#i certainly NEED to there are things i NEED to do

[vynlrecord]

# jjk men's fave places to have their hands when you're having sex

ft. Toji, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Nanami

wc: 1.6k - it's been forever since i've gotten back into writing so i'm not sure if i can even still do it lmao

Satoru Gojo (breasts + wrists/hands)

He completely adores the way your wrists fit in his hands, loves everything it symbolises to him. He’s more powerful, you both know it, but he doesn’t need to take it, especially not when he melts at you offering it so freely. Holding your wrists up almost instinctively when you can tell he’s longing for something to ground him in the moment. He’ll happily have his hands on any inch of your body but to him there’s nothing like holding your wrists as he thrusts into you.

Sometimes he’ll pay attention to the flutter of your pulse as he switches the pace, he’ll pull out just enough for you to whine, before thrusting all the way back in one go, increasing the rhythm and focusing so intently on the increase of your pulse, giving him a sense of satisfaction. He craves the feeling of your skin against his, he doesn’t need ropes to do a job he’s perfectly capable of doing, one he loves so dearly. It keeps him grounded, it’s real, no barriers or infinity to stop him, just feeling you completely and it’s his favourite way too, often letting his fingers slip down to intertwine with yours when he’s feeling particularly touchy.

And of course it’s the same with your breasts, it’s a comforting thing to hold you so close, feeling the soft flesh, or occasionally pinching your nipple softly to earn a gasp he loves the sound of. He can claim it’s all about your pleasure, and in some ways it is, he wants to make you feel good but mostly it’s his own selfish need, his fixation with holding them when he’s feeling needy, it sends a rush straight to his cock, he swears he could hold them all day.

─ ─ ─ ─

Toji Fushiguro (ankles + thighs)

Ankles are a favourite of his, perhaps not the first thing you’d assume but there’s something pleasing to him about having a hand wrapped around your ankles as you lay there with him holding your legs up enough so that he can thrust at an impossibly deep angle. He appreciates the power that holding your wrists could give too but for him it’s nothing like your ankles. Whilst he’s in this position, he sets the pace, he could be slow to tease you and some nights he definitely will, claiming it’s punishment for you acting like a brat, or relentless and overwhelming.

The hold on your ankle gives him enough leverage over the movements. It allows him control whilst not drawing in too close, giving him enough distance to steer clear from vulnerability, yet still allowing intimacy in how gentle his touch is, the way he’ll kiss your ankles, peppering more and more along your skin and trailing downwards. In doing so, his hands naturally drift to your thighs, easily making second place as his favourite spot to rest his hands. He’s a thighs man through and through, practically obsessed with the feel of them.

He’s a hardened man with rough hands, yet in these moments with you, he can get lost in the softness of your skin, holding onto your thighs as if they’re the salvation he has to cling to in order to save himself. And god, he knows he’d certainly hold onto them for as long as he can. Hearing your sweet moans as he watches his hand squeeze your thigh is more than just a momentary turn on, it’s a way for him to stake claim. He’d forever deny to you that he’s possessive but having that hold on you in such a sensual area, perhaps leaving a few tender bruises that bloom into a beautiful shade makes him feel more territorial than he ever has and he’s come to learn it’s a feeling he loves, not one he wishes to run from.

─ ─ ─ ─

Suguru Geto (neck + ass)

Geto would like to say he is a man for subtlety, opting for the neck as his favourite place, not for aggressive claim, just deliberate touch that conveys more than words. If he’s fucking you from behind, he’ll have his hand on the nape of your neck, maybe his fingers delicately moving to the front, tenderly brushing against your throat in a quiet claim.

For him it’s about the presence, he doesn’t need to always indulge in breathplay to feel control, he knows the second you feel his hand there, you practically turn into a docile kitten and the look you give him in that moment is enough for him to want to blow his load in an instant. He would be lying though if he said he didn’t appreciate the vulnerability of the neck, the trust you have in him, knowing he won’t hurt you is one of the reasons he adores it so much. Knowing he can feel the fluttering of your pulse under his fingers as you both chase your high and have you not feeling fear but love and affection makes him feel more powerful than if you were kneeling at his feet and he relishes in it.

Though his hand will always find his way to your ass eventually, whether to squeeze or simply run his fingers along your skin, he loves how soft it is, the give as it fills his palm. Sometimes it’s for leverage when he’s pounding into you and needs to keep you tethered to him, others it’s teasing, almost taunting. He’ll let his palm linger, making you wonder if he’ll deliver a soft slap, pulling back as you expect it, only for his hand to return just as gently, simply smoothing back over.

But when he does get the urge to spank you, the way you react is enough for him to grant it as a favourite place for his hand to be, the way your body reverberates, the sharp gasp, the little whine that quickly melds into a moan. It’s a sound he could live on forever, savouring it as his hand caresses the area to soothe it, before giving your ass another squeeze he can never resist doing.

─ ─ ─ ─

Ryomen Sukuna (hair + stomach)

There is no question for Sukuna, he’ll answer no hesitation that it’s your stomach. With the size difference between you, it’s almost instinctual. He just can’t get enough of the way your belly bulges with every thrust of his hips, he could watch it forever, entranced by it, letting his hand run over the soft skin as he feels how deep you’re able to take him.

It’s his favourite part of you honestly, a softness he craves, it doesn’t matter how it looks, your insecurities will vanish with him, he’ll worship your belly no matter what, because it’s his, and he loves you for the way that you are. He gets to feel your soft flesh under his hand as his hips meet yours continuously, there’s something primal in it he feels, knowing that his possessiveness increases tenfold from just resting his hand there and he’s not shy about it.

Oh but he’d never forget about your hair, his ultimate source of control when the two of you are fucking. Having it grasped in his fist makes him feel powerful, he knows he’s powerful already but general power and power over you? Well those are two completely different things, the latter being the one that makes him dizzy. The way you allow him to grab it, tug it if he so wishes, using the grip to guide your head wherever he wants.

He could tilt your head back, wanting to see you arch your back just slightly more as he thrusted his cock inside you, or baring your throat for kisses or teasing nibbles. And  when the tug is just a little hard enough to mix a gasp into your moans, it’s music to his ears, he lives for the dance of pain and pleasure and adores the way you respond to it, giving into the pull, knowing you trust him so sincerely.

─ ─ ─ ─

Kento Nanami (hips + face)

Nanami is nothing if not devoted when in love, these two places being easy favourites, your hips and face are where his worship naturally leads. He longs to take care of you, appreciate you in the way you deserve to be, and is one of the reasons he’s so drawn to the missionary position. It lets him see you, properly, hold eye contact as his cock slips through your folds, wanting to pick up on every reaction, see every inch of pleasure on your face, the way your breath mingles together, the closeness is everything. His hands instinctively reach out to caress your face, cup your chin as he peppers kisses along every inch, your jaw, your cheeks, your temples, there is not a single part that won’t feel Nanami’s love.

He’ll take it slow, there’s no urgency in his devotion, he’ll let his fingers brush along your soft skin as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans when you clench particularly tightly around him. His eyes practically roll back when his fingers meet your lips and you part to let him slide them in, no pressure, just resting on your tongue as you look at each other with so much love and affection. And then, there are your hips, he doesn’t hold onto them with a desperate possessiveness as he pounds into you, he doesn’t need to, he just holds them with a quiet message, wanting to anchor himself to you.

He relishes in this connection, feeling so close as he’s balls deep inside you, his hands on your hips serve to ground him, keep him in the moment as his breathing grows shaky. His hold is firm enough to let him guide the movements, using your hips to meet his thrusts, but always gentle, he’ll draw soft circles against the skin there, admiring every inch of your heated skin, the touch there always a silent vow of his love.

─ ─ ─ ─

[lananiscorner]

A little while ago I told the head of my department at work (my boss's boss, so to speak) about the bigoted shit we have to deal with on Steam somedays, especially when a game of ours actually includes a main character that is not white, young, male, straight (you do not want to believe some of the shit I had to read when we published a new DLC with a female main character for a hunting game...), and my department boss said something that hit me like a ton of bricks:

If you think representation doesn't matter, then you've probably had a lot representation yourself.

Because that's the heart of it, isn't it? You can apply that principle to anything.

If you don't think UBI would be useful, then you've probably always had enough money to be able to pay for your basic needs (rent, utilities, food).

If you think rainbow capitalism doesn't matter, then you are probably young enough to have grown up with it, and too young to remember the days when a song calling a band of gnc teens "cripples and fags" managed to hit the top 10 billboard charts.

If you don't think racial or gender bias in medicine is a thing, then you are probably a white man, who never had to worry about being called "hysterical" for being deeply worried about recurring/worsening symptoms that may be related to a normal function of your body or they may be cancer, and you've certainly never had a doctor miss obvious signs of a disease because they represent differently on skin of your color (e.g. infectuous rashes, melanoma).

William H. Foster III, comic book historian, on representation in comic books. From PBS’s Superheroes: A Never-Ending Battle.

Because a post crossed my dash recently asking why we need to push for more representation in comic books and media in general. 50 years later, this man still tears up because in one panel, Peter Parker spoke to an unnamed black kid. That’s why we need representation.

[heyyoufriendthere]

Nobody asked, but hey. I’m unreasonably sure of myself when it comes to comic book opinions.

Aunt May doesn’t know Peter Parker is Spider-Man.

I mean, she does NOW, but for a good majority of Peter’s career from the sixties up? Hell no. I know it’s cute whenever she’s dying to get that scene where she’s “always known,” and fandom LOVES a “it’s SO obvious when you think about it” moment for when they want to dump on the medium, but no. May Parker doesn’t know he’s Spider-Man and- more importantly- she DOES NOT want to know, and I like it that way.

“Why?” I hear you ask. “She’s been basically his mom since he was a little freaky marvel baby! Who on earth knows him better than her? How on earth couldn’t she have figured out her beat to shit nephew wasn’t Spider-Man when he’s basically just leaving his blood and costume all over his room?”

1. Because as feel good as it is, the Parker household isn’t sunshine and roses. May and Peter shut themselves off for years after Ben died. They love each other to death, but they don’t communicate. He's either shut away in his room, cracking jokes or off running around doing god knows what.

She's talking around him. Walking on eggshells. They both blame themselves, and it took decades for them to admit that to each other. Peter let the robber go, May chased him off because they got into an argument.

This shared guilt manifests in them both desperately wanting to take care of each other.

First, Peter throws himself into being both the Spider-Man, AND, more importantly, the breadwinner. The boy is broke. You know it, I know it, it's one of the single most iconic and relatable things about him. He gets weird about it. He's ALWAYS worried about it. I hear he might even have a money-worrying disease.

Money or the lack thereof has always been important to the mythos, even before Ben's death, but before Ben dies it manifested in things like Peter wanting a car or motorcycle the family couldn't afford and doing a wrestling gig. After Ben dies, his priorities shift.

He treats Aunt May like she’s made of glass (to be fair, she kinda is. Early Spider-Man has that woman fainting or having a heart attack every other week. Her constitution is held up by tissues, the US Healthcare system and Anna Watson’s unbreakable back muscles.)

Now, on top of being a near full time super hero, he's also saddled himself with the responsibility of taking care of the only parental figure he's got left in life while also trying to juggle both school and spending time with a friend group whose bank accounts aren't worried about when Jonah's feeling particular chipper about paying his employees.

Now he's trying to cover May's medical bills. Now he's trying to cover the rent. Now he's more worried about leaving May alone to live with Anna when his burgeoning friendship with Harry Osborn and the Coffee Bean Gang has netted him a free, all expenses paid apartment.

Meanwhile.

May's doing the exact goddamn thing. Richard and Mary dying the way they did kicked off the Parker family habit of keeping secrets, and Ben dying kicked her s-mothering into overdrive. She starts doting on him in a way that makes him feel like a child (modern depictions will try to convince you he was an itty bitty baby boy when he got his powers. They're lying. He was out of high school like 30 issues after Amazing Spider-Man #1.)

She's pawning her jewelry. She's trying to set him up with Mary Jane because she knows what's best for him (he needs someone fun and energetic because he's so quiet, and it's certainly not going to be that awful Betty Brant who will keep him on his toes).

Her entire idea of their relationship is that he's functionally helpless and she needs to take care of him. She’s not getting younger! Practically has one foot in the grave! That’s why she needs to put on an act to show him that everything is fine.

Richard and Mary are dead. Ben is dead. She's barely functioning on her and Ben's savings, the things she can sell and the money Peter's bringing in from his photography work. But it’s fine! Everything is fine and life will be just a bit brighter with a nice schmear on the bagel.

(Shout out to JM DeMattheis for showing up in the 90's to inject some fucking LIFE into Aunt May. Look at that quirked eyebrow. What a legend. Never read his Doctor Fate run, it will give you hives.)

2. Because, contrary to popular belief, Peter’s VERY good at hiding his identity and gaslighting his friends and family, especially when you combine his GGG skills with the good old Parker luck and its passive debuff to everyone's collective sanity.

Is this not the face of a woman doing okay in her relationship with New York's Friendly Neighborhood dirtbag?

I blame the Ultimate Spider-Man cartoon (he's fine with Shield immediately revealing his identity to a group of teen heroes? Absolutely the fuck not.) and the continuing woobification of comic books for how much this idea that Peter's inherently bad at keeping his identity secret comes up, because it's backbreaking work Peter doing to pull the wool over all of their eyes.

Why is he late? His job. Why is he never around? His job. What could his excuse be this time? Aunt May had her bi-weekly heart attack. Why is he beat to hell and back? He got hurt in the middle of getting pictures of Spider-Man. Why won't he ask for help? Why do none of his friends find this suspicious?

Part of it's because he didn't have friends in High School except for Betty and Liz Allen. He was an angry loner too stuck up his own ass about how smart he was to take the NUMEROUS opportunities presented to him to actually engage with his peers except to fight with Flash, (don't let modern depictions fool you either. Flash Thompson and Peter Parker weren't Bully and Bullied, they were enemies. They gave as good as they got. That's also, not coincidentally, why Gwen and Harry's first impressions of him in college were that he was rude little jackass).

So by the time he's in college and finally has a social life, literally everyone is used to him being a flake.

Which isn't to say that's the only way he's keeping his secret.

Here's the first of a few attempts to tell people exactly who he is.

Peter has a habit of telling his friends the truth they need to hear you see. Sometimes when he's delirious, sometimes when he's not, like here at Gwen's birthday party.

Or here when he's finally resolved himself to stop ruining his girlfriend Debbie's life after numerous therapy sessions about how she knows he's Spider-Man.

But that'll never be the end of it! He can't just out himself to the people he loves! No! He just made Gwen cry! Think about what this would do to May! So he does things like going to Hobie Brown to help him sucker the gang back into blissful ignorance.

Or walking back his reveals the second someone doesn't take them seriously.

After all, if it's fixed her and she doesn't suspect a thing, why bother telling her the truth? Yeesh. She goes on to write a book about it, it’s very funny.

But you get my point. Peter gets both very good at keeping his identity secret and is very wary of actually telling anyone over the years, to the point that just about the only people who knew leading up to the Civil War reveal were Mary Jane (don't you love a friendly neighborhood retcon?), the Fantastic 4, off again/on again dead or dying Harry/Norman Osborn, and Black Cat.

Otherwise it’s just people with superpowers or extenuating circumstances ENTIRELY out of his control that find out, like when he gets ambushed by Serial Sniffers like Wolverine and Daredevil. Or when he gets outed by his gooey ex Venom after it oozed onto Eddie Brock. Or the occasional psychic like Cyclop’s and Jean Grey's time/dimension adrift fail-son Nate Grey.

But this is a post about Peter and Aunt May, so let's get back to that before I run wild and free on another tangent.

3. Aunt May has had so many opportunities to know his secret. She finds his costume in his room!

She's literally seen a whole doll made of web fluid in his bed! She faints immediately of course, it was the sixties, but what does he do? Does he say, "Oh Aunt May, I'm so sorry I've been lying to you for awhile, I'm actually Spider-Man"? No! Of course he doesn't! He lies about why the hell there was a webbing doll in his fucking bed!

But why does she believe him?

Because it all comes back to this.

If Aunt May knows three things, it's that Aunt May knows her nephew.

Aunt May knows reality.

And Aunt May knows that she HATES Spider-Man.

Wait what?

Yeah! Aunt May hates Spider-Man, go figure. That rotten motherfucker is the cause of so much grief in her life. Why is Peter getting hurt? He's taking pictures of Spider-Man. Who's always causing trouble in the Daily Bugle? Spider-Man. She's set to marry Otto Octavius, and who shows up to ruin it? Spider-Man. George Stacy died, orphaning Gwen?! Spider-Man! GWEN DIED? SPIDER-MAN, SPIDER-MAN, SPIDER-FUCKING-MAN!

She hates him so much that she pulls a gun on him. She fires it! There's a BKOW effect and everything!

Let that sink in. Not only is this the only time Aunt May has ever used a gun in the main continuity, but it's pointed at him. In her purse you'll find petty cash, some important documents, her change purse, a cooking utensil or two, and Aunt May's Glock For Spider-Man.

To me, Aunt May not knowing and not wanting to know is an important part of the character because her not being able to square these two things she knows are true in the same round hole makes her even more compelling. Peter Parker is her frail nephew who she loves more than anything in the world and Spider-Man is singlehandedly the largest, most destructive cause of stress for the Parkers. If her finding out isn't a shock, if it isn't negative, then something is wrong with the reveal.

Because you can't tell me that this woman finally coming to terms with the fact that Peter Parker is Spider-Man is going to be a peaceful affair. That she'd know and just be waiting for him to tell her.

This is a woman who hates and loves with a passion. Peter is her son and she's going to do what any good mother would do if they found out their kid is actively putting himself in harms way and lying about it to their face. Fic culture and games like Insomniac's Spider-Man, LOVE to smooth over all of her edges. She's the perfect, prim, caring Aunt May with infinite patience and a penchant for dramatic reveals. Can she be sad? Sure. Happy? Always. Worried about her nephew? No problem. Sometimes she can even be disappointed.

But angry? Not the perfect mother? No we can't have that, what about our feel good narrative? God forbid if she occasionally bites Peter the way he bites everyone around him! That would sully the message!

I don't know. I've spent the past five hours typing this up and finding my various images. Section 2 had to be cut way down because I can't hop across 12 more runs looking for the way he let Harry get trucked off to a mental hospital or how he burned Norman's goblin suits to keep him from relapsing from his amnesia and revealing his identity.

Long story short. Let May kill a man. Let her have a reaction less tepid than gasping out how proud she is of Peter. It's what makes those moments when she starts harassing Jonah and the Bugle feel so much better. It's why it's so cathartic to see them finally reconcile. Smooth Aunt May has never and will never hit the same.

[milksnake-tea]

━━ stone and skin .

Weeping Angels are both an enigma and a threat to the human race. Quicker than bullets, stronger than steel, yet vulnerable to something as simple as sight - everything about their biology defies the rules of the natural world. Only now, with a Family of Weeping caught in captivity, can scientists finally study these creatures. As for you, you are the current taker of one of these Weeping - an angel who calls himself Sunday.

weeping angel!sunday x gn!reader

contains: alternative universe, freakday, mild gore, sunday is explicitly not human in here so he might be a little ooc. this is not reformed sunday. this is oakday.

word count: 2.36k

a/n: hey sunday kisser nation did u miss me. im back.

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs, @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz , @dawnsigil

“Hello, Caretaker.”

His voice is as rich as honey and as deceptively sweet as nightshade. There is almost an echo around it, like a synth or perhaps a harmonious choir, given the appearance of his species, that serves to draw you in.

To even hear him is a marvel in of itself. For decades, the scientific community had been convinced that Weeping Angels did not speak - why would they? They moved too fast, their spare moments of life too fleeting and too quick for conversation to unfold. Even if they did speak, it would surely be at a frequency that cannot be understood by man.

And yet, all of those researchers would be proven wrong. In this facility, where a “Family” (that is what they called groups of their own) of the Weeping have been captured, they soon learned that the Weeping had voices sent from beyond the skies.

You cannot see it, but you can feel it as Sunday’s eyes rake over your form. His gaze is searing, far too intense to belong to any normal organic creature - but then again, anything that turned to stone as a defense mechanism could not be considered normal.

“Ah, I see you’ve brought breakfast,” he observes. “How punctual of you."

You think he steps forward, but truthfully, you could never tell. With every one of the Weeping, one step for them could mean five for you - one second they are in the corner of their room, and the next they are in front of you.

“The last Caretaker wasn't as organized,” Sunday continues mildly.

His hands brush against yours as he takes the tray of food - today, it is a steak, cooked just past rare and garnished the mildly sweet sauces you know Sunday likes. You didn’t think that the Weeping had a preference for their meals - they ate whatever they could, whenever they could, and as fast as they could. Cooking wasn’t exactly an option for them.

“It’s a good thing you’ve replaced them. I wouldn’t know what to do if the next Caretaker was as slovenly as the last.”

Steak as a breakfast item is certainly a choice, you think as the tell tale signs of utensils clinking come from three to four steps before you. Sunday refuses to eat on the ground or standing up, so the facility has taken it upon themselves to grace him with a properly furnished office, complete with a large, mahogany desk in the center.

What use a Weeping has for a desk, you don’t know.

“Have you finished?” you ask after a few seconds. Like all Weeping, Sunday eats quick - does he even stop to savor the flavors so carefully crafted for him by the chef?

“Yes,” Sunday replies with what you’ve come to know as laughter - a mix between a hum and a purr, and full of deliberate breath.

That was another abnormality - unlike his sister who at least has the grace to pretend she is human, Sunday breathes as if he doesn’t need to. His breath is not vital, rather it is an extension of him, it is his expression. 

“Give my regards to the chef; like always, the steak is most delicious.”

There’s a swish of cloth as he dabs his lips.

“Of course.” You keep your head bowed and your eyes closed. In a flash, Sunday leaves his desk, returns the tray to you, and flashes back to his desk again. “Is there anything you need?”

Normally, you would clean his room at this time. But Sunday is rather particular in how he arranges his living space, and the last time you dared to meddle, you could feel the repressed rage radiating off of him.

You had to walk around with your eyes open for a week, for if not, Sunday would’ve likely killed you. As kind as he may try to appear, he is a Weeping, and they are violent in nature.

Although, keeping your eyes on him might’ve angered him further. Ironically, the Weeping hate being statues. Sunday told you once - while he is safe as stone, it is akin to being drenched in sweat. It’s cold, clammy, and disgusting, and worse of all, he can’t do anything about it.

And so every time he annoys you or makes your life difficult, all you have to do is open your eyes.

Honestly, you’re surprised he hasn’t killed you yet. He certainly has the means and the willpower, and the facility has plenty more where you came from. You can still smell the blood of his last Caretaker, whose iron still lingers on his lips.

“Ah, yes, actually.” There’s the faintest hint of joy in his voice, and you wonder if Sunday is smiling. He sounds farther away - perhaps he is looking outside his faux window, which always shows a bright and sunny morning. But the glass is fake - no one is stupid enough to put glass near a Weeping.

Feathers flutter slightly, and he is before you again. This time, the pads of his fingers ghost alongside your cheek, hovering but not yet touching.

“Might I trouble you again?” he asks softly, with a gentleness that he shouldn’t have. You can’t believe it to be genuine - you refuse to. The Weeping have no heart, nor do they have the capacity for affection.

And yet, you can’t help but remember the fondness of which he speaks of his sister, the female Weeping that resides in the room next door. He often asks you-

“What color are her eyes? What does she look like when she smiles? Is her hair like mine?”

-for he has never seen her outside of grey, that dark, freckled grey that they both despise. And she has yet to see him, and so she asks you the same. 

Truthfully, it is only because of the security cameras that you can even answer them. When no one watches, the Weeping are able to shed their stone skin. Robin is like a field of lavenders, her eyes a meadow with a clear blue sky. Sunday, on the other hand, is polished gem and steel, like a precious stone found in a cave.

What he feels for you is nothing more than a faint curiosity. Never before has a living creature willingly closed their eyes before him, and never has he allowed one to live so long with them closed. And as such, he knows nothing of warmth, of flesh and of emotion.

“As long as you restrain yourself.” 

Sunday chuckles at that.

“Of course.”

Restraint - such a funny thing to ask of a Weeping, who strikes whenever they can and takes what they can get with a hunger that is devouring. But Sunday, you’ve come to find, puts great importance in keeping his word, and as such, he will refrain from tasting your blood once more.

His hands cradle your face, thumbs squishing and molding your cheeks as if they are clay. What would he shape them into if they were?

There’s a twisted sort of fascination as he squeezes and melds your flesh and your skin. No matter how many times he does it, he cannot bring himself to understand just how soft you are - how easily you could be destroyed. Stone is perfect. Stone is unyielding. Stone is strong. Flesh is weak - vulnerable. To be human, to be alive, is to be weak.

And yet, there is something insatiable about it nevertheless. He wonders, if he were to take a bite from you, would you still be as warm? Would your cheeks still be soft between his teeth?

He tries not to get too close to your eyelashes. If he does, he might try and pluck them out, just to see the color they try to hide. But he mustn’t - he promised you.

What color are your eyes? 

He’s asked you this before, but you always give him the simplest of descriptions, descriptions that he cannot use adequately. He wants to know - are your eyes meadows like Robin’s, or are they gemstones like his? If he were to lose himself in them, what world would he see? What colors are reflected in them? Would your pupils dilate when you see him, like most animals’ do when they see their mate? Or would they shrink in fear, as a prey does when faced with a predator? Do they ever shine with joy, fill with tears, blaze with anger?

But alas, he could never know. For once you blink them open, his world becomes black, and he’s thrust back into that stone cage which he detests. And then, he is just like you, forced only to hear and feel, never allowed to see.

And if that is all that he allowed, then he will make use of it. After all, he needs not sight to devour.

“Say,” he murmurs, digging his thumbs into the corners of your lips to stretch them into a smile, “are you happy?”

It seems an eternity passes before you answer, if he could even call what you said an answer.

“Why do you ask?”

Sunday hums in that song of his, tilting his head. “I’m simply curious, that’s all. In all my years, I’ve yet to see a human that was truly happy. They are always… fearful. Sometimes, sorrowful. Other times, defeated. But never happy, never… fulfilled.”

“That is to be expected.” You squirm a bit in his hold, but Sunday’s hands are as unyielding as the stone he despises. “You are one of the only species known to have a diet consisting of mostly humans.”

“And yet you aren’t afraid. Why is that? I could kill you much faster than you could open your eyes.”

As if to prove his point, one of his hands flickers to your neck, the sharpened tips of his nails ghosting over your throat, yet never once drawing blood. You will never bleed in his presence unless you allow for it - for if there is one thing that Sunday can be commended for, it is his control.

You swallow, and Sunday retreats just enough to permit the movement. It’s an awkward position for you to be in, with one of the Weeping’s hands keeping a lopsided smile on your face, and the other poised to cut you open.

Slowly, a smile slips onto your lips, and you can hear the metallic clink of Sunday’s halo as he tilts his head. Curious as ever, the Weeping’s thumb lightens so that he can see a real, natural smile.

“Because I know you won’t,” you whisper, voice filled with humanity’s hubris. “You’re too curious.”

Sunday’s eyes narrow, and the burning concentrates to your lips like how sunlight passed through glass burns paper. Truth be told, you’re surprised that you’ve yet to be set on fire by his gaze alone.

“And what makes you say that?” he asks. You cannot tell if he is angry or amused, or both.

Your grin widens. This is what will get you killed, you’re sure of it. A sun holds you in his embrace, and yet you’re daring to question his power.

“Crush me then, if you’re so sure you can.”

Your heartbeat has never been so loud in your ears. Sunday seems to have frozen, but given that his hands are still warm against your skin, he hasn’t turned to stone. Rather, he is pondering, weighing your life on an imaginary scale, wondering whether he should snap the neck of this blasphemer and be done with it.

That was the funny thing with the Weeping - they looked and acted like the angels of legend, with their halos and wings and eerie demeanor, but as far as you could tell, there was no God that they answered to. No scriptures to govern their morals, no rules they had to uphold. They were animals, humanoid and sentient only because that was what allowed them to survive.

And yet, they always seemed to be praying. For what, you cannot begin to fathom. What kind of salvation would such a beast wish for, anyway?

Short, sharp, shaking breaths snap you out of your thoughts. Sunday laughs, in the only way he knows how.

“You’re right,” he concedes, a smile in his words. “Astute as always, Caretaker.”

And then he strikes.

One moment, you are cradled, and the next, you are devoured. Sunday’s fingers sink into you like anchors as he molds your lips into his. He steals your breath greedily, hand pushing it out from your throat, as if it would make his any more genuine.

It doesn’t take long for his teeth to show. Craving more, as a starving animal always does, he bites down, his fangs almost like needles with their precision. You seize up, mouth parted to gasp, before he steals that too, tongue darting out to finally, at last, taste you.

For a Weeping, this is slow - agonizingly slow. Sunday has always been a patient angel, but even he falters when in the middle of a feast. Forcing himself to slow down is as painful to him as clipping his wings, and yet he does it anyway.

His tongue drags against the nicks in your lips. If it weren’t for the way he kept coaxing out the blood, you’d think he was trying to soothe you.

In his feast, he forgets that you are still human, and that for you, breath is not a luxury, but a necessity. You begin to fight against him, pushing and squirming, and only then does he snap out of his instincts.

He doesn’t let go, not yet. Only after he drinks from you one last time does he finally part, and it’s when you are free that your eyes snap open.

And everything freezes. Sunday’s warmth disappears like a flame blown out, and his skin hardens into marble. You cough and sputter and gasp, prying yourself from his hold. Tears blur your vision and saliva coats your lips - whether it be yours or of the Weeping’s, you don’t know.

But through it all, you see him. That blasted Weeping, a statue within the enclosure. There’s blood on his lips and glee in his eyes.

He’s smiling.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[petrichoravis]

In between history. | s.r.

★ part i

★ to the SERIES MASTERLIST here

summary: you help the team with a history related case, all while trying not to reveal your relationship with a certain doctor and fellow professor to his teammates.

word count: 3,1k

what to expect: spencer reid x history professor!reader, fem!reader, post prison!spencer duh, case details (abuse, grooming), fucked up timeline cause hotch is here and tara, luke and matt are missing (I love them, I just don't feel like I can give them justice), abrupt ending bc I didn’t feel like writing the take down, not proof read, English is not my first language.

a/n: she's here, I'm so nervous!! my first series.... it's all a little rushed bc of exams and bc I wanted to give it to you as quick as possible. I hope you enjoy it!!

──── ᝰ.ᐟ

He dreaded that this moment had come. He always knew that it would at some point, but he still wished it away.

They weren’t exactly stuck; Spencer didn’t have to consult you, but he knew that having you to spark ideas and bounce off of would be helpful. And the fact that you had niche knowledge of historic events that Spencer only had surface-level knowledge on certainly helped, too.

Not only did he not look forward to it because the team didn’t know you existed—not to mention that you were together—but also because he really did not want to drag you into the dangerous world that was the Behavior Analysis Unit of the FBI.

He had excused himself from the conference room ten minutes ago already and knew that he had to make a decision soon, or the team would get suspicious.

With a sigh, he pulled his phone out of his pocket for the third time, your number already lighting up the small screen where he had typed it in moments before.

When he did build up the courage to press the green button and pressed the small device to his ear, a part of him hoped that you were in a lecture. (He knew you weren’t; he had your lectures memorized.)

“Hey, Spence,” your voice greeted him from the other side of the line.

“Hello, love. How are you?”

“Better now.” He could practically see the amusement light up your eyes. “I had a really fulfilling conversation with one of my students today. Are you okay? You don’t usually call me in the middle of a case.”

Ever observant you, a thing that he usually loved you for. “No, no, everything’s okay.” He tried being vague, but it came across as an unconvincing lie.

“Do I need to decipher that for some kind of FBI code?”

He laughed, the tension in his shoulders waning. It was just like you to quieten his worries with just a few soothing words. “No deciphering needed, I promise. The case is just a little difficult to figure out.”

“Can I help in any way?”

More than you knew, Spencer thought. More than you should have to.

“Yeah, actually.” Spencer cleared his throat, playing with the end of his tie. “The UnSub seems to have a fondness for history.”

“Oh, well, I think I can help with that.”

“Yeah,” he huffed, but quickly added, “you don’t have to, of course, we can figure it out by ourselves if you’re too busy.”

“No, it’s okay. Should I come to the office or…?” He could already hear you shuffling around your office in search of your jacket.

Spencer glanced up at the clock, 6:47 pm, “If that’s okay? We’re at the Quantico police department. Most of the team is still here.”

It was a quiet way of telling you that it was okay if you weren’t ready to meet them yet. You had been dating for almost half a year now and the conversation about telling and meeting the team was always something you communicated clearly.

The intention wasn’t to hide your relationship or feelings; it just didn’t feel like something the team had to know, given that they didn’t know you.

Spencer liked having a life separate from his work life and, while he loved the team, he didn’t want to have to share everything with them.

Now, with you potentially meeting them, the not-hiding part changed. Either you would have to act like you didn’t know each other past both being professors at the same university, or you would have to tell them you have been together for quite a while.

“I’m sure,” you said, shaking him from his thoughts, your voice reinforcing the statement. “If I can help catch a killer, I will.”

Spencer sighed as the call ended a minute later. He was worried, to say the least.

Things went wrong in the field every day and people suffered severe burnouts because of the things they saw. And now he was putting you into these situations for the sole purpose of catching an UnSub.

He left the room to find Emily and Morgan in the entrance area next to the coffee machine.

“There you are, pretty boy, we were starting to worry.” Morgan grinned, slapping Spencer on the back.

“Sorry,” he replied, wringing his fingers like they were doorknobs, “I had to make a call.”

Emily and Morgan looked at him, a bewildered expression on their faces.

“I, um, called a…consultant?” Spencer continued. God, this was gonna suck. “About the case, and she has agreed to help us. I just need to talk to Hotch—” He was already turning towards the stairs before Emily interrupted him.

“Whoa there, Spencer,” she stopped him before he could slip away from them. “Who is this consultant?”

“I would also very much enjoy that information.” Morgan crossed his arms.

Spencer suppressed a groan, turning back to face them. “She’s a professor at the university I teach at.” He said shortly, hoping it would be enough.

Of course it wasn’t. “A professor?” Emily had a way of sounding curious, all the while her eyes shone with mischief. “And you think she can help?”

“She specialises in history and historic texts. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have an expert's eye on the letter the UnSub wrote.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but he had a feeling he wasn't doing a very good job with that.

Morgan looked sceptical, but he let it go. But not without a smirk on his mouth. “Well, I’m very interested in meeting the mysterious professor who makes you pick up your cell phone.”

“I second that.”

They won’t ever let this go, Spencer groaned in his head. “Well, you will meet her if you would let me talk to Hotch.”

His tone wasn’t lost on them, but they let him go, anyway.

As he sped up the stairs to the unit chief's office, he could feel the teasing looks burn on his back.

He didn't dare to look over his shoulder as he knocked on the door and, upon call, entered and closed it behind him.

—

When you arrived at the PD, Spencer was already waiting outside like he had been there since the call ended.

Based on his body language, you could deduct that he was nervous, and looking over his shoulder you could see why. Two sets of heads were trying not to look like they were spying on you.

So you would have to go without the hello hug and kiss today. No problem, you could act as the acquaintance.

“Hello, Dr. Reid.” You said with a polite smile.

You could see the relief flicker across his face as he greeted you with your title as well, shaking your hand. His fingers lingered on yours a little too long to be friendly, but thankfully, his frame blocked the team's view of your hands.

As you walked into the PD, Spencer explained the case details that they had so far. “The UnSub places coins into the mouths of his victims after their death and dumps them near a river. We think it might be connected to the Ancient Greek tradition, Charon’s obol.”

You nodded along as he went on to tell you more. "I will look at it and try my best to see more useful information, but I am in no way as good as your team."

Spencer's look told you as much as to shut up. Lovingly, of course.

As you stepped into the building, you were greeted by Spencer’s team. It was almost surreal, like storybook characters coming to life in front of you.

They all greeted you with polite smiles and handshakes, introducing themselves by name as you did the same.

After the round of introductions came to an end, they led you into the conference room.

Cork and blackboards littered with crime scene pictures stood all over the room, a big table with files stood tall in the center. You could feel Spencer’s hand brush your arm in apology.

“We have a little bit of a slow spell at the moment.” JJ’s voice came from behind you. “Thank you for taking the time to come here and look at what we’ve got.”

“Of course,” you smiled at her as you finally all stood in the room. “As I’ve told Spe—Doctor Reid, I’m glad that I can be of assistance. Can I see the pictures?” You asked.

Emily nodded and handed you a picture of a man, his skin almost gray as he lay in the riverbed. Another photograph showed his mouth wide open, a silver coin placed on his tongue.

It was nauseating, to see a body folded up into a position it naturally shouldn’t be able to fold into, but you grit your teeth and tried to look at it as a statical thing to asses.

“The coin placed in the mouth is definitely referencing Charon's obol.” You agreed with Spencer’s earlier statement, looking back up.

Before the others could answer, the door opened and a female officer came in, a file in hand.

“Thank you,” Rossi said with a smile as she handed it to him. Flipping it open, he read, “The first victim's name was Gabriel Treuden. He went missing in April two years ago.”

“Which means the UnSub kept him for about ten months. Just like his last victim.” Said the blond you came to know was Jennifer.

“Ten months you said?” You perked up. “Does he keep all of his victims for ten months?”

“That’s the assumption we are working with.” Morgan nodded, frowning a little.

“I think I know what he is doing.” You stood up quickly, walking towards the whiteboard and picking up a marker out of habit. Once a professor, always a professor. “Have you ever heard of Ostracism?”

Your hands fiddled with the pen after you finished writing the word on the board. Standing in front of the team you had only heard good things about turned out to be even more nerve-wracking than teaching a lecture in front of university students.

Spencer’s eyes lit up with recognition and he looked at you. “Of course, why haven’t I thought of that?”

Morgan and Emily glanced at each other without saying a word, but it was clear to both of them what the other was thinking: you and Spencer were made for each other.

“Care to explain to us illiterates what you geniuses are on about?” Morgan teased.

“Oh, sorry.” You said quickly. “Ostracism was an Ancient Greek tradition. It primarily took place in Athens, but other Greek communities had things similar to it, too. They would vote for a person once a year and if you won, you would be exiled for ten years, as a way to eliminate a threat identified by the community.”

“He shortened the time. Probably because his urges are too strong. A vote, most likely made by himself, a month apart instead of a year and the time he has them exiled for is ten months instead of ten years.” Spencer continued.

Hotch nodded, “Rossi, Morgan, I want you to speak with the Treuden family. Garcia, search for connections between him and the other victims and try to find out as much information about Gabriel as possible.” He told the technical analyst over the phone. Then he turned to you. “Would you be open to staying here in case anything happened?”

You nodded, smiling politely, “Of course, Mr. Hotchner.”

He gave you a small smile and looked at Spencer. Without even having to open his mouth, Spencer knew what he was going to say.

“I’ll stay, too.” He nodded.

His boss gave him a knowing look behind your back before departing.

—

The files and crime scene photos had long moved to the back of your minds as you and Spencer were left to yourselves in the conference room.

“I’m sorry for having to involve you in this situation,” Spencer said in the way he did when he was afraid of hurting people around him. “It was never my intention for us to have to hide, much less meet the team under these circumstances.”

You gave him a reassuring smile, “Spence, I really am happy to help, I promise. Your team has been so nice to me and this is why I became a professor, anyway.”

“To hide your relationship with an FBI agent from his team?” Spencer joked, tilting his head to the side.

“To be paid and valued for my rambling,” you grinned lovingly, “but, yeah, I might have had an ulterior motive when I chose my career path.”

Spencer had a look when he was happy: a small but proud smile and soft eyes. He looked at you like that now and even though you were in the middle of a police station, with the possibility of his team coming back any minute, you felt the irresponsible urge to kiss him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Spencer huffed, fiddling with his hands.

“Like what?”

He rolled his eyes a little, “You look like a teenager in love.”

“The whole secret relationship thing has been getting to my head a little.” You laughed softly. “Sneaking around, kissing in broom closets, hiding from the adults. Those are all things my students do.”

Spencer tried his best not to squirm in his seat. You had the fascinating ability to turn him right back into the awkward nerd he thought he’d shed in prison.

It felt refreshing in ways he never thought it would. After those three month, he was convinced no one would ever make him feel like a blushing fool again. And he had never much felt like a teenager, either.

He could never tell you how thankful he was for you, no words in the English language have been invented to explain this amount of gratitude.

“We haven’t kissed in broom closets.” Spencer tried to sound as flirtatious as you, but had the feeling that he sounded more like he had no idea what to say.

“No,” he saw the way your eyes shone and already knew what you’d say next would make the flush creep higher up his neck before you said it. “But we have a few more minutes of your team being gone.”

“I guess we do.”

—

The sun was rising and your lips were bare of any lipstick, red for an entirely new reason.

The team came back just the hair of a second after you sat back down at the round table to start pretending you had gotten any work done in their absence. Bless Spencer’s feel for timing.

They weren’t able to figure out much more besides that almost all of the UnSub’s newer victims’ children went to the same high school at some point.

Just as they weren’t sure what to do next and Hotch was going to send them home, an officer stormed in. “They were able to identify the last victim. His name was Charles Smith, forty-three, also married with children.”

You glanced at the board, where the victims' pictures and personal information were pinned. They were all over forty years old. A memory came loose in your brain, but you couldn’t quite shake it free.

Older men with families…UnSub being in his early twenties…

You replayed the case details they told you in your head.

Charon’s obol…Ancient Greek…

“What is it?” Spencer asked as he saw the creases between your brows.

It clicked just as Spencer’s eyes met yours.

“Nothing, I just...The UnSub has only targeted married men over the age of forty so far, right? And you profiled that he would be about twenty years old?”

You were met with nods and looks full of confusion.

“It could be a coincidence, but given that he has made other nods to Greek mythology…We have many records that same sex relationships were something that the Ancient Greeks used as a mentorship kind of thing. The ideal relationship was a teenager and a married man with a family, so the older man could serve as a mentor to the younger.”

Spencer’s eyes had wandered to your lips while you were talking. You quietly cleared your throat with a teasing smile and Spencer’s eyes jumped back to yours.

His eyes widened. Being subtle really didn’t turn out to be his strong suit. He cleared his throat and looked away from you, but you caught the rust of blood that painted his cheeks a rosy pink.

You pretended that you didn’t notice JJ and Emily looking at both of you.

“He probably read books about Greek culture and it grew into a delusion of living in Greece in that time period. It must have been the way he coped with the abuse.” Spencer theorized, rubbing the side of his neck.

Hotch pulled out his phone. “Garcia, cross-reference the students of the high school with people who were groomed by married men while they were in their teens about eight years ago.” Hotch told Penelope. Or, well, the telephone-Penelope.

“Already done, sir.” She chirped back, keys clicking in the background. “And,” she dragged the word out as the computer loaded. “A Lenard Phillips fits the profile like I fit into Derek Morgan’s bed. Which is to say perfectly, if I might say so.”

Morgan laughed. “Address, sugar.”

“You should know by now that I'm not an amateur. The address will be on your cells quicker than you can say ‘you are out of this—”

“You are out of this world, baby girl.” Morgan grinned as he said the words at the same time as her.

You looked baffled. Spencer would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire. “I thought I warned you.” He leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“Has anyone ever filed a complaint?” You asked quietly.

Spencer shook his head. “Even if they tried, I think it would go nowhere.”

Hotch got up from his chair and the others followed suit. “We have no time to waste. Let’s go. Garcia, search for more on Phillips and brief us in the car.”

You watched them get into motion like a carefully choreographed stage play, all of them slipping into their roles as agents.

Following them towards the door, you found Spencer’s hand and squeezed it as a small act of love and support. He turned to look at you sorrowfully. He hated leaving you for a case, even if it wouldn’t be for long this time.

“I have to go.” He said sorrowfully. “I will call you when we've got him in custody.” He promised.

“Be careful,”

“I will.” He hesitated, eyes lingering and searching your face.

You shook your head with a smile. “You do your job and think about your well-being, don’t worry about me.”

He walked towards the door, his hand staying in yours until the distance got too big. As he walked out of the doors of the police station, you could have sworn you heard him mutter a quiet “that’s impossible” under his breath, just before the doors closed behind him.

──── ᝰ.ᐟ

thank you for reading! feedback is very much appreciated and keeps me motivated! 𝜗𝜚

🏷️ @yourlocalconfusedhomo

[sh4nksslvt]

Anatomy Lessons

Professor Law quizzes you on anatomy using your own body as the model—not allowing your release until you pass his intense, hands-on “lesson.”

law x fem!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, NSFW, teasing, orgasm control, toys, professor law, student-teacher relationship, secret relationship, forbidden, modern au a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe n akward | ++ this is my frst time writing nsfw so bear w me lolol word count: 1.4k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You stared blankly at the glaring red marks across your anatomy quiz.

58%.

The number felt like a slap. You weren’t the type to fail — not with your GPA, not with your ambition. And certainly not when your secret boyfriend was the professor teaching the course.

Still, Trafalgar Law didn’t play favorites. Not even with you.

Your phone buzzed under the desk as the last student filed out of the lecture hall.

[Trafalgar Law]: Come to my office. Now.

Your stomach flipped. Not out of fear. No, your relationship had always played dangerously on the line between power and pleasure. He was your professor, yes. But he was also the man who had you gripping his sheets just two nights ago, whispering anatomical terms against your thigh like they were gospel.

You quickly packed up your things and slipped through the side hallway to avoid lingering students.

Law’s office door clicked shut behind you.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth to explain before his voice cut through the air like a scalpel.

“Fifty-eight percent,” he said, his back turned as he scribbled something onto a clipboard. “Disappointing, considering how much of this content you’ve already had hands-on experience with.”

Your cheeks heated. “I was tired.”

“You were moaning my name at 2 a.m., y/n. Don’t blame exhaustion for laziness.”

You stepped forward, shutting the blinds without being asked. It was routine now — the ritual before your “private study sessions.”

“I’ll do extra credit,” you offered with a falsely innocent lilt.

Law turned around, black eyes glinting behind his glasses. He looked every bit the cold, brilliant professor. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his tattoos, collar slightly undone like he’d barely had time to dress between lectures.

“I already have something in mind.”

You swallowed.

He leaned against the desk, beckoning you forward with two fingers.

“Strip. Just enough so I can access what I need.”

You unzipped your jacket, heart pounding, fingers trembling with a mix of excitement and dread. Off came your shirt. Then your bra. He didn’t move. Not even when you pushed down your skirt and stood in just your panties and knee-high socks.

“You’re the model today,” he said, pushing his chair back and gesturing for you to sit on his desk. “We’ll review what you’ve forgotten.”

You climbed up, sitting at the edge.

He picked up his pen and touched it to the top of your sternum.

“Name this.”

“…Sternum.”

“Good.”

His fingers trailed down between your breasts, eyes watching you clinically.

“These?”

“P-pectoralis major.”

“Both sides?”

“Yes.”

“Which part of the brain processes sensory touch?”

You blinked. “Uh… th-the parietal lobe?”

His lips curled. “You hesitated.”

Suddenly, he cupped your breast, thumb grazing your nipple. The contact was sharp, electrifying. You gasped.

“Don’t guess,” he said. “Learn.”

Your back arched slightly, and he pinched.

“Parietal lobe,” you choked.

“Better.”

He reached into the drawer and pulled out a familiar toy — slim, vibrating, curved perfectly to angle inside you. Your breath caught.

“Spread your legs,” he said coolly.

You obeyed.

He pushed your panties aside and ran a finger through your folds, already wet. He gave a soft hum of approval.

“Recite the bones of the pelvis while I insert this.”

You clutched the edge of the desk. “I-inominate bone, ischium, pubis, sacrum—ahh!”

He slid it in, slow and unforgiving. Your body clenched.

“Keep going.”

“C-coccyx… ilium…hngh~”

“Good girl.”

The toy stayed inside. He turned it on low.

You bit your lip hard to keep from moaning as it thrummed deep within you.

Law sat down, legs spread lazily, clipboard on his lap.

“I’ll quiz you,” he said. “You don’t get to come until you score 100%.”

You whimpered.

“And if you get loud,” he added, “I’ll have to punish you. We wouldn’t want the faculty lounge to overhear, would we?”

You shook your head.

His fingers returned to your body — one hand tweaking your nipple, the other sliding two fingers alongside the toy, pressing gently against your entrance.

“Where’s the G-spot located?” he asked, fingers rubbing precisely over that spongy patch inside.

“About… Haah~ t-two inches in, against the anterior wall!”

He smirked. “Impressive. But too slow.”

He turned the toy up a level.

Your hips jerked. You clamped a hand over your mouth.

“What’s the largest nerve in the human body?”

“S-sciatic…!”

His fingers curled.

“Muscles responsible for thigh abduction?”

“Gluteus medius, gluteus minimus—!”

He stopped.

You whined.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“What's the difference between the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems?”

You could barely think.

“Sym…sympathetic is fight or flight—parasympathetic is rest and digest.”

His hand returned to your cunt. Three fingers this time, plunging in, scissoring, curling, rubbing over the toy and your soaked walls.

“You really are a good student when you focus,” he whispered.

You were trembling, holding back an orgasm so hard it physically hurt.

He could see it. Your legs shaking, stomach tensing, eyes glossy.

“Hold it,” he warned.

You nodded desperately.

He took the toy out, leaving you empty, and pulled you off the desk, bending you over it instead. Your chest pressed against cool wood.

“You earned a reward,” he said. “But not release. Not yet.”

You heard the metallic clink of his belt unfastening — slow, deliberate. Then came the soft rasp of his zipper being dragged down, followed by the faint rustle of fabric as he pushed his slacks and briefs just far enough to free himself.

His cock sprang free — hard, thick, flushed deep red at the tip and already leaking with anticipation.

“You remember the planes of the body?” he asked, voice darker now.

You nodded shakily.

“Name them.”

“S-sagittal, transverse, frontal—Mmmfffp!”

Without any warning he slammed into you.

You cried out, mouth muffled by your hand.

He didn’t wait — thrusting deep and hard, one hand tangled in your hair, the other covering your mouth to keep your moans contained. His cock filled you completely — every thick inch stretching you open, dragging against your walls, hitting so deep it knocked the air from your lungs.

“Say them again.”

“Mmfh… sh’git’ll… f’nsverse… f’ontrl…” you sobbed against his palm.

He groaned. “Fuck-... look at you… can't speak properly, dripping onto my floor like a fucking slut, still trying to pass the test.”

He fucked you like he was trying to rearrange your organs — precise, rough, completely in control.

You came without warning — body writhing, moan stifled by his hand.

He growled low in your ear. “I didn’t say you could.”

“I-I couldn’t stop—!”

He pulled out and flipped you over, lifting you back onto the desk, legs spread wide. His cock glistened with your slick as he rubbed the tip against your clit.

“You’ll apologize properly,” he said, slapping your inner thigh.

“A-aahh! I’m sorry, P-professor…”

“Again.”

“Haah~ p-please...I’m sorry I came w-without permission!”

He thrust back inside.

This time it was brutal. Quick. Loud enough to make the books on the shelf rattle.

“You want t-to graduate?” he hissed, fingers digging into your hips.

“Y-yes, please!”

“You want that A mhm?”

“Yes! Nnhg~”

“Then take it. Take every inch.”

You did. You let him fuck the failure out of you.

When he finally came, it was deep, possessive, and with your name on his lips.

He stayed inside for a moment, breathing heavy against your throat, hand stroking your hair.

Eventually, he pulled out with a low groan, breath still ragged as he leaned over you, pressing a kiss on your lips — a soft contrast to everything before.

He didn’t speak at first. Just touched your cheek gently, brushing away a few stray strands of hair that clung to your damp skin. His fingers lingered.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now, rough from exertion.

You nodded, dazed but smiling. “Mhm... just very thoroughly lectured.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. He helped you sit up slowly, his hands steadying your hips when your legs wobbled. Without needing to ask, he reached into the bottom drawer — the one that didn’t hold pens or medical charts, but a small towel, a water bottle, and a pack of wipes.

You knew he kept them there just for you.

He cleaned you up carefully, not rushing — a swipe of the warm cloth between your thighs, wiping down your skin where his marks bloomed red.

“Still trembling,” he muttered, voice almost affectionate. “You came too hard.”

“You made me,” you replied, letting your head rest against his chest.

“Hm,” he hummed. “Should’ve docked points for disobedience.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

He rolled his eyes and pressed the bottle of water into your hand, thumb rubbing absent circles along your thigh as you drank. Afterward, he helped you back into your clothes piece by piece — bra hooked, skirt adjusted, shirt straightened.

Once you were dressed, he bent down to press a kiss just beneath your jaw.

“I’ll write the retake,” he muttered. “You’ll get a 100% this time. No exceptions.”

You giggled softly, still breathless.

“Another… anatomy lesson soon, Professor?”

He looked at you — that cool, unreadable stare softening just enough at the edges.

“Next week. After hours.”

[gimmethatagustd]

the one that i adore | myg

When your boyfriend's subscribers get too comfortable, you can't help but be a little bratty.

Relationship: Camboy Yoongi x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Sex Work, Dom Yoongi, Established Relationship, Crying, Cunnilingus, Edgeplay, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, Overstimulation, Spit As Lube, Squirting, Sex Toys

Word Count: 2,117

A/N: I almost accidentally reposted this on my sims blog

“You wanna see my cock, Kitty? You’re all being so impatient tonight.” 

Kitty_kat420 spewed a few more flirtatious messages into the chat, interrupted a few times by other eager subscribers begging for Yoongi to get on with the show. 

He loved making them wait. By this point, Yoongi had amassed a pretty significant following. He probably could have quit his job and live off the money he made camming, if he wanted to. But he never saw this as a full-time job. It was a side hustle, something that came fairly easy to him. He had the personality for it, the cock for it, the hands for it, the voice for it. And he liked to think his face was pretty, too. 

You, on the other hand, had pretty much only your looks. More than once Yoongi scolded you about your on-camera personality. He claimed you needed to make yourself more eager and seductive. To be fair, you spent most of the time giving the camera a stubborn glare. There were certainly subscribers who enjoyed what they thought to be a love-hate relationship between you and your boyfriend. People loved hatefucking, apparently. But you didn’t hate him. 

You hated all his fucking “fans”. 

Like now, as you laid sprawled on the bed, completely naked and touching yourself for the camera the way Yoongi had so sweetly asked you to, you could look over and see the comments. 

She looks so bored 

I could give you such a better time, Yoongi :)

This bitch just needs a cock stuffed in her and maybe she’ll actually smile 

Your eyes shot up to catch Yoongi’s and you sent him a glare. To your chagrin, his eyes sparkled back at you despite the harsh feedback in the chat. 

“What’s wrong, baby? Something bothering you?” That cheshire gummy grin both irked your soul and had your pussy fluttering. 

“Your subscribers are dicks.” 

Not to your surprise, the chat blew up at your comment. You didn’t bother looking at what they said, your eyes staying on Yoongi. He tutted his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook his head slowly. 

“Ahh, baby, what a mean thing to say. Not on your best behavior today, are you?” He turned to the camera with a small sigh that you knew was fake as hell. “What do you think I should do with her, guys?” 

You let your arm go slack and fall onto the bed beside you, no longer bringing your fingers to circle your clit. Your heartbeat spiked slightly as you watched Yoongi lift his hoodie over his head and ruffle his soft hair to the side. He’s shirtless underneath and you don’t need to see the chat to know that everyone is going crazy for finally seeing your boyfriend’s skin. His silver Cuban link chain thudded against his chest and your eyes skipped down the length of his torso to find the light brown hairs of his happy trail disappear into his joggers. 

“Hmmm… looks like everyone’s pretty annoyed with you, baby.” 

Yoongi rattled off the recommendations in the chat for your punishment. Slapping, choking, orgasm denial, anal - which was fucked up since you hated anal. Kitty-kat420 insisted that he not fuck you at all; no surprise there. You shivered, unsure if your response was out of anticipation or fear. You both knew how much Yoongi loved dishing out punishments for your bratty behavior. 

But when you saw Yoongi reach out of sight of the camera to pull open the drawer of his nightstand, you immediately felt your stomach drop. You shot up to a sitting position with one arm shielding your breasts from the camera. All this camming shit was much harder to get used to than you’d initially thought. 

“Yoongi,” you hissed with widened eyes when your boyfriend moved to rest on his knees on the bed beside you. In his hands were a pair of handcuffs and your bright purple vibrator.

Fuck. 

“Yes?” His eyes sparkled back at you and his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he jingled the handcuffs in your face. “How about you be a good girl for me and lay down?” 

With a glare you scooted up to lie in the middle of the bed and obediently put your arms above your head without him needing to ask. Because you were his good girl, of course. 

After securing your wrists to the headboard frame, Yoongi adjusted the camera to capture a better image of your body sprawled out. The emphasis on having a clear shot of the lower half of your body had you wiggling in the metal restraints. You had an idea of what was about to come, and you were oh so close to begging him to spare you. He’d never punished you like this on camera. The idea of so many people watching… 

Your panicked train of thought was derailed by Yoongi forcing your legs apart. You felt his chain drag coldly across the inside of your thigh as he lowered himself onto the bed, legs further forced apart by his broad shoulders. A small whimper escaped your mouth before you could clamp your lips shut. 

“Nuh-uh, I’m gonna need you to keep that pretty mouth open for me tonight, baby,” Yoongi cooed, grabbing for the vibrator again. He placed it on your stomach while he talked to you, brown eyes flickering dark with mischievous lust. “You’re gonna stop me when you’re about to cum, okay?” 

“Yoongi, please-” 

“What did I say?” His voice cut through your plea with a sharpness that would have made you challenge him if you weren’t at his mercy, chaining to a bed. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay what?” 

“I’ll tell you when I’m about to cum.” 

Yoongi hummed and the feeling of his hot breath on your skin had your head reeling. “You’re not allowed to cum until I say so.” 

There was no time to respond to his demands before you felt Yoongi tilt back slightly to spit directly onto your pussy. You let out a small gasp that morphed into a moan when Yoongi’s tongue swiped through your lips, collecting his spit on his tongue and pushing it directly to your clit. Sucking and licking at your clit was already enough to dissolve your dignity until you were a mess beneath him, all bucked hips and guttural moans. The plunge of two long, ring-clad fingers inside of you was the icing on the cake. It didn’t matter how many times Yoongi pressed into your front wall or circled his tongue around your clit until it was swollen and throbbing - you were always left panting and crying his name. He ate pussy like it was all he was put on this earth to do. 

You yanked at the handcuffs knowing it wouldn’t do you any good, but it was impossible for you to sit still while he went to town on you. Even though you knew your wrists would be raw and possibly cut in a few places by the time he was done with you. 

“Yoongi, fuck,” you moaned, jerking against the cuffs again. “I’m-I’m gonna cum.” 

“Already?” Yoongi snickered. 

God, you wish you could have just not said anything at all. The moment his mouth and fingers disappeared, you genuinely felt like crying. The heat of your orgasm burning in your stomach quickly faded, leaving you with only an uncomfortable throbbing between your legs. 

“Shut up,” you choked out, attempting to pull your legs free from his hold, and failing. 

The vibrator had fallen off your stomach with all your wiggling. Yoongi reached for it again, choosing the lowest vibration to start off with. You felt your legs turn to jelly as you watched him press the tip against your clit. 

“Fuck,” You wrapped your fingers around the chain of the handcuffs and held on as tightly as you could, knowing it would leave marks into your skin. 

“Yeah? That feel good, baby?” Yoongi’s dark eyes flicked up to see your reaction, that gummy smile returning to haunt you. He brought his head back down between your legs, angling himself. Opening his mouth, he licked against your entrance with his tongue flat against your skin. 

You were growing hotter much faster than the first time. Unintelligible whines slipped past your lips dry from panting, but Yoongi didn’t bother to pay attention to you unless he clearly heard those sweet words from you. 

He switched to the next vibration setting and you felt sweat bead along your hairline. With a twisting stomach and shaking legs, you bucked into Yoongi’s face with a bit more force. 

“Gonna cum.” You let out a heavy exhale when Yoongi lifted the vibrator off of your clit. You felt raw and overstimulated now, and your legs continued to shake uncontrollably despite the vibrator being gone. “Yoongi, please, I promise I’ll take this more seriously, please baby just let me cum.” 

Yoongi tutted his tongue again before swiping it over his wet lips. “Not how this works,” he said off-handedly, his attention pivoting to read the chat comments while your legs continued to buzz against his shoulders. “It is sexy when she begs,” he mused in agreement with one subscriber. 

The next time, you were screaming almost immediately when Yoongi set the vibrator to the third setting. He pressed it against your clit so hard you felt like you were going to explode. He had you begging in record time, but still he backed off once you were right on the edge. The kiss he pressed against your clit sent a jolt through your entire body. 

You let your head fall back against your pillow and attempted to calm your breathing. You barely had the energy to look up when you heard your boyfriend chuckle. 

“Tired already?” 

All you could do was grunt. 

“Should I let her cum now?” 

You had no idea what the consensus was; there was no energy to look up for that, either. 

And then there was the vibrator again, slick with your arousal and Yoongi’s spit, turned up to the highest setting and pressed hard against your clit. You let out a small sob, feeling tears well up in your eyes as you willed Yoongi to end the torture. He only flashed you his sweet smile in response and dipped his head down to spit again into your pussy lips to help the vibrator circle your clit more easily. 

“Yoongi, I can’t take it anymore,” you choked out. Tears streamed down your cheeks, dragging your eye makeup along for the ride. Your chest heaved in and out and your legs continued to shake against Yoongi’s shoulders. 

Rather than pull away, he pressed the vibrator against your clit even harder. Another choked sob. Another buck of your hips. And then you felt three fingers slip inside of you. With the vibrator still against your clit, Yoongi began quickly pumping his fingers into you, hitting your front wall hard. 

“Gonna,” you sobbed and tried to blink away the tears lining your eyelashes. “Cum. Yoongi, I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you want, please.” 

“Whatever I want?” He pressed a kiss against the inside of your thigh, glistening with spit and arousal. 

“Yes, fuck, please please yes. Yoongi please.” 

“You’re so gorgeous crying for me.” Yoongi grinned, putting more force into the thrust of his fingers. “Now cum.” 

You felt your entire body snap. The force of your orgasm had so much pressure your walls pushed Yoongi’s fingers out of you. But even as you cried out his name and felt your body shudder under the weight of your climax, there was still more pressure. And more and more and more, until your legs, and the bed, and Yoongi’s face and chest were completely soaked with your cum. 

“Shit,” he groaned, turning off the vibrator and tossing it to the side. “Shit, babe. You fucking squirted.” 

You could hear the ping of payments popping up on the site in response, but all you wanted to do was hide your face. You had squirted in front of who knew how many strangers on the internet. 

“That was so hot. Fuck.” 

When Yoongi reached up to remove your handcuffs, you saw his erection impossibly hard and tight against his pants, to the point that there was a wet spot right where you knew the head of his cock laid against his thigh. 

He helped you sit up and took your hands in his own, rubbing gently at the raw skin around your wrists. “Are you going to behave now?” 

You let out a small whimper and nodded, makeup still streaking your cheeks. 

“Good, ‘cause I’m about to fucking destroy you, baby.”

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap

@iadelicacy @likecrazy22 @jaemayy

@annyeongbitch7

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

I think one of the bigger issues that I particularly take with the tube sites is the fact that they're just too easy to access. Certainly I understand that parents need to do better jobs. Having said that however in side of physical locations that actually sell adult content you normally have them in closed cover containers so that you cannot see them or that stuff is generally in a section that is actively monitored to keep minors out.

However, I do think that it bears note that we as a society have gotten way too sexual. And we have let it creep into other areas of society as well. I remember once upon a time if you went into a Spencer's and you started wandering around their back wall the associates would actively walk back to make sure whoever was back there had an ID and was over the age of 18. Now a days people are saying shit like, "Kids will access it anyway so why worry about it" or "we should teach kids kink because gay people exist". Etc. etc.

Me personally, I'm not actually even against porn. Admittedly however one of the bigger reasons that the tube companies got in as much trouble as they did wasn't just because of minors accessing content they shouldn't be able to access. But also because minors were being featured on the websites. Which is a bigger issue. No, as for the whole thing with verification of age to get on those websites........

I believe that there is an honest to goodness way to do it that while still able to be exploited, would be much more difficult to exploit. And would realistically solve the problem of mitigating the most damage to minors. Which is a token system. You would not directly enter your ID into the system. What you would do is you would effectively go through a third party company that verifies your ID and then gives you a token. The token would be unique to you but would not have any of your data saved. And the only thing that the token would prove is that you are 18 or over the age of 18. Realistically is it giving up some level of privacy? Possibly. But at the very least that kind of token system can be used for a lot of different things. Because those type of websites are far from the only ones that use age verification. That and you could theoretically have a multi-purpose token system where one token unique to you which could be secured with a username or password or maybe a specific token number, could be used for multiple different websites with the same token.

But I would also like to add one last thing. The porn industry does have a lot of issues. And I mean that with sincerity not in an attacking way. Because during the height of the late '90s in the 2000s there was apparently a pornstar or several rather who were under the age of 18 doing performances. Apparently one of the biggest names in porn at the time had a metric crap ton of different content that they did whenever they were under the age. I personally think that is a huge issue and it is far from a small thing in the industry. This also ignoring several different adult entertainers who have come out expressing how much the industry exploits people.

I do think that there is a crap ton of people who have no idea how the industry works. Individuals who kind of just flounder around and get super angry and demand it all be banned. I don't personally agree with that. But I do think that the tube companies need to be rained in a bit. Because they have done a lot of harm being willing to host content that is otherwise illegal in most of the world. And realistically they should be punished for it.

a majority of you know nothing about how porn is made and distributed and the people in power are counting on you not knowing. i’m so tired.

one of the major things they count on you not knowing is that tube sites do not produce even a decimal of the content you consume. tube sites are just video platforms. they are access to content that isn’t put behind a paywall in the first place. mainstream studios that can often do put shortened versions of their films on tube sites for advertisement. these only make up a fraction of the content that people actively consume as well - much more of it is independently created than folks realize.

with pornhub’s model program, a MASSIVE amount of the content there is uploaded consensually by independent performers themselves. we get ad revenue and, as previously stated, it makes for decent advertisement. i believe the other big tube sites have programs that are similar. and yes, we are age verified when we apply to become part of the model program. every single thing we upload has to go through approval before it goes public.

i’m saying this because every single time a porn-related post goes around someone brings up tube sites before anything else, and they often bring up dated or entirely false information. PH and all of the big tube sites used to have MASSIVE issues (that we warned people about back then - nobody listened) with non-consensually uploaded content but they’ve long since had to change their stance on this and become fairly strict. i’m not saying there’s zero content of that nature. it’s just not all that different than any platform that has video content. all of them face issues of copyright and non-consensual media. (and i’d say they enforce their rules arguably better than platforms like say, facebook.)

and that’s not even to mention how it isn’t even a small facet of the industry despite the general public grouping it altogether. you cannot accept any kind of profit on onlyfans, manyvids, apclips, etc unless you go through a process that includes identity verification. you cannot upload any content involving another person besides who you already have paperwork for. that paperwork includes age verification. and while i’m absolutely there are people that find ways around this… that’s literally everywhere lol. in no other industry does that small outlier define the whole practice.

like… ALL of the propaganda, all the proposed legislation against sex work and specifically porn paints the exact opposite picture of what i’m telling you and so many of you are eating it up. they want you to have a visceral reaction so you don’t think critically and now - watching it hurt people outside the porn industry - we’re seeing what that does in the long term.

we have warned you. we will continue to warn you. the choice to stay ignorant is the choice to condemn yourself to a discriminatory society that’ll be overall worse off in the long run. it will run you over the moment it sees you as perverse, too.

[bullet-prooflove]

Like God Needs The Devil: Charlie Reid x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging:@kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @beebeechaos

Summary: Charlie takes you to heaven in the hallway of his house.

Prequel piece to:

Charlie - Charlie meets someone unexpected one night at his pool hall.

The Whole Damn Night (NSFW) - You aren't anything like Charlie expected.

Companion piece to:

Risk Management - Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

Deals With The Devil - Charlie's fall from grace starts with an act of love.

The Ghost That Lingers In The Nighttime - Charlie's becoming accustomed to the late night visits.

Who The Fuck Is Charlie? - You wake up calling for Charlie but noone knows who the fuck Charlie is.

Blood For Blood - Charlie's wrath leads to his worst nightmare...

You realise Charlie isn’t like the other men you’ve been with, when he takes off your shoes in his hallway. They’re black leather stilettos that give a fuck me vibe, ones that have in the past resulted in carpet burn and rough sex. When he gets on his knees you don’t know what to expect but its certainly not his palm on your ankle, slipping each one off.

“I thought we were supposed to be fucking.” You tell him and he looks up at you with those warm whiskey eyes before he sets the expensive pumps alongside his boots in the shoe rack.

“I could lay you down on those sheets and treat you like fuck doll.” He tells you. The words roll out of him like thunder, rumbling through his chest in that delicious way of his. “I could fuck every single one of your holes, leave you dripping with my cum and send you on your way, not giving a shit that you didn’t get off.”

Your breath catches because that’s what you’ve come to expect in all your interactions with the opposite sex, mediocre liaisons that leave you feeling physically and emotionally dissatisfied.

“Or I could not be an asshole, cook for you, help you wind down and spend the night with my head between your thighs making it a much more pleasurable experience for the both of us.”

He rubs his face against your pussy through your dress trousers, nuzzling it. You can feel the roughness of his cheeks through the fabric, the heat of his breath as he mouths it.

“What do you say Em?” He murmurs, nipping at your clit through the material, sending a tremor of heat vibrating through you. “Do you want me to be the asshole or do you want me to be the man that’s going to take care of you tonight, who is going to have you coming so fucking hard you see fucking God?”

“I want to see God.” You whisper, you fingertips running through his unruly burnished steel curls.

“Good girl.” He mumbles, unfastening the button of your trousers and drawing them down over the curve of your ass. “Let’s make that happen.”

He presses his face into those pretty black panties, inhaling the scent of your arousal through the slim fabric. You’re wet already, the damp patch blossoming across the silk. His fingertip traces along the elasticated edge, dipping just inside so he can feel the moisture coating it.

“I don’t even have to take these off to make you come honey.” He whispers against your clit, framing the words against that sensitive little bud. “A little friction now and then can be a blessing, keep you from getting too sensitive for all the filthy things I’m going to do to you later.”

He guides one of your thighs over his shoulder, his palms slipping into your underwear, grasping that perfect peach of yours, pinning you against his mouth. Your back comes to rest against the wall as his tongue licks a teasing swipe across your cunt. Pleasure chases through you, unfurling like a storm on the horizon building and building as Charlie takes you apart.

Your hips are canting against his mouth, your desperate whimpers echoing through the hallway. He grips your ass harder, leaving marks with his fingertips, before he seeks out the elastic of your panties, hooking it on his fingers, pulling it aside.

He plunges his tongue into you and you hit nirvana, the heavens bursting open as the storm breaks and you climax all over his mouth. The essence of you floods his senses as he laps up that honey like it’s the finest fucking thing he’s tasted in his entire life.

“You sound just like a fucking angel.” He mumbles against your thigh, his lips brushing over the tiny birthmark shaped just like Maine.

“You’re just as sinful as the devil.” You tell him, your fingers stroking through his curls as you give him that  fucked out smile or yours. “And twice as handsome.”

He huffs a chuckle into your skin, a flush creeping across his cheeks. “An angel and the devil, maybe that makes us a good match.”

“Yeah.” You say, your fingertips tracing over the five o’clock shadow that lines his cheeks as you look into his eyes. “Maybe it does.”

Love Charlie? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[acewithapaintbrush]

I saw the initial post by @wheretimegoestodie and @aroace-get-out-of-my-face addition about an Ella Enchanted AU with Stan and how easy it would be for Ford to accidentally activate the curse and it got me thinking, yeah but what if he does it intentionally cause he thinks he's helping Stanley? Cause, you know? The road to hell is paved with good intentions and all that.

I started writing and it kinda spiraled out of control so more under the cut. Trigger warnings for gross food stuff and non-descriptive vomiting.

Stanley rolls his eyes as Ford sighs obnoxiously loudly. It’s the kind of sigh parents use when they want their children to notice that they have done something wrong without having to spell it out for them. Too bad Stan is not an unruly child. He’s an unruly adult and as such he ignores his brother who is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a scowl on his face.

Ever since Ford found out about Stan’s little predicament he’s been overly careful with his words. Stan is thankful, really. It has made this house safer than any other place he’s ever been where people just tell you to do things without thought, mostly even without bad intentions. But it means that sometimes there are moments when they are in the same room but it’s just this overwhelming silence between them that presses down on Stan like an anvil to his chest. He’s never been bothered by silence before, not since his enchantment certainly, but it’s different with Ford. Everything is always different with Ford. He forgot about that.

Sometimes it comforts him, sometimes it makes his skin crawl.

Ford sighs again and Stan tenses. Usually ignoring his brother long enough does the trick and the guy will either tell him what bothers him about Stan this time or he’ll give up. A second, even deeper sigh is new.

“You have skipped breakfast again this morning,” Ford states in that way that is supposed to be a question.

“I had a banana,” Stan lies because he isn’t actually sure it’s the truth. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it might have been yesterday. It’s hard to keep track sometimes and there are more important things to worry about right now. Like making sure his brother eats and sleeps with that demon in his head, cleaning up the house to make that doom and gloom disappear. A little bit of dusting and letting some fresh air in has already done wonders to the place in the three weeks Stan has been here.

He glances at his brother in the doorway and nods to himself. Ford looks better. He is still horrifyingly sleep deprived, too afraid his possessed body will do something he’ll regret if he allows himself to fall into a deep sleep circle, but he’s less pale and doesn’t look like he’ll drop dead any second now. His old biker gang used to make fun of Stan’s mother hen tendencies but if they help make sure his brother doesn’t end up in an asylum it’s worth it.

Ford watches him move another box and his expression is a cross between pain and exasperation. Stan knows that his stubbornness is not making this easy for his brother but he can’t help it. He needs to do something, to keep busy. Make his stay here worth Ford’s while. Sometimes he thinks this desperate need to make himself useful, to feel needed, is just another side effect of the curse but then he thinks of all the people that mocked him for being so needy, so hungry for acknowledgment and affection, to be noticed and seen.

Maybe the curse was inevitable for someone like Stan.

“You need to-” Ford starts and when he sees Stan tense he quickly switches track. “I mean, a balanced diet is important, Stanley.”

Stan snorts. “Look who’s talking.” Ford starts to glare with real annoyance. Good. He’s been too nice the last few weeks. It has thrown Stan off, made him wonder when the other shoe is going to drop. His brother rubs a hand over his face and it must have been another all nighter. He looks especially rough, in a way he hasn’t for a while now. For a moment Stan feels guilty but he needs to get this room cleaned up and so he swallows any apology he could make and instead waves his brother away. “Go do your portal science stuff. I’ll eat something later.”

“We both know that's a lie!” Ford hisses between clenched teeth. He’s fiddling with his hands and alarm bells go off in Stan’s head. “And I’ll do what I want in my own home!”

“Easy, poindexter.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Stan feels the compulsion take hold but it’s okay. It’s an easy enough command to follow. Ford hasn’t even noticed and Stan won’t tell him. His brother slips up sometimes and it’s okay, at least he tries. (Okay okay okay, Stan repeats in his head multiple times, until he believes it).

“Easy Ford," he starts again but his voice is trembling. He’s on edge now, wrong footed, vulnerable. “Why is this such a big deal? I’m fine.”

“Because I’m worried about you, you dunderhead. And you are not fine. You are the farthest thing from fine. You look like you’ll fall over any second now.”

Stan rolls his eyes again because Ford being worried about him? Please. “Yeah. Sure.”

His lackadaisy response sets Ford off in a way Stan has never seen before. His brother seems to explode right before his eyes without any sound. His eyes flash, his teeth gnash together. He slams a fist against the door frame and tears at his sweater as if he wants to rip it off. Stan involuntarily takes a startled step back.

“I am!” Ford shouts and his voice sounds wrong, strangled, as if he’s trying to hold back tears even though his eyes are dry like the desert and blazing with fire. “I am, Stanley! You are working yourself ragged right in front of my eyes and I can’t watch this anymore. You need to eat!”

Stan freezes and this time Ford notices what he’s done. He can feel himself take a step towards the kitchen and Stan expects his brother to take it back like he’s done a dozen times before. His brother opens his mouth, his expression stricken and apologetic but then something else crosses his face. Fear, resignation, horror, sadness.

And then, worst of all, resolve.

“Go into the kitchen and eat. And when you are done I want you to go to bed and sleep for eight hours.” He’s averting his eyes as Stan pushes past him in the doorway. “I’m sorry Stanley.”

Stan wants to scream at him. Coward. Asshole. Traitor. He wants to punch him and beg him and curse him. He wants to do so much but all the curse allows him to do is walk towards the kitchen on wooden legs and listen to his brother sink to the floor behind him, softly cursing under his breath “fuck fuck fuck”.

His brother never curses. Stan almost wants to laugh.

Not that he’s allowed to.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Go into the kitchen and eat.

That command is easy enough to follow. Thanks to Stan the kitchen is well stocked with all kinds of food.

But that is the problem. Because his genius brother has given a very broad command.

Stan is supposed to eat and when he’s done, he’s supposed to sleep.

Not when he’s full. Not when the leftovers of breakfast are gone. Not when he’s eaten whatever he likes. Stan is supposed to eat until he’s done. And without a clear limit that means eating everything in the kitchen.

Fuck.

Stan’s feet carry him to the bananas on the counter first. Maybe a cosmic punishment for his earlier fib. Thankfully he peels them before shoving them into his mouth one after another, barely enough time to swallow before the next one follows. There are seven bananas and he eats them all and he already feels full and slightly nauseous. No one is supposed to eat so many bananas in one go.

“I’m done,” he thinks fretfully but the curse doesn’t care. There is still food in the kitchen. It makes his hand reach for the cereal standing next to the empty fruit bowl and tip the damned box up to pour the contents into his mouth. It’s the boring kind, fibers and nuts and raisins. He chokes on the dry food a little. His brother didn’t tell him to eat and drink, just eat, so he has to swallow it as it is without milk which would have made this a bit more bearable.

Once the box is empty (a lot of it fell to the floor but thankfully the curse doesn’t make him lap it up like a dog) his body turns to the sink and his heart skips a beat. There is a big chunk of minced meat defrosting in there. He had planned to make burgers later that day. The thought now makes him gag. He starts to reach inside the sink and he just knows that the curse won’t let him cook it first. Food is food.

With more mental strength than he thought he was capable of he focuses on the pickle jar standing ready next to the sink and makes his body reach for that one instead. As he takes off the lid and starts shoveling pickles and pickle water into his mouth he finally starts to cry because he knows it’s just a temporary relief, just a postponement of the inevitable. The raw meat is right there, waiting for him, mocking him.

A pickle gets stuck in his throat and Stan bends over, coughing it up. All the food he’s already eaten suddenly protests and combined with his terror at what’s yet to come Stan can’t help but bend over further and start to gag. With a cut off curse he vomits everything he’s just eaten back up again.

The mess spreads over the kitchen floor and Stan has a moment to think how much he doesn’t want to clean that up later when he hears footsteps rushing towards him. Ford appears in the doorway, lured by the sound of Stan throwing up. He takes in the scene, the banana peels and the empty pickle jar and cereal box and the mess on the floor and if Stan had any mental capacity to pay attention to his brother he might have been able to see the realization dawn on Ford's face in real time.

As it is, the curse is already forcing him to continue and it’s with a resigned kind of horror that he watches his own hand creep towards the sink.

“NO!” Ford shouts and when Stan still reaches for the meat he runs forward. His voice is pitched impossibly high. “Don’t eat that! I release you! Stop eating. For now, I mean. Stop eating for now. Only eat if you want to! Oh God, Stanley!”

Stan slumps to the floor. He would have facepalmed into the mess if Ford hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him backwards into his arms. The two of them sit down on their asses with so much force that it’s gonna leave a mark for sure.

Stan is still heaving, still gagging. Now that the compulsion is gone he can taste everything with so much more intensity. He’s never going to eat bananas again. Ford snakes his arms around Stan from behind and pulls him closer. It almost hurts, the way Ford is crushing him against his chest. Stan can feel his brother’s heart jackrabbit in his chest through their clothing, can feel Ford’s breath against the nape of his neck.

He wants to push him away, to fight his way free. To punch him, honestly. He tries but Ford just clings tighter with an almost animalistic whine and Stan slumps back, loose-limbed and exhausted.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Moses Stanley, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to… I was just worried. I was so scared for you to- I’m sorry. Please, Stanley, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Stanley. Please.”

Stan has no idea what Ford is pleading for. His forgiveness? As if there was ever any doubt.

“It’s alright,” he rasps through an abused throat. It’s not alright, but if he repeats it often enough maybe he’ll believe it one day. He pats his brother's hand that is fisted in his shirt, the only part he can reach. “It’s alright, Ford.”

It’s alright It’s alright It’s alright

For some reason that makes Ford sob and cling even tighter. He is shaking and a part of Stan wants to comfort him, tell him that he understands that Ford was just trying to help. But he is frozen, like an animal trapped in a snare.

“Never again,” Ford promises between sobs. “Never again, Stanley. I swear!”

“Okay.”

He’s tired. Maybe he won’t need Ford’s compulsion to sleep for eight hours.

This is actually good, he tries to tell himself. Stan was growing too complacent, too relaxed. He’s been waiting for the other to drop and there it finally is, dropped on his head like a ton of bricks. All that wrong sense of safety has made him forget the first rule of survival but he’s back on the right track.

He’s more familiar with this situation.

He knows how to handle this.

+++++++++++++++

The next morning Ford finds Stanley making enough breakfast for two and the table set for two people.

Ford goes into the bathroom and cries.

He's not hungry but he will eat.

Every last scrap.

********

Don't be too hard on Ford, he's got a demon in his head and runs on two hours of sleep, eight cups of coffee and spite

[kingkat12]

pornstar martini (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: spanking, blowjob, punishments, sub/dom dynamics, kinky mails, masochism, masturbation, throwing up (very briefly cause of a hangover), Roman is a fucking ass even though he's overseas ughhh, jealousy ploys

summary: Mr. Godfrey has been away in Geneva for a few days now without as much as a peep-- getting drunk and upset about it certainly won't help, but when have you ever been of sound mind?

word count: 7,710

← previous chapter |

a/n: I'm so fucking drunk while editing this rn, reader is drunk throughout this whole chapter, so... at LEAST I'll have a good representation of intoxication?? I've missed this story tho, thank you all for ALL THE LOVE AHHHH you give me hope, you give me life, so I give you this!<333 mwah, enjoy, you little freaks

"It's your cousin,"

Letha turned to me, slow enough for it to be a clip straight out of a comedy movie; "What?" she asked, putting down her cosmopolitan. 

I groaned into my palm, swirling my half-empty pornstar martini. The loud bar around us made my head pound, each beat hammering into a new part of my brain that I didn't know could feel pain. "It was his shoe," 

"The shoe you... humped?"

"Yeah," I breathed, hiccuping as I tried to force my eyes to open wider. It was impossible to concentrate when I was this drunk. We had been out for dinner around six, then we had met some of Letha's friends at some bar around eight, then we had met mutuals from college who had led us to wherever the fuck we were right now-- we had long broken apart from that group, and we were now sitting in some tent-like structure, having our fourth cocktails for the night. "He told me to, and I did it. Your cousin is hot, are you aware of that?"

Letha blinked over and over, scrunching her nose; "Nope," she said. "He's just Roman to me. He's the same guy who ate snow with me in my backyard when we were six, and I watched him go through his emo phase when he was fifteen. Also, if I ever say yes to that, shoot me, because I'm most likely possessed."

Mr. Godfrey, eating snow? What an odd thought. What an odd thing-- for him to be human.

I scanned Letha; her cheeks always got flushed when she was drunk, and tonight, she was properly drunk. Very, very drunk, and so was I, undeniably. "I don't want to shoot you," I mumbled, bringing my pornstar martini back to my lips. "Aren't you mad, though?"

"Mad? Meh," Letha shrugged. "I'd be mad if you fucked my father, but--"

"Ew, Lee, what the fuck!--"

"But!" She held one finger up in the air, effectively shutting me up. "This is sort of a win-win situation. If you get with my cousin, like, properly, then we could technically be sisters or whatever."

I cleared my throat, trying to straighten up as I pulled the most serious face I could in this state. Letha would've probably not have been so enthusiastic about this if she were sober. "I don't think it's like that," I mumbled, staring at the cocktail I had nearly finished. If this conversation were to continue, I'd need about three more of these. Why couldn't I just shut up? 

"So... what? It's a strictly hump-my-shoe sort of thing?" Letha chimed in, grinning from ear to ear as she watched my cheeks redden to the likes of hers. "You naughty girl! He's your boss, too!"

"Shut up!" I hissed, smacking my forehead twice. Why did my head hurt so bad? Maybe it was time to put down my drink. "It's the suit, and it's the green eyes. I die a little every time I look at him, and soon enough, there will be nothing left of me except my clit."

"... Ew," 

"I'm so fucking serious, Lee!"

"Oh, I'm not denying it," she said in between sips of her cosmopolitan. "Not that I want to know, but I'm drunk and not in the right mind, but do you do anything else? You hump his shoe, and he does?"

What the fuck was I supposed to say here? "Hey, okay, I did that once!--"

"Shut up!" Letha said, giggling uncontrollably. "You hump his shoe, and he does...?"

I blinked, trying to recover from her incessant teasing. I hump his shoe, and he does...? He gets me expensive gifts. He spanks me when I misbehave. He makes me cum when I'm being good, whatever that means. I'm never good, in theory. Mr. Godfrey didn't usually do anything except order me around, yet that was sort of the appeal-- the less I knew about him, what he looked like beneath that suit, who he was, the more I felt like he was a God-like entity. Hence, whenever I had his attention in any way, I felt beyond special. 

That was the appeal of Mr. Godfrey; he was nothing, yet everything at the same time. 

"He makes me feel," I mumbled, pressing my drink to my bottom lip as my eyes blanked. Mr. Godfrey's presence in my life felt like impact-play, but I couldn't say that out loud? "He looks at me, and I... I feel everything at the same time. I feel good, I feel like hell, and sometimes I even feel special. But honestly, sometimes it becomes so overwhelming that I wish he'd set me on fire just so that he could watch me in my very last moments and know that I have suffered for him."

Letha didn't move, didn't breathe, for long enough to make it unusual. Something told me I had told her too much, but just as I was about to clear my throat and try to explain myself, she spoke; "I could report you to HR,"

"You wouldn't do that to me, babe," I grumbled, finishing my pornstar martini shortly after. "You know I hate those people. Also, the HR lady is scary, but really darn hot. I don't want her running around Mr. Godfrey for long enough for him to notice her nice legs."

"Mr. Godfrey?" Letha repeated, choking down a giggle. "You can't even make yourself call him Roman, huh?"

Nope. 

Nope, no, never. 

That felt wrong, like it was something I needed permission for. I probably did, anyway.

Letha let my silence off the hook easily; "Or maybe that's the appeal? He's your boss, so you probably wear short skirts around him, and bend over his desk and purr sir in his ear or something--"

"No!" I cried, burying my face in my hands as Letha laughed. "I don't!-- Ugh." Liar, liar, pants on fire. The more I thought about the time Mr. Godfrey pressed me down into the wood of his desk, holding me steady as he inspected my underwear, made my ears burn; had I been shameless like before, I would've even crossed my legs right now and relieved the intense sensation between my legs, but no-- I had gotten a mental block about that, quite frankly.

"Just don't tell him I told you," I mumbled. "I don't think he even knows we know each other."

Letha's green eyes twinkled; "Don't worry about it,"

"But this sort of leads me to another point," In the middle of a new hiccup, I decided to just go for it. "Has your cousin called you from Geneva? He's been gone for two days, and he's, like...  completely out of reach."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," I breathed, swirling my empty glass. "I caught him calling in on some meeting earlier today, so I know he's not a missing person or whatever, but he hasn't sent me anything. Hasn't talked to me. It's like he's ignoring me, or-- yeah, I have no idea."

Letha's brows drew together; not out of concern, but intrigue. "Did he tell you he'd stay in touch?"

"... No, but he said he'd be available,"

"So maybe he's waiting for you to send something, then?" Letha's green eyes seared into mine, once again reminding me that they were related-- they had the exact same fucking eyes. Maybe if Mr. Godfrey completely iced me out someday, I could get over the heartache by looking at Letha. There was my backup plan. The shittiest but wittiest one to date. "But if this is strictly a sex-thing, I wouldn't put it past Roman to be completely unattached to it."

With that, my heart sank. "What?"

Letha shot me a look-- "Come on," she huffed. "He's a Godfrey. If I'm the way I am, can you imagine him? Do you not read those gossip magazines? They psychoanalyze him better than I could ever do, especially now that I'm drunk at three in the morning."

The only magazine I had formally read about him was the Forbes magazine I still kept tucked beneath my pillow-- not the proudest moment of mine. "I know I'm not his girlfriend or whatever, but... what we have feels special, y'know? Like it warrants a snarky email asking whether I've burned the office down or something,"

Letha sighed, checking out the guy to her left as she thought about how to answer me without stomping on my feelings. However, it was three in the morning, and after enough drinks, Letha Godfrey had the filter of a neurodivergent toddler; "Of course it feels special. Doesn't mean that you are to him, though,"

"... Letha, what the hell?"

"I'm just being honest," 

Her attention had completely left me, and she was now waving at the guy with that flirty shimmer in her eyes that I knew too well. It made me turn around to look at him properly, to see who I was battling against, and I couldn't contain the annoyed groan that left me. "Sometimes, he slips up and says things that allude to him thinking about me more than he lets up," I huffed. "I think I warrant an inappropriate mail from Geneva."

Busy flirting, Letha batted her long, blonde lashes at the guy. "Aha," she mumbled, nodding, clearly occupied. 

I gritted my teeth, wondering how long I could keep myself together before I had an angry, drunk meltdown. "What happened to Barty?" I whined. "Bartholomew? He-who-must-not-be-named? The guy you were dating?"

Letha shivered and turned to me with a grimace-- I knew that name would bring her back to me. "We don't talk about him. That was a slip-up in the Matrix," She put down her drink, letting out a sigh as she scanned me, disregarding the guy for now. "So, what, you're going to sulk all week because Roman's AFK?"

"AFK...?

"Away-From-Keyboard," she said, softening her gaze. "Don't let yourself fall apart because of some man. That's so lame. What happened to the girl I knew in college?"

How was I supposed to explain to Letha that it was this exact spiral that made me feel alive? That the way I burned in agony over being ignored satisfied me to some extent? It was too complicated to even begin to decode.  "I don't know..." I stared down at my empty glass, realizing my head was spinning. "I think I'm too drunk to think clearly about this. Should we maybe just get a cab home?"

Letha didn't answer, and instead, reached over the table to put her hand over mine. Like this, lit up by the orange heat-lamps above us, she looked beautiful as ever with her perfect blonde hair lying perfectly over her shoulders. She was so soft like this, so feminine, so gentle-- "Just mail him, babe," she murmured. "Or, call us a cab, and then mail him. Take charge."

Taking charge was Mr. Godfrey's thing, though. That was another thing that I wouldn't explain to Letha. "It's nine in the morning over there," I tried. "And what if he doesn't reply?"

Letha shrugged-- "Then you'll know,"

I looked down at my glass again, the stem sweating against my palm; somehow, knowing sounded so much worse. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a cab, the windows fogged and streaked with rain, the city blurring into watercolor neon. I curled against the cold leather seat, phone clutched in my hand like it had wronged me. My makeup was smudged, my head spun like it always did after a night out with Letha, and everything inside me buzzed with that erratic, mortifying energy that came with four drinks and too many feelings.

Letha was already asleep, head tipped back, her phone unlocked and resting dangerously close to her cleavage. I stared down her blouse for a bit too long, and with one drunk thought after the other, I ended up slowly easing her phone down her bra, containing my giggles. 

So, with Letha's phone sticking proudly out from between her tits, I eventually stared down at mine in my hands. I had distracted myself for a moment, yet I couldn't distract myself forever.

Hiccuping, I opened my mail, clicking into Mr. Godfrey's account-- he had been online two hours ago. Fucker. He had probably already read yesterday's report. Probably dismissed it, too. Probably dismissed me. I was spiralling, but this spiral had edges. This spiral had teeth. This spiral was the same girl that Letha knew in college.

I opened a new mail. Then, without thinking, I started typing-- it poured out of me, fingers fumbling, typos aplenty, autocorrect working overtime like it had taken pity on me, but there was no stopping now. Fuck it.

From: You

Subject: Being Stupid

Hi.

Hi!!

I'm writing this in the back of a cab, so if you see any typos, no you don't. I might perhaps also be a bit drunk, but who cares!! Maybe you're in a conference room in Geneva rn while some old dude talks to you about trade routes and money laundering. You must do some money laundering, sir? Every rich guy does that. Probably? Right? Seems like it, these days. Capitalism!!!!!

Okay, so, I know you said you'd be available if there were any crisises crisies? crisi? but there are none except for me. Before you left, you said that I was an HR liability, and I keep thinking about that, because that's SCUHA A LIE. SUCH. I would never rat you out to the HR lady who is frankly too hot to be walking around like that, she has legs that are longer than the Chinese wall, and it's kind of disturbing. I wouldn't sir!!! I'm not like your last secretary, whether the fuck happened to her. I wouldn't sue you. I'm a good secretary. 

Btw I had a pornstar martini today!!! Three, I thin. k. Four! No, three. Four? Do you drink anything other than bourbon? You need to try a pornstar martini, sir. They are really fucking nice because they're sweet and you sometimes get a pomegranate in it and it's actually kinda inconvevnient inconvenient but it's cutesy!!! Maybe you don't like cutesy tho. Bet you don't. Okay maybe you should stick ot th e bourbon. 

YeahhhtThis message is embarrassing and long and I'll probably try to unsend it in the morning, but if you do read it please don't pretend like you didn't. I know how you are. Just say something. Anything!! Even if it's cruel. I might like it? I can take it. I'd rather have your cruelty than your silence. I'm a good secretary.

Happy money laundering!!!!!!!!

PSPSPS: plsssssss bring me something, I wasnt joking;(((

Click click click,

Your Secretary.

I didn't care to re-read it. It was too long, and at the moment, it felt like poetry that I shouldn't touch. This was genius, wasn't it? This would definitely make Mr. Godfrey pull himself together and send me a heartfelt message about missing me, I was sure of it. 

And then, because I definitely had the traits of an emotional masochist, and because Mr. Godfrey was probably out there, doing anything but thinking of me, I hit send. This was going to fix this. This was fucking genius.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ No, retreat, retreat-- not genius.

Oh...  my God.

Oh my fucking God?!

The next morning, seated behind my desk with the worst hangover known to man, I stared at the mail that I had sent last night. It was glaring back at me from my computer like a reminder that I was getting executed in a few hours.

Not genius. Not fucking genius! 

I so desperately wanted to die. That execution sounded really nice right now. Why couldn't I sink through the floor and haunt the building instead? Why did I have to live through the possible consequences of this stunt? Fucking Letha. 

But said consequences were painfully delayed-- my inbox was empty. This was worse than cruelty; silence. I imagined a ball of dry wheat rolling past my email like in those cowboy movies, a sinister whistle-sound coming from afar. Was Mr. Godfrey blatantly unaware of this, perhaps? Or worse, was he laughing about it? Forwarding it to legal? Telling the hot HR lady with the war-crime legs that I, in fact, was an HR liability?

I imagined Mr. Godfrey and his Forbes nose skimming the message with his unreadable, handsome face. Maybe he was sipping something expensive (and definitely made with Swiss skimmed goat-milk), scowling over my drunken meltdown. Maybe he had already shown it to some diplomat friend over lunch, and they were both laughing at it right at this very moment? "How fucking pathetic... Do you know how hard she cums when I call her a sick fuck?"

My palms were sweating, my stomach twisted with every movement of my spinning chair-- God, I had asked him to be cruel. Who the fuck does that? Who begs their boss for cruelty like it's affection? Why did I drink four pornstar martinis? Three? Four. Whatever.

I slammed my forehead against the desk once. Just once, dramatically, with a soft thud. 

Racking my hungover brain, I tried to figure out if I could get away with hiding in the archive room all day, but then a low voice, smooth and familiar, cut through the fog behind my eyes;

"Rough night?"

My red eyes snapped up, staring up at Peter. His hands were in the pockets of his dark, sleek coat, his hair slightly messy in a way that looked deliberate, clearly just having gotten to the office. He was smirking like he already knew exactly how rough my evening had been, like he had seen me hunched over my fourth pornstar martini telling Letha about the spiritual experience of humping her cousin's shoe-- God, just thinking about that right now made my head pound even harder. 

I cleared my throat, straightening with a slight hiss; the fluorescent lights of the office were killing me. "Remind me to never drink martinis ever again,"

"Oh, that's a shame," Peter murmured, cocking his head. "Martinis can be really damn good. Was it a sweet one?"

"Yeah, pornstar,"

"What?"

Blinking, I caught myself-- I couldn't just say that word without following it up. "Pornstar martini," I corrected, rubbing the back of my neck as I attempted a laugh. "Not saying you're a-- no, no, it's just the name of the drink, I-- ugh, you get it."

"I do," Peter hummed, containing a laugh with a bite of his lip.

"The name is foul," I mumbled. "But it's the best drink ever. I always have one of those when I go out."

"Meaning, you're not gonna have your last one any time soon," With that cool ease he always had, Peter put his briefcase on my desk, leaning over my computer-- he knew that'd have me clicking out of whatever I had been staring at previously with anxious fervour. Chuckling, he shook his head. "Seems you've really let loose with bossman away."

Yeah... if only Mr. Godfrey would come back and pull at my reins again.

"That's slander," I muttered, minimizing my inbox. "I've been nothing but responsible. I'm a really darn good secretary, believe it or not." 

Peter raised both eyebrows, clearly amused by my mantra as he pointed to my scalp. "Uh-huh. That desk-shaped dent on your forehead would like a word,"

I glared at him and pressed a palm to the tender spot. "Dramatic expression of productivity," I mumbled. As much as I loved visits from Peter, I felt like too much of a mess to keep up with the banter-- my hangover was ripping me apart, limb by limb. I softened my gaze, rounding out my eyes in hopes of sympathy, so as not to sound too harsh; "Did you need anything, Peter? I'm drowning in work here, and my head is pounding, I'm-- I'm sorry."

Peter tapped his knuckle gently on the corner of my desk, then hesitated; "Actually, uh... there was something I was gonna ask you,"

"Please don't be about tech support. I'm one migraine away from throwing my monitor out the window,"

He laughed; "No, not tech support. It's, um... about the banquet."

I blinked-- huh?

"You know, the one on Sunday?" he quickly added, stuffing his hands back into his pockets like he regretted taking them out in the first place. "Mr. Godfrey's annual charity... whatever. Doubt he cares about the cause, but it's an excuse for everyone to get drunk on company money. Champagne, string quartets, awkward company small talk.... All very classy, very terrifying."

"Right," I breathed. My stomach clenched, and not from the hangover this time. Something in me moved, and it wasn't puke; I suddenly felt unimaginably warm. Was this really happening?

Peter scratched the back of his neck. "I wasn't sure if you were going, but I thought maybe, if you didn't have plans?-- or if you didn't want to go alone, or, like-- we could, I don't know, go together?" He rushed in to fill the second of silence that followed, not daring to let me hesitate; "Not, like, go go. Just-- go as, you know, not-alone people? Coworkers. Who dress up. And pretend to be functioning adults."

My lips parted as my mind buzzed; Mr. Godfrey was still in Geneva. Still silent. Still a fucking ghost. Was he even going to this banquet? He was still going to be in Geneva by Sunday, right? Yeah, he wasn't going to attend, then. What could be the harm? 

Or, actually... there could be a lot of harm.

To my ass, specifically. 

Just the thought of Mr. Godfrey storming back from Geneva after finding out that I had accepted the invitation from Peter, all broody and dark, jealous even, made my cheeks burn. I wondered what he'd do; he'd definitely spank me raw. Tell me how I was his submissive, his secretary, how he didn't like sharing. His big, rough hands would leave a large, pink, stinging mark, before he'd proceed to dip his fingers into me, easing them in one by one, pumping the shame of my actions deeper into me as he'd tell me how sick I was for even thinking I could get away with this. 

But back in real life, I realized a bit too late that Peter might've misinterpreted my blushing, and the tongue-tied silence. I looked blissed out right now, didn't I? 

He was still smiling that soft, hopeful smile that made my chest tighten with guilt; "No pressure. Just thought I'd ask. You know where to find me when you decide,"

"Okay," I breathed, swallowing hard as I continued staring at the way too hot paralegal in front of me-- were all the people in this office hot? Seemingly so. "It sounds really nice, Peter, but I don't even know if I'm free Sunday night, I might have plans with--"

"Sure, sure," Peter said, that charming smirk of his returning; something told me he was convinced he had secured me nonetheless. With that same classy, cool ease, he backed away, putting his hands in the air; "Think about it. Or don't. It might be a no-brainer when you get some water into your system."

Then, with secure steps, and that warm twinkle in his brown eyes that I secretly adored, Peter walked off down the hall with a confident stride, bag in hand. 

The moment he disappeared around the corner, the warmth in my belly bloomed, giddy and low, a little pulse between my thighs I couldn't stop; I would've, had I had the permission. Fucking freak. 

And for a split second, the idea of going to the banquet with Peter thrilled me.

But then, I imagined Mr. Godfrey walking into the room with that inhuman grace and sharp suit and catching me at Peter's side-- my stomach flipped.

No, it turned.

"Oh no," I muttered, gagging, hand flying to my mouth; I yanked the trash bin from under my desk and heaved into it. The sour burn of alcohol and existential shame hit my nose all at once, and I gagged again.

When I was finally sure there was nothing left in me but regret and stomach acid, I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand, panting, eyes watering. God, that was undignified. I needed to get rid of this thing, this trash bag of humiliation, before someone came sniffing around. Peter might've walked off looking suave, but if he doubled back and caught me hunched over like some hungover troll in a pencil skirt? No. No fucking way. Over my dead, spanked body.

The ladies' room was too far away. The kitchenette was too risky. I blinked through the fluorescent haze, heart pounding in my ears-- then, like a beacon from the divine, my gaze landed on his door.

Mr. Godfrey's office.

I knew a cleaning lady was coming there in about twenty minutes-- if I stuffed my little mishap in his trash, then I wouldn't be caught red-handed with it! Genius. So, clutching the top of the lined trash bag like a biohazard, I slid out of my seat, pulse hammering as I tiptoed toward the forbidden door.

Mr. Godfrey's chair sat in perfect alignment behind his desk, screen dark, blinds half-shut. The lingering scent of his expensive cologne remained in the room, and I let out a half-sigh as I closed the door behind me, engulfing myself in the sensations I had missed. Then, snapping out of it, I crossed the room fast, knelt by the trash can beside his desk, and tucked the bag of vomit inside.

Gone. Buried. Out of sight.

Yet... I wasn't. 

A loud pling came from Mr. Godfrey's computer, and I let out a horrified squeak as I slammed my head into the back of the desk. "Fuck!" I hissed, hand flying to my scalp. My heart thrashed against my ribs like it wanted out, and I whipped my head over the edge, eyes wide, to face the glowing screen of Mr. Godfrey's monitor, which had lit up with a single, new email.

Sent to... himself?

I got closer, skimming the top part of the mail;

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Re: Being Stupid

Dear secretary,

If you are reading this, you are more predictable than I thought. Did you really think you could sneak in here without me getting an alert? Nasty little girl, snooping around where you do not belong. 

Now, sit down. Legs crossed. Palms flat against the desk.

My breath caught, trembling, frozen somewhere between terror and a rush of heat that settled thick and low between my legs. I backed away slowly from the desk like it was wired to explode.

He knew.

Mr. Godfrey knew I'd come in here (probably not for the reason he'd have thought, though). He had set this up. Not only was I busted-- he had baited me. Something about that made my throat dry, yet a small smile spread across my lips. This was beyond hot. He knew me so well that he was sending scheduled mails to himself, knowing I'd read it. Holy fuck. 

With burning cheeks, I sat down, crossed my legs, and placed my palms flat against the desk; there was something so deeply satisfying about being bossed around like this. God, how I had missed it. 

My eyes skimmed the time it had originally been sent in my timezone; 07:32. Mr. Godfrey hadn't been ignoring me-- he had waited for me. Had he timed it with the alarm going off in his office? Whenever someone neared the desk? Risky. Hot. Pressing my thighs together, making myself comfortable (the best way I knew how), I proceeded to read the rest of the mail. 

Secondly— what the fuck did I just read?

A good secretary would not drunk-email her employer from the back of a cab while slandering global finance and confessing to three (four?) pornstar martinis. A good secretary would not admit, in writing, to being a liability, nor would she make vague, possibly actionable comments about her predecessor and the HR department.

I have read your email three times. Once at the hotel bar. Once in the elevator. And once again this morning, against my better judgment, in a boardroom while a Swiss man with an unfortunate moustache explained cryptocurrency regulation. I have no idea what he said. That is on you.

You are lucky I like chaos. You are lucky that I like the look of you in your little skirts in the morning. However, next time you decide to fall apart, do it in person, so I can deal with you accordingly. Also, the drink is called a pornstar martini— it can never be "cutesy", you fucking gremlin.

Also, you are not a good secretary. I am going to keep you, though.

PS: I will bring something back. However, if you ever ask for something that way again, I will indeed be cruel, and not in the way I know you like. 

PSPS: Cum before you leave. 

Entertained,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

And you best believe I did-- legs crossed, palms flat against the desk.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

After a really long day, I had spent some time in bed reading my beloved Forbes interview over and over, tracing the outline of Mr. Godfrey's nose and side profile before slowly nodding off. Sleep wrapped around me like a warm duvet, and I was sure I fell asleep smiling-- Mr. Godfrey hadn't fired me. Mr. Godfrey might even... like me? 

But when I was abruptly awoken by the loud buzzing of my phone, I tapped around my pillow to find it, and I realized I had drooled down onto the fabric-- I blamed that on the dream I just had, where Mr. Godfrey had told me to suck his cock beneath his desk. One day. One glorious day. 

I blinked at the screen when I finally found it. Unknown number, international code; +41, Switzerland.

My stomach dropped-- Geneva. 

I sat up with a squeal, the room spinning for a moment as the last wisps of sleep clawed at my brain. Smacking my cheek once, twice, trying to snap out of the rush of adrenaline that shot through me, I answered the call; "Hello?"

I knew who it was. Of course this was him. Who else would dare to call me at two in the morning? Still, as every CEO probably did, he went the polite route with me. "This is Roman Godfrey speaking,"

Prick. Now that he wasn't here to see me, I allowed myself to roll my eyes, suppressing a laugh at the predictability. "I know, sir," I mumbled, embarrassingly hoarse. This was beyond exciting-- what did he want? I didn't care. He was here. I could hear his voice again. He was here. 

There was a pause; the kind that crackled with suspense. Would he say something about me being a smartass? Would he command me to fling myself out of my window now? I might've even complied if he did.  "You sound terrible," Mr. Godfrey eventually said. "Are you sick?"

A sick fuck, perhaps, as he had so kindly diagnosed me before, but-- "No, sir," I croaked, flinging my duvets off of me as if that would help me think straighter. My legs were tangled in it, my shirt stuck to the back of my thigh from sweat. "Just tired. You, uh... woke me up."

"Mm. It's nearly nine here,"

Of course it was. Of course he would sound wide awake, clear-headed, as if he'd just stepped out of a glacier-fed shower and into a designer suit, and of course he had no remorse for my state. "I would've taken you to be the type to be up all night," Mr. Godfrey continued. "Have I caught you fixing your sleep schedule?"

Nah, you actually just caught me in the middle of gagging on your cock.  "I-- no. I was just... reading,"

"Reading?" he echoed.

"Reading, sir, I just started this one called--"

"Oh, I don't want to know," Mr. Godfrey huffed. "I just need you to send over the LVMH file. I don't have it on my hard drive here, and I'm meeting Bernard soon."

I scrambled out of bed and grabbed my laptop off the floor; I had to contain a sharp gasp when I opened it. Why the fuck had I not closed this tab before I went to sleep? It had frozen on a video I had dug into the depths of PornHub to find, in the category of men wearing suits-- I needed to get this out of my grid, stat. "The LVMH file... uh, yes, one second, sir,"

As I typed in my password with shaky fingers, the only sounds between us were the soft tapping of my keyboard and the hum of something muffled on his end. Was that... a news anchor? A coffee machine? The shuffle of hotel slippers over plush carpeting? 

But then, it hit me; I adjusted my phone between my shoulder and ear. "Sorry, sir, did you-- did you mean Bernard Arnault?"

Mr. Godfrey let out a small, humourless chuckle; "I didn't realize you were such a fan,"

"I'm not a fan, I just-- I mean, I know who he is. Obviously," I pulled the file from my drive, trying not to sound as shocked as I felt. "He's like... luxury fashion royalty. And you're just-- meeting him? Casually? In a hotel?"

"Yes," Mr. Godfrey replied, the warning in it unmistakable. "And now you're delaying it." 

I swallowed down my instinct to keep digging, to ask which one of his suits he'd be wearing to this meeting (so I could picture it for later, innocent purposes), and instead, I clicked send.

"Done," I mumbled.

I could still hear the faint background noise-- definitely a hotel room, definitely a coffee machine. "Good girl," Mr. Godfrey murmured.

Fuck, how I had missed him. 

But despite me having fulfilled all my tasks, he... he didn't hang up, like I had expected him to. Didn't he have a meeting to get to? Instead, a click of porcelain, a rustle. "You included the updated graphs from Friday's briefing?"

I blinked. "Yes. Of course," I checked, triple-checked, just in case; "Slide twelve, sir."

Another pause. "You corrected the typo in the Q2 earnings summary?"

Oh... So he was stalling too?

"Yes," I murmured, biting down on my growing smile. Couldn't do anything about my blush, though. "Changed the wordings here and there, and the margin line graph was widened, too."

"Good," Mr. Godfrey said, but it came slower this time. "You don't usually miss things... Although it seems you've missed me, based on your little email."

Oh no. 

I felt heat flood every part of me as my heart stopped; this was horrifying. "Sir, I... I sincerely apologize," I breathed, pressing my palm against my temple to soothe the pounding of my head. "I really, really-- I'm so sorry. I should go."

"Should you?" Mr. Godfrey's voice felt like a siren call-- warm, low, alluring, yet threatening. "No, I get it actually. You must've had a lot to drink to send me that email."

Why couldn't the ground swallow me whole? Judging by his tone and the sprinkles of amusement in it, I allowed myself to groan out loud, falling with my back to the bed again. "I'm so sorry, sir," I mumbled, tossing and turning. "Thank you for not... firing me."

"Now, why would I fire you?" Mr. Godfrey chimed in, probably cocking his head. "You mentioned pornstars, capitalism, and my bourbon preference in a single email. I should probably give you a raise, 'cause I haven't seen this level of compelling writing since Trump wrote me that he wanted to buy the company."

"I was joking--" My brows drew together; "Wait, what?"

"Were you?" Mr. Godfrey's voice dipped lower, ignoring that last part. "Because you also said you'd rather have my cruelty than my silence. That didn't sound like a joke."

"Sir, is the President buying the company?!"

 "That's not the--"

"I will not work as his secretary, I refuse! I quit if that's how it is!"

Mr. Godfrey let out a scoff, which sounded more like a laugh; "Don't worry. I told him no," he murmured. "The company is mine, and so are you."

My breath caught, and I sat up in my bed again, wide-eyed and sprouting like a rose. So are you. So are you. So are you. My ears perked up, and my free hand grabbed the duvet like it'd save me from the way his words wrecked my brain, gigabyte by gigabyte. 

Breathless, my answer fell out without a second thought; "Come back soon,"

Mr. Godfrey let the silence stretch, like he enjoyed hearing me flounder in it. I imagined him there, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-buttoned, sitting on the edge of a luxury hotel chair with that lazy, cold smirk he always wore when he knew he had the upper hand. "Contain yourself, now,"

"Don't wanna,"

"Oh, is that right?"

"Why should I contain myself?"

"Because I said so,"

"Yeah, but you're in Geneva," I whined. "What are you gonna do, huh?"

... Bad move. 

Bad fucking move. Don't snark, don't snark, don't be a brat, don't talk back, don't, don't, bad fucking move, bad move. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't answer at first, but then he... laughed? It wasn't a warm laugh, definitely not one that let me off the hook; it was low, breathy, and ominous, like smoke under a door, like something you don't hear until it's too late. I could practically feel it slinking through the speaker, curling around my throat like a rough, calloused hand.

And I knew, knew, I was fucked. My body had frozen, spasmed up probably-- this was that kind of stillness that only meant one thing with him; he was deciding what to do with me.

Then, just when I thought he might let it go, just when I started convincing myself I hadn't poked the bear--

"Distance won't keep you safe," he murmured. "I'll show you what I can do."

Click.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I had asked for cruelty, and I had gotten it. 

For about forty hours, Mr. Godfrey completely vanished. He was nowhere to be found at the scheduled meeting with the logistics department, I was unable to reach him when Dr. Pryce slithered up from his dungeon (or wherever he came from) to discuss something with him, and he was completely off the grid all together.

I scoured the internet for some sort of access to watch Mr. Godfrey give his speech in Geneva (was that today?), wondering whether it was some sort of Ted talk-like arrangement on YouTube, yet nothing. What I managed to find was password-encrypted, walled off from the rest of the peasants in the world-- assholes. 

This was hell. 

One day. One day, and fifteen hours. It was three o'clock on a Friday, now. I hadn't heard from him since Wednesday morning/night. Where was he? What was he doing?

Sulking and beyond depressed, I clicked the snake on my screen, watching it eat the red apples one after the other. Life was so boring without Mr. Godfrey; I hated how I had come to depend on him to have a good mood. If only he'd appear, spank the hell out of me for snarking, and then jerk off on me again, I'd feel fine. He could even cum in my mouth this time, I'd take it. I'd swallow. I hadn't swallowed before, though, but I could try? I bet he tasted like nothing in particular-- then again, Mr. Godfrey was an avid smoker, so wouldn't it have some traces of that? Would I get nicotine shock from his semen? Gosh, I hoped not. Still, I'd swallow. I'd do it. I'm a good secretary.

"I'm a good secretary," I echoed out loud, whispering it under my breath, wondering whether to reach out to Mr. Godfrey again. No, that'd be pathetic, right? That'd be the most disgusting, filthy, pathetic thing, and I wouldn't sink down to that level, not again. Not when he was pulling this crap on me, not in the middle of our emotional warfare. Did he get a kick out of this? Did he get a kick out of... not talking to me?

Oh no...

Did he like not talking to me?

Maybe he enjoyed this. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to get away from his horny secretary who wanted to do nothing more than hump his shoe and get spanked in his office. Maybe he went to Geneva to get away from me? Maybe he hated me? 

Groaning, I sat back in my chair, clicking out of snake, and that was when I got a new mail from someone who probably had never sent a mail before. I couldn't imagine that she even sat behind a PC to do this; she loved that darn pink phone too much.

From: Letha Godfrey

Subject: Familiar Cunts (Cunty!!)

hey girl!! 

how's work? hopefully you're rlly busy so you won't see this immediately, but... I thought it'd be best if you heard this from me. or, found it out through me, ig? anyway, you seemed really down the last time I saw you because of my dickhead cousin, and I'm sorry to be proven right about this, but I think you've got to see this... 

BUTTT for your information, Barty (yes we r talking again, big dick alert) has some friends I could introduce you to if you're up for a distraction!! god knows you'll need it

sending the link here, I know it's Daily Mail, I knowww it's trash, but they've got pictures and... ugh yeah, I'm sorry about this

https:///www.dailymail.co.us/celebritynews/article-69420/roman-godfrey-spotted-partying-at-supermodel-penthouse-in-Switzerland.httml

I'm really sorry:(( I have tequila at my place, come over after work<3333

smooches and hugs, 

Letha

Sent From My iPhone

I clicked out of the email, my heart already dropping, heavy and stupid in my chest like it knew what was coming. The link hovered in front of me, burning through every second that I hesitated, and I--

Of course I clicked it. I'm not a fucking maniac.

The page loaded fast, too fast, and I felt it in my throat, in my hands, in the tips of my fingers; I was about to have a heart attack wasn't I? 

There he was--  Roman Godfrey, half-lit by flashing cameras and city lights, standing on the balcony of a penthouse that probably cost more than my soul. Shirt half-open, hair tousled in that deliberate way that I hadn't seen before, one hand sunk lazily into the pocket of his slacks while the other held a glass of something visibly expensive.

And the girls... the fucking girls.

In the next picture beneath this one, he was joined by two of them. One was pressed to his side like she belonged there, laughing into his shoulder, and the other tucked beneath his arm, tipping her head back in a way that made it look like he was hers. 

I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until it left me in a shaky rush; fuck these damn supermodels. I so sincerely hoped he hadn't done just that, but... I wasn't stupid, 

My jaw locked as I scrolled down. There were more photos, many I scrolled past, many I couldn't bring myself to look at. Mr. Godfrey was smiling, actually smiling, at these models, and it wasn't that clipped, managerial half-smirk I was used to seeing from him; this was the kind of grin that was meant to charm, to put on a show. 

The worst photo was probably the one where he had wrapped his arm around a tall blonde, pulling her closer to him as he whispered something into her ear, his lips visibly touching her shell-- but just as I thought it couldn't get worse, the next photo practically shot a bullet straight through my forehead.

Because in the next photo?

Mr. Godfrey was looking directly into the camera-- this was him saying gotcha.

I jolted away from the screen, clicking out of the article as I gripped my desk with all my strength; this was my punishment. This. I wasn't allowed to touch him, yet the models could. I wasn't allowed to touch him. They were. They were supermodels-- I wasn't. 

I gagged. I gagged, over and over, until I was convinced I'd throw up in my bin all over again. 

Roman Godfrey didn't party by accident; he knew how to get away from the paparazzi, and he also knew how to get caught. He knew I'd see this. He knew. He fucking knew.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until my sockets ached, then dragged them down my face. I sat there in the silence of my office, chest tight, stomach rolling, mascara probably halfway down my cheeks as the words rolled through my head; he wanted me to suffer.

Well. I could do that.

Or, I could do something else.

I smoothed my skirt as I got up, combed my fingers through my hair, and reapplied a touch of balm to my lips as I passed my reflection in the glass-- just enough to look sane, just enough to look like this wasn't a declaration of war.

But it was.

This was war, and Mr. Godfrey had just shot Franz Ferdinand of fucking Austria. 

Rolling in my tanks, preparing the army for combat, I knocked on Peter's door four times, just as I knew a certain OCD freak would've hated it. 

The door opened a few seconds later. Peter stood there, backlit by his desk lamp, button-up sleeves rolled to his elbows, and with his box of snus in one hand. Clearly, I had caught him in the middle of important business. He looked like he had been working on something complicated, probably dense, probably foreign, but his expression shifted as soon as he saw me, his eyes rounding out with curiosity; "Well, if it isn't the fugitive," he murmured, leaning against his doorframe as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Running from the guillotine again?"

"Yeah," I breathed. It was impossible not to smile; Peter was the only fucking nice person in this office, apparently. "They're trying to hang me for something completely unreasonable,"

"What did you do this time, kid? Spit it out,"

"Nothing crazy. I stole a loaf of bread,"

With that, Peter snorted; "Good one,"

"And you, mister,just gave away that you're caught up on musicals," Oh, how I hoped my humour would distract him from noticing my real mood. "Anyway, before I'm taken back to my certain death, I wanted to say yes."

Peter blinked; "Yes?"

"Yes, I want to go with you,"

"To the... banquet?"

"Yes,"

He inhaled sharply, scanning me; he didn't ask why. He didn't need to, and I adored that about him-- how he always seemed to know when to speak and when not to. Lawyer. Peter stepped back, opening the door wider; "Come in," he murmured, grinning. "We'll go over the details."

I walked past him, spine straight, every inch of me rehearsing poise, but inside, something bitter and electric surged like a storm; I was going to look beautiful. I was going to smile all night, and Mr. Godfrey was going to hear about it from every loser in this goddamn office.

He wanted to punish me?

Fucking bite me.

(a/n: omfg... is it rlly a kingkat fic without some sort of prom or banquet tho?? nope. U R NOT READY. and have I finally written Letha as a supportive sweetheart? YESSSS I HAVE BEEN WAITING!!! thank you so much for all the love, you are too kind, and I LOVE YOU, MWAH<333)

← previous chapter |

lovely little taglist:

@likecherriesinthespring @muchwita @fish-eyes-png @voidpixies

@voidofsunlight @sn0wybowie-blog @scarledy @carmillavalentine

@succubustacy @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @ohperiodtpoohhh

@kikibit @prismozo @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @scarledy

@useyourwandbro @malenoradgn @veesenya @immernixia

@lunaskye999 @555-hya-kai @a-differentbrandof-beans @humongoussweetscowboy

@melpomenismask @babyslilbee @halexdowney @kittydiarys

@immernixia @hellokitty811

[dykeforhire]

hello you are my go-to for leabian sex. i need to write a power bottom but have never encountered thag dynamic. could you help me understand it through the form of power bottom emily headcanons

I can certainly try!

Being a power bottom, Emily knows exactly what she wants. And she knows exactly how to get it.

She loves to make comments and praises like “god, you’re such a good girl, taking such good care of me…” “you feel so good, you’re doing such a good job” “such a perfect mouth.”

She loves making you feel good when you make her feel good. She loves seeing how you react to the things she tells you. How eagerly you respond to her commands.

She also loves just how well in-tune you are with her body, how sometimes she doesn’t even have to make a command… she just has to be present, let you handle her.

She likes to use you from time to time, fuck herself on your face, your hands, your strap… she likes to see the determined look on your face.

She especially loves to tease, even despite the fact that most of the time she’s helpless against you. “I bet you’re soaked for me, baby.” “Does taking care of me make you wet?”

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Favour [Part 1/?]

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader Warnings: Series will have smut so MDNI 18+, discusses issues of self-worth especially around sexual performance, if a reader who isn't super sexual/confident/experienced/doesn't find sex easy isn't your thing then this isn't for you, Clay will be soft but dominant as always. Summary: You've spent your adult life pretty certain you're broken...that something must be wrong with you. After your boyfriend breaks up with you for your inability to orgasm, you go to the one man you trust most above all others to help you figure it out. Notes: Was reading The Deal and got inspired. Plan is for this to be multiple chapters. So we'll see. Let me know if this is actually okay and we're interested or not, I feel like I need feedback to stay motivated with this one as it's going to be harder for me to write as I tend to be more of a fluff writer... Writing Masterlist Next Chapter

"What?"

He's pretty sure he's dreaming or maybe he misheard you because there's no way that you just asked him that...there's no way Clay actually heard what he thought he heard. This like something out of a book or one of those stupid hallmark movies except more R-rated.

Your cheeks are hot, so warm to the touch that they might as well be on fire as Clay blinks at you, mouth open, dropped in shock, and you're starting to regret this. Despite the growing buzz of humiliation you push through and ask again.

"I need your help..." You're confidence is waning, mumbling it at him as you look up with big doe eyes and Clay's never been good at saying no to you...he certainly doesn't want to with this either. But, there's a niggling part of him that doubts this, whether you're actually serious, maybe playing a joke on him because of Cooley or Guenther or Jack or someone...but you don't play pranks on people, you don't do a lot of things that would make this make sense to him.

"Yeah, I got that bit, what I don't get is what with..." He's certain he misheard you, didn't hear you ask him to fuck you. He can't have because you don't do casual...and that is the epitome of casual. Clay frowns at you, the way he looks at you from under his brows is both embarrassing, making you squirm because you feel stupid, while simultaneously sparking a heat in your tummy that caused all this...because you never felt that with Brad...because maybe Clayton is the only person who can fix you.

"Clay..." He shifts in place next to you, thigh brushing against yours, knee knocking against your own almost reassuringly, almost an unspoken 'trust me, talk to me, explain'. And you do...you do trust him, he's the only man you trust this much, trust to put this in his hands...but speaking it all out loud, those feelings of inadequacy, the embarrassment you feel, the shame, like you're not woman enough, not good enough...it's hard.

"I can't help you if I don't understand cause right now you're asking me to sleep with you and that seems crazy coming from you." The last thing he wants is to take advantage of you, if something is wrong, if you're vulnerable in a way he doesn't understand. Maybe Clayton should be jumping at the chance, gnawing at the bit because you're you and you're offering him something he never thought you would but...but he's just worried.

"You act like women don't have hook-ups..." Your arms cross over your chest, defensive, protective, face hot as a wildfire, eyes shifting from him because his worry makes you feel worse, makes you feel crazy.

"They do. You don't. So what's the deal?" He's surprised his breath isn't stuttering, you've just asked him to fuck you and for all intents and purposes he should be jumping at the thought. You're gorgeous you're his friend you're you...and that's the issue. You don't sleep around, you don't do casual. You blush at the mere mention of sex...so why are you asking him this?

"I...I need your help." This time he watches as you tilt your head back, eyes on the ceiling as you blink back tears and suddenly he's glad he pushed, he's glad he asked because something...something is wrong and his gut knew it, he knew it.

"Baby..." He's torn between crowding you, tugging you closer and staying back, not sure what you want right now, so he hovers, hands tapping on his lap, knee bouncing.

"I'm broken, okay?" It feels like an admission of guilt...because Brad had always made you feel guilty, feel bad, because how couldn't you cum for your own boyfriend?...even though you'd warned him, even though you'd explained that you couldn't even get yourself to cum on your own...still, what sort of girlfriend couldn't orgasm? There had to be something broken in you.

"What?" He stops short, hands reaching for you freezing in mid air, brows furrowing in the middle, lips down turned. Clay freezes because why would you think that? Why would you say that? You're not broken...you've never been anything less than amazing.

"I...you asked me why Brad and I broke up, do you remember?"

"Uh, yeah you said he just wasn't feeling it anymore..." Clay remembers it like yesterday. You had been crying and he'd come over the moment you had sent him the text 'Brad ended things'. When he got there you'd told him a story about Brad not feeling the relationship anymore, falling out of love, the usual...he'd been pissed at Brad...and relieved (a feeling he chose not to linger on or dissect).

"I lied." You take a deep shaky breath, trying to find the bravery to admit it, to tell Clay the real reason your last boyfriend called it quits, the real reason you'd cried so hard for weeks, "He broke up with me...because I can't cum."

"What?" This isn't where he thought this going today...and it's not what he was expecting but it kind of explains a lot...you're apprehension whenever sex came up, how often you avoided any of the stories the guys told, how you shied away from random guys in bars and any possibility of a quick lay.

Clay's voice is clipped, tense, pissed. It's pissed because he's contemplating how hard it might be to break Brad's legs for ever making you think that there was something wrong with you because he was fucking useless in bed.

"I've...I've never had an orgasm, Clay...not on my own, not with Brad...not ever. I'm broken and I thought...I don't know." This is stupid, God, why did you ever even think of asking him for help this this, "I just...I trust you, you make me feel safe and.. I guess I thought maybe I could with...with you...it's stupid. Just forget it..." You go to stand but your wrist is grasped by Clay, his hand completely enveloping it. He's firm, tugging you back down to stay, but his grip isn't harsh or hard by any stretch of the imagination. Gentle like always, gentle but guiding...reminding you why you asked him. Not Kess. Not Cooley or Jack or any of the others. Just Clay.

"You're not broken." Clay tugs you down until you're practically in his lap, arms wrapping around you to keep you there. He's angry at Brad, but there's a mixture of other feelings there too. Sadness because you feel broken when you're not. Pride because you trust him that much that you picked him out of everyone.

"Did you not hear a word I said?" You look at him like he's mad, the sort of conviction that tells him you really believe it. You believe there's something broken in you and it fucking breaks his heart, his palm coming up to cup your face so tender. More tender than any man has ever been with you, the sort of reminder that Clay's just that guy. The guy who's gentle. The guy who's kind. One of your best friends. Someone you can trust to put you first time and time again. You relax into his palm, cheek smushing against him like you trust him to not let you drop, to not let go.

"You're not broken. You don't need fixing...but if you want me to help, I'll help." He's not entirely sure what's he's getting himself into...he already likes you more than he should, he's attached in a way a best friend probably shouldn't be and sex isn't going to help that...but the hopeful way that you gaze up at him tells him he wouldn't refuse you for the world...no matter how complicated this might get.

"Wa...you will?"

"Yeah, baby, I'll help." Your relieved smile, the almost giddy way you throw your arms around his neck has him smiling even as his gut twists, nervous because shit, what if he fails? What if he can't get you to cum...or worse, what if he does and what if he can't stand the idea of anyone else in his shoes?

"Like right now?"

He laughs at your almost eager admission, "No, not right now. If we're doing this we're easing you in, okay? I'm not just gonna toss you on my bed right after you just cried on my couch." If he's doing this, he's doing it properly...making the most of it, because God knows you'll probably never let him touch you like that again once he's accomplished the job. You'll go back to just friends and he'll be left with whatever memories he has left.

"Oh...right,"

"Unless...you wanna?" He smirks at you, not serious, knowing he wouldn't even if you begged. But, it's cute the way you flush, how you shove at his shoulder and roll your eyes at him.

"Shut up."

"What? Can't I be a little cocky cause you want to fuck me?" There's an inbuilt male pride that makes Clay's shoulders roll back, chest puffing up because you want him. Not anyone else. Him.

"Stop saying that!"

"Fuck?"

"Clay!"

"Y'know, I'm probably going to say a whole lot worse by the time we're done, right?"

You groan, forehead dropping forward onto his shoulder as he laughs and yeah, maybe he's worried that he'll be ruined for anyone else after this...but, God, is it going to be worth it to make you realise just how good you are, to make sure you know you're not broken, that you're not the problem. Brad is.

"So...when do we start?" You mumble it almost into his neck, lips brushing the collar of his t-shirt, skin sensitive, shoulders shivering slightly.

"I'll come over to yours tomorrow night, I'll bring Chinese food." Your place because you'll be more relaxed. Your place because it's about you and your convenience not his.

"Chow mein?" You lift your head, lips widening into a broad smile, eyes crinkling at the mention of Chinese food.

"Chow mein." Singapore chow mein. Your favourite. He'll get you extra for leftovers because he knows you'll want some for lunch in the week and he's got more than enough money to spare.

"Spring rolls?"

"Spring rolls." You settle back into his shoulder, tightening your grip around him and Clay tugs your legs further over his lap until you're firmly planted against him, his cheek pressed to the top of your head.

"Thank you...really, I...you're the only one I'd trust to do this."

"Thank you for trusting me, baby."

[concretejunglefm]

hiya your writing is so awesome, I read your fics every day! I'm pretty sad and in my feels so I'd like to make a request, but feel free to ignore if it's too mushy - since noah's become so buff and healthier and even fixed his teeth, reader feels insecure (small body, very out of shape, crooked teeth, the works) and feels like she/they can't keep up with him

Firstly, I’m sorry you’re feeling this way, but you’re beautiful no matter what, bb. Always remember that. Secondly, I hope you like this little blurb 💕

Noah is changing, not in a bad way, he seems healthier, happier. You’re seeing changes in him you could have never imagined years ago, from his looks to his overall confidence. It’s as if he’s evolved into a new person, someone who has finally found himself amidst the chaos and uncertainty he’s lived in for so long, even longer than you’ve known him, and while you certainly benefit from the change—his brighter energy, his new habits, you can’t help the worry that creps in. As if, one day, you won’t be enough in his eyes anymore.

“What’s wrong?” Noah asks, catching you huffing into the mirror one day as you tug at your clothes.

There’s nothing wrong with them, not really, but they don’t feel right. They don’t sit the way you want them to, and lately, you’ve been scrutinizing the way you look a little too much.

“Nothing,” you mumble, turning to face him. He’s standing there, sweaty from another workout, and your brow raises slightly.

You shift on the spot, arms crossing over your chest. “You keep this up, I might need to start going to the gym just to keep up with you.” You try to keep your voice level, forcing a bit of humor into it.

“Oh yeah?” Noah teases, the corners of his mouth pulling into a faint grin as he steps toward you. “You wanna come work out with me?”

That wasn’t what you’d meant. Not really. You twist your lips, biting the corner before shrugging. “Do you think I need to go?”

A loaded question. One he could easily get wrong.

Noah seems to catch the gravity of it. He pauses, hands settling gently at your hips as he leans back just enough to look at you, head tilting, eyes filled with something soft—a mix of adoration and concern, like he’s trying to read your thoughts before you speak them.

“I don’t think you need to do anything,” he says carefully. “Why? What’s wrong?”

He tries to coax you closer, but you stay leaning back slightly, so he settles for holding your hips, leaning in instead.

“I just…” You sigh, your gaze dropping to his chest, forehead resting against the sweat-soaked fabric of his t-shirt.

“I just feel like maybe I’m not gonna be good enough. Like you’re outgrowing me.”

Your hand moves to pick at the hem of his shirt while he looks down at you, brow furrowed, quietly taking in your words.

“Because I’m working out?” he asks softly.

“Because you’re doing things to better yourself. And what if one day you decide another way to do that is…”

“Without you?” he finishes for you.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, a soft “yeah” slipping between your lips.

“Baby,” he breathes, and his hands move up to cradle your face, tilting your head so you’re fully looking at him. “I’m doing this because I want to be better for you.” His thumbs brush gently along your cheeks.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? How amazing? I’ve spent so much time trying to keep up with you. Wanting to be someone good enough—for you, but also for me. And when I look at you, I see someone who loved me at my worst. Who stayed when I was the worst version of myself—at least in my own eyes.” He exhales, voice thick with emotion. “And now… now I feel like I can give you more. Be more. So I’m not outgrowing you. I’m not leaving you behind. I’m doing all of this for us. For our future together. Okay?”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, brushing the softest kiss to your lips.

You mumble an “okay” against his mouth, body sinking into his, arms wrapping tightly around his waist as he holds you close, hands still cradling your face like you’re something precious, because to him, you are.

[fox-bright]

I had to contend with one of his sculptures daily for several years! It's called "Carnegie." I worked at the largest library in Pittsburgh, which was attached to the Carnegie Museum, and had to pass it to get to my bus stop.

This thing!

Being situated between CMU and Pitt as it was, I heard a lot of very awful names for this imposing structure. Most common was "rape toilet," because it's hollow, and open; it looks like a closed box in this photo, but there's a narrow portal into it. Meaning that for anyone leaving through the museum exit after dark, it provides not only a long shadow in the streetlight, but an absolutely impenetrable well of darkness in which anyone could--and people do--lurk.

It's intentional, of course, that people could experience it from the inside. I'm sure that it's meant to hearken to Pittsburgh's history as a steel city, and to interrogate tall buildings, architecture, inevitability, all the other things artists wrangle with when making a piece meant to depict some part of a robber baron.

I hated it. I hated having to walk past it in the dark, all alone on a winter evening; I hated the smells on a summer afternoon when it hadn't been cleaned out recently enough. I could admit that it was at least a little interesting, being a dark mirror for the Cathedral of Learning across the corner, being so unflinchingly plain in a lively district. It's not bad art (and CERTAINLY not when in comparison with some of the sculpture nearby, like Borofsky's frankly hideous and uninspiring Walk to the Sky a block or so away, which I many times heard called "The Fuckstick" or "that fucking ugly stupid thing"), but it is unkind, and I have little patience for unkindness that affects everyday people who are just trying to get home from work. While I did not personally know anyone who had experienced violence in the shadow of Carnegie, more than one person was mugged there over the years.

My art-student boyfriend of the time adored the piece, said with all evident sincerity that he really liked public art that makes it more dangerous to be in public. But he was a pampered child and argued fiercely on many occasions that as art is supposed to be interruptive, people who are just trying to get about their daily lives should be grateful when those lives are punctuated by it. I never could quite get my mouth around a good rebuttal to the argument, because I do believe that people should get to experience art frequently, and unexpectedly. I don't believe art needs to make us comfortable, I'm all in favor of uncomfortable art in a lot of settings, and art that makes us think, and art in opposition to its setting.

I just kind of wish that I hadn't had to worry, every evening for three or four months of the year, that I might be dragged into it and sexually assaulted.

RIP Richard Serra. You made so many people so so so mad

[strawbrrychan]

skz love languages!!!

pairing: ot8 x gn! reader

genre: straight fluff

word count: 0.4k

a/n: i was listening to always love and it made me think about this… hope you enjoy!

Bang Chan

- I feel like chan’s love language would be quality time bc he’s so busy…

- He cherishes every second he has with you by his side

- Even if you’re just sitting in his office while he works, he’s happy as can be

Lee Know

- I feel like Minho is a quiet lover… not one for pda or things like that

- He shows his love by doing things for you.. even if its minuscule

- Doing your laundry while you’re not home or cooking you dinner..

- If he knows you plan on getting something accomplished he will most certainly do it for you if possible

- You ARE NOT allowed to tie your own shoes let alone put them on or take them off

Changbin

- Hes such a lover and he feels the need to let you know CONSTANTLY

- Always reminding you how much he loves you and how nothing will ever change that

- You’re so perfect to him he just has to tell you

- “You know i’ll always love you, right?”

Hyunjin

- GIFT GIVING 1000000%

- He’s definitely painting your face in his free time

- I feel like he would make a scrapbook of memories of the two of you

- Or when he goes out and sees something that reminds him of you.. he’s definitely getting it

Han

- I feel like jisung is SUCH a love bug

- He simply cannot keep his hands off of you he just loves you so much

- Definitely picking you up and spinning you every time he sees you

- If he could live in your skin I think he would

Felix

- I’m torn with lix..

- he’s definitely bringing you fresh baked cookies EVERY TIME

- But I think he’d also like to just go for a walk through the park or go out to eat too……

- He just likes you (a lot)

Seungmin

- I think seungmin would be a quiet lover too

- Just being in your presence is enough for him

- bUT I ALSO THINK HE’D BRING YOU GIFTS TOO

- Leaving a fresh bouquet and a handwritten note on the counter for you to find after a long day of work

I.N

- I see him as a physical lover too

- ALL OVER YOU ALL THE TIME

- I think if he could glue himself to you he would

- He just wants to keep you in his little pocket and keep you safe forever :(