prismozo

[prismozo]

the urge to change my entire layout out💔💔

[prismozo]

Everyone talks about homeless Patrick Zweig this. Hobosexual Patrick that. We get it. We all love seeing him messy. He sleeps in his car, and fucks girls to crash in their hotels. But what about you?

What if you’re the one without a place to sleep? What if you’re the one sleeping in your car?

Yeah. You.

What if you’re the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? You’re the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. You’ve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night… for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.

Then it buzzes.

“You’ve got a Match. Start chatting now!”

Then…

Match.

Patrick, 32.

Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isn’t the only thing that’s hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.

You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.

His pics are… something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.

You type:

Is your bio real or just bait?

He replies fast.

Come find out. 9 pm.

And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if he’s not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if you’re a killer or not. But you’re already changing your top in the front seat like it’s instinct.

Because honestly?

You’d use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybe…maybe… a cock if it comes free with room service.

Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs don’t touch the steering wheel. And if Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?

Fine.

He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.

By 8:55, you’re walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrick’s in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like it’s own his place. He’s got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says as you slide into the seat beside him.

“Didn’t think you’d be hot and real,” you tease him, chuckling.

He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like he’s someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesn’t ask what you like, just says, “She’ll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.”

Your pussy clenches like it’s trained when he said that.

You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time… mouth, throat, legs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, “You keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.”

You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

Patrick laughs like that’s the right answer like it’s his favorite thing you’ve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.

“Come upstairs,” he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesn’t feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. It’s just a simple, filthy suggestion, like you’ve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and he’s letting your mouth part.

You don’t answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like you’re supposed to.

The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because you’re… well… you’re here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?

Room 804.

He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.

You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means he’s going to.

Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like he’s deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.

“You want another drink?” he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You don’t know if it’s the whiskey or you.

You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.

He watches you drink. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like he’s sizing you up, or deciding what position he’s going to do to you.

“You always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?” he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.

You swallow. “Only the hot ones.”

That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. You’re close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t actually care what your answer was.”

Then he reaches for your waist.

It’s not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard it’s almost a gasp.

“You don’t seem like the type to waste time,” he says, breath skating your ear.

And you don’t answer, you don't need to because your brain’s already gone mushy.

His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like he’s had enough of the games and already knows you’ll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like he’s got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.

“You wore this for me?” he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, that’s barely there, probably slightly damp already. “Or you always like this?”

It shouldn’t turn you on. It shouldn’t. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you won’t admit out loud. Like he’s reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.

He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. But he’s not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you don’t even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.

Never pretended to be nice just to get something.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you in my room,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s daring you to object. “You walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like you’ll beg for it.”

You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.

“…and you think I’m gonna play nice?”

You can’t speak. You can even barely breathe.

And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.

And that’s the moment it hits you: you’re not here because he’s hot. You’re here because he doesn’t care why you are here. He doesn’t even have to dine or wine you.

You raise an eyebrow but don’t move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like you’re weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.

Then, slowly, you start walking… left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like you’re posing for a photo shoot he wasn’t invited to.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. “You always bark orders before your dick’s even out?”

He hums. “You always talk this much before opening your legs?”

“I just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.” Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. “Tennis pro and… ‘Above average dick’ was it?” You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.

That makes him pause.

Then he starts walking.

“No pressure,” you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. “I’m sure it’s hard to live up to all that… size.”

He’s at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure… just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.

“Tell you what,” he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. “Why don’t you keep talking shit… while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.”

You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. “Wow,” you say breathlessly, “that’s… motivational”

And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And he’s lining it up.

Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. You’re hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You don’t have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, that’s it.

“You always find pussy this easy between matches?” you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. “Or just desperate ones who’ll take you raw off an app?”

He snorts but doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like he’s deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you whisper, just enough to mock him.

He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.

“You talk a lot for someone this wet,” he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Your body… or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.

You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part he’s sliding between your legs.

“F-fuck,” you whimper.

He’s not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe he’s nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.

“Should’ve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,” he growls in your ear. “Would’ve skipped the drink.”

Then he flips you.

He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like you’re just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didn’t want you to move at all.

“Ass up,” he mutters. “Don’t make me say it again.”

So bossy. So annoying. But you’re already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like he’s checking to see if you’re still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.

“Jesus,” he huffs. “You’re soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?”

You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, he’s pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.

And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.

Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just leans over, like he’s waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like he’s enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. You’re breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole body’s trying to compute what the hell just happened.

His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.

“Say it.”

Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You won’t. You won’t. You are not that desperate, right?

But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like you’re trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like he’s testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

“Say it,” he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. “Say you needed this.”

You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.

You love how it feels.

He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like you’ve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.

Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.

“Jesus,” he groans, voice ragged now. “You’re fucking made for it, aren’t you?”

You’re not… you’re not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like you’re not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive ���come with me upstairs’ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like he’s making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.

You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesn’t let you move. Not really.

“You’re not saying anything,” he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m just… getting used to being split in half, thanks.”

He laughs. Like there’s something funny. Fuck there isn’t. He probably thinks you’re pathetic. “Yeah?” Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Let me help you get used to it.”

Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.

Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.

“Fucking made for it,” he growls again, more to himself this time, like he can’t believe how tight you are, how wet, how much you’re already falling apart for him.

You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your forehead’s mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. He’s panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like “fuckin’ tight,” and “so wet for a stranger,” like it’s a compliment and a threat rolled into one.

He doesn’t stop moving. Don’t pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.

“Should see yourself,” he grits. “Fucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.”

You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you can’t swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you don’t say it. One hand fists the sheets. The other’s somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole body’s gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.

Then he slows.

Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.

“Bet you say this to all the girls,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. “Any city. Any hotel.”

He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.

“Nah,” he murmurs, hips pulling back.

Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. “Just the ones who take cock like you do.”

You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, he’s even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like he’s never pulling out again.

You’re half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own body. He’s still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like he’s trying to teach it something it won’t forget.

And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.

“Jesus,” he pants.

You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. He’s close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his body’s trying to warn you.

And then you hear it.

That groan.

That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says he’s about to come and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like you’re about to snap in half.

“You gonna pull out?” you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.

He doesn’t answer.

Don’t slow down.

Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answer’s already happening.

You know it. Feel it.

The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.

Then…

Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.

You freeze. Your mouth opens. “Patrick,”

“F-fuck sorry,” he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell he’s not really sorry.

“Patrick.”

He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.

“Felt too good. Couldn’t help it.”

Bullshit. He didn’t even try.

You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like it’s no big deal. This is just what happens now.

“You’ll be fine,” he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.

You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. “It was… good,” you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, “You’ll, um. Cover Plan B, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.

He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like he’s getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what you’re gonna do next.

You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like it’s not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isn’t already doing its humiliating thing. “It’s late,” you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. “Didn’t even realize it was almost three.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you won’t. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, “Kinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.”

Still, he doesn’t bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now.

“Would it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like… might as well just crash and go in the morning or whatever…”

Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, he’s just holding himself not laughing. “Are you asking if you can stay?”

You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. “What? No. I’m just saying it’s late.”

He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, “Jesus. Just go to sleep.”

This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t do this. In normal times like this? It’s clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like “You get home safe, okay?” while he’s already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whatever’s easier. He doesn’t let them stay. Doesn’t let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.

But he hasn’t moved. And you’re still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.

He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. “And, no cuddling or whatever,” he says, like it’s an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.

You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

No cuddling. No promises. No ride home.

Guess the app works.

[prismozo]

ohhhh maybe giving scenemo!pat his magic cross piercing. he’s hard partially because you’re pretty and have your hands on his dick, and partially because he’s a bit of a whore for pain. you notice, one thing leads to another, he’s fingering you in your back office while you try and give him care and healing instructions.

summary: when patrick gets his magic cross piercing and things leads to one another, he’s fingering you in your back office when you try to talk to him about the aftercare.

pairing: scenemo!patrick x afab piercer!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.1k words. genital piercing. pain kink. clinical setting. professional boundary violation. dirty talk. brat behavior (Patrick).

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes

You’ve done plenty of intimate piercings before—Prince Alberts, frenulums, ladders—but something about this appointment has you tightening your thighs the second you read the form.

“Magic cross.”

And the name on the intake? Patrick fucking Zweig. Scene hair, chipped nail polish, three belts on his jeans and none of them functional. He’s got eyeliner smudged into the corners of his eyes and a grin that belongs on someone who’s been suspended from at least three high schools.

It’s not his first time at the shop; he had been here for his labret piercing a few years ago and an eyebrow one that he didn’t keep—but you hadn’t been the one piercing him at the time. A shame.

“I want the full cross,” he says again when you sit down on your rolling chair. “Horizontal and vertical. Gimme the pain.”

You arch a brow, snapping on a pair of gloves. “You know that’s four holes total, right?”

Patrick shrugs, fingers already at his zipper. “Yeah. I’ll try not to nut on your gloves.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. You’ve seen dicks in every shape and size—but not every client moans when you disinfect them. Not every guy twitches under your touch and breathes out, “fuck, you’re kinda making me hard just with the prep.” But Patrick does.

You ignore him. Kind of.

The setup is clean. Tools lined up. Two needles, two straight barbells, all sterilized. You mark him quickly—two vertical dots, two horizontal, all across the head—and give him a look.

“You ready?”

Patrick lies back with a deep exhale. “Ruin me.”

You pierce the vertical pair first. He lets out a guttural sound as the needle slides through, but it’s not a cry of pain—it’s pleasure. His cock jerks in your grip, fully hard now, tip glistening like he really might cum from the needle alone.

“Shit,” he pants. “That—fuck—that hurts so good.”

You keep your head down, focus tight, thighs clenching. Slide the jewelry in slowly, threading the bar through the fresh holes one by one. It’s precision work, and you do it perfectly—even as Patrick groans under you and clenches the edges of the padded bench.

Then come the horizontal. He’s sweating by the end, but still rock hard, his chest heaving like he’s been edged.

“Jesus,” you murmur, wiping him down and snapping off your gloves. “You’re a freak.”

“Compliment,” he gasps. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, fighting the throb in your own core. “Get dressed. I’ll give you care instructions in the back.”

By the time he walks into your cramped little office, he’s redressed—mostly. His belts are hanging undone, button half-fastened. He sits with a slight wince but a smirk still plastered across his face.

You clear your throat and grab the aftercare sheet. “No sex for at least six weeks,” you start, professionally.

He raises a brow. “Not even hand stuff?”

You ignore that; well, you try your best to. It wouldn’t be professional. “Clean with sterile saline twice a day. No touching unless it’s to clean—”

Patrick leans back, legs spread slightly, his tongue pressed to his lip ring. “So like, hypothetically, if I were the worst patient you’ve ever had—”

“Already are.” You can’t help but roll your eyes at him.

“—and I touched it anyway… and got really fucking hard again, just thinking about your hands?”

You blink at him. He’s already moved closer with the rolling chair, almost between your knees now, voice low and syrupy. “Would you let me show you how good my fingers are, since you were so gentle with me? Think of it as a payback.”

You open your mouth to say no. To say it’s not professional, you could get caught—yet, you can’t stop thinking about how Patrick reacted to you piercing him, his cock hard, his comments. So your legs unconsciously spread for him and you sigh like permission.

Then his hand is between your legs as soon as he sees your expression and you realize you’re soaking through your underwear. You have been since Patrick’s first dirty comment.

“Fuck,” he hisses, like it’s hurting him how wet you are. “You’re into this, huh? Got off on making me moan for it?” He’s smirking now. You don’t answer. You can’t—not when two of his fingers slip under the band of your panties and slide right in, like your body’s been waiting for it.

You gasp, legs spreading even more before you can stop them, hips bucking into his hand. Giving him more space.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he whispers, transfixed. “Holy shit—did stabbing my dick actually get you this wet?” It’s like he can’t believe it, licking his lips and the silver ring of his labret.

Your breath shudders. “Patrick—”

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies, already curling his fingers just right. “Promise.”

You brace your hands flat behind you on the desk, head tipping back as he starts to move. His fingers are rough and metal-tipped—cold rings sliding against your folds as he pumps into you, fucking you open like he’s trying to earn an A+ in making piercers cum in their own office.

He finally gets up from the chair just to lean in close, breath hot against your ear. “Should I stop?” he whispers. “Or should I let you finish telling me about cleaning it while I ruin your panties?”

You bite your lip hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t stop,” you grit.

He laughs—sweet, fucked-up, giddy. He angles his fingers again and you nearly choke on your own moan. Your thighs clamp around his wrist and he groans like he felt it in his own cock.

“God, you sound so good,” he pants. “Can’t believe I came here to get stabbed and ended up with my fingers in the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.”

You try to glare but it melts into a whimper. He speeds up, fingers rubbing against your walls to find the perfect spot that you’d make you cum. When he does, you see white, thighs shaking and whimpering.

Your orgasm builds sharp, fast, the kind that climbs with no warning. You clutch the edge of the desk, head spinning, thighs trembling more and more as he keeps working you—slick and messy, knuckles deep, wet sounds echoing between your moans.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Give it to me. Let me feel you cum on my fingers. You earned it, didn’t you?”

You fall apart with a broken sob, clenching around him so tight he curses. Your body jerks with it, trembling as he fucks you through the high, eyes dark and locked on yours like he’s watching art happen in real time.

When it’s over, you sag forward, chest heaving, thighs twitching. He pulls his hand out slow, sucking your wetness off two fingers like it’s dessert.

You stare.

“You’re gonna clean those before you touch your piercing, right?” You can’t help but ask, professionalism coming back into your mind.

He grins. “You gonna spank me if i don’t?”

You grab the aftercare sheet, eyes rolling and smoothing your skirt down.

“Maybe.”

[prismozo]

Uh short blurb or wtv? i couldn’t think of who this was about specifically but i had frat boy patrick along with frat boy art in mind so just choose one idk☝️🤓

side note i was listening to Love me by Elvis while writing this so it just got really sad and i’m half asleep so grammar is probably horrible.

You wanted more, more than parading you around frat parties only when he was drunk enough; he wouldn’t remember it in the morning. More than late night texts interrupting your studying because he ‘needed you’.

But you never asked, because you were okay with it as long as he was around you. Even if he was simply glancing at you across the room at a party he invited you to.

The love you had for him blinded you, even when he’d walk around campus with another girl on his arm—you’d still be in his bed later that night.

You gave him everything and got nothing in return. You did assignments for him because he had important things to do; you found him in the back of the library making out with some sorority girl—you were looking for a book to complete his assignment.

After a few months it began to drain you. Eye bags deep and dark, your wardrobe switched to pajamas and eventually—you stopped answering his messages.

It only lasted a week; he cornered you outside the campus store late at night, he held you in place with those sweet words of his.

“Baby I’m sorry.” he’d whisper, cupping your face with his rough hands.

“I missed you, why are you acting like this?” Your response was silence as his hands moved down your arms.

“Let’s go for a drive” wrapping his arms around your waist pulling your chest to his, you can’t help the way your body melts into his hold.

He’d take you back to the frat, putting on a movie in his room then climbing into bed to cuddle you. He let you feel special that night, he had you right where he wanted you once again.

That became his ritual apology. Your feelings would overwhelm you and you’d distance yourself, he’d track you down, sweet talk you and you’d end up in his room.

It worked every time.

He called. You came.

Like clockwork.

[prismozo]

have you ever considered... scenemo patrick x metalhead art x reader? or simply scenemo patrick x metalhead art...? maybe...?

summary: patrick and art have nothing in common; not their aesthetic, not their life style, not the same view on almost everything. but they have that one friend—the one that organize that underground party where they meet. and maybe have sex in the bathroom, but who cares about that?

pairing: scenemo!patrick x metalhead!art.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.4k words. bottom brat patrick. top art. praise & degrading. mocking. choking. spitting. impact play (spanks). anal sex. handjob. semi-public.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket

The party was exactly the kind of thing Art usually hated: too many drunk kids wearing black for clout, shouting over the bands that tore through busted speakers in the basement of a condemned warehouse. But he owed Janice a favor, and she’d all but begged him to show up — "for the vibes," she'd said.

So he leaned against a cracked concrete wall near the back, nursing a warm beer, watching the chaos like a wolf watching a bonfire.

The space was thick with smoke and sweat and strobe flashes. Someone had hung red lights from the ceiling like they wanted it to feel hellish. It worked. Paint peeled from the walls in long strips. The bathroom doors barely shut. A circle pit spun to the right of the makeshift stage. In one corner, a cluster of people passed around a joint the size of a microphone.

Art felt out of place, but not in a bad way. With his black cutoff tank, shredded jeans, and silver chains looped around his neck, he looked like part of the industrial piping. His presence was heavy, magnetic. He didn’t try to be intimidating — it just happened.

That’s when he walked in.

Patrick looked like he was made for a different party entirely. Slender, pierced, and obnoxiously gorgeous in a black mesh shirt and pastel pink skinny jeans, he stood out like candy in a gun shop. Hair flat-ironed, streaked pink, his eyeliner winged out sharp enough to slice. His belt was covered in pyramid studs, his wrists in leather and rubber bracelets. A vintage Hello Kitty backpack swung off one shoulder like a joke.

Art scowled. What the fuck was Janice thinking?

The scene boy scanned the room like he owned it — or wanted to. When Janice spotted him and waved, Patrick made his way over in tight, theatrical steps, head high.

“Art Donaldson, meet Patrick Zweig,” Janice said. “Be nice.”

Art raised an eyebrow. Patrick raised his higher. “You look like you’ve never listened to anything made after 1989,” Patrick said, bored.

“And you look like you’d cry if your eyeliner smudged,” Art replied.

Patrick scoffed and turned to Janice. “This is who you wanted me to meet?”

“Play nice,” Janice said, already backing away. “You two need more friends.”

They didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked. Judged. Assessed.

Patrick was thinner than Art liked, but he carried himself like he knew his worth. His lip ring gleamed when he smirked. Art, for his part, was just slightly bigger, rougher, scarred in places you couldn’t see. He’d broken his nose in a pit once and never got it fixed.

Patrick’s gaze lingered. Art noticed.

“Want a drink?” Art offered, jerking his chin toward the busted table of lukewarm beer and boxed wine. Patrick curled his lip. “You think I’m drinking that?”

“Suit yourself.” Art cracked another beer. “Guess you just came to be seen.”

Patrick tilted his head. “And you came to judge everyone from the wall?”

Art shrugged. “I came to see if anyone was worth talking to. Patrick looked him over. “Any luck?”

Art grinned. “Maybe.”

It didn’t take long. They circled each other for less than half an hour — flirting through insults, brushing shoulders in the hallway, mocking each other’s taste in music. Patrick was sharp-tongued and bratty, always testing boundaries. Art didn’t rise to the bait — he grabbed it, challenged it, pushed back. It lit something under Patrick’s skin, like static.

By the time they stumbled into the back hallway near the bathrooms, Patrick’s pupils were blown, and Art’s hand was on his waist.

“You’re still a prick,” Patrick muttered like it mattered at that moment.

“And you’re still dying for me to bend you over something,” Art growled.

That did it.

The bathroom was awful.

Dim yellow light buzzed from a single fixture overhead. The cracked mirror above the sink was covered in Sharpie scrawl and band stickers. The tiles on the floor were black and sticky; the air reeked of piss, booze, and artificial vanilla spray. The door didn’t lock.

None of that stopped them.

Patrick pressed himself against the counter, hips back, one eyebrow arched. “Don’t disappoint me, Donaldson.” Art slammed the door and stalked over. “Don’t act like you’re not already hard for me.”

Patrick opened his mouth to retort, but Art caught his jaw, kissed him hard, and swallowed the sound. Patrick melted under the pressure — briefly. Then he bit Art’s lip and laughed.

“Fucker,” Art muttered, pushing him harder into the sink, grinding their hips together. Patrick gasped. “You’re already hard?”

“You’ve been asking for it since you opened your mouth—plus don’t act like you aren’t either.”

“Maybe I just like pissing you off.”

“Yeah?” Art smirked. “Then you’ll love what happens next.”

His hand roughly grabbed Patrick’s jawline to tilt his head, before the loud noise of spitting echoed in the bathroom. Art watched as his spit hit Patrick’s cheek, and how this one shivered at the action.

“Dirty little tease,” he growled.

Patrick’s breath hitched, but his bratty smirk stayed. “That all you got?” Art didn’t answer. He shoved Patrick back, turned him around roughly, and yanked those tight pink jeans down over his thighs. No underwear. Of course.

“Jesus,” Art hissed. “You wanted this.”

“I always want attention,” Patrick purred, arching his back.

Art leaned in and bit the back of his shoulder. “You’ll get plenty of that.” He spit again, this time down between Patrick’s ass cheeks, watching it drip. His fingers followed. Patrick gasped at the cold slickness. “Bet you get off knowing how many people’ve used this bathroom to fuck,” Art muttered as he slid one finger in. “Fucking slut.”

Patrick groaned and spread his legs. “Harder.”

“You’ll earn harder.” Art reached down with his other hand and stroked Patrick’s cock, slow and deliberate. “Already leaking. Look at you.” His thumb brushed onto his tip, feeling how warm it was.

“I want your cock,” Patrick gasped. “Fucking give it to me.”

Smack. Art’s palm cracked across his ass. Patrick yelped, pushing back like he had been burned, but a moan threatened to escape past his lips at the feeling. “Beg prettier.”

Patrick hissed but obeyed. “Please. Want you inside me. Want you to ruin me.” He wasn’t used to listening to anyone; but there was something about Art that shut him up for a second. That made him want to obey.

Art shoved in another finger as a reward. “So fucking tight. You’re gonna take it, every inch, and you’re gonna thank me. Right?”

“Thank you, sir,” Patrick spat, sass still shining through his flushed face.

Art choked him.

Not hard — just firm, fingers pressing against the sides of his throat while he fucked him open with three fingers now, scissoring, stretching him for what was going to happen next. Patrick gasped and shook, lips parted, knees wobbling.

“Yeah,” Art whispered against his ear. “That’s it. Good boy.”

Patrick whimpered at the praise, eyes fluttering.

Art pulled his hand back from Patrick’s throat to undo the button of his jeans with a particular easiness; like he had done that a million time. He pushed the fabric down, followed by his boxers to free his hard cock. Thick, flushed, twitching with need. After that, his fingers pulled out of Patrick’s hole to grab a condom in his pocket.

The emo boy whined at the feeling of being empty as Art rolled the condom on with quick, practiced movements.

Then he pressed his tip in. Patrick arched, back bowing, gripping the sink as Art’s cock breached him slowly. Inch by inch.

“Fucking—fuck,” Patrick hissed.

“You okay?”

Patrick nodded hard. “More. Fuck me.”

Art grunted and pushed deeper until he bottomed out, holding still, letting them both breathe. It was as if Patrick squeezed him in already. It was too good, too much. He started moving after a moment.

It wasn’t fast at first. It was deliberate — deep, punishing thrusts that made Patrick’s whole body rock forward. He made beautiful sounds — whines, gasps, curses, that bratty edge crumbling into wrecked need. Art pulled back on his hips, angled a little, and slammed in again.

Patrick cried out, high and wrecked.

“Yeah?” Art growled. “That your spot?”

“Yes—fuck—right there—”

Art wrapped his hand around Patrick’s throat again, pulled his back flush to his chest. Still thrusting. Still wrecking him. He could look at his face in the mirror; Patrick’s parted lips, flushed cheeks, eyes rolling back from the pleasure of every thrusts.

“You love this,” he whispered, biting his ear. “Love being my little fucktoy.”

Patrick moaned. “I do. I love it. Love how you feel inside me—”

Art’s other hand fisted in Patrick’s hair, pulling his head back. “Louder.”

“I love it!” Patrick cried. “God, please don’t stop—”

Art started to fuck him harder after those words; like something had snapped inside him. He groaned, grunted, cursed under his own breath. The sink creaked. The mirror rattled.

Patrick came without any warning; with a scream, cock untouched, body seizing as his orgasm hit. He nearly collapsed, but Art held him upright, pounding through it while he had a mess of the sink with his semen.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Art muttered. “So fucking good for me.”

He didn’t last long after that — Patrick’s pulsing heat milked it out of him. With a final grunt, Art came inside the condom, chest pressed to Patrick’s spine, both of them shaking. His arms wrapped around the scene boy’s body to hold him up.

They stayed like that for a minute, breathing hard.

Then Art pulled out, tied off the condom, and tossed it in the trash. Patrick turned, half-limp against the bathroom sink. His thighs were shaking. His eyeliner was smudged all the way down his cheeks.

“You ruined my makeup,” he said as a joke, voice hoarse.

Art smirked. “You’re welcome.” Patrick grinned, rolling his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you’re a filthy little tease.” Art said, tucking himself back in his jeans and wiping sweat off of his forehead.

“Maybe,” Patrick said, fixing his hair in the mirror. “But you love it.” Art paused. Then reached over and thumbed a smear of black from under Patrick’s eye.

“Yeah,” he said. “I kinda do.”

[prismozo]

DRUMMER AND CORPSE PAINT.

&& BOT RELEASE.

summary: the show had been a blast; from loud screaming lyrics, the smell of sweat, beer and the faint copper of blood. now all Art wanted was to rest in the green room until you joined him. well, you do join him, but he's... sniffing your panties? what a freak.

pairing: metalhead art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 2.3k words. panty sniffing. semi-public sex. throat-fucking. orgasm denial. slight choking. spitting (inside mouth). unprotected piv. hair pulling. fingering. dacryphilia. praise. power imbalance dynamic. aftercare.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover @nozhdyved

The green room always smelled like sweat, beer, and something older—old amps, old leather, old blood from someone’s busted knuckles weeks ago. Tonight, it was worse. The walls still trembled with the ghost of the set, Art’s adrenaline not yet drained, not even close.

His corpse paint was smeared across his jawline, black and white streaks creeping into his sweat-drenched hairline. One hand was wrapped around a bottle of water he hadn’t opened. The other clutched something far more grounding.

He held them like they were fragile. Sacred. Your panties—black lace, delicate, and unmistakably yours. The ones you'd worn earlier that week, the ones he’d coaxed off with a grin in the hallway before heading onstage and never gave back to you. A trophy.

Now he was sitting on the old leather couch like a sinner in church, head bowed, panties at his face. They still smelled like you. Warm skin, soft sweat, something sweet and dizzying he couldn’t name. Something only you had. He inhaled like a man possessed—because he was one when it came to you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice rough from screaming lyrics. “Those drive me fuckin’ insane.”

The door creaked.

Art’s head snapped up, wide-eyed like he'd been caught with a knife in his hand—and in some ways, he had. You stood there in the low green light coming from the dark corridor, soft and out of place in your cardigan and your knee socks, the opposite of everything around you. Your eyeliner had run from the heat of the venue, your lips parted in surprise. You took one step inside.

Art didn’t move. Just looked at you, panties still in his hand. Didn’t hide it. Didn’t explain. He never did.

You stared at him for a second—at the way his chest rose and fell, the tremble in his jaw, the way his thighs were still twitching with leftover adrenaline. Something shifted.

You closed the door behind you.

The click of the door locking echoed like a gunshot. Loud. With so much meaning.

Art didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. His eyes locked on you, sharp and electric under the low light—black-lined, half-shadowed, smeared with sweat and paint. His knuckles were white around the soft lace still balled in his fist.

Your panties.

He let you look at them. Let you know what he was doing with no shame. You stepped closer, and his eyes didn’t leave you for a second. He watched every movement like he owned it. "You couldn't wait?" you asked, voice low.

His grin was sharp. “No. Didn’t want to.”

When you stopped between his legs, he spread his thighs wider, coaxing you in without a word. The couch’s old leather creaked beneath him. His hands went to your waist, pulling—not hard, but with that quiet insistence you never fought.

"Get on my lap."

You hesitated only for a breath. Then you obeyed, one knee on the cushion, then the other. Straddling him. His hands were hot, firm, already trailing up your thighs beneath your skirt. "That's it," he murmured, voice like ash and smoke, "Just like that. You look so fuckin’ good up here."

He tilted his head back to look at you. Corpse paint smeared across his jaw, lips flushed from the set, hair matted with sweat. He was glowing with leftover adrenaline, vibrating under your skin. You weren’t sure if it was your pulse thudding or his.

He held your hips tight in his hands, grinding you down against the thick shape beneath his jeans. You gasped, and he grinned again. He was a bastard, a teaser; but you knew that already.

"You came in here looking like that," he said, “smelling like me, soft as fuck, and you really thought I wasn’t gonna do something about it?” It sounded like a question but wasn’t really one. You opened your mouth, but he leaned in and bit gently at your jaw before you could speak—just enough pressure to make your breath stutter.

“I saw you in the crowd,” he muttered against your skin, tongue flicking just under your ear. “All pretty and out of place. I could’ve come right off that stage and fucked you in front of everyone.”

Your hand tangled in his hair, tugging without thinking. Because he was right. He could have.

“Yeah,” he hissed, lips curling. “That’s it. Show me what you want.” You whimpered, and he laughed—low and pleased, like you’d just proved something.

“Good girl.”

His hands were everywhere now.

Not frantic. Not clumsy. Purposeful. They traced your thighs, the dip of your waist, the soft spot behind your knee as he shifted you on his lap, guiding every movement like he’d rehearsed it in his head a hundred times. You felt his cock pressing up between your legs, hard and heavy through denim, rubbing in slow, unhurried drags against your clothed cunt.

"Fuck, I bet you're soaked already," he muttered, voice low and amused. "Is that for me? Just from catching me with your panties in my face?" You whimpered, trying to grind down harder, but his fingers dug into your hips.

"Don’t get greedy."

You froze. Heat curled low in your stomach.

"I’ll give you what you want,” he murmured, nipping just below your ear. “But you’re gonna earn it.”

The shift in him was magnetic. No hesitation. No room for you to pretend you had any control here—not in his lap, not with his fingers inching under your skirt, not when his breath ghosted over your throat with pure, simmering hunger. You were just the lamb to his wolf—a prey, being played with, and yet? You loved it.

He pulled the panties from his lap and held them up, lace still carrying your scent. Then he tucked them back into his pocket like a prize, like something he’d use again later when you weren’t around to see.

“You know what turns me on?” he whispered, one hand sliding up to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, letting you feel the weight of it. “You. Coming in here all soft and polite, then letting me do this to you.”

His fingers slipped beneath your underwear. You gasped as two found your clit instantly, rubbing slow, teasing circles. "That’s it,” he said, watching your face like it was a goddamn masterpiece, the prettiest piece of art he had ever seen before.

“So fucking responsive. Just a few strokes and you’re already falling apart.”

You tried to rock your hips toward his fingers. He stopped you with one hand.

"Uh-uh. You don’t move or come until I say.” His voice was calm. Dangerous. Reverent.

You were panting now, eyes wet, fingers digging into his shoulders. And he loved it. You could see it in his expression—the way his lips parted when he watched your face twist with need, the way his breath caught when he dragged his fingers lower and felt how wet you were for him.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Let me see you cry a little.”

Your lips were parted, breath hitching. Art’s fingers circled your clit, slow and cruel, never giving you enough. Your thighs shook on either side of his, pleasure coiled tight, trembling on the edge—but he knew how to keep you there. Liked keeping you there.

"You feel that?” he murmured, nose brushing yours. “All this build-up? That's mine. You’re not getting off ‘til I say so.” You whimpered again, and his smile went soft. Pleased.

“You gonna cry for it?”

And you did—just a little. Just enough. Tears welling up, thick and hot in your lashes as your hips trembled under the weight of your own need. He leaned in, eyes locked on yours, then tilted your chin up with two fingers.

“Open.”

You obeyed, like already knowing what was going to happen.

He spit slowly into your mouth—warm, heavy—and you let it sit there before swallowing. The possessive glint in his eyes nearly broke you apart. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled.

Then his fingers plunged into you.

Two, knuckle-deep. Curling just right. You cried out, eyes rolling, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders—but he kept you right there, right where he wanted you. “No running,” he whispered into your hair. “You take what I give you.”

Your body trembled, your moan cut off by a shuddering gasp. You were close. Too close.

“Art—please, I can’t—”

He pulled his fingers out. Completely.

The whine that ripped out of your throat was pure heartbreak. Your hips bucked, chasing friction, anything, but he gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise.

“Nuh-uh,” he rasped. “Not yet. You come when I let you. Not a second before.” You were panting, cheeks wet, hair sticking to your face from the tears and sweat.

And Art? He looked like a goddamn saint about to commit a thousand sins. His corpse paint was smeared, eyeliner running in the heat, but he looked at you like you were holy. Like you were his altar, his Everything. His jaw clenched. He kissed the corner of your eye, then dragged your hair back with a gentler hand, exposing your neck.

“Pretty when you cry,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

You were undone. And he hadn't even unzipped yet.

You didn’t even get a warning.

One second, Art was watching you fall apart in his lap—panting, twitching, dripping down your thighs—and the next, he was hauling you up by the hips, setting you down on your knees in front of him. “Be good,” he murmured, already working his belt open. “Open up that sweet mouth for me.”

You obeyed. Desperate and dazed, you blinked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks and parted lips as he freed his cock, thick and already leaking from how long he’d been hard. The tip was flushed—pretty pink. The second he guided it between your lips, he exhaled like he’d just stepped offstage again.

“That’s it, baby. Let me use that pretty throat.”

He didn’t go slow—not now. One hand in your hair, the other braced on the back of the couch, he fucked into your mouth with low groans, watching as spit smeared down your chin and your eyes started to roll back. Your muscles clenched around his tip every time it hit the back of your throat and your hands moved to grip at his thighs.

“God, look at you. Letting me fuck your throat backstage like a dirty little thing.”

You gagged again, and he eased off for just a second—just enough for you to gasp, your eyes flooding fresh, tears rolling down your cheeks. Then he was back in. Deeper.

He fucked your mouth like he owned it, hips rolling with precision, not recklessness. The noises of your choking and gagging was loud in the room—saliva dripping down your chin to meet the fabric of your top, your hands tightening their grip onto Art’s thighs. You could hear him groan and praise you, but you were so far gone.

Your knees burned on the green room carpet. His growls echoed off the walls. The door stayed locked, but someone could walk in. You could both be caught.

And the thoughts only made him harder inside your mouth, his cock twitching down against your tongue. You could swear the weight was louder.

When he finally pulled out, you were dazed, covered in spit and tears, pre-cum glistening onto your lip like gloss. Threads of saliva connected your tongue to his tip. He dragged you up to your feet, spun you around, and bent you over the couch with firm hands on your back.

“Still want it?” he asked, voice a low rasp in your ear.

You nodded frantically. “Please. I need—”

“Say it.”

“Need you to fuck me.”

That was all he needed. He didn’t bother with gentleness now. His hands moved to pull your skirt up to your hips before two fingers pulled your damp—very soaked—panties to the side. Art grabbed his cock to slap the tip against your clit which made you gasp before he lined himself up and slid in with one deep, devastating thrust that made you cry out into the couch cushions. Your legs almost gave out.

“Fuck,” he hissed, rocking into you hard. “So fucking tight—how are you always this tight for me?”

You whined, barely able to think.

He gripped your hips, guiding each snap of his body into yours like a rhythm only he could hear, a melody he’d remember and use for a song. He fucked you hard. Deep. The couch squeaked under you both. The air was thick with sweat, sex, and the raw noise of skin meeting skin. It was obscene, perverted, depraved.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groaned, “so fucking good for me, like you were made for this.”

His hand found your clit again, rubbing it in gentle circles; contrasting with the pace of his thrusts. Your knees nearly buckled. The pressure was too much—perfect. Burning inside your stomach. It was too much and not enough at the same time.

“Don’t come yet,” he growled. “Hold it. You hold it, sweetheart.”

You were sobbing now, overwhelmed and ruined, but you did. You held it like your life depended on it. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you turned your head to him, whining and whimpering, lips parted like you were waiting for something special.

And then he spit again—right into your open mouth as you looked back at him, begging because he understood.

“Swallow.”

You did.

And he lost it. “Come on baby, come for me now.”

His fingers rubbed faster circles onto your clit; slick with your wetness, just as his thrusts turned erratic, almost sloppy. Your orgasm slammed into you with a loud sob, and you clenched around him as he cursed, buried himself to the hilt, and came hard, deep inside you, hips jerking. Your legs started to shake and you had to take a deep breath.

His moan was ragged and low. Yours was broken. And his cum spilled out around him, thick and messy, soaking your thighs and the fabric of your panties that were pulled to the side.

The air in the green room was heavy, the kind of thick post-sex silence that buzzed in your ears. The couch creaked beneath you both, your body limp and aching, Art still buried inside you—softening slowly, the heat of him still pulsing between your legs. You were both sweaty and breathing loudly.

His hand smoothed over your back, then slipped around your waist, holding you close as he eased himself out of you. You gasped, overstimulated and sore, and he immediately stilled, pressing a kiss to your spine.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Need me to stop?”

You shook your head, too blissed-out to speak, and Art kissed you again—soft this time. Reverent. Like you were made of porcelain.

“Gonna clean you up, sweetheart.”

He helped you onto your back, slow and careful, sliding your panties gently back up over your sex even though they were ruined. You laughed a little through your haze. He gave you a crooked grin and tugged them into place with mock ceremony.

“Guess I’ll be buying more.” He ducked away briefly, grabbing water bottles from the band’s cooler and some rough paper towels from a supply shelf. It wasn’t ideal, but he made it work—kneeling between your legs, wiping you down with slow, practiced care.

“You did so good for me,” he murmured, voice stripped of its earlier rasp. “Took everything I gave you.”

You watched him through half-lidded eyes. His corpse paint was nearly gone, smeared with sweat and spit and your tears. But his eyes—sharp, dark, focused entirely on you—never changed.

He kissed your inner thigh when he was done, then crawled up beside you, tugging you into his arms. You melted into his chest, the thud of his heart grounding you.

Outside, the venue buzzed faintly—fans lingering, equipment being packed, the tail-end of chaos. But here, in this small room, there was only you and Art. “You okay?” he asked again, gentler this time.

You nodded, cheek pressed to his bare chest. “More than.”

He smiled against your hair. “Good.”

And then he held you there, arms wrapped around you, until your breathing matched the rise and fall of his ribs—and you both forgot the door was still locked.

[prismozo]

cw (18+): dacryphilia, oral, sad art

art donaldson dropping to his knees after a bad day and desperately pulling down your bottoms with trembling hands, not heeding your suggestion to “slow down”, his bottom lip already wobbling. he doesn’t say a single intelligible word as he works to undress you. no time, no energy.

he blinks hard a few times as he pulls down your underwear next and stares up into your arousal. warm, sweet, perfect. the fifth blink sends fat tears spilling down his flushed cheeks. he sobs just once—a broken, wet sound in the tightness of his chest—and then surges forward to begin swirling his tongue. he laves the wetness of his mouth all over you; his hands clutching the backs of your thighs to keep you from squirming away. he cries into your heat. whines against your sensitivity. more salt trickling down his skin from damp lashes. you can hear him gulping and swallowing around your flesh, his jaw flexing as he suckles.

his blunt fingernails dig into your legs as he works you up to your burning end, and he tries his hardest not to wail when you fist his hair in your hands. he usually loves it when you pull his hair, the sting only adding to his enjoyment, but right now he’s too fragile—too emotionally frayed—and so the pain is no longer pleasurable. he just wants you to hold him. he wants you to run your fingers through the strands and tell him how good he is for you, how he’s the best tennis player you know, how you love him. that’s what he needs, but he supposes that it’s his fault for not telling you anything about his horrible day before he was on the floor and doing anything to get his touch on you. he flutters his tongue quicker, hollowing his cheeks right after.

come, he thinks, please, come.. let me drink you down and replace this ache in my body with your tenderness.

give it all to me.

i can take it.

i can make you feel good.

i can be a winner again.

[prismozo]

Lost all motivation to write for anyone but spencer reid and its all getting posted on my back up💔💔💔back up is @sidsickly

[prismozo]

OCD; obsessive cunt disorder (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: sex toys, vibrators, exhibitionism, voyeurism, humiliation, OCD freak-out, banter, fluff, degradation, overstimulation, slight clit-torture ig, I want to have lunch with this asshole too pls

summary: Mr. Godfrey has invited you to lunch-- you best believe it won't be a normal one

word count: 10,331

← previous chapter |

a/n: FORBES NOSE ALERT ON THIS GIF... but ok phew I love this man and this chapter was written on a ten-hour writing session this Wednesday because I'm obviously either ovulating or going crazy, so ENJOY<333 think this gif is from @godfreysteel btw!!

When Mr. Godfrey sent me an email telling me to join him for lunch, I nearly choked to death-- literally.

I coughed and harked as I crouched over my desk, wondering whether I was choking on my left lung or all the excitement my body had managed to muster. With tears in my eyes from the restricted air flow, hoping my face hadn't turned bright red, I grabbed the weekly report he had asked for earlier and made my way to the top floor. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't eat with the rest of us lowlives, no-- he had his own private lounge for that. I had only been inside there once to tell him that one of his business partners had arrived earlier than expected, and that had been one of my most nerve-wracking moments of working at Godfrey Industries to this day.

The only way I could describe his private lounge was sterile. Typical him, really. 

With my heart pounding in my chest, I bit down on a smile and entered with careful steps; there was no way in hell I'd trip over in my Louboutins now. 

Seated at the marble table by the floor-to-ceiling window, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes skimmed the pages of what looked like The New Yorker. Of course-- he wouldn't be caught dead reading anything less pretentious. With a comfortable manspread and a glass of cucumber water in front of him, untouched, the plate beside it sat the most sterile meal I'd ever seen; a few folded, pale slices of poached chicken breast, cut into perfect, rectangular portions.

Even his fucking food seemed like something taken out of OCD-heaven. 

I hovered by the door, clutching the report like it might protect me. My heels made no sound on the marble, but I felt loud, clumsy, human. "Sir?" I called out. Had he maybe not noticed me?

This was my first mistake-- Mr. Godfrey noticed everything. He had even warned me himself, a few weeks ago. He simply hummed; "You're late,"

"No, sir," I whispered back, clenching my jaw to ensure my smile wouldn't slip. "I'm not." Our typical dance. 

Mr. Godfrey glanced up, and in that split-second, I remembered why I still worked at this hell-hole. 

His brown hair was immaculately swept back, making his shadowed cheekbones visible. He was wearing all black, naturally-- something told me this was a new suit, even more expensive than the last one. His green eyes didn't look at me so much as diagnose me, probably wondering what the heck was wrong with me to dare to talk back to him like that, until something in them shimmered-- I knew that deep down, I amused him more than anything. He gestured to the chair opposite him; "Sit," he said. 

But just as I was about to move away from the door, Mr. Godfrey allowed himself a smirk as he delivered the final blow; "Unless... you're still sore, of course,"

My eyes widened just a bit-- I should've known that this wasn't going to be a normal lunch. Trying to calm down my jumping heart, I let out a tiny scoff, shaking my head as I approached his table with composed elegance-- I wasn't going to let him get that one so easily. 

However, as I sat down, I had to bite down on the tip of my tongue to not wince. Sure, fine, I was a bit sore. After how he put me over his knee and spanked me last evening, that was to be expected, right? Something told me that Mr. Godfrey enjoyed the way my eye twitched as I shifted to make myself comfortable, and he chewed his next bite with that cocky grin he didn't manage to wipe off his face.

To relieve some of the stinging on my left side, I crossed my legs-- simply for relief, nothing more. Nothing more, nothing more. Clearing my throat, I placed the folder on the table; "So, I brought you the weekly report, but only for you to review it. Are you happy with the forged signature, sir? I wouldn't want anyone to get suspicious, and--"

"You're not, then?"

My brows drew together as I watched Mr. Godfrey's green eyes, the unmistakable evil glee shining through more blatantly obvious than ever. Did he not care to hide it anymore, or was I just getting used to his small quirks? "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey shrugged, cutting up his next bite without breaking eye contact; "You're not sore?"

... Fuck. 

My breath got stuck in my chest-- it didn't move. I stared back at him, blinking once, twice. "And what answer would please you, sir?"

"That's not relevant," he replied, short. "Although I'm flattered that you're eager to please."

I so dearly hoped I wasn't blushing. "It's not that bad,"

"It's not?"

"It's bearable," I mumbled, shifting in my seat as I now avoided his gaze, fidgeting with the weekly report. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't respond right away. He tilted his head just slightly, and I felt his eyes track the way I moved, how I adjusted my weight, how I sat a little higher on my right hip-- I could practically hear him cataloging it in that freaky mind of his. 

"Right," He speared another perfect slice of chicken with his fork, but didn't eat it right away. "That's disappointing."

I blinked. "Pardon?"

Mr. Godfrey finally brought the fork to his mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, like he was tasting more than just the food. His green eyes never left mine; "I thought you knew better than to lie to me by now," he said, setting the utensil down with a quiet, final sound. "Bearable isn't honest. Bearable is what people say when they're trying not to cry."

My lips parted, and I had to force myself to speak. "But sir, I--"

"Are you perhaps about to cry?"

"No!" 

He leaned back in his chair, appraising me with a clinical interest, like he had found a new setting on a machine and was waiting to see what it would do. At the same time, his gaze narrowed like he was waiting for me to crack; "Then specify,"

I wanted to throw the weekly report at him, yet I knew I had to collect myself. Taking a deep breath, uncrossing my legs, therefore applying pressure on that exact spot on my ass that still made my thigh twitch with stinging soreness, I allowed myself to wince out loud; with my eyes burning into Mr. Godfrey's, I managed a smile, staring back at him through the sharp pain that was slowly subsiding; "You could do worse,"

And then, there it was-- as though I had unlocked a new level on a video game, or slipped the right key into an unknown door, the hinges came undone. Mr. Godfrey was now smiling back, no mask to cover his intent. There was an unfiltered joy to him now, like a sigh. He put his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers; "Are you hungry?" came his response. 

This made me feel warm. Way too warm, way too comfortable. With my fingertips buzzing with excitement, I nodded. "I can go take lunch and come back, sir?--"

"Nonsense," With utmost elegance, Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair, motioning for someone to come. I would've thought he was asking for a bill or something, hadn't what looked like a chef appeared through the door within the blink of an eye. Where had he come from? Stumped, I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, immediately wincing under my breath. 

Mr. Godfrey motioned toward the chef, his nostrils flaring for a brief second at the sound of my pain; "Martin here will make you whatever you want," he said, charming as ever.

"Oh," I breathed, smiling shyly up at Martin. He seemed nice, after all, but I wondered if he could sense how out-of-place I felt. "I don't-- I don't know, I--"

"Come on, now," Mr. Godfrey sat back, watching me like I was a contestant getting grilled on X-Factor for entertainment. "Don't be shy."

I swallowed. This must be the perk of being filthy rich, right? Private chef, private lounge, private secretary. 

Just as I finished ordering a salad and a cup of tea, letting out a small breath of relief when Martin left the room, I kept watching Mr. Godfrey and wondering when he would switch back to being the CEO I knew.

But... he didn't.

He didn't lean back, didn't reach for his glass, didn't even blink.

Instead, he studied me. His elbows still rested on the edge of the table, fingers laced together like he was listening to a confession only he was smart enough to understand. His black suit, tailored to his every inch, cut a sharp silhouette against the backdrop outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The warm sunlight hit the side of his face, and for a second, he didn't look real-- when did he ever, though? Gorgeous, gorgeous man.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were clearer than I'd ever seen them, glittering like a well-polished scalpel; focused, intrigued, and almost soft.

Almost.

"There's something else," he suddenly said.

Oh. "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, and his lips (that were so unreasonably pink for someone with so little softness in him) curved with a hint of satisfaction. "You've proven yourself rather... resilient," Then, he paused, the weight of that word hanging-- "And you seemed to like your last present, so I have another one for you."

I blinked again, slower this time, as I bit down on a sheepish smile. "You didn't have to," 

What kind of present had he gotten me? Was it more lingerie? Maybe another set of Louboutins? Oh, I'd certainly like that. I tried to push away all the occurring questions on whether this was actually some form of prostitution, sex acts for gifts, as Mr. Godfrey reached beneath the table. His movements were smooth, measured in the way men who don't rush for anyone tend to be-- from below the gleaming marble, he produced a small black box. No label. No ribbon. Just a clean square, matte and elegant, like it had been made by a brand that didn't need to announce itself. 

My heart immediately kicked into my ribs. This box was small. What could this be? Some stupid part of me sort of hoped it would be an engagement ring, and that he would now get down on his knees and profess his never-dying love for me!-- 

... Christ, I needed to grow up. 

Mr. Godfrey placed it in front of me, the soft scrape of the box against the table becoming the only sound in the room. Immediately, I felt my body reacting; hips pressed tighter against the chair, thighs subtly tensing, breath caught somewhere just behind my collarbone, I finally reached for the black box, allowing a soft, grateful smile to show before I slowly opened it like it might detonate.

Inside, cradled in black velvet, was a...

My jaw clamped down on the gasp that nearly escaped me. Oh my God.

With round, wide eyes, I stared down at the sleek, red vibrator in the box. It wasn't too big, and it was flat-- I hadn't seen one like this before. I used to have a different vibrator when I was eighteen, maybe even seventeen, but that was more of a clit-sucker than anything. This one curved upward just slightly, and it had a smooth, satin finish; this was some sort of new tech, wasn't it? How did this even work?

Just as I dared to look up and meet Mr. Godfrey's burning gaze, I spotted the way he smoothly caught the oblong remote he had hidden up his sleeve. He stared back at me with that boyish charm he wore the first time I met him, like he was testing a hypothesis he knew would be correct. "I thought you'd appreciate something a little less... taxing, this time around," he murmured, tasting his words. "And something to make up for last time, hm?"

For the time he spanked me raw? Christ. 

I kept staring at my boss-- his white shirt clung to his frame with obscene elegance. Slim collar. Two buttons undone. Enough to glimpse a sliver of chest, smooth and pale and maddeningly inaccessible. He wore power like other men wore watches; effortless, ingrained, and expected. Mr. Godfrey was so, so beautiful that it made me stupid. I certainly felt stupid right now, gawking at the brand new device in front of me-- had this model even hit the market yet?

My fingers twitched against the edge of the box. I couldn't even bring myself to touch it-- not yet. My cheeks burned, and something impossibly hot coiled low in my stomach, like the idea of him thinking of me, this version of me, flipped a switch to something supple in me that I had long suppressed. 

I was still staring at the vibrator when he spoke again, voice pitched low; "It's custom," Mr. Godfrey said. "Quiet. Discreet. More powerful than it looks." His long fingers gripped the remote loosely, like a predator toying with the leash of something small and caged. "And you're looking at me like I've just confessed to dropping the bomb on Hiroshima, so I suggest you start speaking."

Eager to please, I straightened up in my seat again, only to be met with the stinging of my backside once more; with yet another low hiss, I allowed my intrigue to spread across my lips. "And I put this...?"

"In your underwear,"

"Ah," I felt myself clenching around nothing; I must've gotten aroused in record time, no? "And what you have right there is the?--"

"Remote, yes,"

Letting out a breathy, anxious giggle, I allowed my fingers to trace the smooth surface of the vibrator. "Where's the catch?"

At that, Mr. Godfrey actually laughed. It was a warm sound, low and real, like it came from deep inside his chest, and somehow that was worse than any reprimand. "There's no catch," he said. "See it as a... reward."

"For?"

"Taking your punishment," Then, slowly, Mr. Godfrey placed the remote down on his side of the table. His fingers tapped against it once, casually, like a man resting his hand on a loaded weapon. "So, if you could go on and put it in that little pocket in your underwear, I'd appreciate that. I don't have all day, so I suggest you use my time wisely."

How the fuck did Mr. Godfrey know about that pocket?! How familiar was he with women's underwear...? Damn him. My breath caught somewhere in my throat, and for a second, I just stared at him; not in horror, but with that strange, weightless sensation of realizing I was about to do this in front of his lunch. "You're serious," I whispered, and it didn't come out like a question.

"I'm always serious," he said, voice like velvet dragged over a blade, humoured. "You said it yourself once, I'm a very serious man. Serious man with a serious business. Can't get more serious than this."

Yeah right, asshole. My hand moved before my thoughts could catch up; I picked up the vibrator, but I hesitated for a second-- then, subtly, I slid my hand under the hem of my skirt, avoiding Mr. Godfrey's gaze as my cheeks started to burn.

I adjusted slightly, trying not to wince as the bruises from earlier flared up again with my every move. With ease, I slipped the vibrator neatly into place, nestled in that stupid secret pocket that was supposed to be a damn secret. It fit perfectly, clearly made for this exact space and use.

I looked up, my breath choppy, eager to please.

Mr. Godfrey hadn't moved. His gaze followed every twitch in my expression as his fingers tapped against the remote, waiting for the fog in my brain to clear.

Swallowing over and over, I tried to sit normally again, like I hadn't just tucked a goddamn vibrator into my panties at lunch. "There," I said, my voice soft. "Like this?"

For a moment, Mr. Godfrey didn't answer. Then, the corners of his mouth lifted, slow and decadent. He reached for the remote-- not to hand it to me, not to pocket it, but to turn it on.

The effect was immediate; a sudden, quiet hum bloomed low between my legs, like being struck by a breath of heat and static all at once. My thighs snapped together under the table, breath punching out of my lungs with an involuntary stutter-- the pleasure was unexpected.

"There you go," Mr. Godfrey murmured. "We'll go with the lowest setting for now."

I glared at him, lips slightly parted, trying not to squirm; I loved how this reduced me to the state of a cat in heat, but was I about to show it so easily? Fuck no.

"Sit still," he added, with a quiet authority that pinned me to the chair harder than gravity ever could. "If you want to prove that you're obedient, then you're going to sit still, eat lunch with me like a professional, and keep quiet. Those are the rules."

"This is crazy," I whispered, throat dry. 

He smiled wider, teeth just barely visible. "We've done worse," Then he took a sip of his wine, calm and composed, like he hadn't just weaponized my own underwear against me. "If you fail to follow the rules, I'll make sure those pretty eyes of yours tear up every time you sit down. Have I made myself clear?"

My... pretty eyes?

"Yes," I said, feeling my heart swell.

"Good," Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair like this was a perfectly normal business lunch, not mentioning his little slip-up. Had he even noticed that he said that? Had he intended to call my eyes pretty? I doubted it.

I tried to mimic his composure, tried not to fidget, but it deemed itself harder than expected. The hum between my thighs was subtle but torturous, just enough to distract me, to keep my focus needle-fine and shaky-- I hadn't expected the shape of the vibrator to be so effective. It somehow managed to cup my whole mound, yet the curved tip of it pressed into my clit with the utmost delicious of pressures; if I could, I'd start rocking into it, but I knew that could leave me in a much worse situation.

Mr. Godfrey picked up his wineglass and took a sip, slow and elegant. The weight of his attention hovered just above my skin-- watching, waiting. "You've gone quiet," he pointed out.

"I'm just-- trying," I muttered, breath catching. "To follow your rules, sir."

A smile ghosted across his lips; "And how's that working out for you?"

"It's... difficult,"

"Good,"

I squirmed just slightly, but that was all it took for the vibrator to shift, sending another warm, taunting wave through my core. Now, it pressed just a tiny bit harder against my clit, and I inhaled sharply and tried not to make a sound; this felt so good. So, so good. "Thank you, sir," I breathed.

"Oh, you're thanking me now?"

"It feels-- nice,"

"Bet it does," Mr. Godfrey cooed, taking another bite of his food. Putting the cutlery down with a hum, and with practiced ease, he palmed the remote as though debating whether to turn it up a level or not. I held my breath, watching him in anticipation as I felt my underwear grow damp.

He tilted his head to the side, watching me. "What? You want more already?"

I didn't utter a word-- I was too scared to say the wrong thing.

Mr. Godfrey's grin remained; "Posture," he said softly. "Straighten your back, shoulders down, and I'll think about it."

I obeyed without thinking, like a string had been pulled somewhere behind my spine; I didn't care about the ache in my behind anymore. My hands came to rest neatly on the table, and I could feel my heartbeat everywhere at once as my skin prickled and my stomach coiled. The low pressure of the vibrator against my clit wasn't enough anymore-- I had to do everything in my power not to start grinding on it to get more friction.

Then, Mr. Godfrey picked the remote up properly, as though to study it. I wondered whether he heard the way my breath caught with hope. "I think this has different settings too," he pondered out loud. "Let me see... What happens if I do this?" 

With a soft click of the remote, the steady vibrations I'd had on my clit changed-- the pattern changed. Now, it was as though the vibration came in wavy motions, starting from the bottom of the surface until it moved to the tip, like I was being licked. I gasped softly, and bit down on the inside of my cheek; this was some really high-tech shit. My thighs snapped together beneath the table, pressing harder now, as heat pooled between them so fast that it was almost cruel.

Mr. Godfrey's voice was steady, completely unmoved, as his voice rung as a reminder; "Still the lowest setting,"

"You're insane," I whispered, cheeks flaming. "This is-- this is evil."

He lifted his brows in mock innocence; "No. This is lunch,"

"Fucking-- fuck," 

With another hum, Mr. Godfrey's thumb hovered over the button again with faux innocence; "Now I'm getting intrigued, though. What else does it do?" 

Click.

My hand shot to the edge of the table, fingers gripping the smooth wood. My breath came out short, sharp, as the pattern changed again-- this was more of an on-and-off motion that nearly had me jolting in my seat. This one made it feel like my clit was getting flicked, and I wasn't the biggest fan. "Sir," I tried. "I-- I think the first one was best."

Mr. Godfrey's eyes wandered between the remote and me, scanning the burning pink hues of my cheeks. "I see," he said. "I'll keep that in mind for the future." 

To my relief, he clicked something that reset it and put it back to that wonderful, toe-curling pressure on my clit. "Thank you-- Thank you, sir,"

He hummed; "You've caught me in a good mood," 

And just as Mr. Godfrey leaned forward to pick up his wineglass, there was a polite knock at the door-- three soft taps, barely a warning before the door swung open. My heart stopped in my chest, and I widened my eyes to signalize him to turn it off.

But... Mr. Godfrey's grin widened. Oh no.

His darkening green eyes dropped lazily to the table, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he slipped the remote back beneath his sleeve, hiding it like a magician about to perform a trick no one else would notice.

Oh no, no, no, no.

As if on cue, the chef stepped in, carrying a tray in one hand and a wide, distracted smile on his face. "Apologies for the wait, Mr. Godfrey," he said, making a beeline for the table. "The rest of the staff have taken to lunch, so it took a bit longer than usual."

Mr. Godfrey hummed in response, noncommittal. His eyes tracked the way I stiffened as the vibrator continued buzzing quietly between my legs, an unholy pulse I had no control over. My cheeks were burning with humiliation, nearly worrying myself into cardiac arrest over whether the chef could hear the damn vibrator I had against my clit. 

"That's fine, Martin," Mr. Godfrey said, absentmindedly waving with the same arm that had the remote. "We won't need anything else, so you're free to take lunch after this." And just as he put his hand down, his eyes seared into mine as he tapped once against the underside of his sleeve.

I buried my mouth in the palm of my hand as the vibrations got stronger, having been upped a notch. I tried to focus on the tea that was placed to the side of me, followed by the salad, yet I could only think about how nicely the curve of the vibrator pushed up on my clit, the harder buzz now making it jump just slightly at the surprise. I felt myself pulse as I locked eyes with Mr. Godfrey, silently pleading with him to turn it off with the chef still present. 

Chef Martin straightened up, announcing the ingredients of my salad like any professional cook would-- however, I could only focus on trying not to squirm. It was nearly impossible to fight the urge to grind down against the vibrator now, and I was holding on by a small thread. The chef's voice drowned out as I tried to keep my face composed, tried to ignore the growing tension in my lower abdomen, and the steady rhythm teasing the edge of the unbearable. My palms were flat against my thighs under the table now, nails biting into the fabric of my skirt.

"Thank you," Mr. Godfrey finally said, glancing briefly at chef before waving him away like royalty.

But instead, Martin paused, sensing something strange; "Do you hear that too, sir?" he asked. "It's like a... small buzzing sound of sorts?"

No.

No, no, no!

This was the moment to faint, wasn't it? I genuinely felt like I was about to die from how mortified I was, yet... that feeling of shame made the vibrations feel even stronger. God, I was a freak, wasn't I? I felt myself trying to fight how much wetter I suddenly was, like clenching my walls would make it stop seeping out of me, but nothing helped. Instead, with all the willpower I had left in my body, I mustered the courage to draw my brows together and blink at Mr. Godfrey like I had no idea what Martin was talking about. "I'm-- I'm not sure I hear it, actually," I said. "It might be the vents?"

Mr. Godfrey sat back in his chair, mouth twitching in delight. It felt as though we were speaking our own little language that no one but us could understand, and certainly not the chef; then, to put the icing on the cake, Mr. Godfrey pressed his wrist against the edge of the table again, turning the vibrator up one more notch. 

I held back a hitch of my breath and the urge to squeeze my eyes shut as Mr. Godfrey spoke; "It might be the construction, actually," he explained to Martin, voice smooth as ever as he turned to the chef with an apologetic look. "They're remodelling the offices right above this room. Don't pay it any mind."

With an awkward nod, Martin seemed to accept that as a plausible explanation. "Right," he mumbled. "Enjoy your food."

When he finally stepped out, with the door clicking shut behind him, I let out a sigh of relief as I buried my elbows into the table and hid my face in my hands. Hopefully, that had suppressed the soft moan that escaped me, finally coming out after holding it in. 

Mr. Godfrey could only chuckle, slipping the remote from under his wrist. Then, he reached for his fork as though nothing had ever happened-- fucker.

My heart hammered in my chest as I bit down on all the noises I wanted to make, but I allowed my lips to part and my eyes to shut. This felt way too damn good, and I couldn't stop myself anymore-- my hips bucked softly against the vibrator in my underwear, grinding my clit against the buzzing sensation with slow, repeated motions. The pressure was near perfection, now. 

Mr. Godfrey's eyes scoured me; "Eat," he ordered. "You'll need the energy."

My eyes snapped to his. "For what?"

His fork paused in mid-air. "Endurance,"

... Fuck.

I picked up my utensils with trembling hands, trying to keep my face composed as I dug into my salad. The vibration pulsed on, rolling my clit gently but consistently, like he'd tuned it to the rhythm of a ticking clock. I brought the first bite to my mouth, chewing carefully, trying not to hum or moan.

"You're doing very well," Mr. Godfrey murmured between bites, not even bothering to look up. "Most women wouldn't have lasted this long."

That made me pause mid-chew. I swallowed, feeling my heart drop; "You've-- You've done this before?"

"Of course I have," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

My breath caught. Had he done this with his previous secretary too? The one with the odd tear in her skirt, the one who was now suing him? I shifted slightly in my seat, and immediately regretted it-- the pressure was worse now, the angle crueler, somehow more precise. My hand darted to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.

Mr. Godfrey set down his silverware and leaned back in his chair with that infuriating calm, tilting his head to watch me with something dangerously close to fondness. "I think I'll turn it up a notch," he purred, picking up the remote again.

My eyes widened; "Sir, wait, please!--"

Click.

My hips jolted forward before I could stop them, an involuntary movement so stark I nearly knocked over my damn tea. The sound I made wasn't a moan, but it wasn't exactly a dignified noise either.

Mr. Godfrey smiled, serene; "You can take it. Just breathe,"

Well... All I could do was breathe deeper to keep from crying out, praying the chef didn't come back in. I wanted to snark, wanted to snap back at him, but I didn't dare to. The fourth level was too much; this notch was overstimulating to the point of pain.

He let me suffer like that for another twenty seconds (longer than any reasonable person would ever call funny) and then, at last, blessed relief; a click sounded, and the vibration dropped back down to something bearable, something I could manage, even if my thighs still shook and my face burned hotter than the fucking sun.

I exhaled through my nose, my whole body trembling like a tuning fork. "You're a sadist,"

Mr. Godfrey raised an eyebrow as he dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. "And I bet you're very, very wet,"

Oh my god.

"Oh my god," I echoed aloud, too stricken to filter it. My entire body tensed like I'd just been caught naked in a church. "That's-- Jeez, that's just not something you say at lunch."

"But it's true," His gaze dipped to my plate; "Eat."

Somehow, I lifted my fork again. My fingers barely worked, but I managed another bite-- lettuce, maybe cucumber, who knew? Anything to distract from the low, steady hum between my legs and the flush of embarrassment flooding my whole body. "Sir," I breathed, pressing my legs together to press the vibrator closer to my clit-- God, my thighs felt sticky. "What if I'm-- What if I get close?"

"Are you?" he asked, conversationally, as though discussing the weather, while he folded the newspaper in front of him and placed it on the edge of the table. 

"... No," Liar, liar, pants on fire. My fingers tightened around my fork as the vibrator buzzed away, relentless and patient with my poor clit. "Just clearing up the-- the rules."

Exactly-- Just clearing them up. Not that I had any say in the rules, anyway.

I watched as Mr. Godfrey dismissed my question and absentmindedly tilted his head sideways to read the headline of the newspaper, as though something suddenly grabbed his attention and he regretted folding it. 

He continued eating like everything was fine-- but if he was going to act like this was completely normal, maybe it was time for me to try as well? 

My throat felt tight as I reached for my tea. The mug was still hot, a small comfort in the storm of sensations uncoiling beneath the table; was it so smart for me to be handling hot beverages in this state? Certainly not. Still, I stirred it without thinking, once, twice, three times, just to keep my hands busy, and then--

A fourth stir.

The spoon made a soft clink as it circled the cup one more time. The moment was so brief, so small, I almost didn't register it until the air changed, thickened, stilled.

I looked up.

Mr. Godfrey's gaze was fixed on me like something in him had stopped breathing. His fork hovered above the plate, frozen mid-bite, his knuckles white where they gripped the handle. He looked like he'd been slapped. Or kissed? Possibly both. He didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't move, but the tightness in his body was undeniable.

Oh God.

Four.

I had stirred it four times. A mistake. A message I hadn't even meant to send.

Mr. Godfrey's jaw ticked once, like a tectonic shift beneath still waters. He set his fork down without a sound, and my stomach flipped as his hand moved slowly, with grave intention, to the remote beside his plate.

I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late.

Thrice; Click, click, click.

The pulse that tore through me wasn't a hum-- it was a jolt. A full-body convulsion that punched the air from my lungs and dragged a startled cry from my throat; it wasn't loud, but it was desperate, ragged, animal. I slammed my thighs together under the table like it would help, like it would contain the sudden cruel pressure that frankly hurt like a fucking bitch. This was torture-- this was unescapable.

My spoon slipped from my hand and hit the saucer with a muted chime, but I barely noticed; I was too busy trying to breathe.

"No-- fuck--" I gasped, my back arching just slightly, shame crashing through me in hot, breathless waves as my knees knocked together beneath the tablecloth. This was too much, this was painful, this was overstimulating beyond anything I had ever felt. Too much. 

Mr. Godfrey hadn't blinked in a while-- he stared at my tea, his other hand balled in a fist like he was locked in a stream of compulsive thoughts. "Two more," he hissed. "Fix it."

"I-- I can't--" My hand trembled violently on the table, hovering above the spoon.

"You will," 

I couldn't hold his gaze; I was afraid I'd break. My eyes dropped to the mug, staring at it as if it could save me, and my hand moved like it didn't belong to me. I felt my heartbeat in my ears, my throat, my chest, my fucking clit, as I finally managed one stir, and then the next.

Now the number was divided into two threes, six, just like he needed it.

The second the spoon clinked against the porcelain for the final time, Mr. Godfrey pressed the button again, and the vibrator from hell turned off.

Relief crashed over me like cold water as my body collapsed back into the chair, too weak to pretend anymore. I was panting, face flushed, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, and my thighs trembled like I had just ran a marathon. I was soaked-- I knew I was soaked. Every inch of me ached, but not from pain. From want? I wasn't sure. My brain had melted, and it was probably now seeping out of my damn pussy.

With a sharp inhale through his nose, Mr. Godfrey closed his eyes. Finally, he allowed himself to breathe. "You don't play with symmetry in my presence," he hissed, almost as a reminder to himself. "Never."

His fingers twitched once on the table, and then quietly, methodically, he began to move.

First, Mr. Godfrey tucked the remote into his pocket before he reached for the newspaper. He didn't unfold it or glance again at the headlines. He simply picked it up, smoothed it flat, and set it further aside. Then his water glass followed, his cutlery, mine, the folded napkin-- each item was relocated with silent, terrifying purpose to the edge of the table, like a man clearing a surgical tray. Was this his version of freaking out? 

I was still recovering, rubbing my aching thighs as I watched him. What was happening? Was this my cue to leave? 

The ceramic of my tea scraped gently across the tablecloth as Mr. Godfrey pushed it away from me, followed by my plate, even though I hadn't touched more than a few bites, and then he followed it up with his own. 

He didn't speak, didn't even glance at me-- he just kept clearing everything like it would somehow make him feel better. And then, when everything had been carefully placed at one edge of the table, he stood. The chair scraped back just enough to make a sound, deliberate and low, but I flinched like it had barked at me; was this just me still being overstimulated?

Mr. Godfrey came around to my side, ominous as ever. I caught myself trying to sit up, yet I barely had the energy, and accompanied by the sting of last evening's spankings, I gave up. "Sir," I tried, hoping to get his attention through what I could only assume was some sort of OCD-fog. "I didn't mean to-- are you alright?--"

"Get up," 

His voice was tight, restrained, and certainly unforgiving.

I didn't dare to hesitate-- with a shaky breath, I somehow got up from my chair, flinching at the loud scrape of it. Mr. Godfrey gave me no time to catch my breath, no comfort in the pause as his eyes flicked down, slowly, like he was taking note of the state he had left me in. "Up," he hissed, nodding to the cleared tabletop. "Lie down."

My heart slammed against my ribcage-- I was so screwed.

With my brain still fogged up from my leftover arousal, I did as told. The table wasn't cold, as it had absorbed some of the sunlight from the window, but I shivered as I climbed onto it anyway. The cloth shifted under me as I eased back, awkward at first, trying to find a position that didn't feel insane-- my skirt rucked up high on my thighs, and I froze halfway down, arms bracing behind me as I looked at him in silent disbelief.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes seared into mine, dark and contained for now. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt with slow precision, and his chest rose with slow strokes as he eased himself out of his OCD-mania. If I hadn't been so anxious about what was about to happen, I'd be more focused on how gorgeous his nose was-- Forbes nose, Forbes nose, Forbes nose. Then, the more I focused on how beautiful he was, the more I managed to calm down, block by block.

I dared to lie all the way down, back flat, spine stiff, breath shallow. The tablecloth rasped beneath me as my heels hung just off the edge; I so desperately hoped they wouldn't fall to the floor and make me look like even more of a mess than I already was. The ceiling above me looked suddenly unfamiliar... stark. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears; how had I ended up here? How had I managed to rope myself into this mess?

Mr. Godfrey's deep, dark voice sounded through my spiral; "Lift your hips,"

I obeyed again, my body no longer mine, and he slowly reached for the hem of my skirt, almost ceremonially, and pushed it to my waist with a clinical efficiency that made my stomach tingle with anticipation. Cool air kissed the wet heat between my legs, and my breath caught instinctively. I would've closed my legs, had I not been so eager to see what he would do to me next. How fucking wet had I gotten from this ordeal? It was humiliating that he was seeing this-- fuck, why did that make me feel so warm? Goddamn freak. Nasty fucker.

Then, Mr. Godfrey ran two fingers along the inside of my thigh without touching anything of consequence, and it was enough to make my hips twitch. "I'm wondering what to do to you next," he said, forcing his voice softer-- I could sense the way he held back from barking at me. "But that feels unfair. How could you have possibly known?"

I swallowed hard, scanning him over and over. I couldn't calculate his next moves, and it scared me. "Known what, sir?"

"That I need things to be in threes," he mumbled, trailing his fingers up and down my quivering thighs with a feathery touch. "You don't know me very well, after all."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey nodded to himself like he had finalized a good way to go from here. "Maybe you think I'm some pretentious asshole that implements fucked-up rules on my employees, like stirring my coffee thrice," he continued, absentminded. "And maybe you're right. I'm sick. You're sick. We're both sick. But you're... fresh. You're new. And as your dominant, I have an obligation to sometimes also just... forgive you."

He sighed through his (Forbes, Forbes, Forbes) nose, like this was all a burden for him to bear-- my trembling, my disobedience, the mess I had made of myself, and the fact that I existed under this roof at all. "As your dominant," he repeated, almost lazily, his fingertips brushing the tender skin near the hem of my underwear; "I have a duty to show restraint."

I wanted to answer, I wanted to say thank you, or please don't stop, or what are you going to do to me you little freak, but I couldn't seem to get my mouth to work. My throat was too tight, my head swimming with heat and adrenaline and fear and... whatever sick fascination had landed me on my boss's dining table like this.

"You didn't know the rules," Mr. Godfrey said, clearly to himself. I watched as that sentence calmed him, and his shoulders rolled forward just slightly. "So let me apologize." 

I let out a small whimper as he suddenly leaned down, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I braced-- but then, I realized that I could feel his breath on my skin. His lips hovered above my inner thigh for long enough to make me worried, and I jolted when his mouth finally touched me. 

Mr. Godfrey's lips pressed a single, maddeningly soft kiss where my mound met my thigh. It immediately sucked the air out of my lungs, and I felt my body melt at the contact. Had that just happened? To make matters even better, I sensed him reach into his pocket and click the remote thrice-- level three was my favorite. It was almost symbolic.

I allowed myself a small, frail moan, shuddering beneath my boss. Mr. Godfrey reached forward, tugging the fabric of my underwear upward, subsequently pressing the vibrator closer to my clit, and I brought my hand up to my mouth to suppress any further noise. 

There was a second kiss on that exact same spot, just on the other side, mirrored; Jesus fucking Christ, Mr. Godfrey was kissing me. The realization hit me like a truck, and I bucked up against the vibrator with a high-pitched whine when he placed a third, final kiss on my right hipbone.

"You're really wet," he said, breath warm against my skin. "Had I been a different man, I'd have allowed myself to taste you." He placed his hand flat on my lower abdomen, grounding and steady, pinning me there like I was something fragile that might float away. The weight of it made my thighs quake, and something about the placement of it made the pressure on my clit stronger-- how the fuck did that work? 

Just the thought of Mr. Godfrey's mouth on me, between my legs, licking a flat stripe up my sex, circling my clit with his tongue, sucking me in, bringing me over the edge whilst pinning my thighs down to the table as I shook through my orgasm; the though was too much, too tempting. "Please," I whimpered, bucking my hips up as though that would make a difference. "Why not?-- Please--"

"Stay still," Mr. Godfrey trailed his fingers down my sex, over my vibrator, over the wetness, before he retreated his hand and straightened up. The other went to my thigh, pinning me down, but something told me he did it simply to touch the softness of my skin, for selfish reasons. Was he taking liberties or was I imagining things...? "You're allowed to cum whenever as long as you tell me right before you do, and as long as you stay very, very still. Can you do that for me?"

I had to do everything in my power to not reach for his hand-- that would've probably felt so, so good, to ground myself with his direct touch. "Yes, sir," I whimpered, staring up at Mr. Godfrey with glossy eyes, feeling my brain fog up from the pleasure of the vibrator buzzing against my clit. 

Just as I let my head lull back against the table, melting under his gaze, I heard the sharp sound of a zipper. I didn't think much of it, wondering whether I had imagined it, until Mr. Godfrey's voice sounded through my fog-- "You like this, huh? You like taking my orders?"

"Yes, sir," I whimpered, my lashes fluttering.

Mr. Godfrey gave a small, choppy exhale through his nose. "Damn right you do," he muttered under his breath. "I knew who you were the second you walked into my office. Knew you'd like this shit, you sick freak."

My breath caught, and just as I tried to clamp my thighs together, he forced them apart again.

"Don't do that," he said, tone flat. "Don't make me stop this now. It was just starting to get fun."

I whimpered again, nodding, my whole body fighting itself-- one half trying to escape the intensity of the vibrator, and the other half begging for more. I wasn't even sure which side was winning anymore. 

Mr. Godfrey's fingers dug into the insides of my knee, bruising and possessive. There was another sound-- a belt unhooking, fabric shifting. "You poor thing... Didn't even last a week when you started working for me," His breath caught in his throat, like saying it out loud set him on fire. "It was so stupid. Stupid little girl, thinking I wouldn't notice... You wanted me to find out so bad, hm?"

The pressure in my core intensified until it felt like I was falling apart, my legs twitching under the restraint of his grip. I couldn't even think anymore-- I was a mess on his table, unraveling with every humiliating word that struck me with the most delicious pleasure. 

My eyes fluttered open, desperate to meet his beautiful green eyes, but that was when I saw it-- Mr. Godfrey's fingers were wrapped around his cock, breath catching in his throat as he stroked himself to the sight of me, wet, squirming, whimpering, and locked beneath him with a vibrator unrelenting against my clit. 

I wanted to stare; I wanted to look at him like this forever, but I was almost scared to. Would he stop this if he caught me looking? God, he was gorgeous like this, lips parted, pleasured. I had dreamed of seeing him like this for way too long-- I'd definitely get in trouble if I kept staring at his dick, that was for sure.

But then, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes snapped to mine, inviting me in. "Look at you now," he went on, choked out. "You proud of yourself, you sick fuck? Like me seeing you like this?"

I whimpered again, ashamed and undone, but somehow still nodding. "Y-Yes, sir,"

"Oh, I bet you are," His thumb grazed over the head of his cock with a sigh, and he stared at me like I was something on display. "You get off on being treated like fucking crap... What do you think that makes you?"

I could only look up at him through hooded lids, too far gone to answer.

"Go ahead," he said, towering over me as he stroked himself faster, his other hand digging deeper into my thigh-- I so desperately hoped it would leave a mark. "Say it. What are you?"

I wanted to cry from the heat crawling up my throat, from the way his words seared into me and made something inside me twist into a helpless, building knot; "I'm... I'm your-- your secretary," I managed, nearly choking on it. "Your secretary, your-- your--"

That was it. My thighs quivered as my back arched off the table, toes curling inside my heels as the knot in my abdomen only tightened. "Sir, I'm gonna-- gonna--"

Mr. Godfrey's fist didn't slow around his cock, but his eyes sharpened, locking on mine. "Yeah?" he breathed. "You that close already?"

I whimpered, nodding furiously, barely able to speak. "Please, sir-- I need, please--"

He let out a rough, satisfied sound, like he was drinking this in; he leaned in over me, stroking himself faster, his other hand still firm on my thigh. "Be a good fucking secretary... Cum for me, cum for your boss," 

It hit like a wave crashing through me. My whole body snapped taut before unraveling all at once, back arching off the table, thighs quivering as I whimpered at the unrelenting stimulation. The vibrator ground against my clit like it had been waiting for this moment, dragging the orgasm out until I was shaking, choking, nearly convulsing beneath him.

My head lolled to the side, tears slipping down my temple as the aftershocks made my body jerk and flinch beneath him. I was floating, dripping, barely alive-- what the fuck had just happened?

And just before I managed to answer that question, I felt two hands on my underwear, pulling it down with urgency, and I had no control over my body as it was pulled over my thighs, my legs, and threaded past my shoes. It was a relief for the vibrator to leave my aching, overstimulated clit, yet now, I felt my slick hit the cold office air, and it almost made me hiss-- I had never been this wet before, and it was almost worrying.

My lashes fluttered open at the sound of hitched breath. Mr. Godfrey's green eyes scanned the way I glistened beneath him, took in the sight of me being exposed like this, and the fact that I was allowing him to expose me in such an obscene way in his private dining room.

"Fuck," Mr. Godfrey groaned. His cock twitched in his hand as he jacked himself even harder, face flushed, mouth open. "Such a pretty fucking pussy-- knew you'd be-- perfect--" 

Then, hot and sudden, he spilled across my stomach in thick, endless streaks, groaning from the base of his chest like he'd never felt anything so good as the last drops dripped down on my sex, a warm droplet of cum landing perfectly on my clit. I could only whimper at the warmth and the heavenly sight of him-- undone and real. 

Mr. Godfrey stayed there, breathing hard, his hand still wrapped around himself like he hadn't realized it was over. For a second, I thought he might say something cruel again, or tell me how pathetic I looked spread out like this (not that I'd protest).

But... he didn't.

Instead, Mr. Godfrey blinked, glanced down at the mess between us, and gave a quiet, almost sheepish exhale; "Jesus Christ," he muttered, but there wasn't any bite to it. He sounded... surprised? Like he couldn't believe what we'd just done either, like he hadn't planned that last part, and it made my heart jump; what was I witnessing? Had this happened with his other women as well, those that came before me? 

Or... was he still seeing other women on the side? I didn't want to think about it, didn't want it to be real. 

Then, after a beat, Mr. Godfrey shifted awkwardly, tucking himself away. "Alright, then... Ten minutes," he said under his breath, almost like he was reminding himself more than me.

Right-- I was promised ten minutes with him every time something like this happened between us. He was supposed to act normal and not bark orders at me as usual. I nodded faintly, still lying back on the table, completely dazed. The air was too quiet. The vibrator had stopped buzzing somewhere, and all that remained was the echo of our breathing and the low hum of the light overhead. 

I felt sticky. Exposed. And then, I felt his fingers, gentle this time, as they peeled off my thigh with delicate precision, as if to make up for the improvisation at the end there. "That got out of hand," Mr. Godfrey mumbled, mostly to himself, as he reached for a napkin nearby. 

I blinked; "Did it?"

Mr. Godfrey remained quiet for a beat or two, assessing how to answer. "Didn't plan it at least," he mumbled. 

Something about the confession made a faint blush appear in my cheeks. "It was nice, though,"

"Yeah?" he said, absentminded, before he crouched and started cleaning me up without saying a word. No comments, no smug remarks-- just the press of warm fabric against my skin as he wiped his release from my stomach, from between my thighs, from the softest part of me that still pulsed in the aftermath.

Despite the fact that I had been exposed to him like this for a few minutes now, I still felt shy about Mr. Godfrey seeing me like this; I wanted to close my legs, hide, disappear, yet I couldn't with him between my thighs. But then, I remembered-- "So... you do think I'm pretty?" He'd said it enough times today to convince me, no matter what he answered. Perfect, too, for the first time.

With a sharp sigh, Mr. Godfrey rose up, smoothing down his sleeves even though they hadn't moved. The napkin was bunched in his fist before he put it down somewhere. "That's not a relevant conversation," he answered, reaching for my underwear, which had been messily tucked into his pocket in the heat of the moment. "I'm much more interested in how you're feeling. Was this alright?" His voice was steadier now, but it didn't match the faint twitch in his brow, or the way he kept his eyes down as he handed my underwear back like it was evidence. 

Huffing, I sat up slowly, legs still trembling a little, and took the fabric from his hand; I handed him the vibrator that was tucked in it. "I'm okay," I said. "Just... a little wrecked."

That got a flicker of a smile from him, barely there; "Noted,"

I started to slide my underwear back on, glancing at him once, half-daring, half-curious. He turned his back to me before I could finish, which surprised me. Mr. Godfrey didn't usually give me modesty-- it felt deliberate. 

With slow moves, I managed to get off the table without falling to my knees. Thank fuck. "What's freaking you out?" I called out, scanning him from top to toe. He was so tense now, like he hadn't cum all over me just minutes ago. 

Mr. Godfrey turned to look back at me, brows drawn in offence. "I don't know what you're talking about,"

"Are you freaking out that I saw your dick?"

"That's not!--"

"At least I didn't touch you this time, right?" 

I watched him suck in a sharp breath like he wasn't sure whether to argue or walk out; but a rule is a rule, right? "You're getting too comfortable," he huffed, contained. "You and that fucking mouth of yours will be the death of me."

I grinned as I smoothed the hem of my skirt like it hadn't just been bunched around my waist. "You say that like it's a bad thing, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey shot me a look, but didn't take the bait. Instead, he walked around the table and sat back down in his chair. He put the vibrator back in its box before he reached for the neatly folded copy of The New York Times that still waited for him, as if none of this had happened.

"It is a bad thing," he said, not looking up at me. Was I imagining things, or was he sort of ashamed to have cum on me in such an obscene way? But then-- "You're distracting. Infuriating. Impractical. And quite frankly, a walking HR liability. It is a bad thing, because despite all of that, I thought more about this lunch with you than I thought about any of the important things I actually had to do today. You fog up my brain."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey looked up, too fast, too quickly, and for one suspended second, we just stared at each other. The air between us crackled, my breath caught in my throat, he didn’t blink, didn’t move, until his gaze flicked to my lips. And just like that, I knew-- he was thinking about it what it would feel like to kiss me, didn't he? Or was I imagining things again?

The corner of his mouth twitched like he might say something more, but he tore his gaze away and muttered, sharp and sudden, like it would erase everything he'd just said; "I'm going to Geneva tomorrow,"

I blinked; "...What?"

"Geneva," he repeated like I was hard of hearing, going back to The New York Times and flipping a page. "Flight leaves early. I'll be gone a week."

A week? A week?! A whole week without Mr. Godfrey? I felt my brain actively melt with shock-- how was I supposed to function in the meantime? That week was going to feel like a decade. I already knew that I was going to miss him. My voice came out lower than I expected, like I had just gotten scolded; "I didn't know that," I softly whined. "That's not on your schedule, sir."

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes darted up from the edge of the paper. "I was invited this morning. I'm speaking at a conference,"

"Shouldn't you have... told me?" I continued, breathy with hurt. "I'm your secretary, I should-- I need to know these things to add them to your calendar, and-- and now I just feel incompetent. You already think I'm incompetent, but you're not making my job any easier!--"

"I should've told you," he echoed. "But I didn't. Get over it." With a loud sigh, he removed one hand off the newspaper and motioned for me to come sit down in his lap. 

I lingered on the edge of the offer like I needed permission to accept it. "I'm... sticky," Imagine I stood up from his lap and he had a fucking stain? Hell no.

But-- "I know," Mr. Godfrey said, his palm still out, waiting. "Sit."

Carefully, I lowered myself into his lap, feeling the brush of his trousers under my thighs and the quiet weight of his body beneath mine. He shifted just slightly to accommodate me, one arm curving around my waist as if it belonged there, the other folding the paper back with one hand like he didn't care that I was in his lap in a post-orgasmic sulk.

Still sulking, I decided to be crass; "Will you bring me something from Geneva?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't look up from his newspaper, flipping to the next page. "Brat," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm not so sure. Depends."

"On what?"

"On your behaviour when I'm gone,"

“What is that supposed to mean?” It came out fast, defensive, and a little too soft to sound convincing. "Seriously, I'm not incompetent, and I do a decent job! It's not like I crawl around the office on all fours and eat food off the floor! I behave just fine!"

With a hint of a quirk at the corner of his lips, Mr. Godfrey's thumb pressed slowly against my hip, a gesture so subtle it barely qualified as touch; it felt like a warning. “Right... that might be true on some level, but let’s not pretend you don’t crave consequences,” 

I made a noise, part groan, part protest, but Mr. Godfrey just adjusted me more securely against him. I felt him rub slow circles into my hip with one hand, coaxing me into stillness. It was odd to feel him like this, almost affectionate-- was this maybe just part of aftercare? I had read about it on the web, heard that it was a vital part of a dom/sub dynamic, but it felt personal, and it was therefore deemed dangerous territory in my mind.

I shifted, reaching for the salad I never finished. Stabbing an innocent tomato, I tried to make casual conversation; "Who will be interim CEO? It better not be me,"

Mr. Godfrey almost laughed; "There will be no need for that, I'm sure," he said, skimming the next page of the New York Times. "I'll be available on email, but in case of a crisis, my uncle Norman will be instated. I'll still be in charge."

Norman Godfrey? I had met him several times while I shared a dorm room with Letha in college. That was going to be a really awkward conversation if he saw the way I dressed around the office-- you best believe I didn't look like this outside of these four walls. "And what counts as crisis, sir?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't even glance up from the paper. "If someone's bleeding out in reception, or even worse, painting it orange, then you'll know. And if a government agency shows up unannounced, or if you decide you can't go seven days without begging to be put in your place in one way or another, those would all qualify,"

I nearly choked on the tomato I'd just bitten into. "Excuse me?"

"I'm being thorough," he said smoothly, flipping the page with one hand while the other pressed more firmly around my waist, holding me in place like I was something that might run. "You asked."

"I was talking about company policy!"

He hummed, patronizing. "And I was talking about you,"

My whole body went still against Mr. Godfrey. It was unfair how calm he remained.

He finally folded the paper and looked down at me like I was something he might study for fun. "You want rules?" he asked. "Fine. No playing snake. No trying to access my calendar while I'm gone, which I know you do. And absolutely no short skirts, because you never know what perverts lurk in the office when I'm not around."

I blinked at him-- did he not hear the irony? "Sir," I breathed, biting down on a smirk. "I think all the perverts will be gone when you leave."

I knew I was testing the waters with that one, perhaps even treading on flaming charcoal, but Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with that dangerous flicker of interest he usually reserved for moments right before saying something that made me feel feral. "Funny you say that..." he said. 

"Because I know about at least one that's gonna remain behind her desk all week."

(a/n: GAHHHH I WANT HIM SO BAD?? finally he whipped out his cock<3333 AHAHIFDJFI ILY IF YOU GOT THIS FAR, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE MOVE AND SWEET MESSAGES, I HAVE ENJOYED THEM ALL AHHHH MWAH MWAH!!<333)

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[prismozo]

OH MY GOD???

"good boy!" reupload from littlesoulshine

for being a good boy, you decided to give arty a little treat. you set the table—linen, crystal, and a single candle lit, flickering low; around it roast chicken, green beans, and a perfect glass of red wine, his favorite. you wear something sheer with no bra or panties on. art walks in, wearing his gym clothes, and freezes like a deer in headlights.

“shorts off,” you say, without looking up. he obeys instantly, dropping like he’s allergic to disobedience. you tilt your head just slightly, pointing to the chair at the head of the table. “sit.”

he moves fast, you straddle him before he’s fully settled, one slow grind of your hips as you guide his cock inside you—bare, of course. no prep or foreplay. he gasps, hands flying to your thighs like he might hold on—

“no,” you say, catching his wrists. “hands in your lap. or i stop.”

he obeys, trembling already. you can feel every twitch of him deep inside you, stuffed full, throbbing against your walls. 

you pick up a bite of steaming hot chicken, blow on it, and bring it to his mouth. “open, baby.”

he does—lips parting, tongue just barely peeking out. you feed him. as you stare at him, he chews slow and swallows hard (moaning as you softly tighten around him.)

you moan low in your throat—not from pleasure, but from power he’s giving you. he’s shaking under you, hips pressed against the chair, your cunt keeping his cock soaked and tight. he wants to thrust, wants to fuck up into you. but he knows he can’t (only on his birthday, new years, or any time you tell him to).

he gets a bite of green beans next. his lips brush your fingertips and he moans.

“you love this, don’t you?” you murmur, picking up your own fork. “sitting still like a good boy, stuffed full of my cunt, while i feed you like the dumb little pet you are.”

“yes, ma’am,” he breathes. “i love it. love being inside you—so warm—so tight—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can.” your voice cuts sharp. “and you will.”

he bites his lip. his cock twitches inside you. you feel it—so fucking desperate, pulsing with every heartbeat. you take a sip of wine. press the glass to his lips next. he drinks, soft whimpers caught in his throat, neck flushed and glossy with sweat.

the sight makes you clench and he choke from the pleasure. “mommy—please—please just let me move, just once, just a little, i’ll beg—i’ll do anything—”

you cut a piece of meat. feed it to him. “no.”

his eyes flutter, while he continues to pant with his cheeks red and balls tightening.

you lean in, lips brushing his ear, giving him little kisses. he makes a incoherent sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan. his hands tremble in his lap, making him cry all soft and wet, with pretty glassy eyes.

you press your hips down just a little. his hips jerk up and you instantly slap his thigh. “sit still, baby.”

he nods as you feed him again, but he’s so far gone by the time you’ve finished your meal, his cock was soaked, balls super heavy and lips shining with spit, wine, and your praise.

you set down your fork and look down at him. “you want to come?”

“God—yes—please—i’ve been so good—”

you rise off his pretty cock before slamming down again, and lifting up again that being his breaking point. he screams, high-pitched and all. his cum spurts painting his belly, chest, even his chin. he jerks, sobs, full-body trembles, hands still clasped in his lap. you bend down, scooping a little with your fingers, feeding it to him while trying it for yourself, moaning at how good he tastes. “mhm, this is good.”

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

[prismozo]

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. graphic sexual language and imagery. fingering (receiving). impact play (spanking, thigh/cunt slapping). degradation & dumbification kink. praising mixed with humiliation. oral sex (receiving). overstimulation. spit, drool, and messy bodily fluids. use of rings/jewelry during sex. consent-based rough play and bratty dominance. clothing/underwear kink. power imbalance dynamics (soft dom x naive virgin sub).

pairing: scene emo patrick zweig x sunshine!virgin afab girlfriend.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @talsorchard, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste

★ ── Patrick paints his nails black religiously. He always messes one up before it dries, curses, wipes it with a corner of his hoodie, and starts again. He lowkey loves when you help him, especially when you sit on his lap to do it.

★ ── His sex playlist is chaotic. It bounces between 2006 Myspace-core bangers and weird remixes. You’ll be getting fingered to “Bring Me To Life” one second and suddenly hear a slowed-down Nightcore cover of something cursed. He won’t even blink.

★ ── He degrades and praises in the same breath. Patrick’s the king of mixed signals: “You’re such a stupid little slut, aren’t you? Gonna cry if I stop touching you? That’s my good girl.” He needs you whimpering and begging, but the moment you seem too unsure, he’ll slow down and stroke your hair. “That’s right, sweetheart. I got you.”

★ ── He wants to take you to Warped Tour (in spirit). He knows it’s dead. But if he ever gets the money, he wants to road trip with you to every dive bar pop-punk show he can find, wearing matching eyeliner and making out behind merch tables.

★ ── He does his eyeliner better than any girl you know. Patrick wears it thick and smudged, a perfect grungy wing that makes his eyes look darker than sin. He always applies it with one leg on the sink to be closer to the mirror and his tongue sticking out slightly. He teases you about watching him, then offers to do yours—and he's shockingly gentle with the pencil when he leans in, thumb under your chin, voice low: “Stay still, baby.”

★ ── Patrick lives to make you cry during sex. Not out of pain—out of pleasure. He’ll talk you through it, whispering filth while his fingers keep curling just right. “That’s it, sunshine. Let it drip down those pretty cheeks. You look so good when you cry for me.” He uses your tears as lube sometimes, just to be a menace.

★ ── His room looks like a haunted MySpace profile. Posters of MCR, The Used, and old Warped Tour lineups. Black bedsheets covered in band patches. LED lights set permanently to blood red. But there’s a framed photo of you on his nightstand. Soft lighting, your cheeks pink, and a sticky note on the frame: “My girl. Hands off.”

★ ── Patrick’s wardrobe is 90% black—but it’s never just black. He layers textures like it’s a religion. Distressed mesh over ripped tank tops, black-on-black graphic tees, low-rise studded belts, and skinny jeans tight enough to kill circulation. His hoodies are oversized and always worn off one shoulder, revealing scribbled Sharpie lyrics on his collarbones (“i’m not okay and that’s hot”). He lives in platform Converse and chains that jingle when he walks. Sometimes he adds arm warmers with little skulls or bats, just because they match his nail polish.

★ ── His favorite thing is getting you dumb and messy. He wants you drooling on yourself, mascara running, babbling his name between broken moans. He’ll pull your panties to the side, rub slow, hard circles, and mock you in that low, teasing voice: “God, look at you. Can’t even speak, can you? Just a dumb little thing with a sweet little hole.”

★ ── His jewelry is cursed and heavy. He layers necklaces like armor: razor blade pendants, lock and key charms, Hello Kitty chokers with spikes, half-tarnished chain links and broken locket pieces. Some of them he got from thrift stores. Some he definitely shoplifted. He wears six rings—most of them skulls or hearts or something chipped. One of them has your initial on it. He won’t tell you where he got it.

★ ── He’s obsessed with ruining cute underwear. Especially pastel sets. Especially the ones with bows or ruffles. He’ll pull them down with his teeth, bite the waistband, and then tuck them in his back pocket. “Too innocent to be wearing shit like this, angel. You know I’m gonna stain ‘em.”

★ ── He makes friendship bracelets with words like “SLUT” and “CRYBABY.” Yes, he actually wears them. Yes, he gives them to people. No, you’re not allowed to take yours off. He once made you one that said “CUMDOLL” in alternating pastel beads. Then he kissed your cheek and told you never to lose it. He says it’s “like a collar, but cute.”

★ ── He gets off on being watched. Not by strangers—by you. He’ll jerk himself off while you’re recovering from your own orgasm, licking his fingers clean and spitting in his hand. “You like that view, princess? Want it inside you again? Then beg for it. Say please.”

[prismozo]

I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory

[prismozo]

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 |

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 to 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 word, 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 wouldbe 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. I 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 |

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

[prismozo]

Prismozo’s Recs!!

!!!Some of these do contain NSFW, I’m simply to lazy to organize by genre!!!!

Tangerine

Riot by Etherealily

Honey, I’m Home By Moonlightspencie

Bucky

The Soldier and His Mission By Magical-Reid

Like he means it By Marvelstoriesepic

Still on the list By ↑ ↑ ↑

Starlord

Say Yes(Please?) By Mcondance

Challengers

LOVE ME TO DEATH By Pittsick

Freaky on camera By Leonalovesalot

Changeover & Tiebreaker By Artdcnaldson

Riff Lorton

Working Man By Minnie-cai

Roman Godfrey

Seven Minutes in Heaven By Kingkat12

Brat By ↑ ↑ ↑

Nymphomaniac By ↑ ↑ ↑

Honorable mentions to my fav writers who have a bunch of good stuff y’all NEED to read:

Kingkat12

Leonalovesalot

222col

Pittsick

Marchsfreakshow

Taintandviolent

Marvelstoriesepic

Bonniesbluee

ANYWAY THESE ARE SOME OF MY FAVS ENJOY MWAH🤓🫶🏾

[prismozo]

LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

part one.

summary: The first murder on the Stanford campus makes everyone on edge — and so does the second one. Your roommate, Tashi; and her boys, Art and Patrick (your somewhat friends), are all acting weird after murders keeps going on. They wouldn’t happen to have something to do with this, right? Well, maybe.

cw: 1.6k words. apt scream!au. graphic violence, psychological manipulation, stalking, home invasion, murder/death, toxic/abusive relationships, fear of being watched (paranoia), mental distress, weapon violence, gaslighting, threats.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist .ᐟ @bluestrd, @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @bloodofswans, @jclolz22 (to be added)

You always hated how quiet Stanford got at night.

Even when you pressed your ear to the window, the world was too still—no footsteps on the pavement, no music from the dorms, not even the chirp of a late-night skater down Palm Drive. Just silence, thick and tense, like the breath before a scream.

The first body turned up on a Wednesday.

A sophomore named Harper, found gutted behind the humanities building. Her blood pooled beneath a vending machine, her phone still clutched in one limp hand, a glittery pink case smeared with red. The news spread across campus like wildfire, and for the first time since arriving at Stanford, you didn’t feel safe walking home after dark.

You weren’t alone. People started traveling in groups, locking doors that had always been left open, whispering theories behind cupped hands. Serial killer. Cult. Copycat. Ghostface.

You didn’t want to believe it. Not here. Not in your perfect little bubble of textbooks, tennis courts, and latte art. But then a second body showed up. And a third.

That’s when things got strange between you and Tashi.

She started staying out late—later than usual. You’d wake up in your dorm room, her bed still perfectly made. She wouldn’t answer your texts until morning, blaming late-night study groups or “hookups I didn’t want to talk about.” She never brought anyone back with her, though.

She looked... different too. A little more wired, her eyes brighter. More intense. She’d always been competitive, but now there was a fever in her—like she was playing a game no one else knew about.

You didn’t ask questions.

Because it was Tashi Duncan. Charismatic, brilliant, Stanford tennis royalty. Your best friend. Your roommate. The person who dragged you out of freshman depression with tequila shots and comfort movies. You didn’t ask questions because you didn’t want to hear the answers.

But then she introduced you to Art and Patrick.

And everything started to fall apart.

They were golden, the kind of boys who could ruin your life with a smile. Art Donaldson: all sunshine and soft sweaters, warm hands and eager eyes. Patrick Zweig: elegant, icy, unreadable—the kind of guy who made you feel like prey every time he looked at you.

They weren’t just tennis stars. They were Tashi’s boys.

She pulled them into your orbit like a planet flexing its gravity. And for a while, you thought you were safe there—surrounded by beautiful people who knew how to keep the real world at bay. They flirted with you, sure, but it felt innocent. Maybe even sweet.

Until one night, when Patrick leaned a little too close and whispered, “Do you trust her?” You blinked. “What?”

“Tashi,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Do you trust her?” The way he said it made your blood turn to ice. His tone was playful, but something behind it was sharp. Watching. Waiting.

“Of course I do,” you said too quickly. His smile widened. “Interesting.”

Two more students died the next week.

You didn’t know them personally—just recognized them from lecture halls or parties. One was found in the library bathroom, the other stuffed in a frat house freezer. Both were stabbed. Both had their phone screens shattered, as if they’d tried to call for help.

That night, Art brought you soup.

You opened your door and found him standing there with a thermos and a boyish grin. “You didn’t come to class. Tashi said you weren’t feeling well.” You didn’t remember telling her that.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the thermos down and pulling you into a hug that lasted just a second too long. His warmth lingered on your skin like static.

“Gotta stay strong,” he murmured into your hair. “You never know what’s out there.” You laughed awkwardly. “That’s comforting.” He pulled back and looked at you—really looked at you. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

It should’ve been reassuring. But something in his eyes was wrong.

The first threatening message came a day later. A voicemail. A voice you didn’t recognize—distorted, mechanical.

“You scream real pretty. Wonder if you bleed prettier.”

You dropped your phone, hands shaking. Called campus security. They told you it was probably a prank. They always say that. Tashi didn’t believe it either—until she listened to the voicemail. Her expression went cold. She took your phone and locked it in her drawer. “You don’t need to hear this again.”

“But—”

“No. Let me handle it.” Her voice cracked steel. “I will handle it.”

You should’ve felt grateful. Instead, you felt like a child being tucked away before something bad happened.

You started noticing little things after that.

Your dorm door open when you swore you’d locked it. Your notes rearranged. Shadows under the door at night. One time, you found your toothbrush wet even though you hadn’t touched it that morning.

And through it all, Art and Patrick hovered like twin ghosts—always around, always watching. Art would bring you tea, rub your shoulders, call you “sunshine” in that dumb soft voice. Patrick would corner you in the library and stroke your cheek like you were something precious he hadn’t decided whether to break or protect.

Tashi kept saying, “They’re just trying to help. Let them.”

You tried. God, you tried. But you didn’t know who to trust anymore.

It all came undone at the Halloween party.

The university tried to cancel it, but students are stupid. Invincible. They threw a rager in one of the old lecture halls. Everyone wore masks. Everyone drank too much. It was chaos. You didn’t want to go.

Tashi made you. Said you needed to be “seen” so people knew you weren’t afraid. She dressed you in black lace and blood-red lipstick. Painted a little knife under your eye and called you “Final Girl Chic.”

“Stay close to me,” she whispered. “Promise?” You nodded. You lost her ten minutes in.

The lights were strobing. Music pounding. People grinding on each other like the world wasn’t unraveling outside. You fought your way through the crowd, looking for her, for Art, for Patrick—for anyone. But all you found was the bathroom.

You ducked inside. And that’s when you saw it. Written across the mirror in blood-red lipstick: “You’re next.”

You ran.

You didn’t think, didn’t stop, didn’t breathe. You pushed past bodies and spilled drinks and Halloween screams. You made it outside, lungs burning, heart hammering.

Then someone grabbed your arm. You screamed, but the grip was gentle. “Hey, hey—it’s just me.” Art. Of course it was Art. Always there, like a shadow in the corner of your eye. “I saw you run,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“There was—there’s something in the bathroom,” you gasped. “Someone left a message—” His hand slid to your waist, grounding. “Hey. Look at me.” You did. He smiled. But this time, it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Later that night, someone was murdered again.

In the parking lot. Stabbed thirteen times. Blood pooled under their Ghostface mask like a red halo. You recognized the jacket. It was the guy who danced with Tashi earlier. You confronted her the next day.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore—the paranoia, the fear, the questions. You told her about the lipstick message. The mask. The call. Everything. She listened silently. Then she laughed.

“You think I’m the killer?” she said, tone mocking. “Jesus, you really don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” you whispered. She stepped closer, her face cold. “Maybe you’re just paranoid. Maybe you want to think I’m capable of that because it’s easier than accepting how fucked up the world is.” You stared at her.

And for a second—just a second—you believed her.

Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss.

You almost dropped out.

Packed your things. Wrote an email to your academic advisor. Told yourself you’d leave before Thanksgiving. But the night before you were supposed to go, you found something under your pillow.

A Ghostface mask. Still warm. You didn’t sleep.

The final body broke the campus.

A professor. Strangled. Gutted. Mask shoved down her throat. That was the moment the university shut everything down. Classes canceled. Dorms half-emptied. A curfew no one followed. But you stayed. Because you had to know. Who was doing this? Who had turned your life into a horror movie?

The next attack happened in your dorm.

You came back from the dining hall and found the door open, lights off. You called for Tashi. No answer. Then the closet creaked open. And Ghostface stepped out.

You screamed. Fought. Kicked. Ran.

He chased you down the hall, knife flashing silver. You ducked into the stairwell, took them two at a time, blood thundering in your ears. You burst out into the courtyard—and slammed into Patrick. “Whoa—hey—what’s going on?” He asked; hint of knowledge behind his eyes.

“He’s—he’s upstairs—he tried to kill me!” Patrick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your hand. “Come with me.”

He dragged you into the athletic building lockers, locked the door behind you and smiled. Tashi was already there. So was Art. Waiting. Your breath caught. “What—what is this?” The words escaped your lips like begging; like wanting this to not be real.

Art tilted his head. “Final act.” Tashi pulled something from her bag. A knife. Long. Clean. Familiar. “No,” you whispered. “No, no, no—” Patrick circled behind you. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

“We kept dropping hints,” Tashi added. “The lipstick. The mask. The voicemail. God, we practically spoon-fed it to you.” Art looked almost sad. “You were supposed to be smarter.”

“Why?” you asked, voice shaking. “Why me?” Tashi stepped closer. Her eyes were wild when she replied — she didn’t see you, she saw more. Something you couldn’t understand. Not yet.

“Because you were there. Watching. Listening. Judging. Always in my shadow. Always so fucking perfect.”

“I loved you,” Art murmured. “We all did. Still do.”

“That’s the fun part,” Patrick said. “This isn’t about hating you.” Tashi smiled. “It’s about making you famous.” You fought. You screamed. You ran. And maybe—just maybe—you lived. But that’s the thing about final girls.

They always bleed first.

[prismozo]

I think we’re living in the timeline where Bill and Ted didn’t pass their history report

[prismozo]

sub!art taking strap and begging the reader to cum in him

summary: art begging for that strap.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.3k words. submissive art. praising. begging. strap in v (art receiving). fake fluids. disgusting dirty-talking. drooling. oral sex (art receing).

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @idyllicdaydreams @sohighitscool

The sound of rain against the window filled the room, soft and rhythmic, blurring the city outside into streaks of gold and grey. You were curled up on the couch, a throw blanket tucked over your lap, a half-finished movie playing low on the TV. Art sat beside you, long legs tucked under himself, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, like he wasn’t sure how much space he was allowed to take up—even here. Even with you.

He always got like this after a match—withdrawn, tightly wound. His body ached, and not from the training. From the pressure. From everything unspoken.

You nudged him gently with your knee. “You good, baby?”

Art turned his head toward you, the softest smile tugging at his lips. His eyes lingered on your face for a moment too long, and then drifted down—neck, chest, lap—before he caught himself and looked away, ears turning pink.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… tired.”

But the way he said it wasn’t really tired. It was restless.

You reached over and combed your fingers through the dark strands falling over his forehead. “Want me to help you wind down?”

His breath hitched just a little. He nodded, once.

The first twenty minutes were nothing more than touch. You moved to straddle his lap, lips brushing his jaw, your hands roaming under his hoodie—slow, reverent. You kissed the column of his throat until he sighed into you, until his hips shifted beneath yours, until his fingers bunched in the hem of your shirt like he needed to anchor himself somewhere.

“Fuck,” Art whispered, head tilting back. “You always touch me like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

“I just like taking my time with you,” you murmured against his skin. “You’re worth it.”

That made him shiver.

By the time you peeled his hoodie off, he was already flushed. You worked him out of his sweatpants next, mouthing along his stomach as you slid them down. He let you, pliant and quiet and trembling just a little. His briefs were dark with arousal, a wet spot already blooming through the front.

“God, look at you,” you said, brushing your fingers over it. “You’re dripping.”

He whined. Actually whined.

You tugged his briefs down slow, inch by inch, revealing the slick shine between his thighs, the soft curve of his hips. His cunt was swollen, flushed, begging for attention. And when you kissed the inside of his knee and looked up at him, his mouth was parted, a thread of saliva already gathering at the corner.

“Baby,” you breathed, settling between his legs. “You need it, don’t you?”

Art nodded fast, biting his lip. “I need your mouth,” he mumbled. “Please. Just—don’t make me wait.”

You didn’t.

Your tongue dragged through his folds, slow and flat, savoring the taste of him. He gasped and curled inward, one arm over his mouth, trying to muffle the broken sounds that spilled from him. His hips bucked when you sucked his clit into your mouth, and when you kept going—lapping him open, tongue fucking him until his thighs shook—he moaned so loud you could feel it echo in your core.

“Don’t hide from me,” you whispered, pulling back just long enough to say it. “Let me hear how much you love this.”

Art whined again, hand curling in your hair. “Feels so good,” he choked out. “Your mouth—fuck, I can’t—” You gave him one more deep lick, then pulled away. His whole body trembled when the air hit him.

“Don’t worry,” you said, rising to your knees. “You’re gonna get more than my mouth tonight.”

His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw what you were doing—reaching into your drawer for the harness, lube, and the soft pink silicone cock he liked best—the special one, his pupils blew wide.

You strapped it on slow, letting him watch, letting him see the way it jutted from you, slick with lube before you even got close. Art reached between his legs and touched himself, fingers dipping back into his slit, gathering the slick you’d left behind.

“I want it,” he said, voice raw. “Want you.”

You grabbed a pillow and slid it under his hips, guiding him to lie back against the couch. His legs spread willingly, shamelessly, cunt glistening and twitching as you moved between them.

“You sure?” you asked, rubbing the tip of the strap through his folds, coating it in his slick. “I want you begging for it.”

“I am begging,” he groaned, arching. “Please—just fuck me. Fill me up. I want you to cum in me.”

That made your stomach flip.

You pushed in slowly, the head of the strap breaching him with a thick, wet sound. Art gasped, hands clutching the couch cushions, every muscle going tight as the fake cock stretched him open.

“That’s it,” you murmured. “Take it, baby. You look so good like this.”

Art whined through his teeth, breath ragged. “So full already—fuck—feels so fucking good.”

You bottomed out and leaned over him, pressing kisses to his flushed face, his damp hairline. “You’re doing so well. Look at you—so pretty when you’re stuffed full.”

His hips jerked. He loved being called pretty. Loved hearing how good he was.

You started thrusting, slow at first, just enough to make him squirm. Every inch you pulled out left him gasping; every push back in had him drooling, lips parting in a wet, blissed-out moan.

“God, yes,” he babbled, head tossing back. “More, please—I can take it—”

You gave it to him. Deep and hard, until your hips smacked against his ass, until his thighs trembled and his cunt made obscene squelching sounds every time you drove into him. You leaned over him again, catching his mouth in a kiss, and were met with spit-slicked desperation. He kissed like he couldn’t breathe without it, mouth open and tongue needy, drool trailing down his chin.

“You’re drooling for it, baby,” you growled, fucking him harder. “You want me to cum in you that bad?”

Art let out a broken, shattered moan.

“Yes, fuck—please, please—I want it in me, I want you to fill me up, I need it—”

“Gonna pump you full,” you rasped, one hand gripping his hip, the other coming down to rub his clit in messy, frantic circles. “Gonna make a mess in you, baby.”

Art was gone. His eyes rolled back, hands clutching your wrist, hips slamming up to meet your thrusts. His whole body was trembling, slick gushing from him in waves as the toy plunged deep inside over and over again.

And then—you pressed deep, grinding your hips, moaning his name like a prayer. “Cum in me,” he begged again. “Please—please, just do it—I want to feel it, want to be full of you, I—”

You gasped as the fake cum released inside him, thick and warm, the fluid filling the toy's reservoir and spurting into him in slow pulses. Art cried out, back arching, body locking up as the sensation tipped him over the edge.

He came hard, cunt spasming around the strap, hips jerking helplessly as he sobbed your name into your mouth. His thighs were soaked. His chest heaved. And when you pulled out, slow and careful, the fake cum dripped from his stretched hole, glistening down his ass and thighs in sticky white rivulets.

You kissed his stomach. His chest. His open mouth.

“You did so good,” you whispered, wiping the drool from his chin with your thumb. “So perfect for me.”

Art blinked up at you, dazed and blissed out. “Love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you too.”

You curled up beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket over you both, and kissed his temple while the rain kept falling outside.