#Because like... the structure is perfect for it.

[petr1kov]

it's actually pretty weird how many people seem to dodge the fact that riza and roy (and pretty much every other character from the amestris military) is a war criminal, because they literally turn to the camera and tell you that in the story. there's nothing to dispute there. when riza is opens up with ed about the genocide in ishval, she ends it all by saying that what she and roy want is to create a society in which they will be properly judged for their war crimes, even if that judgement ends in their own execution. and frankly, i think the fact that the story ends before roy's true ascension to power (with the implication that it will happen in the near future) was kind of a compromise on the author's part, since actually fulfilling roy and riza's ambitions on-screen would have led to fans seeing their beloved war criminals on trial, which would have been too upsetting for a lot of people, at that point lol

[lassiie]

Power Play pt.2

sub!boss Jake x co-worker!dom reader (ft.jay)

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut!, sub Jake, dom reader, needy sub attitude, power play, sexual tension, worship/mommy kink, toys, edging, cum denial, servitude kink, head recieving, overstimulation, premature climax, degradation play, rope, fluff and romance (what should i say i'm a romantic...),yapper Jake is my shit, feat Jay my love !!

WORDCOUNT ↠ 11k~ (no proof reader yet !)

Part 2 of Power Play is here!! 💥 I rushed this one out early just for @ri4-lovesenha, @raven-unkind & @bambiihee I promised, more sub!Jake 💗 It’s freakier than Part 1 since they’re in a full sub/dom dynamic now

It’s been two months since Jake Sim — golden manager, corporate darling, quiet wet dream of half the women in the building — officially became yours. Not yours in the polite, romantic, LinkedIn-appropriate way. No. Yours in the real, stripped-down under-the-table kind of way. Yours like : “get on your knees and don’t speak unless I let you.” Yours like: “you’ll cum when I say so — not a second before.” And he’d thanked you for it. Every fucking time. His eyes glossy, mouth open, gratitude pouring off him like sweat.

You’re dom and sub now. Officially! And the active kind, not the online-inspo-board, “I call him sir on weekends” kind. You’d made it clear from day one that if you were going to do this, it would be structured, with intention. You’re a professional after all. PowerPoint-level organization, calendar reminders, one session per week— minimum—On Friday night. Penciled between boardroom battles and email chains that could kill a man.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about rules. Because Jake... Yeah, Jake freaking Sim was not just a perfect boss. And not just a needy sub begging to be ruined. He also was—and god help you— one of the cutest men alive.

You noticed it one Sunday, when he spent twenty quiet minutes fidgeting with your nails, a dumb smile on his face, while you both watched a documentary on Roman history. Then again the next week, when he curled up against you with a book in one hand and the other idly tugging at your hoodie string like a cat in a sunbeam. And don’t even get started on the nipple thing. It was endearing until it wasn’t—until one night he got so carried away stroking and pinching slowly harder and harder, that your tits actually hurt the next morning, and you had to ban him from even looking at them without explicit clearance. He apologized with a handwritten note and home somthings that looked like breakfast. You accepted.

So yes, it’s… domestic. Comfortable. The line between scenes and real life began to blur in the softest ways. Now, it’s a habit—to eat together after a particularly brutal night. To shower together and split the loofah like sinners trying to cleanse their sins. You don’t cuddle. Not officially. But he sleeps better with his head on your lap or your belly and your fingers carding through his hair... So you let him.

And at work? Nothing’s changed.

Jake is still the picture of leadership — polished, poised, too damn polite for his own good. And you? You’re still you. Frost-edged, perfectly put together, politely untouchable. But now, he belongs to you. Which makes things easier. Especially on days like today.

Days like this.

flushed like he’s about to combust, back to the wall, eyes wide. You’d texted him mid-meeting, one line, no emoji.

You’ve got four minutes, meet me in the west wing bathroom... Women’s

And he obeyed. Because he always obeys. He slipped in like a shadow, breath already shaky, pupils blown wide with anticipation.

You follow heels sharp on the tile, sliding the lock with a metallic click that might as well have sealed his fate. You don’t speak. Just turn around and corner him, pressing close — so close your chest brushes his tie, your perfume curling around his brain like a noose.

“Pants,” you murmur, voice soft but razor-sharp.

He obeys. Too fast. Belt unbuckled, zipper down, trousers around his knees. You catch a glimpse of the tip — flushed, already leaking. Boxers thin and helpless, no barrier at all.

And then you lean in.

Your hand slides between you — slow, casual — until your palm cups him through the fabric. And god, he whimpers.

Your fingers flex around his cock, pressing, not stroking — just reminding him who owns it. Who decides what he gets, and when. He jerks in your hand like it’s the first time anyone’s ever touched him.

You lean closer, lips against the shell of his ear, and smile.

“You think I brought you in here to suck you off like you were good?”

He twitches. “I—I thought—”

“Oh, baby,” you purr. “You’re so far from good.”

From your bag, you pull out a device — a sleek little ring of black silicone and a small chrome design, smooth and sexy. Jake recognizes it immediately. His breath stutters. He looks like he might cry from hope.

“Boxers off.”

They hit the floor instantly. You kneel, slide the ring over his cock and balls in one practiced motion. And he gasps high and wrecked, nearly collapsing against the stall door. Then you reach into your bag again and lift your phone — screen glowing, the app already open.

His eyes blow wide.

“You’ll wear it through the rest of the day,” you say, tapping the setting labeled 'steady pulse', watching him twitch in real time as the gentle hum starts low. “Meeting starts in ten. If you can hold it together...”

You glance up from beneath your lashes, smile wickedly.

“Dinner’s on me.”

He blinks, almost breathless. Gasping at your finger working the app.

“And tonight,” you whisper, licking your lips just to fuck with him, “you can ask for anything.”

He nods too fast, “Anything?”

You smile.

“Anything your little broken brain can think of, mr. Sim.”

You kiss the tip of his cock, just once to tease him. Enough to make him moan through his gritted teeth.

“Then pull it together,” you whisper, stepping back. “And fix your pants. You’re late.”

Then you leave him there, red-faced and straining, cock caged, soul on fire.

And at 4:05 sharp, Jake Sim enters the conference room with his tie too tight, his glasses perfectly straight, and his eyes locked on the PowerPoint like it’s the only thing keeping him from whimpering.

And you? You take your seat across from him. And just before the first slide clicks onto the screen, you reach for your phone.

Tap.

And watch him flinch. Like he lives for it.

Jake lasts.

Somehow.

Through the entire finance review, even when you tap the “pulse” setting mid-sentence while asking for clarification on Q3 projections — his voice hitching slightly, just enough for only you to notice.

He even makes it through the all-hands. Barely. Sweat beading at his temple, legs clenched tight, knuckles white where he grips his own wrist under the desk like he’s seconds from buckling. You watch him like a hawk, occasionally flicking your phone open just to see that tiny icon still glowing in the corner of the screen. Active. Synced. Steady.

At one point, you accidentally hit the "randomized wave" setting while stirring your coffee. His pen snaps. Just cracks in half, ink bleeding onto his neat notes, a quiet fuck under his breath that no one but you hears.

By the end of the day, he’s twitchy. Soft-eyed. Glazed.

The moment 6:04 hits, your phone buzzes.

🕛 Mr.Sim Jake (Work): I’ll wait in my office Please

No “Miss.” No punctuation. Just that one word, begging inside its own silence. Please.

You don’t respond. Just close your laptop, smooth your blouse, reapply your lipstick like you’re heading into a negotiation — because in a way, you are. He thinks this is his reward. That he’s about to be used, broken, maybe allowed release if he grovels right.

But you’re not done yet.

You step into his office without knocking, and what greets you nearly makes you laugh.

Jake Sim — polished, professional, always composed — is on the fucking floor.

On. The. Floor.

Suit jacket gone, tie loose and twisted, hair disheveled, pants unbuckled, boxer-briefs pulled taut around his thighs, cock flushed violently red and still caged in that perfect black ring. He’s clutching the carpet like it’ll ground him, gasping, hips twitching like he’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

And the second he sees you?

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Pathetic.

You shut the door behind you and tilt your head like a curious cat.

“You couldn’t even wait on your feet?”

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I just— I can’t—”

You wave a hand. Dismissive. “No time for that, baby. I still have work.”

He blinks, like you slapped him with math.

You walk past him — slow, commanding, letting your heels click like a countdown to chaos — and sink onto the couch near the side wall, crossing your legs as if you’re just here to decompress.

From your bag, you pull a slim folder of papers.

“Come here,” you say, tapping the floor in front of the coffee table. “You’re still my superior, aren’t you? Gotta review these before I file.”

Jake crawls.

He actually crawls.

And kneels beside the low table, hands resting obediently on his thighs, lips parted as if he might start panting again. His cock twitches visibly in its ring — red, aching, wet at the tip. You ignore it.

Open the folder.

“You’re going to validate each paragraph for me, Mr. Sim. Verbally.”

He nods quickly.

You start reading aloud. Slowly. Bored, almost.

“Based on the Q2 metrics, we project a 12.4% increase in productivity following the onboarding of—”

“Yes,” he breathes.

One paragraph down.

You scroll your thumb across your phone. Vibrations hum through him.

Next one.

“The reduction in turnaround time aligns with adjusted expectations from last quarter—”

“Yes—” he gasps. A little too breathy.

And then you flick to a new setting. One you’ve been saving.

You hit “Voice Sync Mode.”

Jake twitches violently.

“Oh, right,” you say casually, tapping again. “Almost forgot. New feature. Vibrates based on… voice modulation. Funny, huh?”

You lower your tone, let it dip low and rich.

Jake bucks. Just slightly. Eyes wide, mouth open.

“Say yes for this one.”

“Yes,” he moans.

It triggers again. His hips stutter.

You keep reading. Keep your voice smooth, varied, slightly sing-song in parts just to fuck with him. Every line, every syllable — translated into chaos below the belt.

And he starts losing it.

“Yes,” he pants after every paragraph. Louder. Shakier. More breath than voice now. His hands twitch off his thighs, one dragging toward his cock before he jerks it back with a choked sob like he knows the rules.

By paragraph five, his voice cracks. By seven, he’s humping the air — subtle at first, then not. His head drops to your thigh like it’s the only safe place left on Earth, and he starts rubbing his cheek there. Like a cat in heat. Like a man desperate for grounding in a world that’s unraveling by the second.

You keep reading.

“Final page. If you can make it through—”

But he can’t.

He shudders.

One strangled, broken cry leaves his throat, and you feel the warmth of it — the twitch, the helpless thrust — and then he’s gone. Cumming in his briefs, thick and shameful, whimpering into your thigh, his whole body trembling like a fault line.

You don’t say anything.

Just gently stroke his hair.

Let him breathe.

Let him twitch and shake and sigh into the afterglow like a man who just gave up every ounce of pride he had left and didn’t even want it back.

And when the silence settles, heavy and warm, you finally speak — voice soft, back to that dangerous kind of care that feels more intimate than any orgasm ever could.

“You tried your best,” you murmur, brushing his hair off his forehead. He nods against your leg, ruined.

“Good boy.” Another whimper.

You glance at the clock. Pick up your folder.

“I’m heading home,” you say lightly, gathering your things. “Sleep. Hydrate. Lock the door if you’re gonna clean up here.”

And then you left him there kneeling, soaked, still wearing your ring, like the good little office pet he is.

You couldn’t play on Saturday.

Not because you were too busy, or tired, or felt the shift in the weather deep in your bones — though the forecast did have the nerve to threaten rain just as you left the office. No. You couldn’t play because Saturday, in some inconvenient act of cosmic irony, was your birthday.

A day you kept quiet. Deliberately. Not out of shame, or fear of getting older — god, no. You wore your age like you wore everything else: sharp, polished, with just enough bite to make people hesitate before asking anything too personal. You didn’t need celebration. You had plans to do absolutely nothing. Maybe a glass of wine. Maybe an orgasm. Maybe both at once. Alone.

But Jake, your painfully attentive, painfully eager, painfully good boy Jake… caught on.

You didn’t tell him.

He just knew.

And on Sunday, he asked if you’d still be willing to play. But — and this was where it got suspicious — he asked if you’d have dinner with him first. “Before the session,” he said, too casually. “Just us. I’ll text you the address.”

You agreed. Not thinking much of it.

Until you got there.

Until your heels clicked down the pristine marble hallway of a hotel that had no business being that opulent on a Sunday evening, and the concierge greeted you by name.

Until the elevator opened onto a private suite, and the door — already slightly ajar — creaked open with a whisper.

And there it was.

The dining table, perfectly set beneath dimmed golden lights, with soft music curling through the room like warmth in smoke. Low candles. A bouquet of white orchids. A bottle of red you’d once mentioned liking, twice, months ago. And at the center of the table — a cake. Small. Elegant. Iced in cream. With a single candle.

Jake stood by the far wall, hands behind his back, nervous in a way that didn’t suit him — cheeks pink, eyes flicking toward you like he’d been rehearsing this and still thought he’d fuck it up.

And then.

He sang.

Voice soft, slightly off-key, barely above a whisper — like it wasn’t meant to echo off the chandelier or the crystal glasses. Just for you. Just between the two of you.

Happy birthday to you.

You blinked once. Then again. A breath caught somewhere near your collarbone.

He smiled when he finished. And when you didn’t respond right away, he stepped forward, one hand awkwardly lifting the cake toward you like a shy waiter on his first day.

“It’s got that cream you like,” he said quietly. “Not too sweet. Just—like you.”

And you laughed. You had to. Because this man, this man who moans at your feet with your heel on his throat, just called you not too sweet like that was a compliment.

The dinner was incredible, of course. Not because of the food — though it was excellent — but because of him. Because Jake was attentive in a different way tonight. Still soft. Still sweet. But a little... lighter. He let himself be funny. Made you laugh twice so hard you had to cover your face. His hands trembled when he refilled your glass.

And when dessert came — after the cake, after a gentle toast, after your walls had lowered inch by inch without you realizing — he handed you a gift box.

Long. Sleek. Heavy.

You opened it, and froze.

Thin, stiletto-pointed, patent black high heels.

The expensive kind.

The fucked-up expensive kind.

The kind you’d once pointed at in a store window, laughed, and said, “The only way I’d justify those is if I was allowed to use them to stomp on someone. Otherwise, that price tag is a war crime.”

Jake hadn’t forgotten.

“I remembered,” he said, eyes wide and proud and so goddamn hopeful. “I know it’s kind of dramatic, but you—you said it. And I thought maybe…”

You raised a brow.

“You bought me shoes so I’d step on you?”

He flushed. “N-not just that. I mean—yes. But also… I thought you’d look good in them.”

You stared at him. At the shoes. At the man sitting across from you in a tailored shirt and a slightly shaky smile like he just handed you his throat in a velvet box.

And then you laughed. Low. Delighted.

“Oh, Jake,” you sighed, sliding one heel out of its bed of tissue paper. “You’re so easy.”

His breath hitched.

“You want me to try them on?”

He nodded. Fast. Almost trembling.

So you did. Slowly. Letting the heel dangle on your finger like a weapon before lifting your leg, extending it toward him under the table.

He didn’t even have to be asked. He slid to his knees beside your chair and took your foot in both hands — reverent. Careful. Slipping the shoe on like a prince in a fucked-up fairytale, except he was the one being ruined.

The heel clicked against the floor when you set it down.

He shuddered.

“Do the other,” you murmured, tone already turning silkier, darker.

He obeyed. You leaned back in your chair, legs crossed, watching him fumble slightly with the strap, his breath shallow, fingers lingering just a little too long at your ankle.

You reached down — ran your fingers through his hair, soft and slow — and he melted into the touch like you’d blessed him.

“You’re so predictable,” you whispered, dragging a nail against his scalp. “You see me in new shoes and your first thought is: God, I hope she steps on my cock with them.”

He whined. Whined.

“You’re disgusting,” you added, voice lowering to that tone that made him squirm. “And I’m going to ruin you for thinking you deserved them.”

His eyes fluttered shut and his lips streached in a soft smile. But your fingers didn’t stop stroking. Didn’t stop soothing.

They moved gently through Jake’s hair — soft little passes, nails grazing his scalp. And he leaned into it without thinking, without pride. Just instinct. Like his head was meant to be there, pressed against your thigh, like your hand had become some sacred thing in his world—the thing that settled him, grounded him, reminded him he was owned.

You watched him breathe.

Watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, the trembling hush in his chest — like he couldn’t tell if this was aftercare or the beginning of something worse. And quietly, without words, something warm started to bloom beneath your ribs.

It wasn't just the usual heat and lust. Not the thrill of control you usually fed off of. No, this was quieter, closer to peace. And it wasn't the first time the past two month...

Like, somehow, this— the candlelight, the new shoes, his mouth against your thigh— was exactly where you were supposed to be.

You almost thought it aloud... But no... Nevermind...

Instead, you hummed softly and let your other hand trail down to his cheek, tilting his chin up so he is forced to look at you. He did. Of course he did. Eyes wide and glassy, like something holy had cracked open inside him and spilled out right onto the hotel carpet.

“Remember what I said on Friday?” you murmured. “About rewards?”

Jake blinked, dazed. “Y-yes." His lips parted.

“I said if you were good, you could ask for anything.”

He nodded quickly, eager, already breathing faster.

“And tonight?” You smiled. “You were very, very, very good. Jake.”

Jake’s breath caught, fuck he loves it when you drop the mr. Sim act.

His hands— those shaky, fidgeting, obedient sexy hands— lifted toward his own lap, smoothing his pants like he was trying to behave, trying to stay calm, but already failed. His gaze dropped. He tried to keep eye contact, you know, tried to stay confident. But the moment you gave him permission— real permission— to speak his wants out loud?

He cracked.

“I… um… if I’ve really been good,” he whispered, voice a little pitched, “C-can I…” He hesitated. Swallowed, his eyes on your thighs adjusting himself like it prevented you from seing his hard on. “Can I eat you out again? it's been ages... I want to make you cum, like before. But like, now. On the floor. Or the couch. Or the bed. Wherever. Please—I'll be good, I promise.”

You raised an eyebrow, and smile streached.

“Is that your first wish?” He nodded hesitant. But then his mouth opened again.

Of course...

“And maybe—maybe I could wear the collar? While I do it? Like... Just the collar and nothing else... Like your—your birthday toy.” Y-you can even put me on a leash if you want— please, I’ll be good, I won’t hump your leg unless you let me—”

You bit your bottom lip, just to keep from smiling even more. Man, his brain had slipped its leash the second you gave him permission. It made you wet straightaway.

“And can I… can I touch myself? Not cum, just—just stroke while I do it. Just feel how hard I get from tasting you. And when I finish, you don’t even have to let me cum, you could just—just spit in my mouth and call me your good little fuckhole—”

You didn’t answer. Just kept petting his hair. But he can read you better than you do to him. You don't realise how turned on your face is. Even your grip on his fluffy hair got harder. Fuck, Jake loves you.

Yeah... I love you. Jake bit his lip.

“Or—or you could make me jerk off onto the floor while you watch, and make me beg to make love with you. Like I’m disgusting. Like I don’t even deserve your attention unless I earn it—Or maybe… if I’m really good—”

He stop.

You press your fingers to his lips and he trailed off, eyes fluttered. slidding your finger inbetween his shy plump lips. It was like even saying it was too much. Like he didn't already write the whole fiction of tonight in his head.

“Tell me, Jake.”

He looked down again, cheeks flushed, voice almost too small to hear.

“Can I... Call you Mommy tonight?”

Silence. Tense. Heavy. Drenched in anticipation.

"I know it's not really your thing..." he blabered, "But I was wondering—if maybe... We could try tonight.

Then—

You leaned in, brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, and smiled.

“Oh, my cute puppy,” you purred, letting the word drag like honey down your throat. “You’re going to get everything you asked for.”

He whimpered. Like the word alone undid him. His breath came hot and shaky against your palm. His eyes looked up at you, fully gone — feral, hungry, a little stupid with need. Like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and beg for permission to exist there.

You sank back into the chair like it was your throne — one leg draped over the other in a lazy cross, elbow resting along the back like you had all the time in the world, like you weren’t already wet just from the look on his face — and without a word, you lifted your foot, the sharp new heel catching the light as it hovered by his lips, until he opened up like a trained thing and started mouthing at the pointed tip, desperate, reverent, like kissing your shoe might earn him oxygen.

“Jake, take off your clothes.”

He scrambled.

Shoes. Shirt. Pants. Everything peeled off with frantic sexiness, like each layer was an offense to the role he was meant to play — until he was kneeling there, naked and flushed, chest rising fast, ears pink, cock already half-hard from nothing but the sound of your voice.

And fuck, his body — God, his body — lean and sharp like he was carved from something meant to bleed for you, muscles smooth but defined, not bulked but taut beneath skin that showed every line, every ridge, every twitch. His back, deceptively broad, flexed as he shifted onto his knees, and you caught the way his arms looked almost too toned for someone who claimed to be helpless— the way his veins ran like threads of promise down to those shaking, obedient hands. And when he reached into his bag— of course he brought it, because your good boy always comes prepared— and pulled out his collar without being asked, you nearly sighed, because it was all too much.

Too perfect. Too fucking yours.

He held it out like an offering. And you put it on him. You dragged your heel along his shoulder. He shivered.

“You wanted to worship Mommy tonight?”

He nodded, mouth agape. “Then come show me, be a good dog.”

And when he crawled forward on hands and knees — panting, eyes blown wide, mouth open — you knew : You were going to let him have everything.

Because you loved seeing him like this, loved it... Your game... You... loved him ?

Maybe...

He reached your knees. And then he groaned. Loud and wrecked.

Your panties — soaked. He buried his face in them immediately, moaning into the fabric, licking you through it like he’d been starved for days and finally stumbled upon a feast. You stayed still, head tilted, watching him degrade himself with quiet fascination.

And then he used his teeth — gently at first, then not — dragging the lace aside, tearing holes in the delicate fabric just to get to you, to taste you raw, no barriers, no patience.

The moment his tongue touched your pussy, he let out the most pathetic sound — a sob disguised as a moan — and you saw it in his whole body: the way his arms trembled, the way his shoulders rolled forward, the way his hips twitched helplessly against the carpet.

Like worship was killing him.

He licked with hunger first. Frenzied. Like he couldn’t get enough. His mouth moved fast — messy circles, tongue flattening, then curling, lips sucking at your clit with zero grace. No rhythm. Just need.

You almost laughed. “Jake,” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair. “You’re making a fucking mess.”

“M’sorry,” he panted. “Tastes too good. Can’t stop—can’t—”

You yanked his head closer in answer. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he didn’t.

He buried himself deeper, tongue working in tighter, sharper patterns. He found rhythm then. Purpose. His hands came up, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider. He let your heel rest against his shoulder, the other curling behind his neck like a leash, and you let yourself fall back against the couch with a long, low moan — head tipping, mouth parting, hips beginning to twitch.

You were close. Too close.

And he felt it. The tension in your thighs. The way your breathing shifted.

So he slowed.

The fucking bastard slowed.

“Jake,” you growled, but he just hummed into your clit, tongue drawing soft little circles now — featherlight. Infuriating. And then, just when you were about to command him again—

He sucked. Hard.

You came.

Fast. Violent. A sharp, hot surge that slammed into your spine and rolled through your body like a goddamn earthquake. You moaned, bit your bottom lip to keep from crying out, hips stuttering against his face as your hands fisted in his hair like you were drowning.

And he didn’t stop.

Not for a second.

He groaned into your cunt like it fed him. Like your orgasm gave him oxygen. He sucked through it, licked every aftershock, every twitch, every whimper that escaped you. And then — when your thighs trembled and your hips tried to retreat — he shifted.

One hand — previously gripping your thigh like a man clinging to salvation — slid down.

Between your legs.

And without asking, without hesitating, he pressed two fingers against your soaked entrance, teasing first, just circling — and then he shoved them in.

You gasped — hard.

“Jake—”

He curled them immediately. Like he knew. Like he’d memorized the blueprint of your body and knew exactly what would shatter you. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just fucked his fingers into you fast and deep, knuckles slick with your first orgasm while his mouth stayed latched to your clit, sucking like a man possessed.

Your body jolted — thighs trying to close, hips stuttering against his face, your hands flailing for something to grab, anything — the armrest, his hair, your own wrist.

“Jake, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he mumbled, voice low and hot and buried in your cunt. “Let me. Please, Mommy—let me make you come again.”

And fuck, you did.

The second orgasm ripped through you — louder, messier, wetter — your walls clenching around his fingers as he kept driving them into you, his palm slick, heel of his hand grinding against you as you moaned so hard it felt like you might pass out.

"Holy fuck—" you cried, legs spasming.

But he still. Didn’t. Stop.

Your voice broke. "I said stop—"

He pulled back from your clit for one second, just long enough to moan against your folds, "I'll make you feel good—"

Then went right back to it.

His fingers curled harder now, precise, brutal. Three now — you didn’t even know when he added a third — but you felt it. Deep. Full. Your body couldn’t tell where the pleasure ended and pain began, everything smearing together into one long, mindless scream that echoed through the room as your third orgasm crashed into you like a fucking freight train.

You shoved him off, finally — heel pressing into his chest just enough to make him stumble back, fall onto his ass, panting and glassy-eyed and soaked with your slick. He blinked up at you like he didn’t even know where he was.

You were still shaking, legs trembling from the overload, breath ragged. You sat there — limp, fucked, worshiped — and stared at the man who’d just made you come like that with nothing but his tongue, and fingers and a death wish.

You’d never felt this safe. This powerful. This wanted. And he crawled back forward. Pressed his cheek to your thigh. Didn’t say anything. Just breathed against you.

You reached down and pulled him into a kiss — wet, sloppy, tongue-first and desperate, all teeth and spit, and god, he melted into it. Of course he did. You were still soaked from what he did to you, thighs a mess, cunt twitching with aftershocks — and he was the one trembling.

You pulled back and let your palm curl around his cock, rough and flushed and leaking across your fingers like it had been hurting for attention. He hissed when you touched it, and then groaned — loud, helpless — when you dragged your heel down, pressing it gently at first into his balls before slowly, firmly, crushing down.

“Mm. You look like you’re suffering right there,” you murmured, voice all syrup and sin.

He nodded, panting through clenched teeth.

“Is eating me out really getting you this excited?” you purred, cocking your head like it actually surprised you.

He nodded again. Hissed when you pressed harder with your heel. “Yes, Mommy—fuck, yes—it���s so much, I can’t—”

You let go of his cock.

“Touch yourself.”

He froze.

“I didn’t say you could cum,” you added lazily. “But I want to see you do it. Look at you. A grown man on the floor, balls bruised, begging for permission to jerk off in front of the woman who just came on his face.”

Jake’s hand moved fast — too fast — and you could already tell he was on edge. He gripped himself tight, started stroking, sloppy and aching, cock bobbing under his own frantic rhythm. But his eyes were locked on you.

You leaned back, legs still spread, panties ruined somewhere under the couch, slick still glistening on your thighs.

And you smirked.

He whimpered.

“Oh, god—” he gasped, jerking himself harder. “Please, just—just watch me—watch me, Mommy, please, I want you to see me—”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

He blinked. Swallowed.

“Say it.”

“Because—” he choked, “because I look pathetic—and… you’re still so perfect and I’m just here, jerking off on the floor like a freak—”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over him slowly, from his flushed face to his slick stomach to the veins in his arms flexing with every stroke.

“You think I’m enjoying this?” you asked flatly, voice bored. “You think I want to see you make a mess of yourself like some shameless animal?”

He moaned.

“I—I hope s—”

“You hope so?”

He bit his lip. His hand never stopped. He was panting now, eyes burning into your body.

“And you like being watched?” you asked. “Even like this?”

He nodded, voice breaking. “I like when you see how bad I want you. How stupid I get. I-I-I want you to know what you do to me. I want to look at you and see your thighs and your cunt and your attitude and know I’m not allowed to have any of it—unless you let me.”

You hummed.

“And what do you want me to do to you, Jake?”

His eyes glazed over. “Everything—” Hips jerking.

“No. Be specific.”

He whimpered.

“I want you to hit me when I cum—open palm, across the face, hard enough that I feel it later. I-I-I want you to spit in my mouth again, like last time, and tell me I’ve earned it. I want you to put that heel back into my cock until I’m shaking—until I can’t move without permission. I want you to laugh when I beg, call me pathetic, make me say what I am. I want you to choke me—tight—long…hng… Long enough that I have to ask to breathe—and wh-when you let go, I want to thank you. I want your slick on my face, dried down my neck, smeared over my mouth like a collar—and I want to sleep in it. Don’t let me clean up. Make me keep it…”

You watched him stroke harder, hips twitching, spit almost sliding down his chin from how hard he was panting.

“I want you to ruin me and then hold me after… I….  Want to make you cum again and again until I cry. I want you—to never… Never stop looking at me.”

You leaned forward. And he shuddered. You didn’t say a word. Just watched.

And when he came — loud, messy, too fast and too much — he cried your name. again. and again. and again.

You reached down and pulled him into a kiss — wet, tongue-first, needy. Sloppy and lost. And he melted. Of course he did. His mouth opened instantly, like instinct, like prayer. His lips were soaked from your cunt, and yours still tasted like his worship, so the whole thing was just spit and sin and heat. He groaned into it, soft and broken, like the kiss alone was enough to undo him.

You were still a mess — slick between your thighs, muscles twitching from the high he forced out of you, panties ruined and forgotten — and yet he was the one shaking. 

shit it felt good !

You broke the kiss first, dragging his bottom lip between your teeth until it snapped free. Then your hand dropped — right to his cock. Hard. Leaking. Angry-red and trembling in your palm like it had been hurting for you. You curled your fingers around it with practiced ease, thumb smearing his mess along the head just to make him whimper.

And then your heel dragged between his legs. Slowly.

You pressed into his balls — lightly at first, then firmer — until he gasped, jaw tightening, hips frozen like he didn’t know whether to rut forward or flinch.

“Mm.” You let your voice drip with amusement. “You look like you’re suffering right there.”

He nodded fast. Too fast. Shoulders tense. “Yes, Mommy—yes, it hurts—but it’s so good—I need more—please—”

You gave his cock a lazy stroke. Nothing to write about but enough for him to jolt.

“Is eating me out really what did this to you?” you murmured. “Made you this hard?”

He nodded again—practically whining.

“Mommy, it’s you, it’s always you—I get like this when you look at me, when you talk to me—fuck, fuck, fuck, even your voice makes my cock hurt.”

You smiled. Let go.

“Touch yourself.” He froze.

“You don’t get to cum,” you added, like an afterthought. “You cum without permission, and I walk out of this room. Leave you like this. Understand?”

He nodded, mouth open, eyes wet. “Yes. Yes, Mommy.”

He reached for himself instantly—like he’d been waiting hours for that command. His hand wrapped around his cock and started stroking hard, fast, filthy. His other hand trembled on his thigh, like he didn’t know what to do with it. His whole body was tight, twitching, sweat glistening down his chest and veiny arms. You could see every muscle working just to keep himself upright.

But he was looking at you. Your body, your gaze. Never looked away.

You leaned back into the couch, legs still spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Slick still shone between your thighs. You didn’t say anything. Just watched, and played with the sound your own wetness.

Jake moaned immediately. “Please—please keep watching—please, I—I want you to see me like this—”

“Why?” you said flatly.

He swallowed, hard.

“Say it.”

“Because—because I look like a mess,” he whimpered, stroking faster without thinking. “Because I look fucking pathetic, and it’s only for you—you did this to me—your pussy, your voice, your fucking eyes, everything—”

You tilted your head.

“You think I enjoy watching you jerk off like some pathetic little mutt on the floor?”

“I—I hope you d—” he gasped. “maybe I hope you don’t—maybe I hope you think I’m disgusting. Because I am, Mommy. I’m a disgusting pervert for you. No one else gets to see me like this. No one can. Just you—Just you.”

You exhaled slowly, like you were watching an experiment spiral into something deliciously ugly.

“And what do you want me to do to you, Jake?”

His hips jerked forward like the question alone hit his prostate. “Everything,” he moaned.

You narrowed your eyes. “No. Be specific.”

He looked up at you like he was about to cry.

“I want you to slap me when I cum,” he whimpered, “hard. Across the face. Make me feel you for days. I want you to spit in my mouth again—please, like last time—while I’m begging. I want you to wear those heels and step on me. Make me thank you while you do it. Tell me I’m nothing. Laugh when I fuck you and swear to me.”

His stroking grew faster — slick, loud, hips twitching like he was fighting to stay in his body.

“I want you to choke me until I have to ask to breathe,” he gasped. “And when you let go, I want to thank you. Like a good boy. Like your property.”

He was shaking now.

“I want to sleep in your slick. Face coated in it. Neck wet. Chest marked. Don’t let me wash it off—please, I want to wear it. Like a collar. Like a proof.”

You said nothing. Just stared. And he broke.

“I want you to ruin me. And then hold me after. Kiss my forehead like I’m not broken. Make me make you cum again until I’m crying from how much I need you. Mommy, I swear to god—” he sobbed, “no one else can do this to me. It’s you. It’s always been you. I’m think of you—your body, your voice, your pussy—I want to live under you—”

your thighs were twitching. His breath was ragged. His whole body trembled like it was about to shut down.

“Please look at me when I cum,” he begged, “please—please see me—please, I need you—”

You nod and almost moan in your breath, And he came.

Loud. Raw. A broken, choked sob of your name as cum spilled over his knuckles, painting his abs, his thighs, the floor. He kept stroking through it, messy and wild, eyes locked on yours even as tears welled up in them. He looked wrecked. Ruined.

He cried out again. Your name again. and again and again. Whispered like a prayer, repeated like a compulsion — quieter each time, like he couldn’t stop saying it, like it was the only thing left tethering him to reality. And when the last of his orgasm spilled over his wrist and onto the floor, his body simply… slumped.

Collapsed at your knees now closed.

Shaking, silent, mouth open but not speaking anymore — breath coming in little broken bursts as if the air around him had gotten too thin. And for a moment, you just watched him. Not as a dom. Not as a goddess. Just… watched the boy you adored fall to pieces in front of you.

Then you moved. You slid down from the couch to the carpet, kneeled in front of him — with him — and reached out. He flinched at first, not from fear but fragility and maybe self consciousness.

But you cupped his face anyway. Held him gently, thumbs brushing across his hot, damp cheeks, and leaned in to press a soft kiss just under his eye.

“Shh,” you whispered, voice low. Warm. Real. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.” Jake’s eyes fluttered shut. His body leaned into yours like gravity had given up. And then — quietly, barely audible — he sniffled.

“I’m sorry,”

You froze. “Why?”

He swallowed hard. Still wouldn’t open his eyes. “For saying too much. For… being too much of a sub.”

You pressed your lips to his forehead. Then his temple. Then his cheek.

“You weren’t too much,” you said, kissing between words. “You were honest. Perfect. Mine.”

He whimpered— a small, broken sound— and then his arms wrapped around your waist, so tight, so desperate, like he didn’t care about the mess or the sweat or the fact that he was naked and half-crying on a hotel room floor.

You held him. Stroked his hair. Kissed behind his ear. Whispered things only he was allowed to hear.

“My good boy.” “My perfect thing.” “You did so well for me.”

Minutes passed like that. Or hours. You weren’t sure. The quiet felt infinite, like the world had shrunk down to the warmth of two bodies pressed together under dim light and the soft scent of sex and sweat and trust.

Eventually, he pulled back — reluctantly — just far enough to look at you. His eyes were sleepy, still red. But he smiled, small and exhausted.

“…Can we—” he hesitated. Bit his lip looking at you. “Can we sleep here?”

You raised a brow. “We don’t have anything packed.”

“I know.” He blinked. “I just don’t want you to leave. Not tonight. I wanna fall asleep with you... Please.”

You looked at him for a moment. Then nodded.

“Okay,” you said softly. “But first, let’s clean up.”

Jake followed you wordlessly to the bathroom, still trembling a little, wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe you were really going to stay.

The water ran hot, steam blooming fast as you stepped under it together — skin on skin, sticky and marked, your bodies pressed close in the quiet rush of heat.

You reached for the soap, lathered slowly, and started with his chest.

He gasped — not from the temperature, but from the way you touched him. Like he was something precious. Something yours.

You washed him soft. Careful. Thumbs running down his ribs, lips brushing over his shoulder once, twice. His hands stayed on your hips like he didn’t know what else to do — until you turned, smiled lazily over your shoulder, and offered him the bar.

“Your turn.”

He took it like a gift.

And then his hands were on you — warm and slow, fingers sliding over your skin like he was worshiping you in silence, like rinsing the sweat and slick off you was the most important job he’d ever been given. He kissed your neck. Your shoulder. Your lower back. You felt it in your knees.

By the time the water turned lukewarm, he was panting softly behind you, hard again without a word spoken, cock brushing your thigh like a question.

You didn’t answer it. Not yet. You just turned, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Bed.”

And he followed you, lifting you, dripping and obedient, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

He didn’t let go of you, not even when you reached the bed. You both collapsed into the blankets, half-covered in nothing but the weight of each other.

And then — quiet giggle in his chest, warm kiss on your neck — Jake tugged you closer. And called your name.

You smiled into his collarbone. “Hmm?”

“…Can I fuck you sweet?”

You looked at him. He looked nervous. Flushed. But serious.

“…Not rough. Not a scene too. Just… I wanna make you feel good. Wanna be in you. Close.” His eyes did that triangle thing that made you smile.

Ans your heart did a weird thing in your chest. You didn’t say anything, just kissed him. Slow. Deep.

He slid into you like it was meant to happen in silence. No teasing. No commands. Just soft hands and warm breath and your legs curling around his hips, pulling him in like he belonged there— Oh he did.

You moved together like something practiced.

His forehead pressed to yours. His eyes never left your face. It wasn’t the kind of sex that left bruises. It was the kind that stayed under your skin for days.

And when you both came — whispering each other’s names, holding on like sleep might take you too soon — you didn’t bother separating. Just tangled yourselves up tighter under the blankets, legs and arms everywhere, breath syncing until the air went quiet.

Jake fell asleep first from exhaustion . Still inside you. Face tucked into your neck, hand resting on your hip and over your head, smile barely there.

And you followed. One last kiss to his hairline. One last thought, whispered only in your head.

Maybe I love you, Jake.

🕰️

Monday came too soon.

The city clicked back into motion like it hadn’t been on its knees three nights ago — like you hadn’t spent the weekend riding high on power and orgasm, like Jake Sim hadn’t buried his face between your thighs and cried your name like it was a gospel, like nothing in your bed had shifted something irreversible between you. But here you were. Blazer sharp. Hair tied up like a noose. Coffee in one hand, to-do list in the other. Face clean. Voice calm. And Jake?

Jake was perfect. Of course.

Golden manager. Corporate fantasy. Tie straight. Shoes polished. Smile polite, crisp, neutral — as if he hadn’t begged to sleep in your slick two nights ago. As if his mouth hadn’t broken you open like prayer.

He passed your desk at 9:02. On time. Silent. But his eyes flicked toward you — fast, hot, reverent — like he was starving for permission to even look.

Yeah. Not subtle.

The week dragged. Deadlines. Briefings. Emails that made you want to cry. A dozen little brushes of Jake’s arm at meetings, a few too-long looks across the conference room. Nothing said. Everything felt.

And then Wednesday came. And Jay walked in like a plot twist.

Jay — from the international branch. Jay who hadn’t changed a bit except in jawline and confidence. Tall, lean, just the right amount of cocky, with that you-can-trust-me grin and rolled-up sleeves that said he wasn’t here to play humble. You knew that walk before he even reached your side of the office. And you smiled before he even said your name.

“Holy shit,” he laughed, arms open, warm and loud and exactly the same. “Is that you?”

You stood to greet him, surprising the whole office, and for a second it was easy to forget anything else existed.

Jay had been your twin at your first job — the only rookie who matched your speed and fire, the one who helped you learn the ropes while you taught him how to cheat the system without getting caught. You’d shared too many late-night reports and too many energy drinks in parking lots to pretend this wasn’t real.

You hugged. Tight. No hesitation. His hand curled behind your neck like he’d missed you properly. “Good to see you.” he whispered.

“I didn’t even know you were stationed here,” you said into his shoulder.

“Temporary,” he replied, pulling back, smiling like trouble. “Two weeks. Project lead on cross-regional integration. Had to say yes when I heard who was running one of the teams.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Still charming.”

“Still bossy,” he said, looking you over with a spark you didn’t bother flinching from. “God, you look good.”

Across the room, Jake watched the whole thing, leaning on a co-worker desk for a review. And if there had been a heart rate monitor clipped to his tie, it would’ve flatlined.

To everyone else, he looked as normal as the rest of this office watching. But his jaw was tight. His hand had stopped scrolling his subordinate mouse. Because Jay wasn’t just some regional project lead— he was Jake’s old friend. One of the few people he trusted, who knew things about him from years ago, who used to sleep on his couch in between overseas rotations and share shitty bar ramen and management rants.

And now he was here. Shaking your hand. Pulling you into hugs. Looking at you like he’d found something. And worse — you looked happy to see him. Not performative-happy. Not polite. Actually happy. You leaned in to talk. You laughed, like… Twice.

Jake couldn’t hear the conversation. He didn’t know Jay had just told you that Jake was famous in the international branch — that half the floor still referred to him as “the one who doesn’t fuck up.” He didn’t know that you’d laughed and said, “He’s still like that,” or that you’d softened when Jay said, “Honestly, I’m not surprised you two haven’t killed each other. You always scared me a little more than him anyway.”

Jake didn’t know that your giggles weren’t flirtation. They were about him.

All Jake saw was the closeness. The familiarity. The way Jay’s hand brushed your arm when he made a point. The way you didn’t flinch. The easy rhythm between you. And then, just to gut him further, Jay turned around during a meeting break and dapped Jake up like a brother.

“Still as stiff as ever,” Jay said, grinning, leaning against Jake’s desk like no time had passed.

“Still can’t read a brief without fucking the formatting,” Jake shot back. They laughed. It was real. Jake wanted to be happy to see him.

But his eyes kept flicking past Jay’s shoulder. Back to you. Because even if Jake and Jay were old friends — you and Jay looked like something else.

Jay invited the team to dinner that Friday. Said it was casual. Team bonding. International-branch hospitality. You said yes before Jake could even pretend to be indifferent. Like postponing your session was nothing.

Jake sat through the rest of the week in silence. Smile plastered on. Voice tight. His keyboard clicks a little too sharp. His jaw clenched every time Jay walked past your desk.

It wasn’t that he thought Jay was a threat. It was that you seemed… open around him. Relaxed. Familiar. The kind of open Jake had only seen when you were half-naked, straddling his thigh, calling him names while riding his face.

And now?

Now you were laughing at another man’s joke. Jake spiraled. Quietly. Painfully.

🕰️

By the next wednesday morning, Jake was unraveling like a ribbon since you texted him.

Cannot make it this week… Let's wait for next friday, mr. Sim

Mr. Sim ?? Mr. Sim ??

You called Jay by his first name even in the office. Joking about his korean name, in team dinners. But even in texts Jake stayed “Mr. Sim”, if it wasn’t a scene you never called him Jake. If it wasn’t in a bedroom, never let him touch you like Jay did.

He was mad. 

Oh, he hid it well — always did. The tie still sharp, the voice still calm when he led meetings like a man who hadn’t spent the week watching you share private smiles with someone who knew you from before he did. Someone you hugged without hesitation. Someone who called you by your first name with that easy kind of familiarity Jake had only ever earned through submission.

You weren’t ignoring him. Not really. But you weren’t touching him either. No texts. No sexy glances. No little cruel reminders of what he was to you. Just distance. Controlled and professional. Like the weekends together hadn’t happened.

And Jake? Jake was starving for the leash. And your presence, he missed the intimate you. 

So when the elevator opened that morning, and you stepped in, followed by two project leads and someone from HR, he took his chance.

Jake slipped in last. Stood at your side. And said nothing, even after exchanging cute eye contact with him.

The numbers ticked up. Floors grew away. One by one, everyone stepped out.

Until it was just…  You and him.

He stepped closer. Just a little too close. You didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet. Cause recently it had been hard on you pretending you weren’t in love with him. Pretending in front of his long time friend and yours there was nothing between you two. But you felt it — his body tight with restraint, his breath catching just a little louder than it should.

“I-I don’t care if you don’t want me recently,” he said, voice low, barely audible.

Your brows lifted about to turn around but he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“You’re still my Mistress.” 

You turned then, expression unreadable.

He didn’t flinch. He exhaled. And then—he took your hand. Just your fingers. Slipped something cold and small into your palm and curled your fingers shut around it.

A key. You stared at it. Felt the weight.

“Friday can’t come fast enough,” he whispered, voice shaking just a little now. “It’s already hurting. I can’t stop thinking about you. I put it on last friday night. Haven’t touched myself since. Not even once.”

Your eyes snapped to his desperate, hot, worshipful bulge he made you palm, moaning to the contact of your unsure fingers, his forehead falling on yours.

He almost smiled — a little unhinged.

“I locked myself for you. Because I needed to remember. Because I needed you to own me.”

The elevator chimed. He stepped back. Straightened his tie. Smoothed his jacket.

Turned to you like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into your hand.

“I’ll be waiting until you want me again Mistress,” he said, voice calm again, composed. Just a touch sad.

Then he walked out. And left you there. Alone. With the key to his cock clenched in your fist.

And the knowledge that he’d caged himself for you, for days, just to suffer in silence until you decided he was worth your attention again. Fuck only holding it made you wet.

🕰️

Jake caught Jay by the coffee machine an hour after that— late enough in the day that the fluorescent lights made everything look a little harsher, even your name in conversation.

“Hey,” he said, low, casual. Actually not casual at all. “You and… her.”

Jay turned slightly, brow raised. “Yeah?”

Jake swallowed. “You’re not—” his voice caught, and he rolled his shoulders, tried again. “You’re not trying to… go for her, right?”

Jay blinked, the idea of playing his naive ass dying after one second of thinking,  then he smiled — not sharp, not smug. Just knowing.

“Nah, man. She already said no.”

Jake stilled.

Jay took a sip from his paper cup. “Told me she’s into someone else, a complicated situationship.”

That should’ve settled it. Should’ve made something inside him untwist.

But it didn’t.

Because Jay glanced over his shoulder, toward the open floor where you stood— and added, tone lower now, not cruel, just honest: “If it were me, I’d stop hiding behind roles and secrets and all that shit going on and just tell her. Straight up.”

Jake didn’t move.

Jay looked at him again. “She’s into you, bro. That’s obvious… From what I understood.” He clapped Jake’s shoulder once — firm, not teasing. “Only thing left is whether you’ve got the spine to stop waiting for her to drag it out of you.”

🕰️

Fuck.

Jay was right.

This thing between you — the structure, the sessions, the rules he clung to like they made him safe — it was never meant to hold forever. It worked because it was clean. Controlled. Because you both pretended it didn’t mean more, didn’t bleed more. But Jake had already gone too far, and every time he knelt, every time you touched his jaw and made him beg like something sacred, he fell harder into something that wasn’t just powerplay anymore — it was love. Messy. Real. Suffocating.

And now?

Now he couldn’t stop thinking.

What if you started dating someone?

Would he still get his sessions — or would you say it wasn’t “appropriate” anymore?

Would you let him keep watching you from across the meeting room — or would he have to pretend you were just his superior again, like you hadn’t screamed his name while grinding on his face four nights ago?

Would he be allowed to touch you? At all? To kiss your ankle while you read? To hold your thigh under the table just because he needed to feel you?

Would lazy Sunday mornings in bed be cancelled — would the books, the wine, the home-cooked meals and terrible documentaries turn into someone else’s life with you?

Would he still be allowed to look at you the way he did?

To smile at you like you were the only thing that had ever been his?

Or would you pull away the next time he leaned in?

Would Jake go back to “Mr. Sim”?

Would your voice lose that edge when you said his name?

Would you take your laugh with you? Your eyes? Your mouth?

That smug little smirk when you wore heels that bruised his ribs and made him say thank you for it?

That cold, commanding tone that shattered him?

That soft, dangerous warmth when you licked his tears off your knuckles after he came shaking in your lap?

What if it all disappeared?

What if he lost not just the kink — but you?

All versions. The hard one. The gentle one. The funny, brat-taming, snack-sharing, throat-grabbing, book-reading, leash-holding, rule-breaking you.

What if he lost the one person who saw all of him — and didn’t flinch?

What if he had to start calling you “miss” again, just to keep from saying mine?

No.

He wasn’t going to survive another week of pretending. Not another goddamn day of acting like giving you his body wasn’t also handing you his heart.

It had to be tonight.

He texted you one line, with a pin to the address:

“Come here tonight. 9PM. Please.”

You arrived right on time.

And the address — when you reached it — wasn’t a hotel. Wasn’t a suite. Wasn’t the clean, clinical setting where you usually got him on his knees and made him sob.

It was a house.

His house.

You blinked.

Then walked in.

Jake opened the door like he’d been pacing behind it for an hour — sweater soft, hair undone, eyes wide and helpless and shining like he had no idea how you were going to respond to any of this.

The first thing you noticed was how expensive everything was — the dark wood, the subtle lighting, the quiet warmth of real money used by someone who didn’t need to show it off. The second thing was his dog — tail wagging, greeting you like you’d been here a thousand times before.

The third?

Family photos.

Jake as a kid. In school uniforms. With his mother in Seoul. With classmates. With some awful international branch birthday cake, and that smile — the smile, just smaller, softer, untouched.

You turned slowly. Took it all in.

He watched you like a man watching a dream walk through his bedroom.

“You like it?” he asked, unsure.

Your answer was in your eyes — in how slowly you moved, in how carefully you touched the edge of a frame, in the way you smiled and looked back at him for detailed comparaisons.

“You’ve never let me in here,” you said. “That's… New.” you smiled.

“Yeah,” he murmured. That was the problem. he thought. 

Dinner was tense. Not because anything was wrong, but because everything was shifting — plates warming your hands while your eyes stayed fixed on his face, red wine sweet on your tongue while you waited for the dam to crack. 

Jake broke first. “It’s not homemade,” he said, sheepish. 

“Unless you want to end up in the hospital.” 

You laughed. And then — you turned to him, voice like a knife sliding in slowly.

“Are you really wearing it?”

He swallowed. His jaw twitched. Then he nodded half looking at your reaction.

“I bought a smaller one,” he whispered, like it hurt to admit. “The one that hurts when I get hard.”

You didn’t blink. Just tilted your head, like the predator you were.

“And when did you?”

Jake leaned forward, voice raw, fingers twitching by the number of times he passed them through his hair before hiding in his palm?

“Monday,” he said. “When you wore the heels I gave you” then he whispered, “I remembered the way they left marks on my back while I tasted you— I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was hard all day… It ached.”

You crossed your legs, slowly. Grin flickering.

“Wednesday, I saw your thighs,” he added, faster now, like he couldn’t hold it in. “Bare under your skirt — just a glimpse, but I kept wondering where they stopped. If they were warm. If they were sticky with someone else’s mouth.”

Your breath hitched, but your face didn’t change.

“T-thursday,” he said, almost breathless, “when I saw you smile at Jay, and I wanted you to snap. I wanted you to pull me by the collar and spit in my mouth in front of everyone just so I could feel claimed.”

And then softer.

“Y-yesterday… I thought about kissing you in the hallway. About grabbing you and just… giving it away. Not caring who saw. Not hiding anymore.”

You let it hang.

Then:

“What?”

Jake’s hands trembled.

“I was jealous,” he said. “You looked so comfortable with him. Like he was allowed to see parts of you I only get when you’ve got your hand around my throat. And I couldn’t say anything — because I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not your partner. I’m just the guy who comes when you tell him to. If he’s lucky.”

You leaned in, voice cool and soft.

“And?”

He met your gaze like it burned.

“And I thought maybe… I wasn’t worth more. That everything I’ve shown you — the crying, the leash, the begging — maybe that made me… disposable.”

Silence.

Heavy.

You stared at him like you were looking at something precious. Fragile. Real.

Then you smiled.

Blush blooming over cheekbones, hidden behind the wine glass.

“What should I do, Jake…” you said, low, sultry, devastating. “You made me too ruined to date anyone else now.”

Jake made a sound. Half-sob, half-laugh, and really looked at you, your validating beautiful eyes. Then, he stood. Walked over. Grabbed you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he waited one more second.

And kissed you like it hurt.

“I love you,” he breathed against your lips. “I’m in love with you.” He kissed again, “I’ll give you everything.”  kissed again, “I’ll let you ruin me for the rest of my life and beg for more, I swear.”

You laughed in his embrace and looked at him with sudden dare.

“Prove it Jake.”

He stripped for you like he was peeling away fear itself. and you did the same messily kissing.

Quiet obedience. Until he stood naked inch from you, flushed, forehead against forehead, trembling, cock caged and faintly purple, swollen from days of frictionless ache. It looked smaller, pulled tight by metal and denial. Beautiful in its own way — his way. His whole body looked like it was waiting for permission to feel again, all veiny and hot.

You dropped to your knees.

Unlocked him with the little silver key.

And the second the cage clattered to the floor, he moaned — not from pleasure. From pain. His cock sprang out — red, angry, twitching like it didn’t know if it was free or dying.

You reached forward, wrapped your hand around it, and he came instantly.

“F-fuck—Hng, no, no, no—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—please—” he gasped, whole body convulsing, cum spilling down your wrist in helpless pulses. “I didn’t mean to—it’s been d—I didn’t want to—please—”

You smiled. God, you loved it. all cruel and loving on him.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, rising to kiss his cheek. “That was just the appetizer.” And he kept coming with slow strokes on your thighs now like it was his first time.

In his bedroom, you tied him up with smooth, sure hands— wrists to headboard, thighs wide, legs restrained too with ropes he prepared— and then climbed on top of him 

He was still trembling. Still leaking. Still whispering your name like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then, just when he thought he might get softness —

You leaned in and blindfolded him. And your voice made him tremble.

“Jake,” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Do you think Jay would’ve made me scream like you do?”

His breath hitched. You grinned.

“Do you think he’d eat me better than you?” you asked, tongue flicking against his earlobe as he twitched under you. “Would he cry when I ride his face? Would he beg for my spit too?”

Jake whimpered. His cock jerked. You pressed down harder against him.

Moaning in the most outrageous way.

“Would he fuck me better than the boy leaking into his sheets right now?”

“Stop—please—no,” he gasped, face trying to find your lips with shame and heat.

You laughed. Gently.

“Then make me never want to find out,” you said. “Be a good boy. Show my pussy, Jake.”

And he did. You pulled on the ropes and realized him.

He fucked you like a man possessed. Getting inside your wetness in one go. Like a man breaking out of something. Like he’d die if you didn’t keep screaming his name. He thrust with raw need, face twisted in love, in agony, in fucking reverence.

He came again. And again. Still hard. Still inside you. Still trying to earn you with every snap of his hips. His cum painted your thighs, your cunt, your stomach — you didn’t want to stop. And he didn’t stop.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you[...]” He kept moaning on  your lips, in your neck, mouth at your tits.

And when he finally collapsed into you, ruined, panting, completely undone? You kissed him and whispered : 

“I love you too.”

🕰️

You did it on the floor next.

Then against the wall.

Then the window. Then the shower. Then the kitchen table while his dog slept soundly in the living room like nothing sacred was happening in the next room.

No rules. No safe words. No games.

Just “I love you” in every thrust, every bite, every knot of fingers in hair and bruises bloomed in the shape of home.

You didn’t fuck like dom and sub that night . You fucked like people who’d been starving for each other in plain sight — and finally broke the lock.

Thank you so much for reading Part 2 of Power Play 🖤 Our sub!Jake and boss x co-worker chaos has officially evolved—now it’s not just a dom/sub dynamic... it’s real romance too💗

I’d love to hear what you thought, so don’t be shy—drop your feedback, scream with me, anything!!

P.S. Yes, Part 3 is already in the works… get ready 😏✨

xoxo ©Lassiie

TL : @heekolazz @shariasweet @heeseungsbm @monoidol @v1shwa-xo @thesundys @xiaoszone

[bluebyrd-bookreviews]

Another element of the violence and horror is how inherently white and gender conformingly homogeneous they always are

The violence of the suburbs is so overbearing that it has a chilling effect on anything abnormal before you can even get to the point of the horror discussed in the original post

It starts with the white colonial ideal of the family, a mother a father and two and a half kids, all of them with pale skin and hopefully blonde but brunette is okay as well.

Any other type of family structure is not allowed in our Perfect Suburb as our houses were only built with so many rooms. Multigenerational homes? Why would you want a silly thing like that?

And we must protect the children. That is what we are going to say as we discriminate against people of color to avoid "bringing crime into our neighborhood" and to queer people because we don't want to "sexualize our children"

So even before you move into the suburbs, a cultural and systemic violence has occurred, a homogenizing ideal that has already selected for people that fits into this narrow view of perfection and are willing to mold themselves further to fit in with the HOA and the rest of the neighborhood

And so the natural consquence of all of this is that you play your role. You play the house wife and the mother and you have the 2.5 kids and the white picker fence and you do all of the things because that is the perfect ideal for you and your family and you've done all of this to give your kids a good, safe life because that is what the suburbs promise and then you realize that the suburbs are stripping you away as well. That it's not just the houses that lose their individuality but you do as well. And it was a process that started with the very ideal of the Suburb but you did not know because you were fed that this was the ideal

And maybe you truly love your kids or maybe you only love them because that's what a mom is supposed to do. And maybe you don't hate your husband but he is also complicit. Maybe actively so, or maybe he just also exists in this system that is slowly suffocating out anything that does not fit into its ideals and doesn't know enough to know that this is wrong because he is also told that he is doing everything perfectly right

And so everyone becomes a little less individual and everyone becomes a little more isolated

Because nothing about the American Dream, the one about the white picket fence and the nuclear family and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, is actually attainable by real people who are happy with their lives in the manner it is presented

We were never made to live isolated by our own castle walls, but to live in communities with help from others

And that's where the horror of the Suburban Housewife Horror genre comes in, this perfectly manicured and manufactured isolation that you are sold as perfection

Suburban housewife horror is really a specific type of powerful dread, the loss of personal identity with it being replaced by a husband, house, and kids while you are forced into a specific role that is unattainable by real humans that have lives and interests and fun. The creeping knowledge that your husband doesn't love you and maybe never did, he just loved the idea of you and having you as a wife to keep as a part of his identity while he overtakes yours. The expectation of perfection in every little thing even in the privacy of your own bedroom.

[belovanat2]

Between Pancakes and Silences | The Way Back Home | WandaNat x Little!Reader

Summary: Reader returns from a weekend trip with her parents. But all she wants is to go home to her mommies.

Warnings: breastfeeding, sfw age regression, diapers.

Note: English is not my first language. Please forgive any mistakes.

You were sitting in the second row, on the left side of the room, as always. Hair hastily tied back. Eyes downcast. Legs crossed — physically and emotionally guarded.

You hadn’t slept well.

Not since Friday.

The forced trip with your parents had ended that morning, the car stopping in front of the college as if it were doing you a favor. Your mother gave a fake smile. Your father told you to “be brilliant.” Neither of them asked how you were feeling.

And now here you were. In class with Natasha Romanoff.

The professor walked in right on time, as always. Dark blazer, steady stride. She gave the classroom a quick scan, her eyes briefly passing over you without stopping. Professional. Just as it should be. You met her gaze with a small, discreet, but tired smile.

But deep down, Natasha knew.

She’s exhausted. Left their house this morning. Didn’t even manage to say good morning. Just texted “arrived” at 11:48 in the group chat. And only because she snuck off to the bathroom. She barely said a word the entire trip.

Wanda, even though she wasn’t there, knew too. She and Natasha were exchanging quiet messages the whole time.

❤️ Wanda: “Did you see her mom’s Instagram stories? That ‘lecture’ yesterday… it looked like a cult. She was in the back. Falling apart.”

🖤 Natasha: “I saw. Today she’s in pieces.”

Natasha placed her materials on the desk and started the class.

— Today we’ll review the concepts of narrative strategy and impactful argument structure. Open your book to page 42.

The class began to stir. You didn’t. You hesitated for a few moments and had to take a deep breath before finally opening your backpack and taking out your materials.

You opened the booklet, but your mind was somewhere else.

Just five more hours.

Only five more hours until Wanda’s class, the last one. Until you could get to the car. To the gate. To the hug. To the pacifier.

The thought came quickly — and dangerously. You cut it off immediately.

You couldn’t think about that here.

Or you’d fall apart.

Your phone vibrated under the desk. A soft buzz.

The group chat: “us”.

🖤 Natasha: “Did you drink water, baby girl?”

🩷 You: “Yes. A sip. I’m okay.”

Natasha didn’t reply. She just glanced at you discreetly. You didn’t even look up. Your posture was perfect. But inside… you just wanted to be held.

She’s not just our student. She’s our baby. And she’s stuck in a role that doesn’t belong to her.

Class continued. Natasha wrote on the board, corrected questions, kept her tone firm and academic. But from time to time, she sent little notes.

🖤 Natasha: “I’m here, okay? Hang in there.”

🩷 You: “I’m trying. Really.”

Across campus, Wanda read everything on her phone, standing still in the staff lounge, heart aching.

❤️ Wanda: “I wish this class was over already. I want her in my arms now.”

You yawned, fighting off exhaustion. The diaper you wore under your pants — the one you had insisted on putting on yourself that morning in the college bathroom — was light, but present. A small anchor. A reminder of what was coming. Of what was still yours.

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap. Thought about your pacifier. The scent of lavender and honey. The quiet of Wanda and Natasha’s room. Your little nursery…

Just five more hours.

Natasha finished a long explanation and asked the students to do a group activity. You chose to work alone. You hated group work.

While your classmates moved around, you lowered your head and typed quickly:

🩷 You: “I don’t think I can make it through Wanda’s class.”

🖤 Natasha: “Yes, you can. We’re here. Just a little longer, my love.”

You took a deep breath.

Held back the tears.

Told yourself:

Just pretend a little longer. Then you can be who you are.

And so, sitting like any student, pretending to be just another adult, you stayed strong.

Waiting to go back — not to your parents’ house. But home. To your mommies.

The bell rang softly after what felt like an eternity, announcing the afternoon break. Class was only bearable because Natasha was the professor. But that was exactly the problem. You didn’t want your professor. You wanted your mommy.

Chairs began to creak as students stood up, grabbing backpacks, phones, water bottles.

You remained seated.

Back straight, hands gripping your thighs. Head slightly lowered.

You looked like you didn’t know what to do with your own body.

Natasha watched from where she was, pretending to go over notes.

Your gaze met hers for a moment.

It was a tired look. Small. Almost childlike. A silent plea.

“Will you take me home?”

But Natasha couldn’t.

She just subtly nodded toward the door with her chin, like saying: Go on, sweetheart. Go take a breath.

You understood. You always did. You knew Natasha couldn’t do anything now.

You nodded, slowly gathered your backpack, and left with the last few students.

As soon as you stepped outside, your phone buzzed twice.

🖤 Natasha: “Go to the cafeteria, okay? Get something to eat.”

❤️ Wanda: “There’s chicken sandwich today. Or that chocolate muffin you like.”

You smiled for the first time all day. A small, discreet smile, but real.

The messages felt like a caress in the middle of stone.

🩷 You: “Okay. I’ll go.”

You walked to the cafeteria with short steps. Your legs felt heavy. The long shirt covered well, but the diaper underneath was still there — slightly damp. A quiet comfort.

At the counter, you looked at the options. Chose a chocolate muffin — warm, fresh out of the oven — and a box of grape juice.

At the register, you pulled a small black card from your backpack.

Not the one your parents had given you.

The one Natasha and Wanda had set up, with a low limit, just for moments like this. They insisted:

“You already deal with too much pressure from your parents. This one is just to care for you. It’s love in credit form.”

You paid.

Across campus, Natasha’s phone buzzed.

💳 “Approved purchase - $11.90: University Cafeteria.”

She smiled to herself and typed:

🖤 Natasha: “Good girl.”

You read it and blushed, glancing around discreetly.

You pouted a little and replied:

🩷 You: “I took a picture to show.”

You snapped a photo of the tray: the muffin sliced in half, the juice box.

Sent it to the group.

❤️ Wanda: “Yummy, sweetheart!”

🖤 Natasha: “Eat it all, okay? Then mommy will check if there’s room for milk.”

You let out a quiet giggle, still blushing.

And knowing there would definitely be room for milk. Especially Wanda’s.

You sat in the corner of the cafeteria, near the wall. Ate slowly. The taste was faint — exhaustion dulled everything — but the feeling of connection made it better.

When the snack was done, you tossed the juice box in the trash and got up.

Now came Wanda’s class.

Last one of the day.

Last stretch before going home. Home for real.

Wanda’s classroom was silent, as if the afternoon heat had set everyone to slow motion. The projector showed a presentation on symbolic construction of collective identity. Wanda’s voice filled the space precisely — calm, firm, elegant. She gestured with control, as always.

You were in the third row now.

The first thirty minutes, you held on. Took short notes, looked at the slides, underlined key terms. Focused on your mommy’s calm voice. The voice you couldn’t resist. But slowly, your mind began to drift.

Exhaustion.

Emotional fatigue.

Longing.

Next thing you knew, you were drawing little wings and abstract scribbles on the corner of the page. Pressing hard. Like that could ease something.

From the podium, Wanda noticed.

Discreetly, she picked up her phone and typed in the group chat.

❤️ Wanda: “Baby, focus on the lesson. It’s important.”

You glanced at the phone under the desk. Took a deep breath. Wanda noticed everything. Always.

🖤 Natasha: “What do you mean my baby’s not paying attention? 😠😠 Does mommy need to scold you?”

🩷 You: “I just want to go home…”

Wanda didn’t reply — she was back speaking to the class.

Natasha, in the staff room, crossed her arms and typed quickly:

🖤 Natasha: “Just one more hour. You can do it. Then there’s milk, bath, cuddles — anything you want.”

You closed your phone. Thought about everything waiting at home. Tried to listen for a few more minutes.

But your body wasn’t cooperating anymore.

You stood up. Said nothing. Grabbed your phone and left the room.

Wanda saw you go. Followed with her eyes for a few seconds. Tried to keep her composure. But inside, a spike of concern.

Where is she going now?

Wanda picked up her phone and wrote:

❤️ Wanda: “Where are you going, love?”

You replied almost instantly.

🩷 You: “Bathroom. But I don’t want to come back. I’ll stay in the courtyard.”

🖤 Natasha: “Yes, you will, baby. That way mommy Wanda can keep an eye on you. Class is almost over.”

🩷 You: “I don’t want to. It’s boring. The topic, not mommy…”

Wanda replied five minutes later.

❤️ Wanda: “Okay. But come back and grab your backpack later. No forgetting things halfway.”

🩷 You: “Okay…”

In the courtyard, the warm wind blew, stirring dry leaves. You didn’t even want the bathroom. You just wanted to leave the room.

Your mommy’s voice was making you confused.

You sat on a bench near a tree-lined walkway. Pulled out a book from your backpack: Fourth Wing. You picked it because of the cover — a dragon, golden sparkles. It looked magical. Also because you saw a girl in your Civil Law class reading it. It caught your attention.

You read two pages. Then five more.

But something in the story made you… uncomfortable.

There was too much emotion. Desire, tension. Characters touching in ways you didn’t fully understand. Not clearly. You bit your lip.

Why does this book make my chest tight?

Why does it feel like something I should know, but don’t?

You closed the book. Maybe your mommies wouldn’t be happy to know what you were reading. They always ask for the age rating. But this time, you didn’t check.

You just sat there, staring at the trees.

Not thinking much. Just waiting. Waiting for the time to come and finally go home.

The bell rang.

You got up, returned to Wanda’s classroom. It was empty now. The professor had already left. She must’ve been with Natasha already.

You grabbed your things quietly and awkwardly. Zipped up your backpack, adjusted your hair, and left the room in a rush.

You walked to the usual alley. The alley you, Wanda, and Natasha had agreed on. So no student would suspect. You crossed the campus with firm steps but slumped shoulders. The golden end of day didn’t ease the weight you carried from the weekend.

The car was already there. You sighed with relief. Tinted windows. Parked at the same spot. They were always there. Always.

You opened the back door, tossed your backpack on the seat, and climbed in.

Shut the door. Wanda greeted you first.

- Hi, baby girl!

Natasha looked back and smiled.

- Hi, sweetheart. Did you survive the classes?

And then, like a kitten meowing for comfort, you whispered:

— I want our house…

Natasha turned her head slightly, driving.

Wanda, in the passenger seat, reached her hand back right away.

— We’re already taking you, love.

You bit your lip again. Didn’t even try to hold anything back anymore.

College was over for today.

The adult mask could begin to melt.

And home — the real one — was just around the corner.

The drive to Wanda and Natasha’s house took fifteen minutes. Luckily, the college wasn’t too far.

Natasha parked the car. And you all got out.

The key turned in the lock with a soft click. The familiar scent of home filled the air: sweet lavender, clean fabric, and a light touch of vanilla — the smell of a true home. Natasha stepped in first, kicking off her heels and placing her bag on the console table. Wanda followed right behind.

You paused at the doorway, almost frozen.

Your legs felt like rubber. Your body, exhausted.

But your soul was slowly beginning to relax.

Natasha crouched down first, patiently.

— Let’s take off these little shoes, sweetheart — she murmured.

You lifted your foot silently.

Natasha unfastened the Velcro on your black sneakers — childish, already a bit worn. One came off, then the other.

Beside them, her own high heels stood tall. The contrast was so domestic, so intimate, that Wanda smiled.

It was always like this. Big shoes, little feet. The house felt whole again.

— There we go…— Wanda said, crouching down too and scooping you into her arms.

You let out a heavy sigh, your face resting on Wanda’s shoulder, arms limp.

Just breathing in her scent.

No more talking. No more pretending.

On the way upstairs, Natasha gently fixed your hair, tucking a strand away from your forehead.

— You put on a diaper… when did that happen, huh?

No response.

Just a soft little groan, muffled against Wanda’s shoulder.

But they both noticed — it was full. Heavy. Warm.

They knew you had the habit of wearing diapers for comfort. You’d take them to your parents’ house and use them when needed. But you almost never wore one on your own for college.

They climbed the stairs slowly. In the hallway, your room waited, its door half open.

It was everything you needed.

The crib with lace bumpers.

The nursing chair beside it.

The white changing table, decorated with hand-painted little animals.

And the soft pink room, with crown and teddy bear stickers across the walls.

Wanda and Natasha had put it all together with such love and care. Just how you wanted it. And just how they wanted it. For their little princess.

Wanda took you straight to the changing table. Laid you down gently.

— Let’s get these big-girl clothes off — she said, unbuttoning your cardigan.

You whimpered, in a babylike voice, eyes still closed:

— I’m big…

Natasha chuckled softly and teased you sweetly:

— Of course you are. Our big girl, huh?

Wanda nodded, laughing too.

— So big that she’s been in a diaper for over four hours without saying a word.

You let out a fussy little groan.

They unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them down carefully.

The diaper was soaked, warm, already starting to give off that sour scent of lingering urine.

You had really used it.

The two women exchanged a look.

When they opened the side tabs, they saw your skin — red and irritated.

— You’re starting to get a rash, love… — Natasha murmured, concerned.

But you didn’t react. You were far away, completely surrendered, in another world. Just blinking slowly, almost in a trance, as Wanda wiped you gently with warm cotton, and Natasha got the ointment ready.

They would need to use a lot of it. To prevent a worse rash.

The new diaper came right after — soft, printed with clouds and hearts.

The pink onesie with teddy bears was pulled over you, the buttons snapping shut between your legs with dry, sweet clicks.

Natasha leaned in to sniff your neck and scrunched her nose discreetly.

— What scent is this? — she whispered to Wanda. — Incense?

Natasha grabbed a damp cloth and wiped your neck.

— Must be something from her mom’s house — Wanda replied with a sigh. — Doesn’t suit our baby at all.

She picked up the right perfume — a baby one, gentle, with a hint of chamomile — and sprayed it on your neck, behind your ears, on your chest.

The scent changed.

Your whole energy shifted with it.

Wanda knelt down, looked into your eyes — full of tenderness, full of love.

— Do you want to nurse, sweetheart?

Without fully opening your eyes, you nodded. Of course you did. You always did.

Then you stretched out your arms — a silent, desperate gesture, asking to be held.

Natasha smiled, tired but tender.

— You’re gonna hurt mommy’s boob again if you suck too hard…

Wanda lifted you into her arms and sat down in the nursing chair.

She pulled up her shirt with practiced ease, adjusted you in her lap, and offered her breast.

You latched on eagerly.

As if trying to drink not just the milk, but the whole day you’d been through.

As if starving for presence.

For touch.

For love.

Wanda felt the strength of your suck and winced slightly.

— Hey, easy there, baby… go gentler. Mommy still needs these boobs tomorrow.

You didn’t answer. Just gave a soft whimper, still nursing.

Tiny hands gripping Wanda’s blouse.

Your body, finally relaxed.

Natasha knelt beside the two of you, gently stroking your forehead with her fingers.

— You’re home now, little one. The little house is here. Mommy’s here. Both of your mommies…

And finally, everything was at peace.

[daemyra-fire]

This person commented on the GMA video of the interview with EM, Ann and Max, and I found it very interesting and wanted to share it because she is a person who claims not to be an Osblaine fan and I found it incredible that even the people who don't support their relationship or 100% Nick, understand it the same as we do and it has nothing to do with romance.

In the comment it says:

As a university professor with a PhD in literature, I’ve dedicated my life to analyzing narrative structures, character development, and thematic consistency. And I can say this confidently: what the writers did to Nick Blaine in Season 6 of The Handmaid’s Tale wasn’t bold or subversive storytelling — it was a narrative betrayal.

And just to be clear: I’m not an “Osblaine” shipper. I didn’t love Nick because of his relationship with June. I appreciated him as a deeply layered character whose quiet resistance stood in contrast to the louder, more visible defiance of others. Not every hero needs to shout.

Nick’s resistance started long before June. He smuggled contraband to Jezebels. He joined the Eyes to report predatory Commanders — a decision rooted in moral outrage after Waterford’s first Handmaid died by suicide. He managed to take down Commander Guthrie – the creator of the Handmaids´ system. He continued this pattern of calculated dissent after meeting June - Nick was the one who secretly smuggled the Jezebels letters out of Gilead and delivered them to Luke in Canada, an act that directly led to Canada refusing to sign a diplomatic agreement with Gilead.

About his promotions – Serena gave him a Wife (Eden) out of jealousy. He was promoted to Commander not as a reward, but as punishment — for pulling a gun on Fred to help June and Nicole escape. Even his marriage to Rose served a purpose: to get closer to the Mackenzies, who had custody of June’s daughter, Hannah. Nick was always trying to help — quietly and at great personal cost.

The Marthas in Season 4 speak to him like an equal, not like they fear him. That tells us a lot. And even other Commanders call him a “boy scout” in Season 6. He wasn’t like them — and he never wanted to be. His character was consistent, reserved, and morally conflicted — not perfect, but clearly not ideologically aligned with Gilead.

And here’s something telling: in his apartment above the garage, we see Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez. This is not just a random prop. That novel is about enduring love and resistance in the face of cruelty and loss. The writers deliberately gave him that book. It’s a clear signal — Nick was written as someone with inner depth, quiet resistance, and a poetic soul. That choice was intentional.

I’m not mad that he died. Yes, it contradicts The Testaments where he’s still alive, but that’s not the biggest problem. I’m devastated because he died in vain, and worse — was framed as a traitor. After seasons of showing us his internal resistance and quiet bravery, the only logical conclusion to his arc was for him to stay in Gilead and help destroy it from the inside. That was his purpose. That was his path. Until the show changed course.

And here’s where context matters: after Season 4, there were changes in the writers' room,. After Season 5 Bruce Miller stepped down as showrunner. The result? A drastic shift in tone and character logic — especially for Nick. In Season 5, the writers seemed to be positioning Lawrence as morally compromised — until Bradley Whitford reportedly pushed back. So what did they do in Season 6? Gave that arc to Nick instead. Serena gets redemption. Aunt Lydia gets redemption. Even Lawrence and Naomi. But not Nick. It feels like the writers didn’t want everyone to be redeemed, so they sacrificed the one character whose quiet resistance had been there all along.

Then there’s the retroactive flashback in Season 6 — where Nick says life before Gilead wasn’t so great. That was never part of his character before. It’s a late, awkward insert designed to justify the narrative pivot, and it falls completely flat. Max Minghella himself, the actor who plays Nick, was shocked when he read the scripts for Season 6. He admitted in interviews that he questioned whether he had misunderstood Nick as a character all along — which should be a red flag. When even the actor doesn’t recognize the character he’s played for years, that points to a deep inconsistency in the writing. Nick wasn’t perfect — but he was principled. He wasn’t loud — but he was brave. He didn’t want power. What happened to him wasn’t just a sad ending.

It was bad writing.

---

This is literally what the writers thought everyone was going to buy into season 6 when they gave us proof in previous seasons that he wasn't like the others and even fans who weren't that involved noticed! 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

[valeisaslut]

Hiiiiiiiii my loveeeeee

So I was in this writing course once and one activity we did was writting freestyle for like ten minutes to see how much we could write. I was thinking it would be super fun if you did that so we can see the mastermind doing her art on real time

(Also no pressure lovely, feel free to ignore if you don't like the idea)

omg i actually loved this challenge, seriously!! i didn’t go full freestyle mode, but i did write the first part of a fic i’m currently working on and honestly this felt like such a fun way to get out of my own head a little and just write. i actually work better under pressure LMAO i've already tried timing my writing and i wrote more that way surprisingly! and i tried the pomodoro method too.

alsooo.... this is kind of the perfect opportunity to say something i’ve been meaning to talk about: a few people have (wrongly) accused me or implied that i use AI to write my fics — not a lot, but enough to be annoying lol — and let me just say, that kind of assumption is super frustrating and disrespectful. especially when it’s based on nothing but the way i write.

the little writing clip i shared was from a moment where i was super inspired, so the words were flowing easily and i didn’t need to stop or overthink too much. but trust me, that’s not always the case. sometimes it takes me like 40 minutes to finish a single page because i’m searching for the right word, the right metaphor, translating stuff in my head, trying to make a phrase land just right. there are even days when i write whole paragraphs in spanish and then translate them later because my english just isn’t clicking the way i want it to.

english isn’t my first language — spanish is — and even though i’ve studied english for over 10 years (shoutout to the academy days lmao), i learned it in a pretty academic context. so my writing might come off as a little too structured sometimes, or overly punctuated, or kind of stiff or formal. but that’s just part of the process. i’m still learning what grammar rules i can break and how to make things sound more fluid and natural. and as i keep writing in english, i feel like i’m slowly finding my own voice, my own rhythm, and a style that really feels like me. but i will never, and i mean never, support the use of AI in fanfiction. just to clear that up.

anyway, i didn’t mean to turn this into a whole speech but THANK YOU andreita for the idea, seriously. it was so fun and motivating 💌💌💌

[betty-fran]

While talking to N recently about Star Trek (all my recent chatting leads to this, and I'm pretty sure my sister hates it), we got caught up in the topic of utopianism and how it's depicted in TOS, which got me thinking about a couple of things, so it's a little not-really-quality-near-philosophical rambling...

We tend to perceive the idea of ​​utopia as that promised land, that ultimate outcome to which humanity should strive, the pure creation that is opposed to the absolute destruction of dystopia. But in our multi-tonal, ambiguous, contradictory world, where change is the only constant and where the constancy of laws is only an attempt to resist the chaos of entropy, this forever remains in the realm of the impossible, and utopian becomes a household word for naive, idealistic dreams, completely disconnected from reality. And in this perception, in my opinion, we lose the most important idea that the concept of utopia carries, and which completely changes the angle of its perception and attitude towards it. Utopia is not an ultimate outcome, but a striving towards it. Not the destination, but the journey itself. The path that we can choose. We'll never reach this abstract ideal world, because it contradicts existence itself, but we can try to become better and kinder ourselves.

And that's the utopianism of the original Star Trek. The 23rd century we're shown (obviously) isn't perfect, but it's striving for it. TOS, and this is probably the most accurate comparison I've found for myself, is a kind of message in a bottle left to us by Roddenberry. It tells us not "this is what the ideal future should be like," but "this is what the path to it should be like." And there is a noticeable difference between these two things.

The very structure of the plot in TOS, its similarity to the Odyssey in this journey lost in time and space (and emphasized isolated in it), makes it almost mythological. This is read in how the Enterprise, making its way through deep space, like that bottle with a message, carries within itself all the best that humanity is, but in a certain way, separates itself from the rest of the world. And this brings me back to thoughts that the 23rd century's reality that we are shown (obviously) isn't perfect, and that a (quite unconventional) captain like Kirk, as well as his (no less unconventional) entire crew, is still more of an exception than a rule there. Contrary to my expectations (largely dictated by what I've seen about him before), TOS Kirk as a character is generally very far from this idea of ​​Starfleet's golden boy and the model captain. That's what you could say about Pike, but Kirk, while obviously a good captain, is much more of a pirate than a soldier. In general, they are both, Kirk and Spock are not portrayed as people who truly fit into the environment in which they were raised. And although this is more logically explained in Spock, who has objective difficulties with (not) belonging to both of his heritages and is constantly in a state of in-between, it is in Kirk that it's especially feeling, in his, let's say, absolute impossibility of being not himself in the full (rather theatrical) manifestation of this, being inscribed in any specific normative role, which is noticeable both in his gender ambivalence/personal flexibility/amazing ability to change and in his frank discomfort with any roles that restrict his deeply personal freedom, and strangely enough, his integrity as a character is most fully expressed precisely in this chameleon-like versatility.

It was in @anghraine 's post about Kirk's queerness : "This is not only a vision of the future in general. It's a vision of the future that is decidedly imperfect but better enough to produce someone like this as a starship captain." and it very aptly and succinctly captures the very essence of what TOS is, and it really stuck in my head. Both K and S face some non-acceptance and rejection from others throughout the series, and they both have this "I only belong here on the bridge next to my people" mentality, not so much because it's their professional choice, but because it's really the only place where they can be themselves most fully, which feels like a certain conflict with the outside world (not that Vulcans or most Starfleet members are really particularly unorthodox), but at the same time, they can both exist in this space as they are, and be able to influence changes and try to make the world a little better, more open, more just, and less restricted. And importantly, while they are undoubtedly not-like-anyone different, they are not really forced to change themselves in TOS.

And this was, in my opinion, completely lost in the sequel films [esp post-Roddenberry], which gave rise to both subsequent Kirk drift, and the general gradual moving away from utopianism and the emergence of Section 31, and which after TOS feel like a grounding, giving me a rather joyless feeling of longing for a lost dream, and where all the characters, and especially Kirk, try to fit into some much more socially acceptable, normative roles, thus seemingly reinforcing this concept of returning from heaven to earth, that they as they were in TOS cannot fit into this environment, this bitter understanding that there are things that will never be acceptable and understandable in society, there are parts of you that you have to lose, hide to survive in the real world, and it's all leaving TOS behind as a long-forgotten dream, a stolen moment of fullness of being. It feels less like the still imperfect, but moving towards it, reality of the original series, and more like the not-at-all-utopian side of 80s/familiar present. And while the films themselves are good, and have their own very special (a little bit sad-painful) charm, they completely contradict TOS in something very important to me personally, which makes me look at these things absolutely separately from each other (N and I are in the process of watching films now, and it gives us both mixed feelings). Even if we read this as an attempt to show the transition from youth to maturity, this inevitability of growing up-aging in which you must necessarily change, lose something visceral about yourself, and instead take on some socially acceptable role, I find this a rather outdated and not very healthy concept, because normal growing up-aging is not about losing yourself at all, but about returning to your true self, and taking into account everything that was shown to us in TOS, psychological changes that have occurred in characters in films are quite sad, and I really want to ask what happened during that time that made this possible? (envy of Star Wars' success and the lust for money, obviously, but that's another story).

In any case, I find that I discovered TOS somehow very timely for myself, and although I often see how TOS is perceived as a non-serious, pretty awkward, funny thing, I find it surprisingly meaningful, and for me, it's objectively a much more interesting thing to reflect on, and a much more important thing to take into the future.

Maybe it's all Roddenberry's spirit whispering in my ear that I should get back into filmmaking (and finally finish my deferred master's degree) so that one day I can reshoot this story.

[stellaspectral]

Could I request headcannons on how the rise! and 2012turtles would react to artist reader, who draws them for fun, is embarassed to admit it though but they catch a glimps of a drawing of them which they made? :)

A/N: Sure! 💖

Rise & 2012 Turts React to Artist!Reader

💚 ROTTMNT & 2012 Turtles/Gender Neutral Reader 💚

CWs: None. All characters are aged-up.

Rise!Leo

He’d spot your art with a smirk. “Well, well, well, what artistic endeavor are we hiding here?”

Once he realizes the artwork is of them, and especially him (hopefully in a dynamic, cool pose): “Oh ho ho! You’ve captured my good side! And my other good side!”

Finds it immediately hilarious and endearing. Like, “Aw, you’ve been drawing my perfect face this whole time?” 100% teases you about it but never in a mean way.

He’d absolutely lap up the attention, even if it’s accidental. He’d tease you good-naturedly about your “secret fan art.”

“Don’t be embarrassed! Clearly, you have excellent taste in subjects. Especially this handsome devil.” *finger guns*

Might start posing more dramatically around you “just in case” you want to draw him again. “You know, I am your muse now. That’s canon.”

Like he’ll dramatically fling himself onto the couch, “Oh, woe is me, struck by the sudden urge to be artistically rendered in a moment of heroic contemplation!” He’ll then wink.

Lowkey keeps checking your sketchbook when you’re not looking. Not to snoop—just in case you drew him again.

Rise!Raph

At first, upon seeing your art, he’d be like, “Huh? Whatcha got there?”

Once he sees it, especially if it’s a cool action shot of him looking heroic: “WHOA! Is that ME?! That looks SO COOL!”

He’d be genuinely impressed and flattered, not really understanding why you’re embarrassed. “Why hide this? It’s awesome!”

Raph will pretend he’s not paying attention, but he’ll definitely be flexing a bit more or holding his “cool big brother” stance a little longer if he thinks you might be drawing him.

Raph wouldn’t request, but if you drew a really good action sequence of him protecting his brothers, he’d stare at it for a long time with a big smile.

Gets all flustered but proud. Keeps sneaking peeks at your sketchbook like he doesn’t want to be caught doing it.

Sometimes acts nonchalant, but if you show him a drawing you’re proud of, he gets super shy.

If you ever draw him looking soft or happy, he’ll stare at it longer than he means to. Those are the ones he secretly likes most.

Rise!Donnie

He’d approach your art with scientific curiosity. “An unauthorized artistic rendering? Intriguing.”

He’d analyze the style, the accuracy of his tech and the anatomical proportions. “Hmm, the depiction of my battle shell’s articulation is surprisingly accurate. Did you have reference material, or is this from memory?”

He’d be genuinely impressed by the skill, even if his compliments sound a bit clinical. He might subtly suggest improvements for “technical accuracy” next time.

Probably starts asking technical questions about your process before realizing you’re blushing like mad. “Wait, you’re embarrassed? But you … nailed my jaw structure.”

Donnie might “casually” start working on a particularly intricate piece of tech nearby, angling it so you get a “good view of its complex inner workings, should you choose to document it.”

Donnie might offer to 3D print little maquettes of them for you to use as reference. “It would improve anatomical accuracy by at least 15%, though your current observational skills are, frankly, quite impressive.” He’d also be fascinated if you drew their mystic powers, analyzing how you interpret non-physical energy.

Starts leaving small upgrades for your drawing supplies—new pens, sketchpads, even a custom-built stylus if you’re digital.

Might ask if he can scan your sketches into his files for “data preservation.” (It’s 100% just because he wants to look at them.)

Rise!Mikey

Pure, unadulterated excitement upon seeing your art. “O! M! G! Is that US?! You DREW us?!”

He’d be bouncing off the walls, absolutely thrilled. “This is the COOLEST THING EVER! Look at me, I look so dynamic! And the colors!”

He’d be the most understanding of your shyness but also the most enthusiastic about getting you to share. “Aww, don’t hide it! This is amazing!”

Would probably hug you and the drawing (if you let him).

Mikey is your hype-man. He’d also try to “collaborate” by adding his own doodles or stickers to your sketchbook page if you let him (and sometimes if you don’t).

Wants to see every single page. Will not drop it even if you’re begging him not to look.

Might tape one of the sketches to the wall in the lair, claiming it’s “museum-worthy.”

Starts calling himself your “muse supreme” or “artspiration.”

2012!Leo

Sees the sketch accidentally while helping you pick up something. His leader instincts would kick in. “What’s this?”

Once he sees it’s them: a moment of surprise, then a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You … you drew us?”

He’d be quite touched. “This is … very good. You’re very talented.”

He’d be gentle about your embarrassment. “There’s no need to be ashamed. It’s clear you put a lot of effort into this.”

He’d appreciate the gesture deeply, seeing it as a sign of your trust and friendship, but might subtly ask if you’ve shown anyone else.

Leo might “coincidentally” practice his katana forms where you have a good vantage point, holding poses slightly longer. If you look up and catch his eye, he’d offer a small, encouraging nod before resuming.

“You drew me … with my swords out. That’s … really cool. And kinda flattering.” He’s a little shy about it but tells you he likes it. Probably doesn’t mention it again unless you bring it up, but will treasure the mental image. Secretly hopes there’s more.

Also secretly keeps a folded version of your sketch in a book or drawer. Doesn’t talk about it much, but it clearly means a lot. He’ll defend your art fiercely if anyone downplays it.

2012!Raph

“Hey, what are you hidin’?” Gruff as usual when he spots your art, but still curious.

Sees the drawing. Eyebrow ridge raises. A beat of silence. “… Is that supposed to be me?”

At first, he might joke a little to hide how touched he is. “Could’ve made me buffer, but okay.” Gets a little red in the ears. “Thanks … for drawin’ me, I guess.”

If you made him look tough and cool, a tiny, almost invisible smirk might appear. He’d scoff at your embarrassment. “What, you think it’s bad or somethin’? It’s … not terrible.” (Which is high praise from him).

Might try to act like it’s not a big deal, but he keeps checking if you’ve drawn him again.

If you catch him staring at a drawing for too long, he’ll grumble, “It’s not like I asked you to draw me lookin’ cool …”

You notice he starts sticking around longer when you sketch, trying to act casual. And he might leave little “suggestions” like: “If you’re gonna draw me again, maybe this pose would be cool. Just sayin’.”

Once, after a hard mission, you gave him a sketch of him looking strong and protective. He kept that one.

2012!Donnie

His initial reaction is genuine curiosity. “Oh, what have you got there?”

His eyes would widen slightly upon seeing the drawing. “Fascinating! Is that … us? Your grasp of our unique physiology is quite impressive! Did you use references? This foreshortening is impressive.”

He’d be technically complimentary. But then he looks up and sees you looking like you’re about to evaporate and realizes—oh. You were keeping that private.

He’d be understanding of your embarrassment. “Oh, please don’t feel self-conscious! It’s a wonderful piece of art. Perhaps you could even help me design some new tech interfaces with your artistic eye?”

He’d probably ask if he could scan it to “analyze the artistic rendering techniques for his database.”

Donnie might start explaining the mechanics of his latest invention to you in more detail, “hoping you can visualize it.” A subtle hint for you to draw it.

Donnie would scan them at high resolution and keep them in a password-protected folder on his T-Phone, possibly analyzing your evolving style over time.

He’d love a drawing of you and him working on tech together. He might even frame it in his lab.

2012!Mikey

Upon seeing your art: “What’s that?! Ooh, a drawing!” Then his jaw would drop. “NO WAY! YOU DREW US?! THAT’S AWESOME-SAUCE!”

He’d be incredibly hyped, grabbing the drawing (gently!) to get a closer look.

You’re dying inside but he’s already flipping through your sketchbook. “Why didn’t you show me sooner?! We could’ve been an artist team! I model, you draw—BOOM.”

He’d be completely oblivious to why you’re embarrassed, or rather, he’d try to overwhelm your embarrassment with pure enthusiasm.

Would immediately start posing and asking you to draw him right now.

Mikey would have a “super-secret awesome art stash” hidden somewhere only he (and maybe Ice Cream Kitty) knows about.

Wants to hang the art in his room. Constantly asks when the next “issue” of “Mikey Art” is coming out.

If you ever get insecure about your art, he’ll hug you tight. “Dude. You made me look awesome. That’s, like, peak talent.”

[lunatf-ao3]

oooh what starscream figure is it??

STARSCREAM

[G1] Starscream & Human!Reader

[⚠︎]: Tiny-starscream

It is from the Yolopark line! A mini G1 Starscream, I adore it 🤭 It made me think of this silly write!

-

Well, at first you found it in your backyard, a small metal airplane. It was heavy and quite detailed, with only a couple of dents. You thought you could sell it for a few bucks as a quality keychain or something. You had no idea how it got to your house, but you didn't think anything of it.

Until it transformed. Into a little shitty robot that shot you in the arm and left a painfully deep mark.

It's called 'Starscream', 'second in command' of the Deceptions or something like that, and a 'powerful Cybertronian' waging war with blah, blah, blah.

Honestly, you couldn't take it very seriously with that size. It was as if a little toy had come to life, but you could tell it certainly wasn't a conventional "robot."

The first few days he focused on "escaping," which you didn't object to. It was definitely not something he could accomplish, he was grumbling something about his systems being damaged along with his wings and communication systems.

Soon, he realized he couldn't get back to "the nemesis" without help. And he decided, without bothering to consult you, that he was going to stay with you.

So now you're preparing a damn oil bath for him to, according to him, relieve his systems and maintain his joints.

"Come on, bro, I've bought like three different oils and you don't like any of them."

"Do not speak to me with such insolence, insignificant human. Unlike your poor species, my structure needs much more... meticulous care. Do not expect it to work with cheap oil or water."

"Demanding."

"Just obey, inferior creature."

You roll your eyes, amused, but you let him analyze the next oil. The cheapest one, actually, so you don't have high hopes.

"Hm... Acceptable. Had found something worthy, use it!"

Curious. You smile, obeying. "At your command, great lord Starscream." Your words are playful. Somehow, you knew he liked being called that. He just smiles half-heartedly, clearly pleased, but trying to maintain his composure. You pour the oil into an old bowl (which you had to clean thoroughly under his orders) until it is half full.

"Like this?"

"Hm, perfect. Now leave me alone."

"What if you drown?"

"I won't 'drown,' brainless organic! I do not even breathe, so leave me alone!"

"Fine, fine, I'm leaving."

-

"So now you want me to clean you?"

"Just dry me off! There are parts I cannot reach. Feel honored to be able to do something like this for me, lowly servant."

"I could kick you out of my house if I wanted to, stop treating me badly."

"Silence! Even if you 'kick me out,' I do not need you, I will continue my cycle perfectly well without your useless care."

"Fine, whatever you say. Dry yourself." About to leave, Starscream gets nervous.

"Hey!... You- Human! Come back here, I command you!"

"Huh, I thought you didn't need my care?"

"...I am being lenient. I am giving you the opportunity to... To serve me, be grateful. So I order you to come here right now."

"And if I don't?"

Starscream was speechless for a moment, he really didn't expect that. "Well... You will regret it! Because when my structure collapses due to lack of maintenance, you will be to blame! You... do it well, that ks why I allow you to. So come, and finish what you started, useless human..."

You smile, that's a strange way to ask for things. "Ah, okay, maybe I'll be merciful today."

You can see the indignation on his face as you take the small rag.

The rest of the cleaning is filled with insults and reproaches.

Bonus:

[annamlynska]

The Prince Behind the High Walls

I wonder what will break young Mr. William Hawkes one day, because all his perfect, white, carefully built walls are so full of cracks that they just need a little push and they will crumble to dust. William carries his father's reckless expectations, his brother's betrayal, and the look of his dying mother calling him by a name that doesn't belong to him.

He carries too much. Too much responsibility, too much perfection, too much conviction that he must stay strong, too much fear of being left alone, the only one from his childhood memories. When the factory explodes, he is the one who stops Kym from screaming Lauren's name. He is the one who acts sensibly, even though it was he who stood among the shattered, smoldering wreckage of iron structures, bricks, and human bodies back then. The explosion took his friend. He should scream harder and louder than Kym.

But he doesn't scream, instead he adds another stone to the pile of stones that separate all his true and carefully hidden feelings from the outside world.

Of course, you can only carry so many stones, and you can only build a wall so high before it collapses under its own weight. Will is not far from this point, whenever something appears that even slightly disturbs his balance, you can watch the cracks in the walls deepen and widen at a dizzying speed.

I wonder what will happen when he finds out that Lauren, his only childhood friend, has been kidnapped? Or when he has to stand up to Rafael, because the moment when the two brothers come into direct conflict is inevitable? What if he finds out the truth about Thalia and why his father was called a murderer? I'm afraid that very bad things are in store for Will, and I would like to hug him tightly and keep him safe.

[fashionteahouse]

Hey would you write headcannons if you were in a relationship with all the Cullen boys at the same time? (Edward, Carlsile, Emmet and Jasper). What would happen when they realised they all liked you and how they were when you got together? If you feel uncomfortable then you can ignore this💙

hi yes I will write this 😌 this is different hope you enjoy :)

poly relationship with all of the cullen boys hcs - cullen x reader

Carlisle:

He’s hesitant when he realizes that all four of them like you. He just doesn’t want to be the cause of anyone getting hurt but once he sees how everything smoothly falls into place, he is more confident that he has a place in this type of love. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with sharing.”

In the early stages of getting together, he tried to explain it to you like a medical condition until you told him to just simplify it. When you say yes, he tells you, “We’ll do this right.”

In the dynamic of the relationship, he’s the nurturer. A complete gentleman. He adores taking care of mentally, physically, and emotionally. He gives structure and safety to the relationship with all of you.

There’s little jealousy from him but if he does get jealous, he doesn’t show it in public. But privately, he doesn’t make it a big deal but you get the idea that you belong to all four of them.

He’s the default mediator when emotions arise. Carlisle likes to give you jewelry. Nothing flashy, but timeless. It’s sentimental and it’s enough to make you cry. He likes to show you experiences, like taking you to new places. He loves seeing you experience or react to something for the very first time.

His kisses are smooth and controlled. It’s like he’s savoring fine wine. It makes you smile whenever he kisses you because it’s enough to make you melt.

Carlisle learned how to cook just for you. He enjoys seeing your eyes light up when he perfect a new dish.

Jasper:

He felt it all so he knows that not only you feel something, but Edward, Emmett, and Carlisle does too.

“We’re going to tear each other apart if we don’t deal with this together.”

When he tells you everything for the first time, he’s calm. When you agree, he nearly kisses you out of instinct.

Always know when you’re overwhelmed, an emotional tether. Whenever he wants to drain your anxiety, he’ll pull you into his lap and make sure to take it away with a touch. Super intuitive.

Really like how comfortable you are showing your emotions to him.

Almost never feel jealous because he knows your true feelings. But, if someone tries to hit on you knowing that you’re taken, he’ll make the air tense for them.

Writes you letters. Real ink love letters that he will tuck away in certain places for you to find them. They’re soul-crushing and romantic.

Your kisses feel like mood swings. They’re sweet, then heated, and then soft again. Easily lose time when his lips are on yours.

He likes to keep a journal of how your emotions felt to him each day.

Emmett:

He’s bold enough to say it out loud. Straight to the point,

“Are we all just pretending we’re not into her or-?”

Emmett is bouncing in place as he explains everything to you. Wants to really make sure you’re into it.

When you say yes, he actually is bold enough to kiss you.

Your physical comfort. Wildly protective. Bear hugs and shower you with jokes just to make you laugh. It’s his favorite sound in the world.

The most openly jealous. Likes reassurance. He doesn’t get angry but he loudly expressive how you’re his.

He likes to buy you the most chaotic and random things. Thoughtful gifts but enough to give him a look and say, “What made you think to of this?”

His kisses are teasing, hungry, and aggressive. Likes to lift you while he kisses you. He kisses you like he’s trying to prove something.

Keeps Polaroids of you in his wallet. He takes one every time you wear something that makes him feel good inside.

Edward:

Figures it out first due to his mind reading but he selfishly keeps it to himself for a while. It killed him inside hearing the thoughts of Emmett admiring your laugh, Jasper feeling sparks of warmth around you, and Carlisle watching you with his soft eyes.

He tries to distance himself at first, thinking he’s being noble until he reads that you indeed love all of them, including him.

“She loves all of us. I just haven’t realized it yet.”

Explaining it to you, he looks as if he’s bracing for rejection. When you agree, he almost collapses from disbelief but is ecstatic deep down.

He’s the slowest to open up. He worships you like a tragic relic. He always wants to talk, play piano for you and read beside you. He loves emotional intimacy and crave quiet moments with just you.

Really likes making you mixes. Claims that music is forever. Will create special song covers just for you.

His kisses are almost holy and gently. He likes to kiss your hand, your temple and your soul. His kisses are the type to make your chest ache and your heart race.

When he’s jealous, he’ll withdraw and brooks. Stare out of a window. He’ll write a song about how he feels and you when he’s finished, you reassure him that you don’t have eyes for anymore else.

He will read you in every language he knows, reads you poems, to lull you to sleep on bad nights. He even softly hums you to sleep.

[bonefall]

I just wanna say that I LOVE all the detail you’re giving side/background characters. My favorite part of wc is getting to read about generations passing by, watching the young scrappy main character turn into the next main character’s funny grandparent or something. Canon is really bad about acknowledging this but god, you’ve done such a good job with BB. Reading about Jaypaw and Owlpaw’s rivalry knowing the life Owlpaw is going to go on to live in the background later is so cool. Imagine an alternate universe where BB was the real warrior cats and 14 year old you reads a scene where some background character is casually mentioned and realizing it’s that guy Jaypaw beat the shit out of. Shit like that doesn’t happen in canon, they would forget who Owlpaw is and he would never do anything else in his life.

The one thing that WC has over any other xenofiction brand, and most other book series period, is the fact that you are able to watch several GENERATIONS of characters pass by in basically in real-time. So it's a shame that they kinda neglect it in the main series!

I LOVE when WC does do neat things with its cast, like how Harepaw gets trounced by Brambleclaw in Po3 and becomes Leader later. Or how Firestar's recurring background buddy, Onewhisker, became a major character in TNP and beyond. It's honestly a major reason I still follow the books, and why I've never found something that quite scratches the itch like WC does.

Unfortunately, it's ridiculously rare outside of WindClan LMAO. Owlpaw DID get forgotten. He was one of Jaypaw's bullies in his canon training, but then the writers lost track of his age and made him an apprentice on a patrol Tigerheart was giving a lesson to in a field guide; problem is, Tigerheart is younger than him!

Which is not too big a deal, dgmw, but my point is that they forgot. ShadowClan in particular is really lacking in-canon, especially considering they're the neighbor of ProtagonistClan. Ivytail and Owlclaw were part of the Po3 apprentice generation and should have been at least a little relevant going foward, y'know?

I desperately crave the Clans feeling like communities. With petty drama, watching characters gain skill and shuffle around the ranks, every family struggling with how they define their legacy under the emblem of the Clan, that sort of stuff. So that's how I approach it.

[crimeronan]

people being like "hunter needs structure and stability" respectfully hunter DOES need stability - in that he needs an environment where he's no longer afraid of the people around him & is confident that he'll always have a safe place to stay n safe people to call - but the kid absolutely DOES NOT need structure. if anything hunter needs LESS structure. this is mister "teens are probably into the same things as me, like authority and rules" please be nice to him.

my absolute favorite hunter darius dynamic is one with like, hunter asking to stay out late on a school night or whatever bc luz has some cool-as-shit event happening in the human world that he wants to attend & darius is just like "you can do whatever you want forever" & hunter's like "aren't you...??? going to....??? give me a curfew????"

darius: why would you need a curfew?

hunter: because i-! what if i'm TIRED before SCHOOL

darius: then you can skip a day.

hunter: [HORRIFIED GASP]

darius: kid. look. you already extensively weighed the risks and benefits of going to this thing on a school night. right?

hunter: ......i did make three charts.

darius: and you determined that the benefits outweigh the risks. with your three charts

hunter: .....yes

darius: ok.

hunter:

darius: so.

hunter:

darius: in conclusion. you can do whatever you want forever.

[vaguely-concerned]

due south is just so incredibly fun is the thing. it's a story that takes such delight in being a story at every turn and on every level.

(something strangely discworld-esque about it that way -- sort of like the fiction version of gender euphoria lol. every episode due south wakes up glorying in being a narrative and getting to do narrative Things and that shameless joy, that lack of interest in courting anything resembling the plausible or more obstructive to the truth yet, realistic, is threaded into everything. yeah of course there's a ghost now. fraser trying to make sense of the story of his father to make sense of the story of himself while being a stranger in a strange land makes the most sense anything ever has. of course they still talk (and fail to talk) to each other all the time. of course he's always here, and never here at the same time. people don't change just because they're dead. fraser in the pilot walking through all the *stories* of his father, still looking for him as he did when he was a little boy, and finding as much of him now as he did then (not nearly enough, even when he's right there). hello. hello. help.)

[sysig]

Do not separate them /threatening (Patreon)

[mmelolabelle]

I cannot believe people were so pissy about Assad’s casting as Armand, look at him —

The man looks like every homo-repressed renaissance painter’s wet dream - like 10/10 would paint him as Jesus or several angels into as many frescoes as possible.