#and the stress consumes me from time to time

[sammsays]

I lay, right now, in my bed, surrounded on both sides by extended garment racks. They have blankets thrown over them, one over both the high and lower bar, making a "wall" — one that exists only for the purpose of sound dampening.

They aren't supposed to be around my bed, I did not buy the equipment for this reason. They normally sit in the barely used living room, blocking out the windows that are already covered by blackout curtains. I did not buy them for that reason either.

I purchased them for sound dampening.

They surround my computer in the corner of my room whenever I do a voiceover for my youtube videos.

This is supposed to be my job. It has been 5 months since I've uploaded a video.

The sound walls surround my bed because I'm supposed to have done a voiceover today. After several months of writing, I've trudged together a script putting together the thoughts I had already figured out within two days of analysis. It has been so long into writing that I cannot tell if it's good, great, or terrible. I have no choice regardless, if I didn't make it now, I might suffer a complete breakdown.

I've worked half the script into a real, honest to god recording, the last truly difficult hurdle of the videomaking process. The first half took around an hour and 15 minutes of raw recording time, but the actual process was closer to 3 or 4 hours.

I had to set up the booth. The two sound walls were a major difference maker, but they aren't the whole story. They create a smaller "room" within my room, one that helps a lot, but I speak into a corner. That creates a ridiculous amount of echoes, so I need something to dampen it. My thickest blanket rests there right now, hung up on two 3M hooks by small holes I cut into the fabric with a knife. I always need to take several minutes to find the right side of the blanket before hanging it up.

The process of hanging it up is dangerous. The hooks are near the top of the ceiling, so I need to get on my rolling chair and carefully move my body just right to reach them. If I were to mess up and fall over, to break one of my monitors or my desk, collapsing everything on it, I might full on sob for the first time in months. I haven't failed yet, so I haven't broken down yet.

Instead, I failed in another way. I am laying in bed because I simply could not do the second half. I was supposed to do it two days ago, instead I had a breakdown. I did not cry, but I angrily ranted to my master. He kept looking for solutions, ways to help me do the task, but all I wanted from him was permission to skip it for now. He agreed.

This was probably the right thing. I didn't work for months because of burnout, and two of the most stressful days of work in a row isn't particularly fun. That being said, I probably could have done it. I didn't do it.

I'm surrounded on both sides by these ramshackle adult-blanket-fort walls. I still feel like a child between them, but now it's no longer fun. I can't be the adult that just pushes through.

The pillows I use to block the vent for ambient noise removal are still laying just next to the vents.

My giant blanket is still hanging from those hooks.

I am surrounded on both sides in bed by these towering walls.

I pushed the task off to Monday. These will hang with me over the weekend, constant reminders of my inability to exist as my idols. Monthly uploads, biweekly uploads, consistency, work ethic, any modicum of persistence and grit. All of it seems to have faded away entirely.

I am surrounded on both sides by garmet racks with blankets folded over it. I want to throw that thick blanket over top and make a canopy bed with it. I want to buy a star projector and cast a beautiful light onto it, witnessing galaxies spinning and twirling above me. I want to be consumed in the dance of the cosmos, granted the privilege of feeling anything other than one thing, an individual.

I've lost the feeling of ever being part of a whole.

I am surrounded on both sides by garment racks forming walls that cut off my vision. I can't see my computer from this angle anymore, only the TV that I put on to go to sleep.

I wonder if that separation could be helpful. I only have one room that I eat, sleep, work, and relax in. I cannot afford a place with an office and a bedroom. I'm told often that separation of spaces is crucial for productivity, that the mind needs it.

My computer is my space for work and relaxation. My life is largely spent online, speaking to others like me, all drowning in different ways and at different levels of intensity. The soft warm light of the LED strips in my room are probably worsening my eyesight. I should probably look 20 feet away for 30 seconds every 15 minutes to reduce eye strain. I should cook more of my own food rather than air frying so many frozen meals. I should invest in a better chair, the amount of money I'd save just from quitting doordash alone would cover it.

I don't do any of those things. Sometimes I try, sometimes it works for a while, never does it really stay.

I am surrounded on both sides in my bed by garment racks I purchased on Amazon. I work for Youtube. I am renting an apartment run by large landlords. I buy food and supplies from Walmart. The blankets I stole from my family, but they, too, were likely bought at a major department store. I hate capitalism, but my way of life fundamentally would not exist without it. Every creature comfort I possess, every excuse I have to be comfortable and inside comes as a direct result of being complicit in this system. I cannot escape it at the cost of changing my entire life.

I am surrounded on both sides by blankets from my childhood. I was the youngest of many kids, and my life largely existed through hand-me-downs. I got my family's clothes, my brother's games, my Dad's anger issues. My interests were largely formed by my conservative suburban existence and upbringing. What I wore, who I knew, what I did. Xbox was the most freedom I ever had.

Blankets were comfortable to me because it would hide my body. People could percieve less of me, so more of me was able to relax. I would never sit down without a blanket. I've worn each of these thousands of times.

I used to have a blanket I would always carry with me. It was a giant comforter, a nice blue color and with a pleasant texture to it. It always remained perfectly cold, never trapping too much of my body temperature. I was an overweight kid, so getting too hot from blankets would happen to me a lot.

One day, I told my mom to throw it out. I don't remember why, maybe some narrative in my head about growing up I learned from television. I still miss it to this day.

I am surrounded at all times by reasons to be unhappy.

Sometimes I do well in fighting it, other times my strength just doesn't hold anymore. I long constantly for the chance to have had a childhood that I could wish to go back to, but I didn't. I know that I should logically try to improve my life now, and most times I do. Sometimes I can't.

I want to be the kind of person to make a blanket fort, use a star projector, and get lost in the sights — to project them into my own mind, use it to light up my own thoughts, dwarf them by comparison. I want to be the kind of person to allow themselves to lose control, to see their small place and to forgive themselves for not being able to affect what happened to them.

I am surrounded on both sides by things that remind me of my failures, and I am allowing them to remain.

I might move them out tomorrow when I feel more up to it.

[taao-datingsim]

Update - 05/02/2025

So! It's been a while.

This might be a bit of a long post, so I really apologize for that, but I wanted to give everyone following a good run-down of what's been going on for me, personally, and how that effects the Demo's progress.

So, around March of last year, I opened up for writer applications. Around the same time, I ended up losing my job. For the next full year-ish amount of time, I'd been job searching, and the financial strain along with the stress of being unemployed (for, again, almost a full year) made it very hard to focus on anything else, much less working on the writing.

In February of this year, I got a job! Two months later, I'm laid off. Once again, I've been tossed back into the pit that I did my best to claw my way out of, and once again, I am consumed with financial strain and stress. I am still working on as much of the Demo as is humanly possible at this point in time, but things have been more than rough.

That all probably sounds like excuses, and I wouldn't blame you for feeling that way. You would think having all that free time would make writing easier. I do have a small team of writers helping to finish the Demo as it is, but that is also going very slowly.

I was hoping to have things finished by this point, and all I can say is that I'm sorry it's all taken so long. I'm not sure where the direction with the game will be going from here, but I really don't want to give up on the idea yet.

Just wanted to give everyone an update. Thanks for reading.

[aeris-blue]

L is for the lovely Lavi from D.Gray-Man ^^

[dragonner0]

I was gonna put this in tags but it got to long so get some unfiltered opinions loser.

As someone who writes and is learning to draw, and has played with generative algorithms a bit and knows how they work, Fuck 'AI'.

I see people be praised for 'AI' products, I saw someone say that it is a lot of work to find a good product, and the best metaphor I can think of that these people will understand is that I am a chef, even if armature or learning, and I am watching dishes I pour my heart and soul into get less recognition than someone presenting a re-heated pizza.

I start, often from scratch, when I create my works. I build from the ground up a dish I would be well happy to eat. Heck, even if I follow recipes(using refs or pre-existing writing prompts), I am still putting in the effort to make it good and, more importantly, I am making it with my own two fucking hands. I mix the dough, I spread the sauce, I cut the toppings.

But with 'AI'? With 'AI' you do not make anything. You walk to the store, you choose something that sounds appetizing, and then you chuck it in the oven for a few minutes till it's hot and ready to eat. And then you have the audacity to claim that you made the product? You did not knead the dough. You did not grate the cheese. You did not dice the toppings. And yet you believe that you can simply stand as an equal alongside us?

What that tells me is several things.

First, you view that pizza as a product. Not a meal, not an expression, but a product. And perhaps, in some cases, it is. You see it as not worth the effort of creating, and as such, you do not see other's creations as anything worth the work of creating.

Second, you see yourself as on equal measure of true chefs for doing a job that is not only less expressive, but also less intensive, less stressful, and less rewarding. For defrosting a pizza, you see yourself as worth the praise and respect and even the profit of a hobby or profession that real chefs might spend substantial portions of our lives working to perfect.

And third and final, you do not see any worth in learning to cook anything. You see us perusing our passions as wastes of time. You see our art style as a gimmick. You see us so proud in our progress from early projects, even if some of them may never see the light of day, and you think that there is nothing to be proud of there, only the simple fact that you get to consume our product and move on.

And it is in the last sense specifically that I think you really are undeserving of calling yourself equals to us. All but a few of us are accepting of your mistakes, offering tips or guides or even just other books to read and be inspired by. But you do not accept all of this, and instead you turn to 'AI' to create things for you. You do not pick up a pencil or use any of the countless recourses available to you, for free and with extensive guidance, you go to an algorithm to create it for you. And then you expect that you deserve the same merit for telling a machine what to create.

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[canisalbus]

You should plan on doing a meet and greet one day!

.

[thegreatyin]

How did you manage to handle not one, but FOUR separate accounts in fl? I recently made the account for my HD little guy but having to do the tutorial again just seems miserable

there's... weirdly several answers to that question, actually??

a HUGE part of it is due to the way FL is structured. the 10-minute action timer is a core part of the game on a fundamental level, and the fact that i can very easily run out of stuff to do on one character and thus have an excuse to quickly and easily swap to another is just... convenient? satisfying? i'm not entirely sure how to explain it. the fact that i can make progress even while i am fundamentally simultaneously Not Making Progress is like pure dopamine for my freak insane awful little brain. there's just something really pleasing about spending all of my actions pursuing The Goal Of The Day™ on one account before casually swapping to another and doing the same without feeling like i'm wasting time or acting to the first account's explicit detriment. the downtime helps! the recharge time helps! the structure really really works!!

i'm technically only actively playing three, maybe two accounts minimum. the only reason the fourth (the one that'll be my future BaL playthrough) currently exists at all is so i can get his earlygame completely out of the way now and not have to waste time running through it all later, when what i actually want to do is play the ambition i've made myself wait a full year to play. and also getting free goodies as seasonal stuff happens,, something something surprise tools to help us later. the only two accounts i'd say i'm really "actively playing" at the moment are caeru and lark- and of the two, lark takes the most priority, since his ambition is the one i'm currently pursuing in earnest. for a couple months now- despite being My Main FL Character- the scoundrel has actually been pretty inactive on a gameplay front outside of the occasional progression in TLC and discordance content. purely by virtue of having Very little left to do outside of Very long-term grinds and vanities. they're in their "now what?" "now you can start playing the game" era. they've graduated to previous protagonist background cameo in a sequel anime series. they're like the yin FLPC equivalent of red at the top of mount silver. they're Literally just vibing rn. i only keep posting about them regardless because i'm insane and i will never ever ever ever ever let that bat go. but yeah, big TLDR, outside of doing the bare minimum to keep making waves/notability up every week, i'm not actually spending that much time on accounts i'm not currently actively interested in playing. and that accounts for way more gaming spoons than you might think.

i have a virtually lifelong history of playing MMOs, especially and specifically world of warcraft. i was born in the endless grind for useless video game pixel vanities and/or bragging rights. molded by it. you all have merely adapted to doing the same piece of content a pointlessly excessive amount of times for literally no reason besides whimsy and folly. me? i've done my time. i've served my sentence. i've spent weeks doing the original burning crusade netherwing dailies. i've devoted days to running praetorium over and over and over again, back-to-back, nonstop, long before square enix cut it in half and made it NOT take at minimum an hour and a half per run. i've perfected my silverwastes + auric basin goldfarming strategies. i've (almost) crafted dragonwrath tarecgosa's rest. i've killed the sha of anger so many times its dying scream of agony is embedded into the very fabric of my being. ""only"" doing making your name content four times over? that is nothing to me. it means nothing to me. it is so infinitesimal i can do the persuasive seduction quests in my sleep. it's not a matter of handling misery, or having the capacity, or even sighing as i remember the brass embassy raid segment of the watchful questline seriously i don't know why i keep forgetting that exists or what even is my problem with it i just am so consistently mildly inconvenienced by it and its highly specific resource requirements and it is the worst thing ever. maybe i'm just so used to the scoundrel's near-infinite money and troves of disposable items that i've completely forgotten what being poor is like. despite having done that step 3 fucking times now. ahem. anyway. i have transcended the feeble mortal bindings of my resistant-to-grinding flesh and ascended to a higher plane of enlightenment, they may call me insane but they will be the ones left laughing when they see what that "insanity" has wrought, i've usurped them, i've usurped them all-

hacks and coughs and awkwardly clears my throat. i mean. uh. um. Ahem.

the empress' court artistry + tales of the university nerfs helped too.

[glitter-alienz]

I don't think its self doubt anymore cuz i KNOW for SURE that I wont change ever or try to change I'm just gonna wait for my life to magically become better even tho that wont happen and I'm just gonna let shit happen and let these people step all over me and feel bad for myself about everything being bad instead of trying to stand up for myself or change or get out LOL and then im gonna post about it on tumblr about it and then rinse and repeat

[bangcakes]

going insane

[kavehpilled]

In my sick era #fantastic

[pret-boy]

"I wish we met sooner" is such a gentle sentiment. I love you so much I not only want you in my future, but in my past too. I want to have known you when we were small stupid kids, have held hands together as we played outside. I want to have stressed out over exams together, nudging a mug of still steaming hot chocolate against your elbow to get you to focus. I want to have told you I love you before I did anyone else. I want to have held you in my arms when all those sad memories you describe to me were still fresh wounds. I want my past to have been full of you, and full of meaningful memories with you. I want my past lives to have been spent with you, whether as two lovers, or two housecats cuddling by the fireplace on a snowy day, or two flowers that just happened to bloom on the same day, next to each other. I want to have consumed your existence and intertwined it with my own since my birth, never to be separated from you for a moment. I want to have loved you throughout it all, for all time.

[holeforzenin]

Kento’s favorite position will always be fucking you in a mean mating press where he had your body forcefully folded in half by his, because there’s just something so raw and intimate about having your bodies and soft skin pressed up against each other in such a filthy manner. Both of your sweaty bodies melted into each other’s as he pounded you deeper and deeper into the soft mattress with such neediness and desperation. Every time he’d possessively thrust himself into you, it had the entire bed creaking and the mattress sinking lower and lower because of his overpowering strength and weight. It’s almost crazy how he’s practically crushing you with his muscular body. The way he’d manhandle you and bend your legs into your body was so inhuman and fucked up but obviously based on the countless times that he had wrecked your little pussy and stretched your tight walls soo widely to hug his cock in such an ideal way that was only meant for him, in that exact familiar routine of a position. You were very much used to it by now.

The way his damped, tousled blonde hair gently brushed against his chiseled face captured your attention—God he’s so beautiful, no renaissance painting could ever be compared to Kento's face. It was a literal masterpiece. God you couldn’t wait to start a family with this man because you already know you’d have the most cutest babies. He stared down at your fucked out expression that he fucking loved seeing so much, so pretty and alluring. All dumbed down and stupid just from his cock. It never fails to captivate his soul each time he's making love to you. He could stare at you for hours.

You weren’t the most flexible person but of course, Kento always managed to manipulate and manhandle your poor body effortlessly in whatever position that he desired. He’s not mean during sex but he’s definitely not the sweetest either, Especially after he returns home from a frustrating and tough day at work, his mind consumed with stress and pent-up desire and his cock twitching in his pants with heavy, thick balls filled with seed that he’s been storing up to stuff into you with, after he comes from work.

It wasn’t even a second after you greeted him, that honeyed tone in your voice humming his favorite tune, “Kentooo, you’re back!!”. Barely two minutes had passed and in the blink of an eye, you were trapped beneath his large, muscular frame with his aching, swollen length buried sooo deep between your tight walls. his mushroom tip kissing the tender, sensitive spots that made you soo mindlessly dumb, it had you forgetting about the little rule you had about no sex until he’s well fed after work because as his devoted housewife, you also labored diligently to prepare dinner for him.

What if it gets cold?!!

Well, Kento sure doesn’t give a fuck because he’s way too hungry for something else.

His black and yellow tie is loosely dangling over your face as the gentle waft of his minty cologne which you had sprayed on his chest earlier before he went to work, drifts in your nostrils, making your mind hazy and had your pussy pooling even more slick around his veiny shaft. “Good God, fuck this pussy is perfect darling, sooo perfect almost as perfect n pretty as you” his husky voice echoes with admiration, the outline of his bulging veins on his arms straining through his rolled-up sleeves, showcasing the raw strength he had as he gripped onto the sheets besides your head for sheer stability as his tired eyes—visible with exhaustion and teary, lazily stared into yours.

“Kento–“ you cried out, your nails digging into his beefy forearm as you looked up at him with pleading eyes that sent his cock throbbing embarrassingly. Fuck it took everything in him to restrain himself from not getting you pregnant with his kids right now.

“Yes, my love? Tell me what you need darling, m’here for you”. He whispered tenderly, he flashed a charming smile at you before placing a quick, affectionate kiss on your ankle that has been thumping against his huge shoulders the entire time as he ruts his hips into you animalistically.

“Missed you ken!, so so much” your heart beating with desire and love as his chest smushed your soft breasts against him. Beads of sweat glistening from his hairline, threatening to drip onto your face as you move your hands up to wrap them around his neck. A genuine smile spread across his face due to your performance of affection.

“Missed you too my love, God you were clouding my thoughts so much sweetheart, couldn’t stop thinking about you and this pretty little pussy today.” He confessed to you in his deep, sexy voice before smashing his soft lips onto yours. Your nails violently dug into his clothed back that was fortunately shielding him from the nasty, red marks you were plotting to leave. Both of you groaned into the kiss, your spit and saliva mincing together lewdly to the point where it was steeping out of your mouth. His swollen lips feverishly melded against yours, making it practically impossible for you to breathe but you didn’t mind one bit. It all just felt so delicious. His glossy, pink tip skillfully pokes against your sensitive g-spot, making your toes curl in your socks at how good he’s making you feel. God, he was so perfect. His huffs of golden, blond pubic hair tantalizingly grazed against your sticky clit— rubbing it unintentionally, making your pretty eyes roll to the back of your head as he assaulted your lips. your tongues now entwining and swirling together disgustingly. The kiss was so sweet and affectionate, it made your heart fluttered.

His grunts and moans filled the room like a symphony. it was nothing but music to your ears. Kento was perfect in every single way possible. He was such a man, not just any man. He's a gentleman, his masculine presence would be overwhelming for any soul that has never experienced what it'd be like to encounter a real man.

You’d do anything for him, you loved Kento in a particular way where it would be so fucking offensive to the person who founded feminism.

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Ok so I’ve had this question for a while and I feel like you’ll be able to give me a good answer. I understand that we’re absolutely not supposed to support anything JKR does monetarily and I never intend to do so. However is engaging with Harry Potter media *at all* also something I should not do or is it only things that give her money?

Like, would there be anything wrong with me playing Hogwarts Legacy if I pirated it? Is fanfiction and fan art ok to consume? Or is engaging with the IP at all going to be harmful in a way that I don’t see atm?

Thank you for your time!

I don't really think a cis person is the right person to ask about this, but I also know that trans people are sick to death of having to field these questions so I'll do my best to answer this, if everyone who reads my answer will promise me that you will NOT use anything I say in this post as an annoying argument against a trans person who has a different opinion on the matter. Remember whose opinions are actually important here.

And look, number one, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Nobody can stop you. If you, in yourself, in your soul, feel morally comfortable consuming Harry Potter by some convoluted method of Ethical Consumption™, then go and do that, and own it, and have the strength to be judged for your decisions.

Trans people might not trust you - hell, I'll probably not trust you either. They might get angry at you, and criticize you, or roll their eyes and call you a fucking loser. If you have the moral conviction that what you are doing is right, and that you are acting in accordance with your beliefs and you are not doing harm, then stand by that conviction and face the consequences. Have that strength of character.

But if you feel the need to go around posting and arguing that it's unfair, that you shouldn't be judged, that you should get to be a special exception and people are unreasonable when they get mad at you... then that is evidence, proof positive, that you are a fucking loser. That you are cowardly, and you don't actually believe that what you are doing is right, you just want the world to affirm your fragile ego while you enjoy your little treats.

To be clear, I am not accusing you of doing this (you seem to just earnestly be asking for guidance), but there's a hell of a lot of people who do do this, and you don't want to be one of them.

So that's number one. Do whatever the fuck you want, and face the consequences with a spine.

Number two is... just fucking drop it. That is my earnest advice to you. Just fucking drop Harry Potter. They are children's books from the early 2000s, they just are not that fucking good or important. The Hogwarts Legacy game is live service slop; the movies are passable at best and their quality comes from the actors being better than the source material. Just drop it. Harry Potter has nothing to offer that you can't get elsewhere from better media with better authors, or problematic authors who have good grace to at least be dead.

Don't waste your life thinking about complicated ways to circumvent the moral problem of JK Rowling's rancid transphobic hate-aura at the center of the franchise, don't waste your finite time on Earth trying to thread that stupid needle. Harry Potter isn't worth this. Rowling is old, and shriveling from hate and mold fumes, at the very least just wait for her to fucking die, and for her political project to fail, before you pick that world back up again.

I speak as someone who read the first book at age 11, hyperfixated on relating to Harry, and whose entire cultural life was consumed by the franchise for over a decade. It is not worth it. You don't need it, you don't need the stress of trying to navigate how or whether to engage with it ethically. You almost certainly have an enormous backlog of other books, games, movies and TV shows you've been meaning to get around to, so just go do that instead. I promise you it will be infinitely more rewarding, and infinitely less compromised by stress and guilt and cognitive dissonance.

And while you're at it, send some money to a trans charity and go scream invectives at a transphobic politician some time.

[slut4thebroken]

Baby Fever

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Tommy Shelby x wife!reader

Summary | Free use wife.

Warnings | Smut, breeding kink, free use lol, in public, exhibitionism, pregnancy (very few details cause… c’mon lol… I’m the one who wrote it💀), light humiliation.

Words | 1.5 k

Notes | Yeah this gif still makes me feral

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 2: free use + breeding kink

Tommy didn’t expect much from you as a wife. There were already staff who cooked and cleaned and you didn’t have any children yet. The one thing he did expect from you though, was being ready and willing to take his cock at any time of the day. 

Sometimes he’d be more gentle about it, coaxing you away from whatever task or conversation you were involved in to somewhere more private where he’d ravish you until you could only think about him and his cock. Other times, he’d be more desperate. 

If you happened to bring him lunch on a particularly stressful work day, he’d drag you in his office and bend you over the desk, fucking away all of his stress, if at least for a few minutes. 

Sometimes at the race track he’d pull you away to a more secluded— but still very public— area and cover your mouth as he plowed into you, rough and desperate, borderline animalistic. If the sound of your muffled moans didn’t give you away, the loud slapping of skin definitely did, but he didn’t care. If he wanted you, nothing was stopping him from taking you. 

A few times you even woke up to him lazily rutting into you, fucking you deep, but keeping the pace slow. He’d moan quietly, kissing and biting your neck, even sucking on the sensitive skin to leave marks. 

If he was ever short on time, he’d force you to your knees and fuck your face, making you gag and choke on his cock until tears streamed down your cheeks. Sometimes he’d blow his load down your throat. But if you weren’t in public or in too much of a hurry for anything, he’d paint your pretty face with his come, marking you as his. 

He knew you were embarrassed everytime you came back after he dragged you away. Every single time, without fail, you always looked like you were just fucked stupid. But that only encouraged him. He liked showing people that you belonged to him— that his wife was more than happy to satisfy him, even in public. 

It was also common for him to pull over and make you ride his cock in the car, smiling at all the people who drove past. If he couldn’t pull over, he’d grab your hair and force you down on his cock. Even if he arrived at the destination, he wouldn’t stop until you drained his balls and swallowed every last drop. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of the day or if it was pitch black out— it didn’t even matter if the window was open or not. He’d fuck your face and throw his head back as the pleasure consumed him until he finally fell over the edge. Sometimes, his sounds would attract attention, and he loved the look on people’s faces when you lifted yourself up, smiling and wiping the lower half of your face with the back of your hand. 

This didn’t happen often, but if he were ever in the middle of fucking you, too consumed by the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing his cock, and someone knocked on the door, he’d tell them to come in. It was usually someone you didn’t even know— one time it was Arthur… that was a particularly humiliating experience for you— but he wouldn’t stop. He’d keep you bent over his desk or on his lap and continue fucking you as you tried to not make any sounds. He always thought it was amusing when you tried to be quiet. 

One time, he walked in on you holding Ada’s baby, smiling and cooing at him, making him giggle relentlessly. As soon as Tommy got you alone, his cock was inside you and he rambled on about fucking a baby into you, breeding you nice and deep until he knocked you up. His words were almost incoherent with arousal as he described this fantasy of your belly full with his kid, your tits swollen with milk, and the glow that you’d have from all of it. He rambled on about raising them together, how good you’d look as the mother of his kids, how he wanted to fuck baby after baby into you… breed you until he fucking ran out of come. 

That sparked a conversation between the two of you. While the original plan was to wait a few years, you both agreed to shorten that time frame. So less than two years later, you were off of birth control and he was breeding you every chance he had. Honestly you were getting a little worn out, but you never complained. No matter how tiring it could be, you still absolutely loved it. 

It became even more of a frequent occurrence for you to be walking around with either come soaked panties or come running down your thighs. He also took a liking to cock warming. In bed, on his desk chair, in the car— anywhere he could— he’d fuck you and fill you with his come, then keep you plugged up, wanting to make sure it really had a chance to take. 

At home, he’d put you in the mating press position, then stuff you full of his come. Only instead of letting you relax, he'd keep your hips tilted up so none of it could leak out and make you come again with his mouth as a reward for staying in that position. 

The first time he fucked you after finding out you were pregnant… he was practically feral. The fact that there was a baby inside you— that it was his baby, made him all but lose control. He ravaged you with an intensity he’s only had a few times, rambling on about how he planned to fuck you like this for a while since he would eventually have to be gentler— if he could even fuck you at all. The problem was that his promise didn’t just apply to when he fucked you in the privacy of your own home, but it was just a problem for you. Tommy loved that you couldn’t keep quiet. 

Months down the line, rough, hard fucking turned into gentle love making. He’d kiss you tenderly as his hips rocked into you, keeping the pace almost tortuously slow. He tended to kiss over your stomach whenever he could and caress it with gentle hands. Both of you were surprised and disappointed by the fact that your breasts were far too tender for any touch to feel good. So he kept his hands and mouth elsewhere. 

The love making usually took place in bed. But every once in a while, he’d come up behind you and wrap his arms around your small frame, placing his hands on your belly as he kissed your neck until he finally got too impatient and lifted your dress to slip his cock inside. 

Around eight months, and even for weeks after the birth, he showed no sign of needing you like that. He never made you feel pressured either, even when he’d hold you at night. You were grateful though because your body definitely wasn’t ready for that yet. 

It was a little after two months postpartum that you were becoming a bit too needy though. One day, after watching him play with and hold the baby, you finally snapped. The second you were alone you practically jumped his bones, kissing him almost animalistically and pulling on his hair until he moaned into your mouth and finally grabbed your hips. 

“Love,” He started, but cut off when you unzipped your dress and let it fall to the floor, pooling around your feet.

“If you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to lose my mind.” You warned breathily, working on ripping his clothes off. 

“Slow down, darling. You have to be careful.” He said gently, making you more frustrated.

“Thomas Shelby, I swear to god if you don’t fuck me, I’ll go find someone who will.” You growled, giving him one last warning. He raised his brows, shocked and amused by your words. “I carried your child for nine months. The least you could do is make me come on your cock until I forget my own name.” 

“You’re that needy, eh?” He smirked, making you scowl. “Calm down, Mrs. Shelby, I’ll give it to you…” you still get butterflies when he calls you that, “but you know I can’t resist teasing you.” 

“You’ve teased me for months. Either fuck the shit out of me or I’ll get it from someone else.” You said, voice low and almost threatening, but you knew it only made Tommy more amused. 

“How have I teased you for months?” He asked innocently. 

“Christ, Tommy— just fuck me already. You have to do what I say because I just birthed a whole baby for you.” 

“I guess you're right.” He said with a sly smirk. “Until you forget your own name?” You nodded eagerly and he walked you backwards until your legs hit the bed. Once you were laying down, he crawled over you and kissed you deeply, making you moan against his lips and bring your hands up to his hair. “As you wish, darling.” 

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: you have a one night stand with an extremely attractive older man, but it doesn’t seem like you’ll see him again. fate has other plans, it seems.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23) unexpected pregnancy, light smut, reader and jack have both been drinking but are very eager/consent is definitely there. MDNI

notes: i am still working on former stripper!reader, but this came to me and i had to get it out. i think this will be a series of smaller drabbles, instead of a full one shot, but idk, what do you guys think/prefer? unedited. any feedback is extremely appreciated, especially reblogs/asks!

wc: 1.3k

next

You meet Jack Abbot in a dark bar on a Thursday. You, drug out by your friends, begging you to just let loose for once. Him, alone, on his last night off for the week, mentally preparing to go back to work the next day.

You caught his eye from across the room, and feeling brave, and of course egged on by your friends, you make your way over to him.

The first thing he does is ask you how old you are, to which you give a cheeky response of old enough. At the unamused look you receive, you tell him you’re twenty-three.

Jack nearly choked on his drink at that, and nearly tells you that you’re too young for him. But the pretty and cheeky smile you give him makes a small smirk appear on his face, so he doesn’t.

The second thing he does is order you a sweet fruity drink and a double shot of whiskey for himself.

One round turns into two which turns into three. You laugh a lot, and he laughs at your laugh. Jack tells you briefly about his time in the army, and in turn you tell him about your evil boss that you just know is out to get you.

I’m an ED doctor, he mumbles in your ear after you ask what he does for work

An eating disorder doctor? He snorts at your question.

“No, emergency department, like an ER,” You blush as he laughs at you, nearly choking as he downs the rest of his whiskey in one go.

You don’t even realize that you had effectively abandoned your friends and had been talking to Jack the entire night until one of them comes to ask if you’re ready to go.

You look at Jack, sheepish smile on your face and a glint in your eyes.

You end up at his place, his mouth on yours and calloused hands pawing greedily at your tits under your shirt before he even gets the door closed.

“Your skin is so soft,” He mumbles as he leaves open mouthed kisses from the corner of your mouth to your neck and back up again.

You moan, “I like the way your hands feel on my skin,”

Your hands tangle in his hair as you force his mouth back on yours, teeth clashing as his tongue fights yours for dominance, ultimately winning when you distract yourself trying to get his shirt off of him.

As quickly as his shirt comes off, he has you topless, your shirt and bra tossed somewhere in his living room.

The rest of the night is a blur, but you know he fucked you in some way, shape, or form on nearly every surface of his home, from eating you out on the couch, to fingering you until you managed to squirt all over his countertops as he made you drink water to stay hydrated, to fucking you dumb on his cock in at least six different positions on his bed, and once more pressed against the shower wall before putting his shirt on you and holding your body pressed up against his body while you slept the entire night.

The next morning the two of you chatted over breakfast. No awkwardness, he goes out of his way to make you laugh over his disgusting coffee, as so affectionately deemed it.

He doesn’t ask for your number, so you don’t ask for his. You kiss the side of his mouth as you leave him.

Jack goes to work, business as usual, but he thinks about you every day for the next eight weeks. Wondering if your boss ever let up on you or if you tried that new Italian place you were wanting to eat at.

You spend the next eight weeks stressed beyond belief. Work eating at your soul and consuming your entire life. You do think about Jack almost every day, contemplating going back to that bar just to see if he’s there.

But you don’t ever get the time, and your next meeting is an unexpected one to say the least.

Slipping on the wet floor in a grocery store was embarrassing, but hitting your head on the way down was mortifying. You were going to have to find a new grocery store.

The situation just keeps getting worse as the paramedics show up, telling you they have to take you to the emergency room since you show signs of a concussion and your nose is bleeding.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Mohan. I hear you took a bit of a fall?” The doctor is pretty, and her smile seems genuine as she talks to you.

“Uh, you could say that. This all could’ve been avoided if they had a wet floor sign out at the grocery store, though,”

She laughs, “You would be surprised how often we see that here,”

She starts going through the usual string of questions you get at the ED. You answer them all until she gets to the last one, “And when was the date of your last period?”

All of a sudden, your mind is blank. Surely you’ve had it, right? You had to have.

“I-I guess I don’t remember,” It comes out a whisper, and your brow is furrowed as you try and try to remember. You know you had it.

Dr. Mohan senses your inner turmoil, “No worries, we can do a blood test,”

She takes your blood and tells you she’s going to go order a CT for your head, “just sit tight.” With a mind smile, she’s gone.

You sit there, trying to rack your brain. There is no way you’re pregnant. No fucking way.

It takes what feels like an hour for Dr. Mohan to come back, ultrasound machine in tow, “So, I have your test results, and it does appear that you are pregnant. We’ll have to do an ultrasound to confirm how far along you are, but after that we should be able to get you to CT,”

“What the fuck.” Is all you can manage, eyes wide as you look at her, “Are you, like, certain?”

She places a hand on your own, squeezing in a comforting manner, “The ultrasound will be to confirm, but blood tests are rarely wrong,”

She gets you situated and pulls the gown up so she can rub the probe over your abdomen, “I am hopeful we won’t have to do this vaginally,”

She quickly places the cold jelly on your abdomen and runs the probe over it, trying to find a fucking baby. You feel like you might throw up.

“And there they are,” There’s a smile on her face and she shows you.

“Oh my god,” You think you’re in shock “I think I’m gonna throw up,”

“Oh!” She quickly steps into action, grabbing a bucket and rubbing your back while you vomit.

“I think this is the worst day of my life,” She gives your shoulder a squeeze.

“The vomiting could be due to the fall you took,” She bites her lip, “CT is pretty backed up, let me go get my attending to see if he can take a look and find something that can get you moved up the list. I’ll be right back,”

She quickly walks out, and you feel tears building quickly in your eyes. How the fuck could you let this happen?

And now, you’ll have to awkwardly face Jack and tell him your passionate night has resulted in this situation.

He didn’t even ask for your number for crying out loud.

Your downward spiral is interrupted when Dr. Mohan returns, with the last person you wanted to see right now.

“This is my attending, Dr. Abbot.” She gestures to him. “Dr. Abbot, I have a twenty-three year old female, approximately eight weeks pregnant with a possible concussion,”

You don’t hear another word that passes her lips, eyes glued to him, and he looks just as shocked and horrified as you feel.

[muntitled]

Boa

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're just a kid, caught in a gangster’s crosshairs. What happens when you don’t deliver like you should…

Warnings: Language, Dom!Seongje, Gangsterism, Bullied!Reader, Coercion, Bullying, Extortion, Mentions of Rape, Smut +18 (mdni), Dark fic, Dubious consent, Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Desperate Sex, Humiliation, Degradation

A/N: I'm not responsible for the media you consume. I wrote this for me so...

Ever since you've started working for him, you've learned to get extremely acquainted with the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sir…” your voice is brittle as you try to make yourself heard in the suffocating internet cafe, “I'm short on delivery today..."

Hardwood. Tile. Linoleum. It's become all too familiar to you. The floor is all you see in his presence.

You never looked Seongje in the eyes unless he addresses you first. He likes that, you suspect.

It's kept you alive this long so you must be doing something right.

"I got assigned a kid to tutor and..." you clear your throat, not daring to make direct eye contact, choosing instead, to keep your eyes trained on the dirty, cold floor.

The internet cafe is the very last place you'd want to be on a Friday evening. You were caught right in between two challenging essay due dates- one for English and one for AP English. Both hung gravley over your head, threatening to set off your sympathetic nervous system and have you fainting from academic stress. Seeing him was the very last thing you needed.

"That tutoring time fucked with my system and-" despite all your achievements, despite the academic prestige and the boundless knowledge… in Seongje's presence you feel insignificant.

A bug he's letting scurry around for no other reason except his enjoyment. You didn't want to get stomped on. You saw what happened to the other kids under his thumb and it kept you up at night. All that blood. All the merciless sadism.

You aren't dumb enough to hope an exception would be made for you.

"I'm sorry,” you conclude, and for a second, you get no response. He plays his game. His friends remain silent.

That's all until he pushes the bridge of his glasses up further against his nose. A calm, quiet sigh leaves his lips.

“Before you started working for me, do you know what you were?" Seongje doesn't take his eyes off the screen. His fingers run deftly over the keys as he speaks to you without ever really acknowledging you, "You were in an alleyway, about to get raped by Eunjang scum."

"Yes, Seongje, I know-"

"And in return for my kindness, what did I ask of you?"

"FUCK- COVER ME BRO!" Your eye snaps up to the source of the loud and sudden burst of energy. Your frightened and pitiful eyes find a boy seated adjacent to Seongje and his goons. He's bent over his screen, clearly not a part of the group. Clearly far too young.

Your heart sinks when you realize Seongje's eyes are trained on the boy too.

"Ya…” Seongje raises his voice a decimal above the cacophony yet it has you flinching. “Too loud,” he says to the boy, “Didn’t anyone teach you shut up when adults are talking?” he asks monotonously to the boy- a child really- still mourning the loss of his avatar on the screen. He doesn't pay Seongje any mind.

Of course he doesn't. He's a kid.

How could he have known?

He came to an internet cafe to play a game with his friends.

It's the boy's innocence that hurts the most.

He doesn't know that the monsters under his bed are very real.

They walk where he walks.

They don't hide.

They move about freely.

Your heart makes like the titanic and sinks.

"Excuse me for a second." Seongje addresses you politely, finally giving you a fleeting glance before pushing himself out of his gamer chair. You see his entire row of friends (if that's what one could even refer to them as) remain unfazed as Seongje rounds the table to stand directly behind the young boy.

He’s bigger, far bigger as he pushes the rims of his glasses up, staring directly at you

"I know you're smart so you're probably aware that your fuck-up won't be tolerated-” he says to you, despite slithering his arm around the boys neck like a boa as he squeezes. Everyone keeps their eyes trained to their computers. Your fist curls at your side. You want to look away but you can't because you're speaking to Seongje. You wouldn't want to aggravate him further by showing him his mindlessly violence bothers you. So you try not to flinch.

You try not to let the casual violence scare you. How nonchalantly he speaks while an elementary school boy flails in his arms, begging to be released from the headlock making his lips turn blue

“You knew there'd be a punishment,” Seongje is still speaking to you. You hold your breathe in solidarity with the boy choking in his arms, “-for fucking up your delivery-” crimson blossoms onto the little boys face but Seongje keeps his eyes on you, appearing unfazed by the boy flailing like an animal in arms, "And yet you came anyway. That's the kinda work ethic, I like-” he smiles, “I like it alot-"

Eventually, after what feels like forever, he lets go of the boy. You finally breathe as well, watching as the kid slumps forward ingesting the air in horrid gasps.

Seongje bends forward, patting the boy on the back.

"No more interrupting when I speak, yeah?" Whether the boy was new to this particular internet cafe, it was unclear, but you hoped to whatever divine being that he wouldn't dare come back.

"So I'll let it slide-" He turns his attention back to you and you watch, still shaken up as Seongje leaves the little boy to make his way back to his side of the table. When he breezes past you he smells like nothing. Like his eyes, everything about him is empty.

"Thank you, Seongje-"

He nods before adding, "After you get on your knees." The goon sitting nearest to you, all the way at the end of the table, his fingers hover over the keys, and just like before, the room is rid of all air.

"Excuse me?”

He pulls out his chair for you, like some mimic of a perfect gentleman he opens his arm, gesturing you in.

"I want you on your knees, under the desk.” His words hang above you all. It has tears threatening to spill. Bile rising.

“What’s with the face? Its not like I’m asking you to suck my dick,”

"Seongje, I need to get home-"

"If you can't do it yourself I'm more than happy to help."

That has your legs moving into action. In your periphery, it feels as though everyone's watching you. A thing in psychology called the imaginary audience. When you're so self-conscious you concoct this idea of being the center of attention… only this time, it's real. You know they're all watching you. You know no one will do anything about it.

"Under the desk you go," he chuckles before sitting down and pushing his chair back in. You back away, creating intense distance between you. Your back hits dirty wires and your knees press hesitantly down onto the grime just to achieve a more comfortable position. Everything you see is his legs, his friends legs and you're suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to cry.

You want to scream at him to let you go. He's hijacked you from your endless pile of homework and yet the very thought of standing up for yourself causes a sea of nausea.

So you sit there in the dark, not knowing when this punishment would conclude. When would he let you go home? That sends you into another spiral. You've heard Seongje could game for 24 hours straight. Maybe more if he was in close vicinity to food and a bathroom. You knew this internet cafe would close eventually, that gives you the smallest sliver of hope and so you do your time.

Never once does he acknowledge you- the girl under his desk. Unbeknownst to Seongje, you catch one of his fellow gang members sneak multiple glances at you under the table. They all do. Like they enjoy seeing you under here. As time passes, and you slip further and further away from the stress, you realize that down here, on the floor, under his desk, the world is small. It's quite comforting actually and that wasn't the trauma talking.

You've always liked small spaces.

It definitely beat dealing with whatever he had going on up there half the time.

Slowly, your body begins to shut down. Your energy plummets from all the stress and all the thoughts. This is the first time you've been forced into a spot for too long doing nothing. No essays. No tutoring.

Due to tendencies from your childhood that you should've gotten rid of, you find yourself curling up against his leg. He stiffens and you snap out of the exhaustion long enough to reel back. Especially when you see his hand reach under the table. Your heart hammers in your chest, not a single word spoken as his hand searches for something. You move a bit closer until his hand catches on your hair. You wince as he drags you closer, pushing your head against his leg as you had done.

He leaves you there. You try to regulate your breathing as you feel him adjust in his seat above you.

You shift as well. Not your head. He clearly wants you there. But your legs are uncomfortable. You try to kneel and it's ridiculous because your head never leaves his leg.

No position seems comfortable enough until he stretches his leg out, right in between yours and you're made to straddle it. Above you, his fingers are still hitting the keys and you try to disassociate from the fact that his leg is pushing against your cunt. You try to sneak a peek at the surface, his glasses are trained on the screen. Not knowing whether it's your exhaustion making a reappearance but you could've sworn you hear the words, "good girl," release from him in a low drawl.

Something in his tone has you shifting over his leg. Your cunt warms against his leg and you fight the urge to buck against him. All you had to do was remember who it is that you're currently touching. That conscious reminder has you once again hellbent on doing your time with concrete resolve.

That resolve breaks.

It shatters when he eases his back against the chair, enough to once again slither his hand down towards you.

He curls his fist into your hair and tugs.

He pushes you down and lifts you up and you mindlessly follow his movements until you realize he's coaxed you into riding his leg.

He lets go of your hair, satisfied when your hips move out of their own accord.

You hate how good it feels to quite literally be beneath him. You look up and you whimper oh so quietly when you see that small smile play on his lips while his eye remains on the screen.

He's given you new instructions now and so you don't dare to stop moving your hips against him. Despite the damp spot forming on the seat of your underwear. You're not sure what it is that allows you to lose yourself so easily. Perhaps it's all the expectations that melt away when you're doing something so pitiful. You're breaking for him and he's letting you. You're not in control of anything and there's freedom in that.

“F-Fuck-” you didnt mean for the words to slip. There are still other people here but you also couldn't help the wave of pleasure that pushed up so suddenly. Your clit is moving against the fabric of his pants just right and your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head.

The second that whimper escapes your mouth, he stiffens again.

You watch as he leans back again, this time his hand isn't reaching out for you. It's to ghost over the bulge forming in his pants. Somehow that spurs you on more.

You grind against him desperately and before he can take his hand away, this time you reach up for him.

You watch him closely. The glare from the screen reflects on his glasses. His jaw, tight.

He controls the game easily with one hand, while you bring the other into your mouth.

You're not sure where this other side of you came from. This vixen who rolls her tongue out and forces his index and ring finger into her warm mouth.

He becomes more and more restless… His breath hitching. Seongje's fingers hit the keys more aggressively, while his right hand forces his fingers further down your throat. His hips buck upwards and you can see the damp spot forming where his cock is straining against his pants. He's about to cum in his pants and you're about to cum on his leg and it's far too much for you.

You know his friends are about. You try to preserve even a sliver of dignity but it all goes out the window.

“Fuck-” he spits out, slamming his fist on the table before abandoning the game. There's a fire in his eyes as he sits back to watch you peer up at him with complete and utter desperation.

“What a fucking slut-” he snarled, cleaely audible enough for not only him but his friends too. It has your mouth snapping open. Your back arches as you try to watch him watching you cum on his leg.

You've never held his attention for this long and it sends you off the edge.

“S-Seongje-” you barely squeak out as your cunt spasms against his leg. You rut uncontrollably, spurred on by the name That fell from your lips as if your body needed a reminder of just who it was making you cum. Your tormentor.

It has you seeing stars.

For all of 11 seconds.

Until it comes crashing down on you. Your pitiful act has you reeling. Mind spinning.

You don't want to look up at him but you have nowhere else to look. Your heart sinks when you see a smile form slowly across his lips… Somehow you knew you'd never be rid of him.

[junojoel]

Inside Your Mind

Jackson!Joel x fem!Reader, 1.6k

Summary: You need to find a way to make Joel relax. Quickest solution? A blowjob.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, oral (m!receiving), swallowing cum, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, ignoring the fact an old man would not recover that quick, dubcon??, joel says hes not in the mood, but he is, slight sub!joel at the start, stressed joel, not specified but glasses stay on in my mind

i watched ep1 this morning and spent my whole day getting this out. could not concentrate on anything else.

You watch him from the doorway, the way his shoulders stay rigid, like he’s still braced for a fight. Arms crossed, your own frustration simmers beneath your skin. He hasn’t slept. Barely eaten. Every waking moment is consumed by the fear of losing her—again.

Enough.

You push off the frame and move toward him, your bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The firelight dances over his back, highlighting the rigidness of his spine. When you’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, you reach out and let your fingertips trail down the tense muscles of his shoulders.

He stiffens but doesn’t turn.

“Joel.”

His name is soft on your lips, but he only grunts in response, his fingers tightening around the pencil in his grip. You sigh, reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair from his forehead.

“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground,” you murmur, your voice low, edged with concern.

Joel exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on the pen. “Ain’t got a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

His breath hitches, just slightly, but his jaw stays set. “Ellie’s out there—”

“And she’s safe,” you interrupt, your hand sliding down his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. “Tommy’s got her. You need to rest.”

You step closer, your hips pressing against the side of the desk, forcing his knees to part just enough for you to slide between them. His breath hitches, just slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on the papers. Your hands slide down his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin, the way his muscles flex as he resists the urge to pull away. You press closer.

“Let me take your mind off it,” you whisper.

“Darlin’,” he warns, voice low.

You ignore him, leaning down until your lips brush his ear. “What’s it gonna take to get you to look at me?”

A shudder runs through him. His head tilts slightly, just enough for you to see the way his jaw clenches. “Darlin’, I ain’t in the mood—”

You cut him off by nipping at his earlobe, your teeth scraping just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. Your hands drift lower, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips tracing the ridges of his abdomen.

“Liar,” you breathe against his neck.

Bracing your hands on the arms of the chair, you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs straddling his. His hands instinctively grip your hips, calloused fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your jeans.

His hands flex against the desk, but he doesn’t push you away.

Encouraged, you let your teeth graze his pulse point—just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

You smile against his skin.

Your hands slide down his chest, fingers working open the buttons of his shirt one by one. His breathing is heavier now, his body rigid with restraint.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game,” he growls.

You hum, slipping the last button free and spreading the fabric apart, revealing the hard of his chest, the scars that map his skin.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his torso.

Your fingers make quick work of his belt buckle, tugging it free with a sharp pull. His breath catches, hands twitching like he means to stop you—but he doesn’t.

“You think too much,” you murmur, palming him through his jeans, feeling him stiffen under your touch. His jaw clenches, a low groan trapped in his throat.

“Ain’t—fuck—ain’t the time for this,” he grits out, but his hips jerk into your hand anyway.

The second you drag his zipper down, he’s already half-hard, thick and heavy in your hand. You don’t waste time—just drop to your knees and lean in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the tip, tasting salt and heat.

Joel’s curse is ragged, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Christ—”

You take him deeper, tongue swirling, hollowing your cheeks as you sink down. His grip tightens, not pushing, just holding, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Fuck,” he rasps, head falling back. “Just like that—shit—”

You hum around him, savouring the way his thighs tense, the way his breath comes rough and uneven. His hips buck once, shallow, like he’s fighting not to take control.

But you don’t let him. You set the pace—slow, deliberate, dragging your lips up and down his length, teasing the head with your tongue before swallowing him down again.

Joel’s muttering curses, his free hand fisting your shirt. “Goddamn—goddamn, sweetheart—”

You glance up through your lashes, meeting his blown-out gaze. His lips are parted, his chest heaving, and for once—finally—there’s nothing in his eyes but you.

You suck harder, bobbing faster, and his grip turns almost painful. “Gonna—fuck—gonna come if you keep—”

You don’t stop.

With a ragged groan, Joel spills into your mouth, his whole body shuddering. You swallow every drop, working him through it until he’s panting, oversensitive, his fingers slackening in your hair.

When you finally pull back, licking your lips, he’s staring at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want, and the intensity of his gaze sends a thrill straight to your core.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doin’?” His voice is rough, gravelly with need. “Tryin’ to distract me?”

“Is it working?” you breathe.

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

The kiss is rough, desperate, all teeth and hunger. He tastes like whiskey and exhaustion, and you moan into it, arching against him. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before slamming you down onto the desk. Papers scatter, a glass tumbles to the floor with a smash, but neither of you care.

His body cages yours, one hand pinning your wrists above your head

Joel leans over you, his breath hot against your lips. “This what you wanted?” he rasps. His body cages yours, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, one hand fumbling with the button of your jeans.

You hook a leg around his waist, dragging him closer. “I want you to stop thinking.”

His fingers slip between your thighs, finding you already wet, already aching for him.

“Christ,” he growls, dragging a rough finger through your folds.

You whimper, bucking against his touch, but he holds you down, his grip unrelenting.

“Joel—please—”

He chuckles darkly, nipping at your throat. “Beggin’ already? We ain’t even started.”

Then his fingers are inside you, curling just right, and your back bows off the desk with a cry. He sets a punishing pace, his thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.

Your mouth finds his collarbone, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. Joel hisses, his hips grinding against yours, the friction drawing a broken sound from your throat.

You writhe beneath him, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls away.

You gasp, blinking up at him in dazed frustration.

Joel’s smirk is dark, predatory. His fingers glisten with your arousal as he drags them slowly down your stomach, watching your chest rise and fall with each ragged breath.

“You were sayin’?” he rumbles, voice thick with satisfaction.

You bare your teeth at him, arching up to capture his lips in a biting kiss. “Don’t be a tease.”

His laugh is rough, but his hands are already moving, yanking your jeans down your hips in one sharp motion. The cool air hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as it rakes over you. Hungry. Possessive.

“Ain’t teasin’,” he mutters, hooking your knees over his elbows. “Just makin’ sure you remember who’s in charge.”

And then he’s pushing inside you in one brutal thrust, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You cry out, nails scraping against the wood of the desk as he fills you, stretching you to the brink. Joel doesn’t give you time to adjust—just sets a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to make the desk creak beneath you.

“Fuck—Joel—” Your voice is shattered, barely recognisable.

His grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. “Look at me.”

You force your eyes open, meeting his darkened gaze. There’s no trace of exhaustion now—just raw, unchecked want.

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. “Ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout nothin’ else but this. Us.”

You whimper as his pace turns erratic, his thrusts losing their rhythm as pleasure overtakes him. His forehead drops to yours, breath mingling as he drives into you again and again, chasing his own release.

“Gonna come,” he grits out, voice wrecked.

You clench around him, dragging a ragged groan from his chest.

His hips stutter, and then he’s spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his body shuddering above yours. The sensation sends you tumbling over the edge right after, heat rushing through your veins.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your combined panting. Joel’s weight presses you into the desk, his forehead still resting against yours.

Then, slowly, he pulls back, his gaze searching yours.

You reach up, brushing a sweat-damp curl from his forehead. “Still thinking about Ellie?”

His lips twitch. “Brat.”

You grin, triumphant.

But before you can gloat, Joel scoops you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he carries you toward the bed.

“Rest,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Both of us.”

This time, he doesn’t argue.