Welcome to my blog! It’s centered around The Arcana. I will do requests for any of the characters but mostly the M6.
Rules - Headcanons
-I will do both sfw and nsfw headcanons
-Headcanons will remain gender neutral. I’ll be using the terms “you” and “they/them”.
-Please no one under the age of 18 make a request, I do not want minors on my page
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- For a matchup, I require some information
- Sexuality, pronouns, likes, dislikes, and zodiac sign
- Also mention if you want me to focus on the M6 or if you’d like me to consider the Courtiers and other possible characters. If not mentioned, I will just match from the M6 (Nadia, Asra, Julian, Lucio, Muriel, and Portia)
Please feel free to ask me any questions, I’m all ears.
Arthur Harrow moodboard in which I tried to incorporate the neighbourhood that was shown during the second episode. Cooking vegan food together with him would be a dream... <3
ARTHUR HARROW X FTM READER - PART 2 (Doctor Harrow)
TWO:
Summary: You meet Doctor Harrow, he introduces some new kinks to you. Continuation of: You’re part of Arthur Harrow’s community, but hold a special place. [ Part 1 here ]
Arthur Harrow (Cult Leader) x FTM Reader.
Rating: Explicit (Contains smut, Warning for dub-con, One-sided Breeding Kink from Harrow, talk about getting Reader pregnant, Praise kink, use of good boy, reader curses a few times (mostly damn) ). Words: 5785
Thanks to the wonderful supporter who commissioned this fic ♡
For: @apriltearsbringmayfears
Tags: Older man x younger (ftm) reader, dub-con and consensual intimacy, praise kink, touching, kissing, explicit sexual content, bit of powerplay, you x the villainous cult leader, Doctor Harrow is messing about.
Your head was spinning, the world a blur of sterile white. White walls, white floor, even you were swallowed by the stark whiteness of the fabric encasing your body. An asylum patient's garb clung to you, the realization cold and sharp in your mind. You were a patient, trapped in a room that reeks of disinfectant and stripped-down sanity. The air was still, almost suffocating in its cleanliness.
"Good morning," came a calm, composed voice from across the room. You turned your head slowly, fighting the dizziness. There he was. Doctor Arthur Harrow, his hair shorter, slicked back in a mockery of casual sophistication. He sat behind a desk made of glass, aviator glasses perched on his nose. A small mustache curled above his lip, giving him an air of quiet authority.
Your eyes were instantly drawn to the cane that rested against the desk. His cane. But the crocodile heads were nowhere in sight. Instead, you saw a modern black cane with a golden accent and a white handle. No crocodile head. Just plain, clinical efficiency.
This wasn’t your Arthur.
He tapped a white, expensive-looking pen against the sides of his glasses and – to your shock- you noticed a golden gleaming ring on his ring finger. He seemed to trace your gaze and hummed, but said nothing.
Modern clothes clung to his frame, a crisp departure from the red cotton he usually favored. White books and little white trinkets adorned the colorless cabinets against the walls. It made you realize this could not be a real place. No one kept everything in white. Even the hearth, the tables, the chairs, everything lacked color except for a painting on the wall.
But the books. Their covers were all blank.
You knew where this place was. And that you weren’t the first to visit it.
"Doctor..." you whispered, the title tasting foreign on your tongue. You’d wanted to ask so many questions, but your throat felt dry. Memories swirled in the fog of your mind - fragments of a different life, a different Harrow.
"Yes, it's me," he said, smile faint but present. His eyes, hidden behind those reflective lenses, seemed to pierce through you. "I believe I know what your problem is."
You shivered, folding your arms tightly around yourself as if that could keep out the chill seeping into your bones. The room smelled of antiseptic and something else. Something metallic, almost coppery. Blood? No. Just your imagination.
"What problem?" you managed to ask, though the words felt insignificant. There wasn’t anything wrong with you. Not anything you weren’t aware of. "Why am I here?”
"Calm down," he replied, voice soothing but firm. "We're going to try something new. Something that could help you." The confidence in his tone was unshakeable, absolute.
Your heart could be heard pounding in your ears, chest heaving more rapidly now. What did he think was wrong with you? Arthur had always assured you that you were perfect to him. Surely, this mirror-version of him was lying – a fraud. Perhaps not so much a dream as a nightmare.
"Help me?" you scoffed, disbelief mingling with fear. "What are you talking about?"
"A new kind of therapy,” he said, leaning forward, his gaze never leaving you. That familiar smile tugged the corners of his lips. A smile you recognized from your Arthur. Oh, how you recognized that look. Kind, yet mischievous. He already had his mind set on something. Whatever it was, you weren’t going to change his thoughts.
“A new treatment,” you echoed hollowly, mind racing.
"One that requires your complete trust and cooperation." The confidence in his voice was unwavering, a rock amidst the storm of your confusion.
You stared at him, your heart pounding a chaotic rhythm against your ribs. He seemed so sure, so calm. The sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint hum of fluorescent lights above.
“Why?”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Questions clawed at your mind. What kind of therapy? Why you? And why did this all feel so disturbingly familiar?
"Trust me," he said, his voice low and hypnotic.
You crossed your arms over your chest, the thin fabric of the white patient outfit doing little to shield you from the cold.
"Why should I agree to this therapy?" Your voice came out sharper than you intended, slicing through the sterile air.
Doctor Arthur Harrow leaned back in his chair, unperturbed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Because you need it," he said simply, his tone smooth and confident. "Everything will become clear. You'll see."
"Need it?" You scoffed, feeling a surge of defiance. "Why should I trust you?"
"Trust is earned," he replied, his eyes narrowing slightly behind those aviator glasses. "We’ve already made such progress, haven’t we? I remember you’ve already put all your trust in me…”
And that caused a pang deep inside your chest because, with a start, you realized he was right. You’d come to trust your Arthur blindly. Fully. Your love for him has become irrevocably passionate and wild. A treasure you did not want to lose or abandon.
Trust Arthur? You already did with your whole heart.
But this? This man? He was not your Arthur. Of that you were sure. And defiantly you gazed at him, your own lips twisting in disdain. How dare someone, or some higher power, simulate the man of your desires?
"Faith," you muttered, tasting the word like poison. "My faith is reserved for one alone."
"And that’s a good thing," he said, leaning forward again, his gaze intense. "It is going to make my job so much easier.”
His words sent shivers down your spine, his voice full of dark promises that had you squeezing your thighs together and your cock throbbing to life. You silently cursed for getting aroused by this illusion of the man you loved.
"What job?” you asked, shaking your head and willing your erection to go down. Not that you were successful…"You keep saying these words, but they mean nothing."
"Words are powerful," he responded, his voice a gentle caress. "They can heal, or they can destroy. It's all in how you use them."
"You're not answering my question," you snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Why me? Why now?"
"Why not you?" His answer was infuriatingly cryptic, his calm demeanor only adding to your agitation. "Aren’t the favorite disciple?”
There it was. Your eyes flew wide. A confession that made him sound more like the man you knew. Was he the same as your Arthur after all?
“And so you chose me for this new… therapy of yours?’
“Sometimes, the universe chooses us for reasons we can't understand," he continued, voice husky and low. Entranced, you watched his finger trace an imaginary circle on a blank paper on the glass table in front of him. The golden wedding band gleamed in the light.
Was it to symbolize his faithfulness to Ammit? Or to someone else?
To you?
Why were you hopeful?
"That's not an answer," you bit back, your pulse quickening.
"Maybe not the one you want," he conceded, his smile widening. "But it's the one you need."
"Need," you echoed, feeling the word coil around your mind like a snake. "What do you think I need?"
"To see the truth," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "To understand your own need, I will have to show you.”
While your mind was still racing - running wouldn’t be of any help as there was no place to go – you heard the clicking of his heels as he rose from his chair and made his way around the desk.
Doctor Harrow came to stand behind you, his presence looming. You felt the warmth first, a heavy presence that crept over your shoulder. The air in the asylum office felt thick, almost suffocating. His hand had found your shoulder, firm but gentle. You tried to turn, to look at his hand, to see where he touched you, but the grip he had on you tightened. His fingers, strong and sure, pressed gently into your flesh through the thin fabric.
A silent warning.
"Shh," he whispered, voice low and soothing. It was a command wrapped in velvet.
You swallowed hard, nerves jittery. "What if I don't agree to the new therapy?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. You knew going against his will was going to be a challenge.
Harrow's breath warmed the back of your neck. "You'll give in...eventually," he said, each word deliberate, measured. A strange sensation crawled up your spine, settling deep in your gut. His hand squeezed your shoulder, the pressure both reassuring and terrifying.
"Why are you so sure?" you managed to ask, heart pounding in your chest.
"Because," he murmured softly, his grip tightening just enough to make you wince, "I know how your mind works. I cracked the code and found the combination."
Harrow's hand slid from your shoulder, trailing down your spine. His touch was electric, igniting nerves you didn't know existed. You stiffened, feeling every inch of his presence behind you.
"Doctor, what are you doing?" Your voice quivered, barely audible.
"I’ve started your therapy," Harrow replied, his tone maddeningly calm. "This is part of it."
You shook your head, a weak attempt to muster defiance. "I didn’t agree to…"
"Shh," he interrupted, his fingers tracing the curve of your back, then moving around to your chest. "Trust me."
Harrow’s hand was under your clothes before you could react. His fingers traced a path of fire across your skin, each touch igniting something primal within you. Your breath hitched as he found the sensitive spot just below your navel, his thumb circling it with deliberate slowness.
"Doctor..." you gasped, but he silenced you with a finger to your lips. The gesture felt intimate, almost reverent, and yet there was an undeniable dominance in his eyes.
"Shh," he whispered, his voice a soothing purr. "Trust me."
The way he loomed over you felt dominating – as if he was crowding in on you. And then, it happened.
Before you could protest further, Harrow’s lips crashed against yours. The kiss was demanding, consuming, as if he sought to claim every breath you had. His mustache scratched your face, adding to the overwhelming sensation. Your mind screamed confusion, but your body betrayed you, melting into his touch.
His tongue explored your mouth with a hungry urgency, each movement calculated and intense. You felt his hands gripping your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Time seemed to warp, seconds stretched into eternity. The world outside the asylum office ceased to exist. It was only Harrow. His taste, his scent, his heat.
When he finally pulled away, you gasped for air, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He looked at you, his blue eyes piercing through your defenses.
This was his therapy? You didn’t want to know how he treated his other patients.
You shivered as his hand moved lower, fingertips brushing against the waistband of your pants. He probably already spotted the bulge there, must have seen the signs of your arousal. Damn him. He took his time, savoring each second as if it were a ritual. The air thickened with anticipation, every heartbeat echoing like a drum in your ears.
Then, his fingers flicked over your bulge, the friction enough to make you gasp deliciously. With a swift motion, he gripped the back of your neck. Not painfully, but firmly, asserting control. The pressure sent a thrill down your spine, making you arch involuntarily into his touch. A smug smile slid on his face, the corners of his lips pulling up in that cocky smirk you loved to kiss away.
Harrow’s other hand tugged at your pants, pulling them down with practiced ease. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, sending a shiver through your body. Your cock popped out, kissed proudly by the cold office air.
"Doctor..." you breathed again, this time less a plea and more a surrender.
"Good boy," he murmured, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. His fingers stroked past your swollen cock, earning him another moan torn from your lips. “So eager,” he muttered. “So ready to please me.”
His hand moved up and down between your thighs, strong fingers teasing and exploring. You couldn’t help the moans that escaped your lips, your body responding eagerly to his touch. He knew exactly where to press, where to stroke, drawing out pleasure with expert precision.
"That's it," he coaxed, his voice velvet smooth. "Give your body what it wants. Let go."
Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as waves of sensation crashed over you. Each touch, each caress, brought you closer to the edge. His name became a mantra on your lips, a prayer offered up to this godlike figure who held you in thrall.
"Arthur... please..."
“Doctor,” he firmly corrected you. “Doctor Harrow,” and then he leaned over you again to bring his lips close to your ear. The rasped whisper was enough to bring you closer to your climax. “Or call me daddy, because that is the real issue here. Isn’t it?”
His words confused you at first because you didn’t call your Arthur that. But Doctor Harrow’s fingers moved so expertly, he had you crawling in your seat, back arched, legs trembling, body wrecked with desire. And yet he kept you pinned down by your shoulders, used his own body weight to keep you trapped in your seat as he assaulted you with pleasure.
Just his hand and his voice. You thought it was unfair that he could do this to you.
"You're doing so well," he praised, his voice thick with approval. "But you can do even better.”
The rustling of clothes and the absence of pressure indicated that he had moved. But only when his fingers left your cock did you open your eyes and actually look. Doctor Harrow limped around you and came to stand before you, with a serious and solemn expression. And then he sank to his knees, pushing your legs aside before pressing a hand flatly against your tummy, applying pressure to keep you there.
“Let’s just take this a notch further.”
His lips closed around your small cock and you were reeling. You tried to wiggle under his touch while he sucked and nipped. Your hands found his – shorter – hair and dug into it, tugging at the strands for leverage and a silent plea to let go.
“Don’t,” a hoarse moan. “Stop,” the voice was your own. But damn, this felt good. As did the smirk that you felt against your skin while he kept on sucking and nipping, using his mouth to bring you to the edge, ready to tumble over.
One hard suck – the slurping noise that accompanied it was embarrassing but oh-so-good. With a choked cry, you came undone, your body wracked with intense pleasure. Every muscle tensed, then released, leaving you trembling in the aftermath.
And still, he nipped and sucked until the last of the tremors faded and pleasure became sensitivity, bordering on pain if he didn’t let go and would overstimulate you.
Luckily, he let go of your cock with a loud pop on his lips. One last lick past your cock made you shiver – too much, your mind provided – but then he was done, rising to a standing position in front of you. He withdrew his hand slowly, almost reluctantly, as if savoring the last vestiges of your climax. And when you looked up at him, he was staring down at you intently, yet pensively. As if he was lost in thought.
"Good boy," Doctor Harrow praised you, his tone laced with satisfaction.
You were still catching your breath, glancing up at him. “Is the therapy over now?’ You cheekily asked, not caring if he would think you a brat for the tone of your voice.
Doctor Harrow pursed his lips, the frown above his aviator glasses deepened. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked,” you repeated, this time a little more agitated. He had sucked you off. You were done now, weren’t you? You could leave, right? “Are we done now?’
A pregnant silence filled the air between you.
“My dear boy,” he finally said after what felt like too long. “Why would you assume such a thing.” The way he stood, leaning against his desk, so carefree, so comfortable. It made you want to rage. How could he be so calm and collected?
“This is only the beginning.” And without a warning, Harrow closed the gap between you. You tried to stand up and struggled against his grip as he reached for your neck again. Your pants were still down between your ankles, making it hard to walk away.
Harrow's grip tightened around your neck, his fingers digging into your skin. With a swift motion, he pushed you forward. The cold surface of the glass desk met your chest, sending a shiver through your body. The sound of rattling glass filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths.
"Stay still," he commanded, his voice firm yet dripping with affection.
You heard the zipper but were too busy trying to wiggle out of his grasp. You barely had time to register the command before he positioned himself behind you. His hands roamed over your exposed skin, greedy and unapologetic. You felt the blunt pressure, then the agonizingly slow slide as he entered you. Your breath hitched, pleasure mixing with pain.
"Doctor..." you gasped, the word spilling from your lips like a prayer. Another deep thrust. Luckily, your walls were slick from your previous orgasm, providing him easy access and an easy slide.
"Good boy," Harrow murmured, his voice heavy with desire. You felt his hips press fully against your ass, knowing that he was completely inside – as far as your body would allow – and suppressed a little gasp. Damn, this man felt good. Even if he wasn’t the real deal. He surely felt real.
A hoarse rasp in your ear, a dark promise: "I’m going to cure you."
The desk beneath you creaked ominously with each thrust, the glass threatening to give way under the force of your combined weight. But the sensation of him inside you drowned out any fear. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your veins, pushing you further into blissful abandon.
"Do you feel that?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you feel how deep I'm inside you?"
"Yes, Doctor Harrow... oh god, yes," you moaned, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk for support.
"Imagine," he continued, his pace relentless, each thrust deep and hard, "me filling you up, making you pregnant. Wouldn't you love that, my sweet boy? To carry my child?"
The words sent a jolt of forbidden excitement through you. The thought of bearing his mark, of being claimed so completely, was intoxicating.
"Yes," you cried out, the confession torn from your soul. "I want it... I want you."
"That's right," he praised, each word punctuated by a powerful thrust. "You're mine. Only mine."
The rhythm grew frantic, bodies slick with sweat, moving in perfect, chaotic harmony. His hands kept you pinned, his strength a constant reminder of his control. The eroticism of his power, his dominance, fueled your desire, driving you closer to another release.
You liked him like this, always had when he was in control. But him taking you so deep, so passionately… was he truly working you toward your second orgasm of the day?
Your body started to tremble around him, your own voice growing hoarse with each gasp, and cry, and moan.
“More,” he commanded, another firm thrust deep inside. Another echo of wet noises as he pounded you like there was no tomorrow.
"Say it," he demanded, his voice rough and commanding. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," you screamed, as loudly as your breaking voice allowed you. Your body was twitching and trembling with pleasure. Thank Ammit you had the desk to keep you up because your own legs surely wouldn’t. It felt good, the truth breaking free in desperate gasps. "I belong to you, Doctor Harrow."
A few more firm thrusts. You were nearly there.
And then he paused.
You cursed, teeth gnashing as you tried to move your hips and ass to get some more friction. The glass felt cold against your erect cock, stimulating you – but not enough. Why had he stopped?
You heard the heavy swallow, the way he cleared his throat, then felt how Doctor Harrow leaned over you, cloaking your body entirely with his own.
The hairs of his mustache tickled your ear.
"See?" he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple. "I told you you'd enjoy the therapy."
Bastard.
You groaned loudly, moving your hips but groaning in disappointment when his hands kept you pinned down, unable to move up and down his shaft.
“Please,” you begged, voice hoarse. It was enough.
"Good boy," he echoed, his tone laced with triumph. "Let go again. For me."
He didn’t wait but started a fast pace, for which you were grateful. Each stroke was deep and hit that right spot inside that had your toes curled and your fingers grasping past the slick surface of the glass.
Your body obeyed, surrendering to the overwhelming tide of pleasure. Everything else faded away leaving only the raw, unfiltered connection between you and Harrow. Nothing else mattered.
You clamped down on his cock, earning the stuttering rasped groans in your ear that betrayed he was near as well. A few more deep thrusts and he followed. Warm, hot liquid poured deep inside while his hands held your hips pressed against the cold glass. Your body was throbbing, but so was his shaft as it emptied itself. You imagined the way his balls must be pulsing right now as they were drained dry completely by your deliciously tight cunt.
“Hmm, so greedy,” he murmured, as if he was reading your thoughts. He leaned a little backward, cock still locked inside you, so he could clap a hand firmly to the cheek of your ass.
You did a little yelp, your body scooting forward on the glass, and then tried to look at him from over your shoulder.
“Do you think it will take?” The doctor rasped, his blue eyes finding yours through the reflecting glasses. You felt the way his fingers pried your cheeks open, then slid lower until they pressed inside your cunt, joining his cock.
“You think you’re going to make me a daddy, sweetheart?”
He slowly retracted his cock and seemed to watch how slick seed came dripping from your hole. Holding his cock in his hand, he used his half-hard shaft to rub past your sensitive lips, pushing the semen back in with the tip.
You closed your eyes and allowed him to play with you, your body tired from a second climax and your breath still rapid and uneven.
You felt him push the head of his cock inside you, dipping in and out – almost experimentally – a few times. Then he retracted and the warmth of his body was gone.
"Up," Harrow commanded, his voice a rough whisper against your ear.
You barely had time to register the word before he pulled you to your feet. His hand remained firm around your neck, guiding you as he maneuvered behind you. The cold air hit your back, stark in contrast to the heat of his body. He turned you to face him, eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart race.
"That's it," he murmured, as he held you close, his touch almost tender despite the intensity of what had just transpired.
Finally, he stepped back, leaving you feeling strangely empty without his presence. You noticed the limp when he walked. At least that hadn’t changed. But the half-hard cock you had expected to go limp was curling up proudly again, tipping against Harrow’s stomach as he limped to the other side of the desk. Wait? What?
You groaned, taking a few deep breaths while you watched him lowering himself into his chair with a grace that belied his years. He sat there, pants discarded, watching you with a calm, expectant gaze.
You stood there, catching your breath, the silence stretching out between you. What did he want from you?
"What are you waiting for?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sit on me." His tone was gentle but firm, laced with the promise of more to come. You knew that even if you had wanted to, you could not disobey him.
And a third time? Well, what was one more? Even if this wasn’t your Harrow, he surely was a good fuck. You wouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.
With trembling legs and a racing heart, you moved closer, your skin still tingling from the last wave of pleasure. You discarded your pants fully, even taking the time to take off the rest of your asylum garb until you stood fully naked.
Harrow's eyes were on you, unwavering, his gaze a mix of command and invitation. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, fingers tapping lightly against the metal as if to a rhythm only he could hear.
"Come here," he urged softly, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine.
You straddled him, knees at either side of his waist. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was intoxicating. Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, feeling him fill you once more. A squelching sound accompanied the movement, as combined slick from you and Doctor Harrow’s semen paved the way for his hard cock to slide deep inside. A gasp escaped your lips, the sensation almost overwhelming.
"That's it," he whispered, his hands finding your hips, guiding you. "Just like that."
And it was just like that. You preferred this position more, the way your cock rubbed past him, the friction, it was all so much better than the cool glass table had been.
You began to move, the rhythm slow at first, savoring every inch of him within you. He had grown hard again, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside your narrow cunt. Each rise and fall brought a fresh surge of heat, a deep ache of pleasure that built with every movement. His grip tightened on your hips, encouraging, guiding, coaxing you to go faster.
"Good boy," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're perfect. Could only be better swollen with child."
The words spurred you on, driving you to quicken your pace. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, bound together in this intense dance. Sweat slicked your bodies, the sound of your mingled breaths filling the silence.
"Arthur," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. "I'm close."
"Then let go," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Show me how much you need this."
The coil of pleasure wound tighter within you, threatening to snap. You rode him harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. His hands roamed your back, caressing, encouraging, sending sparks of electricity through your veins.
"Come for me," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
Your body obeyed, the release crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cried out, his name a prayer on your lips, your vision blurring as ecstasy consumed you. He followed soon after, his own release a powerful surge that left you both trembling.
"That's it, my love," he murmured, holding you close, his breath hot against your ear. “Let me stuff you nice and full. Think of all the cum. Make me a dad.”
He stroked your back gently, the touch tender and soothing. You melted into him, feeling safe, cherished. Even if he wasn’t your Arthur. Nothing else mattered.
“We have made such good progress, haven’t we?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple.
“Progress?’ you asked, blearily. You felt as if your body could take no more, yet he started to gently thrust inside you again.
“One more time,” he said, but you were already shaking your head.
“No.”
“Come on, we have made such good progress,” he moved you up and down his shaft shallowly, but your pussy was oversensitive and each thrust felt like it was too much. You flinched, trying to push him away, but his hand found your cock and flicked against it. You recoiled, back arched, and let out a cry.
“Fuck, I can’t,” you gasped, still struggling in his grip. “It’s too much.”
But as Harrow gently pounded your sore cunt, the world around you seemed to crumble away until everything faded. Even the feeling of being fucked raw.
You sat up and instantly winced. Your body felt sore, pussy even sorer. As if you truly had climaxed three times.
You rubbed your head, eyes slowly getting used to the daylight that already filtered into the room. That was when you noticed him.
Arthur Harrow sat on the edge of your desk, his shoulder-length hair cascading around his face, worry etched into his features. The morning light streamed through the window, casting long shadows that danced eerily across the floor. You’d almost thought he wasn’t real, but then he moved.
"Good morning," Arthur said softly, his voice a soothing balm against your frayed nerves. He leaned forward, the creak of the desk cutting through the silence. "You missed breakfast so I came to have a look. See if you’re all right."
Your mouth felt dry as sandpaper, and you licked your lips, trying to find your voice. "I..."
"It’s all right," he interrupted gently, holding up a hand. "I brought you something." He gestured to a tray beside him, laden with fruit, toast, cheese, and a steaming cup.
The disorientation clawed at your mind, the lines between dream and reality blurring. You stared at the food, your stomach twisting in knots. "Why?"
"Because I care about you," he replied, his gaze unwavering. Those bright blue eyes bored into yours, filled with an earnest concern that made your heart ache.
"Was it... real?" you muttered, the words barely audible.
"Dreams can feel very real, can't they?" Arthur's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. He pushed the tray closer to you. "Eat. You'll feel better."
You slowly got out of bed, unperturbed about Arthur seeing you like this. He’d seen you in worse states.
You reached for the toast, your hands trembling. The memory of Doctor Harrow's touch still lingered on your skin, ghostly and persistent. You took a bite, the crunch loud in the otherwise quiet room.
"Was it another nightmare?" Arthur asked, concern etching lines across his face.
"Something like that," you admitted after swallowing, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on the tray of food, absently picking at the toast.
"Talk to me," Arthur prompted gently, his voice a soothing balm that eased some of the lingering tension within you. "What happened in the dream?"
“You were there,” you finally confessed, still confused about everything that had just happened.
"I was?" He asked, his voice low and steady. Arthur's blue eyes bore into you, steady and unwavering, as if trying to decipher the secrets hidden within your soul. Your heart pounded in your chest, the lingering effects of the dream making it difficult to distinguish between reality and fantasy.
You hesitated before speaking, the weight of the dream heavy on your tongue. "It was you," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "But not you. You were a doctor, in an asylum."
A flicker of surprise crossed Arthur's face, his brows knitting together as he processed your words. "A doctor, huh?" His voice was steady, but you could see the wheels turning behind those piercing blue eyes. "And what did this doctor do?"
You hesitated, a shiver running down your spine as you remembered the way Doctor Harrow's hands felt on you, the controlled strength in his grip. "He… he was...helping me, or at least, that's what he claimed." The words tumbled out in a rush, a confession burning your lips as you spoke. "But it didn't feel like help. It felt like control."
Arthur's hand tightened on your arm, a protective gesture that sent warmth flooding through you. "Did he touch you?”
“Oh yes,” you didn’t know why you confessed so easily, but once you looked up it was to see Arthur’s eyes darken menacingly. “Said it was this new therapy he wanted to try, Was supposed to help me with something, but it only ended with him telling me he wanted to see me carry his baby. It was really weird.”
You finally finished, taking your time to catch your breath and think. In the meanwhile, you studied him. Your Arthur.
"In the dream,” he began, eyes unfocused. “I was... obsessed with becoming a father."
He hesitated, gauging your reaction.
“You sure were. Or well, he sure was,” you clicked your tongue and picked up another piece of toast. Orgasming three times had made you hungry.
"Interesting," Arthur murmured, his expression inscrutable. "And how did that make you feel?"
"Confused," you admitted, mouth full, frowning. "I don't understand why he would tell me that."
"Perhaps there's a reason," Arthur suggested, leaning forward in his chair. "Dreams can be windows into our deepest desires and fears. Maybe this is something you need to explore further."
"Are you saying that I should try to get actual therapy?" You asked, skepticism lacing your words.
"Not quite," Arthur replied, his voice soft but firm. "Trust your instincts."
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. The idea of delving deeper into Doctor Harrow's fixation unnerved you. And the way your Arthur reacted to your dream had left you puzzled. Did he know there was a dream version of him lingering around? Could he influence it? Hadn’t it just all been inside your head? Because you’d been pretty certain Ammit and the other Gods loved to use familiar faces and an asylum room to bring their messages across.
"I’m hungry now,” you said, reluctantly. "I just want to eat.”
"Good," Arthur smiled, his eyes warm and reassuring. "I will leave you be. But just remember, I'm here for you, no matter what."
"Thank you," you whispered, your throat tight with emotion.
You watched as Arthur stood and made his way to the door, the familiar crunch of glass beneath his feet a constant reminder of his devotion. His silhouette framed by the doorway, he paused and glanced back at you, his eyes filled with an emotion that you couldn't quite place. Then he was gone.
~ * ~
ONE:
Summary: You’re part of Arthur Harrow’s community, but hold a special place.
Arthur Harrow (Cult Leader) x FTM Reader.
Rating: Explicit (Contains smut). Words: 6026
Thanks to the wonderful supporter who commissioned this fic ♡
For: @apriltearsbringmayfears
Tags: Older man x younger (ftm) reader, consensual intimacy, praise kink, touching, kissing, explicit sexual content, bit of powerplay, overall sweet, you x the villainous cult leader, Arthur takes care of his favorite.
The compound buzzed with activity. Over the months, disciples from all corners of the world flocked to Arthur Harrow's side, drawn by his charisma and the promise of Ammit's judgment. The compound grew. Each day brought them closer to summoning their dark mistress, and the tension in the air was palpable.
You stood at the edge of the gathering, the evening air thick with incense and murmured prayers. Arthur Harrow's voice rose above the crowd, measured and calm, guiding his followers through the ritual. You watched him intently, captivated by the way he moved and the cadence of his words.
"Come closer," Arthur called out, his blue eyes locking onto yours. The group parted as you made your way to the front. The soft light of dusk cast shadows across his face, accentuating the lines of wisdom and age. He reached out, gently taking your hand, pulling you closer to his side. His touch sent a shiver down your spine.
"Your insight is invaluable to us," he said softly, loud enough for others to hear. "What do you think?" He turned to you, inviting your input on the matter being discussed – a new prayer to Ammit, a change in the daily routine, the specifics blurred in the haze of your focus on him.
The fact that he asked for your opinion had not escaped his follower’s notice. It was a rare and coveted position. Arthur rarely sought the opinions of others. You, however, were granted a glimpse behind the scenes, privy to the inner workings of the cult. Arthur Harrow sought your counsel on matters both earthly and otherworldly, and you found yourself inexplicably drawn to him. His very presence set your heart aflutter, and you felt honored to be in his orbit.
You remembered the first time he sought your advice - and more.
One sweltering afternoon, as the sun beat down on the compound relentlessly, Arthur had summoned you to his private chambers. You'd been a part of his community for several months. Months that were spent locking eyes and exchanging careful smiles. Months that had rearded you with thoughtful frowns and pursed lips. Until that very faithful day when Arthur had decided it was time to take action.
"I have need of your counsel, my disciple," he said, his voice laced with a hint of urgency. "Come, walk with me."
You followed him willingly, your heart pounding in your chest. Arthur's chambers were cool and dim, a welcome respite from the punishing heat outside. He closed the door firmly behind you, the click of the latch ominous in the ensuing silence.
"We are close," he breathed, his eyes alight with religious fervor. "So very close to unleashing our goddess's judgment upon this wounded world. But... I find I do not wish to face the end of days alone."
He slid his strong, weathered hand up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. You shivered, both from the coolness of the room and the intensity of his gaze.
"I have need of you, my sweet disciple," he purred, his voice a low growl that set your blood on fire. "I value your counsel,” he hesitated, low voice a murmur that sent electric tingling down your core. You felt hot, thighs squeezing, throat suddenly dry – making it hard to swallow – as you waited for the words that came next.
“I cannot continue without your... companionship."
His fingers brushed your cheek, gently caressing your cheekbone before slipping lower, lower still. You gasped as his fingertips found the hem of your tunic, sliding it upward. The air cooled your damp skin, but not nearly as much as the cold metal of his cane as he traced it up your thigh.
"Arthur," you breathed, "I..."
"Hush, my boy," he soothed, his lips mere centimeters from your ear. "You are mine to do with as I please. Ammit has willed it so."
With that, he kissed you, his lips demanding and hot, bruising in their ardor. His other hand fisted in your hair, angling your head just so. He was insatiable, ravenous in his need for you, and you knew in that moment, you belonged to him.
His cane clattered to the ground, followed by the rustle of fabric as his clothes fell away. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the desk behind him, laying you down as if you were made of the most delicate porcelain.
"Forevermore, we are entwined," he growled, his eyes glowing with otherworldly fire. "Body, soul, and... eternity."
You snapped out of the memory, your eyes upon your leader once more. Arthur’s gaze was focused, sharp, but his pupils were dark. A look that you recognized. It was almost as if he had read your mind.
His hand lingered a little too long, hovering just above your own as if hesitant to touch you. Then he retreated a step, the distance allowing you to think once more. He was a magnet, distracting and always pulling you close. But you loved him for it and wouldn’t want it any other way.
You offered your thoughts, careful, measured words spilling from your lips. Arthur nodded approvingly, his gaze never wavering from yours. The others watched, some with envy, others with admiration. They saw how he favored you, how he sought your counsel, keeping you close.
Let them watch, you thought with glee. Let them be jealous. You had what none of them could have for their own.
As if to prove your point, Arthur stepped nearer again, uncaring about the looks his followers gave you.
"Thank you," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in. "You always know just what to say." His praise filled you with a warmth that spread from your chest to your fingertips, a sensation both intoxicating and grounding.
This time his hands did touch. His warm palms slid past your shoulders, lingering a little too long, searing through the fabric of your clothes. Your breath hitched in your throat. His eyes darkened. There was want visible in both of your gazes. Want, and need, and lust dripped in sin.
But you had to be patient and wait.
"Take an example of this fine young man," Arthur then said loudly as he turned back to the others - you'd almost forgotten they were there. No longer were his eyes fixed on you. But you heard the gravel in his voice, the need and longing that he was pushing down. If others heard it, it could easily be interpreted as devotion for Ammit instead.
"Now, let's not disappoint our goddes any further. We have matters to attend to," he wrapped it all up so beautifully. And you watched him as he stood with his arms stretched, the red fabric of his simple cotton blouse stretched over the broad muscles of his back.
No wonder these men and women were all entranced. If any man could honor a god, it was him.
~
As the evening wore on and the group dispersed, Arthur lingered near you, his presence a constant comfort. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently but determinedly.
"I have more to discuss with you," he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. His strong grip was comforting, guiding you in the direction of his office.
The hallway was quiet but not deserted, yet the sound of crushed glass beneath his feet inside the sandals and the tapping of his cane were the only noises breaking the silence. Each step resonated with purpose, echoing the devotion you felt for him. You glanced up at him and admired his features in the dimly lit light of the hall. How beautiful he looked, how strong and regal. It was the determination, you thought. And the confidence he oozed. The combination of these traits was like a potent cocktail, leaving you dizzy with admiration.
Arthur's fingers brushed against your arm as he guided you through the dimly lit corridor. The scent of incense lingered in the air, a mix of sandalwood and something sweet, almost intoxicating. You felt the eyes of the other followers on you, their gazes a blend of curiosity, jealousy, and reverence.
When you reached his office, he opened the door, ushering you inside with a gentle but insistent hand on your back. A gesture that was both inviting and commanding. You stepped inside, the room filled with the soft glow of candlelight. The walls were lined with ancient texts and symbols, each a testament to Arthur's devotion to Ammit.
"Sit down, love," he said, motioning to the chair opposite his desk. You obeyed, your legs trembling slightly as you lowered yourself into the seat. Arthur walked around the desk, leaning heavily on his cane, the sound of crushed glass inside his sandals a reminder of his constant penance.
"I have had to restrain myself all evening," he began, his blue eyes locking onto yours. But before you could respond, he moved closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch was warm, almost burning.
"It’s high time you give me what I need."
His lips crashed against yours, rough yet tender, a kiss that stole your breath away. You melted into him, every fiber of your being consumed by the fire of his touch. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire.
"I need you," he murmured, the admission a low growl. "I need you now."
The world outside ceased to exist. You knew your pupils were blown, that the desire he felt for you was reflected just as strongly in you.
"Undress," Arthur commanded, his voice a rough whisper against your ear.
Your heart pounded as you nodded, fingers trembling slightly as they reached for the buttons of your shirt. Each button came undone with an audible click, the sound magnified in the quiet room. Arthur's eyes never left yours, his gaze intense and unyielding.
The shirt slid from your shoulders and dropped to the floor carelessly.
"Good boy," he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips. His praise sent a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling with anticipation.
The cool air caressed your bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Arthur's body. His hand reached out, fingertips grazing your collarbone, tracing a path down to your chest. You inhaled sharply at his touch, desire pooling low in your abdomen.
His fingers paused, graced over the faded scars, traced them, and then slid lower. He paused again, eyes darting up to meet yours.
"Now, help me," he said, taking a step back. He leaned heavily on his cane, the crunch of glass underfoot echoing in the room.
You rose from your chair and moved closer, hands steadying as you undid the buttons of his blouse. The fabric was coarse beneath your fingers, worn and familiar. You pushed it open, reveling at the sight of his chest. He was smoother than most, but still strong and muscular for a man his age. It only showed how fit he was, how strong. How well he took care of himself despite the calm demeanor he normally exuded in front of his followers.
With careful hands, you pushed his blouse down, allowing it to slip from his arms. You tugged at the garment when it got caught on his bracelets, freeing it so the blouse could slip further down his arms.
And then the fabric fell away, revealing the tattoo of scales on his right arm, a symbol of his divine purpose. Your breath hitched as you traced the ink with your thumb, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath.
The intricate design captivated you. The scales, perfectly balanced, seemed almost alive even in their stillness. You remembered the first time you saw them move, the way they shifted and tipped whenever Arthur Harrow held someone to judge them. It had been a moment of both awe and fear, the power of judgment tangible in those fluid lines.
Now, as you studied the tattoo, admiration filled your thoughts. Each line, each curve of the scales, spoke of a purpose far beyond mere human understanding. Arthur's role as a judge, divinely ordained, was etched into his very flesh. The memory of the scales balancing and tipping, the fate of a soul hanging in the balance, made your pulse quicken.
Such power he held. And he knew it. Your eyes sought his.
Arthur was quiet, allowing you this moment to explore the tattoo – it wasn’t the first time. You’d yet to see anyone else be allowed to touch his skin in such an intimate way. To explore his forearm and the scales that were drawn there.
His eyes watched you with an intensity that spoke of the weight he carried. You wondered what it was like for him, to bear such a mark, to be the vessel through which judgment passed.
As your fingers continued to trace the intricate scales, you could feel his pulse quicken beneath your touch, matching the rhythm of your own racing heart. The intensity of the moment was almost overwhelming.
Then his fingers curled around your wrists and the scales began to shift. You were startled, even though this always seemed to happen at his touch. You knew he couldn’t help it. The scales did their work when his hands met flesh. It was Ammit’s will. It was why he wore long sleeves to cover up the moving mark.
You knew which way they would tip.
With your breath high in your chest, you watched as Arthur’s fingers curled gently around your wrist, tugging you closer to him. The scales shifted, their movement subtle at first, then more pronounced. They tipped to one side, then the other. The delicate balance, usually so steady, now mirrored the tumultuous emotions swirling within both of you. The scales' movement seemed to draw Arthur closer, his breath hitching as he leaned into your touch. The divine mark on his arm reflected the inner conflict and desire that neither of you could ignore.
The sight of the scales in motion, combined with the raw need in Arthur's eyes, created an intensity that left you breathless.
His lips were upon yours once more, just as hungry as before. But this time it was you who fisted his hair and pulled him close – hungry for more. Famished.
The moment the kiss ended, Arthur's gaze locked onto yours his eyes reflecting a mixture of longing and need that sent a shiver down your spine. His usual stoic demeanor faltered, revealing the depth of his desire. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, each breath you took seeming to draw him closer.
"More," you breathed, lifting your gaze to meet his. "Arthur…”
His eyes darkened, a primal satisfaction flickering in their depths. "I don’t take commands from anyone," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice, “except Ammit herself.”
A guttural growl escaped his lips as he pulled you closer against his chest, arms circling around you. He rested his chin on your shoulder. “Do you think you’re in the position to command me?”
“N-No,” the answer came instantly, a rasped whisper. Why had your voice turned hoarse? It must be the arousal thrumming through your body, begging him to touch you more. Wanting, needing it. “I’d never dream of it,” you rasped.
Arthur merely tilted his head but it was enough, a silent indication that he anticipated more from you. You heard him draw a deep breath, his nose buried next to your ear, taking in the scent of you.
"I am yours, but also your disciple,” you breathed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I like it when you take control. When you show me your power."
He stirred, a sign of approval of your words. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Then you'll enjoy what's next."
You bit your lip, anticipation coiling tightly within you as he led your hands down to his waist, indicating what he wanted you to do. You obliged, fingers working deftly to undo the button of his pants. He watched you, his gaze heavy with approval.
"You're doing well, love," he praised, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. His cock sprung free from its confines.
With his pants undone, you eased them down his legs, careful not to disturb the glass shards embedded in his sandals. His briefs followed.
It took a lot not to let your gaze linger too long on his erect cock, already bobbing up against his waist. Pre-cum already moistening the tip.
Arthur stepped out of his clothes gracefully, despite his limp, and kicked them aside.
"Now, come here," he ordered, reaching for you.
You obeyed without hesitation, stepping into his embrace. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against his solid frame. His lips found yours again, the kiss searing and demanding. You melted into him, surrendering completely to his dominance.
"Good boy," he murmured against your lips, his breath hot and intoxicating. "Such a devoted young man.”
Arthur's hands roamed over your back, his touch firm and possessive. His lips trailed down your neck, each kiss igniting a trail of fire beneath your skin. You shivered, your breath hitching as he nipped at your collarbone.
"Mine," he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation. “Yours.” You would never deny how he had captured you.
He pushed you gently but firmly onto the small couch in the corner of his office. The leather was cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast that made you gasp. Arthur stood over you, his eyes dark with desire.
"Good boy," he murmured, running a hand through your hair. "You're so obedient."
You looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. His praise washed over you, filling you with a sense of pride and belonging. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His weight pressed you into the couch, his dominance unmistakable.
"Arthur," you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders.
"Shh," he hushed you, his lips brushing against your ear. "Let me take care of you."
His hands moved with practiced ease, guiding you into position as he sank to his knees between your spread legs. You felt his strength in every touch, every movement. He was in control, and you reveled in it. His fingers traced patterns on your skin, tracing the fading scars of what once was and what now felt much better, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"Beautiful," he whispered, his head between your thighs. His voice filled with reverence as his eyes feasted on your torso. "So perfect for me."
You felt his hands slide lower, felt his fingers hook behind the waistband of your cotton pants, tugging, and lifting your hips. The garment came off easily, revealing that small bulge in its full glory.
Arthur’s hitched breath gave away his pleasure, how his pale eyes darkened as they came to rest upon your crotch. The small cock nestled between your legs, not as large as his, but ever so sensitive. Already fully erect, - your body did not hide the full amount of your excitement - and your devoted leader leaned over you without hesitation, grasping your cock with a reverence that should have been deserved for holy ceremonies.
“Mine,” he said again, his words rasped and filled with raw desire. His fingers curled around it, tugging harsher than gentle – but in a good way.
You moaned softly, your body responding to his words and touches. His fingers danced past your cock, up and down, fingertips searingly hot against your hardness.
He dipped his head forward, murmuring sweet words against the skin of your thigh.
“Such a good boy,” you could vaguely distinguish, but his voice was so terribly low and muffled by your skin as he placed open-mouthed kisses all the way up to your pubic bone. Your core ached and tingled, begging him to place those open-mouthed kisses there. But he was teasing you.
“You will take me so well,” another open-mouthed kiss while his fingers danced down your shaft until only his thumb pressed down against it, creating circling motions that sent sparks of pleasure wrecking through your core.
“Look how hard you are for me already…” The kiss against your thigh turned into a lick, surprising you and erupting a low mewl from your lips. Another flick of his thumb against your cock - it was nearly too much already.
“Look how hard your cock is,” as if to prove his point, he moved his head closer to your core. His lips pressed wetly against your cock, flicking his tongue flat against your throbbing cock before taking in the tip and sucking hard. Your toes curled and your fingers reached for his shoulders, digging into his skin.
While his mouth occupied your throbbing cock, his fingers dug lower, not giving you any rest. They explored, twitched, and scissored your wet core.
“Look how wet your delicious cunt,” another lick past your cock. Another digit curling deep inside you. Wetness was already gushing out, coating his fingers, your walls twitched tightly around the invading digits.
You let out a curse, head falling backward, while you tried to pull the man close. “More,” you moaned. Not a demand but a plea. You knew not to command him when he was like this.
You felt Arthur’s fingers move more earnestly inside your cunt, wet sopping sounds coming from your core. Using his elbows, you felt how he spread your legs further. His fingers kept pumping, twisting and curling deep inside, while his tongue still worked on your cock. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, nipped, and licked until you were seeing stars.
Your body twitched, your cunt clamping down on nothing - the bastard had retracted his fingers before you had fully come. You growled at him, hands holding him in place, but he looked up at you. Not with a smirk – as you had expected – but with a questioning gaze.
He wiped his lips with the back of his hands, moving with just enough strength to push himself up. Your knees fell as closed as they could, clamping against his chest. Unfortunately, you had to let go of him and your hands dropped to your sides. You gazed up at him through the haze of your orgasm, wondering if this was all he needed from you tonight. You hoped not.
“I’m not done with you yet, pretty boy,” Arthur murmured, placing a hand on your knee and spreading your legs anew. You saw how his dark eyes drifted to your core, studying the mess he had created with his fingers by bringing you to climax.
Finally, his lips curved into a smirk.
“Well, would you look at that?” How could he sound so calm and collected when his own cock was throbbing against his own belly? He was hard, his cock pouring liquid from the tip – eager to be milked dry.
He seemed to study your wet cunt and traced the juices that had come out with his index finger before bringing the digit up to his lips and tracing it past them, leaving behind a glossy shine. His tongue darted out, deliberately slow.
“Hmm,” he hummed, as if he had just tasted an aphrodisiac that was too delicious to ignore.
Then his hands were back upon your thighs, spreading them wide.
Yes, your mind provided you. Yes, and again. You wanted him inside, needed him desperately to claim you over and over, to show you pleasure yet again.
“Seems like you ruined my couch,” his eyes darted up to meet yours, “again.”
“You’d have it no other way,” you said defiantly, uncaring about the wet spot created by your mixed juices - it wasn't the first time, after all. You allowed him to pry your legs a little wider so he could move in between them and studied the way his hair fell down his face, how stray strands fell in front of his eyes and clung to his still wet lips - shining with the gloss of your juices.
He positioned himself above you, his gaze locking onto yours. The intensity in his eyes took your breath away.
"Tell me," he commanded, his voice soft but insistent. His arms trembled from carrying his own weight, mindful not to crush you. His cold bracelets pressed against your skin, a reminder of who it was who was going to fuck you - hard. "Tell me you need me."
"I need you," you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and oh-so full of desire. "I need you now, Arthur."
It was all he had to hear. The tip of his cock sought its way between your folds, fingertips guiding him in. His hips dipped as he slowly pushed forth, parting your silken walls, stretching you wide.
"Good boy," he praised, his lips curling into a smile. “Here’s your reward.”
He entered you slowly but easily – you were still wet and slightly trembling from your previous orgasm. His movements were deliberate and controlled. You gasped at the sensation, your hands gripping the couch tightly. Pleasure started to build almost instantly, and you found yourself lost in the rhythm he set.
"Such a good boy," he repeated, his voice a soothing balm. "Taking me so well."
And you did. You gazed between your legs, watching as his hard veined cock – covered in your combined juices – slowly moved in and out of you, pumping a steady rhythm. The scales on his right forearm tipped wildly from side to side, never resting and never deciding.
You threw your head back again, feeling his pulsing cock stretch your walls, the veins on his shaft throbbing. He was adding pressure until he bottomed out inside you and you felt every ridge and vein and clawed at his back while you gasped for air.
"Arthur," you moaned, your body arching beneath him. He filled you up just the right way. As if he were made for this - as if you were made for him.
His hands curled around your legs, holding them, positioning them for him to be able to move smoothly, hitting that spot deep inside that made the sopping sounds worse and the sparks of pleasure inside your core alight with electricity. Your own cock was pressed against Arthur’s skin, stimulated by the hairs that nestled above his cock as he moved in and out of you.
You bit your lip, toes curling and fingers tugging at his shoulders, urging him close.
"Yes, love," he cooed, his thrusts steady and powerful. "Just like that."
The room filled with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, a symphony of devotion and desire. Wet, lewd, sinful. Each stroke, each caress, brought you closer to the edge. You felt his strokes deep inside, the ease with which his hard cock slid in and out of your fluttering hole. Your walls were clamping down, begging more. His strong hands were on your hips, his usually bright eyes now clouded with lust as he stared at the spot where both of you connected with sopping wet sounds.
So good, your mind provided as you curled your back in delight. So darn good.
You grasped his shoulders tighter, surprised when his own hands left your hips to pull your arms away and pin them to your sides. A guttural growl escaped his lips, primal and raw, as he put pressure on your wrists.
In this position he was in full command, controlling every movement with his hips and his grip. He kept you pinned down, forcing his hips tighter against yours, thrusting harsher, more powerful.
You watched the little beads of sweat drip down his forehead, sliding past his nose. The way his hair clung to his face, or how his lips were parted in raspy moans and gasps. His gaze intense as he watched your expression.
He was in charge, exerting his power over you in ways that your body effortlessly embraced, swallowing him up - both the squelching noises of his cock thrusting in and out of you, as well as the way you hungrily accepted the kiss from his lips when he leaned forward and begged for entrance. You obliged, parting your lips so his tongue could slip between them, and kissed him back just as eagerly, battling his tongue with your own until you sucked him in hard enough to hear him moan.
His dominance was a comforting weight, grounding you in the moment while he held your wrists pinned down. His thrusts grew harder, more punishing, as his lips broke away from yours.
He sat up, hips still forcefully meeting your own, and grunted. His hands wandered up your chest, but you kept your wrists where he had held them pinned. Allowing him to dominate you, to fully conquer what you were so willing to give him.
"You're mine," he growled, his pace quickening, hands pushing you down to the couch possessively.
"Yours," you echoed, your voice breathless. You were close. So, so terribly close to coming. Again.
"Good boy," he praised, his fingers finding your lips and pressing against them till you tasted the heady mixture of your juices on your tongue. "Always mine."
"Always," you agreed, a muffled word against his fingers that smelled of arousal and sex. Your body trembled with pleasure as his fingertips left your lips and slid down your body till he grasped your hips fully again.
"Mine," he murmured, his tone softening. "Let's finish this."
"Arthur," you cried out, the intensity of your emotions overwhelming as he hit that delicious spot deep inside. It sent you over the edge, little white sparks clouding your vision. Your back arched, chest pressed up against him as your orgasm surged through you, body trembling, walls clasping him tightly, milking him for all you were worth.
"Shh," he soothed, his movements never faltering. "I've got you."
But you had already tumbled over the edge, muscles tensing with bliss. Your orgasm washed over you while Arthur rocked his hips against yours, chasing his own release.
You clung to him, your body surrendering completely to his will.
"Perfect," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "You're perfect."
Another peak was building. How could it? So soon after you just came a second time? But you were babbling nonsense now, just pleading and begging for Arthur to give it to you. You lost yourself in the sensations, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. His dominance, his strength, his love – they were all-encompassing. You were his, and he was yours, bound together in a dance of power and devotion.
His hips stuttered and you felt his release. Hot cum flooded your insides, warm and wet and so, so good.
"Mine," he whispered, his voice a promise. "Always mine to pleasure and to hold."
His thumb found your cock, thumbing it, giving it just the right pressure and friction to have you crawl in pleasure underneath him until you were spasming around him once more. A third orgasm wrecked through you. A cry escaped your lips, joined by a low groan from his lips.
"Good boy," he praised one last time, his voice a gentle caress. "My good boy."
Your body twitched underneath him, spent and exhausted. Yet, you found the energy to smile up at him. A lust-filled, enamored smile that left him feeling weak and breathless.
"Perfect," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “So incredibly perfect for me.”
His hand caressed your cheek, coarse fingertips brushing past your skin reverently. You didn't even mind that his fingers were still covered with your combines juices. It felt claiming, in some way.
You felt the sporadic pulsing of his cock deep inside. It was twitching less and less, slowly growing limp inside of you as he came down from his high. His leg pressed down over yours, knees touching.
"I prefer you like this,” he murmured, his voice soft and tender. “Just as you are."
A blush might have crept up your cheeks – you weren’t sure. But his words had hit something deep inside of you. All the insecurities, all the struggles, you could forget everything when you were in his arms.
You felt his cock go soft, slipping out of your core with a wet sound that made both of you chuckle. Arthur raised a brow at you, and you half expected for him to pull away and get dressed again. But he didn’t. Instead, he maneuvered his body next to yours, scooping you in his arms like a big spoon. His legs pressed between yours as you lay entwined, your bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction. Arthur's breath was warm against your shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around you.
He pressed a gentle kiss to your skin, his lips lingering as if savoring the moment.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice soft and tender. "You are just right. Right for me, and right for Ammit. But mostly, right for yourself."
He must have heard the deep breath you were drawing or have felt the way your hands tensed where you had gripped his wrists, for you felt him move against you. “You’re just the kind of right for me. And,” here he paused and you could hear how he lowered his voice, a playful tint to it. “That says a lot as I am a man with many needs.”
You blushed, the heat rising to your cheeks at his words. "I'm happy," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Happy to be who I am now. And where I am."
"Good," he replied, his tone filled with genuine affection. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."
You basked in the afterglow, contentment washing over you like a warm embrace. In Arthur's arms, you felt whole, complete.
The two of you rested in silence, Arthur’s lips hovered over your shoulder, placing deliberate and soft kisses on your skin. Each kiss – though as light as a feather – carried something possessive, the urge to claim you. Like he was branding you as his.
"Celibate, huh?" you teased between kisses, your fingers threading through his graying hair. "Some of your followers would get a heart attack if they knew what happened behind these doors."
He chuckled against your lips, the sound vibrating through you. "They'll never know," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble. "To them, I am nothing but their chaste leader." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he pulled back slightly, giving you a moment to catch your breath.
"Chaste, my ass," you shot back playfully, a grin spreading across your face. You trailed your fingers down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch.
"They'll never know how truly powerful you are." The words were a whisper from your lips.
Arthur's expression softened, and he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer. His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, "It doesn't matter if the others never see the full me. The only ones who need to know the true me are Ammit,” here he paused, breath stuttering. “And you."
His lips brushed the shell of your ear, sending a thrill through you. "You are important to me."
A rush of emotion welled up inside you, overwhelming and all-consuming. In that moment, you felt more connected to Arthur than ever before. His words, his touch, his presence. Everything about him made you feel cherished and significant.
"Arthur," you breathed, your voice thick with emotion. You knew you'd go to the end of the world with him and back, if that was what he wanted. What he needed. You'd do it all for him. "I..."
"Shh," he hushed you gently, pressing a finger to your lips. "Stay close to me today," he said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of concern. "I need your presence."
"Always," you promised, your heart swelling with emotion.
i hope it's okay to add to this! this art touched me so so much i couldn't rest until i got this out of my system. thank you so much for drawing this, i think it healed part of my soul
“You’re dissociating again.”
Gale’s voice is a comfortable, distant rumble above him. Astarion finds the wizard’s eyes in the dark all of a sudden, ashamed that he can’t remember where he’d just been looking beforehand. Gale’s gaze is brown as rain-damp soil and just as soft. The kindness there is almost unbearable, and the only reason Astarion doesn’t flinch away from it is because he’s too busy slipping back into his own body. When he finally settles, Gale’s hand cups his cheek and disabuses him of the need entirely.
“We don’t have to do this, you know,” Gale says with a soft smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle, folding the tendrils of purple along the apple of his cheek with them.
Gale sits up and neatly hoists himself off Astarion. A breeze ripples through the clearing and ruffles his hair. It looks as though some unseen hand is carding fingers through the dark strands gently interspersed with rivers of silver. Astarion’s own fingers itch to do the same but he finds them curled into his palms as he pushes himself up off the dirt. Once he’s sitting, he attempts to regain control of the situation. Clears his throat to make sure his voice is steady. Bats his eyes. Smiles.
“Oh, darling,” he waves a pale hand, “Perish the thought.”
Gale does nothing but look incredibly patient as he shifts to his knees and brushes dirt off his thighs. There is no disappointment nor anger in his face, but Astarion feels his throat tighten around the lie even still.
Purring, he insists, “And I was just getting into it, too.”
Hells, he should have been more careful. He’s usually better at this. Where had his mind been? Frustration creases his brow and his fingernails start to dig into the dirt. His thoughts race.
Then, a hand brushes his knee.
“There are many ways to be intimate, Astarion,” Gale says, once more siphoning his attention back from the ether and holding it tenderly in the space between them. Astarion blinks at him, watching the way his hands gesticulate as he continues to speak. There’s something lovely about his hands—how they shape the night and make his words feel more like poetry than they should.
“Some by transcending our mortal bodies and becoming one with the Weave itself! But!” Gale holds up his fingers with a private little smile, “We’ll postpone such an endeavor for another day, shall we? For now, let’s start with something simpler, and considerably non-sexual.”
Gale pulls himself to his feet, his body sturdy and made of soft, inviting lines as he stretches to his full height. Astarion’s ruby gaze follows him, reverent.
“Come. Perhaps a nice bath?” Gale surveys the clearing, “I’ve got leaves in some rather undignified places that have truly no business being there.”
Astarion continues to stare. The tension in his shoulders relaxes and he hunches over himself slightly, spine curved and belly soft. The knot of worry slowly comes undone inside his chest as he watches Gale turn his head over his shoulder and smile at him.
“I could shampoo your hair,” he offers, “Shadowheart and I bought some gorgeous smelling soaps earlier that I think you’ll like.”
Astarion nods wordlessly. He barely trusts himself to speak.
“Excellent,” Gale says and with a flourish of his hands, a clawfoot tub appears before him. Steam rises from the surface of the water in whorling silvery wisps. Another wave of Gale’s hand produces a small wrapped parcel which he unwraps with the utmost care. The scent of lavender spreads through the clearing.
That brings Astarion to his feet and he pads his way through the cool grass to join him. He feels a little more himself with each step. Gale turns and inclines his head, gesturing a hand to the bath.
“After you.”
“Really,” Astarion huffs as he steps into the water, “It’s been this easy for you to conjure a bath this entire time and you’ve been letting me wallow in absolute filth?”
The aching warmth of the water as it slides up his calf nearly makes him moan. Astarion folds himself into the tub completely and lets the water crawl up to his throat, cocooning him in comfort. A sigh is hissed through his fangs.
“Hm, I happen to like your musk,” Gale says as he steps in carefully behind him. Astarion can hear the amused smile in his voice.
“Gods, you’re a freak.”
As Gale settles, his legs come around Astarion’s hips and Astarion leans back against his chest with a soft, contented hum. When he turns his head, his cheek rests along the outer curve of the tattoo along Gale’s skin. A place where magic has touched him and burrowed deep, lying in wait. Astarion finds his fingers brushing over the shape of it tenderly. As if he might erase it with a touch.
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment from you,” Gale says with unflinching optimism.
Then his hands reach up from the steaming water and start to gently wet Astarion’s curls. As the strands go heavy with moisture, Gale tucks them affectionately behind the elf’s ears.
Eventually, he begins to work the lavender shampoo into his scalp. The scent blooms and floods Astarion’s lungs. He’s usually one to turn his nose up—both literally and figuratively—at flowers, but finds he doesn’t mind imagining purple petals sprouting along the insides of his ribs as the fragrance unfolds. He lets his eyes slip closed.
This is…lovely. And yet—
“Gale?”
“Mmm?”
“You’re sure this is all right?” Astarion asks, indulging one last vestige of his anxiety. He swallows softly before continuing, “Just…this, and nothing else?”
Gale’s hands continue massaging through his hair without pause.
“It’s more than all right,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to the top of Astarion’s shoulder, “And it always will be for me.”
His hands resume and Astarion finds his eyes pulled open by some unknown force. They burn hot, and he’s surprised to find tears slicking his lower lashes all of a sudden.
Gale’s fingers rub patterns into his scalp. His chest rises and falls beneath Astarion’s scarred shoulders. Around them, the woods are quiet, soft and safe. Above, the moon gleams like bone and then settles into the reflection of his lap like a coin. The tears are gone just as soon as they came, and Astarion rests back against Gale with a slow breath through his nostrils.
He closes his eyes once more and allows himself to unravel completely.
The names of the Club Q victims are out. Let’s pay our respects to each of them and celebrate their lives.
Daniel Davis Aston, 28
Daniel was a bartender at Club Q. An outspoken trans man, he continuously helped raise donations for Black trans people on his Instagram. He was “the light in every room” according to his close friend.
Raymond Green
Raymond was celebrating his friend’s birthday when the shots broke out. His friend Rich apprehended the shooter as he died. After his death, his girlfriend posted on Facebook, “u are my home. my heart. my everything. u changed my life. u made life worth living.”
Kelly Loving, 40
After moving from Florida, Kelly was new to the Colorado scene. A nurturing soul, she was “like a trans mother” to her friends. “She was loving, always trying to help the next person out instead of thinking of herself. She just was a caring person,” her sister told the New York Times.
Ashley Paugh, 35
Ashley and her friends decided to go to Club Q after spending time shopping and getting dinner together. She was a family woman and “lived for her daughter” according to her sister. She is survived by her husband and 11-year-old child.
Derrick Rump, 38
Always bubbly and joking, Derrick had no shortage of friends in the community. He was a part owner of Club Q. “He was a kind loving person who had a heart of gold,” his mother told reporters. “He was always there for my daughter and myself when we needed him also his friends from Colorado which he would say was his family also. He was living his dream and he would have wanted everyone to do the same.”
Colorado Gives is the official donation site for the survivors and victims’ families. Please donate if you can!
Hi folks! I’m currently working on submissions, I apologize for the late schedule
I was wondering if anyone is selling their Nix Hydra Tarot Deck? It’s no longer sold on the website and I found one on Depop but it’s out of my price range (above the original price of $50). Please DM if you are selling yours, I would love it as my first tarot deck. It would mean the world to me!
