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[spartexscribbles]

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[iliketangerines]

pov you randomly facetime johnny while he's busy working and you're fucking yourself stupid on a dildo that HE CUSTOM MADE FROM HIS OWN COCK AND BALLS and he's just so caught off guard like

made by you

a/n: @partycatty last request!!!

pairing: johnny cage x afab!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), soft!Johnny, needy (like really needy) reader, masturbating (?), praise kink, phone sex, not proofread

Johnny rubs his eyes with one hand, squinting them at the unfinished script of the video game

the pen in his hand shakes as he circles and scribbles in comments about what he liked and what he didn’t like about what the script writer had put in

he wonders if he had hired an idiot because the dialogue sounded stiff and the staging of the scene seemed to make no sense

perhaps he should just hire a new editor and write his own script and then send it to an editor to have them tweak any small details he might’ve missed

his hand reaches out for the coffee cup next to him, and he lifts it up only to find it empty

Johnny looks up from his script with a disgruntled look, lips curved downward and eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the empty cardboard

throwing it into the wastebasket beneath his desk along with the three other empty coffee cups, he stands up from his seat, hearing the bones in his back creak and his knees pop with pain

he groans and presses both of his hands to his lower back, stretching out after spending so long hunched over his desk trying to edit this ridiculous script

maybe he should just go to bed, wake up with a fresh head and fresh eyes

Johnny glances once more over to the script, the red pen decorating the paper at almost every corner, and he lets out a displeased hum

for as much as the weight on his eyelids felt heavy, he really wanted, needed, to get this done tonight, at least before the next shoot happened

he checks his phone for the time, greeted with the sight of you as his lock screen, a bright smile on your face with the sunset perfectly framing you

you hadn’t been able to come with him this time to shoot the current movie, a new project at work had a deadline that happened to cross over into the workflow of the shoot, and you couldn’t afford to slack off

every day and night, he would text you updates about his day, how he felt, whether the food was good on set tonight, and you tried to do the same, complaining about your colleagues, your boss, the traffic getting to and from work

it never failed to make him smile as he read your texts

lately, however, the actors had pressing questions, the cameramen had questions and positions to be marked, the stuntmen needed more clarification on the moveset

he hadn’t had much time for you, and he tried his best to respond to you, typing as fast as he could with one hand as he went on lunch breaks, eyes glued to his screen whenever the actors needed a short break before they could continue

it was absolute hell for him to not be able to talk to you so freely

Johnny steps out of his trailer, trudging over to the coffee machine, checking his phone for any new messages from you

there are a few from a few hours ago, telling them that the dinner party you had been to had been a bust and that one of your colleagues had passed out from drinking too much

he smiles at the text and goes to text you back, quickly pressing the buttons on the coffee machine to give him the largest coffee possible, when your face shows up with your caller id

that was strange, it was past midnight for you usually you’d be fast asleep at this hour, always claiming you needed your beauty rest to get an early start on the grocery shopping on the weekend

nonetheless, he picks up the call, “hey sweetheart, what are you doing up so late?” and he blows on the steaming coffee in his cup and takes a sip

“‘m miss you, miss you Johnny,” you sound breathless, words all slurred together and slightly too high-pitched to be normal

panic strikes through his heart, had something happened? were you safe? had something happened? Shang Tsung?

the memory of you being at the dinner party flits into his memory, and he realizes that you’re probably just drunk and a little needy for him, just as needy as he was for you

“are you drunk? you should go to bed, honey. drink some water before you do.” Johnny takes another sip of his coffee as he starts striding back to his trailer

he wonders if you’ll be able to get up in the morning, you always complained so heavily about hangovers, he’ll send you a text in the morning to remember to take some medicine

“no, not drunk, want you, Johnny, hah-” you practically whine into your phone, and Johnny stops in front of his trailer, hand frozen, his phone tucked right between his ear and his shoulder

suddenly, with his phone so close to his ear, he can hear the faint shuffle of the bedsheets, the way you breathe heavily into the mic and the familiar wet squelch of your pussy

Johnny practically rips the door open in his hurry to get inside, “oh honey, i know, what do you want? tell me.”

suddenly, the coffee in his hand seems redundant, not when adrenaline rushed through him, the thought of you so desperate for him on the sheets sending all of his blood rushing downwards

he places the coffee on his desk and sits on the edge of his bed, pressing his phone as close to his ear as possible to hear you

“want you, want you to kiss me, mark me all over, want you fucking me right now,” you pant into the phone, a low drawn out moan escaping you

Johnny swears his hand is dangerously close to cracking his phone with how tightly he grips it, and he presses his free hand against the bottom of his chin, still trying to remain calm as thoughts of you naked and covered in a slight sweat filters into his thoughts

“i wish i could, honey,” he lets out a sharp exhale through his nose as he tries to imagine what you look like, the soft caress of your skin against the sheets, your eyes that glossy faraway look, lips turned into a slight pout, “tell me what you’re doing right now.”

“mm, wearing your shirt, your favorite, missed you, i miss you,” Johnny resists a groan at the image of you wearing nothing but his shirt, the purple one that had cost too much money

still, it was worth all the money, especially now that you were wearing it right now, all needy and whiny for him

“what else are you doing, honey? c’mon keep talking to me, you’re doing so well.” he encourages to talk more, to fill out the details of your want for him so that he can fuel his own imagination of you

“riding, riding you, but it’s-i-i can’t,” you sound pained at the end, your voice tinted with tears

“hey hey, what’s wrong, what can’t you do?” Johnny presses his chin further into his free hand, trying to decipher what you meant by you riding him

he wasn’t there, but you wouldn’t take on another partner just for this, you wouldn’t do something like that, at least not without his permission

Johnny closes his eyes, listening to you whimper, voice slightly warbled through the phone line, “can’t make myself cum, can’t without you, please, Johnny.”

you sound so desperate for him, and he exhales through his nose, almost proud of himself for ruining you for anyone else, but he could stroke his pride later

“honey, why don’t you facetime me? show me what you’re doing, i’ll guide you. how does that sound?” he hears your small sound of confirmation on the other end, and he pulls his phone away from his ear and waits for your caller id to show up again

as soon as it pops up, he clicks on accept and is met with the sight of you, the phone resting on the headboard of the bed, slightly tilting as you move away after setting up the camera

you look divine, better than he remembered, better than anything he had ever seen actually

his heart slightly aches at the sight of you, just as desperate as you to see each other again, to feel your touch on his skin, to feel your warmth hold his soul

Johnny sucks in a breath and concentrates back on you, how he can slightly see your chest through the unbuttoned front of the shirt, how your thighs slightly trembled as you ride a toy

your baby hairs stick slightly to your forehead, and you look breathless, lips parted in a moan and your brows furrowed upwards as you sink back down onto the toy

he stares at it, rummaging through his mind which one it could possibly be when it suddenly clicks in his head

you were riding him, him as in the prank gift he had given you on your birthday before presenting you with your actual gift

Johnny thought you had thrown it out, but you had kept it and now you were riding it, riding him and his lips slightly part in surprise

as he stares at you, you continue to ride the dildo and let out a long whine as one hand travels downward to rub harsh circles onto your clit

it snaps him out of his shock and back into the moment as he coos at you, “you look so gorgeous, so pretty on my cock.”

a slight hum escapes from you as you stare at the camera with half-lidded eyes, drinking in his praise, and Johnny has to bite his tongue to keep himself from cumming into his pants at the sight alone

“that’s it honey, slow down your hand, you’re being too rough on yourself,” he says it gently, voice a little breathy as he strains to control himself, and you listen obediently, your fingers on your clit slowing down into small gentle circles

you whine pitifully, wanting more, but you listen anyway, trusting him

the fact that you do so easily in such a vulnerable moment fills him with something more, something proud and smooth, like gold shining underneath the sun

“good, you’re being so good for me, sweetheart. use your other hand to pinch your nipple,” he stares, unblinking at his phone as you follow through, legs shaking as you ride him slowly, whimpering as you twist and pinch your nipple

Johnny can’t look away, not, he drinks in the sight like you were the stars in the sky, the galaxies flying in the universe, a marvel, a miracle, a beauty to behold

because you truly were, something wonderful and marvelous and more than anything you would ever know

“that’s it, just like that, speed up just a little bit, good, so good for me” he watches as you bounce a little faster, your fingers against your clit just a bit faster, your pinching at your chest just a bit rougher

“haah, ahhh aghh, Johnny, please, please,” you can barely speak, mewls of pleasure interrupting your own thoughts

“let go for me,” it’s all he needs to say as you moan loudly, and you sink down fully onto the toy, fingers rubbing against your clit desperately as your thighs tremble and twitch

he watches as you ride through your orgasm, as your breathing slows, as your body slouches over, exhausted and spent

“you did so well, so well for me,” he isn’t sure if wants to push it, to tell you to try and get yourself cleaned up, and he decides against it as you lower yourself to the bed and grip onto a pillow, no doubt the one on his side of the bed

his fingers itch to stroke your hair, to massage out your muscles, to hold you close in his arms and fall asleep next to you

Johnny settles with watching you fall asleep on the bed and then ending the call, sending you a text message asking how you felt and to call him when you woke up

setting his phone off to the side, he drags a hand over his face, the image of you riding the toy, the toy based off of him, buried deep inside of you

he stands up and rummages through his drawer, he needed a change of his clothes before he went to bed

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Smile Like You Mean It 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, bullying, humiliation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Colin Shea, Rafe Cameron (Professor AU)

Summary: you’re trying to grow up but you keep getting pushed back down.

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

Your new dress isn’t quite new. Yet, it’s better than anything you brought from home. You can’t afford the designer looks but you found a nice dupe. You think. There was a tiktok of a similar outfit, though your vans don’t quite compliment the look. Well, how many people are going to be looking at your feet. Or looking at you. 

It’s too bad your new friend, Ash, had to rush off to get her books. You could have used the moral support and yet, it’s a bit too early to be inviting her places, isn’t it? And to think of it, Colin invited you, not anyone else. 

You check your phone as you walk across campus. Your tights do little against the cold and make your thighs itch. You clutch the strap of your purse, the fringe swaying with each step.  

You hear the party before you get to it. As you walk up, the windows glow against the backdrop of the evening and tiki torches are lit to light the folding tables of red cups and chips and other things. Some bounce balls into the cups as the guests already there cluster around and chatter at a blustering volume. 

You shrink at the precipice of the walk that divides the grass. Music pumps from within, churning in the air with the garbling voices. The front door is wide open as people come and go. You’re nearly knocked off your feet as two guys in the blue jackets brush past you. 

You exhale and make yourself go forward. You grip your phone tight and look down at the screen. You should text Colin and figure out where he is. You’re distracted from sending the message as you pass a girl being crushed by a guy against the siding.  

They make out sloppily, the girl seemingly helpless to his affections as he pens her in. She has her hands on his chest as he clamps her head tight. She wears corduroy skirt and puffy blouse. It’s not exactly cutting edge. 

You peek at the other guests. You prepared for tall blondes and gorgeous brunettes. All the other girls are pretty and yet they aren’t the lululemon, PSL-guzzling coeds you marvel at. They’re just like you... 

“Aubby!” The voice booms like thunder and centers your anxiety.  

You look at Colin with wide eyes as he approaches. Oh my. He’s wearing his jacket but no shirt under it. There are blue emblems painted on his buff chest. Your eyes skim the lines of his tight muscles.  

“There you are, baby doll,” he nears and drapes his arm across your shoulder. “You get a drink? You need a drink.” 

You let him take over easily. Your voice remains elusive. 

“See, I love that about you, Auburn. You’re so gentle and quiet. You let a man take control. Just the way it should be,” he squeezes you against him. “Fuck, I’m all over the place. Did I tell you that dress is hot as hell?” 

You look down and hug yourself. You don’t know that anyone ever complimented your clothes. There wasn’t really anything to like about them. Or you. 

“Let me give you a lay of the land...” he declares as he grabs a red cup from another table and hands it to you. You accept it as he claims on for himself. 

He walks you through the house, yapping about the fraternity and how they have pledges serving the drinks. You notice they don’t have jackets and are dressed in tight spandex shorts and feather boas. You try not to stare. 

You taste the beer. You don’t drink. You never saw the need for it. You always overheard the girls in English talking about getting lit and waking up face down but you were never in with them, and that didn’t really sound too fun. 

“Eh, there he is,” Colin booms and makes you flinch. “Rafe,” he lets you go to the dab up the other guy. He’s a bit more slender than Colin, his hair is longer and floppy, and his eyes look a bit sleepy. “Aubby, this is the best guy in the place. Rafe, this is Auburn... my date.” 

Date? Your eyes flicker. Is that what this is? 

“Uh... hi,” you force out and nearly cough. 

Rafe’s brows tilt and he looks at Colin, “she’s quiet,” the latter says.  

“Cute,” the other replies as he gives you a look up and down. “I been making the rounds. Making sure everyone’s cozy.” 

“Right, right,” Colin says. 

“Good turn out,” Rafe says. “Thing will get going soon.” 

“Sure, well, see ya round, we’re going to try to catch up,” Colin raises his cup and drains it. He turns you past Rafe and presses on. He swallows a belch, “hey, you need another?” 

You look down at your cup. You’ve barely had any. You shake your head. 

“Ah, babe, no problem. You take your time. Lots of beer to go around,” he assures you and waves his cup in the air. A pledge appears to switch it out. You’re embarrassed at all the nakedness. 

“How about we find somewhere quiet? Lots going on, right?” 

You nod. He directs you around a cluster of guys and girls. You get to the stairs and climb with him. He clings to your hand as he drags you down the hall and into a bedroom. He shuts the door and you’re relieved to have the cacophony blocked out. Then all at once, you’re nervous at the reality of being alone with him. 

“I really mean it, that dress looks good on you,” he lets you go and faces you as he bites his thumb, “you got a nice body.” 

You push your legs together and cradle your hot cheek. You slurp the beer before you squeak out a thank you. He smiles. 

“Come on,” he goes to the bed and hops on it. He sits against the head board and slaps the space next to him. You hesitate. “No funny business. I been on my feet all day. That’s it.” 

“Oh, okay,” you murmur. 

You go to the bed and climb up next to him. You put one leg over the other as you extend them and he wraps his arm around your shoulder once more. He pulls himself closer. He takes a drink then puts his cup on the table at his other side. 

“Are you a freshman?” He asks. You nod. “Ah, makes sense. Well, that makes you special. Freshman don’t often get in at Delta.” 

“Really,” you say behind the brim of the cup. 

“Well, baby, I knew you were special when I saw you,” he trails his fingers along your thigh and you twitch in surprise. 

“Special?” 

“Yeah, you’re not like other girls. You’re just you. I like that.” He purrs as his other hand rubs your shoulder. “And you’re pretty as all hell.” 

You stare at him, burning to the core. You’ve never been this close to a guy. Never had them being so touchy or sweet. It’s overwhelming. 

“I’m sorry to be a fucking simp but can I kiss you?” He rasps, “I been thinking of it all day.” 

“Kiss?” You echo. “Umm...” 

He gently retracts his hand and grips the cup in your hand. He dislodges it and reaches to set it with his. He turns you again and caresses your cheek. 

“Just a kiss, babe? Please?” 

You stare at him. You are on fire. You can’t speak. Not enough to say no. So, you nod.  

Today has been a day of firsts. Your first friend, your first kiss. It’s the first day of an amazing year, you can feel it. 

[slimmestofshady]

Bad Habits Kill You- pt2

Warnings: Domestic violence (not between you and marsh), mentions of cheating, drug dealing, drug use, mentions of cocaine, guns.

The winter light of the morning peered in through the raggedy shades as you poured the last of the pancake mix into the bowl. Ellie was coloring still in her pajamas with messy hair, the last page of her book, soon you’d have to find something else to occupy her.

Sara bounced joyfully in her play pen, having an adoring smile spread across her innocent face, she was going to be heartbreaker when she grew up that was for sure.

Somehow, same way you were safe for another month from being thrown out on the streets. Marshall brought in two months worth of rent in a week. You hadn’t asked where he’s gotten it from nor did you want to know the answer so long as trouble wasn’t coming around the house and your girls were safe.

The phone ringing reeled you from your thoughts as you set down Ellie’s plate, kissing her on her forehead, mentioning to eat up before picking up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey it’s me..” Fuck, Marshall would kill you right now if he was here, Andre seemed to only fuel his anger. He typically wasn’t a jealous man, but perhaps he was because Andre had his shit together, his business was flourishing and maybe it was a bit odd that he kept you around with how much you had to call off or leave work early.

“I told you, you can’t call here anymore.” You released a breath if relief that he at least called the house phone before the cell you shared with Marshall, surely he would have called by now had Andre called the phone.

“I just wanted to check in, see if you or the girls needed anything, is that so bad? Besides how am i supposed to get ahold of you for extra hours?” Well no it wasn’t so bad, but in Marshall’s eyes it was. Andre was just a man trying to help and that hurt Marshall’s pride, he had never made a move on you personally, regardless of the nice comment he made to Ellie about you. Marshall didn’t need help from another dude, he didn’t want it, he didn’t want help from no one because he knew how it was. People will always want something in return cause of favor, that’s just how this town worked and he wanted no part of it if it meant a threat to his kids. He may be broke but there was another part to Andre he could see that you didn’t.

“Mommy who is that?” Ellie was always so curious as to what was going on around her, not that you blamed her there wasn’t much for her to do around the house anymore.

“Just talking to an old friend baby.” 

Meanwhile Marshall was on the outskirts of town, cig hanging from his lips while his arms crossed waiting on the dude to fuckin show up.

Glancing down at the barely charged phone, the guy still had 5 minutes.

When a conspicuous black car rolled up, Marshall was immediately on edge. That bitch was expensive and aint nobody in this town could afford some shit like that.

When the man rolled down the window he sighed before huffing and puffing.

“What the fuck took you so long bro? I’m out here freezin my fuckin balls off man!” The guy chuckled before getting out of his car. He was an old classmate of Marshall’s but heard about the trouble going around the block near his house. 

“You got what I asked for?” 

“Man, stop playin you know I always gotchu.” They both scanned out the area to ensure no one was around before Charles nodded off toward the car.

Typically he didn’t do this, but with the events at the house, Andre tryna steal his girl and the break in, he had to do something, even if it wasn’t necessarily right.

“Yo you still usin?” This question alone, especially coming out of left field made Marshall suspicious, he didn’t like sharing his shit around town, the less people knew about him the better.

“Depends, who wanna know?”

“Chill man, shit.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a little baggy filled with white power.

“I know it ain’t your usual but here take this, it’ll take the edge off and keep you awake to watch yo baby girl, I know you care for her man.” He was hesitant at first, not having tried coke yet but he succumbed to his bad thoughts swiping the bag from the guy and pushing it deep into pant pocket.

He nodded off as a thanks, watching the man get back in his expensive ass car, shit he could only dream about.

Marshall walked through the door, smiling softly at the scene of you and Ellie fast asleep peacefully on the sofa covered in a blanket. Sara was up bouncing around, he was shocked she wasn’t crying or anything hut boy did her smile light up when she saw her daddy. 

He stepped around the creaks on the floor board carefully, setting down an envelope of cash down on the table before swooping up his baby girl delicately.

“Daddy’s here…” He patted Sara on the back softly, pecking her forehead repeatedly.

Her bright blue eyes sparkled in the dim light, reminding Marshall of why he did what he did. She made all the bad days worth it, she was just a piece of the boulder that was his family to keep him sane.

He walked around the room with her, eventually settling in her nursery, pulling out old photos of when your relationship was flourishing. Pointing Sara to herself in each photo. A couple shots of when she was first born in the hospital, Marshall remembering how happy you both were welcoming baby number two into the world.

Another portrait of this past christmas and her big blue eyes wide while she examined one of the stuffed rabbits you got her, her tiny hands grasping at the animal before whimpering.

He sniffed her bum seeing if she needed change but no, perhaps hungry.

Walking into the kitchen he took out the last baby bottle of milk, eventually sitting down on the recliner and reaching for a bib to place below the small of her chin. The room was quiet leaving Marshall alone with his thoughts once again. His eyes settling on your unconscious figure, holding Ellie closely to your chest, the scene washing guilt over him like a hurricane, knowing that he had lied and wasn’t planning on going back to rehab anytime soon. The questions were soon to come about where the cash was coming from and why he wasn’t attending meetings. His focus was on his kids, minimum wage jobs wouldn’t pay shit and he wasn’t about to work in a factory and risk having Andre babysit again, the man’s name fuels every fiber of hatred in his body. His goal was to protect his girls, his woman, that was it but shit there had to be some give in this vicious cycle he was putting himself through.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts, jolting you awake while Ellie stirred in her sleep. 

“Who’s at the door?” Your voice was as quiet as a mouse, Marshall passing you Sara in the process as he got up, looking through the shattered window from a fight he had with a guy on the block that went too far.

Looking through the peephole he was blindsided by the sight of his mom and her boyfriend, telling you to stay inside before closing the door softly.

“What I can’t come inside?” He tucked his hands in his pockets, not in the mood for any shit as he shook his head staring blankly at the woman who made him.

“Not with him you ain’t. When’s break up number seven, next week?” She rolled her eyes in response but still smiling softly, her boyfriend on the other hand already on edge. They’d never gotten along and they never will, Marshall still blamed him for being the reason his ma got into drugs. 

“My little rabbit, so full of testosterone. I just came to bring Ellie and Sara their presents, is that so bad?” If she stole them yeah it was, he had enough shit going on here he didn’t want to add more to the list. Instead of arguing with her, he grabbed the bag from her hand, checking the gifts for any pricetags or names on them but not finding anything.

“I told you I’m better now.” She looked back at her boyfriend who was staring off into the distance, kicking rocks and broken pieces of glass around.

Peaking through the window, you saw her taking a seat on the step. Glancing down at Sara who was falling asleep against your chest, you quickly but quietly put her down in her crib before swinging the door open, scaring her up from the wooden step, causing her to drop her cigarette in the process.

“I have two sleeping girls in here so if you are here to start shit, respectfully, please leave. I-“

“I’m handling it aight? Go back inside.” You shot daggers at Marshall before ignoring his request and coming out the door with your hands at your hips unimpressed at her bold attempt to think she could reconcile.

“Y/N, I was just bringing them their gifts, that’s it.”

“What nearly two months past?” She knew there was no getting on your good side after everything that happened when you were pregnant with Sara.

Marshall wanted to hear his mother out but at the same time was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He hadn’t forgotten about her actions and would never forgive her for that but he just wanted to keep the peace for right now. He held his ground asking her to leave once more when no further words were exchanged between you, that was when her boyfriend Carl stepped in, as if he were in a position too.

“Look, don’t act like you two are perfect people or perfect parents. People fuck up, who would no more about fuck ups than you Marshall right? That’s why your kid’s such a fuckin spoiled brat, why you living in a broke down trailer and workin the block right?” Marshall didn’t notice your questioning expression, instead pushing past his mom and grasping at his hoodie, tackling him to the ground before throwing a ruthless punch. Carl missing the second hit and slapping him across the face. You and his mom rushed over to break up the fight but they were stronger than both of you put together.

The low life, waste of space grasped at Marshall’s collar both of them grunting and yelling before he pushed him through the door, Marshall’s back hitting the old, raggedy carpet jolting your kids awake.

“Get off of him!” You yanked at Carl’s collar and his natural response regardless of you gender was to swing back at you, only for that to be the tipping point of Marshall playing nice.

He forced his head up nudging into Carl’s forehead roughly before taking back control, straddling his mother’s boyfriend and punching into his face relentlessly.

“Don’t you ever lay a hand on my fucking girl!” Finally pulling Marshall off of him, Carl stood up hastily, grasping his jaw and wiping at the blood on his face.

“C’mon, let’s go..” Carl didn’t move still shooting daggers at Marshall as his heavy ragged breaths  and bloody nosy made it obvious who won this fight.  With eyebrows raised and crossing your arms, irritation set in as you were exactly right somehow, someway this would turn into trouble, it always has when it came to those two.

“Whatever, enjoy your fuckin miserable life with your two bastards and whore of a girlfriend. I’m sure she’d let me tap that anytime, isn’t that right sweetheart?” He winked at you, Marshall jolting forward to hit him again but your hands rested on his shoulder pulling him back to reality.

“This isn’t worth it, he isn’t worth it baby..” The elephant in the room became obvious to his mother, knowing that now it was best to leave. Nothing was improving and Carl was trying to be a better man but all her little rabbit did was antagonize him in her eyes.

When they finally left and the door closed, the screen fell off the hinge, yet another thing to repair, just what you needed.

Marshall was hit with a wave of emotions when he saw his little girl cowering under the table, tears rushing down her heated cheeks while she covered her ears from the fighting.

He got down to her level on his hands and knees, softening his facial features to ensure her he meant no harm and the fighting was done.

“Baby c’mere. They’re gone, it’s alright, it’s okay.” Her little bottom lip quivered, her body shaking from the frightening scene. Her daddy was scary when he was mad but he’d never, ever lay a hand on her. After a moment she slowly crawled over to him, grasping at his shirt while she continued to weep into the crook of his neck.

You rushed to a screaming and crying Sara, cradling her close to your chest while your hand rubbed soothing, delicate circles into her little back, cooing endless reassurances that her mommy was here and everything was okay now.

You and Marshall exchanged a look of grief and sorrow mixed with a hint of aggravation that it was the same old shit on a different day. Were your girls ever going to grow up without the chaos and the hurdles life seemed to hit you with repeatedly.

This wasn’t the right time to discuss your relationship problems at the moment, instead setting the bullshit aside and focusing on your girls.

After getting them settled, Marshall walked to the corner store, picking up some dino nuggets and orange juice for their dinner, finally getting them to relax.

Once Ellie was occupied nearly crashing on the couch, you noticed Marshall still sitting at the kitchen table with his headphones on and a paper and pen in hand, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander about the money situation, how was he bringing it in without a job? Carl’s comment lingered in your mind but you took what the guy said with a grain of salt. No. It had to be something else.

Where was it coming from? Granted earlier in the day you were determined to leave the conversation alone, but it needed to be had soon.

Picking Ellie up carefully, you placed her in the bed in your room, still nervous about allowing her to sleep in her own room since her belongings were stolen.

As you passed by him with her tired head resting on your shoulder, you tapped him on the shoulder jolting him from his thoughts. You simply nodded toward the bedroom, indicating you were gonna try to get some shut eye since you had a double tomorrow due to work being slow and not needing you today.

A few hours later he waited until you were asleep, getting off the mattress lightly to not wake you or Ellie, kissing her on the head caringly before heading outside to the car. Checking his surroundings, he huffed grabbing the shiny black object Charles lent him from the glovebox.

Looking around once more, he tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. He stayed in the drivers seat lighting a cigarette as his hands were shaking from how long he’d gone without any drugs.

Grasping the baggie, he stared at the white powder in the streetlight shining through the windshield, the glow of it’s threatening presence merely urging him to do it right here right now.

Opening it up, he spread the thin powder into a line on the center console, reverting to a old receipt on the floorboard as a way to snort it, he didn’t wanna risk getting it on the cash he was going to give the landlord.

The instant rush of euphoria and energy taking him by surprise, leaving him nearly breathless.

He found himself just starinf blanklessly out the windshield, watching a stray cat run across the street before shaking his head and going back inside before you woke up and wondered where he was.

Before he layed back down, he hid the gun underneath the mattress before resorting back to the table after finding it difficult to even think about sleeping with the new found surge of energy.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 4)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 3, Part 5

summary: You get your laptop fixed... eventually.

warnings: smut!! (finally lmfao) masturbation, mutual masturbation, tiny bit of voyeurism, recreational drug use, dry humping, etc 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: caught up to where the og oneshot ends so i wanted to switch it up!!

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 6.8k (still in shock i wrote all this lmfao, i'm strictly a <4k words kinda gal)

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

lips black and blue and gold.

You're frustrated. Bouncing off the walls, head spinning; and it's for a couple of reasons. 

First off: you haven't managed to find a laptop. Money you've worked damn hard for, and you can't really afford a new one. With moving around, you've burnt through quite a bit of your emergency fund. Enough to convince yourself you'll be just fine with a pen and paper in class, and the Google docs on your phone when desperate. It might actually force you to go to the library instead of half assing assignments the night before, you think. 

And there's your lab book, which you were smart enough to back up on your computer, but guess what? That's fucked; probably taken apart and sold for scraps by Miguel's mysterious friend , who you've conveniently never even heard of and–

"Just ask for an extension." He says, feet up on the sofa. Oddly enough, you've been doing that more often; spending time together. He's not holed up in his room as much, and spends time studying on the dining table, or pretending not to watch the soaps you've got on TV. 

"You're overthinking it. Explain the situation, chula, and it'll be fine." He doesn't even look up, just throws the statement in your direction like the lazy pass of a ball. 

You scoff, because he's right, and go back to overthinking. You think you can copy out the ruined half of your labbook by hand, and if you beg your OChem teacher for an extra credit project then–

"If I let you use my laptop, will you stop doing that?" 

"Doing what?" You frown as he walks over, and reaches to gently pull your hands apart. He turns your palms over, pointing at the raw edges of your fingernails. 

" That. " Mindlessly, you'd been picking at your fingernails, without even noticing. Looking up at him, he rolls his eyes. 

"...is that a yes?" You nod, hesitant, and catch the hint of a smile as he pads off to his room. 

When he returns, open laptop in hand, he thrusts it into your arms - and sits himself back onto the sofa. This time, he splays out facing you, avocado socks resting on your knee. You fight the urge to push him off, a small price to pay in return for his moment of kindness. He's been doing that more often now, slightly more touchy and maybe even… comfortable around you. Eyes flickering up towards him, you catch his. His brows knead together, and you return your attention to the screen just as quickly. 

You're going through the motions, more or less, logging into your college's portal and drafting up quick emails to send to your lecturers. But it's when you open up a new tab, that you see something at the top of the screen and pause. Mouse hovering over an incognito tab, hidden in a nest of referencing websites and scientific journals; it's there. Bold letters, in all caps: WOMAN POUNDED BY BIG BEEFY–

You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Once again, you look up at Miguel, and he couldn't care less; tapping away at his phone, only stopping to look at the TV. Nevertheless, you shift to hide the laptop screen from him. But you're not going to look, or anything. You know better than to take a look at your roommates porn habits, the stuff he drools over whilst he fucks his fist; a big, dextrous palm wrapped around his shaft. 

You've done it. Clicked on the tab and nothing's exploded, as of yet. You turn down the brightness, with some shame, as if to make the paused video less explicit. But the image stays, a woman folded under the weight of the man above – in the middle of bullying his fat cock into her pussy. It's amateur; hot and sweaty and sticky, with only the woman fully visible. You suppose your curiosity's been sated, but you can't help but think…

…the woman. She looks like you. 

Tilting your head, you can't help but see the resemblance. Not the exact same of course - but her hair is similar, body type, skin tone, eyes. It's not close enough to be weird, you guess, but it's enough that that thought stays - burrows into you like an earthworm into an apple. Scrolling down, you see other videos, with the same woman, other women that look like you - the telltale red bar of watched videos. Evidence, but not really, and it makes you heat up. Your mouth goes dry, and you look over to him: only able to concentrate on the hand he's got spread out at his belly, the brown flesh peeking out - and how it looks just like the one on the base of the woman's stomach in the video. 

"...everything ok?" He's looking at you, suddenly; and you attempt to click over to your original tab, discreetly. 

He doesn't seem to notice, padding over to your side and leaning into your shoulder. 

"Yeah, no, I just…" All you can manage is a nervous smile. "The screen froze, so…"

"Oh." He gives the track pad a swipe. "Seems fine to m–" 

He freezes up slightly, and you watch as his eyes flick up the screen. The laptop is eased out of your hands, and he gives a few quick clicks. By the time it's back in your lap, the offending tab is gone. Imperceptible, his jaw shifts. 

"...Should be okay now."

You hum, a little amused at the display. He's seemingly unfazed, his little slip up notwithstanding, and leans back to lie up against you. Obnoxious, he splays onto the sofa cushions, his weight practically smothering you as you fight to push him off. You think he likes it – it's the only possible explanation – and gets off from watching you squirm. He seems desperate for a reaction, a child pushing boundaries and pressing buttons to see what exactly makes you tick. 

And that's the second thing: it works . He's  more touchy, and just as insufferable – jumping at any excuse to be near you, it seems. Miguel has a tendency to hover, follow you around the apartment as you talk aimlessly, and you do the same. You sit by against the doorway to the kitchen whilst he makes dinner; he floats around the door to your room when you try to study. In fact, you've spoken to your roommate more in the past week than you have in the past month; about anything and everything. Sometimes, he actually tells you where he goes during the day; off to lectures of his own, another tutoring session or his basically-an-unpaid-job of an internship. In your words, it seems like with the shit they make him do at Alchemex, he may as well be a full employee: with way fewer perks and a distinct paycut. It's almost as if they're paying for my degree, he says with an eye roll, practically hanging off your door frame. 

He does that a lot, now: arms drawn upwards to lean from the oak trim. Especially during lazy mornings in - he'll hang on the frame, and move to tug at your heel, waking you up despite fervent protest. Ultimately, it's a kindness and you don't know how to tell him how much you appreciate it; as he wakes you up on time to get to the library in good stead. You're still waiting on that laptop, debating whether or not to bite the bullet; but for now Miguel obliges, letting you borrow his now and then. 

He's not nice, you think his tongue is much too sharp for that; but he is kind, giving you some grace you're not too sure you deserve. It's more than what you've been given in a relationship of 4 years, and you don't know how to feel about it. 

Well, you do. Your talk on the living room floor not so long ago flipped a switch and all of a sudden you're paying attention to your roommate; really, really looking at him. He is very, very pretty; with a tendency for lingering touches disguised as something else. And you're out of practice: horny, frustrated, stressed. With the way he touches you; a hand on your back to greet you, a squeeze of your shoulder to tease, bare legs across yours on the sofa; it's a lethal combo. 

And here you are, headphones on, prepping to take a dildo. Incredibly self-indulgent, but you need it . You don't quite have the emotional stability for a one night stand (you think if someone touches you just right, you'll fall in love), but this dry spell has taken its toll. 

It wasn't just after the break up, either. Mismatched libidos had felt like a steady death knoll. Realistically, you knew Jaime was always too tired after a placement, but it didn't make you feel wanted. You just want to be desirable and fucked within an inch of your life – was that too much to ask? 

As a result, your toy drawer had grown: vibrators and dildos, clit-suckers and g-spot strokers; crude once said aloud, but all in search of something. With the stress of school and Miguel, Schrodinger's slut ; it's a wonder you haven't cracked it open earlier. 

You're on the floor, its purple base suctioned to the hardwood and towels to cushion your knees. Lower half completely exposed, it's an art , porn on your phone to complete the visage. The screen is smaller than that of the laptop you're used to, only providing some stimulation. And so, as you sink down on its silicone length, you can't help but think back to the sofa - and the videos squirrelled away on an incognito tab. Miguel, hunched over and fisting his cock to someone that looks like you; maybe even thinking of you – although the jury's still out, on that one. 

But you keep it close to your chest, rub your clit to the thought of it: you're his type, and maybe he'd fuck into you like the man on your screen. Broad, gorgeous shoulders and you wonder how pretty he'd look with scratches littered down his back, or hickeys sucked into skin: lips plump and messy and swollen. 

"Oh, fuck," You say it under your breath, knowing that whilst Miguel is out of the house, it still feels odd to put your lips around the pleasure that thinking of him gives. 

You speed up, the slap of thighs ringing out into your bedroom. The dildo is around 6 inches, sizeable; but you can't help but wonder how it compares to Miguel's. He might even be bigger; thicker, most definitely; and you bet his cock is just as pretty as he is. Oh fuck, and he'd tease; press into your hole just to snatch it away at the last second, rubbing persistent circles at your clit. You hear his voice in your head, the low grunts and groans you've memorised from all those nights he's spent with other girls. 

"Miguel,"  You're moaning shamelessly now. "...f-fuck, please–" 

There must be something electric in the way he fucks: with the litany of girls in and out of his bedroom, what keeps them coming back? He must talk them through it, whispering filth with his plush lips against their ear, and you wonder what he'd say to you. God , you'd give anything to hear it him say, just once, how beautiful he thinks you are; for him to wrap his hand around your neck and pull you close. You want him to fuck you; hard and deep and desperate. 

With that, your pace quickens and you gush around the toy. A spasm of limbs, and you're clamping down on the silicone – an orgasm that leaves you breathless and heaving. You convince yourself it's the taboo of it: fucking yourself to the thought of your roommate, after listening to his grunts and groans for the past couple weeks. He started it … thin walls, and all that. 

You ignore the want that lays stubborn at the pit of your stomach, riding through stuttering spasms as your orgasm winds down. You're touch starved, that's all, and Miguel's the closest warm body to latch onto. Nothing more, nothing less. Groaning, you shift, picking up your hips to gear up for another round. Just once more, so you know for sure. 

Thin walls. The sound leaks into your roommate's bedroom. But with your headphones on, you can't hear the sounds that echo back: Miguel O'Hara, back home early, with an ear pressed to the wall and desperately pumping his cock. 

~~~

"I'm not completely convinced, to be honest." You're in Miguel's car, tongue sticking out as you fiddle around with the dials. 

His gaze flicks over, and bats your paws off the dashboard. Flopping into your seat, you watch as he turns up the AC and switches the radio, as if reading your mind. 

"You really think I'd go through all this trouble?" He scoffs. "Bundle your ass out of the house and drive all the way here to…. do what exactly?" 

"Assert dominance in our shared ecosystem." You say it with finality, and he scrunches up his face in confusion. 

"...what does that even mean?" 

"Like in that nature doc you were watching the other day." 

"Well, the point was that spiders aren't hierarchical in the traditional sense. They form colonies that are… quasi-social, if anything, and–" He pauses. "Wait. You were paying attention?" 

You shrug. "I thought it was interesting." 

"Seriously?" 

"...no, not really."

You laugh as he pulls over to park, in a space next to what looks like an apartment complex. It looks way nicer than your place, with sandy brick and hedges that look well kept. Your laughter peters off. Miguel looks decidedly not amused. 

He opens the car door and clambers out as you scramble for the seatbelt. To your surprise, he opens the door for you; stretching out a hand for stability as you get out. When you both walk over to the intercom, your palm burns with his touch, and flexes with the memory of it. It's becoming a problem, his hands. You push down the beginnings of a hazy daydream. He presses a panel, waiting for the buzz. 

"Lyla? Could you let us up?" 

He waves demurely to the camera, and the receiver clicks. A cheery voice rings back. 

"...Us? Who's us, Miggy? Did you finally find a girl that puts up with your shit?" Her voice is singsong, teasing. With a smile, you watch as Miguel bristles, speaking into the slick panel. 

"My roommate, Jesus, Ly–" He says the next bit a little rushed, turning away slightly as if you still can't hear her loud and clear. "I thought we went through this, you can't keep trying to embarassmeeverytimeI–" 

She talks over him towards the end, rapid-fire banter that you can barely make out. 

"You never come and visit, except when it's 2am and you need to break into–" 

"Once! It was one time! Déjate, ya está bueno ya–" 

[Let it go, that's enough now–] 

"Let it go? No, no, absolutely not… what is it that you always say? It's the principle –" 

"Can you just fucking open the–" 

"What's the magic word?" 

He sighs, mouthing an apology to you. "Lyla–" 

"Magic. Word."

He mumbles. "Please." 

"Please what?" 

"Please could you open the fucking door."

There's a pause, and rustling over the intercom. The door buzzes open. 

In the elevator up, you keep quiet, trying your hardest not to burst out laughing. Miguel is visibly brooding; arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

"Don't." He says, with a pout you almost think is cute. Almost. 

"I'm trying really, really hard not to." You put your hands up, as if to surrender. "... Miggy."

"Fuck off." And then, a little softer. 

"...I told you I have friends."

~~~

You leave it at that until you're in Lyla'a apartment, when she opens and ushers you in. She looks exactly the way she sounds: pretty, mousy features, with her hair in short, choppy layers. She's bundled up into a plush white robe; heart-shaped sunglasses sliding down the tip of her nose. 

Miguel breezes past her, towards the murmuring voices you can just about make out in the front room. 

"Lovely to see you too, Miguel." It's under her breath, but when she turns towards you there's a twinkle in her eye. 

You introduce yourself, and she pulls you into a tight hug. 

"I know," She says. It's ominous, but her voice is light and airy. When you separate, she flashes a wide smile. "Lyla. It's nice to put a face to a name."

"Uhh, sorry. What?" She ushers you further into her apartment as you speak, confused. 

"Oh, Miggy talks about you all the time. Complaining , mostly, but in that way he gets when he's trying really, really hard to pretend he doesn't care. Like, he texted me yesterday and–" 

"Thaaat's enough." You feel hands on your shoulders, and all of a sudden, Miguel is steering you away from her grip. You stumble into her living room, so bright and airy your eyes have to adjust to the light that floods in. Looking around, her apartment is gorgeous; a spacious open plan, floor-to-ceiling windows with a prime view, and lush furniture. Everything about it screams expensive – especially in comparison to your paltry place. Maybe the shock is visible on your face, but you're in awe. She can't be much older than Miguel, right? She looks about the same age, mid-twenties, not too far-removed from college… and it isn't quite adding up. 

"How can she afford this? That's what you're thinking." There's a voice on the sofa that makes you blink. A young man with messy brown hair, a set jaw and 5 o'clock shadow calls out to you in between mouthfuls of pizza. "Lyla's… mmhgh… suuper fuckin' rich… mmfgh… that's how." 

It's then that you notice there are other people here, sprawled out on the sofa set; boxes of takeout on the side tables next to them. Of course Lyla's rich: only 20-somethings with money to spare have matching sofas. 

She's like Beetlejuice, or the Candyman, and pops up next to you when her name's said. 

"I work in tech! With a cute little job on Wall Street, and a part-time one white hat hacking." She clarifies. " Ethical hacking." 

She giggles like she's told a joke somewhere, and you nod – still not quite understanding. 

"...and some side gigs that aren't as ethical." A blond haired man next to Mouthful-Of-Pizza pipes up. "When are you going to introduce us, Miguel?" 

He's grumbling in the kitchen area, digging through the shelves for something. He returns with a bag of chips and dip in a container, flopping onto the zebra print throw pillows. Distracted, he waves a hand around the group noncommittally. 

"Uhh, Peter, Ben, Lyla." He gestures to you, saying your name, and then to himself; tearing open the bag at the same time. "-and Miguel. All done"

"My turn for questions, now," Miguel says, pointing at Lyla, looking at the boys to his side. "Is she…?"

"...super high? Most definitely." Lyla giggles at Ben's words, for good measure. 

"...right. Peter Parker, nice to meet you." He throws a thumb to the back of the sofa, where you notice a little mop of red curls peeking out. "And this is my little Mayday."

Peals of laughter erupt from behind him, and you notice grubby hands with a death grip to the cushion rest. Miguel leaps up, rushing to her side to help her up its back. 

"Ayyy dios mio." He scoops her up carefully, "Buenas, Arañita." 

Mayday is on his lap now, a little toddler of about 1 or 2, snaking herself around to hug Miguel's chest. She is certifiably the cutest thing you've ever seen: gap-toothed and giggly, with a smatter of freckles like someone's flicked a paintbrush across her nose. And with the way Miguel melts, you can die happy, knowing that you've seen the impossible: Miguel O'Hara, cooing and fussing over the little girl. 

"Arañita?" You ask, to no one in particular. 

"Itsy-bitsy spider." . ..is the sing-song, choral response from everyone but Miguel. They're mimicking his tone of voice, and he raises his head from May, looking around. 

"I don't sound- " 

"You do, dude." Peter sighs, tickling the little red head on the tummy; smiling as she collapses into bright laughter. "I don't have a nickname, and I've known you waaay longer than she has."

Miguel covers her tiny little ears, and says, "Eres un pendejo, Parker . "

[you're a dipshit, Parker] 

The scraggly man sticks his tongue out in response, and May pulls at his hair for good measure. He yelps, and Miguel passes her over to her Dad. The scene is funny, for sure, but you feel it's warmth more than anything. God, you can tell they've loved and laughed with each other for years; the kind of friendship you'd kill to have. 

"We just need whatever's left of her laptop, Lyla," He's blunt, batting away long forgotten chips and dip. "...and then we'll get going. Wish I could stay longer, Arañita, but I've got some work to finish off."

May makes grabby hands at him, and you melt. Who knows how Miguel can stay strong in the face of her big, round eyes. 

He gets up to stand next to you, arms crossed. The height difference is stark: his tall, solid frame towering over everyone else. It seems like an intimidation tactic, but you know him just well enough to tell: he's trying not to be swayed by puppy eyes and promises of food. 

"You just got here, Miggy." Lyla sighs. "We're going over prep for Jess', and we'll be two minutes, I swear."

"Oh?" His eyebrows light up. "I knew it! You were being evasive on the group chat, and Pete wasn't returning my calls…"

Huffing, he clasps his hand around yours, ready to storm out. "This is an ambush. A goddamn setup!" 

"Wait, Miguel, I need my-" 

"I'll pick it up later for you, okay?" It's said like an aside, so soft only you can hear it. With his hand around yours, it certainly feels more intimate than it should. And it seems like he realises a little too late, dropping your hand as your faces are mere inches away. 

"Um, we should… we should go." 

You look past him to the faces blinking at you guys, on the sofa. A pause, and then you're gulping down stubborn feelings to ask a question. 

"Jess' ? Is there a party, or something?" 

Lyla nods. "Yeah, and Miguel's meant to be picking up cake."

The man in question pinches his nose. "I can pick up the cake just fine. It's the whole… going to a party bit I'm not too keen on."

"Come onnn, you know Jess would love it."

"She'd love to blackmail me with some dumb shit I did drunk, that's for sure."

"It's her birthday, hardass ." Peter whispers that last bit, covering little May's ears like before. "She can have a little blackmail, as a treat."

"You're gonna say no to a surprise party ?" Ben echoes, shaking his head dramatically. 

"A surprise birthday?" You light up. "Miguel, you have to go."

His stony demeanor cracks, for a moment. You latch onto it, hellbent on wearing him down. He's always got his laptop out doing work, or cracking open a little notebook to prep a lab. When he's not at home, he's at that internship, or tutoring, or planning a tutoring session. Work, work, work; and you'll be dammed if you let him rot away in a little cage of his own machinations. 

"Come on, Miggy." You watch him bristle, prying at that little crack in the surface. This has to be done with finesse: present a challenge, and watch him scramble to prove you wrong. "You're telling me a couple of hours at a party's too much for you? That's it? " 

"That's not–" 

"S'what it sounds like to me." You shrug, a little smile on your face. The aim is to look as smug as possible; and it seems to be working. 

His jaw shifts, annoyed. Lyla catches on, giving you a crazed smile. 

"Even your roommate's gonna come." She says, an arm linked in yours. 

"I am?" She gives you a little dig, and you're spluttering. "Y-Yeah, I am!" 

You can see him fight with his own ego; but it's a one-sided affair. 

"Fine. " He strains. "Two hours, max. And then I'm gone."

Lyla gives you a squeeze, and then wraps you both up in a hug he desperately tries to fight off. Ben slots around you guys, and Peter's last to join, with Mayday squealing on his shoulders. 

Eventually, you get what's left of your laptop: a little thumb drive with as much as Lyla could save. You'd thanked her profusely, of course; trying to slither out of her vice grip of a hug, as best you could. She's absolutely batshit, the good kind; cryptic, and strange, but with a lot of heart. She makes you wonder, and they all do; just how did they become friends with Miguel? How do they fit? 

The man himself seems a little different, as if reinvigorated by being around friends. In fact, you catch him smiling to himself on the drive home. It's sweet; to see a different side of him around people he's clearly comfortable with. If only for a little while, he sheds the heavy weight he seems to carry around. 

Around the house, you notice he seems lighter – humming to himself whilst cooking dinner. That very day, you watch the little sway of hips as he stirs a pot; headphones in, singing under his breath. He can't sing for shit, of course, and he'd kill you if you ever uttered a word; but it's a sight you commit to memory, not knowing when next he'll be in such a good mood. 

There's still the question of a new laptop in the air, but you feel more settled by the events of the day. You're a little less fucked school-wise, you've got a party to look forward to, and potentially a drunk Miguel to make fun of. He goes to bed early; and you can hear the quiet drone of a podcast from the other side of the wall. He drifts off to the sweet, dulcet tones of Top Ten Genetic Precursors for Early Onset Dementia; one of his favourites, you've determined. 

All is well, for now. A tentative truce, and maybe, just maybe: you're finally friends with your roommate. 

~~~

There's something about dramatic irony that seems to smack you across the face, every time. 

You've come to somewhat of a understanding with your prickly roommate, and the stream of women in his bed seem to slow down, for a bit. He's hot, he's a whore; but he's sweet, with an eye for detail. He can read you with a scary amount of accuracy. Antsy and hungry from a long day? He leaves you scratching your head at his clairvoyance when you come home, chucking you a hot water bottle and a warm meal. You go to bed with a full belly, cramps abated. 

He's still a prick, of course. Sarcastic comments, and a massive grump – but you've learnt to deal with that. Just a couple of days after a seemingly settled week; what you can't wrap your head around is the pounding music from next door, at fuck-off-o'clock . He shouldn't be awake, let alone interrupting your late night study session. 

You're pissed, leaping from your desk to pound at his door. You're thudding towards his room, ready to deliver a well-deserved verbal lashing, and the door just… swings open. Empty; there's a window ajar and music pumping from speakers. Bachata and cheesy 90s R&B; which sounds suspiciously like his sex playlist. 

Yes, he has a sex playlist. And it really has no business to sound as good as it does. 

Nevertheless, you're resolute. If he's managed to sneak someone, at this hour, you decide he's going to get more than a stern talking to. 

There's clattering in the kitchen, and you whip around; half-expecting the giggle of another girl. When you walk in, it's just Miguel, rummaging through cupboards: a half-naked thief in the night. 

"Miguel?" 

He pops his head up from a cabinet, with a half-eaten piece of bread in his mouth. Caught red-handed, you suppose; and he gives you a little smile. 

"S'everyfin' – mmmfggh –" He scarfs the rest of it down. "Everything okay?" 

You squint. "No. Not really."

He chuckles, a slight rasp at the edges of his voice. Dickhead – what exactly is so funny? 

"You can't have your music so fucking loud, not when I'm studying. It's the middle of the night and–" 

Dressed in nothing but a pair of gray sweats, he's busying himself with a sandwich on the counter; clattering around noisily like he doesn't have full control of his limbs. Which is…. weird, admittedly. You'd trust Miguel to slice a grape with a machete – his dexterity is usually unmatched. Not that you'd made a habit of staring at his hands, or anything. 

"Are you even listening to me?" 

He nods, attempting to keep a straight face, but the faux solemnity does nothing to hide that droop of eyelids and slump of his shoulders. You get closer, pushing him to face you properly. 

"Oh, fuck," His eyes are a little red, hair messy and windswept. "Are you… high? " 

Miguel O'Hara? High? You'd never thought you'd live to see the day, honestly. His eyes go wide, dropping his sandwich dramatically. And then he's got a big hand at your shoulder, pulling you closer with a finger pressed to his lips. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering your name like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone."

With the way he says your name it makes you light-headed. It's slow and careful, as if he's testing the way it feels spilling from his lips. And maybe, with the way he smiles, it feels good; tastes sweet wrapped around his tongue. 

"I won't." You breathe, and then you're both giggling.

There's something about the way he looks at you, peering under heavy lashes; basically eye-fucking you in the space of your tiny kitchen. You feel bare in a little t-shirt and sleep shorts; suddenly exposed. 

"You should…" He starts, cocking his head ever so slightly. "Join me, chula. "

It's soft; sinful, even; said as he coaxes you between his body and the kitchen counter. 

You don't trust your voice enough to answer, legs already shaky, so you nod. Slight, at first; and then with a little more gusto as the idea of him and you on his sheets – intimate, alone – creeps in. He stretches out a hand, and you take it; led to his bedroom like a scene you've seen before. All those girls before you; led to the dragon's lair like damsels in a fairytale. Except in this one, you suppose, you're not waiting for a knight in shining armour to save you. 

He sits you down on the bed, passing you a freshly rolled blunt. Passing it to your lips , more specifically; hand on your chin as he brings the lighter up to its end. Even prettier up close, all you can do is watch the press of plump lips, and pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates. As he leans in, there's a hand on your bare thigh. You inhale, deeply, and he hums with content.

"Good girl," He purrs, prying it from your lips to take a slow drag. 

"You're a bad influence." You murmur, watching as his eyes flutter shut. 

"You need to relax," He leans back, arm drawn lazily upwards. "This is helping."

"That's not–" Oh. You feel it now, a steady haze rolling over limbs. 

Miguel quirks up an eyebrow, amused. 

You repeat, slowly, "You're a bad influence ."

"Does it feel good?" You pause, trying to ignore his low tone; and the steady blaze that it ignites within you. Dragging your eyes to meet his, you see it: want, lust, something heavy that swirls behind them. 

You nod, itching for another pull. As if psychic, he gestures for you to come closer; and your lips almost slot against his. He exhales, and you inhale; in the closest thing you've come to a kiss in months. It makes you ache for just a little more contact, for those pretty hands to slot between your thighs and–

"Is this all I need to do for some quiet around here?" He asks, lilting. If only he'd stop talking; interrupting your fantasy with that stupid grin of his. 

You're shaking your head, laughing at the sheer gall . 

"You're fucking someone new every week, O'Hara. Loud. Who was it the other day? Cathy, Kayla –" 

"Sita, actually." He has a strange expression on his face. "And we didn't fuck. Just going over lecture notes."

"Sorry . Must have gotten mixed up with the half-dozen other girls in and out of here. Our apartment's not a brothel , Miggy."

He rolls his eyes, handing you the remnants of the blunt. 

"...s'not my fault there isn't anyone fucking you right."

You scoff. "How would you know?" 

"Thin walls. " It's cryptic. What the fuck does that mean?

You take a careful drag, and hand the blunt back – trying your hardest not to strangle him. It must show on your face as you tussle with the thought, because Miguel is staring; unabashedly, unashamedly. When you notice, it throws you off. 

"... what?" Ready to defend yourself, you huff. 

He shrugs. His expression is soft, reminding you of that night, not long ago. 

"You look like a painting."

You practically short circuit. You've been complimented before, of course. Hot, by men trying to get into your pants. Pretty, sometimes. Beautiful, the other times. Whether it's been sincere, you don't know – but you're smart enough to not overthink it. It's hard enough to live a life, as it is; and you'd rather not be bogged down by what others think, how you look whilst doing it. And yet, you feel your body betray you; a steady bloom of heat at your heart, like you've been stabbed. So deep, it spreads like blood on the front of a blouse. Like a painting, he says. And you like the way he says it; how it sounds spilling from his lips. 

Its implication sits heavy. Like a painting : hand-crafted, silken, soft –

He blinks, the crack of a smile on his face. And it ends in a fit of giggling, if you can even call it that. 

"Stop fucking with me." You grumble, and he thinks the way your face scrunches up with disdain is cute. There's probably an implication there he should unpack in therapy – how he likes it when you shout and put him in his place – but he's much too high to care. 

"M'not-" He quiets down, flattens his face into something resembling sobriety and gravitas. He gets a little closer, so close you can feel the heat of his body and flutter of lashes. With wide, dilated pupils, he stills - and it really doesn't help that he looks so pretty. 

"Can't stop thinking about you, hermosa." His voice is low, slurred with the weight of the blunt he's taken careful drags of. Every word makes you feel hazy, drawn in by his lips. " Fuck, all the time."

"Hear your laugh in my dreams, sometimes." He circles your bare thigh carefully, without breaking eye contact. With a thumb on your chin, he brings you closer, and closer still. Gently, you close your eyes, expecting the press of his lips against yours… 

…instead, you get a puff of smoke for your troubles. Reeling, you push him away. He collapses on the bed in a laughing fit. 

"... now I'm fucking with you." Rumbling laughter, and you've got the wherewithal to be embarrassed – hand still resting on his bare chest. 

A little cruelly, you push down, giving him an elbow to the ribs for good measure and he splutters with surprise – laughing all the same. 

"Asshole." You slur, and he grabs your arm to pull you onto the covers with him. You paw at him wildly, wrestling amongst the table of sheets. It's not a fair fight, not really; the wide expanse of his bare chest feels solid, and he's probably got more muscle in his pinky toe than you do in your whole body. Miguel is strong , but plays along regardless, pinning you to the bed with his hands around your wrists - but lets you turn him over just as quick. You're both laughing, the blunt long forgotten but its haze blurring the lines. You straddle his middle, hips flush against his and he keens; head back and cheeks flushed.

"Fuck," It's quiet, said as he writhes below you and you try to pin his hands above his head. Maybe it's the weed, but he lets you: eyes low, breath steady. And you stay like that, for a moment; bodies laid against one another. 

You don't know who starts it: the slow roll of hips, the swell of his cock bucking up against your heat. Regardless, you welcome it, letting the heat build up with the pressure at your clit. Your hips sway and all Miguel can do is watch. 

Lips parted, head back; and you set a steady rhythm that washes over you both.

Humping against one another, you get more desperate and drag your hands to his chest for purchase. Underneath you, Miguel practically purrs – one hand on your waist and the other clutching yours at his chest. 

"So, so pretty…" He sighs into it, wide palm pawing at your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls. By now, he's rock hard; and you feel him throb through the thin material of his sweats. 

"Fuck, I can't–" You moan, ragged, the roll of your hips gaining speed. 

Miguel coos, bringing a hand to your chin to pull you closer to the crook of his neck. 

"Too fast, hermosa. S-Slow it down for me." He grips your waist, forcing the pace to slow. Your hips stutter against his, delicious pressure making you cry out. And, God, you're close; pleasure building up at your gut. 

"Ohhh, fuck. Just like that, just like–" It's soft, whispered between the press of bodies like a prayer: reverent, intimate, a slew of garbled English and Spanish into the shell of your ear that goes straight to your pussy. 

"A-Ahi, ahi–"

[t-there, there–] 

Plush lips brush against your cheek, and you try so hard to not float away - with only his words to keep you tethered.  

"... no pares lo que sea que estes haciendo–ohh-fuck–" 

[don't stop what you're doing, oh fuck–] 

The coil at the base of your stomach snaps, and you arch into his touch as he does the same. Miguel spills into his sweats, heaving with the effort. He can feel the clench of your pussy above, and he chases it in the aftermath; craning his neck to finally get a kiss. Limbs heavy, you still manage to swerve so his kisses land at your jaw. He's grateful for the contact anyway it comes and sucks careful hickies into the skin: at your neck, your collarbone, and anywhere else he can reach. 

You sink into it, curl up on his chest like a housecat; his hands wandering the gentle slope of your back under your shirt. 

Limbs heavy, you pry yourself from his hands ever so slightly. He strains to follow you up, snapping back into the sheets like an elastic band. Still, he kneads at your flesh - bare thighs spilling from your shorts. 

" Miguel," You whisper, hand travelling past his neck to cradle his jaw. "Need more…"

You punctuate that last word with a roll of your hips. Wanton, conflicted; he groans . 

"It's late, chula. " He says it slowly, hesitant – like he can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. He's still high, lost in the whispy remnants of that blunt. You've never known weed to make someone more responsible, and you flop to his side, a little childishly. 

Miguel makes sure to keep a hand wrapped around your waist, dragging his other knuckles up your exposed tummy so that it rides up to the swell of your tits. 

"And you've got that 9am."

You cover your face with the span of your hands, grumbling. From between the gaps in your fingers, you repeat, 

" ...and I've got that 9am ."

He traces lazy circles in your flesh. Maybe it's the blunt, or the afterglow of an orgasm; but you make him laugh, a gentle ache replacing the creak and shudder of gears. 

"Idiot." He says, kissing it into your skin. And he burns from the touch, fleeting; like the warm flame from paper lanterns, or the flicker of a lighter against cool night air. 

_

_

_

Miguel taglist (1): @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

[kpoptrashlord-007]

Sir;; CYJ

Word Count;; 2.7k

Genre;; Smut, E2Ls

Pairing;; Yeonjun x Fem!Reader

Summary;;

You’re at your wits end when it comes to your boss’s spoiled son. Beyond the point of formalities and long past niceties, it’s high time the tension between the two of you finds some form of release.

Request;;

@light164star asked: hard!dom yeonjun is very much welcome…

Warnings;;

Smut, Enemies to Enemies That Fuck, Reader is a higher-up in the company but Yeonjun is the CEO's son, exhibitionism but lowkey, office sex, kinda hate sex? kinda rough, brat taming?, Reader thinks she's a dom but…, Dom!Yeonjun, biting and clawing, ass slapping, pussy slapping, face slapping (jk), vaginal fingering, mild humiliation, orgasm denial. There are no safe words or the likes – it’s fiction lol.

Notes;;

Writing Yeonjun brings out the worst in me :) yet somehow I still wasn’t able to summon forth a really hard dom. I just don’t have it in me I guess. Coming back to edit this several months later and I gotta say, I love this Reader!

Main Masterlist

“I bet you like that.”

Gaze darting to Yeonjun and his overconfident smirk, your lips press into a firm line. He’s made a habit of getting on your nerves as of late, knowing full well you can't retaliate without repercussions. His status affords him unwarranted respect, allowing him to run rampant in your life. Day in and day out, he's a menace. It takes all your willpower not to give him a piece of your mind right here and now but instead you fix your posture. Sitting a little taller, you clear your throat. Everyone’s eyes are on you. You can’t let him get under your skin. 

“As I was saying, they’re slamming us with these accusations. Our reputation can’t handle it. Any suggestions?”

Silence. 

“Not a single idea? I didn’t realise we were paying you to be slack-jawed buffoons,” you seethe, slamming your presentation binder shut. 

“W-well, maybe we could release a different scandal as a distraction?”

You roll your eyes. “Anyone else?”

"Why not throw some money at them until they shut up?"

“Or run a smear campaign on them."

"Boooring," Yeonjun sighs, spinning in his chair. "Might as well tell my father to declare bankruptcy at this rate."

"Well, please enlighten us since you're obviously teeming with ideas."

"Sure, but you're not going to like it."

"What a surprise." You tap your pen against the table. "Spit it out."

"For years now their CEO has been eye-fucking you. I say we wrap you in a little bow and–"

“Why are you even here?” Scathing hot words match the intense heat spreading across your nape like wildfire. “Can't you laze about somewhere else? This is a meeting for professionals, not kids playing adult.”

If a pin dropped, you'd hear it. No one dares breathe. There's a tumultuous air between you and Yeonjun, and your subordinates are stuck in the middle. Examining the presentation notes with newfound interest, not a single one of them has the balls to meet your eyes. 

Aside from Yeonjun, of course. He can't seem to look away. His lips curl up into a devilish smile as he leans forward, the table squeaking as he rests his elbows upon it. With a quirk of the brow, he tilts his head and chuckles. A part of you relishes in his reaction, eager to push his buttons at any given opportunity.

"Everyone, out. I expect a full report as well as viable solutions before the day's end," you say, the finality in your tone biting. 

The room can't empty fast enough. Papers jostle and sing as they're shoved into briefcases. Chairs groan in relief with every new departure. Within seconds you're alone with your boss's son, the bane of your existence. You wait with an impatient frown for him to follow the crowd. 

His dark eyes bore into you. Like a beast on the prowl, he doesn't let you out of his sight as he closes the door. A gentle breeze squeezes through before metal seals against metal. It's much colder without the extra bodies inside. You shudder. 

"Do you need something, Yeonjun?" 

"Isn't that"—the door locks with a loud clack—"Mr. Choi to you?" 

"I don't respect positions given through nepotism."

Even louder than the lock is the thud of his shoes as he approaches you. Shoving a chair out of his way, he navigates the mess left behind from the meeting with ease. Paper crumples underfoot but he doesn't pause. There's a storm brewing; it flashes through the cracks of his smooth exterior. 

Once he stands between you and the desk, going so far as pushing your chair back with his heel, he pulls out his phone. The glass walls tint. While you can look out, the rest of the workplace can no longer see in. Just swell. You huff, crossing your arms while you wait for him to rant and whine then finally leave. 

"Shouldn't you call me… sir?"

"Shouldn't you, I don't know, earn that right?" 

He scoffs. "I do plenty around here."

"Plenty of nothing is still nothing. Unless you have something important to say, make yourself scarce. Some of us actually have to work."

It strikes a nerve and God does it feel good. His nostrils flare as he nods, forcing a smile onto his much too pretty face. You return it, though you imagine it is more akin to a smirk. Which would explain why the veins in his neck are bulging. Indulging in the moment, you watch his Adam's apple bob up and down in an angry little dance. 

"I'm not leaving until you call me 'Sir'."

Pulled from your entertaining reverie, you’re face-to-face with his overwhelming audacity. 

"Then I'll leave," you snap, his persistence eating away at your patience. The back of your chair slams against the wall. Standing much too quickly, you break into his space with a well-placed leg lodged between his spread thighs, "because I'll never call you 'sir'."

His legs close around you. Unable to flee, you’re stuck within his intoxicating close proximity. The ticking of the clock subsides and all that remains is the thrum of your racing heart. You gulp down your anxiety before straightening your shoulders in an act of composure. His hands trace up the length of your arms, leaving electricity in their wake. When his tongue peeks out from between gleaming teeth, your resolve weakens. 

Yeonjun is going to be the death of you. 

"That sounds like a challenge," he coos. Trapping your jaw in a tight grip, his fingers burn hotter than the flood of warmth rolling through your system. His lips brush against yours as he leans forward. The delectable scent of his cologne clouds your senses. It's dizzying. "Should we bet on it?"

It would be easy to push him away, perhaps even slap him (once for his arrogance then again for good measure), and yet… 

"If I win you have to be a good little boy and” —his eyes narrow— "do your job from now on."

"And when I win you will call me Sir in <i>and</i> out of the bedroom."

Scoffing, your tone drips with incredulity, "When you win–"

The words are smothered by the press of his lips against yours. Your mind races as he unzips your skirt but when it drops past your thighs he abandons it, focusing his attention elsewhere and leaving you to wrestle the tight fabric the rest of the way. His fingers entangle in your hair as you shimmy your legs and kick the skirt onto the floor. Nails scrape along your scalp, a biting sting left behind as he yanks your head back. You whimper from the roughness of his touch, ravenous and angry, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His tongue tastes like apple as it toys with yours. 

Eyes squeezed shut, the first smack comes out of nowhere. Tantalising pain blossoms across your arse. The second earns a soft yelp. He swallows the sound. You were unaware of how tight his hold on your hair was until it’s gone, leaving a lingering ache in its place. Tracing the curve of your cheek, he wipes away the tears before they spill. It’s tender, much more gentle than you thought him capable of, but it doesn’t last. Another strike against your raw flesh leaves you trembling. Clinging to his shirt, your hands ball up in fists as he massages your skin.

You break the kiss to glare at him. A coy smirk twists his lips and desire blazes in his eyes. He possesses an intensity you’ve never known. It’s all-consuming. Unable to hold his stare, you look toward the door. Still locked. Biting your bottom lip, you watch as members of your team walk past, oblivious to the sin taking place just beyond the darkened glass. 

Yet you can’t shake the thought of being caught, 

can’t escape how it ignites a fire in your core, 

can’t stop your cunt from clenching in anticipation. 

“Anything you want to say?” 

“Yes, actually,” you say with a chuckle, ignoring logic in pursuit of pleasure. Overheated, your mind is an incoherent jumble. You know you should end this before it devolves into something you can’t stop but there’s a carnal urge within you. Desperate to be stung, you kick the hornet’s nest. “You’re as inadequate as a lover as you are an employee.”

Tilting your chin back toward him, he groans when you refuse to look him in the eye. “God, I’m going to ruin you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

There’s no real bite behind your words. They’re hollow just like your promise to remain professional around your boss’s fucking son. How much of a horny idiot does one have to be to get involved with Yeonjun of all people? A fresh wave of embarrassment explodes throughout your body. This is career suicide, so why are you guiding his hand under your skirt while your tongue grazes his jaw?

“I knew you were a freak,” he purrs into your ear, the baritone of his voice eliciting a shudder. 

“Luckily for me, so are you.”

With little grace he flips you around and pushes you down on the table. It shakes and creaks as he follows close behind, lowering himself until your bodies meet. Lifting your leg onto his back, his hips thrust against yours. The friction is electrifying. Though the sensation is minimal, it is just enough to leave you wanting.  

Animalistic, you claw at his shirt. Buttons fly free before hitting the table with sharp taps. His shirt opens to reveal a toned chest. His expression morphs into that of a smirk, confidence oozing from his sparkling eyes. It’s enough to halt your admiration – you don’t intend to boost his overinflated ego. With a glower you run your nails down his torso. Red streaks decorate his skin. 

“At this rate you'll be calling me ‘sir’,” you sigh, feigning disinterest. It’s all in vain as your body follows in tandem to the slow grind of his hips. 

“What a wild imagination you have.”

Gripping both of your wrists within one large hand, he pins your arms above your head. He doesn’t hold back. His lips latch onto your neck and he sucks on the skin until you whine. Tantalising and deliberate, he grinds against your cunt one last time before rising to his knees. Your body instinctively lifts, eager to bask in his warmth longer, and you have to dip your head away to hide your shame. 

“Keep your eyes on me.” 

There’s a sternness in his tone that has you faltering. Hesitantly you turn back to him for a mere second before giving up, choosing to watch how the office is carrying on without you. A mistake, you realise too late, as Yeonjun slaps your pussy. Fire blossoms in your gut. You clench around nothing, your toes curling. He slaps the sensitive area again and you squirm in his grasp, an indignant mewl passing through your parted lips. 

“Look at me.”

Your gaze snaps to him. Magnetised, you can’t look away. Once more he slaps your cunt, mouthing something about you being a bad girl. The pain is delicious – shocking and intense. It sets your nerves ablaze. Back rising off the table, you arch toward him. The contact you expect doesn’t come; instead you’re greeted with the harsh nipping of his teeth. He clamps down on your breast, biting hard to combat how your bra shields you. Never one to make things easy, you fall away from him. Your breast slides free of his mouth without much fight but the clothing is another story. 

As you drop there’s a snap. Like a small whip, one of your bra straps licks your back in an angry assault. You wince as it lashes your bare skin. After taking a moment to catch your breath and clear your mind, you allow your teary eyes to reopen. His chest heaves as he snickers around your clothing. He doesn’t let go, tugging on your shirt until it stretches. 

“Bastard!” you growl, baring your teeth. 

Spitting the fabric out, he releases your wrists and licks his lips. “Hush now. I’ll buy my little honey a new one. Would you like that?”

“You’re damn right you will!”

His nails tickle your stomach, trailing up your chest to toy with the collar of your shirt. The material constricts around you as he lifts you with one hand. All teeth and tongue, he kisses you, stealing your breath until you manage to break away. Head lolling to the side, you transfer your whole weight into his hold, ignoring how your shirt digs into your back. 

He tuts. “Where are your manners?” 

When he lets go, the table wobbles as your body slams down upon it. Pens clatter to the floor. Your pained irritation warps into a wide-eyed shock when he drags his fingers up your thigh before pushing your panties aside. Two fingers slip into your soaked cunt. Gasping loud enough to be heard by anyone outside the door, panic chokes you. When you glance out and see no one nearby, the churning within your gut slows. Your heart stammers in your chest. This isn't like you. What the hell are you doing?

Unceremoniously fast and rough, he pumps his fingers in and out of your wet pussy. Squelching reaches your ears. Red hot embarrassment has you whimpering beneath him. He smirks against your skin, breath warm against your collarbone. He massages your clit with his thumb and you can’t stop your body from reacting. Lightning quick you clamp a hand over your mouth to silence your strangled moan before you alert the whole office to his lewd actions.

“My pretty little slut is making a mess all over my fingers,” he taunts, using said fingers to scissor you open. “You’re going to drip onto the table at this rate.”

"Sh-shut up," you pant. 

"Still so rude. Shall I stop?"

When he pauses, you whine. It’s not your proudest moment but you yearn for him. Your body craves his touch, your mind desires his taunts. Clenching around his fingers, your pussy begs for him, something the rational part of your mind still refuses to do. It’s only a matter of time before you break, however. Thoughts of his cock driving deep and fast into your needy cunt squashes the remainder of your willpower.

“If you want something, use those pretty little lips and beg for it.”

You glare at him out of pride but comply nonetheless. “Please.”

“Maybe,” he hums, pumping his fingers twice before pulling out completely, “you should try harder.”

You’re empty without his touch. It’s shameful how quick you fell to him, how easily you crumbled to his whims. You could end it all here and now–tell him to get to work and walk out–but that’d be like quitting. Even losing is better than quitting, at least that’s what you tell yourself as you grab his belt buckle. Within seconds it’s on the floor. It isn’t until you’re yanking his pants down that he halts your actions. 

Always so condescending, he chides you. “Not so fast, princess. You haven’t earned it.”

Lips forming a small pout, you huff. A lazy smirk crosses his features and he coos, tapping your nose. Every inch of your being burns with indignation. You should leave, you know you should, but there’s a part of you that’s loving it. Loving how he belittles you, loving how he takes control. There’s no denying how wet you are from the mere notion of submitting. Abandoning the last of your sensibility you relent. 

“Please, sir,” you whimper, the words foreign on a tongue so used to taking charge, “I need your cock. No… no one else will do, I need you.”

He sighs, the sound mocking everything you’ve ever stood for, and cradles your face. The triumphant grin adorning his near-perfect face only serves to wound your pride further. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that spells trouble. Gloating, he leans down to your level, his mere presence warming your skin in anticipation.

“Then get on your knees and work for it.”

   – ♡ –  If you enjoyed this, please consider liking, commenting, reblogging, and/or following! Thank you!

[siriusblack-the-third]

The one word that best fits Percy, Annabeth thinks, is Gentle. And it is entirely by design.

Percy grew up hated by his stepfather, hated by his schoolmates and teachers and tutors. He grew up with the words "delinquent", "stupid", "troublemaker" thrown at him, stinging his heart at first and then sliding ineffectually off his back over the years. Annabeth has seen him at his worst, and she knows that it is not in Percy's nature to be gentle. He's a hurricane.

It's in everything he does.

His eyes shift and change with the tides, with his emotions, from happy to angry to sad to exhausted to smug all within moments of each other. Sometimes, she catches a glimpse of something Other, something that makes him look cruel and heartless in the worst yet most beautiful of ways. The first time she had seen that look was when he had packed up the head of Medusa to send it to the Gods.

(It had scared her, then. Now any reminder of it makes her laugh.)

He holds himself in a way that says fuck around and find out, in a way that says he's the most dangerous person on this planet and he knows it, in a way that makes you stop and look and then stamp down the urge to take a few steps back. His back is always straight and his shoulders are always pulled back, but he always looks relaxed. His head is always a little low, reminiscent of the way a bull lowers its head when it's going to charge. His hands are always in his pockets, fiddling with a pen that has been with him since he was twelve. People scatter out of his way like getting within ten feet of him would get them killed.

(They're not wrong.)

Annabeth can only describe his fighting as chaotic. He is a literal whirlwind, movements fluid and unpredictable, sword slashing through the air with such speed that it's almost invisible. He's terrifying and beautiful and mesmerizing when he wages war, all sharp edges and ruthless strikes placed right where it would take his opponent down the fastest. Sometimes when he feels particularly violent, his hits are non lethal yet painful, making his opponent cry and scream, making him grin with teeth too sharp and eyes too bright.

And yet.

Gentle is the best word Annabeth can think of to describe Percy.

Percy, who cradles her face oh so carefully when he kisses her softly and slowly, just the way she likes when a nightmare wakes her up. Percy, who curls up into a ball next to her and buried his head into her stomach to hide from the terrors in his own dreams. Percy, who looks at his sister with the most adoring look Annabeth has ever seen on his face, who smiles at his mother with that spark of awe in his eyes like he still can't believe he got such a wonderful mother, who is patient and caring with every camper that asks him to help.

She can only think of gentle.

Gentle, because Percy likes to be reminded of the good things in the world. Gentle, because Percy works towards being so despite it not being a natural part of him. Gentle, because after years of war and bloodshed and battle and violence, they have made it to peace. Peace, where they can afford to make the choice to be gentle.

Percy is a Hurricane. Percy is Gentle.

Annabeth loves all of him.

.

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[wing-ed-thing]

Ghost (Gaara x SandNymph!Reader)

Synopsis: Gaara insists that he's been dating you for about a month. Well, Kankuro and Temari haven't seen you once and are convinced you're not even real. Temari is extremely concerned.

Word Count: 2.3k

Tags/Warnings: SandNymph!Reader, No Reader Pronouns, Humor, Fluff

Notes: I'm using "nymph" because I thought "sand spirit" or "spirit" would be confused with Shukaku, you know, Gaara's literal "sand spirit."

“A… date…?” Temari was in such disbelief over what she had just heard that she had to repeat it aloud. The lecture she had prepared about scheduling meetings died on her lips. Gaara spared a questioning glance from his paperwork, holding his pen just barely over the pages below. He held his posture completely still as he studied his sister’s expression of disbelief. Her eyebrows shot to her forehead. “You?” she blurted.

He frowned. 

“Is it that hard to believe?” Gaara returned to his work, the previously motionless pen now sailing across the page. Termari opened her mouth before closing it again, at a loss for words, as she studied the schedule nestled in her hands. The slot of time that had been sectioned off still sat there just as it had the last time she stared at it. The location was marked “rooftop.”

The note made Temari quirk her lip in pleasant surprise. She nodded to herself, cocking her head to the side as she stared at the combination of letters. Now that she thought of it, the rooftop of the Kazekage office wasn’t a terrible date location. The time would set Gaara’s date to start around sunset, making for quite the romantic atmosphere she didn’t know he had the capabilities to foresee. 

Temari glanced toward the Kazekage headpiece displayed on the wall behind Gaara’s desk, wondering if the not-so-subtle nod to his position had been intentional when he chose the setting. It was quite the power move. She couldn’t decipher whether it was too intimidating or if her little brother secretly had more charm than he let on. 

“Do you need something from me?” Gaara corralled his paperwork, leveling the pages against his desk. Temari shook her head, physically dismissing her thoughts as she brought the schedule forward to place it in front of him. She stood there and rocked on her heels, always one to make it known when she had an opinion. Gaara let out a quiet sigh and spoke in an even tone. “Yes?”

“Don’t you think the Kazekage office is a bit intimidating?” Temari hummed, glancing off to the side. She pivoted the ball of her foot on the intricately woven carpet below. Gaara’s writing stopped for a second before picking up again. 

“Considering that this is my place of employment— and that I’m the Kazekage— I would hope not.” Gaara quickly dismissed the question, much to Temari’s chagrin. “But I suppose we can afford to purchase a decorative plant or two.” 

“I meant for your date,” Temari protested. An undetectable smirk tugged at Gaara’s cheeks, tarnishing his otherwise unreadable expression. “You knew what I meant.” Gaara blinked as he pivoted in his chair to stand and retrieve a few more pressing documents. Temari perked up instantly, folding her arms as she moved around the large wooden desk. “What’s with that look?” She jabbed a finger at him. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Gaara insisted with a shake of his head. A small crease appeared above his brow. He brushed past his sister, adamant about finishing his clerical work over engaging with her.

“You didn’t say anything, but you were thinking it.” 

“Temari.”

“You put a date on your official calendar and didn’t even tell me about it?” As angry as she sounded, the gleeful inflection that whipped up the end of her sentence betrayed her. She leaned against Gaara’s desk to his left. With another subtle heave of his chest, he slowly met her eye. Her irises glinted. 

“We’ve been seeing each other for quite some time. This is nothing new.” 

“Wait, what?”

“Temari, please. If this is all—” He tapped the schedule with the back of his pen. —“I’d appreciate it if you left me to my work.” 

Temari visibly deflated and left with a huff, knowing ultimately that she had been pushing her luck. She glanced back at her brother one more time before gently closing the office door. It was time to compare notes. 

***

“It’s been maybe two months?” Kankuro took a sip of his tea with a shrug of his shoulders. Temari couldn’t help how her mouth hung open in disbelief. She stepped forward, slamming her palms on the surface of Kankuro’s glorified desk. A few papers went toppling to the floor as he visibly jumped. Liquid spilled over the side of his cup. “Probably longer?”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“I thought you knew!” Kankuro raised his hands in defense, three fingers still wrapped around his beverage. He snuck another sip. “I mean, it’s the same time every week. He puts it in the calendar for fuck’s sake.” Kankuro placed his cup on a few scattered papers in front of him, moving just in time to catch a falling pile of files.

“What do you mean ‘probably’?” Kankuro randomly spread the compilation of work across the desk, all the forms and other important documents blending together in the unorganized mass. He only shrugged, clearly disinterested in the matter at hand. “Kankuro.”

“I dunno!” He shrugged again, but higher this time, sinking in his chair to pout at the clock mounted on the wall. Kankuro had hoped that he could waste the rest of the workday away in peace. The bodyguard to the Kazekage being a clearly redundant position, there was only so much ass Kankuro could kick in the comfort of an office environment. While he certainly performed other tasks, those tasks… could be done another day. “I think he gets stood up half the time anyway.”

Temari tried to instigate a conversation about Gaara’s dating life twice that day, and twice, one of her brothers attempted to get her to drop the subject by inadvertently dropping the juiciest tidbits into the conversation. Suffice it to say, neither time worked in their favor. 

Kankuro tried to turn away from Temari in his swivel chair. She rotated him back. Fury mounted in her eyes. 

“He what?” She towered over him with her 

“I don’t know that for sure,” Kankuro whined, letting his head tilt back onto the back of his chair. He kicked an ankle up onto his opposite knee, cradling it in his lap as he braced himself for Temari’s firestorm. “He just always comes downstairs alone whenever I’ve been here late. But then again—” Kankuro scratched lazily at the back of his head. —“That’s me being here late.”

“Your brother has been dating—”

—“Our brother…?—”

“Your brother has had a more successful dating life than you—”

— “Okay, uncalled for—”

— “And you don’t want to know who it is?” Temari placed her fists on her hips with a puff of her chest. She sighed, walking around him to gaze out the window, watching people trickle in and out of the office building. Only when she had her back turned did Kankuro relax. 

“‘Mari, I know you’re concerned about this, but I honestly don’t think it’s anyone.” 

Temari snapped back around, causing Kankuro to sink back into his chair. She quirked her brow. Her lip twitched downward skeptically.

“What do you mean?”

“You really think he’s actually seeing anyone?” Kankuro stressed, leaning forward. He glanced in the vague direction of Gaara’s office. Temari followed his glance in consideration. “Even if he is the Kazekage, it’s just another degree of separation from being a regular guy.”

“You think he’s making it up?” The two locked eyes simultaneously, both having the same thought but neither wanting to vocalize it. Kankuro averted his eyes guiltily.

“I wouldn’t say he’s making it up…” he trailed off. “He has us, of course. And he has pretty good interactions with most people in, like, a Kazekage kinda way…” Kankuro heaved in a deep breath. “I just think he’s, um… compensating. I’m sure he’ll tell us everything when he’s ready.”

Temari wanted to fight him on his point, but she knew that Kankuro was right.

***

The rooftop housed a small garden. Flowerpots ranging in size lined the east side. A few sturdy stands had made their way upstairs, offering a few neat displays for the pots to sit. one of the older secretaries routinely arrived to work early to maintain his menagerie of drought-hardy plants: a well-kept compilation of cacti, succulents, and desert flowers. Over quite a number of years, the old man managed to turn the dreary, cracked rooftop of the Kazekage building into a rather peaceful space. 

You were already waiting for him when Gaara arrived. The glow of the fiery-colored evening outlined your silhouette, a sunset of painted crimson surrounding you in his sights. You turned as soon as you heard the door.

Gaara stood in the doorway of the stairwell. 

Your simple, traditional robes fluttered slightly in the evening breeze. Particles of sand fell from your fingertips, leaving a rounded puddle beneath around your feet. 

But he didn’t move. Instead, Gaara leaned against the doorframe; the inside knob of the wide-open door sat under his fingertips as he stood enamored with you. You lit up at the sight of him, beckoning him over. Gaara tried to suppress the bashful smile of admiration that slowly crept onto his lips. 

He stepped forward, letting the door close behind him, and stopped short in front of it. Gaara shifted his weight to his back leg. Two neat dimples indented his cheeks as he raised his arms, holding his pointed index fingers and thumbs to make a square shape as he lined you up in his vision with the blazing sunset in the background. 

Gaara squinted one eye. You rolled yours.

“Get over here,” you protested playfully with a droop of your shoulders. Gaara’s lips tightened to form a twisted line as he snickered to himself, jogging forward to embrace you. You pressed your forehead against his.

“Have I ever told you that sunset is my favorite time of day?” Gaara said softly. You kissed the corner of his lips. 

His fingers laced through yours. With a brush of your palm, a few more grains of sand fell to the ground. You chuckled, letting a sentimental smile rest across your mouth, pulling away to lead him to the edge of the rooftop. 

But Gaara stood still, letting the tension of your pull stretch his arm and stop you mid-step. He used your momentum to pull you back into his arms, adding a spin as he did so.

“You must have missed me a lot,” you quipped as you used his leather-clad shoulder to steady yourself. Gaara shrugged with an informality surely unbecoming of a political figure as important as the Kazekage. But the soft gaze that focused back on you held nothing but genuity.

“Every time I looked upon the sand,” he hummed, finally releasing you. You cocked your head to the side, mischief already beginning to cloud your illuminated irises. 

“Every time?” you repeated with a snicker and planted your hands on your hips. “It’s a miracle you can get anything done.” 

You backed up a step, and Gaara followed. A few feet before the edge of the rooftop, you had set up a modest, woven blanket and a spread of simple, traditional foods. The two of you sat, perfectly shrouded from prying eyes by the tall cacti that grew around you. 

“Bold of you to assume anything ever gets done with all these new global alliances.” Gaara’s forehead creased with amusement as he poured the tea for both of you. You began to fix the plates. “This is a government building, after all.”

“Oh, so the Kazekage has jokes. Does Baki know? I’m sure he would be thrilled to hear you say that.” 

“I can’t say he does.”

Gaara set your tea down in front of you. The sun had lowered enough so that you could see each other clearly in the indirect light. The sky cast a golden color over the desert, and the fading beams trickled through the desert flowers that surrounded you. 

“Well, I’m glad you found some time to take a break.”

“I always have time for you.”

***

The sun had set by the time Temari finally left the office. Bright moonlight lit up the roads as she began her trek home after a long day of running papers. Homes were lit with warm lantern light, laying the path before her. Kankuro already left hours ago. 

She strode through the street. A few people milled about around her, also commuting home from work or closing up small market stalls. In a moment overtaken by thought, Temari stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to turn back toward the office building. 

The outdoor lights had been lit. She searched for Gaara’s office window, only to find it dark. Perhaps he went home at the same time Kankuro had. Given the week they’ve had, Gaara deserved some well-needed rest, Temari decided. But two figures caught her eye just as she was about to turn her back to continue her walk. 

Obscured by the tall plants on the rooftop, Temari could have easily missed them if she had been looking from any other angle. She looked to her left, then right, scanning the street for people before she stepped forward, squinting to get a better look. Temari hadn’t forgotten about Gaara’s date for a second, but she hadn’t expected it to go so late into the evening. And while she happened to see you and Gaara saying your goodbyes, she might as well see who’s dating her little brother.

But as soon as Temari began to look closer, you disappeared into a swirl of sand, and the grains blew into the breeze. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: I prefer to avoid gendering readers in my work. Originally I was wondering how to talk about you in third person without having to pick a set of pronouns, but the dialogue wrote smoother than I originally even thought! It's very possible to write reader inserts without mentioning any specific third-person pronouns, it just requires some creativity, flexibility, and thought— I stand by this!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I read over the neat handwriting scrawled elegantly onto my exam paper, a vivid red ink curling into the praise of 'good boy'. Giddy feeling of accomplishment aside, the ink seems to call to me. The letters are sharp, clean, deep. My hands simply itch to acquire such quality.... I recall the many different pens sprawled over my desk, back at Ramshackle, having bought them after discovering the many stationery and art brands of this foreign world. A few professional grade inking pens, a couple of brush pens, simple, smooth ball point pens...

But wow, this pen looks so good. I need to see it decorating my sketchbook!

"Professor, may I ask something?" I decide to (meekly) approach him one day in the hall. "what type of pen do you use for writing? It's so nice!"

I'd assume at this point most staff would be aware of my love for art, if the doodles I mindlessly draw on the sheets are anything to go by.

If you’re wondering, I used this irl luxury fountain pen as reference for the pricing on Crewel’s. It costs 1,255 USD (/thaumarks), which translates into roughly 125,500 yen (/madol).

If he doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will.

“You know fine craftsmanship when you see it.” Crewel folded his arms. “However, I’m afraid that particular writing implement is beyond your budget. Providing the name will do you no good.”

“It can’t be that bad,” you protested with a pout. “It’s okay! I’ve buckled down and dined on cup ramen for weeks and weeks before just to save up enough cash for stationary items!”

Crewel’s brows pinched, then loosened, pulling back to their original positions. He tangentially knew of your endeavors, the fruits of your labor tracked in ink and graphite doodles on every homework assignment and exam you turned in.

Those nuggets of gold, diamonds in the rough. The highlights of his busy work days.

He cracked a small smile and indulged your request.

“Very well, let’s see… This item comes from a specialty shop in Fairest City. For another fountain pen of this make and brand, that would set you back about 125,500 madol.”

Your jaw dropped, your eyes threatening to pop out of your skull. “D-Did I hear you correctly?! 125,500 madol?!”

“Yes,” Crewel replied nonchalantly. “I warned you it may be impractical to purchase on a student’s meager allowance.”

Your heart sank, face falling with it. “Urk! I didn’t expect the price to be that steep…”

There’s no way I can afford that on the monthly money the headmaster gives me! If I budget well and save for a whole year, that only runs me about…

Your fingers twitched as you attempted the mental math. Noticing it, Crewel chuckled.

“You’ve plenty of time to enjoy your school days. Someday, you’ll be that fine adult who can afford all the luxury pens they desire,” he advised with a brief pat on your shoulder, “so do not rush to grow up.

“If you inquire at the Mystery Shop, I’m sure Sam can recommend a number of affordable yet high-quality brands. He is sure to have something comparable to the fountain pen I use.”

[somedayillbepeterpan]

FOR BONUS POLINWEEK

DAY ONE | Favourite Season 3 scene: The Butterfly ball

PART 2: THE COLOURS, THE FEATHERS, AND THE NUMBER 8

The Dankworth-Finch ball has several notable pieces in the venue.

That the ball was centred on the colours ORANGE AND PURPLE

The colour orange conveys feelings of warmth, joy, and confidence. It is also strongly associated with creativity. 

The colour purple symbolises mystery, independence, and royalty. In the old days, only people from royalty can afford purple thread as it was rare and very expensive. The colour then became associated with the display of opulence and the wealth of the family. 

The combination of Orange and Purple is associated with the colour of sunset. 

2. That the venue had 8 COLUMNS and an 8 PIECE ENSEMBLE.

The platform had 8 columns and an 8-piece ensemble. The number 8 aside from symbolising infinity also symbolises stability often associated with financial power, prosperity, and karma.

3. That the centrepiece design is made up of OSTRICH FEATHERS.

The ostrich feathers are known to various tribes in East African cultures as a symbol of wealth and prestige. 

All of the above alludes to wealth, status, and prestige which we all know is NOT the Featheringtons. But the Butterfly ball not only is a triumph for Philippa and Prudence but Pen revealing herself as LW, albeit a double-edged revelation, also adds prestige to this often ridiculed family. I know that Pen touched on how people might not so quickly forget how she as LW has ridiculed the ton but her being an ally (and a recognised) rival to the Queen gives her power that no one in the ton has.

I especially love the symbolism of the colours. Both colours perfectly describes who Pen is as both Penelope and LW. Then there is the fact that the combination of orange and purple is often associated with sunset makes me think that this is Pen closing the chapter of LW as her secret and going into a new dawn as Pen who has accepted herself fully as LW.

Say what you want about the Featheringtons or their redemption arc but I love that this happened because of Pen stepping out of the shadows. I especially love her recognising that she has more in common with Portia that she thinks that LW couldn't have come out of nothing. Portia-- who were both a suspect and a victim of her circumstances was the one who pushed Pen to do better. I want people to remember that the Butterfly ball wouldn't be what it became if not for Pen and Portia's confrontation.

I have no idea if the writers were very intentional with all these details but I just love learning what the meanings are behind them.

PART 3: THE FEATHERINGTON DRESSES

PART 1: THE VENUE AND A FULL CIRCLE MOMENT

[grsl-xo]

After Goku flew off with Chichi after the big tournament, the TV show began reruns starting from episode 1.

That’s how Dragon Ball became the first manga I ever bought.

Back then manga were only available at book stores in busy train stations. I remember the paper smell in these stores and the Dragon Ball manga, always on a spinning type of shelf. Every time I had the chance to get a new volume I longingly looked at all the cover art of the manga I couldn’t afford to get just yet. Beautifully colored pictures, promising great adventures and protagonists I never saw before. Who was the purple haired guy, who was the girl on cover 36 and why was there a small Goku? Between reading I spent my early teens trying to draw the characters just like Toriyama.

10 years later I started to draw again after using a pen only ever for taking notes for way too long. I began with a cover art redraw of volume 38 because I wanted to have something nice to frame for my living room.

I stumbled into the Vegeta and Bulma fandom on accident after trying to find a better resolution of the manga cover for volume 32 online.

When I posted my first vegebul Toriyama redraw, I got compliments from fan artists that I admired immensely, wich led me to pursue my art hobby more seriously and made me so much better.

Whenever I start a new redraw I feel like I’m still having so much to learn from his work. Every line I have ever drawn was influenced by Toriyama.

I’m 34 years old and I have drawn Dragon Ball for more than 20 years at this point.

While I don’t know if I will still draw Dragon Ball when I’m 68, it will have a special place in my heart as long as I live.

[theinfamousdoctorf]

I wasn't going to talk about this, [because it's sad] but I think it will come up anyway for the sake of transparency and my Ko-fi.

I have chickens. We've had them for several years. We don't eat them, they all have names. They just roam the property during the day and eat the lawn down and give us eggs. Two years ago we lost half our flock because someones bastard dog entered our yard and just... slaughtered them. Ran them down for fun and killed ten of our hens. Our roosters fought back because that's their job. Rooster spurs function like raptor claws and they will jump kick anything they don't like. One of our roosters barely survived the attack. He lost a tennis ball sized hunk of flesh from his rear and back and was recovering in the house for months. He's a fully black, part Cochin named Tipsy. Our calmest quietest boy.

The day before yesterday something attacked our flock again. The neighbors [who all have dogs] say they've been seeing coyotes. We had six roosters to protect the flock. Tipsy is the only one who survived. This time with lost feathers but no bites. Pictured is our original alpha Whisper. He died in the coop, likely protecting the others. We lost several girls; Cookie, Sarah, Dominique. I'm still trying to take stock. They killed Songbird, Robin, Yang and Red. The reminder is a dozen hens plus Tipsy. Lie is devastated. She cried all day and through her shift. So I did something impulsive that I really couldn't afford for her sake. I ordered some chicks. They're usually between $3-6 each when they're only a day old. I got six females. Nothing special or expensive. And they threw in a free one which will almost certainly be a rooster of some random breed. Just to give Tipsy a second in command. So in about three weeks I will likely have chick pictures to share and that will be the reason. I hate seeing my love so sad. And we've bowed out on getting chicks the last two springs because of money or time issues. Now I just need to clear out the storage space for the pen and set up the lights and junk again.

Also someone sent me a pair of trailcams and I don't know who it was. Thank you. ;_; So if I get any good ghost or animal photos you'll get to see those too. We're just recovering here.

[girllookingoutwindow]

I think people like to think of Penelope as “working class” because she writes the gossip papers but like you point out she is dressed and bathed by maids, she is invited to and attends balls, she uses carriages and footmen to get around, she is of the upper classes just like all the other families and I personally don’t understand why that’s a problem for anyone like this whole show is about these rich families who are in the same circles as the queen for heavens sake.

I agree. One of the reasons why Pen didn't use the column to talk about work class before it was because she didn't knew more about them. She learns how to do it.

About her class: she's the daughter of a Lord, she's definitely not work class, she never worked in all her life and she wouldn't need to.

Colin either, and actually the two families never mixed with work class. Not in a marriage. I don't know well Sophie background.

This is the regency era: she didn't do her hair, make up, she needed help to dress. She never cleaned her own room, and she never will. So she would use help.

My problem with this question it's normally people is saying "Oh, Pen wouldn't use help, because she would be a good mother"

She would be a good mother and she would use help. Because using help doesn't have anything to do with being a good parent. Many people that's work class use help too because they need it, sometimes you just do, or maybe you can afford it.

And that doesn't make you a bad person, or bad parent. I don't like the shame associated with it.

Sorry, if my answer it's a little harsh, but this topic bothers me a little.

[brekker-by-brekkerr]

https://www.tumblr.com/brekker-by-brekkerr/753275507770032128/theres-no-way-you-can-convince-me-the-writing-for?source=share

You being 21 and immature af explain a little bit but are you really telling me you think creasida is better than Pen??? Really??? Cressida, the woman who ridiculiza the fat girl in every Ball she sees her in s1 and s2*?? Cressida who step on Pen dress wheb she saw her finallg talking to a man??? Cressida who blackmail Pen??? Creasida who throw a drink in Pen dress?? Who said awful things to a fat girl???

Holy shit!! She is better than Pen???

I specifically indicated that I did not want Pen stans to interact with me or my posts because the ones who can't just go about their day after seeing an opinion different than theirs usually feel the need to be rude about it (like calling me immature when you're the one coming into my ask box to argue with me about an opinion about a TV show. If 21 is sooo young and I'm soo immature then move on).

Yes, I do think Cressida is better than Pen. (Also, I don't recall Cressida even mentioning Pen's weight when she makes rude comments to her.) Do I think everything she did was right? No, of course not, and I have not seen Cressida fans say so.

But let's unpack the difference in their actions and their motivations.

Cressida grew up extremely isolated, with a father who's awful, with a mother who drills into her the mindset that it's every woman for herself. This does not excuse her actions but it makes it very clear why she would behave the way she did. Her actions align with this mindset in the earlier seasons, until Cressida finally has one friend and you know what she does? She begins self-reflecting and changing her ways.

Pen has not experienced the same level of isolation as Cressida. Say what you will about Penelope's family, I get that they did not treat her as well as they should have, but her mother let her have her interests. She let Pen read, she let Pen go befriend whoever she wanted to. It would be one thing for Pen to feel overlooked and use LW as a way to voice her opinions like I've heard she does in the books, but it's another to use it as a weapon against other women, constantly harming others' reputations and making unnecessary digs at other people, like the comments she made ON THE DAY of the queen's grandchild's funeral.

Pen's actions have so much worse consequences for other people than Cressida's. Cressida, who is already being considered a spinster by others so her opinion is not valued as much, being rude during a ball does not have the same effect as publicly making comments about other women in a paper that people put so much value in. For example, Pen exposing Marina through LW almost led to Marina being on the street while pregnant. That is 100x worse than stepping on someone's dress. It does not matter that Marina being homeless wasn't the outcome, because just because Daphne stepped in and helped her doesn't mean that the harm wasn't done. If Daphne hadn't stepped in, then Marina's life would have been ruined. And Pen is out here taking shots in LW at people who have never done anything to her, like Kate and Edwina and Daphne.

Lady Whistledown's word matters to these people. Gossip and social standing are everything to these people, and LW's word is golden to them. Someone being mean in one moment in a ballroom does not have the lasting weight of something being published in LW and the show itself proves this time and time again.

Also, the writers make it very clear why Cressida blackmails Penelope. She is backed into a corner and is scrambling for a solution. She was about to be shipped off to live with someone who we're told is likely worse than her current awful family situation. Her entire life is crumbling around her and the one friend she has ever made has abandoned her. Pen could have afforded the original blackmail fee so it's not like Cressida was asking this unattainable awful thing of her.

So yeah. One person saying mean things to another, who shows self-awareness and growth as soon as she experiences positive female friendship and starts to learn that you don't have to see the world the way she'd been raised to see it, is nowhere near as bad as someone who uses her platform to continually tear other people's lives down.

Kindly please stop sending me these asks though because I made it clear that I did not want to talk with Pen stans about her and also have made sure to tag my posts properly.

[flyingwargle]

futons are spread across the classroom floor for a final time before the spring tournament qualifiers. in the fading summer’s heat, autumn comes with a vengeance, and with the school’s heating system out of order for the weekend, akaashi finds himself huddled beneath a blanket, dressed in long-sleeves and his team jacket. he can barely keep his hands from trembling as he watches a volleyball match on his tablet, notebook open on his lap. across the room, the third-years are huddled for a card game, although bokuto is absent, likely with kuroo in the next room, where nekoma is.

akaashi pulls his blanket closer around his shoulders, suppressing a shiver. he always fall sick during this time, and he can't afford letting his guard down, not with the third-years' final shot at victory looming. the blanket falls when he sneezes, sniffling and pulling it back in place. he pauses his video to scrawl a note, observations for one of their potential opponents. itachiyama never uses the same tactics twice, and the more he can learn about them, the better their chances will be.

a shiver racks through his body. is he getting sick? he put his jacket on immediately after the matches wrapped up for the day, although he walked around in shorts, and he waited until he cooled down completely before his bath. damnit, he should’ve brought cold medicine, just in case…

“akaashi!”

bokuto wraps an arm around him, knocks the blanket off his shoulders. akaashi flinches, head jerking to the side as his captain lowers himself beside him. “whatcha doing? oh, is this itachiyama?”

“yes. i’m taking notes on the players.” the video is paused on sakusa, midair, ready to spike. a two-man block looms over him on the other side of the net. “we’ll need to know who else to look out for when we face against them.”

“oh, this match was during the inter-high!” bokuto leans over to tap the play button. “sakusa goes for the spike, but get this…it goes right to the other team, and then bam!” he emphasizes this as the ball bounces off the receiver’s arms. “can you imagine how it feels being in the right spot but you still can’t get it?”

“yes, that’s happened to both of us often, bokuto-san.”

“i know! it sucks,” bokuto grumbles. “the spin he can get is insane. i can never do something like that.”

akaashi glances at him, ready to refute, but then he sneezes, and another tremor shakes him. bokuto frowns. “are you getting sick?”

“no…at least, i hope not. the heat isn’t working very well, and i get cold easily.”

“i can keep you warm!”

“bokuto-san, you–“ akaashi cuts himself off as he feels bokuto remove his arm around him, and in the same motion, sits with his legs spread so akaashi is between them, leaning against the ace’s broad chest, arms wrapped around his waist. he radiates warmth, a human furnace. he has always run warmer than most, unperturbed by the cold.

“comfy?” bokuto asks.

akaashi nods, head lowered to hide the blush in his cheeks. fortunately, the third-years continue their card game, or pretend not to notice them. “yes, thank you. i take it that you want to watch the match with me?”

“yeah! i’m gonna pay real close attention to sakusa’s spikes.” he narrows his eyes in feign seriousness. “you should watch their setter. he’s really good, too.”

they stay like that until one of the coaches come and announce that it’s lights out. the boys scramble to put their entertainment away, stepping in between futons to find their own. akaashi turns his tablet off, stacking it with his notebook and pen to slip into his bag. bokuto doesn’t move, keeps his arms wrapped around akaashi’s waist, drowsy eyes watching him. “if you want,” he murmurs, “we can share the futon, so you won’t be cold at night.”

“bokuto-san, we’re in public.”

“hey, during our first year training camp, i had to cuddle with konoha ‘cause he got homesick.”

konoha yells from across the room, “don’t tell him that!”

bokuto laughs. “plus, you make feel relaxed, akaashi. i always get a good night’s sleep whenever we sleep over.” that’s indulging too much information about their relationship, but the door is closed, and everyone on the team knows there’s something going on between them.

“you should let him,” sarukui tells akaashi. “if you do get sick, it’ll be disastrous.”

“now i’m worried that i’ll catch a cold,” komi mutters. “washio, lend me one of your sweaters.”

washio tosses one over. “it’ll look like a dress on you.”

“shut up, you absolute bean pole.”

akaashi smiles to himself. “all right, if you’d like.”

“just keep it pg under the covers,” konoha says. “we have a first-year in the room. sorry, onaga.”

“i-it’s okay! i-i have earplugs!”

akaashi tunes out the rest of his teammates’ teasing to take his jacket off and climb into the futon beside bokuto, who has grabbed the pillow and blanket off his own. they tuck themselves in, facing each other. bokuto gives him a smile, and akaashi reciprocates. konoha loudly announces that he’s turning the lights off. in the darkness, there are two whispers.

“good night, akaashi.”

“good night, bokuto-san.”

[kenny-the-ken]

Save the Date

Aged up readers, Y/N is 17, Kenny is 18. All in high school. Mentions of drugs, alcohol, sexual themes and strong language. NOT FOR MINORS!! I hope you all enjoyed my first fic, it was written while running after my 2 year old who throws WAY too many tantrums so sorry if it wasn't my greatest work!

Kenny watched you from across the classroom, he watched how you twiddled your pen between your thumb and forefinger, how you the tip of your tongue darted out of your mouth as you concentrated on what you were writing. Your perfect y/h/c hair flowing in soft waves that cascaded down your back. He had fallen, and he had fallen hard.

Both of you were inseparable, the best of friends, you did everything together, albeit not much, because neither of you could afford to go a lot of places. He loved nothing more than laying down beside you in your bed with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, you were the one of the only people that knew he was Mysterion, you were one of the very lucky few who had seen him without his orange parka hood suffocating his face. But the most important to him, you were the only one to remember, the first time he died in front of you, you were shattered to a million pieces, your heart completely broken, and the only thing that could ever fix it was Kenny coming back alive, not like that could ever happen.

But it did, and when you heard a small knock on your front door all those years ago, opening it to see those beautiful blue eyes and fluffy blonde hair standing smiling at you, your face covered in smeared black lines of mascara, he knew.

"Kenny?" You uttered, rubbing your eyes as if you were hallucinating, a glove clad hand reaching to cup your tear stained face, he just simply looked at you, tears now welling in his own eyes.

"You- You remember?" He asked, you giving him a small nod as his answer. You smiled, tears still falling down your face.

"Of course I remember, Kenny! You got hit by a bus and everyone shouted about how you'd been killed and then called them bastards!" You responded, before he grabbed you with both hands, saying nothing but pulling you close to him for the tightest hug you'd ever had.

"I'm so glad you remember. No one else does."

That day will stay forever engraved in his mind for as long as he was destined to be on this earth for. And he knew, he knew you were his one true soul mate. Yeah, Kenny had been with plenty of girls before, but none of them made him feel how you did, normally so confident in asking girls out, he was known as a flirt, but he had never been confident enough to ask you out. That was until today.

"Put your balls in your purse, Kinny!" Eric said to him, exiting the class watching you walking in front of him. He was half listening, half in a daydream about how good your ass looked in your jeans.

"Kenny? Hello? Earth to Kenny, are you even listening to us?!" Kyle said, waving his hands in the air in front of Kenny's face.

"Hey dude, I was getting a good view there!! Fuck you, man!" Kenny exclaimed, sighing as he seen you turn the corner in the corridor.

"Dude, you seriously gotta ask her out!" Stan said, the other two boys nodding in agreement.

"How, man? I don't have any money to take her places, what am I supposed to say, 'Hey Y/N wanna come to my house and see my shit bedroom, my mom and dad screaming at each other and our meth lab?!' She'd never go for a guy like me, dudes. And she deserves better than me." He said his head bowing to stare at the tiles of the corridor. His life really was a mess.

"And that's where the broship comes in, dude!" Eric exclaimed, the other boys staring at each other in confusion.

"I bet you $70 you won't ask her out by the end of the day!" Eric said, knowing Kenny couldn't pass up on money like that.

"And if you do, then the money will come in handy for a date right?" Eric said, a shit eating grin plastered upon his face.

"Fine." Kenny replied, saying nothing else before walking off to find you.

There you sat with the other girls, chatting about god knows what and eating your lunch. You could feel a pair of eyes burning through the back of your skull as you turned round, there he stood, your prince in an orange parka. You couldn't see it because of his hood, but he was smiling at you, and was that a blush on his cheeks?

You had serious love and feelings for Kenny, and you always had, but you knew he was a player, he had been with a lot of girls throughout the years, and he never ever chose you, maybe he just didn't see you that way.

He was nervous, a small bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. He made his way over to you.

"Is it hot in here, or is it just being so close to you, girl?" Kenny flirted, causing a small blush to spread along your cheeks.

"What's up, Kenny?" You asked, offering him the half of your sandwich, he normally didn't have much food to eat, so you liked to help when you could. He great-fully accepted the kind offer and then bowed his head slightly, taking on a rather unusual mannerism for him. Normally he was so confident and cocky, but right now, he looked like he might pass out.

And he felt like it too!! Maybe he could just die accidentally and come back tomorr- No! He has to do this! It was now or never.

"Can I- um... can I talk to you about something?" Kenny asked, his gloved hands fidgeting together.

"Of course, Ken, we can talk about anything together! Do you wanna head somewhere more private?" You asked, as he simply nodded in reply, taking off a glove and offering his hand to you.

"I rolled a joint I didn't get to smoke before school today, wanna dip and go to the park?" Kenny questioned, his eyebrow quirking, hoping you'd be down.

"I have Mr Garrison's class after lunch so fuck yeah I wanna dip. My mom isn't home as usual, said she was going to get drugs last night and hasn't came back, so we can go smoke up at my house if you want? I've got frozen pizza!" You exclaimed, a large smile on your face. You could never pass up quality time with Kenny, you both knew that.

"That sounds like absolute bliss, babe. But when we smoke up, I really do need to talk to you about something." He stated, your hands now fully intertwined. As you guys approached the double doors of the school you passed Eric, Kyle and Stan, the three boys staring at you both, wide eyed and mouths wide.

"Hey, fuck you Kinny!" Eric shouted, handing him $70. "Make it last! God knows when you'd be able to get $70 again, Kinny!" He shouted loudly, the blonde boy smirking and flipping him off on his way out the door.

"Fuck you, dude! I'll text y'all later." He shouted back, the doors finally closing behind you both.

The walk was long and cold to your house, since you lived in the same part of town as Kenny, and the school bus wasn't running, since technically school was still in session. During the walk Kenny had shedded his jacket, putting it on you instead, making sure you didn't catch sick and kept warm in the never ending snow that resided in South Park.

Soon enough you were both in your bedroom, the window cracked slightly as Kenny sparked his lighter, taking a long, slow drag of the joint before passing it to you.

"So, what did you wanna talk about? Has your dad gone psycho again?" You asked, taking a few drags of the joint and passing it back to Kenny, your hands grazing slightly, and when you two touched, it felt electric.

He shook his head no. "No, for once it's not my parents." He laughed out, smoke coming down his nostrils.

"Then what's wrong, Ken?" You asked eyebrows raised as your studied your best friends face. He had a light dusting of freckles, soft, pale skin and the most perfect, light pink lips and of course you couldn't forget the adorable little gap in his teeth when he smiled at you. You were in love, you had been in love with him for as long as you could remember.

His hands were ice cold, the blood not reaching them due to the speed his heart was beating at.

"I um... I-" He stuttered, his cheeks a deep shade of crimson, as he quickly puffed on the joint you two shared, passing it to you, he should've asked if you had any vodka here that he could take a shot of, a little Dutch courage, but it was too late, he was already sitting here, your full attention on him as he became a stammering mess.

He took his gaze away from you before he said it, he actually had finally said it to you, and he did so as quickly as the words would come out of his mouth.

"Do you maybe wanna, I don't know, bemygirlfriend? I mean, only if you want to! If you don't, I totally understand, I wouldn't wanna be with me either, I mean, you deserve the world and I can barely afford to feed myself-"

You cut him off by grabbing the front of his t-shirt and pulling him towards you, your lips crashing against one another. You had waited for this since you were younger, you had always dreamed of being his, being his girl. And now you were!

His eyes fluttered closed, melting against you and wrapping his slender arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him on the bed. He had dreamt about this, he had wanked about this! More than once! He'd thought about how your boobs looked without any clothing covering them, how your nipple would feel in his mouth, how hard he could slap your ass, how tight you would feel around his coc-

You both parted ways, panting as you did, a string of salvia connecting your mouths. Both of you were blushing profusely, and Kenny shifted on the bed, feeling the tightness in his jeans starting to bother him.

"I've wanted to do that since the fourth grade." You said, almost in a whisper, only for Kenny to hear.

"Then let's go use this $70 fat ass gave me and I'll take you on our first official date!" Kenny said, a small smile on his lips as he kept his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if a gust of wind could blow you away from him.

"I love you, Kenny McCormick."

"I love you too, Y/N, and I always have." Kenny sighed, the relief he felt come crashing over him. He no longer had to keep it a secret, he loved you, and you loved him, and that was all the mattered. You made him want to stay alive, you made him happy, and you made him whole. I guess soul mates really do exist.

Hey guys!! I really hope you enjoyed this fic, I just kinda banged it out and I haven't checked any spelling or typos, so I'm really sorry about that, I just hope you all enjoy it. Kenny's a cute lil fluff, and I love writing for him, but I'll write for anyone from South Park so if you guys have any suggestions or requests please do send them my way!!