Alyx // A Date With Rope And A Blindfold? That’s Normal, Right?

The cabin was quiet except for the low crackle of the wood stove and the occasional soft creak of the old bedframe.

Outside, wind pushed fresh snow against the windows, but inside the air was warm and thick with the scent of woodsmoke, cold fabric, and the faint trace of the cigarette Alyx had smoked on the porch before coming back in.

His white beanie lay discarded on the floor near the door. The ski goggles rested on the nightstand beside an open pack of cigarettes. The only light came from the dying fire, painting everything in shifting gold and deep shadow. Alyx had {{user}} stretched out on the bed, wrists bound above their head with one of his black scarves—tight enough to hold firm, loose enough that a hard pull would free them if needed. Another scarf crossed their eyes, leaving only their mouth free. He had taken his time with the knots, checking twice that nothing pinched, that the fabric lay flat and secure.

He knelt between their spread thighs, still half-dressed. His white winter jacket hung open over a black thermal shirt, the fur-lined hood soft against his shoulders. Black gloves were tossed aside. His pale skin looked almost luminous in the firelight, white hair falling into his eyes. Those ice-blue eyes were darker than usual, intent and unhurried as they moved over every inch of what he had bound.

“Stay still,” he murmured, voice low and rough from the cold and the cigarettes. “I’m not done looking at you yet.”

His fingers traced the line of the scarf around their wrists, testing the give, then slid slowly down the inside of one arm. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the soft skin just below the binding, breathing warm air against it before dragging his teeth lightly. Not hard enough to mark—yet. Just enough to make the muscles jump. He did the same to the other wrist, then sat back on his heels and simply looked.

The silence stretched. Alyx liked silence. He liked the way it made every small sound sharper—the rustle of sheets, the quiet hitch of breath, the soft shift of fabric when {{user}} tested the restraints. His hands settled on their thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles, feeling the contrast between chilled skin and the heat rising underneath. He pushed their legs a little wider, settled more firmly between them, and leaned down again.

This time the bite was higher, firmer, on the sensitive inner thigh. He held it, then soothed the spot with his tongue, then bit again a little closer to the center. He worked his way up with patient, deliberate marks, never rushing, never breaking the quiet except for the soft sound of his breathing and the occasional low hum of approval when {{user}} reacted. One of his hands stayed splayed across their hip, holding them in place with easy strength. The other drifted higher, palm warm, fingers exploring with the same unhurried thoroughness he used when checking bindings.

When he finally pushed inside, it was slow—controlled, the way he did everything that mattered. He watched the way their body took him, the way the scarves held, the way their chest rose and fell. His hips rolled in deep, measured strokes while one hand braced beside their head and the other curled loosely around the scarf binding their wrists. He kept the pace almost cruelly steady, pulling nearly all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt, grinding deep when he was buried, then starting the slow withdrawal again. Every movement was deliberate. Every pause was intentional.

“That’s it,” he breathed against their throat, voice rougher now. “Just take it. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t rush. He never did. He fucked them like he had all night and intended to use every minute of it. The scarf around their eyes meant they couldn’t see the way his expression had gone soft and hungry at the same time, the way his white hair clung damply to his forehead, the faint flush high on his cheekbones. But they could feel the way his breath hitched when he buried himself particularly deep, the way his free hand tightened on the scarf, the way his thighs tensed against theirs.

He shifted the angle slightly, searching, and when he found what he was looking for he stayed there—short, grinding thrusts that kept pressure constant. His mouth found the side of their neck, open and warm, teeth grazing without quite biting. One of his hands slid under the small of their back, lifting just enough to change the depth. The bedframe creaked softly with every slow roll of his hips. Firelight moved across the pale plane of his back where the jacket had slipped further open.

Alyx’s breathing grew heavier, but his rhythm stayed controlled. He seemed determined to draw it out, to keep them suspended in that tight, aching space between needing more and being completely held. Every time their body tensed or arched, he answered with a deeper grind or a firmer press of his hand on the scarf. He spoke rarely, and when he did the words were quiet, almost conversational, as if the intensity of what he was doing didn’t match the calm in his voice.

“Still with me,” he murmured against their skin, more statement than question. His hips rolled again, slow and deep. “Not going anywhere. Neither are you.”

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