as a second orgasm loomed. “Th-that's right,” you groaned, playing into his words. “Breed me, Min, fill me up. Put a baby in me.”

Minho let out an animalistic growl, fingers curling over your shoulders, nails digging into your skin as he somehow thrust even harder and deeper, making you scream into the sheets, your own fingers curling into the linens. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you heard your boyfriend snarl. “M'gonna cum. Gonna fill you up so much.”

“F-fill me up, Minho, please!” you cried out. “Fuck me. Make me your breeding bitch, Minho. Do it!” Your boyfriend let out a noise that sounded like a mix between a growl and a groan, thrusting into you a few times more before you felt the warm gush of his load spilling into you. “F-fuuuck,” you groaned.

You could feel his cock pressing into your cervix as he pumped you full of his cum. At the same time, you felt the base of his cock swell. ‘Well that’s new,’ you thought as you lifted your head. “Whassat?” you mumbled, letting out a groan as your walls stretched around him.

“S'okay,” he mumbled, leaning down to press kisses all over your shoulders. “Have to keep it all in,” he added. You only then processed that he was still pumping you full of cum. “Minmin?” you asked, trying to push yourself up but he quickly and gently pushed you back down. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Just lie still, baby,” he continued. “Have to stay still. Just for a little while.”

You felt your belly slowly start to swell, more cum filling your walls than you'd even experienced before. You felt one of Minho's hands move to your belly, just under your navel where it had swollen slightly. “Have to stay still, yeah?” he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Stay still and make sure it takes.”

“Make sure what takes, Min?” you asked softly.

You felt him rub your belly soothingly, his cock twitching inside you. “You said breed you,” he reminded you. And your eyes fluttered shut. “Minho,” you sighed. “We aren’t compatible,” you added as a reminder. You felt him press a kiss to your shoulder. “I know,” he murmured.

“But imagine if we were,” he whispered in your ear. “Imagine what cute babies we’d make.”

The idea of a mini hybrid of you and your alien lover made you smile, a soft sigh escaping you as he continued to press tender kisses to your neck and shoulder. Your eyes opened and you turned your head slightly to glance back at him, resolved to play into his fantasy.

“What if it doesn't take?” you asked softly, a slight pout on your lips. Minho reached his hand up, turning your head more so he could kiss you, pressing kisses to your lips quickly. “If it doesn't take,” he muttered in between kisses.

“Then we try again. After all, I'm still hard and have a lot more cum to give you,” he added with a smirk. “Wanna go again?” you asked, clenching around his cock. “Just to be sure it takes?”

Minho chuckled, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he slowly pulled back, the swelling at the base of his cock having gone down. He gave you a tentative thrust, ignoring the gush of purplish liquid that spilled out of you and ran down your thighs.

It didn't matter if some spilled out, not when he was about to fill you again and again and again. Even if it wouldn’t take, he could dream, right? After all, he figured out halfway through the first session that what you'd come into contact with was an aphrodisiac and he knew it would be a few more hours before it finally wore off.

He’d better make the most of it.

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

[the-californicationist]

Solomon's Seal

John Price works hard to maintain his self-discipline, but sometimes he loses his grip on that fiery temper of his. When he needs help to feel in control again, he turns to you and your impeccable rope skills. You try to keep things professional, but that proves challenging for both of you. After all, John is just a friend, one of your best clients… so why do you keep imagining him as more?

TW: rope bondage, femdom, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, female genitals. Please check AO3 link below for full tag list.

Big huge thank you and kudos to the amazing and beautiful @gemmahale for her ideas and support on this one! Love you, bestie.

You had cleared your schedule the moment you hung up the phone with him. His voice had sounded so strained, like he was struggling to say the words. You knew that, sometimes, John Price’s work asked too much of him, but this time, he seemed so far beyond his usual level of need that you decided it was better to play it safe and cancel all of your other clients for the week. 

As you cleaned your studio, you made additional preparations. Something in your gut was telling you to prepare for the worst. You did your best to remember what he liked. No music, low lights, a soft fan for a bit of a breeze, and jute ropes — none of the synthetics in sight. You eyed your collection; eight hanks should have been enough, but you grabbed four more from the back room just to be sure. 

You never really pried into his life during his visits, knowing there was probably much he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell you. He had given you just enough information for you to understand the basics, and you had scoured the internet with those small clues to uncover the rest. At best, he was a soldier, handling the expected dangers and stressors of the job. At worst, he was a literal weapon, aimed and fired at His Majesty’s darkest enemies; a demon hunter meant only for darkness and secrets and pain. 

When he had come to you last November, bruised and battered, craving your particular set of skills, you had surmised that it was the latter. Sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of the news, you looked at the bombed buildings of Urzikstan for a sign of him, hoping you wouldn’t see one. When there was a battle lost or won, plastered across the front page of the news, you wondered if he had been there in the thick of it, protecting the world from the monsters that ravaged that land, keeping them from your privileged doorstep. 

You checked your clock. He’d be in from Heathrow within the hour. You got to work in the wet room, digging around for the soaps he liked best. His favorite bathing oil was a complex, spicy mix of coriander, basil, and bergamot scents. You’d never admit it to him, but you used it when you found yourself thinking about him, unable to get your equally complex, spicy warrior out of your mind.

John was so different from most of your clients. Many people who came to you were usually seeking something other than what you were prepared to give them. Half of your customers came for sex, for which you added them to your blacklist. The other half was a mixed bag seeking humiliation or reassurance, trying to use you and your art as an alternative to counseling or as a way to explore their kinks. They usually didn’t return after they experienced the level of your craft. You did have a handful of repeat clients who appreciated the practice itself, but they usually had their own partners to play with. You were just a novelty to them. An escape. 

Working as a traditional Bakushi was no fleeting hobby, not for you anyway. For you, it was a spiritual calling. John was one of the only clients who understood that and actively wanted to learn more. He had asked for stretching routines, breathing exercises, and advice on meditation. Your soldier was the real deal, even if he couldn’t remember any of the terminology to save his life. You were just happy he had managed to adopt the word shibari into his vocabulary. You could forgive the rest. He didn’t need to know the names of the knots or the positions of the body in order to benefit from his practice. 

Your doorbell rang. You took a breath to calm yourself. You needed to be centered for John. Yes, you were excited to see him, but he needed you to be his rock right now, and you needed to push your own desires out of your mind.

The door cracked open, and there he stood. He was just as you remembered him, but he looked like he’d been through hell. Those bright blue eyes were sporting a dark, purple shiner on his left orbital bone. He had cut his lip across the top and bottom, a red line still marring the sensitive flesh. John had cut down his beard to a more manageable level, but his hair was long and unkempt. What worried you most were the dark red welts he wore around his neck. It looked like ropeburn. 

���John,” you smiled softly, “So good to see you again. Please come in.”

The formalities of such a polite greeting seemed silly to you after what you had been through together. Sessions with John were always… intense. 

He stepped into your foyer, looking at you like he had missed you, but you didn’t allow yourself to give in to the fantasy. He needed you to be professional, and you had a job to do.

You took his hand and led him into your sitting room, offered him a glass of water, and sat beside him. He held your hand in his, refusing to let go, playing with the small bones in your middle finger absentmindedly. You smiled at him, enjoying the quiet of his presence, letting yourself take in these silent moments, unwilling to break the spell of peace until absolutely necessary. 

He seemed content to bask in the tranquility as well, happy to rub your delicate knuckle back and forth with his thumb, letting his eyes explore you, lingering on your long, silk robe, his gaze burning into your sternum at the join of your breasts. 

“How can I help you, John?”

He took a long breath through his nose, his eyes diverting back down to your connected hands; shame, regret. 

“I lost control, again.”

You had heard those words from him before. When he first found you, he told you about his temper. He hadn’t given you any details, but apparently he had hurt an enemy beyond what was necessary. Something he had done had changed him. He wanted to be different, to be more even-keeled, so he’d come to you for help. 

“The same as last time?” You asked, hoping it would be better than you suspected.

“Worse,” he looked up at you and flashed a tight-lipped, bitter smile. 

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. 

“Tell me what you need,” you ran your other hand across his wounded cheek, watching as the shine of his eyes gleamed in the low light. 

His emotions were at war all over his face. His wet lashes, the twitch of his lip, his darting, avoidant eyes; you could almost hear him fighting in his mind. You put a stop to it, scooting closer to him on the deep sofa, holding his stubbled chin in your hand, 

“Hey, you know you can tell me. If it’s within my power to give it to you, you know that I will.”

“I know, love,” he nodded his head, “I think you might try to talk me out of it, is all.”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to work it out. Rebuilding your trust together after some time apart wasn’t something to be rushed. Finally, after a few moments of thought, he studied your face and admitted his desires,

“I want it all. Just like last spring, but more. I need more.”

Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself. You remembered last spring. Vividly. In fact, you had thought about that appointment more times than you would ever admit. He had pushed himself so far, he’d trusted you so deeply, and you’d watched him heal from his wounds. He’d found a new kind of peace. You remember holding him, still bound, both of you sprawled across the floor, sweaty and grinning, your foreheads pressed together, sharing in his joy. 

But, you also knew that him wanting more meant that you would be restraining him from head to toe. He’d done arm and chest bindings with you, and in the spring, you’d put him in a single-leg frog tie. But, you’d never done full body work with him. For all of his progress, John still had issues letting his power be taken from him. He wanted to be in control, almost to the point of obsession, and it was only when he was in your ropes that he was able to practice internal control over himself without threat of judgment or danger. He could examine his temper in your safe setting, testing it like a scientist, finding new strengths within himself, mental hurdles to overcome.

However, you worried about what his mental state would be like when he was fully at your mercy. Had he ever been at anyone’s mercy? You doubted it. 

He could see you rolling over the problem in your mind, watching as you thought it through, imagining the possibilities. 

“What d’ya say, love? Think we can try?” His eyes met yours, and you nodded. 

“Yes, let’s try.”

“I might… uh,” he hesitated, clearly unsure of how his next request might be received, “I’m not sure how to say this, but I might need you… after. I know that’s not what you do, but after last spring, I thought you might make an exception.”

You were fully aware of what he meant. Last spring, laying there sweaty and swimming in euphoria together, you had broken your own rule. You’d let your body slide over John’s naked, tied form, and you’d rubbed his cock across your belly and on top of your pussy, sharing an orgasm together. It was reckless of you, and fully outside of the scope of your role, but it was what was right for you both at the time. He hadn’t asked for a repeat performance, always the perfect gentleman, until now.

You nodded, 

“Thank you for asking. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll check in again at the end. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You moved to leave the comfort of the sofa, but he caught your hand,

“Can we start now? Just a bit. If that’s alright.”

“Alright,” you agreed, “Any new injuries I should know about?”

His face stretched into a boyish smile,

“Too many to count.”

You shook your head, ducking into your studio to grab one hank of rope,

“You’re the only one who gets a pass on that, you know.”

You watched his eyes dart to your hands as you untied the bundle, looping the rope end over end, making your first bight. His energy was electric, but you could see something dark slithering underneath. 

“I’ll start now, but you need to talk to me. What makes it worse now, John?”

You stood in the middle of the room, watching as he moved into position in front of you. You waited patiently, not needing to give him instructions. John knew what you wanted from him. 

He avoided your question, going through the motions of preparing his body for your work. He tugged off his coat and tee shirt, raking it over his broad back, and you tried to ignore the aching red marks that littered his scarred skin. Then, he unbuckled his belt, letting the metal tip clatter and clang in the quiet room, dropping his jeans and peeling off his shoes and socks. Naked, he folded his clothes and lay them to the side. Then, he found his neutral position, kneeling at your feet, palms flat on his thighs, head bowed as if in prayer. 

“Hands behind your head, palm to palm,” you spoke your first command, listening to the timbre of your voice and knowing it was different. You were changing into the person that he needed; someone strong, unyielding. 

He complied, but he looked a little surprised. You’d never asked him for this position before, but you knew it would get his attention. He would feel the vulnerability of it immediately, his sensitive ribs and armpits exposed. 

You started your work, tying his wrists carefully, making sure to leave the proper amount of room, running the rope, rubbing between the soft jute and his hairy skin to check and double check it for safety. As soon as you had one wrist bound, you moved to the other and heard him begin to talk. 

“I nearly lost one of my men last week. Good bloke. Took a bullet for me, so I broke the rules.”

“Which rules?”

“All of them,” he looked up at you, rueful and yet unrepentant.

“Would you do it differently,” you admired the smoothness of his wrist, watching as his pulse beat just under the thin skin, rushing through blue veins, “If you could go back in time?”

“No,” Price’s voice was like that of a beast. A dragon. It was a short, simple word, but within it, you understood exactly the feeling of vengeance he was carrying within it. No, he would not go back and change his actions. He would repeat them. That much was clear. 

“It doesn’t sound to me like you were out of control, then,” you looped the knots of his wrists around a temporary harness, simple and quick. This was just for now. You had bigger plans for him after you bathed. 

John’s mouth turned up into a wry smile, thinking about your assessment, then he said,

“You might be right, love. But, I’m here. I needed this. Needed you. There must be a reason I feel so bloody lost.”

“Let’s find your way back, then. Stand up.”

You led him by the end of the rope to the wet room. The off-white tiles glowed yellow in the candlelight you had prepared, and as you turned on the tap, the room filled with steam. You watched John’s face become indecipherable as you untied the ribbon of your robe, letting the silk pool at your feet, stepping into the shower before him. 

You pointed to the small stool in the middle of the wide shower, 

“Sit.”

It was a huge installation. During the build process in your renovated space, you’d asked for two large rainshower heads and a massage wand with a flat drain in the center. John knelt in between the two heads, but well within reach of the wand. You switched it on, watching the water jerk and flow through the metal hose, holding it towards your chest and out of his eyes. 

You started with his feet, washing them with only warm water first before moving the wand up his legs, wetting his body in stages. You didn’t use your hands yet, but you were eager to. John was quite the specimen, and you felt yourself flush as your eyes explored his body, lingering on places they really shouldn’t. 

You were adamant that you were a sex worker who didn’t have sex. You tried to make it abundantly clear that your clients were paying for shibari practices only, and that you did not do… happy endings. Other than your encounter with John, your clients orgasmed alone, and you went to great lengths to ensure it remained that way. But, here was your weakness, asking you to wash him while he was in your knots, warning you that he might crave a sensual aftercare scene, that he’d been thinking about you. It made your skin flush, and even though you were comfortable in your own skin, his obvious desire for you in such a carnal way made you hyper-aware of your bare flesh. 

The wand sat back in its hook, water paused, and the only sounds were the quiet drippings against the tile, a slight sucking from the drain, your breathing. You scraped the soap into your palm, making sure to lather it into a rich, thick foam. You stood, walking around him to his back, and began with his bound hands and arms, rubbing his warm, swollen muscles with your palms, spreading the suds over him liberally. 

A long, animalistic groan shuddered through John’s lungs, echoing in the bath. It set your nerves on fire to know that you were giving him such pleasure. You wanted more. 

You moved to his back, massaging the scented soap into his body, working his skin firmly to promote his bloodflow. As you made pass after pass, his moans became steady and breathy, his mouth hanging open, unable to fight the relaxation he was experiencing. 

You washed his legs and feet, needing to bend over him in order to reach the length of his huge thighs. In doing so, your bare breasts came in contact with his back, only light tapping at first, swaying forward as you washed him. You could tell that he could feel you, and he froze, his noises of pleasure turning into hitched breaths, shocked and inaudible. 

Your clients usually washed themselves, but John had asked for special treatment, and this was a new experience for you, too. You tamped down on your excitement, but you couldn’t hide your nature. As you leaned forward to wash his knees and shins, ankles and feet, you had to press your soft tits and contrastingly taut nipples against him, over and over, like two inkless stamps, leaving impressions on his wet skin. 

Standing again, you waited to give yourself a minute to compose your emotions. The tips of your hair were damp, and your chest was shining from his soapy torso. You tried to wipe the shine away, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. He needed to be looking inwardly, finding his deeper meaning. Staring at your gleaming, sensitive tits was not what he was paying for, no matter what your biology might have wanted. 

You stepped around to his front, and you marveled at how big his frame truly was. While sitting, even though the stool was low, his eyes were directly in line with your furry mons. If he only tilted his chin up a little, he could lick…

Your mind clamped down on that thought like a vice. You breathed steady, kneeling before him and reapplying the soap to your hands, trying to refocus yourself on your work. 

That was proving more difficult by the moment. Washing his broad chest was like something out of a dream. His nipples were so responsive, and now you could see the way his face twisted with pleasure as your hands massaged your serums into his skin. Every swipe over his pink nubs make him gasp in a new pitch, his brow furrowed with desperation, but his eyes stayed pinned to the tile, just like he was meant to. You expected all of your subs to avert their gaze, to concentrate on their mind, and you made it clear that the practice would stop if they lacked the discipline to do so. 

You had never been more grateful for that standard, because if John’s sharp, pale blue eyes found yours right now, you might not be able to keep yourself from losing your own control. 

You stepped out of the shower for a moment, grabbing the tie from your robe, slipping it out of its loops. Then, as a way to anchor yourself, you wrapped it tightly around your wrist, twisting the knots you made so that they would face inwardly, the discomfort reminding you of your duties as his dominant. It would work for now, you hoped. 

Already, you could feel yourself coming back online, as if someone had splashed cold water in your face. That was, until you turned back to John and saw the last part of your process.

You peered down into his lap, hands full of creamy suds, ready to wash his belly and his nethers, only to discover that he was as hard as steel. His cock flagged tall and curved, tapping on his abdomen, far beyond his bellybutton, giving you a reminder of what was plaguing your dreams. It was beautiful. The uncut skin of his shaft folded around the rim of his ruddy head, eager to be slicked down so that you could tease the tip of him. His balls were round and full, hanging as he sat on the edge of the bench, and all you could think about was what delight was stored within them, ready to burst.

You focused on your knots, letting your one ribbon keep you grounded, and you finished the job. Your hands rubbed soap along his belly, fingers dancing through the thick happy trail of his lower abs. He was built like a workhorse, and although he was fit, his body was well-fed and wide, his core wide and protruding with his strength, thicker as he sat on the stool. There was no bodybuilder’s trim waist. He was all power, heavy and built for unimaginable destruction. You’d never seen his equal, nor a man even close to his immense form. If someone had told you John was one of Zeus’ many bastards, roaming the earth immortal and inhumanly large, you might have believed them.

“I’m going to wash the rest of your body. Remind me of your safeword so that I know you can use it,” you commanded softly, hearing your own voice bounce around the hollow room. 

John did not meet your eyes, fully committed to his submission, but you could see his cock pulse with anticipation. He spoke quietly but clearly, 

“Red.”

“Louder,” you instructed. 

“Red,” he obeyed. 

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Good. Stand up.”

You needed to make sure he was ready to proceed. John, experienced as he was, could get stuck in his sub-space just like anyone. So, you made him practice, let his mouth feel the word again and again, primed and ready to be used. 

Finally, you reached for his genitals, washing his cock and being mindful of where you spread the soap, scrubbing ever so gently down his ballsack, and then swiping across his cleft, washing through his legs to clean every last bit of him. 

Then, trying to be almost clinical about it, you washed him off, cleansing his lower extremities to ensure his comfort before hosing down the rest of him. 

Finally, you shut off the water and began to towel him dry, wiping at his dripping skin, trying to ignore how his body’s heat seemed to radiate onto your bare body, inviting you to lean just a little closer, to press into that lovely burn. 

But, you didn’t. You discarded the towel and untied your wrist cuff, leaving it with your robe. You reached behind John’s head and unbound the center knot of his ties, allowing him to bring his wrists to the front of his body like handcuffs. You used the end to lead him like a prisoner through your space, parading him to the studio quickly and quietly, eager to begin the main event. 

Once inside the studio space, you finished untying his wrists, setting him free once again. He looked down at them, running his fingertip across the raised ridges left by the ropes before dropping his arms to his sides, waiting for your instruction and guidance. 

You knelt next to your basket of rope, retrieving a hank from the stack and unwinding it. His eyes darted to your hands, watching you prepare it just for him, like a dog expecting a bone. 

“Lay in the center, arms at your sides,” you told him and watched as he followed your instruction. He was less hard now, more relaxed than before, but before long, as he lay there letting his excitement build, he strengthened again, his prick bowing up onto his stomach, flushed and full. 

You got to work. Your first goal was to put each of his legs in an advanced frog tie, turning his body on its side so that you could bind his ankle to his thigh, first one leg and then the other. Once his initial ropes were in place, you checked their tension, moving two fingers around and around, trying not to notice his mounting enthusiasm every time you brushed along his inner thigh. Then, once you were satisfied, you helped him into a kneeling position, pushing a thin buckwheat pillow under his knees for comfort. 

He shook his head, 

“Don’t need it, love. I wanna feel the floor. The pain… helps.”

You eyed him, turning your lips into a soft grin, 

“If this were a normal session, I would give that to you,” your tone got his attention, and he did look at your face now, needing to see your intent, “But, what I’m about to put you through is something different. Trust me, John.”

“I trust you.”

He settled into the pillow, returning to his meditative position. You took his hands in yours and held them between your two palms, squeezing them tight, binding them without rope for a moment. Then, you began to breathe in deep, cyclical patterns, over and over. He breathed with you, and you saw the tension leave his face. Whatever had happened to John on this last tour was plaguing him, and you slowed things down to give him a chance to control himself again. 

He breathed in with you, and his air rushed out with yours, washing over your skin like a summer wind, keeping your body responsive to him. Every now and then, as you meditated together, you caught his eyes fixed on something other than the floor. He was staring into the darkness between your legs, shadowed by your body and covered with curly hair, hidden from him in plain sight. It was hard for you to focus, knowing he had his mind on your body, but eventually, he averted his gaze, focusing inwardly again. 

Finally, when you felt his heart rate slow, you used another hank of rope to create a short waist belt, applying more tension than usual as you fed it along his hips, knowing his thick ass and thighs could take the pressure. Still, you were adamant about safety, watching him every moment for discoloration or discomfort. 

He was fidgeting now that the tighter straps were on him, and you saw him closing off his stance, bringing his knees closer together. You caught him, and used one of the loops on his thigh to pull his legs apart again,

“Spread them. Let the pressure flow through your belly and out of your center.”

“Aye,” he sighed, settling into the pain and doing his best to spread his knees wider, concentrating on the feeling. His cock was leaking now, leaving little dark marks on the canvas of his knee bolster, bobbing between his legs as he spread them wider, shining and wet. 

You grabbed another rope, trying to hone in on your work,

“I’m going to bind you in almost the same style we practiced last spring, but it will be modified to provide more of that challenge you’ve been looking for. Place your hands behind your back, palms on your elbows, if you can.”

Not every sub had the flexibility to obey, but John did. He’d been doing his stretches. As he assumed his position, his arms’ placement made his chest broad and high, stretching his pecs open while his back was pinned, the skin folding in on itself as his shoulder blades folded back like featherless wings. You threaded your rope over his shoulders, centering the bight at the back of his neck for an anchor point. It was essential that no pressure was applied to the front of his throat, and you were ever-mindful of the fresh injuries that marred his neck. 

“What happened here?” You asked, letting your finger pass under a rope that lay on his injured skin, making sure it was loose and gentle. You would give him tightness elsewhere. 

He was hesitant to answer you, but he shrugged,

“Bastard came up behind me. Before I could react, he had the wire around my throat.”

“Did you escape on your own?” You pried, trying to keep him talking as you started the long process of his arm binding. 

“Aye. He was so busy trying to choke me, he forgot I still had free hands and plenty of bloody knives in my belt.”

You praised him for his openness,

“Good.”

“Is it?” Now, you heard the doubt in his tone. It made you pause, but you simply continued with your ties, not allowing him to know that you were challenged by his cynicism or regret or whatever darkness was making him lean on his fear and anger instead of his peace.

You left his question unanswered, allowing it to hang in the air between you, forcing his mind to dwell on it. You needed him to answer it within himself before you went opening more portals to other emotions and struggles. 

You added more and more rope to his binding, and when you finished, you pulled the cord forward across his chest, resting it below his nipples, making sure to graze them as you checked your tension, enjoying the trembling shudder that came from him as your reward. It was the most advanced harness you had performed in a long time. This one was unforgiving. He couldn’t twist left or right. His shoulders were forced down and back, shrugged tight against his body, and his arms were completely powerless. He could pull and heave to try and move his hands away from his back, but there was no escape.

You sat across from John once more, holding his chin up so that he would know you expected him to look at you, and you asked him,

“Do you have any pain or tingling?”

“No.”

“Say your safeword to me one time.”

“Red.” 

“The next step will be the final rope, and then we can sit together for as long as you need. Do you want to continue?”

His eyes stared into yours with a bright clarity, and he answered softly, 

“Yes.”

You could tell that he was slipping deeper into his sub-space. His eyes softened, but his body shivered. If you brushed your fingers along his ribs, his muscles would kick and jerk. Anything harder, like a deep tissue massage against those huge thighs and he whined for you, smokey and gravelly, full of feral need. 

You moved behind him, taking a rope and placing it across his forehead, using your hand to tilt his head back until his eyes were staring at the ceiling. Then, you carefully crafted a face harness, making sure there was not too much pressure on his more delicate bones while still limiting his range of motion so that he was forced to keep his chin pointed up. 

You connected the rig to an anchor point on his wrists, and then you took your position in front of him again, staring at his bearded jaw and injured neck, watching his body struggle to relax into a very uncomfortable pose. 

“Breathe for me, John,” you knew it was a lot. 

Controlling someone’s body was one thing. Even Price had experienced tight knots before, but when you took control over the head, that animal instinct all humans keep deep within themselves tended to come alive. It was a primal fear. You watched John’s chest rise and fall, his stress tumbling around in his breaths as he tried to stay calm. 

You reached out both of your hands and rested them on his chest, feeling the way he jerked at your touch, overstimulated and sensitive. You pet his fur, the thick brown hair that dusted his body, soft from the oils you had used. As he breathed, you felt it moving in his lungs, and you let your fingertips ghost over his nipples, rubbing them with the backs of your knuckles, admiring the way they perked up at your attention, puffy and swollen from the unforgiving rope that made them bulge outwardly.

“Mmf–fuck,” he coughed, his eyes knitted into a worried sort of agony.

You smiled, bringing your own nipples towards his chest, letting your soft peaks brush against his hard ones, moving your breasts up and down, drawing little circles and crosses over his chest. 

You knew he couldn’t see what you were doing, but he could feel it. He knew, instinctively, and it was sending him into a drunken daze. The pleasure of your touch combined with the pain of your ropes pushed him beyond where he had been before, and perhaps it was past where you had dared to go as well. 

“Control your breaths, John. There is nothing else you are responsible for. I’ve taken it all from you. You need to breathe and to spread your peace through your mind. Focus.”

He didn’t respond, but his breathing stilled, and his eyes closed. You removed your touch from him and let him bask in the sensations he was experiencing. 

Minutes passed, then more. It had been almost an hour, and you were admiring the way he stayed strong, at first. You reached out to him to anchor him when he seemed like he needed help, caressing his arms and back, massaging the muscles that must be burning white hot by now. He was much more determined than any other sub you controlled. If anyone could handle this difficult position, it was him. But, he was not invincible. You saw the way his breathing became labored, and his cock, which was losing and regaining its hardness as time went on, throbbed from its struggle. 

“Do you want to continue?” You asked again, touching him as you had before, moving your hands from his chest to his belly, petting him rhythmically, avoiding his phallus but touching everything else around it. You knew it must have been teasing him, forcing him to imagine how your hands might feel if they reached just a little further. 

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice strained due to the position of his jaw, and you watched the bulge in his neck bob up and down.

More time slipped by. Your hands had wandered down his legs and across the soft pads of his feet. His body was buzzing with the energy he was spending in order to stay the course. He must have been far beyond simple pain at this point. You remembered a similar scene you’d experienced, and this was much longer than you ever expected to be in it. If John was anything, he was stubborn. 

But eventually, you heard him speak, 

“We knew it was a trap before we went in. I was reckless, and angry, and I wanted my fuckin’ revenge.”

He paused but you just kept up with your massage, rubbing him down, letting him know you were still there. He continued,

“That bastard was gonna shoot me,” John’s voice cracked from his despair, and you saw shining tears stream down his temples and into his hair, “It was me that he wanted. Then, my… one of my men, he jumped right in front of the gun and took the bullet for me. I thought he was dead. I thought I was, too. But, after… I left my team. Charged in alone. I did things to those men that I'll have to think about for the rest of my bloody days. I became… something else. Something… “

You wiped the tears from his face, petting his cheeks, letting your thumbs brush over his lips gently. He sighed, and you could feel his breath on your fingers,

“It wasn’t right. I knew better, I just wanted them to bloody pay. Wasn’t sure if I was going home with a fuckin’ medal or my papers. Didn’t care.”

There was a long pause, and then, his voice became small. His eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, but they were wide, full of fear and uncertainty,

“Am I a monster? Is that… Is that the real me? Who am I? What am I?”

You leaned forward and planted delicate kisses across John’s stretched neck, licking and sucking at his skin in very light, careful touches, tasting his wounds and trying to heal them.

You sat back, removing yourself from his body, letting him sit alone for a moment before you said,

“You are a human being. You are capable of love and hate, pleasure and pain. You might feel like you need to answer for some of your violence, but your own humanity is not defined by your actions. You believed that was the path you needed to take. You destroyed dangerous men before they destroyed you. That is not a monster. A monster destroys the innocent. Were those men innocent?”

“No,” he snarled, full of spit and ire.

“They made their own choices. They controlled their own lives. Your perception of your own control is too broad, John. You couldn’t save them. They didn’t need saving. You did. It was you who needed to be saved.”

“I should’ve been able to stop… to stop… stop killing. I couldn’t. I needed them to burn for what they did to my fuckin’ soldier. To my friends! Fuck!” 

John was gasping now, too full of emotion to control his breath, releasing his stress in deep, bellowing grunts. You unfastened his head harness immediately, freeing him. The instant he could move, he let his head fall forward and placed his cheek on your breast, stretching himself as far as he could, hoping you would be there to catch him. 

And you were. You held him in your arms, wrapping your own across his many knots, feeling the fibers of his ties and the smooth warmth of his body, separate but unified. You could feel his wet cheek upon your skin, his anger rolling off of him in waves. He was letting out each breath as an exhaled hiss, the fire in his eyes at full peak, a blazing rage that seemed like it would suffocate him. 

You picked up his head in your hands, resting your forehead on his and told him, 

“Let it go. Just like that. Scream. Let it out of you, John. Forgive yourself.”

He let himself go for a moment, howling like a wild boar, full of unnatural rage and pain. You heard his shouts and tucked them away from your heart, keeping them for later, choosing to just let him express it and have his crashing waves of feeling wash over you, but you refused to drown in it. He still needed you. 

“Do you forgive me?” His plea was that of a boy, innocent and achingly pure. 

“I forgive you,” you replied without hesitation, “Forgive yourself, now.”

He shook his head back and forth, rubbing his face on yours, bitter and despondent, 

“I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you to,” you barked, grabbing him at the base of his skull by his hair, forcing his head back into that same bent position, holding him by force, “Trust me, John. Say it out loud. I forgive myself. Say it. C’mon.”

“I… forgive...” 

“C’mon. I know you can do this,” you used both hands to hold his head under your control, your chests pressed together, your breathing equal and ragged, both of you pulled to the end of your abilities.

“I forgive myself.”

“Again!” You gasped. You tugged at his nape, forcing him to arch his back with what little movement he still had access to.

He grunted in response, breathing heavy, each exhale a guttural shout,

“I forgive myself.”

“Good. So good. Let it out. Use the pain; let it wash you clean.”

You let his head come forward, and you saw a new man staring back at you. Before you knew what was happening, you felt your lips crash together with John’s, sliding along his mouth, tasting him and being tasted by him. His tongue slipped into the hollow of your palate, folding and twisting for more and more control, taking you into him as much as he could manage. Then, he pulled away abruptly, resting his forehead against yours again,

“I’m sorry. I just… I feel…” You watched him search for the words, “I feel like I’m back. It’s been so long, but I can feel myself again.”

“What do you need?”

“I need you,” he tilted his head, exhausted, sitting back on his heels, his face a serene picture of peace, “I need you to touch me, like this. Please.”

You looked at him for a moment and then moved your hands between his legs, finding his warm rod waiting to be held. As soon as your fingers touched him, his whole body convulsed, and he cried out at the sensation. 

You began to rub his shaft with long, slow strokes, avoiding his head for now, finding a nice, easy rhythm, encouraging John to match your breathing. He did, stealing kisses when your faces were near one another, and eventually, you were nose to nose, sharing your breaths again, listening to the rush of air and the wet slick sound of his tacky precome being spread all over his length. 

You reached behind him and grabbed another bolster, putting the soft pad behind his back. Slowly, you helped him lay down onto it, knowing his arms would be crushed by his weight, but making sure the stress was something he could stand. His legs were spread wide, fully pliant and open to you, and you sat between them, bringing your hands back to his center, working his curved shaft up and down, watching as his belly filled with air, expanding from his breaths, only to collapse again, the muscles within him clenching and releasing in an undulating pattern of lust and need.

“Oh, fuck,” he bit his lip, wrenching his eyes shut, “Please… I need… Bloody hell, I need you, love. Please.”

“Are you sure, John?” You tried to check in with him, ignoring your own desire to immediately fulfill his wish, your pussy swollen and dripping in anticipation. 

“Yes. I want you to take me. Please.”

His eyes looked up at you, his body bent and bowed, sweet and desperate for you, looking to you for his pleasure.

Carefully, you straddled him, feeding his head between your legs, sighing with joy as his tip slotted into the soft divot of your hole. He couldn’t thrust up into you. In fact, he couldn’t participate at all. You were the only one who could bring him pleasure or bring him pain, and that thought made your head rush, making you dizzy with desire, knowing that this man, a ruthless killer, mysterious and brutal, steady and kind, all of what he was — he was helpless beneath you. 

As you sank down onto his girthy tip, your body ached from the stretch. It was an effort to fit him inside of you, and you breathed through it, wanting to push yourself flush to his hips. When you met his warm root, you shared a loud moan together, the relief overwhelming you both. 

Then, you used your hips to make grinding, wide circles, churning his cock within your core, making yourself even more soaked, feeling your movements sending repeated signals to your cunt to make more and more slick come. It seemed endless, and it pooled out of you, matting his hair and drowning his dick in hot, sticky fluid. 

He was grunting softly at the apex of each circle of your hips, his voice hoarse and full of want. You heard him wanting more, wanting you to hump him up and down, to slide yourself along his cock from root to tip. But, you were in charge, and you set the pace. So, you continued, around and around and around in an impossible spiral, using your hands to play with his nipples, pinching them cruelly, positioning them under the tight rope to make them ache to be free. 

“Ungh, fuck! You’re fuckin’ soaked, love. Feels so bloody good.”

You smiled down at him, refusing to take his bait, knowing he was beyond ready for more. 

Sure enough, he began to beg you, his skin flushed and his heart beating hard from being edged by your grinding,

“Will you fuck me… please? Just… I need… fuck, I need more. Fuck me, please! Oh, fuck…”

“Shh. Be good for me, John. Trust me.” 

You stayed the course, rocking your hips around his base, never letting him thrust in and out, just winding yourself around him like a tight spool, pushing him to his breaking point. He felt so good inside of you, and his cock was so deep, you could feel the turgid body of his shaft if you pressed down on your lower belly, your fingers finding his outline through your skin and muscles and fat, your hands making indentions in your flesh, teasing him from the outside. 

“Cut me out,” he snarled, straining against his bindings hard enough to hurt himself.

You peered down at him, slowing your hips to a glacial pace,

“You know your safeword, John.”

“Cut. Me. Out.”

His eyes were vicious when he looked up at you now. He was like a hungry wolf; his gaze held within it a dark promise that — if you cut his leash — he would destroy you. 

On one hand, your body celebrated that realization. It was eager to be devoured by this monster of a man, but you had worked hard to control your primal urges, and you decided to put your hound back in his cage. You let your hand snake around his throat, squeezing where it was safest, digging in your nails for him to feel your threat more vividly, knowing it would hurt him against his healing wounds,

“If you want to stop, say the word.”

You waited, watching his tortured face, panting and wet from tears and sweat, but he remained silent. You licked your lips, 

“You came here for a lesson in self-control, and I am your teacher.”

For the next half hour, you made sure John Price understood who was in control of his pleasure. You sat on his cock, rocking back and forth until you felt his body tense up, and then you pulled yourself off of him, leaving his throbbing prick out in the cold, tapping at your ass cheeks, begging to be let back in. 

You ignored him, touching yourself with your fingers, using the chubby flesh of his lower belly to rub against your cunt, smearing your wetness all over him as you played in your hole. 

Then, you would put him back inside and start the process all over again, grinding and stopping, grinding and stopping, until your mighty sub was whimpering for release, his balls tight against his core, ready to flood you with his come at any moment. 

Finally, when you saw how fuck-drunk he was, coming in and out of consciousness like he’d been drugged, you decided to relieve him of his burden. You caught his eye and made sure he knew what was coming. Immediately, you had his full attention. He began to chant, hoarse and rasping under his breath,

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck…”

You let the anticipation build, slipping your pussy over his head in feather-light swipes, letting your folds tickle his cockhead mercilessly. Then, you began to bounce your hips on his cock. 

“Ungh– love, I’m —” he growled, his words breathless and broken, unbridled. 

“I want your come,” you confessed, getting lost in your own pleasure, “I want it in me… Deep. In. Me,” you changed your tone, tightening your grip on the nape of his neck as much as you dared, “And I’m going to take it from you.”

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours, shining with fresh tears, overstimulated and raw. 

Then, you saw the relief smooth across his brow, and you waited for a breath before you felt it, spearing yourself on him to his hilt, plugging your cunt so that his come would be plugged up inside of you, filling your emptiest parts, making them warm and swollen with his spend. 

You felt him bursting inside of you, his girth stretching you every time he throbbed, spraying inside of you over and over, dumping his load into your soft hole. When you felt him finish, you began your grinding circles again, causing him to roll and twist, aching from the pleasure and pain. 

“Nngh… love, please… can’t… I can’t…” 

You yanked the slip tie out from under his shoulder, and suddenly, he had control of his arms again. You did the same to his legs, freeing him from your ties, ending his captivity. 

Like a flash, he erupted upwards toward you. His hands went to your hips, sitting up to hug himself around your body, crushing you to his chest and forcing you down into his lap, spearing you on his sensitive rod as if you had planned to pull him out. His mouth savaged your breasts, biting them cruelly, his fingers holding you tight enough to leave you bruised. 

You grabbed his face, holding his bristled cheeks in your hands again, bringing him up to kiss you. You pressed your lips to his as delicately as you could manage, trembling from your bliss. He kissed you back, and that’s all you did for what felt like an eon. Your mind swam through a blank, glittering cosmos, and the only thing that was real was the feeling of John’s mouth on your mouth and his sex on your sex, his hands on your body and your hands on his body, his pain and your pain, his love and your love. You and he were muddled together like pigments on a palette, jonquil and fuschia, no longer existing as one or the other and yet both smearing together, mixed and inseparable, ready to paint a bright, endless sun. 

You had melted, it seemed, under John’s sweating, heaving body. His ribs bullied into your belly every time he took a breath, and his cock had softened so that it slipped away from you. Your body ached for its comfort again, every nature-made part of you punishing you for losing it, coaxing you to do anything to get it back, to fill the space left vacant. You were tucked into his chest, folded and hiding beneath his chin, rubbing at the flat of his sternum with the back of your hand. 

His finger brushed a stray curl from your brow, touching your hair with respect, staring down at you in awe,

“My hero,” he purred. 

You smiled, kissing the stubble on his chin,

“Am I, now?”

“My head…” He stared up at the ceiling again, going to it for comfort like a long lost friend, “It’s so quiet. So clear. You’ve done that for me, and I’ll be thanking you for the rest of my days.”

“I’ll always be here for you, John. You are my muse in more ways than I’ll ever admit,” you laughed breathlessly, a little sad. It was bittersweet, falling in love with a man you couldn’t have. But, you found yourself in him and now you would need to work out how to live without that mirrored reflection. You felt linked to him, two unbroken cords looped together like Solomon’s seal, inseparable and yet laid on two disparate paths. 

“Don’t…” He said, his tone sounding even more sorrowful than yours.

You sat up on your elbow, bringing your face up to his to look at him, to see his emotions, 

“What?”

“Don’t make me hope.”

“What do you hope for?” Your voice fell into a whisper, your heart not having the strength to ask your question aloud.

He matched your tone, purring out his confession with a tired but cheeky grin,

“For a woman who can bring me to my knees,” then, his expression turned serious, and his eyes traced his finger as he played with the stray curl he had found, studying its winding path, “For a healer. Someone who can remind me of who I am. Everytime I stop to catch my breath, I’ve been hoping for you.”

Your heart stuttered, knowing that he was not a man to settle down in one place. You looked down at his chest rising and falling with his breath, matching your rhythm, unable to meet his eyes,

“How long can you stay?”

He put a thick finger under your chin, just as you had for him during his session, making you meet his gaze, 

“Let’s start with tonight…”

He planted a soft kiss on your left cheek.

“...then tomorrow…”

His lips kissed your right cheek, dragging hungrily across your skin, 

“...and all the tomorrows that you’ll give me. I’ll take them all, if you let me.”

John placed his final kiss on your open mouth, lips parted, concentrating on what he was saying. You smiled, kissing him back in earnest, 

“Tonight, then. And tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow,” he nodded, smiling brightly, rolling himself over you to shield you from the chill of the room, folding you into his darkness, safe, bound to him without a cord, knotted together without a bight, tangled for however long the strands would hold.

AO3 Link --- Thank you for the kudos!