#interview tips about myself

[ourjobagency]

Preparing for a job interview takes a lot more than searching or Googling a list of tricky interview questions. Here are some tricks, tips, and advice that will help you come across as a potential candidate.

[snapbackslide]

if anyone got tips pls share with the group 🫶🫶🫶🫶

[anistarrose]

Please don't tune out when you get to the non-partisan section of your ballot this November. First off, where state Supreme Court justices are elected, Republicans are trying their darndest to elect candidates who will destroy reproductive freedom, gut voting rights, and do everything in their power to give "contested" elections to Republicans. Contrast Wisconsin electing a justice in 2023 who helped rule two partisan gerrymanders unconstitutional, versus North Carolina electing a conservative majority in 2022, who upheld a racist voter ID law and a partisan gerrymander that liberal justices had previously struck down both of.

Second, local judicial offices will make infinitely more of an impact on your community than a divided state or federal legislature will. District and circuit courts, especially, are where criminalization of homelessness and poverty play out, and where electing a progressive judge with a commitment to criminal justice reform can make an immediate difference in people's lives.

It's a premier example of buying people time, and doing profound-short-term good, while we work to eventually change the system. You might not think there will be any such progressive justices running in your district, but you won't know unless you do your research. (More on "research" in a moment.)

The candidates you elect to your non-partisan city council will determine whether those laws criminalizing homelessness get passed, how many blank checks the police get to surveil and oppress, and whether lifesaving harm reduction programs, like needle exchanges and even fentanyl test strips, are legal in your municipality. Your non-partisan school board might need your vote to fend off Moms for Liberty candidates and their ilk, who want to ban every book with a queer person or acknowledgement of racism in it.

Of course, this begs the question — if these candidates are non-partisan, and often hyper-local, then how do I research them? There's so much less information and press about them, so how do I make an informed decision?

I'm not an expert, myself. But I do think/hope I have enough tips to consist of a useful conclusion to this post:

Plan ahead. If you vote in person, figure out what's on your ballot before you show up and get jumpscared by names you don't know. Find out what's on your ballot beforehand, and bring notes with you when you vote. Your city website should have a sample ballot, and if they drop the ball, go to Ballotpedia.

Ballotpedia in general, speaking of which. Candidates often answer Ballotpedia's interviews, and if you're lucky, you'll also get all the dirt on who's donating to their campaign.

Check endorsements. Usually candidates are very vocal about these on their websites. If local/state progressive leaders and a couple unions (not counting police unions lol) are endorsing a candidate, then that's not the end of my personal research process per se, but it usually speeds things up.

Check the back of the ballot. That's where non-partisan races usually bleed over to. This is the other reason why notes are helpful, because they can confirm you're not missing anything.

I've seen some misconceptions in the reblogs, so an addendum to my point about bringing notes on the candidates: I strongly suggest making those notes a physical list that you bring polling place with you. Many states do allow phones at the polling place, but several states explicitly don't — Nevada, Maryland, and Texas all ban phones, and that may not be an exhaustive list. There may also be states that allow individual city clerks to set policies.

You should also pause and think before you take a photo of your ballot, because even some states that don't ban phones still ban ballot photographs. But whether it's a photo, or just having your phone in general — in an environment as high-risk for voter suppression as the current one, you don't want even a little bit of ambiguity about your conduct. Physical notes are your friends.

[noirscript]

Lavender and Powder

Pairing: Yandere!Farmer x City Girl!Reader Description: Isaiah, a farmer with a quiet intensity, becomes an unsettling presence in your life after a chance encounter. What starts as neighborly kindness spirals into a chilling tale of control and obsession, leaving you trapped in a nightmare you never saw coming. Warning/s: Yandere | Psychological Manipulation | Obsession | Emotional Coercion | Stalking | Non-consensual Confinement | Forced Domesticity | Dubious Consent | Threats | Intimidation | Mild Physical Violence | Implied Babytrapping Note: I tried to make the reader bratty in the drafts but it doesn't feel right T^T I don't know if the anon who requested this is still lurking here or not, but enjoy! Also, join the taglist by clicking this link! (My interview ended few minutes ago. My brain is toasted af. T^T)

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% off

You’d only been in town for five days, and already you were part of the scenery at Gracie’s Diner.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. You didn’t mind the grease that clung to your skin, the clatter of dishes, or the sting in your legs after double shifts. What mattered was that you were earning your keep—paying your bills, fixing up the wreck of a farmhouse your mother left behind, and doing it all without help.

You weren’t here to be rescued.

“You sure you’re not overworking yourself, sweetheart?” Gracie asked as you refilled the sugar jars. She was a woman who wore her sarcasm and worry with the same ease as her eyeliner.

“I’m fine,” you said with a smile, rolling your sleeves up higher. “Gotta pay for a new water heater somehow. Thing practically screamed when I tried to shower this morning.”

“Thought your neighbor offered to help with all that?”

You stiffened.

You remembered him well. Isaiah. The farmer with shoulders like barn doors and calloused hands that looked like they could crush rock. He came to welcome you on your first day with a crate of eggs and a bashful smile. In return, you gave him a plate of spaghetti you made that night, more out of politeness than interest.

You hadn't realized the way his eyes lingered as you handed him that plate.

That in his mind, that gesture sealed a bond deeper than you’d ever intended.

“I told him I had it under control,” you said simply.

Gracie gave you a look. “I know you city girls are all about that independence. Just be careful. Some men ‘round here get ideas.”

You laughed softly. “I can take care of myself.”

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Your shifts were long. The tips were modest. And the farmhouse was stubborn in its disrepair. But you were managing.

Until your truck died.

You were halfway down the lonely road toward your house after closing the diner when the engine sputtered and gave out. No signal. No cars. Nothing but the humming of bugs and the distant rustle of trees.

You grabbed your backpack and kicked the tire, muttering curses.

Then headlights pierced the dark.

Isaiah pulled up beside you, leaned out the window with a smile that looked just a bit too pleased.

“Well, now. Looks like you need a hand.”

You blinked. “Yeah… my truck just—stopped. No warning. Can I get a lift home?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Was just headin’ back from drinks with the boys.”

You got in.

The silence stretched as you talked. You were tired, but adrenaline kept you going. You talked about the renovations, your job at the diner, your plans to eventually turn the farmhouse into something self-sustaining. You didn’t notice the silence behind the wheel. Not really.

“I just think women shouldn’t have to rely on anyone,” you said, stretching. “It’s freeing, you know? To build something yourself.”

His hands clenched the steering wheel.

You didn't notice.

But he did.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Three days later, the farmhouse was broken into.

You came home after your shift and found everything ransacked. Nothing stolen—just destruction. Dishes shattered. Curtains torn. Couch cushions ripped open like animals had clawed them apart. Your knees gave out. You screamed.

Isaiah arrived before the sheriff.

“Jesus,” he said, crouching beside you. “You alright? You’re shaking.”

“I—yeah—I think—” You gasped. “They didn’t take anything. Just trashed it.”

“No way you’re sleeping here tonight,” he said. “Door’s broken. You’re vulnerable.”

“I’ll go to a motel—”

“They’re all booked for the rodeo this week,” he interrupted gently. “Look, I’ve got a guest room. Just for a night or two.”

You didn’t want to. But your nerves were shot, and there was nowhere else to go.

“Just a night,” you agreed, voice hollow.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Isaiah’s house was too perfect.

Pristine. Polished floors. Dishes stacked in neat rows. A faint floral scent lingered—lavender, maybe.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are clean. I’ll get the bed ready,” he said, walking away with your overnight bag like it already belonged there.

You spotted a mug on the counter with your name on it. Painted in soft pastel blue.

“You… had this?”

He smiled. “Felt right. Made it when I heard you took the old place.”

You tried to joke. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He smiled wider.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You tried to offer him money the next morning, after breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Homemade biscuits. Too good.

“Don’t insult me,” he said quietly. “Just help out around the house, alright? You’re already doing so much.”

So you did. You swept. Cleaned. Cooked dinner once or twice. Anything to repay him for the roof over your head while you called contractors and scraped together the funds for repairs.

But the contractors never called back.

Your calls went unanswered.

The mechanic said your truck was totaled.

You didn’t realize someone else had made sure of that.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

It was a week later when you heard Isaiah on the phone.

The kettle had just started to scream when his voice reached you from down the hall, muffled but distinct. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—not really—but something in his tone made your body freeze.

“…No, she hasn’t figured it out yet. Sweet thing still thinks this is charity.”

A low chuckle.

“I’ve been teaching her… slowly. She’s adjusting.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower.

“Not yet. But soon.”

You stood there for a second too long. Long enough for the kettle to whistle sharply, loud enough to cover the sound of the ceramic mug slipping from your hands and smashing against the floor.

The tea scalded your bare feet. You barely felt it.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his voice stopped mid-sentence. The sudden silence on his end was deafening.

You moved.

Bolted.

You didn’t think—just acted. Your legs carried you on instinct, slipping on the wet floor, catching yourself against the wall, fingers fumbling for balance. The hallway felt longer than usual. Your vision tunneled, the walls squeezing closer with every second.

You reached the back door.

Unlatched.

Unlocked.

Hope surged in your chest so violently it made you gasp.

You wrenched it open.

Cool air hit your face, the smell of soil and pine and freedom burning in your lungs. You were halfway out—one foot in the grass, fingers scraping the edge of the doorway—

And then a hand, large and brutal, slammed the door shut.

With you halfway through it.

You screamed.

The edge of the frame cracked against your ribs as Isaiah yanked you backward, one arm wrapping tight across your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, clawed at his skin, but he held you firm—an immovable wall of muscle and determination.

“I knew you’d run,” he muttered, breath hot against your ear. His voice had lost the syrupy sweetness he wore like a mask. Now it was raw, cracked, and furious. “Ungrateful little thing.”

He turned, carrying you effortlessly despite your thrashing.

“I’ve done everything for you. Gave you safety. Gave you warmth. A home.”

He slammed the door behind you both with his boot, the echo like a gunshot.

You fought harder.

“I was gonna ease you into it,” he snarled, dragging you past the kitchen. “Let you feel like you chose this. But you just had to snoop, didn’t you?”

He didn’t take you to the guest room.

He took you down the hall, past the door you’d never seen open. The one that was always locked.

He kicked it in.

And there it was.

The cradle. A handmade wooden crib, nestled in the center of a room painted in soft yellows and sage green. The mobile above it spun slowly, creaking on its hinges, casting distorted shadows across the walls.

Everything smelled like baby powder and lavender and something far too clean.

Your stomach turned.

“No—no, let me go—!”

“You’re mine,” Isaiah hissed, slamming the door shut behind you. He twisted the lock before pressing you against it, pinning you there with the full weight of his body. “You fed me that day. You smiled. You looked at me like I mattered. What the hell did you think that meant, huh?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “It was just dinner—it didn’t mean anything—”

“It meant everything,” he growled, gripping your chin so hard it ached. “It was a promise. A bond. You gave yourself to me when you fed me. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You whimpered as his hand dropped to your hip, then your wrist, guiding you toward the crib with terrifying tenderness.

“You’ll see. You don’t need that diner. You don’t need money or dreams or whatever garbage you believe in. You need me. You need this.”

He pressed your palm flat against the cradle’s wooden edge.

“You need to understand your place, wife.”

You sobbed, body trembling, but there was no more strength left to fight.

His voice dipped lower, reverent and sickeningly soft.

“…And maybe it’s time you give me what I’ve waited for.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[callmecoke]

sugar baby headcanons!

CW: Mention of sex work, This is sfw generally but still deals with adult topics so proceed with caution.

Tf141 x reader

What you’ve realised about your favourite mystery account is that A) it's run by multiple people, and B) At least one of them is called Price.

You can’t exactly pinpoint who the rest are or how many, but you’ve managed to identify a few common themes when interacting with the account.

First, you know who Price is, and you can almost always tell it's him when he’s interacting with you. He’s the one you go to first regarding bills and fees you physically can’t pay. Within seconds, he transfers you the money and never lets you thank him for any of it. He also does his weekly check-ins to make sure everything is good. “Have you eaten?” “How’d you sleep?” “Did you take your meds last night?” That kind of thing. He’s also the one who calls you ‘Dolly’, a nickname he reserved for you. 

But you're also pretty sure this other guy (Simon) lurks in the chat when you’re streaming. He won’t ask questions; he just sends you random tips throughout the stream while he watches silently. He’s not as talkative as Price or the others, and that’s kind of how you know it's him. But you’ve realised that just because he’s quiet doesn't mean he doesn't want to talk. It’s quite the opposite. He enjoys hearing you talk about your life and day and silently rewards you. When you DM him, you even get a little conversation. Nothing more than money and a “Nice”, but still conversation nonetheless.

You know one other fellow spends most of his time in the livestreams and not in your DMs (Gaz). He’s the one who engages with you in conversation the most, asking endless questions about your life. And he always comes back on the next live stream, remembering everything you said in the last. He’ll want the update on that project you were working on for school or if that job interview went as well as you both had hoped. If you weren’t Live to complete strangers, you’d probably open up to him about stuff you’ve never told anyone.

Now…One more person shows up now and again, mainly in your DMs. Part of the service for the website is that people can pay you to take a selfie and give it to them. They can be dirty or completely innocent; it all depends on what you’re advertising. There’s this one person who rather frequently asks for pictures of you, especially those with you smiling. You know it’s a different guy from the others you’ve spotted because he’s the only one who's outright flirtatious with you. Initially, you were wary. A man spending a lot of money on pictures of your face and upper body just screams trouble. But you grew to trust the account, so when you sent them the image, you were surprised by how quickly he showered you with praise.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ll give a strong man a heart attack walking around that gorgous.”

“Makes me wonder how cute you look in person.” “I’m surprised no ones come along and snatched you up all ready. Can’t complain though. Means I get more of you to myself.”

You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a slight blush on your cheeks after reading his responses.

[interact-if]

Writing Spotlight: Infamous (Interview)

We had the great pleasure to interview Amy, author of the massively beloved IF Infamous (@infamous-if). She shared some tips, tricks, and insights on her approach to writing.

One of the most notable things about Infamous is how quickly readers get sucked into its world and invested in its web of characters — be it Orion or Blake or G or Victoria or the slightly controversial Seven. They are all incredibly multi-faceted, complex, and sometimes heartbreakingly real.

Amy says:

“I’ve read something by a writer once that I’ve followed faithfully: you should always know what’s happening in the other room. Even if it won’t be available to readers, it helps establish the world and characters as real, tangible things that don’t just poof out of existence once they walk ‘off-screen’ so to speak.”

Here’s the full interview:

1. What drew you to interactive fiction as a storytelling medium? Did you have any experience writing in other formats before, and if so, would you say there’s any differences in the way writing for IFs should be approached?

There’s so much about writing interactive fiction that I love, but I think the main one is the freedom that comes with it! There are so many ideas I can explore, so many endings and storylines. It’s just as fun for writers as it is for readers to push the limits of what their world and characters can do. You can truly sink your teeth into it and develop the story in ways you don’t see often. 

Coming from writing traditional fiction and having never written an interactive story before, I did need to change my mindset a little. You have to learn to be flexible. Very often, I’m writing routes I wouldn’t particularly take as a reader, and it’s interesting to go against my gut to offer a varied experience. I’ve discovered a lot of fun things about Infamous and its characters from routes I would never take if I were reading it in another IF!

2. What does your writing process look like?

I am a plotter to my core! I am endlessly envious of writers who can pants their way through a scene or a chapter. I need to outline every single beat, every scene, every conversation. The plot comes to me first and then I slowly build the main character around that and ask myself what kind of story I want to tell with that main character.

The MC in Infamous leans heavily into the ‘underdog’ trope. That’s how I got much of MC’s personality from. The main thing I ask myself when building the main character is: what do they have, what do they want, and what do they need? I use that to inform the rest of the cast and the stats. My main goal is that every piece works in tandem with the others. They all make sense in my head! 

3. What does good writing / good characters / good world-building etc. mean to you, and what are some central tenets or principles you follow to achieve that? 

A story that gets me invested is a success in my eyes. I want to care for the characters and feel like the world is one that truly exists somewhere. I’ve read something by a writer once that I’ve followed faithfully: you should always know what’s happening in the other room. Even if it won’t be available to readers, it helps establish the world and characters as real, tangible things that don’t just poof out of existence once they walk ‘off-screen’ so to speak. The characters had lives before the story started, people they knew and things they’ve experienced. It informs their personalities and builds them what they are once you meet them on page.

The world is still turning even while the main character is asleep. Things are still happening everywhere…even when we don’t see it. That’s how I try to approach every story to bring it to life. 

4. What’s one piece of advice you’d give to someone just starting out in interactive fiction?

Be firm! It’s so easy to get swept up in the excitement of having an audience and wanting to keep that audience. It’s not uncommon to make the mistake of overpromising to please every reader. You won’t be able to, trust me! You’ll only write yourself in a corner. It’s healthy to find a good balance between sticking to your gut and accepting/being open to suggestions. 

A tinier one but: know your endings! It’s best to know what you’re writing toward. It’ll be so much easier to stick to the story and avoid meandering through the plot if you know how each route ends. Everything I write is to get to that ending in one way or the other.

5. Where do you find your ideas or inspiration for new stories or mechanics?Where did your story idea originate? Has it strayed far from that concept/evolved during the writing process? 

I guess it’s quite on brand to say that almost every story idea I’ve had came from a song, Infamous included. My head is always thinking of songs as potential needle drops or playlists as movie soundtracks. Infamous in particular, was formed from Brie Larson’s cover of Black Sheep in the Scott Pilgrim movie. It features a Battle of the Bands sequence that made me want to read a story with the same concept. I scoured and scoured for a band IF that scratched that particular itch but didn’t find any. Eventually, I gave in and did it myself! That’s one of the best parts of the community; you can just do it. 

Surprisingly, this is one of the few stories of mine that hasn’t strayed far from the original idea. I think it helps that I’m writing exactly what I wanted to read once upon a time.

End of interview

—

A big thanks once again to Amy for her insightful answers, and @veswrites-if for taking the time to coordinate the interview. Hope that this was a fun and interesting read.

Stay tuned for more of these interviews :)

[thestrangestthlng]

A little bit of discourse to distract myself from the sads.

• the canonical year is 2025. Chim joined the 118 in 2005. That twenty years, two decades. Tommy said that shitty did someone forget to tip the delivery guy NINETEEN YEARS before he came back into the current narrative. Like people fucking change and if you’re still stagnant after two decades, I feel bad for you.

• “east coast bitchiness” isn’t the same as calling someone a bitch and isn’t misogynistic. There’s a longstanding East Coast/West Coast “rivalry” that has people from the west coast thinking about us out east that way. It’s not that serious. Also, a decade ago.

• “he’s belittles Buck by calling him Evan.” Buck is a grown as fucking man that can speak up for himself. Buck is a nickname. Evan is not a dead name (imma really need yall to stop saying it is… it’s reductive and offensive).

• “he bought him basketball tickets, he hates basketball.” It was sweet. It’s a throwback to what got them together. Again. Buck is a grown ass man.

• “they’re setting him up for Buddie.” No, you chuckle fucks. They shut the door on that in 8x11.

• “why is ‘that man’ at the funeral?” Because Tommy was there for his first and last shift. Technically Eddie shouldn’t have been a pall bearer and he definitely shouldn’t have stood and saluted with the other personnel in uniform. He’s not a firefighter anymore. Tommy saved Bobby’s life TWICE now on screen. They didn’t have to bring him back, but they did and maybe it’s time to think on that.

The fact of the matter is that this is the most significant relationship Buck has had to date and they’ve been off as much as they’ve been on. If you watch what has been on the tv and ignored discourse, meta, and interviews and just watched the show how it’s written you’d see that Tommy is playing an important role. One that is a pointed storytelling decision.

You can like Bddie or dislike Tommy/BT, who cares, honestly. But be honest in why you don’t like Tommy, you can just not like him because he’s not Eddie. That’s fine. Both Buck and Eddie have both had misogynistic moments over the past eight seasons. You move past that, perfectly fine. It’s almost like it’s all performative. Trying to make yourself seem superior. How come all of Eddie’s not so great qualities are explained away by him being “repressed”, but the same leeway isn’t granted for the actual canon gay man who was actually closeted.

• Perfect characters are boring.

• People should be allowed to grow and change, encouraged in fact.

• “Tommy’s good people, he’s good for you.”

[beenovel]

Pro tip for people looking for meds or diagnosis. DO NOT MASK in front of a psychiatrist. I went in for an evaluation with a new psychiatrist this week with the goal of getting meds and I was just fully myself during the interview like bouncing my knees, only looking at him occasionally, breaking off mid-sentence to ask about the room decor (“were you in the Air Force? That’s a really cool chess set. Is that a Star Wars tie????”). And he did not even hesitate when I told him I was there to get adderall or another med he was just like “yup makes sense, let’s talk about your options”.

In the past I’ve always really struggled (and still do!) with masking around other people especially if they’re new, and this has sometimes made it difficult to get meds because I mask so well that sometimes professionals haven’t believed me when I said I was struggling because I looked fine.

Edit: I’ve seen a lot of people saying “it’s so hard to unmask though!” and yeah, it is. For me it was physically painful and nearly impossible. So I faked it. I bounced my leg, I wouldn’t look the provider in the face, I interrupted myself, I rubbed my palms on my legs and none of it was natural. I faked it all. And I did that over and over and over until it was real. Until I was comfortable enough with being odd to actually unmask

[henneseyhoe]

All In A Day’s Work

Lewis Hamilton x BLACK!FEM!Reader

WARNINGS:This Headcanon Is Nasty…I Mean Disgusting. Mean!Lewis(No seriously..he’s an asshole till like… the end lmfao), Mentor/Boss!Lewis, Dark!Lewis, Protege!Reader, Insults, Almost A Yandere!Lewis Undertone(I can’t help myself), Lewis Being A Perv, Cockwarming Orally, Spit, Power Imbalance, Dumbification(Kinda?), Pet Names (Baby, Doll, Princess, Slut), Age Gap Unspecified(21+), Public Sex (Kinda), Stalking (Mild), Dirty talk, Gagging, Brief Mention Of Anal, Reader Is Kinda Naive, Probs More Idk.

SUMMARY: They say never meet your idols..

✮✮✮✮

Mentor/Boss!lewis, who quite literally hated you.

He hated your work. He hated the way you worked. He hated your ideas. He hated the way you dressed too. How could you be in the fashion industry dressing like that, and who the hell did you think you were?

You, who looked up to him. You studied his style and cadence, he was your inspiration that kept you intrigued with art and fashion. There wasn’t a piece you have made that you didn’t imagine him praising you for, clapping from an audience of fellow famous designers as you win an award for pieces you made all by yourself. You dreamed so, so big.

Once a confident art school student who recently graduated turned a quiet, delicate thing in his presence. You needed to be that way. If you made yourself smaller, maybe he wouldn’t seek to bother you like he did daily.

It wasn’t just your liking for him and his work that made it hard to be around him, he made it his mission to make everything 10x more insufferable.

You didn’t even know why he hired you, really. There were rumors that he purposely never hired fans, stating that their inspiration from him would blind them from using their own creativity, and you made it very obvious in your interview that you were nothing short of star struck. But, the job was yours on the spot, approved and stamped by Lewis himself.

Your excitement coursed through your veins, hungry for the ideas and tips he’d give you along the way.

Sadly, you were paid just about what dust was worth. As soon as you began working It seemed you were just there to be his punching bag, something he could take his anger out on when someone, or you, most likely you, pissed him off.

Boss!Lewis, who purposely overworked you, making you type up drafts for his articles just as he came up with it in real time. You wanted desperately to make him proud, so you listened to each syllable of each word, each well calculated, evil, full of venom sentence that could end someone’s career that poured into your ears. You pay attention closely as you type, because he himself remembered everything he said, and if anything was out of place or missing from his rant, then he’d be more than pissed.

“This is all you heard? Have your ears somehow popped off your head and walked out of the building?…You wasted my time, and yours. Get out”

He’d say as he shoved the papers back into your hands, still warm from the printer. Did he even give time to actually check if they were right?

Your palms turned white with how hard you clutched the papers in your hands as you walked out, heels stabbing the marble floor with every step you took. He enjoyed seeing your display of emotion whenever he corrected you. This would toughen you up. Maybe even teach you to do things right next time.

Your ears felt hot with both embarrassment and frustration nearly every time he spoke to you. You thought working for your hero would be fun and empowering, but day by day you were proved wrong. How could someone so humble and kind on screen be so cruel to such a sweet girl like you? You were only trying..

Still, you tried harder to gain his respect by working more than you ever had, sewing till your fingers bled, drawing up new designs for him to see that you were getting better, bringing him sweet treats when you could to get even the smallest of thank yous, but again, he wasn’t too fond of your work, or you.

And god forbid you propose the possibility that maybe he was the one that was wrong, he made the mistake and you just made the mistake of following his every word and direction.

Leaning over his desk, you present to him the digital catalog for this year's spring, items of different kinds of clothing littering your computer screen as you click each one individually until he tells you to move on.

“Stop” Lewis points to a picture to halt your scrolling, your heart skipping a beat as you think, ‘Fuck…now what?’

He tsks.

“This suit is from last summer. I specifically told you last year seasons go into an archive, these are not average pieces people can just buy”

You squint, your eyes glazing the screen. “But I didn’t hear- You didn’t say that at all”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

He turned to you in his office chair and closed your laptop down, his head tilted in question. You couldn’t even look straight into his eyes to answer, it was like you saw all the souls he captured day to day screaming for mercy inside of them.

Before you could even fully get a word out he was already giving you your second warning that day.

“I suggest you watch the way you speak to me”

You did so, limiting your criticism to none. You desperately needed to keep this job, the clout, and the money from it. You knew your ideas were good, you just needed Lewis to see that. You needed a little boost, and Lewis was well aware that you couldn’t afford to lose anything you gained this year, seeing as it took you an entire one to find a company like this to take you seriously, having the honor to work as close as you do with one of Europe’s top designers. One day you hoped to be one just like him.

The company had many young workers, some directly hired by Lewis himself just like you, many with the same plans as you to become some big designer or director in the city. Some are not as hardworking as you, so you wondered why Lewis wasted time bullying you instead.

You complain to your coworkers often, thinking you’ve found some kind of friend, but are quickly corrected when you find out someone’s been snitching about what you’ve been saying about your boss around the office..

Lewis towered over you as you sat in a chair facing his desk, hands fiddling in your lap with your head hanging low in shame. This wasn’t the first time you’ve been embarrassed in this very office, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

“If you spent half as much time actually doing what I tell you to do instead of wasting your energy bad mouthing me around the building, maybe you wouldn’t have to be a fucking assistant anymore” He chuckled as he flipped through a catalog of unreleased designs while pacing the floor in front of you. The tapping of his shoes synced with the hard thump of your heart, every ‘clack’ leading a loud ‘lub-dub’ that you swore everyone in the room could hear.

Stopping in his tracks, he sighs and shakes his head, neat braids that framed his face swaying with the movement. He often faked his pity, you learned that early on. He cared none if you were struggling for whatever reason, in his head you either pull yourself up by your bootstraps or sit and suffer.

“If you can’t take the little shit I give you, then how do you expect to get anywhere in life, princess? Pretty faces can only get you so far, especially when you piss off important people before you even become somebody“

You keep your head down, careful to not make the mistake of shrugging at his question like the first time he had ever asked you anything you didn’t know the answer to.

“Wow..And you’re fired”

You look up from your sweating hands, your heart skipping beats when you realize he was talking to the woman behind you.

“What? Me? But-” Her stuttering clearly didn’t help her case as she tried to find the right excuses to keep her position as head director, which would eventually become vacant regardless. Lewis spared her a glare, but it was more of a warning for her to suck it up. He hated seeing people cry.

“No one likes a snitch”

You exited that room that day with a thankfulness not even gospel could pull from you. You kept your job and your spot next to him. Dignity and pride was in question, but at least you weren’t jobless.

The next week, you focused more on yourself. You wore your own designs, hoping to catch some kind of compliments, and you did! Just not from Lewis. It was already known that Lewis hated your style, but you could at least say it wasn’t as bad as his last assistant, whom he told you dressed like, and I quote, he “walked into the closet every morning with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back with only his mouth as an option to pick up the items to wear”...

You tried your best to dress to his liking and incorporate his style into your designs while also keeping your signatures. You spent your nights reading magazines he did interviews for to pick up on what he was feeling was in this year, but it wasn’t easy when he was so picky.

“Is that rose gold?”

“Where?.. On my watch?”

Lewis stayed silent, his eyes scanning you fully before he spoke again.

“No, on the floor” He said with sarcasm plaguing his voice, making you raise a brow.

“Take the jewelry off. It looks tarnished”

He nearly swooped you up just then to get something that actually matched your skin tone, but that’d be him just stealing company time for something more..personal.

Boss!Lewis, who soon got tired of your poor attempts at outfits and began to dress you in things he thought were good looking, giving you a box of expensive new outfits at the end of the work day, each labeled for which days you’d wear them. He even invited you over to his for a few “required” trials. Y’know, just to see how good the tailoring was.

And you were ecstatic about it. You, in YOUR idols house, getting adorned in expensive clothing you only dreamed about. It made up for everything he said to you that week to make you upset.

He took you into his very own study and told you what colors look best on you in each season of the year, gave you advice on what jewelry made you glow and the places you should put them depending on the cut of your clothes, he measured your waist, arms, legs, bust, everything, and told you what would go with your body type. Though you wished he could turn the heat up as he did so, you were starting to get a little cold in just your bra and underwear..

“Look at that…it fits you so much better than what you’re usually in”

He’d turn you to a mirror as you tried to lower the mini skirt you wore, attempting to cover more than just the cup of your ass. You could nearly feel a breeze every time he passed you by to get a look from different positions.

Apparently his favorite was from the back.

“You won’t be wearing anything I didn’t put you in from now on. Think of it like a work uniform, since you dress like the world outside is blind. Now, gimme a spin, doll”

Your new look caught the attention of other designers. Some loved the bold look, seeing it as a statement, like how fashion should be these days. They applaud you for testing out the boundaries and limits of a workplace. How professional could you be with your skirt riding up? Others were confused on why your style did an entire 180, and why they could see the valley of your breasts now.

Your answer was simple. Evolution is how the world stays afloat. If you don’t change in time and willingly, the world around you will force you to before you’re ready. Lewis told you that.

Boss!Lewis, who wished he did this so much sooner. His very own life size Barbie he could dress up and down any way he wanted. It was just an extra perk to being able to say anything to you and you still coming into work the next day.

You were beautiful before, he never denied that, all his insults were technically on your intelligence. Nonetheless, he believed he outdid himself with this idea, he could truly see your potential now. Everything you put on brought out your features so much more, it was almost dramatic, and you were starting to truly live up to the nickname he gave you. Now he wanted to know if you were just as flexible as any other doll..

Boss!Lewis, who couldn't get enough of looking at you. It was never an innocent attraction, it was never about wanting to help a protege, this was all for him and him only, the fashion industry be damned. He didn’t care about introducing you to a world of anything as soon as he got half of your clothes off.

The amount of times he was imagining fucking you in front of everybody should have been illegal. He even debated fucking you in his study when he invited you over, watching you drool dumbly with a tiny dress hanging halfway off of your waist. Your very own icon using you for what you were worth. He was already imagining things before, but the daydreams were starting to prohibit him from his duties of CEO.

He had to do something. Fucking his hand in the privacy of his office wasn’t gonna suffice forever.

Boss!Lewis, who went to bed at night thinking of you. Thinking of the ways he could bend you, how many times he could make you cum in one round. When he was with you he pondered on what kind of panties you were wearing. Were they black? Pink, maybe? Did they have a cute little bow on the front like they did when he dressed you? Were they lace and see through? So see through that he could bend you over his desk and spread your ass with his hands to see the pink peeking from behind your brown lips. God, he wanted you so fucking bad from the start.

Boss!Lewis, who started to become irrational. Wondering where you went after work, if you had anyone else to see. God knows what Lewis would do to him, or get done to him. He even followed you sometimes when he couldn’t take the wondering, you were absolutely oblivious to the Ferrari behind you at every stop.

Boss!Lewis, who didn’t need to see where your house was, you worked for him, so of course he had your address, but he needed to see what routes you took. How long would it take you to get there after he snuck into your bottom floor apartment and stole a pair of your underwear after snooping through your things, carefully placing them back where they belonged before snapping a picture or two. Money took him a long way as he bribed the security with a few bills to ensure he wouldn’t speak a word of his visit. Of course the dumb fuck agreed.

You notice your underwear going missing, but you pass it off as just misplacing them in all the other clothes that were being delivered from Lewis.

You also noticed how close Lewis was becoming, but that just made you giddy. Someone you still adored as an artist finally warming up to you.. And as a boss, he had to watch you for reasons, right?

From the time you got to work and clocked in from the time you left, he was watching from his office, glass windows so clear that you could see the condensation from his breath on it as he looked down upon his workers. When you left, his curtains were immediately pulled close.

“He’s just being a boss” “He’s always like that, right?” “Don’t think too much, this is your dream, You’ll ruin your chances with him” Your friends would say when you confided in them about the constant watching, but they didn’t understand that he wasn’t watching everyone, he was watching you. You weren’t sure you understood that he was just watching you either.

Time passed and now he didn’t just watch. He visibly followed. He touched. Brushing a singular finger up your bare arm as you worked aside him, the silver ring on his finger sent shivers straight up your spine and electricity to your core. That jump started a second heartbeat that wouldn’t settle till you walked away from him.

Boss!Lewis, who was unashamed, barely hiding the lingering stares or brushing.

“Sir?”

You’d dare to speak as he pressed himself up against your ass. It wasn’t firm, but just enough for you to feel him. Your hands were unable to move to continue writing up a list of fabrics he needed for later that week. You became aware of everything around you. The ticking of the clock on the wall was loud, the cold wood of his desk pressing on your forearms as you wrote was noticeable.

“Keep going”

He nudged with a hand on your hip as you let out a shaky breath. It was hard to work like this, you could barely believe it was happening where it was, with whom it was.

He thought you sucked at your job before, you could be no better now with him breathing down your neck, grabbing at your curves and using the excuse of just trying to feel the fabric of your clothes.

“Silk?” He asked, his hand growing dangerously close up your thighs from the rim of your dress.

Your breathing hitched, your hand hesitantly swiping his off of your thigh before you nod, trying to distract yourself from the intense staring by grabbing the nearest needle and thread, pretending to touch up a bralette in front of you that was basically already done.

Lewis smiles.

Boss!Lewis, who hadn’t gotten any better with distractions since testing his limits with you for months now. Watching you squirm, anticipating what was next was so much more satisfying than designing these days. But you? You had no room to slack.

He’d call you in his office just to watch you work, then complain about not getting enough done.

Just under your breath, you’d make smart comments to release yourself from some of the stress of the day, unable to hear his complaining for hours without a word for yourself like you used to. You didn’t say it to his face exactly, but he’d be near, his cursing prompting you to speak. You weren’t the girl you were a few months ago, the less he criticized you, the more you expressed yourself outwardly. You knew him, and he was all talk for the most part, you felt you deserved to say at least one thing even if only you knew what was said.

“Maybe if you did your job instead of looking up my skirt all day, damn perv…”

He heard you. He heard everything, remember?

“Perv?”

Perv? No, No, No. Lewis couldn’t let that slide. He wasn’t the one that was being weird, it was you. Sure, he made you dress a certain way, but it was your fault you looked like that. He was not. a fucking. pervert..Fuck.

Boss!Lewis, who made use of your mouth that had started to get smarter and bolder towards him the longer you worked for him. He kept you on your knees, under his desk with his dick stuffed in your mouth. Your jaw ached, and every time you made it known, he’d shove you down further, more spit trailing down your chin. He didn’t care if anyone knocked, or walked in. To them, it was none of their business, too scared to even mention the red bottoms slightly sticking from underneath the desk or the abrupt choking sound they’d hear in the middle of their conversation.

It just made Lewis even harder that they knew something was up. But no one was bold enough to speak up about it, scared they’d get blackballed from the industry they so desperately wanted to be in. If Lewis said they weren’t to be worked with ever…they won’t be.

After he allowed you to stand, your makeup had already smudged off, kisses trailing down his abs and a red print of your lips stained around the base of his dick so perfectly, that he took a picture of it when he went home that night and sent it to you straight from his own business number, his unbuttoned work shirt, abs and tattoos in shot and all.

You gasp when you opened it, your phone flying from your hand to the carpeted floor. You hadn’t even recovered from the events, and here he was reminding you that it definitely did happen.

‘This would be a great new tattoo, yeah? XX.

-Sir. L’

Boss!Lewis, who finally got the excuse he needed to do whatever he wanted to you. Why didn’t he just start spanking you from the beginning? Would have been easier than yelling at you, you probably would have let him so easily. All he had to tell you was it was a crucial part of discipline, of becoming your true artistic self. You would have been putty.

Boss!Lewis, who wanted to leave your panties soaked with his cum leaking out of you almost every late work night. So he did. You wouldn’t work overtime if you didn’t want that, obviously.

With every step you felt your lips glide together, making the mess so much worse. Your coworker asks why you’re walking weird the next morning, you say you sprained your ankle in your heels, but you’re fine. If they knew it was really all because your boss was creampie-ing you at nearly 2 in the morning, you’d be shamed out of the building. Climbing the ladder by sleeping with the CEO? How whorish of you.

Unfortunately, your little sessions with your beloved mentor weren’t making your days easier. How could you work properly with your panties soaked with your own arousal? Sloppy work made you upset, but so did unresolved cravings.

Boss!Lewis, who made you ride him while writing up notes as a punishment now. There was no excuse for mistakes. You had all the time you needed to double check.

“Spread your legs. Good girl. Keep going”

You complained with a whine and spread your legs further across his while continuing to bounce on him. Your thighs were burning like you had just done three sets of squats back to back, you were sweating, and the seat below you two was no dryer. Your handwriting was fucked, you couldn’t read a word back to yourself, but if you stopped, you didn’t know what he’d do next.

He caressed your back softly as you work your hips down on him, the clap of your ass against his pelvis bringing a smile to his face.

“Oh, baby…you better hope I can understand whatever’s on that paper”

Boss!Lewis, who gave you new strict rules on not talking to any male workers. It didn’t matter if they spoke to you first, you walked right by without a word, your eyes glancing upwards and spotting a familiar dark figure watching from your boss’s office.

You now had to cover up more, afraid anyone would see the hickeys that would magically appear on your neck whenever you’d leave Lewis’s office.

If the turtlenecks wasn’t a telling sign of what was going on, the sound of your voice coming out of the room sure would have been.

He began gagging you with your own thong, shoving it into your mouth as he slipped his fingers inside of you, his rings and tattoos coated with a thin layer of your cum. He licked up your neck, flicking his tongue over the darkening bruises as his fingers slid in knuckles deep.

“Be a good little slut and cum for me, okay? Can you do that for me, baby?”

You squealed into the cotton fabric in your mouth and threw your head back, your bangs falling out of your face as his fingers simultaneously pressed against your spot until your pussy was squirting like a fountain, wetting his rolled up sleeve.

That happened twice more. Eventually, he couldn’t shut you up with just a gag, but his fingers down your throat made the perfect replacement.

“You got the new designs all wet. I suggest you restart on these as soon as you get home, okay?”

12 hours wasn’t nearly enough time for you to get those sketches done, but you did it anyway, thanks to coffee and binge worthy shows.

You did so good, this was just another excuse for him to be able to finish inside you again, a hand wrapped around your throat to keep you still in the small office chair as he sung your praises about how much you were growing under his teachings.

He’d caress your face sweetly before sliding his thumb into your mouth, watching you suck on command. He loved the way you did as you were told without question.

“My pretty baby. You take it so well”

So proud you didn’t even need prepping from his fingers this time, your pussy greedily swallowed his dick and allowed him to fuck the way he wanted to. Feverishly. Every touch from him so fucking needy that he could just bite you. Your ass would be next, the size of him deliciously stretching you out with the help of your own slick and his spit as lubricant.

Maybe this little exchange was making you better as an artist. It seemed so. The insults were coming less and less, your designs were getting accepted more and more.

Boss!Lewis, who took you out to celebrate your growth, gifting you a ring with a tiny L carved on the inside of it and red bottom shoes that would stun the office. He treated you with the utmost respect with the paparazzi watching, making sure the image was nothing more than him going out to eat with one of his protégés innocently tagging along. Then, he took you back to his place and fucked you like a slut.

Your mouth was left open so wide you were convinced it would eventually lock in place like that. He didn’t even let you make it to the bed, the floor and your arched back was all he needed to get as deep as he wanted inside of you. You could scream all you wanted there. You were sure his maids got the hint to stay away from the foyer by now.

After he finished using you how he wanted, stuffing you full with his cum until he was perfectly satisfied, he’d kiss you on your forehead as if nothing had happened and you’d thank him. For tonight, and all your opportunities.

“I think someone deserves a promotion now”

Finally, you were where you needed to be.

✮✮✮✮

💌— I really hope yall liked this cause I cannot get Boss!Lewis off of my fucking mind 😭 I need him so bad yall like I literally had to FORCE myself to stop writing more smut in this 💔💔💔💔

[kingkat12]

the secretary (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: dry-humping, inappropriate usage of shoes, humiliation, degradation, masturbation, email-banter (tihi), mentions of BDSM, dom/sub dynamics

summary: Mr. Godfrey isn't done with you-- definitely not after he watched you cum yesterday. but are you sure you want to let him continue running over you like this? you're intrigued, that's for sure; obsessed.

word count: 7,815

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a/n: the way I have literally written all of this in the span of 24 hours because I CANNOT let go of this plot and the things I'm uncovering about myself this way????? I'm ashamed. you are ashamed. we are all ashamed. welcome to the club of shame, and enjoy;)

Anyone could be an assistant.

Anyone could write emails, organise meetings, take phone calls, and I knew this very well. My job didn't need me to have a big brain, didn't need me to be a PhD candidate, and didn't need me to be any kinds of sharp to handle my position. 

But the more I worked for Mr. Godfrey, the more I realized that not anyone could be a secretary.

Not the normal kind of secretary, fuck no-- not the kind that arranged appointments and answered messages, but Mr. Godfrey's secretary.

That was why he hired me, wasn't it? Because he saw that I could handle it. He recognized, in my job interview, that I was capable of handling the requirements of working for him, to take whatever he would throw at me. I had no idea how, or what the indicators were, but right now? Right now, I felt perfect for the job, and it was partially because he made me feel perfect.

Lilac. French tips. Hair down. Mr. Godfrey's instructions had left me feeling like a doll, and in the best way possible. Even as he was out of office, and would be for the next two hours, I sat by my desk, ready for him to pass me by and hopefully give me a nod of approval; anything would do, after what he had pulled on me yesterday.

Why had he asked me to make myself cum in front of him? Actually, a better question was, how the hell had I allowed myself to comply? There was something about the way he was talking down to me, the way he didn't look at me while I crossed my legs and complied with his every word, and it had thrown my mind for a loop. Why had I enjoyed it to that extent, the humiliation of it all?

I had stayed up all night, wondering what the fuck had happened. The more I googled it, the more I scoured the internet, the more confused I got-- because what came up, were BDSM relationship dynamics. Terms I had never heard before, terms I had never even considered, and they were suddenly floating around in my brain as though they were trying to find their assigned seats. 

I was ashamed to admit that I had watched some... odd videos. And by calling them odd, I was being gentle about my wording. They started out rather weird, with people tied up and stuff-- that wasn't my thing, that was for sure. But then, I stumbled upon some subcategory of suit-clad men, and... that was certainly up my alley. 

It was easy to imagine them being Mr. Godfrey, especially when the suits were a specific shade of greyish black and the shoes had a certain kind of shine. I felt bad, dirty, disgusting even, the more I went on, the more I let my imagination float around freely, because I was sure I shouldn't be having those thoughts about my boss. I was certain it was wrong on all counts of wrong. You-should-be-ashamed wrong. You-should-be-locked-up-you-disgusting-pervert wrong. 

I felt like a pervert. Imagining myself as those girls in the videos, those girls who were getting off on the suit-man's thigh, the ones getting bent over the suit-man's lap and spanked until their behinds were a rather pretty pinkish-colour-- I wondered whether that colour would suit me, and how gorgeous I'd feel with Mr. Godfrey's handprint on my ass. I'd feel like a goddess, I was sure of that. 

Then, I found one specific video.

The one video that I ultimately ended up saving on my hard drive. 

Because in that video, the woman was getting off the same way I got off beneath my desk, and the suit-man was filling out some sort of paperwork, not giving her an ounce of his attention. Was my life... a porn movie? That was a twist from what I thought it was, that was for sure, yet that wasn't important-- what was important, was what it made me feel, and what the video was categorized as.

The video title read as following (nasty as always); dom puts needy sub in place.

Was Mr. Godfrey a dom?

And yesterday, had I agreed for him to be... my dom? Was that what all of that was?

If so, then I was the luckiest girl in the world-- truly. The thought of all these new revelations left me sitting behind my desk with a bright, beaming smile as I watched his new email tick in with heart-eyes. I revelled in the feeling of being chosen-- chosen to do this, chosen to be his sub(?), being chosen to be his secretary.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Questions And Concern

Dear secretary,

I will be back in my office around 14:40. If Mr. Avery stops by before that, tell him I can meet him around 15:00 sharp. If he insists to meet me any earlier regarding whatever, tell him to shove his cock up his ass. Quite frankly, I couldn't care any less about the colour he wants to paint the lobby, and I have much more important things to care about.

However, I find myself concerned regarding my absence this morning. I trust you have not allowed the lack of direct orders to loosen your discipline? I expect your behaviour to extend beyond my line of sight. 

Can I trust that you are focused?

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

If I were focused? Fuck no. How could I be? How was I supposed to focus when Roman fucking Godfrey was sending me mails about my discipline? If he was so damn worried about my discipline, he should come and discipline me himself, honest to God. The more I thought about that word, the more I thought about the good-looking men in suits who were disciplining those women in the videos from last night-- 

I was about to become a porn addict, wasn't I?

From: You

Subject: Holding The Fort

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

You will be pleased to know that Mr. Avery has not stopped by. Hopefully he will not, so that I may avoid having to tell him to shove his cock up his ass. How would that even work, sir? I have never had these thoughts before, and I must say I am a bit stumped. Male anatomy is not my strong suit.

Regarding your concern, I must assure you that I am capable of performing my duties without your presence in the office. You have hired me for a reason, sir, and everything is running smoothly as of now.

Focused as ever, Mr. Godfrey.

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

Was that too much? It couldn't be. He wouldn't have used the word cock in an email had he not warranted this sort of interaction. Or? Holding my breath at the suspense, I decided to try to calm myself down by opening my private folder--

No, I wasn't about to watch porn at work, you pervert. I was just finding snake, the best game to play in the office. 

Time passed quicker this way, when I could turn my brain off and click on the cute snake to chase a bright red apple. It wasn't as though I had any pressing matters to tend to, now that Mr. Godfrey was out of office, and I allowed myself the liberty of slacking off, sure. Who wouldn't? It wasn't like he'd ever know. Now that he wasn't here, I wasn't stressing my ass off either, and I didn't feel the need to relieve myself like I had been caught doing-- I wasn't planning on doing that ever again in this damned office. At home, maybe. While waiting for the bus at the bus stop, fine. But while eating dinner? While filling out tax forms and paying my rent? No, that had to stop. I was doing this way too often, way too freely, way too casually. How many people had actually noticed throughout the years, just like Mr. Godfrey? How many times had I thought I had been slick when I had been blatantly obvious...?

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to throw myself off the top of the Godfrey Tower. But just as I was about to beat my high score on snake, having let my mind wander, a new email ticked in.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: A Teaching Moment

Dear secretary,

You have managed to momentarily short-circuit my brain. Congratulations.

However, since you are so stumped, here is your answer: one could probably do that with significant flexibility, a concerning amount of dedication, and—presumably—a severe lack of dignity. I would not recommend looking it up. Knowing you, you already have.

Now, about your claim of being focused as ever. You do realize I can see your internet usage? You have been playing 'Snake' for the past seven minutes. That culminates to seven minutes of wasted company time. Seven minutes of me rethinking your job security.

I do not care if you are bored. Return to your work, and do not lie to me again.

With reluctant indulgence,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

What?! I immediately clicked out of snake, and pressed my palm against the camera of my computer. Could he see me, or was he only getting some sort of report when he clicked on my device? That would mean that I was connected to his phone, somehow. That was both horrifying and endearing; was that company policy, or was that just Mr. Godfrey not being able to get enough of me?

... Probably the first thing. Something told me I lightly annoyed him, despite his indulgence with me. 

After ripping a Post-it and putting it over the computer camera, I straightened up in my seat, crossing my legs at my ankles as I typed up a response. 

From: You

Subject: Consider Me Taught

Dear Mr. Godfrey, 

For your information, I do not wish to see that sort of thing, and neither have I ever seen it. I find your assumption offensive. I am not some pervert; I am your secretary.

Regarding you seeing my internet usage, I consider my privacy violated. How is that allowed? I do not feel comfortable with that. Yes, I have been playing 'Snake', but that is because I have nothing else to do at the moment and I am taking a short break. Had I had any pressing matters, I would have been busy. I am perfectly capable of doing my job, and you threatening to fire me over something so insignificant and inconsequential does not help the matter. 

I apologize. However, I did not lie to you. I do not appreciate being called a liar.

Focused regards,

Your Very-Focused Secretary.

That was too snarky, wasn't it? I couldn't help it-- I stared at the Post-it note in front of my camera and felt my brows draw together with dismay. But here I was, slaving away all day, answering all of Mr. Godfrey's emails, dealing with annoying people who wanted to schedule meetings with him, taking all his calls, and he was monitoring me like I was some lousy secretary? 

Was I not special? Was I not?--

Wait. 

Mr. Godfrey had answered. Exactly two minutes and thirty-one seconds after I had sent my email. That must be a record of some sort.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Alright

Dear secretary,

You humour me.

I apologize that my access makes you uncomfortable. Is it maybe time for us to discuss some boundaries?

PS: You are a pervert.

With restrained regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

I had to do everything in my power to not jolt in my seat and gasp. Instead, I opted to press my forehead against my desk, holding back a string of screams. Was this seriously happening? It couldn't be. Did he seriously just call me a pervert in an email? I could send this to HR and get him in enormous trouble, yet... I gathered the strength to straighten up and drag myself out of the mud; fuck it. If he was calling me a pervert, I'd call him three.

From: You

Subject: Disagreements

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I am glad I humour you, sir. 

And if I am to be honest, I am afraid to say yes to anything related to the word 'boundaries'. It sounds a lot like something I associate with pijvodbuhvdobAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

... I didn't end up sending this, obviously. But was I about to type out the word? I couldn't. Would that scare him off? Would the direct call-out make him back off? Mr. Godfrey seemed like a typical avoidant. I didn't want to fuck this up, yet I felt like we couldn't progress without the necessary wordings, sadly. My comfort was necessary too, right?

I tried again.

From: You

Subject: Disagreements

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I am glad I humour you, sir. 

But, if I am to be honest, I am afraid to say yes to anything related to the word 'boundaries' after what happened in your office yesterday. It sounds a lot like something I associate with BDSM. I am fairly new to both the world and that sort of thing, but I did watch Fifty Shades of Grey illegally on some pirated website back when I was 15, so I would appreciate it if we could get it cleared up. Is that what is happening here? 

PSPS: You are a pervert, too.

Respectfully confused,

Your Secretary.

This could cost me my job. This could cost me everything. I regretted that email the second I sent it, and I squirmed in my chair and pushed away from the desk the second I hit send. What the fuck had I done? Why had I said that? Why on earth had I typed that?!

My body turned into jelly as I gave up on the intense anxiety coursing through my veins, and I allowed myself to slide to the floor. No one saw me, anyway, with how my desk was positioned in the office-- I wormed my way along the floor as I felt my breath constrict in my chest, and now that I wasn't allowed to get off to relieve my anxiety, I was left hyperventilating with no way to calm down.

Was this a panic attack? Had my clumsy email pushed me to that state? I wanted to cry and scream and orgasm from the adrenaline pumping through my veins-- this was confusing. And now, of course, Mr. Godfrey wasn't answering quickly anymore, so I was left to boil in my cauldron of torture. 

But just as I started creeping under my desk, hoping to hide, I realized someone was watching me. It wasn't my boss through my post-it covered camera, it wasn't God (I hoped), but as I slowly dared to look up, I saw a very concerned Peter leaning over the desk with a cocked brow. This could've been taken straight out of some coming-of-age romance movie, yet I couldn't feel any of the humour; now, I was only horrified to be found in this state.

My eyes widened, caught red-handed with my back to the floor-- "Peter," I breathed.

He broke out into a soft smile, followed by a gentle laugh; "Hey,"

"Hey," I mumbled, not even trying to get up. With a sigh, I submitted to my role as the girl on the floor, and shrugged. "This is not what it looks like."

"And what do you think this looks like, kid?"

"Like I'm having a stroke?"

"Meh," Peter walked around my desk, no longer suppressing his warm chuckle. He crouched down next to me, tilting his head as he scanned me on the floor. "It looks like you might be in need of a lunch break."

"I already had a break," I breathed, letting my body go limp. "I played snake."

"Snake?"

"The game where you have to make the snake hit the apple? The tail grows with every apple you bite, and then the screen gets crowded, so--"

"Kid, I've played it before,"

"Oh,"

Peter extended his hand for me, visibly amused by my antics. "Need a hand?"

"No," I said, accepting my position. "I'm waiting for the floor to swallow me."

"... Why?"

Because I was an idiot? Because I screwed up between me and Mr. Godfrey before anything had time to actually happen? "Because," I breathed, closing my eyes. "I'm just overwhelmed. I don't think I'm doing my job very well."

Peter sighed, the sound of it mixing with a brewing laugh of his. "If you're playing snake all the time, then I gotta agree,"

His teasing landed softly, and despite myself, a small, pitiful smile flickered across my lips. "I don't play it all the time," I muttered, voice muffled as I pressed my cheek to the floor-- I prayed that my skin wouldn't break out because of it. "I only play it when... when I've sent an email to my boss that may or may not have ended my entire career before it even started."

Peter shifted to sit cross-legged beside me, elbows on his knees. "What kind of email are we talking about here?"

I definitely couldn't tell him that. I opted for something vague; "The kind you don't survive,"

Peter raised an eyebrow, curious now. It took him a few seconds to scour his brain for all the stupid possibilities I could've gotten myself into. Then; "Don't tell me you sent Roman nudes?"

"What?! No!" I sat up so fast I nearly headbutted him. "It wasn't nudes, I'm not-- I'm not that kind of girl!"

"Okay, okay!" Peter put a hand on my shoulder, hoping to calm me down. "Whatever it is, I bet Roman won't care too much. He generally doesn't care, if you haven't noticed."

He was right-- Mr. Godfrey wasn't a man to take much offence, yet... something told me it was a front. He almost cared too much. Why else would he have made me get off in front of him? It was obviously some sort of power play. It was a way for him to feel in control again, right? A man who didn't care wouldn't go to such lengths, and all of this quickly deflected Peter's argument. "I hate it here," I groaned, glancing down at my lilac nails. French tips. French tips. Forbes nose. Oh, the Forbes nose...

Peter laughed properly this time, low and warm as he watched me fall apart, before he stood and offered me a hand again. "C'mon, kid. The floor's not gonna help. Come take a walk, get some water, anything. You're spiralling, but you're not getting fired," he added, gentle. "Even if you're a little weird."

Ugh. 

"... Thanks," I mumbled, begrudgingly taking his hand. Peter helped me up with surprising ease, and I did my best not to think about the way his bicep bulged through his shirt when he pulled me up.

Why couldn't my mind function properly? Why was I thinking about all these men this way? However, as I dusted myself off and tried to regain my composure, my computer pinged again.

My blood ran cold. That better not be Mr. Avery. 

Peter glanced at the screen. "That him?"

I shrugged-- some part of me didn't want to know, yet the other was screaming at me to lunge at my desk. 

"Well, don't just stand there," Peter said, nudging me. "Go read it. Life could be worse... He could humiliate you in front of Middle Eastern royalty, or something."

I shot him a look. The mention of that incident gave me a major case of PTSD. "Ha-ha. You're very funny,"

"Just don't let him fire you," he teased, stepping backwards. "Who else would I find lying on the floor at this place? I need my court jester."

"Hilarious, Peter! I'm dying of laughter, here!" 

With a snarky grunt, I refused to watch him walk away when he did. I didn't need to see him to know he was smirking. I stepped back behind my desk with unmatched speed the second Peter was out of sight, adjusted my blouse like it would fix the past ten minutes, and opened Mr. Godfrey's email with my body trembling from the adrenaline.

My eyes skimmed the email--

Oh fuck.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Clearing Things Up

Dear secretary,

You are not in a position to send me emails like your previous one. You are overstepping, and you are being inappropriate. I suggest you get back to work and no longer mention explicit movies and terms. This exchange was beneath both of us. Do not repeat it.

However, if you insist on misbehaving, do have the courage to do it properly.

Sternly,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

... What the fuck was that supposed to mean?! 

So, I just got the telling off of the centuries, yet I was encouraged to go on? What the fuck?! This was becoming masochistic on my part, and I realized I wouldn't participate in that willingly. In the midst of my brain melting, I felt my thighs automatically pulling together, clenching and unclenching despite Mr. Godfrey's clear instructions not to do that anymore-- I knew what happened the last time I was caught doing this, but he was gone now, right? He wouldn't know. He would never know, and I could relieve myself, I could feel better, I could cool down my brain--

Wait.

My fingers went to my keyboard, operating on autopilot, because suddenly, I remembered the loophole. Mr. Godfrey had explicitly offered me an option to this yesterday, when he said that I could do it, but... with his approval.

From: You

Subject: (No Subject)

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

... May I?

Waiting,

Your Secretary.

One minute. One minute and fifty-seven seconds. That was how long it took until my computer filled the silence with a robotic pling, and I could breathe again.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Re: (No Subject)

Dear secretary,

What a smart girl you turned out to be.

With that said— no. I'll deal with you when I return.

Patiently,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

The blinds were down, and the door to Mr. Godfrey's office was slanted, slightly open-- the sight of it made my heart stop in my chest. I had been gone for about three minutes, only to grab a glass of water, fix my hair in the reflection of the windows and pop some gum into my mouth, but I had somehow managed to miss him coming back to his office.

This was bad. This was so bad.

Just as I anxiously hovered around my desk, trying to get a quick glance inside the office to see whether Mr. Godfrey was free, I spotted the briefcase that had been left outside, leaning against the wall. I recognized that briefcase immediately-- Mr. Avery's.

... Oh no. 

And it was at this moment that I spotted the man I had been dreading to see all day, yet the one I had waited for with burning fervour. His suit was dark blue today, complementing his pale skin and bringing out the gorgeous brown colour of his hair-- my eyes were morphing into tiny hearts, and I could do nothing to stop it. 

But suddenly, green was all I saw. Green, green, green, as I locked eyes with Mr. Godfrey through the crack in the door, and they were beautiful, but they were filled with burning wrath; the sight of it nearly made me accidentally swallow my gum. He crossed his arms over his chest, jaw clenching, eye twitching with restraint as he quickly jerked his head, motioning for me to get the fuck inside before he chewed my head off. 

With a sharp hitch of my breath, I hurried to get through the door, shutting it behind me with a click. In an ideal world, I'd press my back into the door and hyperventilate, but I knew I had a job to do-- by the look of Mr. Godfrey, I needed to get Mr. Avery out, stat.

Anxious, I tried to chew my gum as quietly as possible whilst approaching the intruder. He was going on and on about repainting the lobby a rather particular shade of orange to hopefully raise the happiness-rate in the entire building; "Statistically, orange is the thing-- the colour that is supposed to improve someone's mood!" he said, stammering and stumbling around his words. "I think it would help the general feeling of the office. If your employees walk in happy, why not do it?"

I blinked-- orange? Godfrey Industries... orange? Mr. Avery was clearly a man who was either sick in the head, or sick in the head.

With unsure steps, I took my place next to Mr. Godfrey, who was now leaning against his table, staring back at a rambling Mr. Avery with disbelief-- or was it disgust? I didn't dare to look at him for too long. This way, with him half-sitting, we were almost the same height. For a split second, I wondered how it would feel to kiss him when he was on my level, whether he'd be the kind of man to gently pull me in by my waist or yank me toward him-- 

My mind would've wandered on like that forever, but out of the blue, Mr. Godfrey extended his hand out in front of my mouth, palm up. Without looking at me, his fingers curled once in a quiet, demanding gesture.

My pulse stuttered.

He wanted the gum.

He wanted to see if I would follow him blindly. This was another test, wasn't it?

I stared at Mr. Godfrey, bewildered, waiting for him to laugh and retract his hand. However, that moment never came. What did come, was an annoyed huff, and another quick curl of his fingers telling me to get on with it without a single word.

So, I leaned forward-- I didn't dare to hesitate too long, and I parted my lips and let the gum fall into Mr. Godfrey's palm. My cheeks burned with shame as my eyes dared to dart toward Mr. Avery, whose voice had faltered mid-sentence. 

His gaze flicked down to the hand, then to me, then back again.

God, how humiliating-- and how good it felt to be the one chosen to be humiliated. Even in the thick silence, I had to bite back a rather sheepish smile. Mr. Godfrey and I had managed to shut up our annoying intruder, after all. Efficient. Genius. 

But without so much as a glance in my direction, Mr. Godfrey closed his fingers over my gum and turned to drop it into the wastebasket beside his desk, shrugging as he absentmindedly said; "No orange. There will be no orange,"

Mr. Avery could shove his cock up his ass. I knew he was itching to say it.

And on the other side of the room, our annoying guest was fumbling to gather his stuff and get out as fast as possible. I wasn't the only one who got intimidated by Mr. Godfrey, and that was actually rather nice to see. "Oh!-- Of course, yes," Mr. Avery stammered. "It was stupid, really. But I'm always happy to-- to try!" He stumbled toward the door and exited with the clumsy urgency of a man who knew he had overstayed his welcome.

The moment the door clicked shut, I turned back toward Mr. Godfrey, opening my mouth to apologize for letting in the intruder, but I stopped the second I saw green.

He was looking at me now, and it was quiet. The kind of quiet that suffocates, the kind that shreds you apart like the shredder on the 16th floor that nearly chopped my finger off the other day.

Mr. Godfrey didn't say anything. He was just looking at me like he was deciding something, and that made everything a thousand times worse. Was he maybe thinking about how to tell me I was fired, or was he deciding how to deal with me, like he had said in his email? In the midst of my inner panicked monologue, last night's research buzzed into my head. 

Dom puts needy sub in her place. The suit-clad men. The handprints left on sore, pink skin. Why had this burned itself into my mind? Why couldn't I be busy with something good for me, like... activism? Ugh, fuck it.

Then, Mr. Godfrey's voice cut through my thoughts with a stern; "Turn,"

What? I blinked. "Pardon?"

"Turn," he repeated, slower this time, voice dipped in that particular kind of mockery only he could master. His fingers tapped against the edge of the desk behind him, impatient. "You do know what that means, don't you? Or did all the video games and the gum rot your brain as well?"

My lips parted with a breath I couldn't catch. I felt heat crawl up my neck, shame prickling against my scalp. I should've turned around and done as told, but instead I stood there, blinking like a deer in headlights, unsure if I was supposed to obey or be insulted. In the midst of it all, I could feel the red lights going off in my brain-- what was he about to do? 

Mr. Godfrey sighed, long and theatrical. "Pathetic," he muttered, pushing away from the desk. I let my eyes follow him, allowing myself to watch how fantastically tall he was-- every part of me wanted to climb him.

He was right in front of me now, close enough that I caught a faint trace of his cologne, and then his voice dropped just above a whisper; "Turn. Around,"

Something sharp and electric ran through my spine, and my legs moved before I could stop them; I turned around, and every atom I was made of screamed for him to praise me for it. Face flushed, heart hammering, I stood with my back to him. Silence followed as I felt him looking, like his gaze had weight, and like it was actively crawling up my spine. "Mr. Godfrey, sir, I--"

"Bend over,"

I blinked, unsure I had heard him right. "Excuse me?--"

"My patience is running really damn low, so I suggest you don't make me reiterate a fourth time,"

My breath caught, and it resulted in me hesitating for just a second too long.

Cold fingers curled around the nape of my neck-- not tight, not cruel, but enough to make my knees buckle. Mr. Godfrey pressed, and my body obeyed without another thought; my palms braced against the cool wood of his desk, and to my horror, I could feel my skirt automatically sliding up my thighs.

... Was this why he told me to wear a shorter skirt yesterday?

"Sir?" I breathed, feeling my eyes prickle. For the first time, I found myself feeling scared. I could fantasize all I wanted, sure, but having it all happen in real life? I wasn't sure I was ready for it. "Sir, please don't-- please don't--"

"I'm not going to fuck you," Mr. Godfrey said, calm and precise as his hand left my neck. "I have no interest in that whatsoever, I can assure you. However, I need you to stay still so I can check something out."

Could my boss perhaps read minds? I let out a choppy stream of air, nodding against the desk. 

Behind me, Mr. Godfrey moved with no rush. He was crouching, now, and I could feel the deliberate slowness of his breath near the backs of my thighs. Then, his fingers brushed the hem of my skirt, lifting it higher with clinical, unhurried care. 

My breath caught; I could've sworn I heard him hum. Why hadn't I worn nicer underwear today? Fucking hell. Of course, I had no idea anyone would be seeing the pair I was wearing right now, but I was happy I had at least chosen something with a little bow in the front. 

"You're not wet," he murmured, more to himself than me. "I take it that you didn't go against my word, then?"

Was he talking about how he had denied me getting off earlier today? Me not being wet anymore had nothing to do with that, though. I was sure I could've gotten off completely dry, if I wanted to-- but did Mr. Godfrey need to know that? Certainly not. "I didn't,"

"What?"

"I-- I didn't, sir,"

"Good," 

As I exhaled against the desk, I found my brain buzzing with my inner voice pleading with him to touch me. Just the brush of his knuckles against my inner thigh would make my knees buckle, I was sure-- my cheeks were a rather embarrassing shade of pink as I closed my eyes and imagined how good it would feel if Mr. Godfrey decided to press his thumb against my clit, or even better, against my core to check if my wetness just hadn't reached my underwear. I didn't even care if his hand was still sticky from the gum he'd held in his palm.

But then, I couldn't feel Mr. Godfrey's breath against my thighs anymore. "Stand up," he said, rising behind me.

I scrambled upright like my body had been waiting for permission to move. Fidgeting, anxious, I adjusted my skirt, pulling it down as much as I possibly could. Now, Mr. Godfrey had seen me cum, and seen my underwear. What would be next? Would the next thing be him witnessing my suicide, because he had driven me to it? Hopefully not. 

My gaze met his the second I turned around, and I immediately regretted it. Green, green, green. Forbes nose. There was no softness in his expression, no teasing-- just that steady, infuriating coolness of a typical CEO. And just as I thought he was about to say something nice, praise me for following his orders, anything; "You... smell like need,"

I blinked. "Weed?"

"... Weed?" Mr. Godfrey echoed, blinking back at me. "Need. Are you partially deaf, or?--"

"Sorry, sir," I squeaked, no longer meeting his gaze. Why did I think he had said weed? Stupid, stupid! "I swear I don't smoke. I barely even drink, sir."

Somehow, I felt like my blabbering intrigued him. "Oh, is that so?"

"Positive,"

"Well, I do," he said, shrugging. "Weed can be nice. Do you have any schizophrenics in your family?"

What?! "No...?" Not that I knew of?

"Good. Then you most likely won't go into psychosis if you try some," Mr. Godfrey tilted his head, scanning me as his brows drew together just slightly. "You seem like a risk-taker to me, though. Why don't you smoke?"

"I--" My knees were still weak, and I had to clear my throat. "I like my lungs."

Mr. Godfrey hummed; "Why don't you drink?"

"Cause I'd be an alcoholic," I blurted out, swallowing. "I get addicted to things really easily. I'm rather obsessive, sir."

"Obsessive?"

"Yes, sir,"

"About...?"

"Things I shouldn't,"

Mr. Godfrey didn't speak. He just looked at me with a blank expression, not giving away anything until he suddenly moved. One step, then two, and he passed me by. For a split second, he was close enough that I could smell the faint bitterness of his cologne and something else under it: smoke, leather, maybe the edge of something metallic?

He sat down in his chair with a satisfied sigh, spreading out. His green eyes were tethered to me, like if he looked away or blinked, I'd manage to run away. "Down," he said.

Baffled, I stared. "Sir?"

He looked vaguely irritated by the fact that I was still standing. "Get over here, and get on your knees,"

The words hit like a low bell in my chest, reverberating; yet, I obeyed... slowly. When I reached him, my knees kissed the floor, and my skirt folded around my thighs as my heart climbed up my throat. I wasn't sure what this was-- punishment? Reward? A lesson for not having sharp ears? What was about to happen?

He didn't explain; this was Roman Godfrey, for fuck's sake. He didn't explain himself to anyone. Instead, he spread out further, just far enough that the pointed toe of his right shoe came into view. It was glossy black, expensive, possibly new. He angled his foot slightly toward me, casual.

"Obsessive," he repeated, as though he was tasting the word. "I suggest you don't tell me any more of your weak points. I'm compelled to use them against you, and I'm not keen on restraining myself in my own office."

I stared up at Mr. Godfrey, eyes round with a mix of fear and confined excitement. However, his eyes were on his right shoe, watching the way the gloss shone beneath the office lights. "You've done well today, compared to yesterday," he hummed. "You aren't rejecting the structure I'm implementing in you, you've controlled yourself, for once, so... I believe that deserves something. Doesn't it?" 

I didn't dare answer-- my thighs were shaking. The floor felt too hard beneath my knees, and still I didn't move. Not because I liked it, but mostly because I kind of hoped it would bruise. I'd bruise my knees for Mr. Godfrey any day. "I-- I don't know, sir," I finally whispered. 

"Don't lie. You want something, but you're afraid to ask. You're allowed to ask, are you aware of that?"

I was... allowed? I was so tense I could feel the ache behind my knees. My whole body was humming with unreleased want, my thoughts skipping like stones across a lake I couldn't dive into.

Then, Mr. Godfrey leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, voice dropping: "You can get off now. But if you must, you will use my shoe,"

I blinked. "I-- Sir?"

"You heard me," There wasn't a hint of humor in his tone. "I'm tired of watching you squirm in your seat. Are you not able to cum any other way? If not, then we have to change that."

Shame crashed over me like a hot wave. "I-- I don't know, sir, I haven't tried--"

"Don't play modest. You're obsessive, so obsess," He nodded once, slow and deliberate, at the pointed leather. "Go on."

I couldn't breathe. This was seriously almost exactly like something I had watched in one of the pornos from last night. How was this happening? How was I letting this happen?

But... my body moved.

I shifted forward, the floor scraping faintly under my knees, and lowered myself just enough to press the clothed ache between my legs against the toe of his shoe. The friction was maddening even through my underwear-- just the firm drag of polished leather against a part of me so tender I could barely keep my balance. 

My breath hitched, and my pleading eyes found his; "Mr. Godfrey, sir, are you-- are you sure?" Please, please don't let this be some mean trick. 

He didn't react-- not a twitch. Just sat there like the authority figure he was, watching me demean myself. "Don't question my word," he said, icy. 

... Okay, then.

My thighs trembled as I started to move-- tentative, shallow motions, with my clothed sex gliding against the stiff leather of his shoe. The room blurred out of focus, and I wasn't even sure if I was breathing anymore. Why did this feel so good? I never thought I'd ever sink so low, yet here I was.

There was no sound in the room but the slight drag of fabric and the soft, wet sound my body made against something that would never respond to me. 

And still, Mr. Godfrey didn't move, didn't blink, but at least I had his full attention this time. Now, he was actually looking at me. Yet; "Pathetic," he murmured, just loud enough. "It's almost sweet."

I swallowed a gasp and squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn't stop the wave of humiliation from peaking and breaking over me. My cheeks were wet-- maybe with sweat, maybe not. I couldn't tell anymore, yet still, I rocked. Each movement sent a shudder up my spine, each pass over the tip of his shoe tugging a needy, desperate noise out of me. I needed more pressure, needed to lean into it, but I couldn't balance.

Without thinking, I reached forward, planting a shaky hand on the edge of his thigh for support, feeling the soft fabric of his suit against the burning tips of my fingers.

But... I shouldn't have. Holy shit I shouldn't have, because instantly, he recoiled in what I could only decode as disgust. Mr. Godfrey wafted me away like I was something distasteful-- "No," he hissed, biting and sharp. "You don't get to touch me."

Fuck-- I froze. Something about his knee-jerk reaction shocked me to my core. My whole body seized in place, and that was when it hit-- the burn. Not just between my legs, but in my eyes, in my chest. The rejection, sharp and cold and cutting straight through the heat of arousal; my vision blurred as tears welled up in my eyes. I blinked hard, but it was too late. He saw.

Mr. Godfrey's gaze locked on mine again-- green, cold, assessing. Just for a second, I thought I saw something resembling guilt, but that would be impossible. Roman Godfrey didn't feel guilty about anything. If anything, he made you feel guilty for even existing in his vicinity. 

But then, something shifted. He didn't soften, not quite; he didn't have that in him, I think. Still, he leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and brought his hand up between us.

I flinched, until my foggy brain realized Mr. Godfrey's thumb was gently pressing against my lips. 

Open.

Without thinking, my mouth wrapped around his thumb, slow, obscene, wet, as my hips ground down harder against his smooth shoe. Something about this functioned like a pacifier, and I suddenly found myself no longer wanting to cry. What the fuck?

Mr. Godfrey's eyes stayed on me, watching the way my lips closed around him. And then, he granted me the words that were the closest to an apology than anything he'd probably ever granted anyone before; "Good girl," he cooed. "That's better."

My tears, freshly humiliated, welled again, but now they mixed with something sickly warm-- something that felt dangerously close to affection for both of us. He wasn't angry anymore. He was... assessing me, testing me out like he was trying me on for size. I could breathe again. He had actually praised me. Roman Godfrey had praised me. That was all I had ever wanted, since the second I started working for him.

Mr. Godfrey shifted his hand, thumb still in my mouth, and the pad of it traced over my tongue like he was checking the texture. My jaw ached to close around it, bite down, do something that would make me feel less helpless, but I didn't dare. I suckled, soft, obedient, grateful.

"There we are," he murmured, like he was proud of a kid for saying a full sentence.

The burn of his affection made me whimper. I didn't mean to, but the sound escaped from somewhere buried deep. 

"Was that too much for you?" he asked, brushing a tear from under one eye with the knuckle of his free hand. The question was rhetorical-- he didn't wait for an answer. "Told you we had to talk about boundaries."

I didn't know what to say, yet couldn't say anything at all with his thumb filling my mouth. Still, my body kept moving, clinging to the friction, chasing release like it was the only lifeline I had left.

"Greedy girl," Mr. Godfrey murmured, shaking his head. "You want comfort and corruption. That's a dangerous combination. That'd get you obsessed for sure, and that's not what I want."

What the hell did he want, then? I had no idea.

My fingers curled into fists-- he wasn't wrong. I didn't know how to want something halfway, I never had. I only knew how to consume, obsess, drown, and right now, I could feel myself drowning in the pleasure. Who would've thought grinding against a shoe would feel good? Those girls moaning their asses off in those porn videos were seemingly not lying that much.

Mr. Godfrey watched me the way a handler might study a trembling animal-- somewhere between clinical and captivated. His thumb stayed in my mouth, anchoring me to him, keeping me quiet, subdued. It was too much. It was not enough. I didn't know which.

"That's it," he said, his voice like blood-drenched silk. "You're almost there, aren't you?"

I whimpered around his thumb, nodding, the friction unbearably perfect now; sharp leather, soaked-through panties, and the humiliating rhythm of my own hips chasing a finish that felt impossible to stop.

"Pathetic little thing," he whispered. "You're one heck of a fucking secretary."

That did it-- I shattered.

My orgasm hit like a car crash, sudden and sickeningly sweet; my body convulsed as my hips locked down hard against his shoe. I moaned around his thumb, eyes screwed shut, utterly undone and unable to hide it; I didn't have to.

And Mr. Godfrey just let me. He didn't move. Didn't help. Didn't soothe. He let me. He held his thumb steady in my mouth, watching me with quiet satisfaction as my body betrayed me; I shuddered, and clenching and weeping against something that would never, ever love me.

"Look at that," he murmured when I finally started to come down, my thighs trembling, my body wrecked. "See what happens when you follow my rules?"

I... 

Yes, but... 

I couldn't believe what had just happened. What the fuck had I done? When would this feeling of shame leave me? 

And had I just... gotten off on somebody's shoe?!

The post-orgasm clarity hit me like never before. With the last shred of dignity in my body, I allowed my teeth to gently sink into Mr. Godfrey's thumb-- it was barely anything, barely a scrape, barely a bite, but I had to do something in order to soothe the fire raging through my soul.

So, I get to humiliate myself like this when I follow his rules? I get to feel shame beyond belief in exchange for him shaping me to his liking?

No, sir.

Eyes burning with every feeling churning in my gut, I glared up at Mr. Godfrey through my brows, making him face my rebellion. How dare he use my affliction with him against me like this? How dare he waft my hands away from him? What the fuck was his problem? Why was he doing this?! I wanted to sob and hit him, to beg him to explain what he was doing to me. Was he conditioning me? What for? The image of the previous secretary flashed before my eyes, the odd tear in her skirt making the pit in my stomach heavier than ever; angered, I flared my teeth, sinking them harder into his thumb, hoping for some sort of reaction or wince from him, yet nothing. 

Instead, Mr. Godfrey pulled his thumb from between my teeth as though he couldn't feel a thing, and abruptly got up from his chair. I guessed he could see the thoughts behind my narrowed eyes, and it didn't take a genius to figure that it pissed him off. He had granted me my orgasm, so I should be grateful, right? Fuck no. Then, it didn't take long before he got his foot back from under me, and--

I gasped. 

Mr. Godfrey pressed his shoe against my chest and pushed. 

He stood on top of me, not pressing his whole weight on me, yet it was enough to make my eyes bulge as I tried to catch my breath. My back had hit the floor with a thud, and I struggled to understand what the fuck was happening. I would've hit him, would've tried to get him off of me, but... I wasn't allowed to touch him.

Even as he was stepping on me, my mind wouldn't let me go against him.

... This was so fucking bad.

Mr. Godfrey leaned down, pushing down hard enough to make me whimper, before he hissed with pure wrath in his eyes;

"Brat,"

(a/n: never have I ever found shoe-humping hot. never. I still sorta don't, but this was... yes sorry this was HOT IDKKKK WTF IS HAPPENING TO ME??? BUT THANK U IF YOU'VE READ THIS FARRR AHAHAH<33333)

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lovely little taglist:

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

@voidofsunlight @sn0wybowie-blog @scarledy @carmillavalentine

@succubustacy @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @ohperiodtpoohhh

@whisper-it-to-my-ear @prismozo @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @scarledy

@useyourwandbro @malenoradgn @veesenya

[evie-sturns]

ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ - ᴍᴀᴛᴛ ꜱᴛᴜʀɴɪᴏʟᴏ

summary: you're staying at your best friend's house, the sturniolos, for the weekend, until one night you can't sleep, so you decide to go for a dip in the hot tub.. but matt's already there.

contains: smut, virgin!matt, teasing, hot tub sex, semi-public?

----------------------∘°∘♡∘°∘∘ ∘°∘♡∘°∘--------------------

i roll over in bed, the clock on the wall reads, 11:57pm. i've been lying here for 3 hours with my eyes shut, but im too energised, i mean, the sturniolos and i have had a crazy few days, resulting in me staying the weekend.

i hoist myself up out of bed, flicking on the lamp as i dig through my tote bag for a small bikini, afterall its almost midnight, none of them would be in the hot tub at this time.

i open my bedroom door, tiptoeing past chris, nick and matts room down the stairs.

i creak open the backdoor, stepping out into the icy air which hits my barely covered body. i turn the corner to the hottub,

matt's sitting inside, his head tilted back, his eyes shut.

hes shirtless, wearing nothing but swim shorts. he doesnt notice me yet, but im just kind of.. admiring him?

the way he looks tonight is just different, ive known him for a few years but ive never felt like this towards him.

"matt?" i ask softly, being careful not startle him.

his eyes open slowly, looking up at me.

his cheeks instantly flush red, he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. "can i come.. in?" i ask, my eyebrows furrowing as matt just looks me up and down.

he quickly runs a hand through his hair before nodding "yeah yeah!" he says frantically.

i climb in next to him, matt just looks straight ahead. "are you alright?" i ask, adjusting the strap to my bikini top.

-

we've been talking and laughing for about 15 minutes, matt's still been nervous.

"and my friend, lana, she went for a job interview and came out of it with the job all because she blowed the manager off" i laugh, my straps accidentally slipping down again teasingly.

matt looks down at his lap before shifting uncomfortably, he clears his throat. my eyes dart down, its hard to see through the water, but matts got an obvious tent in his shorts.

"im sorry.." matt mumbles out in a whisper.

"why do ya think thats happened?" i ask casually, my hand dipping underwater and grazing his thigh.

matt stays silent, he looks horrified with himself.

"im so sorry just give me five minutes in the bathroom i can come right back-" matt rambles but i cut him off but straddling his lap.

matts breath hitches in his throat "oh-"

"do you think you got hard from.. me?" i say seductively, looking down at him.

"i'm sorry." matt says, his eyes fixated on my chest.

"was it from.. these straps?" i say, pulling down the straps on my bikini.

matt nods nervously,

"you can take them off if you want, i mean we are alone." i whisper.

matt reaches his hand out from the hot water, pulling off my bikini top, his tongue slides out of his mouth to dampen his lips as his cheeks go a dark red.

"why are you so scared matt, its not like youve never seen tits before" i joke, but matt tenses under me.

"matt..?" i say, dragging out the 'a'.

"uh.. i'm a virgin so.." matt says, his voice barely audible.

my eyebrows raise, a silence fills the night air.

"i know, we don't have to do anything.. i dont want to make you.. teach me?" matt rambles again, i cup his cheeks and pull him into a gentle kiss, shutting him up.

"you ramble when you're nervous.." i say, toying with the strings of his shorts, i get off his lap and sit next to him. the water is still and clear, illuminated by a blue led light.

i tug at the waistband of his shorts, revealing a small section of his base.

"oh fuck." matt quietly whimpers out.

“i’ll take it gently okay?” i assure him before pulling down his swim shorts,

i never knew matt was this big.

my cheeks flush as i climb back onto his lap, sitting just on his thighs as his dick rests on my stomach. i put my hands on matt’s damp shoulders before hovering just above his tip.

“please..” matt says, his voice hoarse

“please what?” i tease, pulling off my small bikini bottoms and discarding them somewhere in the water.

matt grips my waist, his hands firm against my skin. “please ride me..” matt says, clearly embarrassed.

i slowly sink down onto him, the warm water sloshing around us. matt’s grip on my waist tightens as he lets out pathetic noises.

“you- you okay?” i ask, burying my head on his shoulder as i slowly start to bounce up and down.

“i’m-..” matt struggles to speak, i let out a soft laugh.

“you don’t have to answer now sweetheart.” i whisper into his hair, picking up the pace.

it’s only been a few minutes, but i can tell matt’s close, his fingers are digging into me so harshly i know i’ll have bruises tomorrow.

his groans fill the night air, along with small splashes coming from the water. i clench around him, “i’m so close..” i warn, the knot in my stomach snaps as i orgasm around him, i feel matt tense so i quickly pull off of him, stroking him as he paints my hands with white.

“oh my god.. fuck” matt says, squeezing his eyes shut, he reaches out a hand and grabs my shoulder for support.

i run my thumb over his already sensitive tip, earning a gentle moan from matt. i pull up his swim shorts slowly.

“shit..” matt says, his eyes peeling open slowly.

“you okay?” i ask again, tying up my bikini.

“i’m-.. really good?” matt says, rubbing his eyes.

-

after a few minutes of talking and joking around, i stand up, climbing out of the hot tub onto the cold deck.

“same time tomorrow?” i smile jokingly back at matt.

----------------------∘°∘♡∘°∘∘ ∘°∘♡∘°∘--------------------

was a full task to bring myself to finish this 😭😭 hope y’all like it though

I also genuinely can’t tell if it chris or matt in the first picture by the title, but you get the point

[ourjobagency]

Preparing for a job interview takes a lot more than searching or Googling a list of tricky interview questions. Here are some tricks, tips, and advice that will help you come across as a potential candidate.

[touchtheinvisiblestars]

Imagine you get brought in to the station for questioning

***

You weren’t used to being on the other side of an interrogation table.

Technically, you weren’t a suspect. Not officially. But Tim stood in the observation room watching another detective question you like you were guilty of something.

He hadn’t even told you he was there.

The case was messy—money laundering, insider tips, and a dead informant. And your name had come up. Not as a suspect. Just… connected. Close enough for people to start asking questions.

Tim had been taken off the case before he knew about it. He'd asked if he could sit with you to support you. Grey said no.

Now here he was, watching someone else probe you for answers. Watching the furrow in your brow grow deeper every time you realized they weren’t sure if they trusted you.

And he hated it.

When the interview ended and you stepped into the hallway, you didn’t expect to see him there.

“Tim?”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared for a second like he was still trying to decide what he believed.

That cut deeper than any interrogation.

“You think I had something to do with this?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head. “No. I just… I didn’t know how close you were to the victim. You didn’t tell me.”

“Because I knew this would happen.” Your voice cracked. “I knew people would start looking at me differently. You would.”

He stepped forward, voice lower. “I never doubted you. I doubted myself. My judgment.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s almost worse.”

A long pause.

Tim finally said, “Then tell me what I don’t know.”

So you did.

[art]

Creator Spotlight: @jdebbiel

Deb JJ Lee is a non-binary Korean artist based in Brooklyn, NY. They have appeared in the New Yorker, New York Times, NPR, Google, Radiolab, and more. Their award-winning graphic memoir, IN LIMBO, about mental illness and difficult relationships with trauma, released in March 2023 from First Second.

Below is our interview with Deb!

Have you ever had an art block? If so, how did you overcome it?

That implies I am over my art block, but I’m still in it! I think about Kiki’s Delivery Service a lot and how she had to stop doing a thing, and that you can’t really force it, and you have to let it come back to you. It’s a pretty humbling moment, realizing there is more to life than just drawing. I’ve been trying to consume other content like reading or watching movies—anything that is not drawing-related—and to trust that it will come back to me. I think not being afraid to do the small pieces before committing to the big pieces is helpful. Because big pieces are what I am known for, I dig myself into a deeper hole, thinking that each piece has to be bigger than the last one. So yeah! Relaxing and doing the small things before overcommitting to a big piece is the best way to go about it for me.

Which 3 famous artists (dead or alive) would you invite to your dinner party?

I feel like these are all artists that I have second-degree connections with! Jillian Tamaki, Victo Ngai, and Tillie Walden would be my picks!

What are your file name conventions?

…What file name conventions? I mean, I don’t have specific file name conventions, but I actually have a public Google Drive archive! But I usually put “djjl_whatever-the-title-is_final,” and I would always know it’s the final and legit version.

What is a recent creative project that you are proud of?

I did an illustration for the whiskey brand Johnnie Walker. It’s so wild because I only had four days to finish it, and it usually takes me a week and a half if I rush. And honestly, it’s probably one of my best pieces from this year, which is funny. It was for the Mid-Autumn festival, so I made it as Korean as possible.

How has technology changed the way you approach your work?

I only use my iPad to draw everything now, and if I want to pretend that I have a steady workstation, I’ll use my Cintiq. I still am not as comfortable on the Cintiq as I am on Procreate, but it’s still pretty solid and nice. That’s the good part about technology. The bad part about technology is how AI art has been messing things up for me. I’m currently in a lawsuit about AI art as a class rep. Some of my stuff got turned into AI art late last year, so I have to give a deposition at some point. 

What is a convention experience that has stuck with you?

Honestly, they’re all good! I feel like Lightbox Expo has been really nice because it’s truly been a convention for artists. I feel like that’s where most of my audience is, and they’re all around because their purpose is to be better at art. That’s where a lot of original artists do well because they’re getting art they’re inspired by, not so much fanart. I like the Lightbox Expo because it encompasses the pure love of art very well. 

Top tips on setting up an Artist Alley booth?

Use a Y axis, not just your X axis! Take advantage of it! Branding is also something to think about. It is definitely something I’m getting better at. Having an assistant is also very important. I’ve also heard that 8.5x11 to 12x18 inches is usually a good size for prints, but I also provide postcard-sized prints because sometimes people don’t want to commit to a larger size. 

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

You know this is so funny. I’ve been following @alicexz for over a decade on Tumblr and other platforms. I’ve followed her work since high school, and we’ve only recently become peers. I found her, and we met for the first time in real life, and she recognized me. And then I found all my drawings from when I was in my Alice phase, back in high school, and I was like, “Yo, this is when I was trying to be you so badly!” and she was cracking up and was like “Wow, this is so good!” It was such a sweet moment. I wanted to take a picture of her holding my drawing up. It’s really nice because now we’re peers.

Thank you so much for stopping by and sharing, Deb! Be sure to check out their Tumblr blog over at @jdebbiel.

[wandurlvst]

camping the night

the drover x gn!reader

notes: so guys like WHY ISNT THERE ANY FAN FICS ABOUT THE DROVER??? I SEARCHED BOTH AO3 AND TUMBLR IM SO MAD. i feel like thanos “fine. i’ll do it myself 🗿” type shit. i'm also writing this while im watching the jimmy kimmel interview with hugh and ryan- you can tell im obsessed

warnings: the scene of him bathing only i’m gonna rewrite it sorta?, the sexual tension omfg, hugh jackman (he’s a warning in and of itself in the good way) im not even going to try to attempt to use over the top australian slang since i am NOT australian myself and i do not want to get anything wrong

-

“aight, let’s rest up here for the night.” the drover said as you two approached a large tree. it was a frequent spot to stop at on long trips like these to the city.

you followed him, leaving the small group of cattle to graze the little amounts of grass that was around. hopping off your own horse, you hitched him on the tree.

“let’s see about starting a fire- wake up early tomorrow to get a head start.” the drover unpacked his things. you had been accustomed to this life ever since you were a child. your father—joined the war, died. your mother, gotten sick from TB, died. so, this life adopted you instead of the other way round.

luckily, you met the drover at the local bar. who helped you pick your life up and start new—start fresh. he saw your skills on horseback- knew how to herd cattle from your father before he went off to war. you had many skills, as one does, but droving was your strongest.

“hey.” he snapped his fingers in front of your face, which brought you out of your thoughts. “quit horsin’ around. start collecting firewood yeah?" he ordered. "alright- quit your shouting." you protested, "i don't want to hear it, just get to work."

-

time passed and night fell quickly. you two spent the night chatting, sharing a meal and everything in between. you always enjoyed the moments you and him had together--small or big. from then on, your feelings for him only grew. which wasn't a surprise. he was caring in his own way- always looked out for the people around him.

you were in your own thoughts watching the cattle--making sure they don't wander off. leaning against the tree while sitting on the floor, barely keeping awake.

you yawned, turning back to the camp to check on drover--you found him bathing. this usually doesn't happen. you've seen him shirtless countless times but nothing like this.

you quickly looked away--leaning back against the large tree. thinking to yourself and processing the sight before you. from what you saw at the sudden glance--he was lathered in the soap, chest to hips. you couldn't help yourself and peeked again, this time you watched each and every little detail.

he picked up a bucket of water he filled earlier--tipping it over his head and letting it pour over his body. you couldn't look away this time. it was like you were forced to watch every second and you didn't mind at all. you barely noticed the heavy breathing coming from your mouth.

the drover turned around but before he could see you taking a peek you returned to your position sitting against the tree. then, footsteps started approaching you, “oh crikey…” you sighed.

the drover was leaning against the tree using his arm, he looked down at you. “you rest, i’ll watch em” he said in a low voice. you looked up and was greeted by his dripping wet frame.

the water soaked the top of his pants, you watched as droplets were still trickling down his chest and over his abs. you were in your own world and you didn’t hear anything he said.

but of course, he noticed. “oi. what’s wrong- ya burnin up?” kneeling down, he held his hand to your forehead���likely because he saw how red you turned in the face. he was so close you could barely function properly.

“i- uh-“ stuttering only escaped your mouth, you needed space. the mere proximity of him overwhelms you. “no- i’m just…” you stood up and he did the same. you were face to face with him again—your plan to distance yourself for air was futile.

you felt his breath on your face, his own body heat adding to your own. “i’m just tired.” avoiding his eye contact, he held your chin, gently forcing you to look at him. “i’m sure it’s more than that.” he said softly, he placed his hands on your exposed arms, the drover felt how the rest of your body was affected by him.

“need a bath of your own to cool down, hm?”

[revscarecrow]

Hi Rev! That time is upon us once again, do you have any tips for first time protesters?

1. Wear nice walking shoes cause you are going to be out there for a bit and your feet will hurt.

2. Have a game plan. Are you down to get physical? Are you able to be arrested? No shame in saying no. I'm not much for physical altercations with the police myself. But you need to make that decision before your blood starts boiling. The energy is infectious and will lead you to make mob mentality decisions. Remember what you decided and don't go beyond that limit.

3. Weather appropriate precautions. If it's hot bring sun screen and water if it's cold bring a coat. It's simple but most of what I did as a street medic was giving people water or blankets.

4. Have a number you will call if you get arrested. Memorize it or write it on your arm in sharpie. Mom dad lawyer friend whatever. Someone for if things go tits up.

5. Cops don't like being filmed doing messed up stuff but they will do it. Violence comes after dark. The news won't stand around all day so after some b roll and an interview or two they will go home. Then they can interview the cops in the morning where they can say a couple of bad actors caused a scene and they were arrested but largely the protest was peaceful (or was a riot if you aren't white). This will be an easy way for them to get away with kicking your ass. This happens every time a protest goes long.

6. Go with a friend. It just feels good to have someone you know watching out for you.

7. Have an escape plan and park your car a bit away from the protest. They like to camp out the local parking areas to catch protestors who evaded the police cordon.

8. Password lock your phone. Don't use biometrics. A password lock keeps the cops out when they arrest you. They can't force you to give that information.

9. Cops don't like lefties. If you are not a right wing loser they do not give a shit about your rights.

10. Most of this shit will not come up for your first protest but I want to prepare you for the wildest shit so you are ready for it when it happens.

11. People will yell at your from cars etc. Fuck em. People will say your protest doesn't matter. Fuck em.

12. Your protest isn't just about trying to get the government to do whatever. It's mostly about making connections. It would be rad if the government caves but it's not likely until your protest reaches a critical mass. If your numbers can be ignored they will be.

13. For your first time protest just go have fun. Don't stay out late or get physical just do a simple version. Do the chanting and make friends. Like with any group there will be creeps so be on the look out for that but most of those people are gonna be cool people.

14. Thank you. We need people who are out there doing the things. Make connections we've gotten so distant and it makes us easier to fuck with.