#tdiag

CHAPTER 1 > 11.7K wc

The pilot episode feat. a gangbang

When Harry was twenty two, if a dangerously overconfident, time-hopping doppelgänger had pulled up in a freaky, rubber balaclava ('listen, mate' — hand on the shoulder and everything, like the reenactment of a cliché, time-honored rite of passage), and told him that in the very near future, his Friday nights would be indefinitely spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, that he’d be garbed by a latex mask to protect the sacred, fragile veil of secrecy— Well. He'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket. Consider he was doing himself a favor with that one. But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably choose to overlook the minor detail of reality imploding and sit back in his armchair, swirling his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. He’d started casually enjoying whiskey after a long workday (honestly, a palate milestone in and of itself) and became enlightened on the fine art of tactically-applied suffering (and with it, gained a whole new appreciation for high-quality restraints). Because sometimes, a well-placed bruise and bliss just happened to go hand-in-hand.

CHAPTER 2 > 17.3K wc

The one with a negotiation, boundary explorations, and banana flavored condoms

"I don't like inflicting pain to inflict pain," he tells her, then, smiling like they're talking about their favorite movies, "the same way you don't enjoy the pain of pain. It has to be backed by something, right? And for a masochist, that's pleasure, whether it's derived from a combination of the pain and physical pleasure, or arousal from dirty talk, or, I dunno, endorphins. S'all stuff I'm sure you're very self aware of." "Right," the young woman tells him, nodding. He's right— the pain, the pleasure derived from pain, it's all a sort of graceful balance on a wire spindled from a concoction. "And for you?" "For me?" "What makes you enjoy inflicting the pain?" "Your pleasure."

CHAPTER 3 > 14.9K wc

The one with the grape shoplifting, the commandments, Choose Your Own Adventure! (feat. CLANG and mysterious door no. 2), flogger versus tickling (the final showdown), and three(!) more orgasms than usual

"That's a lot of cherries." Isla turns. The man behind her is tall, attractive. She blinks. If his sculpted features, lightly moussed, coiled hair, and striking gaze hadn't already bewitched her into a wordless stare, the way he plucks and eats grapes, straight off the vine, straight from the bag, in the self checkout lane like an absolute maniac, would. She casts her gaze to her basket. There's a variety of items on her buy-list, like a lone jar of salsa and ...some unsightly, extra absorbent tampons— anyways, why is this stranger ogling the contents of her basket? There are, in fact, three plastic carts of cherries, stacked, which take up the majority of the space. She clears her throat, "Yeah there was, a, uh. Discount." "Was there?" She's still staring obnoxiously, and the man seems to catch on. He swallows the grape his strawberry mouth had closed around, lips curling softly as he expends a vague explanation, "I missed my lunch." She purses her lips slightly, head tipping forwards in an understanding nod, and attempts to ease her way into politely disengaging back into that aimless stare ahead. She can't do it. She just can't force herself to manually avoid scrutinizing Baldo's crack in the impending foreground. Anyways, the intrusive stranger is certainly easier on the eyes. "That's a— uh. A lot of grapes," Isla tells him after a beat. "Is it, really? D'you think?" The attractive stranger moves the back in his obnoxiously large palm as if weighing it contemplatively, "I'd say, 32 ounces, maybe. Well." The corners of her mouth buckle as he shoots it a sheepish glance and his pillowy mouth quirks in an obvious attempt to bridle a grin, "Less. Now."

CHAPTER 4 >13.1K wc

The one with the bracelet, the really bad day, Mr. Eros doesn't like hearing his own name, Harry: Bark like you want it (mention), and a mysterious set of knots

"Yeah. It's really pretty. So, I just use that little pin thing to take it off? Like, to shower?" The male peers up at her, pausing his handiwork, bemusement morphing the features she can see, "S'gold. You don't have to." "Right, but. Just to take it off," she clarifies, fully intent on giving him the benefit of the doubt despite the blatancy of the flags marking up the territory of the conversation, "For work, and stuff. You'll show me how to use the little key?" For a moment Eros just looks up at her, and then the corners of his mouth, a muted berry, buckle smugly, "No." No? Isla feels the shudder rolling down the knobs of her spine as the dominant licks out and leaves his bottom lip shimmery in the wake of his tongue, before clarifying, no jesting to his cadence, "It doesn't come off. Not for you. I'll have the key."

CHAPTER 5 > 11.4K wc

The one with the mysterious set of knots pt. 2, a house tour, regularly scheduled rope-swing shenanigans, and a very familiar pair of dress shoes

Isla thinks she's going to fall and crack her head open. So she tells him, brutally candid, "I'm going to fall and crack my head open," in an impressively even voice— it's beyond ludicrously impressive, honestly, given the way the cord vibrations are sending her nervous system through an earthquake. She should earn an award just for that. Harry's eyes slowly trail over her silhouette, more in a way to absorb the image than anything else. The concern, although valid considering her predicament, is a moot point— there are safety guidelines, of course, in place; one of which being safety distance. And, in accordance with the way her limbs are currently occupied (particularly with the way her hands aren't free to catch herself if she were to slip), by his calculation, the safety distance is at zero. Given that Harry has never been one to ditch precautions or any general rules involving the safety of a scene— that his hypervigilance is on max caliber and he's close enough to feel the warmth of her body heat radiating against him— the likeliness of her concern is quite literally the equivalent of the safety distance. Zero.  The dominant's amusement suffuses through the form of a head tilt, a soft curl to his mouth, a scoff. His counterclaim offers no comfort, "No you won't. You'll just get rope burn."

CHAPTER 6 > 19.4K wc

The one with the birth of the infamous yada yada, Isla "what happens at three?" Cleery, the glove (singular!) comes off, a very jittery ottoman, a cane, and some (unwholesome) late night talking

"Okay, okay, okay, I'll count right!" she smacks the back of the armchair with the heel of her palm softly in resolve. Her toes curl. Harry's tongue peeks out from his mouth to swipe, "Will you?" "Yes." "Yes, what?" Isla's head twists over her shoulder, "...Yes, Sir." He lifts the strap and gestures at her threateningly, "Yada yada me one more time. I dare you. Eyes ahead." She doesn't say anything, for once, and her head pivots back towards the wall obediently. Harry steps back, pleased. And then he hits her with the strap just as she starts to say, "yada, yada," so her insubordination morphs into a squeal, and that's just divine timing, Harry thinks. Isla blows out a breath, starting over, "One—" and grunts when he smacks her again. "Just couldn't help yourself, could you? That doesn't count," he tells her, tone firm, and if Isla wasn't in her current predicament, she'd laugh at how sober and dark he sounds when he tells her, "You yada yada'd me."

CHAPTER 7 > 18.5K

The one with another house tour, a ...vivid imagination, the rise of the green-eyed monster, Harry "your actions have consequences" Styles, the importance of taking breaks, now kiss Barbies, and "what the fuck?" honorable mention

"But between you and me," Faunus leans forward a smidge, elbow braced over the marbled bar countertop, "This one's a bit of a handful." Harry grins politely. Yeah, the reminder that this man has manhandled his submissive in the same manner he has makes him go a bit neon green. What the fuck. And Isla— she just squirms against him. Harry's well aware that the nonchalant small talk regarding her, with no acknowledgement, like she's not stood in the midst of the conversation, riles her in a filthy way. And Faunus seems to know this tidbit of information, too— his irises, glinty under the lights overhead, slink from Harry to Isla and back again. It's a subtle motion, but it shows Harry enough. The dominant's mouth quirks, gaze subtly steely in the narrowing of his half-mast lashes. "Mm. Well, between you and me," the hand that'd previously settled on her waist slips up to her hair, cards through past the nape of her neck, digits entangling in the roots, "she knows her place with me," Harry shoots her a look, and tugs firmly by slowly tightening his fist. It's a subtle motion— but the pinpricks of pain that burst over her scalp, as a result, have her pulse quickening. And Harry knows. He knows and his lips nearly crook up, but he curbs his smirk. And Faunus can ogle all he wants— but he can't touch. Can't draw the same reaction from her. That thought has satisfaction blooming in his chest. "Don't you, darling?"

CHAPTER 8 > 17.6K

The one with (more) brewing emotions, a ham and cheese croissant, an oatmilk latte, a book about pain-slut-ism, the discovery of villain origins, and another exploration of boundaries

"You," his tone becomes more ...suggestive, growing lower as the conversation dips into more lighthearted territory, "always treat me like an evil, little ...demon for getting off on the marks. But it looks like you and I are one and the same, after all." Isla's unable to stifle the bark of nervous laughter that leaves her cheeks teeming with warmth at the insinuation. She leans back from him a bit, because— no, "Oh— we are not the same. And you are like an evil, little demon." "Well, that's just impolite.""You are— it's like," she pauses, unable to come up with a credible argument, and she scoffs, motioning with the hand that'd so fondly brushed over the bridge of his nose only moments prior as the corners of the man's mouth buckle in dirty knowing. "It's like...?" "Well, it's different!" the young woman exclaims, but she's not the least bit convinced by her own statement, even when she tags on, "It's different because I don't get off on leaving them on other people— therefore, I am not an evil, little demon." "Now you're just kink shaming— that's quite rude, you know," the dominant tells her, raising his eyebrows and feigning seriousness despite the obvious nature of their banter. She knows him far too well to fall for it, anyhow. "Why does either of us have to be the evil, little demon?" "I guess—" again, the young woman's shoulders rise in a shrug, "Neither of us has to be. But those were your words," she points with her index at his chest, the pad of her finger digging into the linen a bit, "not mine." "Exactly," Harry lifts the palm that isn't gripping and manhandling over her thigh to motion and cocks his head, eyes rolling in with exaggerated mirth, "Neither of us has to be. So you agree?" "Agree...?" He ducks his chin, a crease between his eyebrows behind the rubbery hood, "That we're just two sides of the same coin?"

CHAPTER 9 > 19.7K

The one with a sprinkle of consensual violence, the cane, feelings-ish (that Harry buries in pussy), and the D word

It's not a premeditated notion; what happens next. It's actually got a sort of a ...chaotic energy to it, considering they haven't discussed that. And it feels out of the blue, even for her, because she hasn't called anyone that, since Dan Sever— who had a kind of preference. It's sort of expected, when he says things like want my mouth between those pretty thighs and fill you up, get you all messy again after. It's a no brainer. It grows and looms over her— the give— consuming, and it creeps up her throat before she has half a mind to bridle it. And when she says it, she sounds absolutely wrecked. "Daddy..." For a moment, Harry is quiet. He's warm and firm against her, and his fingertips twitch over her chest. But he's quiet, is the thing, as if letting the title sink in and process. Because that's— yeah. That one sounds nice. He hasn't heard that one in a while, and never from Isla. But it sounds so pretty falling from her mouth. It wakes something in him, something hungry and desperate and sharp. Daddy.

CHAPTER 10 > 15.9K

The (wholesome) one with the date, Harry's Twilight theory, a one-on-one lesson on chopstick use, and secrets not being secrets

"Don't look at me," he chastises playfully, bridling soft laughter. Flirtatiously. He's cocky— it's all meant to make a dig at the fact that she's been caught ogling. Her hand twitches in his grasp, a tad flustered. Harry notices. He wears a knowing, little grin when he nudges with his chin, returns his gaze to his handiwork, and tacks on, softly, "Look at the chopsticks. M'teaching a very important lesson, here."  It comes out before she can stifle it. It's meant to be a joke— a joke. But when the "Yes, Sir," soft and exaggerated in its tone, slips from her mouth, the sentiment that registers with Harry isn't humorous, at all. Well. It's a little humorous— the way the press of his fingers tightens, momentarily, over her own hand, the way his sight flickers to her face as he blinks, only to find her mouth sealed and her cheeks painted in pink. The way he diverts his sight back to the tabletop. Isla's own eyes skid away. Fuck. Fuck. Harry clears his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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