#mr monk and the end

[s-h-a-s-e]

Mr. Monk gets a Stamp Collection :)

[mothdogs]

The hardest thing about watching Monk is that it’s ostensibly a comedic show—and it does have its funny moments—but the narrative constantly, quietly debases and humiliates Adrian due to his disability and these moments just pass by, largely unremarked upon. In the Willie Nelson episode, he can’t bring himself to play the clarinet because someone else touched his mouthpiece, and you see Sharona and Stottlemeyer wincing, but he just stands there humiliated and accepts it. In the episode with the murdered billionaire, someone asks him if he’s ashamed of himself and he says “Oh, every day.” It’s so desperately sad. You want Adrian to get mad at the way people look at him and laugh at him. You want him to defend himself but he just… never does. 😞

[fiumedivita]

I just rewatched the last episode of Mr Monk and now I need to find my people, because I can't still be crying after 16 years 😭😭

[droughtofapathy]

Web of lesbianism 👀?

Behold: The Chart: Gilded Age Edition.

Welcome to DOA's Gilded Age Web of Lesbianism. You name it; I wrote it. My mission in life is to make this show the sapphic sensation it was always meant to be. I've been a raring success, if I do say so myself. But the work is never over.

[leolaroot]

i hate crying at the comedy tv show STOP. IT.

[kingkat12]

pinking up (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: spanking, discipline, humiliation, clit stim, Dr. Pryce jumpscare lol

summary: finally, you're Mr. Godfrey's official submissive-- but what does that entail, exactly?

word count: 10,056

← previous chapter | next chapter →

a/n: I've been wanting to write a scene like this for SO. DAMN. LONG. this story is turning into me writing all my experimental kinks so y'all are in for a ride lol, enjoy!!<333

And suddenly, the warmth in the air made living easier.

Spring comes to a climax around May every year; I always know exactly when it comes, because the first breath I take while exiting my apartment fills my lungs with joy, and not with the urge to jump into incoming traffic, as usual. 

So, when Mr. Godfrey asked me to meet him up on the rooftop terrace this morning, I gladly accepted; all for fresh air, am I right? He usually only asked me to fetch him his coffee, mark up his schedules, and occasionally run down to the bougie bakery down the street to grab macarons, so this was a happy change of routine. However, now that I was his submissive (as he called it), something told me that this wasn't a casual rooftop meeting-- my blood buzzed in my veins out of sheer excitement, and I could feel the tips of my fingers vibrate as I I walked out on the terrace, my Louboutins knocking gently against the wooden planks as I suppressed a smile. 

The sun was veiled behind a thin layer of clouds, but the air was warm, my dearest Spring, heavy with the scent of city heat rising off brick. It mixed with the trail of smoke from Mr. Godfrey's cigarette-- even they damn smelled expensive when touched by him. Fucking Midas. 

Mr. Godfrey stood near the edge of the balcony, one hand resting on the railing, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips. Wind played with the hem of his shirt, white and crisp, with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins in his forearms; I knew I shouldn't be staring at him like this, but I couldn't stop myself. The first two buttons were undone-- slut. Slutty, slutty man. Whore.

Smoke slowly curled out from Mr. Godfrey's mouth, like he was too lazy to properly exhale it. The smoke rose like something sacred in the air, blurring the sharp line of his jaw for only a second before the wind swept it away. He didn't glance at me right away; he simply took another drag like he had all the time in the world. My eyes followed the perfect angle of the Forbes nose-- how was it possible to be so beautiful?

When Mr. Godfrey finally did turn his head, it was lazy. His green eyes flicked down the length of me, and he spoke with a sharp dryness; "You're late,"

I stopped a few steps away from him. "I'm not, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey gave a breath of a laugh, barely audible, more an exhale than anything, before he turned his body to face me fully, his cigarette hanging between his fingers as he pointed them at me; "You are," he said, voice low, amused. "By about thirty seconds. I counted."

I stared at him, unsure whether he was joking or if he truly did stand up here and count the seconds until I arrived. Did he have nothing else to do? What about the oil, the steel, and the whatever-the-fuck he did? "Sir," I tried. "Is this about the new schedule format? Why did you ask me up here?"

Mr. Godfrey took another drag before answering, his eyes squinting slightly against the sun-diffused sky. The cigarette glowed faintly at the tip, then dimmed again as he spoke around the smoke. "Because I felt like it," He let the smoke leak lazily from his mouth like he had no care in the world-- cocky. "I can do that, y'know? I can also summon a shaman or a Tibetan monk if I want to, and someone will fly the guy in. I once asked for a Catholic priest straight from Rome, too, but that ended up with a call from the board asking whether I was having some sort of mental breakdown or religious epiphany... so now I'm asking my secretary to join me on the rooftop. Is that a crime?"

I blinked. How was I supposed to respond to this info-dump? "What was it then?"

"Was what?"

"Was it a mental breakdown or a religious epiphany, sir?"

Mr. Godfrey smirked, handsome as ever, as the cigarette balanced between his fingers. He leaned back into the railing again, looking out on the skyline; "Neither. I don't believe in God, and I just wanted to see how far I could push before someone told me no," He brought the cigarette back to his lips, his green eyes gleaming with intrigue as he watched me through the veil of smoke separating us. "They didn't."

"Right," I breathed, wondering how long to entertain this show of ego-mania. I hated that some part of me enjoyed this side of him, the side that was unimaginably cocky, privileged. There was something about exactly this that made me want to jump him, and I hated myself for it. "Sir... I have a rhetorical question."

Mr. Godfrey glanced at me, and I took that as a yes; "Have you ever been told no?" I asked.

"That's not rhetorical," he muttered, unimpressed.

"Then it's... just a question, sir,"

His mouth twitched at that, not quite a smile. "Careful," he murmured. "You're getting too comfortable." 

I didn't even try to brush off the hit his words gave me, and I instead focused on trying not to let the breeze whip my hair into my mouth-- it was easier said than done. "Am I supposed to be uncomfortable around you, then? I thought our new... arrangement would make things a bit easier."

With that, Mr. Godfrey immediately straightened up. His smirk dissolved, and his cigarette hung forgotten between his fingers, burning quietly as his eyes locked onto mine-- steady now, less amused, yet all the more worrying. "That," he said, "is what concerns me."

I blinked, thrown off by his sudden change. "What does?"

Mr. Godfrey stepped forward-- not aggressive, but direct, to take action. I backed myself up against the ledge, swallowing hard as I felt my eyes widen. Mr. Godfrey now stood next to me, leaning down a bit to get on my level before he lowered his voice; "Do you think this is a shortcut to avoid how uncomfortable I make you?"

I stiffened, unsure how to answer. "You don't make me uncomfortable, sir,"

"What, then?"

"I just-- I don't know, do you want me to be completely frank?"

"Always,"

I let out a shaky breath; I was screwed. "You just... fluster me, sir," I was two seconds from digging myself a hole and dying in it. Why couldn't I ever shut the fuck up?

Mr. Godfrey's eyes sharpened, not having expected that to leave my mouth. His whole frame stilled, the lazy, practiced slouch of him tightening just slightly as the cigarette stayed perched between his fingers, near his mouth, forgotten mid-drag. "I see," 

For a moment, he just looked at me-- really looked. Like the word had cracked something in the air between us. The wind tousled his hair, the soft strands catching the sunlight. He finally took a drag, a long one, like he needed it to anchor him. His cheeks hollowed slightly as he inhaled, and his veins faintly raised on his forearm; I had never wanted someone the way I wanted him. "Every time," he said. "Every time you say something, without fail, I never know what's gonna leave your mouth."

I swallowed hard. "Sorry, sir, I-- I just mean--"

"No," he shot in, tutting his tongue. "Don't ruin it by explaining. I like an enigma." His eyes dragged over me, down, then back up, like he was recalibrating something, seeing me with fresh clarity. Then, with maddening elegance, he turned slightly and leaned back against the railing again, letting the cigarette dangle between his fingers. "I also like control," he continued. "I really, really like it, which is why I wonder why you'd want to give yours up for me."

I held my breath as Mr. Godfrey sighed. He flicked the ash over the edge of the balcony and leaned forward just slightly, watching it disintegrate into the air. "See, I know why I like this arrangement, but you?" He gestured to me, cigarette trailing smoke. "I have no idea. And something tells me you have no clue, either."

Mr. Godfrey brought the cigarette to his lips one last time, inhaled deeply, then stubbed it out on the metal edge of the railing with a slow, deliberate twist. 

Anxious, I tried to wet my lips, but I immediately regretted it; I felt like I had now swallowed fifty percent of my lipstick. As I tried to get the taste of it off my tongue, I also tried to recover. "I don't think I need to know why I want this," I breathed. "Just please don't call a shaman on me." 

I knew what the shaman would say, anyway; 'Your crush has led you straight into the arms of a BDSM freak. Congratulations!'

In return, Mr. Godfrey laughed, shaking his head as the last of the smoke left his system. He was gorgeous like this, free, and unlike how I usually saw him; his brown hair fell slightly over his eyes, and he ran his fingers through it to push it away. I wondered if he'd ever let me do that for him someday. But just as I was about to get lost in my daydreams and pink haze, Mr. Godfrey's voice cut through the fog; "What's your size?" he asked, dragging the words out like he was tasting them.

"... What?" I mumbled, whiplashed. "My size?" What size? For what?

Mr. Godfrey made a low sound, something between a hum and a scoff, and rested his elbow on the railing behind him. It made his dress shirt stretch across his shoulders, every line of him deliberate. "Bra-size," he said, as though it was a casual thing to ask.

I let out a shocked, choked breath; "Sir!" It was impossible to brush this off as a natural continuation of our previous conversation. "That's not!-- Why do you?--"

"Okay, then," Mr. Godfrey straightened up, throwing his cigarette over the ledge with no care in the world, yet his brows were drawn together with dissatisfaction. "I want it in an email by twelve o'clock, sharp."

"Sir!" I tried to calm myself out of the anxious giggles that were escaping me one by one. "Please, that's!--"

"Inappropriate?" Mr. Godfrey met my eyes, the sharp gleam in his gaze searing straight through my vanity. He leaned down, lowering his voice again with a dark tone; "I've seen you cum. Get over yourself." 

... Crap.

I swallowed, feeling my eyes round out. Something about his voice, his gaze, and the scent of him, made my head dizzy-- I wanted to be good for him, though, despite my shock. I wanted him to be pleased with me. I wanted him. Wanted, wanted, needed. "Okay," I breathed, hoping to recover from my reluctance. "Can I ask why you?--"

"No,"

"Oh," Breathless.

Mr. Godfrey stepped back from me, like the storm had passed. He adjusted his cuffs, sighing like I had disappointed him and insulted his whole bloodline; "Next time I ask you something, just answer. That's lesson number one,"

With that, he turned and walked back toward the glass doors that led into the office-- shoulders squared and broad, pace unhurried, exuding that infuriating, spine-melting calm he wore like an expensive cologne. The wind caught the back of his shirt as he went, tugging at the crisp fabric, accentuating the muscles of his upper back, and all I could do was stand there like I'd been hit by a very sexy freight train.

Lesson one?

Alright-- I was ready to be taught. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

After having sent Mr. Godfrey my bra-size with utmost reluctance, I sat behind my desk wondering whether a magical carriage would appear before me and take me to a ball. Before the clock strikes twelve. Where was my fairy Godmother to save me from the boredom of today? 

I had hoped that something would come out of my new arrangement with my boss. That he'd perhaps touch me, do something that would send me spiralling, or literally anything-- but ever since our meeting at the rooftop a few hours ago, he had promptly worked on some papers as though nothing had changed, and he'd had about two visitors with whom he seemed to have had pleasant business-appropriate conversations. Oh, how I longed for something wildly inappropriate to happen-- I was almost inclined to get off right now, in perfect view of him behind his desk, just to piss him off.

Mr. Godfrey hadn't glanced at me once through the glass dividers of his office. He was underlining some transcripts, minding his own business, as I repeatedly dug the heel of my Louboutins into a specific spot in the carpet; I had a competition with myself, wondering when the material would be pierced. I didn't have anything proper to do before the staff meeting in about twenty minutes, so I was bored out of my fucking mind. But just as I was about to dare to cross my legs at my ankles, not fully, just to tease both him and me (I bet he'd look at me then, huh?), someone showed up in front of my desk.

"Peter!" I exclaimed, feeling my body fill with delight at the sight of him. 

He stood there like something out of a cozy daydream; broad shoulders beneath a rolled-up shirt, his forearms dusted with faint freckles that somehow made my thoughts wander. There was something unassuming about Peter's good looks, which made them all the more disarming-- wait, why the fuck was I thinking about this in the first place? 

"Hey, kid. I was just coming from legal," Peter said, flashing me a small smile that lit up his whole face. "Saw you from the end of the hall and thought I'd... check in." He sounded a little unsure, like he didn't know whether he was overstepping-- that alone made me want to wrap my arms around him in gratitude. 

At least someone was looking at me, then. My eyes snapped toward Mr. Godfrey to check whether he was witnessing this, but he wasn't; with a sigh, I beamed back up at Peter. "I'm fine! Just happy to see you, honestly. I'm fucking bored to death,"

Peter chuckled as a few dark strands of his hair fell over his eyes. "Snake isn't saving you this time?"

"Sadly not,"

"Right... But honestly, I'm checking in because I wasn't so sure I'd see you back here," he added, gaze flicking briefly toward Mr. Godfrey's office. "After, uh... last time."

When I had gotten yelled at in front of the whole office? Fuck, I had almost completely repressed that. My mind had been too occupied with the fact that I was now Mr. Godfrey's official submissive-- when would that come with its perks? "I'm okay," I said, softening my voice as I tucked my hair behind my ear. "We talked. He basically apologized." In his own way, yes.

Peter's brows drew together. "Apologized?" His tone was gentle, but I could feel him trying to solve something, like he couldn't believe that Mr. Godfrey would ever apologize for anything. I couldn't blame him-- he was right. My boss hadn't said those exact words, but... 

"We solved it," I said with a vague shrug of my shoulders. "He's not going to yell at me again, and I'm going to start forging his signatures. Win-win, if you ask me. Just you wait until he starts letting me sign checks."

Peter rolled his eyes, biting down on another laugh. "You shouldn't be telling me that," he teased, a twinkle appearing in his brown eyes. "I work for legal, after all. You could get in big trouble."

"Crap," I breathed, playing along. "I'm screwed, aren't I?"

Peter leaned in just a little closer, bracing one hand lightly on the edge of my desk. "Guess I'll have to keep an eye on you now," he murmured. "Make sure you don't turn into a full-blown criminal, or something."

I smiled, but I felt a sting in my stomach-- I noticed that shift, that subtle lean of his body toward mine. His tone was still warm, still Peter, but suddenly, I was very aware of how tall he was, how the veins in his forearms shifted when he moved, how good he smelled, how--

Oh my God. Peter was flirting with me, wasn't he? "Noted," I breathed, flicking my gaze up at him as I tried to recover. "You gonna rat me out if I do?"

He smirked; "Nah... I'd visit you in jail, though. Bring you oranges. Handwritten letters. Make sure you don't join a gang,"

"Wow, okay... So you wouldn't be doing your best to bail me out, then? Not much of a help,"

Peter tilted his head slightly, and then came the smallest pause. A sliver of silence between us that wasn't awkward this time, just charged. His gaze lingered, a little lower than before, like he was letting himself look at me in a way he hadn't dared to before. "I'd be whatever you needed," he finally said, low and charming.

And suddenly my cheeks were burning. My breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat. I didn't have anything clever to say to that, not a single thing, and it made me feel like the biggest fucking idiot ever.

Peter noticed, too. His smile faltered a bit, like he was catching himself doing something he shouldn't. "Too much?" he asked, almost shyly, as he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

"No, no!" I said, maybe too quickly. "It's-- It's fine."

He nodded, stepping back just a touch. "Oh well," he said, voice gentle again, blinking quicker. "You looked like you needed a distraction."

The care in his voice made me feel something strange-- safe. And it was this exact safety that made me feel nauseous. Not because Peter was making me uncomfortable, but because it felt like a mirror to something I didn't have with Mr. Godfrey. Peter was the kind of guy you took home for the holidays, the kind your mother would adore before even offering him dessert, and I was letting him talk to me like he had a chance to be something like that to me. Would he like to be, though?

... Maybe I should keep that in mind before venturing too far down the road with Mr. Godfrey?

Then, just as I was about to respond, my computer let out a loud, annoying pling that I knew too well. Immediately, I straightened up and tried to swallow my heart, which had made its way up my throat in record time. 

When I saw who the email was from, I was sure I'd throw up all over Peter. In a hurry, accompanied by an anxious, breathy chuckle, I tried to click away the notification.

Peter raised his brows, automatically leaning over the desk to check out what had gotten my stomach in a knot. "You good?"

Finally, I managed to exit the window in a blur. "Yep!" I said, far too brightly. "It was just some reminder. Outlook being clingy."

Unsure whether to believe me or not, Peter backed off, hummed, and ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it a little. "Don't let Outlook bully you. You've got enough going on with that guy," he said, nodding toward Mr. Godfrey's office-- I didn't dare to look that direction just yet. "You sure you're alright working with him?" Peter added.

"Yes," I squeaked, forcing a smile that was way too wide to be natural as my heart pounded. 

Peter looked like he wanted to say something else, but held back. "Well..." he said after a moment. "If bossman gives you a hard time again, I'll come back with a bat."

"Now that would be illegal!"

He leaned in once more, his grin lazy now; "Get back to work, kid,"

I grinned back like a fool, and Peter gave me a parting look; one that lingered, one that made my spine feel like it had turned to honey, before he walked back toward his office. 

As soon as Peter disappeared down the hall, the air around me changed. His absence made everything quieter, sharper-- the hum of the fluorescent lights, the clack of someone's keyboard a few desks down, along with the muffled whirr of the air conditioning above, made me want to curl into myself and disappear. I checked the time; I had fifteen minutes until I had to be at the staff meeting.

Then, when I opened the mail, I pressed my lips into the palm of my hand. This way, I knew I'd at least catch the acid reflux that threatened to claw its way up my throat. It burned, burned, seared through me, but it was the most toe-curling anxiety that oddly made my clit jump-- it filled me with unimaginable masochistic joy. 

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Your Posture

Dear secretary,

You slouch when he talks to you. Fix it.

Linearly,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

I nearly jolted right out of my chair-- my back straightened in an instant as my anxious gaze flickered to Mr. Godfrey, who smirked as he circled something in the transcript before him. Bastard. Had I known any better, I'd have assumed that he was sitting there, amused with his own little jokes. But something told me that this email had a bit of an undertone to it, one his emails didn't have before; was he perhaps not so keen on me talking to Peter?

From: You

Subject: Sudden Awareness

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

Are you watching me, sir?

I will correct my posture. Was that all that bothered you?

Curved,

Your Secretary.

I had half the mind to genuinely lie down and demonstrate just how horizontal I could be, but I suddenly remembered the time I had slithered down from my chair and onto the floor the last time I had sent Mr. Godfrey a risky email. I wouldn't want to repeat that, especially in perfect view of him.

However, my plans were interrupted when I got my reply.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Redirection

Dear secretary,

Do not start feeling special. I am simply making sure that you are fulfilling your duties as my secretary. 

And as for Rumancek, I must remind you that he does not know what you respond to. Do not encourage the illusion.

Vertically, 

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

I bit down on my bottom lip and scooted closer to my desk-- this was way too amusing. Finally, this day was taking the turn I had hoped it would, but I was left with a bit of a sour taste on my tongue. Illusion? What illusion?

However, I checked the time; I had to make my way to the damn staff meeting soon. I needed to wrap this up, yet I also needed to know what he meant.

From: You

Subject: Confusion

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I would appreciate it if you could specify. 

What do you mean by illusion, sir? Do you believe my kindness to my coworkers is an illusion? I would like to have you know that I am very well liked in the office, not only for my charm, but also for how nice I am. I am nice. That is not an illusion. 

Horizontally,

Your Secretary.

Seriously, what the hell? I glanced into Mr. Godfrey's office and caught him tilting his head as he read whatever popped up on his screen, brows drawn together-- I could only guess it was my email. I wondered whether he had nothing better to do right now but to poke his secretary. Then, my response ticked in within no time--

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Clarification

Dear secretary,

I am referring to the illusion that he could handle you. He could not. However, I would like to reiterate: nice? Is the whole office unaware of your foul mouth? I must say I am impressed, yet irked— you manage to keep yourself under wraps around everyone else except me? I am almost offended. You unravel easily. It could be interpreted as a flaw. 

Anyway. Get me a cup of coffee. Thank you.

Parched,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

My... foul mouth? After that mail, I definitely needed a break from Mr. Godfrey's green eyes and ridicule. I got up within a beat, sending him a stern glare that he didn't see (or acknowledge). I barely had seven minutes until I needed to be at the staff meeting, so I knew I had to be quick.

I must've been gone for about three minutes, maybe less, but something told me that my coffee-fetching had been deliberately timed-- the large box that was suddenly on my desk was perhaps the biggest tell. It was either a bomb sent by the government to eradicate Mr. Godfrey, or someone had brought me a gift.

With careful steps, I approached it, letting my eyes feast on the huge, white bow enveloping it. I put the coffee down before I reached forward to run my fingers through the satin. Some clepto part of me wanted to keep the bow after I was done unveiling the enormous box-- fuck it, I was definitely doing that.

I felt my fingertips tingle to the point of it almost being painful before I opened the box with utmost delight. Baby-pink tulle was the first thing that met my eyes, yet the sight of a cream-coloured handwritten note on top of it got my attention. I picked it up;

Part of your updated wardrobe policy.

Effective immediately.

-- R.G.

With my heart beating its way up my throat, I did my best to bite down a squeal that would've alarmed the whole office. I made sure no one could see me before I pulled the lace into my hands, threaded it between my fingers, and stared at it in awe-- this was lingerie. 

Black, lace, and ridiculously expensive lingerie.

Oh Lord. Was this why Mr. Godfrey needed my bra-size?! How the fuck had he managed to arrange this so quickly? Who had brought this here? Was he perhaps writing this card earlier, instead of fixing the transcripts? My mind felt like it was actively melting.

Gathering the courage, I dared to let my eyes wander into Mr. Godfrey's office, only to be met with burning green. Green, green, green. He stared back at me, didn't move a muscle, not an inch, not a breath-- until he mouthed; now. 

I swallowed hard. Something told me I would get some extra repercussions if the coffee was cold by the time I was done. With a small nod, and possibly a tiny, shy smile, I grabbed the box and made my way to the restroom; finally, something was happening, and it made me so excited that I didn't care that I'd be late to the staff meeting.

Whatever it was, I couldn't wait.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The fucking staff meeting was the biggest case of the snores ever. Who allowed that to even be a thing? Why did I have to sit for an hour and hear about staff regulations? This could've been compressed into a nice little email I wouldn't read.

As I sat there, all I could think about was how soft my new underwear was. Was I going to get to take this home? Was this a present? Was this all I could wear to the office from now on? Was I then going to get more...? I refused to wear the same pair over and over without washing it; if Mr. Godfrey wanted me to do that, then that would cross into the land of disgusting. Had I signed up for that?

I knew I was overthinking it, but I couldn't help it; my heart was hammering with thrill and excitement as I now made my way back from the staff meeting, knowing I was about to see Mr. Godfrey again. 

The tightening of my throat didn't get any better when I saw that the blinds to his office had been pulled down. Was this an invitation? I barely even dared to knock, but I was sure that he didn't have any visitors, so I stepped in with full confidence.

And... I definitely shouldn't have. I cringed when the door clicked behind me, and I cursed at myself when I saw that he had company.

Mr. Godfrey stood with his back to me, joined by a man in a white coat. They were mid-conversation about something scientific and horrifying on a clipboard. However, my boss didn't react, didn't turn to yell at the intruder to get the fuck out-- no, he definitely recognized the soft click of my Louboutins. But then, without turning his head, Mr. Godfrey gestured loosely with two fingers toward his chair.

Wait?-- His chair?

He didn't look at me. He just kept talking, like he was waiting for my immediate obedience. Who was I to deny him that?

"--It's not about that, Pryce, it's about instinct. You can't brute-force that, but I can feel that something is off about this,"

When Mr. Godfrey said the name, it finally hit me that the other man in the room was the Johann Pryce, the man who was on all the posters regarding the medical research of the Godfrey Institute. This guy was basically God. With zero acknowledgement from any of them, I nodded to myself, proud that I had connected the dots, before I carefully made my way to Mr. Godfrey's desk.

Sitting down in his chair felt wrong on all accounts, but I tried to make myself comfortable as they went on. He didn't have any pictures on his desk; I had noticed that a few weeks ago. This felt like a sterile place I shouldn't be anywhere near without some form of mask, so I remained very, very still as my eyes focused on the untouched cup of tea to my right.

"The gene expression changes post-serum are erratic," Dr. Pryce said, flipping the page on his clipboard. He wore a very particular expression; something told me this man wouldn't know what humour was, even if it hit him in the head. "Unstable tissue formation... Fragmentation around the spinal cord."

"It's not fragmentation," Mr. Godfrey huffed, pointing to the research on the clipboard. "You're over-compensating with the dosage! It's rejection, look-- the body's rejecting the shortcut!"

"You think it's psychological?"

"No, I think it's behavioural. Conditioning. A person isn't just cells, right? They have to believe they're changing, otherwise the nervous system... revolts," Speaking of nervous system-- without as much as a glance at me, Mr. Godfrey made his way toward his desk and proceeded to slide the cup of tea along the desk before it was perfectly positioned before me. He continued speaking to Dr. Pryce, but I couldn't make out any of the words as he dropped a cube of sugar into the tea and stirred. And just as I thought-- he stirred only thrice. 

Was I perhaps hallucinating, or had Mr. Godfrey just... made me a cup of tea? Had he anticipated that I would walk in, after all? 

"Ah," Dr. Pryce said, dry as ever. His voice brought my mind back to the room. "So your solution is... what, spiritual transformation?"

Mr. Godfrey fully turned toward Dr. Pryce, flashing an easy smile I didn't recognise. "If I wanted spirituality, Johann, I'd send the fuckers to church," He tapped the spoon against the saucer with a loud, obnoxious, and jarring clink, and it made my breath hitch at the sudden noise.

Only then did Dr. Pryce looked at me, and I immediately felt like a nuisance. He had a certain look about him that made me feel like a bug he wanted to stomp, and I had to do everything in my power to not cross my legs or sink under the table. "Sorry," I breathed, reaching for the tea to occupy my hands. Why did I have to be such a pathetic mess all the fucking time?

I didn't need to look at Dr. Pryce to know he was rolling his eyes, and probably exchanging patronizing glances with Mr. Godfrey about my incompetence. "Church? Roman, are you having another religious epiphany perhaps? Who are we flying in next time, the new Pope?"

I nearly choked-- I had to do everything in my power not to laugh. Fine, Dr. Pryce got points for that one. 

Mr. Godfrey only huffed, finally glancing down at me with a look of clear disapproval; something told me I had a smirk on my face that I needed to wipe. The more the silence dawned on me, the more I realized how strict he actually looked. Everything about the eye contact made me want to give up and die; Mr. Godfrey didn't blink. He just stared, like that'd make me cease to exist. With chills running down my spine, I gulped and sank into myself, not caring that his guest could see me falling apart. 

"Sorry about her," he eventually said, turning back to Dr. Pryce. "She can be a charming girl, but more than often, I'm reminded that she's straight from college."

Uh... hello? 

I hated when Mr. Godfrey did this; when he spoke like I wasn't in the room. It made me feel less than worthy of life, but also shamefully horny. What the fuck was wrong with me? I could only force a sip of my tea, not wanting any of it to go to waste. 

"She's young," Dr. Pryce's voice sounded, cutting through the tension that oddly didn't make him the least bit uncomfortable. He wasn't looking at me anymore, disregarding my presence. "That's not a defect. It's moldable. Isn't that ideal?"

"Spoken like a man who's never had to house-train anyone," Mr. Godfrey muttered, a verbal flick of the wrist. "Anyway, run another set. Lower the dosage, and send me the report."

Dr. Pryce gave a slow, meaningless nod. It was clear that this situation had bored him. "We'll reconvene Friday," With a quick turn of his head, he turned to me and plastered a polite, eerily polished smile; "It was nice to meet you, miss. You might still be here by Friday, right?"

... Ominous fucker.

The door clicked shut behind Dr. Pryce, and I instantly dreaded what was about to come; it was the most beautiful dread in the world. If only it would asphyxiate me and allow me to faint, thereby escape it.

Alas, the tension in the room was unescapable-- Mr. Godfrey didn't speak right away. Instead, he rounded the desk, slow and fluid, and perched himself on the edge of it, directly in front of me, arms folded loosely over his chest. Without breaking eye contact, his green eyes seared into mine as he pushed the steaming tea aside. "Do you not knock anymore?" he asked, his words cutting through the false sense of security I had sewn into my skin.

My throat tightened. "I..." I wet my lips, horrified that my voice had barely sounded. "I'm sorry sir, I saw that the blinds were down, so I thought--"

"Well, you thought wrong," Mr. Godfrey wasn't angry. Not really. Right? "Do you understand why that matters?"

I nodded too quickly. "Yes, I do, sir,"

"Do you?"

"I--"

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," he said, brushing a thumb once along the edge of his folded sleeve as though he was bored out of his mind. "But from now on, if you're not sure if I have company? You knock. Did I tell you to come into my office?"

I wanted to cry. "No, sir," I breathed, mortified. 

Mr. Godfrey sighed and rolled his eyes; something told me he didn't like the sound of me on the verge of tears like a fucking crybaby. Everything about this made me feel ridiculous, and for what? For walking through a door? Why did I put myself through this, and why the hell did I like it? 

"Get up," Mr. Godfrey groaned. "Let's see if you've done the thing I actually told you to do."

... Oh.

Oh, yes, yes, yes! 

I let out a shaky breath as I got up from his (ridiculously comfortable) chair, not daring to meet his green eyes as I placed myself in front of him. My throat bobbed as I swallowed over and over, hoping to also swallow the giggle of excitement that threatened to escape me; there was no way in hell I'd allow myself to show how much I enjoyed this, after I had proclaimed my love for his torture just yesterday. "The set is very pretty, sir," I breathed. "Thank you."

"Yeah?" Mr. Godfrey motioned for me to step closer, to take the space between his legs, and I dared to obey. Now that I was close enough to smell his cologne, his voice dropped and smoothened; "You think it's pretty?"

I didn't dare to look at him. Refused to. I barely even dared to breathe as my heart pounded in my chest. "Very much, sir,"

"Yeah?" His words were low, deep; sensual, almost. "You wouldn't mind showing me, then?"

Static noise-- that was what filled my brain. It completely short-circuited when I realized that Mr. Godfrey's breath was falling gently against my collarbone, and I felt goosebumps cover my skin all over. Slowly, yet confident, he reached down and let his fingertips brush the hem of my skirt like he meant to lift it. His hand hovered, waiting to see if I'd stop him, and--

And I did.

Instinctively, I pushed at his chest. "Wait-- Wait," I breathed, feeling Mr. Godfrey's body still against my palm. "Could we-- Could we at least lock the door first?" 

Fuck. Swallowing became impossible. I looked straight into his green eyes, then at the Forbes nose, and the beautiful upward curve of it. What if he didn't think I was beautiful, too? Why was I panicking about this right now? Mr. Godfrey was just so damn perfect, and I realized a little too late how inadequate this made me feel-- now, I was trapped. 

"Please," I breathed. "I'll do whatever you want, just-- just lock it, please." He had a button on the underside of his desk that I knew automatically locked it, anyway, and I had half the mind to just nudge it myself.

But Mr. Godfrey stayed unbelievably still. He hadn't blinked, hadn't breathed-- I didn't feel his chest rise beneath my palm, his lungs getting filled, nothing. It was as though he had completely frozen, and I should've pulled away right then and there. I should've known better. I should've apologized and stepped back, but my hand lingered-- my hope held me back. I held my palm against the firm heat of him, caught in the moment, caught in him, in the impossibility of being this close to someone so untouchable, and then...

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes slowly, achingly slowly, darted down to my hand as though he was watching a snake crawl up his body. This was awful to him. My touch was horrifying to him. 

Then, with no warning, his hand closed around my wrist with restraint strength; I could almost sense the way he was holding back from cracking my bones. "You don't touch me," he hissed, ice threading through his voice. "You don't ever touch me."

In one controlled, terrifyingly fluid motion, Mr. Godfrey rose from the desk, forcing me to stumble backward. Then he sat down in his chair, and my body spun around with him as his grip around my wrist remained unrelenting, and then--

He yanked me down into his lap. Mr. Godfrey's hands, large and sure, gripped my waist and drew me downward, down, until I had no choice but to fold across his thighs, my breath leaving me in one shocked, helpless whimper.

His lap was warm. Solid.

And I--

God, I was spread over it, just like one of the girls in my favorite porn videos. Was I hallucinating? Perhaps. Bent like this, perfectly arranged, skirt already rucked halfway up my thighs just from the motion, I wasn't sure whether this was a humiliation ritual or a dream come true-- something told me this could be both at the same time.

"You don't get to take liberties," Mr. Godfrey's voice was low, threatening, thrilling. "Not with me. That's not how this will work." He adjusted me slightly, his palm spreading along the arch of my back to press me lower, until the blood rushed to my face and my ass tipped up in the most humiliating, vulnerable angle. A whimper escaped me, and he huffed like he had already predicted every sound I would make.

"You touched me..." he continued, listening to my breath hitch. "Like you had the right. I thought I had taught you better by now. Are you always so disappointing?"

Oh God. Was this really happening? My eyes burned with the tears of shock that I was biting back. I didn't want to disappoint him; I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to be perfect for him, and what was I if I couldn't be? Nothing was worth it, then. Nothing. "Sir, I'm-- I'm so sorry," I pleaded. 

I tried to turn and look up at him, and I watched as Mr. Godfrey's eyes caught the subtle edge of my underwear beneath my skirt; a flash of lace, the exact colour and style he had picked out for me. Did he like it? I so desperately wanted to know. Did he think it was pretty on me? Did he think I was pretty?

"I'm sorry, sir," I repeated. "I'm-- please, I'm so sorry." Please, please, please don't forgive me. Or do. Or?

With a low, bored hum, Mr. Godfrey dragged a finger slowly up the back of my thigh, just enough to make my lungs stall, until he paused, fingertips curling around the hem of my skirt to pull it over my ass, making me squeeze my eyes shut as I realized he could see everything.

Mr. Godfrey sighed; "I suppose you can take this as lesson number two," His hand smoothed over the back of my thigh, fingers slow, trailing higher until his middle and index hovered over my clothed sex. Something told me he was itching to pull the fabric aside, like he was unwrapping a gift he already owned. With my breath high in my chest, I hoped he might, but I knew he had a history of being reluctant; if I couldn't touch him, why would he want to touch me?

Then, with that same low voice, dripping with what I could only pinpoint as arousal, Mr. Godfrey spoke with the most ominous tone of the century; "Do you like pink?"

What? I had lost the ability to speak. Consequently, a pathetic nod from me followed as I wondered why the fuck he was asking me that in the first place--

I choked back a gasp.

Blinding pain ripped through me, and all the air in my lungs got sucked out.

Mr. Godfrey's palm had came down sharp and sudden across the curve of my ass, and I whimpered from the sheer shock of it. The noise was obscene in the silence, skin against skin. Before I could catch my breath, he did it again, a little harder this time, and the fabric of the underwear didn't do much to soften the blow.

I had gasped, but not from pain, not really. From the sound, yes-- the crack of skin against skin, the raw immediacy of it, the fact that it had happened, that he had done it, without hesitation. Every sick and twisted cell in my body twisted with satisfaction; God, how special it made me feel. Twisted fuck.

Mr. Godfrey's hand laid flat against my skin like it'd soften the sting. He took a few seconds to calculate my reaction, to make sure that I wasn't sobbing with complete and utter horror. His palm stayed there, resting against the tender heat he'd just left behind as though to absorb it and to ground me. "Breathe," he ordered-- something told me that he had done this before. 

And I did; slowly, shakily. The sound of his voice pulled me back from whatever haze I'd started to drift into, from the heat, shame, and terrible pleasure of it all. Mr. Godfrey's fingers stroked down again, a featherlight drag down my inner thigh that made my clit jump. His touch was calmer now, steadying, as though I was some cat he occasionally liked petting.

What was his play here? I couldn't figure it out. 

"Pink it is, then," Mr. Godfrey muttered, as though he was thinking out loud. 

"... My ass?"

He sighed-- I would've believed it was a laugh, had this been any other situation. "No. Not yet, at least, but we're getting there. I'm saying that pink will be our safe word. It's ironic," His fingers dipped down again, tracing the edges of my lace panties. My stomach flipped, and I held back another hitch of my breath; I so desperately wanted him to touch me properly. 

Then-- "Do you want me to stop?" 

"No," came my answer, without as much as a second thought.

A hum followed, and then the next strike landed a little lower, sharper. I arched with it, and the noise I made felt utterly filthy, a sound I never thought I'd ever make between the four walls of an office, yet I couldn't stop it. My hips twitched toward Mr. Godfrey, searching for pressure, for more contact-- anything.

"Count," he commanded. "We'll do five more."

I blinked through the heat in my eyes; every part of my body burned with excitement. Mr. Godfrey's tone wasn't cruel, and that was the worst part-- he sounded like this wasn't strange at all, like disciplining his secretary over his lap was just one of many tasks he planned to check off before leaving work. 

The first strike was anticipated and therefore easier to handle than the previous ones, yet a whimper left my lips; I wondered whether my skin was turning pink yet. "One," I breathed, shivering at the free hand Mr. Godfrey placed on my back to brace me. 

The second blow landed without pause, not giving me time to stabilize. I made a sound, something caught between a gasp and a whimper, and immediately bit it back, horrified by my lack of restraint. I didn't want the whole office to hear me, after all. The sting echoed a moment longer than the first, seeping in slowly; "Two," I choked out. 

By the third one, I was starting to feel sore. The sharp crack filled the room, and I started to squirm in Mr. Godfrey's lap, feeling my skin burn and my brain buzz with twisted pleasure. I knew I'd miss the sting of this. I knew it. "Three," I breathed, euphoric. My body betrayed me; I shivered. Some part of me wanted to beg him to give me his absolute worst, but the sane part of me knew I wouldn't be able to take it.

I allowed a small smile to form across my lips, possibly tilting into delirium-- Mr. Godfrey caught it. "What, are you enjoying this?" he chimed, his fingers ghosting over the faint handprint forming on my ass.

I gave a simple nod, not daring to speak. And then--

"Freak," he hissed. 

I was unsure whether Mr. Godfrey rewarded me or punished me with what he followed his insult with, but it certainly felt like a reward; his free hand moved up along my thigh, and he proceeded to press his thumb against the wet spot that had formed in my underwear, dipping into me just slightly. As though he had set me alight, I let out a whiny whimper, bucking reflexively, shame turning me inside out at the shock of him finally touching me there.

I shouldn't have done that. "You're soaked," he said, like it was the most disgusting, revolting thing in the world, before the next strike came-- I could only tremble. 

"Four," I whimpered. My skin burned, my breath came high and shallow, and my skirt was pushed so far up now it felt less like clothing and more like a memory of one.

Mr. Godfrey continued, pouring verbal venom all over my bare skin as he moved his thumb further up along my sex, slowly circling my clit once. Just for a second, I wanted to be his damn cup of coffee- then I'd at least get three circles, right? "You're wet, you're cocky, and you're sick for liking this," There was no heat in his voice. There was no raised tone, and only that cold, confident cadence he always had in meetings, like every outcome was already decided and he was simply watching me catch up. "You're fucking sick. Do you like hearing that?"

"No," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut as the humiliation seared into my heart-- I lied. I did. It was freeing to hear it be said out loud, for someone to acknowledge it. None of my exes had, no one had ever seen me the way Mr. Godfrey did, and it was the most thrilling, liberating fucking feeling on earth.

Mr. Godfrey's thumb rubbed another slow, deliberate circle around my clit through my underwear, listening to the strings of broken, pleasured whimpers that left me-- he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly what pressure to use before my legs would start kicking, and he knew exactly how to touch me to keep me denied yet pleasured. "You're pinking up," he mumbled, mostly to himself. I imagined he was inspecting the handprint on my ass, now. "I suppose this is the shade Rumancek's face would be if he knew you were in this position right now."

Oh God. 

No, no, no.

I couldn't think about Peter. If he knew I was happily spread over Mr. Godfrey lap like this, he'd be so, so disappointed, and I couldn't deal with that right now. Just the thought of him knowing me like this, seeing me like this, made me want to both cry and cum at the same time. What the fuck was wrong with me? "Don't," I breathed. "Please don't-- don't say his name."

There was a three-second pause, then a short, angry sigh, before Mr. Godfrey's palm lifted, hovered, merciless--

Crack.

The final one landed with precision, harder than the others. The sound was obscene, and I cried out before I could stop it. It wasn't a dignified cry; it was something raw, shocked, high in pitch, and drenched in shame from the image of Peter walking in on us, which he in all technicality could because of the damn unlocked door. 

"Five," I whispered, barely audible, broken.

Then, finally knowing I was done, it all fell out of me with a hitch; "I'm so-- I'm so sorry, I'm so-- so, so--" All the shame from having misstepped, from having taken the liberty to touch Mr. Godfrey, from the thought of Peter, drowned me.

As my apologies rambled on, Mr. Godfrey calmly reached for my skirt, dismissing my pleas of forgiveness. He pulled it over the pink, stinging handprint on my ass with surgical precision. If anything, he seemed like he had expected this, like this was the common outcome whenever he did this. 

 My breathing was ragged as my stuttered apologies continued, and the room spun with heat and shame. I couldn't ground myself, couldn't think, couldn't snap out of the shock. What had just happened to me? What had I done? How had I dared to touch him? How would I ever possibly explain this to Peter?--

Fuck. Peter.

Mr. Godfrey's tone was completely different when it made its way through the fog in my brain; "You're okay. Breathe,"

His voice wasn't harsh, but it cut through the haze like a whip. I turned my head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes over my shoulder. They were unreadable, still cold, still that corporate green glass, but there was something quieter behind it now. He wasn't enjoying this in the way people thought of enjoyment; he was committed to it. 

To the act. 

To me.

Mr. Godfrey's clinical care made the intimacy more unbearable. My thighs trembled as I breathed through the aftershocks, and my mind was still running crazy as Mr. Godfrey guided me to sit in his lap like delicate glass. I didn't dare to move, didn't dare to touch him to adjust, couldn't function. 

The incoming pleas for forgiveness were stopped when he spoke again, and the following words nearly knocked the wind out of me; "You did well. You did good," 

Was Mr. Godfrey complimenting me? Yeah, I had definitely died or something. Dead by spanking. That'd look good on my grave. I sniffled, not daring to look at him as I caught a distraught tear with my finger. 

Thankfully, he didn't comment on it, but he didn't soothe me either; didn't shush, didn't touch my face, or murmur reassurances like every part of me hoped for in the aftermath of what had just happened. Instead, he reached forward with one hand, slow, practiced, and opened the side drawer of his desk. The soft mechanical click of it, a quiet, domestic sound, accompanied another one of my sniffles.

To my surprise, Mr. Godfrey took out a handkerchief. It was confirmed-- he had expected something like this to happen. He had prepared for it. The handkerchief was one of those fine, silk linen ones folded into a precise square; "Stay still," he said, before bringing it up to my cheeks. I held back a hitch of my breath, and my glossy eyes were wide with confusion as they searched his green ones. Was he... taking care of me now? I couldn't believe it.

Mr. Godfrey hummed, not meeting my gaze. "Are you lightheaded?" He dabbed beneath one eye, then the other, with an unreadable expression. "That's to be expected... but I could pour you a glass of water?" There was a hint of softness to his touch, and the pressure of the handkerchief was almost gentle. Yet, before I could let my mind race, I did my best to convince myself that he wasn't doing this out of the kindness of his heart, and I took him for what he actually was; a man erasing the evidence of something he would never name.

"No, thank you," I breathed. "I'm fine, sir."

"You sure?" 

Something in me snapped; "Why are you asking me that?" Why was he acting like he cared?

With a sigh, Mr. Godfrey put away the handkerchief-- my eyes traced his hand as it slowly went to rest at my thigh. Oh God. Finally, he looked at me, not interested in reprimanding me for my sharp response, but to calculate his next moves. "We never actually discussed any conditions," he said. "But you didn't safe word me, so I can only assume--"

"Why can't I touch you?"

Mr. Godfrey blinked. His gaze faltered for a second. I hoped that he could see the hurt in my eyes, the confusion, yet the gentle, innocent nature of my question. I wasn't here to persecute him-- I simply wanted to understand. 

His green eyes traced my face and the flustered redness of my cheeks; "I don't like it," he answered. 

The words dropped like iron between us.

There was no elaboration. No explanation. Just the sterile finality of a man who had already made peace with his limits and didn't see the need to explain them to anyone, and least of all me. He continued, and his hand on my thigh burned with the hypocrisy; "If that's going to be a problem, you should say so now,"

The silence buzzed around us. An invisible bruise bloomed on my heart, wider than the handprint on my ass. I looked down at my folded hands in my lap. "But you can touch me?" I whispered, hating the way my voice shook from the aftermath of what had just happened.

Mr. Godfrey didn't answer right away. He shifted in his seat, slow, deliberate, and my body moved with his. "I didn't say it was fair," he said. "I said it was the rule."

"Can I... also implement rules?"

It was clear to me that no one had asked him that before. "Well..." I dared to look at him again, rounding out my eyes to hopefully advocate for my case through the sad, drowned puppy-dog look I had mastered. It worked every time with others, so why wouldn't it work with him? Mr. Godfrey's neutrality faltered for a moment, and his brain recalibrated the course before he answered; "Sure, fine. But I can veto them."

"That's unfair!"

"Bet it is,"

Just for a second, I felt our dynamic. Just for a second, I could imagine us breaking out into small hiccups of laughter. Because now, I could see hints of amusement in his green eyes again, could think clearly enough to recognise how intimate this felt, how intimate this was-- he was teasing me, wasn't he? That felt normal. This could be normal, had the both of us been normal too; it killed me that we would never be.

"Fine," I mumbled, hoping to recover from the blow to my heart. "I want two new rules."

Mr. Godfrey nearly laughed-- I saw it in his eyes. "Two?"

"Two,"

"You're getting ahead of yourself,"

"You just pulled me over your lap and spanked me. I'm being reasonable,"

That was what it took. Mr. Godfrey sat back with an acknowledging hiss, raising his brows as though to motion for me to continue; was I really bargaining with a seasoned businessman? And was it working? Damn. 

I cleared my throat, fixating my gaze on the hand he had on my thigh. "After... after something like this happens, I get ten minutes. With you, to-- to just... exist in the same room without you barking orders. To just be normal,"

Mr. Godfrey didn't look thrilled, but he also didn't say no. "Ten minutes," he repeated, flat. "Clock starts the second we're done."

"Deal,"

"And the second one?"

I swallowed hard; I knew that my next condition could be slammed down with a hard, dismissive veto vote. My voice was small and frail when my words finally left me; "I want you to actually look at me,"

That seemed to confuse him. "I am looking at you,"

"No, no, I'm not talking about right now," I mumbled. "But I know that you know that I look at you from my desk, and I want you to... look back from time to time."

I expected silence. Maybe a scoff, or that bored blink Mr. Godfrey gave when he was ready to move on. But instead, something shifted in his expression, like a tiny crack along porcelain. "I don't know about that one," he finally said.

My heart sank. "Why?" 

"Because the more I look at you, the more distracted I get," 

"In what way would that be distracting? It's just eye-contact! It would take less than a second out of your day, and!--"

"I get distracted," he bit back, speaking through gritted teeth like he had to contain himself with all he had. "Because every time I look at you, I start thinking about how I promised myself to make the new hire one I wouldn't want to gawk at all day."

My breath caught. It actually caught. I stared at him, stunned, my lips parting but unable to form anything concise. Was this real? Had he actually said that? "Wait-- are you saying?--" I couldn't even finish. I was grinning, I felt myself grinning like an idiot, and I couldn't stop it. "You think that I'm?--"

"Your ten minutes are over," He didn't smile back. He probably didn't enjoy how any of this made him feel. Was he regretting saying that? 

Then, with no ceremony at all, he shifted beneath me and nudged me off his lap with a firm, unapologetic scoot, like this was a conference call that had just run long. I landed on my feet, still stunned, still warm, and stupidly happy. "Mr. Godfrey, sir, I--"

"Get back to work,"

Fucker. "But... my day is over now,"

Mr. Godfrey groaned, rolling his eyes as he turned his computer back on. "Go home, then," 

Then, to my surprise, one of his hands went beneath his desk, and the lock to the door clicked open with a click. Wait-- when had he locked it? When had he managed? With my heart in my throat, I turned to him, beaming; "You actually locked it," I breathed. 

Mr. Godfrey let out an annoyed huff as he glared up at me. "I'm not a fucking idiot. Of course I locked it,"

I would've squealed, had this been such an occasion. "Thank you," I purred, adjusting my skirt-- God, how I hoped I'd have a mark on my behind. I knew I was going to rush to the bathroom to check it out now, anyway. "Will that be all, sir?"

His green eyes didn't leave me-- didn't blink. "Do you like blue?" he suddenly asked.

"... Are we going through the colours of the rainbow today, sir?"

"Obviously not. I'm just thinking out loud. Maybe red would be more suitable?"

"For what...?"

Mr. Godfrey shrugged like this was the most normal conversation on earth-- you best believe it wasn't; 

"Your next present,"

(a/n: need me a Mr. Godfrey, like... STAT. thank you for all the support my loves, I have been re-reading ur comments over and over and AGHHH life is worth living<333)

← previous chapter | next 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

[tommieglenn]

Wrong city, wrong people

I mean Temperance ending is still my favourite, and I'm perfectly content with it.

But sometimes I want to play a solo Cyberpunk RED campaign (one day I totally would), in which Johnny didn't leave the city right away, but rather gunned through Biotechnica labs (maybe with help of Rogue and Aldecaldos), created a few clones of himself and V. And then went to mr Blue Eyes, to get his and V's consciousness' copied into those cloned bodies (paying with Kerry's money and promises to mr Blue Eyes, that are totally not gonna bite Johnny and V in the asses later). Because I mean one girl who stuck because of him in the net is quite enough. And yes, they are both Soulkilled and stuff, but who cares. The monks you meet in Japantown say it's still life, right?

So this fanart was about them finally leaving the city together, waiting for the bus on the bus stop near the columbarium. (Johnny has the clothes and the bag from the Temperance ending ;) and my nomad V is just wearing whatever). <3

____________________________________

Links and info | Commissions are OPEN

[froginmygarden]

It started with an ad: long day of work

"Hello, Surfer Smile Studio here, how can I help you? ... Yes, she does, let me check her scedual. ... No, Dr. Brown doesn't have any free time this week, but I can sign you up for next friday 13:45, would that work? ... Eccellent, we'll see you then!"

And that was the last call of the day, phone line now officialy off and with three hours remaining 'till cosing. Danny let out a painfull whine as he stretched his legs. Was he imagining it or was this day esspecially long? What he wouldn't do just for a short flight home, like right about now. But no all he got ware needles in his-

"Can you wait for Mrs. Jenkins to come by in 10? I got a go out for a bit."

"Sure," honestly he didn't want to, that old lady seemed to have it out for him since day one, he just wasn't a good enough anything in her eyes. Hell were he a dung pile she'd say he wasn't brown or smelly enough.

"Thanks," And off she went, already pulling out her light. Whatever mints Ann was using must be crafted by monks or come from heaven itself, because if that girl was to breath in your face you wouldn't be able to tell she'd had half a pack of thins a day. Or maybe the equipment was for show, and she only pulled them out when someone difficult was to show up, neither seemed more likeley.

With that he was alone at the reception. Again. There wasn't much to do but sit and wait for the next apointment, whitch was Jenkins. If only god all mighty would take her already.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The light seems dimmer then before, Danny thaught as he stepped up to the kiosk, maybe the string inside will snap soon.

"Do you need something?"

"No, just looking."

It was awfully empty tonight, no cars or pedestrians, no critters either, you could write a childrens rhym book about this.

Coming home was quiet, no lights on, no talking, just some dirty dishes and scattered toys. Dani was sound asleep in her bed. Yeah leaving her home alone wasn't the best or a long term plan, but they didn't have many options. Besides, while she had started behaving more her current age (whitch was a bit over a year old, based on size he'd guessed 13 months), Dani seemes to remember her old self, so she's not really a toddler, but this arrangment only lasts as long as everyone thinks he has a sitter for her, other times she gets a fun little trip to the dentist.

"Hi, honey, how was your day? I had the worst day today, you know. Can you immagine, some of these people-", Danny whispered on and on as he wiped the drool off of Dani's face. Honestly, she looked like a sweet little angel right now, so calm, so peacefule. It made him think that all that he does will be worth it at the end. But maybe it was just his "daddy brain" talking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And as you can see, this months activity has gone down by 15% since our last encounter, The Arctic seems to be retreating and recovering their losses whitch has sown displeasure amongst their current allys."

The stars were pretty today, or night, who knows. Look how they were all sparkling, and there went a satelite, and anoter one, and another, and another, and another but this time blue. Barry was bouncing his leg so hard it was kinda vibrating his chair, he didn't like that. Green Arrow seemed more interested it stringnig and unstringing his bow, whitch, sure, he'd like to have something a bit distracting too right about now. The rest seemed to more or less be paying attention, speaking of people, Supes was pretty figetty as well. Now what was that about?

"If nobody has anthing to add, this meeting is over. Green Latern, you are still expected at the med bay for scanning," and it was almost over, Hal could feel the sweet taste of ever aproaching freedom.

There wasn't anything wrong with him. What did he tell you? He can handle anything you throw his way, literally. He was just that good, so he was quickly sent on his way.

The night, as it turns out it was, was pretty nice. Not much traffic down on the roads and no sudden attacka, and it better stay that way, all he was currently interested in was crashing into bed and not getting up for a few days.

No one seemed to be awake and, while he wouldn't usually do this, he decided to just get in through the balcony, not feeling like flothing down, trasforming and then having to get all the way up again by stairs.

His head soon hit the pillow and let me tell you the feeling was euphoric, his body ached from his long patrol and getting dragged into a JL meeting right after didn't make it any better. But this? This made it all worth it in the end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

EVICTION NOTICE

Date: XX/XX/20XX

This notice is sent to Harold Jordan ("Tenant") and further directed to all residents, occupants, subtenants, and any others in posession of the Premises.

Property Adress: Apt. nr. XX, XX of XX str, Coast City ("Premises")

Lease Start Date: XX/XX/20XX ("Lease")

In accordance with your Lease and the laws located in this State, after service of this notice you are herbally given...

He takes it back, he didn't need anything disracting or interesting at all, he'd like to have this not happen, thank you very much. He'd rather listen to Bats go on about attack probabilities and tactics.

"ssssssssssss, fuck."

What the hell was he going to do now?

__________________________________

A/N: Heeeeeeeeeyyy. Sorry for the short chapter. I know the pacing is kind of slow, but please bear with me. I want to make a little build up to their first meating, so it's not basically "So they are room mates now", I do have a plot in mind, but again this is my first fic, so if anyone has pacing or conversation sugestions I'm all ears. Thanks to anyone who read this. <3

P.S. I'm posting on the computer, not sure how to put the "Show less" on, so I'm sorry if this takes a lot of screen space on mobile. :(

If I spot too major an error I'll edit it later.

[cy-cyborg]

The Untrustworthy Fake: Disability Tropes

[ID: A screenshot of Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as he limps towards a crowd using a cane. In the picture, he has a brown top hat in his hand, and he's wearing a suit with a purple jacket, multicoloured bow tie and cream coloured pants. Beside him is text that reads: "Disability Tropes, The untrustworthy Fake" /End ID]

Tell me if this sounds familiar: A new character is introduced into a story with some kind of disability - usually visible but not always. Maybe they're a seemingly harmless person in a wheelchair, maybe they're a one-legged beggar on the street, or maybe they're an elderly person with a cane and a slow, heavy limp. But at some point, it's revealed it's all a ruse! The old man with a cane "falls" forward and does a flawless summersault before energetically springing back up to his feet, the wheelchair user gets to their feet as soon as they think the other character's backs are turned, the one legged beggar's crutch is knocked out of his hand, only to have his other leg pop out of his loose-fitting tunic to catch him.

All of these are real examples. Maya and The Three introduces one of it's main protagonists, Ricco, by having him pretend to be missing a leg in order to con people (something that works on the protagonist, at least at first), Buffy The Vampire Slayer had the character Spike, pretend to be in a wheelchair, until the other characters leave and he gets up, revealing it's all a ruse and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory introduces Wonka by having him slowly limp out into the courtyard of the factory, only for his cane to get stuck, causing him to "fall" and jump back up, revealing that he's actually perfectly fine. Virtually every single major crime show in the past few decades has used this trope too, from CSI to The Mentalist, Castle, Law and Order and Monk all having at least one episode featuring it in some way. Even the kids media I grew up with isn't free from it; The Suite Life of Zack & Cody sees Zach faking being dyslexic after meeting someone who actually has the condition in the episode Smarter and Smarter and the SpongeBob SquarePants episode Krabs vs Plankton has Plankton fake needing a wheelchair (among other injuries) after falling in the Krusty Krab as a ploy to sue Mr Krabs and trick the court into giving him the Kraby Patty Formula.

No matter the genre or target audience though, one thing is consistent: this trope is used as a way to show someone is dishonest and not to be trusted. When the trope is used later in the story, it's often meant to be a big reveal, to shock the audience and make them mad that they've been duped, to show the characters and us what this person (usually a villain) is willing to stoop to. Revealing the ruse early on though is very often used to establish how sleazy or even how dangerous a character is and to tell the audience that they shouldn't trust them from the get go. Gene Wilde (The actor who first played Willy Wonka) even said in several interviews that this was his intent for Wonka's character. He even went so far as to tell the director of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that he wouldn't do the film without that scene because of how strongly he felt this trope was needed to lay the foundations for Wonka's questionable intentions and motivations. His exact words are: "...but I wouldn't have done the film if they didn't let me come out walking as a cripple and then getting my cane stuck into a cobble stone, doing a forward somersault and then bouncing up... the director said, well what do you want to do that for? and I said because from that point on, no one will know whether I'm telling the truth or lying."

There's... a lot of problems with this trope, but that quote encapsulates one of the biggest ones. whether intentionally or not, this trope ends up framing a lot of actual disabled people as deceitful, dishonest liars. Now I can already hear you all typing, What?! Cy that's ridiculous! No one is saying real disabled people are untrustworthy or lying about their disabilities, just people who are faking!

but the thing is, the things often used in this trope as "evidence" of someone faking a disability are things real disabled people do. A person standing up from their wheelchair or having scuff-marks on their shoes, like in the episode Miss Red  from The Mentalist isn't a sign they're faking, a lot of wheelchair users can stand and even walk! They're called ambulatory wheelchair users, and they might use a wheelchair because they can't walk far, they might not feel safe walking on all terrains, they might have unstable joints that makes standing for too long risky, they might have a heart condition like POTS that has a bigger impact when they stand up or any number of other reasons. Also even non-ambulatory wheelchair users will still have scuff marks from things like transferring and bumping into things (rather hilariously, even TV Tropes calls this episode out as being "BS" in it's listing for this trope, which it refers to as Obfuscating Disability). A blind beggar flinching or getting scared when you pull a gun on them isn't a sign they're faking their blindness like it is in Red Dead Redemption 2. Plenty of blind people can still see a little bit, it might only be a general sense of light and darkness, it might be exceptionally blurry or just the fuzzy outlines of shapes, or they might only be able to see something directly in front of them, all of which might still be enough to cue the person into what's happening in a situation like that. Even if it's not, the sound of you pulling your gun out or other people nearby freaking out and making noise probably would tip them off. A person needing a cane or similar mobility aid sometimes, but being able to go without briefly or do even "big movements" like Wonka's rolling somersault, doesn't mean they don't need it at all. Just like with wheelchairs, there's a lot of disabilities that require canes and similar aids some days, and not others. Some disabilities even allow people those big, often straining movements on occasion, or allow them to move without the aid for short periods of time, but not for long. Some people's disability's might even require a mobility aid like a cane as a backup, just in case something goes wrong, but that still means you need to carry it around with you, and unless it can fold down, it's easier to just use it.

Disability is a spectrum, and a lot of disabilities vary in severity and what is required of the people who have them day to day. This trope, however, helps to perpetuate the idea that someone who does any of these things (and many others) is faking, which can actively make the lives of disabled people harder and can even put them in very real danger, physically, mentally and even financially.

Just ask any ambulatory wheelchair user about how many times they've been yelled at for using accommodations they need, like disabled toilets or parking spaces. How many times they've been accused of faking and even filmed without their consent because they stood up in public, even if it was to do something like get their wheelchair unstuck or as simple as them standing to briefly reach something on a high shelf. I've caught multiple people filming me before, so have my friends and family, and it's honestly scary not knowing where those images have ended up. This doesn't just impact the person either, a friend of mine was filmed while standing up to get his daughter (who was about 4 at the time) out of the car. He was lucky to have stumbled across the video a few days later on facebook and contacted the group admins where it was posted to get it taken down, but had he not stumbled across it by chance, pictures with his home address and his car's number plate, his child's face and his face all visible would have just been floating around, all because a woman saw him stand briefly to pick up his daughter.

Many people don't stop at just saying a nasty comment or taking a photo though, a lot of people, when they suspect people are faking, will get violent. I have many friends who have been pushed, slapped in the face, spat on or had their mobility devices kicked out from under them. I've even been in a few situations myself where, had I not had people with me, I think the situation would have turned violent.

There's even been cases where those photos and videos I've mentioned before have been used against real disabled people and they've been reported to their country's welfare system as committing disability fraud. While cases like this are usually resolved *relatively* quickly, in many parts of the world, their payment will be halted while the investigation is in process, meaning they may be without any income at all because of someone else's ignorance. If you're already struggling to make ends meet (which, if you're only living off one of those payments, you probably will be), a few weeks without pay can mean the difference between having a home and being on the streets.

Not to mention that when there's so many stories about people faking a disability in the media, especially when the character is doing it to get some kind of "advantage", such as getting accommodations or some kind of disability benefit, it perpetuates the idea that people are rorting the systems put in place to help disabled people. If this idea becomes prevalent enough, the people in charge start making it harder for the people who need them to access those systems, which more often than not results in disabled people not even being able to access the very systems that are supposed to be helping them. A very, very common example of this is in education where accommodations for things like learning disabilities require you to jump through a ridiculous number of hoops, especially at higher levels, only to have some teachers and professors refuse to adhere to the adaptations anyway because they're convinced the student (and usually disabled students as a whole) is faking.

Yes, the "untrustworthy faker" is a fictional trope, and yes, it does occasionally happen in real life, but not as often as media (including things like news outlets) would have you believe. However, when the media we consume is priming people to look for signs that a disabled person is faking, it has a real impact on real disabled people's lives. "Fake-claiming" is a massive problem for people in pretty much all parts of the disabled community, and it ranges from being just annoying (e.g. such as people spamming and fake-claiming blind people online with "if you were really blind, how do you see the screen" comments) to the more serious cases I mentioned above. It's for this reason a lot of folks in the disabled community ask that people leave this trope out of their works.

[soniclozdplove]

MK Something came up on the mountain. Will explain during training. DO NOT BRING OUR FRIENDS! Especially Jangles! Trust me, you'll understand why when you get here. Monkey King.

MK reread the message for the 100th time, worried over the implications. Not only does Wukong rarely use the phone Mei got him, preferring to simply Astral Project any messages they need to do, but he'd never forbid their friends from joining in on training. Not since they all started training together while fighting against Azure, and Wukong had promised to not keep secrets anymore, what with the Samhadi Fire debacle. So the fact he's asking to keep it a secret is a big deal. Although, as Mei had pointed out when he showed her the message, the other monkey had never explicitly said to keep it a secret, just that he didn't want anyone except MK on the mountain for some reason, likely related to whatever he was going to tell him during training.

"Weird that he pointed out Tang in particular. Like, what did Tang of all people do to make Wukong not want him near!?"

MK didn't know. But as he flew towards the mountain he resolved to find out. The last thing he expected was to be met by a very familiar face when he landed. Or rather, four familiar faces that looked far too similar yet still different from his family to be a coincidence.

"Eeek! Demon boy!!" The Great Monk Tripitaka shrieked as he cowards behind Zu Baijie, Ao Lie, and Sha Wujing. All of them with weapons pointed towards him.

"Aye! Knock it off!" Wukong's voice roared out as he appeared in a flash of gold and red, standing between MK and the others, guarding him. "It's just my c- It's just my successor!"

The weapons immediately drop as the Pilgrims, the ACTUAL PILGRIMS from the STORIES, looked at Wukong incredulously. Zu Baije was the one to voice it.

"You!? A TEACHER!?"

"Yeah, I know!" Wukong snorted, as if hardly believing it himself, "But a lot can change in 1300 years and MK is a good kid. He deserves only the best, Piglet!"

"And... that's you?"

"No, but I'm the one he's got." Wukong's voice was flat, prompting MK to turn his attention to him. He yelped as a well placed kick hit his shin. "MK! What the heck!?"

"What have we talking about regarding self deprivation, Monkey King."

"What... I- that was for you!"

"Still applies!" MK folded his arms triumphantly as the audience began snickering at Wukong's flustered expression as he tried to find a comeback. Eventually his master concedes defeat with a chuckle, throwing his arm around MK in a side hug with a wide grin.

"Alright... well let's do introductions! Master, Ao Lie, Sha Wujing... Piglet. This is Xiaotian, or MK as he prefers, my student and successor. MK, the Pilgrims of the Great Journey... who somehow ended up here!"

"Oh wow! This is like a total dream come true!" MK was practically vibrating as he grinned, only to pause and turn to Wukong as a thought of occurred to him, Wait. Is this why you said Mr. Tang and the others shouldn't come over!?"

"Ah... yeah. That." The Monkey King scratched at his facial fur a but, looking guilty, "I have a good reason for it, MK. Jangles and the rest of these guys' next life in the reincarnation cycle. In all my years of living, I've never experienced a situation where a reincarnation has met their predecessor face to face. I wanted to be cautious in case, like, Jangles meeting Master causes the world to implode or something... again."

"Again?" Tripitaka raised a brow, glancing at Wukong with a concerned look, "Monkey, just what sort of-"

"L-look! We've have some crazy stuff happen recently, okay!? A crazy ice witch turned the mortal realm into an icicle, someone overthrew the Jade Emperor..."

"Somone did WHAT!?"

"And all of reality very nearly kinda sorta shattered when a pillar broke. MK and I managed to fix all of it."

"Yeah, we kicked monkey butt!" MK cheered along, "And only kinda got... emotional, physically, and mentally scarred along the way."

"Only kinda!?" Ao Lie tilted his head, curious, "Would any scarring at all not be considered a big deal?"

Wukong let out a laugh, slinging an arm around MK and the dragon's shoulders.

"Look, it's done and... maybe not over yet, but the main threat is passed. Let's jsut all settle down, I'll put some tea on, and we'll go from there. And maybe make a few calls to Sandy..."

That last part was muttered to himself as he herded the two into his house alongside the rest of the Pilgrims, telling them.not to mind the mess. After all, he shares the place with a bunch of wild monkeys and was still in the middle of cleaning up after Azure.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Amazon Announces James Bond Cast

With Amazon’s purchase of the James Bond franchise, audiences have eagerly awaited the announcement of the new film’s casting. News is now out that James Bond himself will be played by Matthew Lewis, who grew up from the adorable Neville Longbottom in several movies-that-shall-not-be-named into a strikingly handsome man with over 32 abs (per side). Lewis confirmed his casting while on tour for his new light comedy novel, "The Monk."

Other cast include new Sydney Sweeney as new “Bond-Girl” Agent Tuah, an assassin with a hawk tattoo, Timotheée Chalémeét as Bond’s American buddy Felix Leiter, Jenna Ortega as M’s new secretary Mrs. Tarrifsaregood, and Amazon Alexa as the new AI technology based “Q.” They’ll be joined by an unannounced actor as the villain, Luigi Unionboss, whose evil plans to organize laborers against their benevolent and helpful billionaire CEOs must be foiled by Bond.

Taylor Swift will be singing the theme song, which is available to hear in the film only for an extra $12,000 to Ticketmaster and Amazon Music. Audiences can view the film with an Amazon Prime subscription, plus $30 to rent the film for a 4 hour window, and can also pay $40 extra per month ever after to see the good ending.

Amazon owner Jeff Bezos has promised to “Make Bond Misogynist Again” and return the series to its roots in Ian Fleming’s toxically masculine and absurdly racist books. Filming has already begun onboard the Amazon Blue Origin rocket, which is appropriately shaped for a Bond movie:

[theexhaustedqueer]

I’m relistening to 5.4, and the thing that really gets me about VR-LA’s alternate timeline where he saves MR-SN is that that timeline is a bad ending tragedy for literally every other member of the crew except maybe Finbar. If the Per Aspera never drifts aimlessly through the Astral Sea, it’s never picked up and sold to Oto, Dani never gets her hands on a spelljammer. Maybe she and her brothers eventually get out from under Oto’s thumb, but without easily accessible planar travel it’s hard to imagine them leaving Brass. And for Dani, who grew up on the streets of Brass and for whom Oto taking her in meant so much to her because of how much of an improvement it was to her life, it seems unlikely that she’d make a home for herself in Brass outside the Heap. In this version of events Dani, Roy and Egan never leave the Heap. Dani never gets to see Mechanus or the second layer of Acheron. She never gets her ship.

Finbar’s life is probably the least changed. The Searing Tongue would probably assign him to a different spelljammer and he’d do his thing as normal. He probably even still gets involved in the Zuggtemoy conspiracy, since that was based around the Searing Tongue. Assuming the ship he ends up on is of similar skill to the Per Aspera’s crew, he and his other crew take care of Azotico and he maybe even makes up with Elyse. That all assumes events play out in a pretty similar way, but given that he’s got a completely different crew, things could go in any number of directions.

Vhas, without the crew of the Per Aspera, never escapes Tu'narath. There’s not much else to say for this one, it’s just generally bad for his prospects.

And, of course, Kyana. Without the crew of the Per Aspera to pick her up on the Astral Sea, she eventually swims her way to a portal. Whatever plane she ends up on, she’s hopelessly naive, and maybe she gets lucky and meets someone willing to help her, but the odds aren’t in her favour. Eventually she’s dragged back to the monastery. She— and Ione— are turned into mindflayers as the mindflayers’ plan to escape then destroy the planescape proceeds unchecked.

And then it comes to the NPCs. Enoch dies in Avernus. Ione and the rest of the monks get brain wormed. Cressida stays a mercenary. Roy and Egan never leave the Heap. Davion never meets the rest of B-team. Depending on the Finbar situation, Karrundentrassi might die to fucking fungus. Elyse might make up with Finbar but she just as easily might not. Hans has an even worse time making it to Mount Celestia and HE-11/Vice probably dies in Acheron. Emi eventually builds herself a working body and becomes an amoral murderbot wandering the Planescape, maybe after killing Casimir. And uh… things don’t look great for Maxim either. Yes, he still knows VR-LA in this timeline, but we know that A) in the current timeline, a big part VR-LA’s draw to Maxim is that he’s the only link VR-LA has to finding his old crew. If he still has his old crew, that draw never forms and they might never form a closer relationship. And B) we know that pre-amnesia VR-LA was more closed off than post-amnesia VR-LA, which to me indicates that pre-amnesia VR-LA probably wouldn’t put the same time and care into breaking down Maxim’s walls. It seems likely to me that in this alternate timeline, Maxim and VR-LA never become friends. And even if they do, Dani doesn’t discover Create Spelljammer for Vr-La to cast, so Maxim never gets his home turned into a spelljammer and never leaves his Sanctum.

I just wonder if when VR-LA thinks about that alternate timeline, he thinks about how saving the life of someone he cared about so much would inadvertently ruin the lives of all the people he cares about now, and I wonder if that keeps him up at night.

[mysunfreckle]

I've talked before about how The History of Sir Charles Grandison is the one novel we know Catherine has read before she is introduced to the Gothic novels, but now I've got to vent some feelings about John Thorpes literary tastes.

He says that Radcliffe's novels are "amusing enough" (without knowing which books she actually wrote) but he explicitly states: "Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom Jones, except The Monk;" Now I doubt the significance of these books is anything new to people who study English literature, but finding it out was like a cool Easter egg to me, so I'm gonna blab about it:

At first glance these are excellent books for a guy like Thorpe to brag about liking, because there is basically only one thing that unites them: sexual content. The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding, is a "rake reformed" narrative, while The Monk is a Gothic novel deliberately filled with depravity, ending in eternal damnation. They're completely different kinds of books and regardless of how good they may be, neither ought to be talked up to a nice young lady you've only just been introduced to.

But considering Austen's love for literature, this choice of authors was probably equally deliberate. Just to show off that Thorpe's tastes are incompatible with Catherine's. (And cannot hold a candle to Henry Tilney's, who loves Mrs Radcliffe's novels.) Because...

• Henry Fielding, writer of Tom Jones, was the main literary rival of Samuel Richardson, who wrote Sir Charles Grandison. The latter wrote "Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded", the former responded with the parody "An Apology for the Life of Mrs Shamela Andrews". They were both pioneers of the English novel, but wrote very different types of stories with very different moral tones (x, y). At this point of the novel we already know that Catherine likes Sir Charles Grandison (while Isabella expresses surprise at her being able to get through it), so making Thorpe like Tom Jones feels almost like a wink at the reader.

• Then there's the mention of The Monk, which is even more significant in a story where the two leads love Ann Radcliffe. Because Matthew Gregory Lewis was at least partly inspired by The Mysteries of Udolpho when he began writing The Monk (a), and Ann Radcliffe was so dismayed by the book that she then wrote The Italian in response (b, c). Once again two literary rivals, one that Catherine is a fan of, and one who Thorpe prefers.

It's also notable that despite absolutely being part of the Gothic genre, The Monk is not on Isabella's list of novels to read with Catherine. Which makes it extra silly that my beloved Northanger Abbey (2007) adaptation not only has Catherine read The Monk, but also lets her fantasize about a scene that really really isn't sexy in context.

I do really encourage reading a summary of The Monk if you can stomach the mentions of sexual violence, however. Lewis wrote it when he was 19 and despite its popularity was rather embarrassed about it later in his life. And while it is full of satanic seduction and murder, someone also accidentally elopes with a ghost, which makes up for a lot.

[southeastasianists]

When Thailand's long-awaited equal marriage law came into effect on Thursday, police officer Pisit "Kew" Sirihirunchai hoped to be among the first in line to marry his long-term partner Chanatip "Jane" Sirihirunchai.

And he was - they were the sixth couple to register their union at one of Bangkok's grandest shopping malls, in an event city officials helped organise to celebrate this legal milestone.

Hundreds of couples across Thailand received marriage certificates on Thursday, breaking into smiles or tearing up over the moment they had dreamed of for so long.

It was a pageant of colours and costumes as district officials hosted parties with photo booths and free cup cakes - one Bangkok district was giving air tickets to the first couple who registered their marriage there.

"The rainbow flag is flying high over Thailand," Prime Minister Paetongtarn Shinawatra wrote on Facebook from Davos where she is attending the World Economic Forum.

Activists said they were hoping to cross the 1,448-mark for registrations by the end of Thursday - 1448 is the clause in the Thai Civil Code covering the definition of marriage.

"We have been ready for such a long time," Pisit said. "We have just been waiting for the law to catch up and support us."

The two men have been together for seven years. Eager to formalise their relationship, they had previously been to a Buddhist monk to give them an auspicious new last name they can share – Sirihirunchai. They had also asked local officials to issue a letter of intent, which they both signed, pledging to get married.

But they said having their partnership recognised under Thai law is what they had been waiting for: "This is perfect for us. The law that protects our rights."

Until now, official documents listed Pisit and Chanatip as brothers. That way they could be a family in the eyes of the law. A marriage certificate meansLGBTQ+ couples now have the same rights as any other couple to get engaged and married, to manage their assets, to inherit and to adopt children.

They can also make decisions about medical treatment if their partner becomes ill and incapacitated, or extend financial benefits – such as Pisit's government pension – to their spouse.

"We want to build a future together – build a house, start a small business together, maybe a café," he adds, making a list of all that the law has enabled. "We want to build our future together and to take care of each other."

The law, which passed in both houses of parliament in June last year before being endorsed by the Thai king in September, is a big step for LGBTQ+ rights.

Thailand remains an outlier in Asia in recognising marriage equality - only Nepal and Taiwan have legalised same-sex unions.

It's one reason why Aki Uryu, who is Japanese, moved to Bangkok to be with her partner. She said life is difficult for the LGBTQ+ community back home: "In Thailand, I can hold hands with my partner, walk together. No one says anything. It's just different. It feels right."

After the two women married on Thursday, Aki said: "It is like I have started my new life."

Watching them celebrate, along with so many other couples in a Bangkok mall, was Mr Zhang, a gay Chinese man who did not want to reveal his first name.

"We're excited, we're also very jealous," he said. "Thailand is so close to China, but in another sense it's so far away."

And yet, even in Thailand, with its famed tolerance towards LGBTQ+ people, activists say it took a sustained campaign to win legal recognition.

A long wait

"We've been waiting for this day for 18 years - the day everyone can recognise us openly, when we no longer need to be evasive or hide," 59-year-old Rungtiwa Thangkanopast, who will marry her partner of 18 years in May, told the BBC earlier this week.

She had been in a marriage, arranged by her family, to a gay man, who later died. She had a daughter, through IVF, but after her husband's death began spending time, and later helping run, one of the first lesbian pubs in Bangkok. Then she met Phanlavee, who's now 45 and goes by her first name only.

On Valentine's Day 2013 the two women went to the Bang Rak district office in central Bangkok to ask to be officially married - a popular place for marriage registration because the name in Thai means "Love Town".

This was the time when LGBTQ+ couples began challenging the official view of marriage as an exclusively heterosexual partnership by attempting to get marriage certificates at district offices.

There were around 400 heterosexual couples waiting with them on that day. Rungtiwa and Phanlavee were refused, and the Thai media mocked their effort, using derogatory slang for lesbians.

Still, activists managed to persuade the government to consider changing the marriage laws. A proposed civil partnership bill was put before parliament, offering some official recognition to same-sex couples, but not the same legal rights as heterosexual couples.

A military coup in 2014 which deposed the elected government interrupted the movement. It would be another decade before full marriage equality was approved by parliament, in part because of the rise of young, progressive political parties that championed the cause.

Their message resonated with Thais – and attitudes too had changed. By this time, same-sex marriage was legalised in many Western countries and same-sex love had become normalised in Thai culture too.

Such was the shift in favour of the law that it was passed last year by a thumping majority of 400 votes to just 10 against. Even in the notoriously conservative senate only four opposed the law.

And couples like Rungtiwa and Phanleeva now have their chance to have their love for each other recognised, without the risk of public derision.

"With this law comes the legitimacy of our family," Rungtiwa says, "We're no longer viewed as weirdos just because our daughter isn't being raised by heterosexual parents."

The new law takes out gender-specific terms like man, woman, husband and wife from 70 sections of the Thai Civil Code covering marriage, and replaces them with neutral terms like individual and spouse.

However, there are still dozens of laws in the Thai legal code which have not yet been made gender-neutral, and there are still obstacles in the way of same-sex couples using surrogacy to have a family.

Parents are still defined under Thai law as a mother and a father. The law also does not yet allow people to use their preferred gender on official documents; they are still stuck with their birth gender. These are areas where activists say they will still need to keep pushing for change.

And it is especially significant for older couples, who have had to ride out the shifts in attitude.

"I really hope people will put away the old, stereotypical ideas that gay men cannot have true love," said Chakkrit "Ink" Vadhanavira.

He and his partner Prinn, both in their 40s, have been together for 24 years.

"The two of us have proved that we genuinely love each other through thick and thin for more than 20 years," Chakkrit said. "We have been ready to take care of each other since our first day together. We are no different from heterosexual couples."

While Chakkrit's parents quickly accepted their partnership, it took Prinn's parents seven years before they could do so.

The couple also wanted to share the production business they ran together, and other assets, as a couple, so they asked Prinn's parents to adopt Chakkrit officially, giving him the same family name. Prinn says the new law has brought welcome legal clarity to them.

"For example, right now when a same sex couple buy something together – a large item - they cannot share ownership of it," said Prinn. "And one of us passes away, what both of us have earned together cannot be passed on to the other. That's why marriage equality is very significant."

Today, said Prinn, both sets of parents treat them as they would just like any other married children.

And when they had relationship problems like any other couple, their parents helped them.

"My dad even started reading gay magazines to understand me better. It was quite cute to see that."

Additional reporting by Lulu Luo, Paweena Ninbut and Ryn Jirenuwat in Bangkok

[dragoneyes613]

On February 5th, 1840, the Syrian Jewish community was thrown into peril when Father Thomas, an Italian monk, and his Muslim servant, Ibrahim Amara, disappeared in Damascus. Despite there being no evidence of the Jews’ involvement — in fact, historians think it’s more likely that Father Thomas was murdered by a local Turkish muleteer — the good citizens of Damascus could never lose an opportunity to scapegoat a Jew. Accusations of “blood matzos” spread rapidly (a common justification for many European blood libels), and thus began what became known as the Damascus affair. At the time, the city was governed by the (anti-Semitic) French consul, Ulysse de Ratti-Menton, who ordered a search of the Jewish quarter. While his hunt did not unearth any stored blood or bodies, Ulysse de Ratti-Menton was not about to let a small matter of literally no evidence get in the way of his convictions. A Jewish barber named Solomon Negrin was arbitrarily pulled off the street and tortured until he “confessed” that the monk had been killed in the house of David Harari — a wealthy member of the community — by seven Jews, who were rounded up before they could flee.

Meir Farhi, another wealthy Jew, was indicted in the disappearance of Ibrahim Amara. The Damascus authorities were furious that he escaped before they arrived to arrest him. Determined to drive him out of hiding, they began to whip his toddler son. After being forced to watch her son receive 300 lashes, and nearly bleed to death, a distraught Mrs. Farhi gave the authorities her husband’s location (along with a bribe for “humane” treatment), and he was promptly imprisoned.

In the interim, none of the seven “conspirators” in Father Thomas’s murder confessed, despite being tortured. Wanting a “confession,” as they still didn’t have any physical proof, Damascus authorities abducted 63 Jewish children (along with their mothers) and refused to release them until someone owned up. Aslan Farhi, a brother of Meir Farhi, confessed to the murder under torture.

While the Christians and Muslims had found their “murderers,” they still hadn’t located the bodies or the blood. Investigators eventually found some animal bones in the sewer, and claimed they belonged to Thomas and Amara. A local physician refused to certify that they were human bones and suggested they be forwarded to Europe for confirmation, but the French consul decided that would be too much effort — he had all the proof he needed.

Jewish communities worldwide were horrified about the blood libel, and even more so about the fact that the greater world accepted it as justified. No one in Europe rose to the defense of the Damascus Jewish community, or even questioned the obvious discrepancies in the case. But before the American Jewish community could take action, President Martin Van Buren spoke up.

Though the State Department issued an official statement condemning the situation in Damascus, President Van Buren wasn’t content to just send his “thoughts and prayers,” and instructed his government to pressure and influence the Sultan as well.

The American consul in Constantinople, David Porter, received the following message: “…As the scene of these barbarities are in the Mahomedan dominions, and as such inhuman practices are not of infrequent occurrence in the East, the President has directed me to instruct you do to everything in your power with the Government of his Imperial Highness, the Sultan to whom you are accredited… to prevent or mitigate these horrors…”

Mr. Porter’s pressure campaign (along with some assistance from the British and French governments) forced Pasha Muhammed Ali, the Ottoman Viceroy and ruler of Egypt and Syria, to end the torture and imprisonment of the Jewish prisoners who were still alive. Additionally, the American ambassador (along with Moses Montefiore) was able to secure an Ottoman imperial decree declaring that the blood libel had “not the least foundation in truth,” and that Jews “shall possess the same advantages and enjoy the same privileges” as his other subjects — most notably the free exercise of their religion.

While the American Jewish communities arranged protests in New York, Boston, Charleston, and Philadelphia, these rallies took place two weeks after the President intervened. His actions were a matter of conscience, not the result of political pressure or lobbying.

Source