#corrupted text

[new-rome-historians-association]

Arnold's Diary Entry 2

Ȯ̴̯h̴̩̍ ̵͖̍ĝ̴̬ỏ̴̡d̶̖͝s̷̤̉. Oh dear Jupiter. I don't know why I keep drea– why he shows up in my dreams. Out of everything that happened in the Titan war. T̵h̵a̷t̸ ̴w̷i̴t̴c̴h̵-

It must be the blade. The carvings, on imperial gold. On blessed gold. It's the blatant sacrilege that must be shaking me this much. H̵̩͙̏̾̔e burnt down the whole city̵͔͆̇

Who is he what is he why does he not exist in any records it's like he was blatantly erased

The blade with it's sick sick glow—

I. I need to get my wits together. I'll wake Marcia up.

The wars are over Arnold. The city is safe. That's what you thought after the war with the Giants too

[There are wet stains on the paper]

[extinctcorruption]

Doctho Drabble - Let me touch your scars in a room full of people (haha jk. unless?)

Doc arrives late to the get-together (Grian had called it a party but really, the “parties” that Grian throws are just big get-togethers with alcohol and music playing in the background complete with Mario Cart and Foosball). There’d still been work to do in the lab and Doc wasn’t the type to leave work unfinished. So he’s late to the get-together which is fine. He’s not exactly keen to be here anyway but Grian had nearly blown up his out-of-date phone with how many texts, audios, videos, and pictures he’d sent Doc to get him over here. He's already missed the Foosball tournament (which, again, Doc doesn't really care. He's tired and doing a friend a favour by being there is all.)

It’s mostly people he knows but he does spot a few unfamiliar faces when he steps into ZITS’s basement. False greets him as she walks past him (probably on her way to the bathroom, Doc guesses) and shoves a freshly opened beer bottle into his hands. He takes that as a sign to keep it and finds the nearest couch to sit on. He closes his eyes for a minute until he opens them again and surveys the room while sipping the beer.

Grian waves to him from a corner of the room. Doc waves back. Joel and Scott are with Grian as well as Ren and a chubby blonde man Doc can’t place. Cleo, Bdubs, and Cub are letting Scar chat their ears off about Star Wars and Gem and Pearl are sitting at the bar, drinking shots and giggling with each other. Hypno, xB, Jevin, and Wels have made a nest out of two two-seaters, squished together and chatting away in their own small bubble (Doc can smell the pot from where he’s sitting).

Across the room, Beef is telling Etho a story (or maybe spreading gossip?) which makes Etho devolve into several fits of giggles. Etho’s mask is tugged down under his chin (a rare sight), showing off his pointy canine teeth every every time he laughs. The scar on Etho’s face keeps tugging at the upper left part of his lip, quirking it up to constantly flash his gums to the world. Etho interrupts Beef and Doc watches the way Etho’s mouth forms around the words. Etho grins at Beef’s rebuttal and takes a swig of what Doc guesses to be vodka with orange juice (or maybe just plain orange juice).

“Hey Doc, buddy!” The cushion Doc is sitting on dips down and Doc has to catch his balance as Skizz sits down next to him. “Watcha looking at, huh?” He asks and slings an arm around Doc’s shoulder. Even sitting, Doc has to tilt his head a little to look Skizz in the face. It’s not often the case that people are taller than Doc and he wonders if this is what it’s like for Bdubs in every day life. “Not looking at anything in particular,” Doc answers Skizz’ question. “Nothin’ in particular?” Skizz repeats as he jostles Doc. “Wow, you must be really out of it then, if you’re this quiet. I’m not sure when you started drinking. You okay, buddy?” He actually sounds a little worried so Doc reassures him. “Nah I’m fine. This is my first beer. I’m just a little tired.” “Alright, if you say so.” Skizz pats Doc’s shoulder and gets up. “If you need anything, we’re here for you, yeah? You’re a brilliant guy, Doc.” Doc simply nods, a little unsure how to react to the emotional honesty and affection Skizz puts forth with ease. He looks down his nearly empty bottle, downs the rest, and makes his way over to the makeshift bar to get another beer from Impulse, who is playing bartender today.

Doc gives Gem and Pearl a nod and moves back to the main area. He lets his gaze sweep over his friends until he lands on Etho again, who, coincidentally, is looking in his direction. Their eyes meet and Etho smiles and waves him over. Doc carefully picks his way through the room, stepping over drinks and limbs. He almost knocks over Hypno’s Vodka-E which results in a “Woah, careful there Doc!” and others making space for him. Beef has disappeared to somewhere else, leaving space on the two-seater Etho is sat on. Doc can’t quite tell how far the sofa is away from him although he’s pretty sure it must be close. His hand hits the backrest earlier than he expects and he is left to awkwardly climb onto the sofa.

“Hey Doc!” Etho’s voice has the usual teasing lilt to it and his eyes crinkle as he smiles. Doc doesn’t even realise he’s staring at Etho’s mouth forming his name until he subconsciously reaches out to touch the scar just as Etho moves to pull up his mask. Doc quickly turns away, face heating up rapidly. “Sorry, sorry,” he stumbles over an apology, “I think I am more tired than I thought.” Etho stares at him, face unreadable and mask half-way pulled up. Doc can see his mouth open, then close. Doc fiddles with the label on his beer bottle, eye glancing from Etho’s face his own hands and then back. After what feels like the longest awkward silence Doc has ever experienced with one of his friends, Etho quietly clears his throat. Doc glances back at Etho who slowly pulls his mask back under his chin. “You can, uh…” He licks his lips and lets his gaze dance around the room until settling back on Doc. “If you want, I mean. You can touch.” A hesitant “yeah?” slips past Doc’s lips. Etho nods.

Doc pulls one leg up onto the couch so he can turn his body inward. The room around them quickly blurs into background noise as it leaves his field of vision and Doc once again reaches out to touch Etho’s face. He starts higher up this time. Right above Etho’s left eyebrow where the scar starts. It’s familiar territory in the sense that Doc sees it several times a week for hours on end in the lab. He’s never touched it, though. Never crossed that line before. Doc trails his fingers down the scar, through the split eyebrow but skipping Etho’s eye. Unlike Doc, who had his blind eye removed opting to wear prosthetics, Etho’s blind eye remains firmly in its socket. He refuses to get it removed even though it’s split down the middle and has gotten infected at least twice in the time Doc has known Etho.

The scar widens just under Etho’s eye. It’s pink and irregular which makes Doc think that it probably didn’t heal right but he doesn’t know for sure. He’s never asked what happened and Etho never told him. Etho holds his breath once Doc arrives at his upper lip. Doc catches Etho’s eye for consent and Etho nods, lips slightly pursed. Doc is irritated by the fact that he can’t get a read on Etho without him wearing his mask and he tells him so. Etho laughs in a short, surprised burst. The motion knocks Doc’s thumb partially into Etho’s mouth, catching on teeth. This close, Doc can see that Etho’s canine tooth is chipped, missing its tip and dragging a dent through its length. “Really?” Etho asks, surprise evident in his voice. Doc nods, simply staring at Etho’s mouth before deciding to drag his thumb further down the scar to where it ends just shy of Etho’s neck. He thumbs at it for half a second before pulling his hand away completely, moving it back to the beer bottle.

Etho pulls his mask up and shifts a little closer. “Can I?” he asks, hand hovering over Doc’s blind eye. Doc nods and Etho’s cold fingers feel the scars around Doc’s prosthetic.

A few years back, a younger and stupider version of Doc had decided to implant magnets around his blind eye so he could attach cool metal plating around it to make himself look more like a cyborg. He’d done it himself as well, which had ended up with a lot of blood, his body rejecting the foreign objects within a few weeks, and an awkward hospital trip in which he had to explain to both his friends and medical professionals what he had done. The failed self-augmentation, as his friends liked to call it, had left him with bumpy scars dotted around his eye socket which liked to itch during the times Doc was too busy to regularly put cream on them.

When Etho pulls back his hand, Doc turns his body to face the room again. He can’t think of another time anybody other than him had touched those scars this… intimately to say the least. He takes a sip of his beer and lets his eye flick around the room.

Beef is at the bar, chatting with Impulse and casually looking over his shoulder as if he’s waiting on something. Upon double-checking, he waves at Impulse and makes his way back over to Doc and Etho. Embarrassed, Doc shifts his gaze and lands on Scott instead, which is worse, because Scott is staring at him judgmentally from where he’s squished between Grian and Joel, the latter visibly upset about something.

Doc moves his focus to Etho again. Etho is setting his drink back on the couch table (Doc decides that it probably isn’t just orange juice) and Doc reaches out a hand and asks “Can I have some?” Etho nods. Beef steps within earshot just as Doc puts the glass to his lips and calls out a greeting. Doc nods toward Beef, takes a big sip of the drink, and promptly chokes on his mouthful. Somehow, he manages to swallow it all, letting the cinnamon burn his throat on the way down. “What the hell,” he manages between coughs as he sets the glass back down. “Why are you drinking fireball out of a glass, man?”

“Wait what?” Beef cuts in-front of Etho’s sly “I mean, why wouldn’t I?”

“Etho!” Beef scolds, “That’s your second glass! And you smoked with Hypno earlier!”

“I like getting crossfaded,” Etho defends himself while Doc is still coughing next to him, “And look, Doc is helping me drink the fireball.”

Beef shakes his head. “You are unbelievable, mister.”

Despite the attack on his taste buds, Doc laughs alongside Etho. He’s still tired but he decides that coming to the party may have been worth it.

[writeaboutit97]

CYBERPUNK 2077 SPOILERS BELOW CUT

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ꋖꁝ꒐ꈜ ꒐ꈜ ꃔꊿꋖ ꁲ ꈵꃔꊿꅐꃔ ꂵꁲꃔ, ꅐꁝꊿ ꒐ꈜ ꁝꑀ. ꅐꁝꊿ ꒐ꈜ ꌅꊿꃳꑀꌅꋖ ꒑ꊿꁝꃔ ꒒꒐ꃔꀷꑀꌅ ??????

V and Unknown Person in V's Apartment [Is she ok?] (Source: Unknown)

Caption: He's still here....the monster is in my head...I'm a Monster.... (Source: V)

Caption: V's vehicle after being crashed into by Delamain. ft Unknown Man

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[vengefulcheliceriform]

Pelipper mail! Gold galvantula charms

this

these

w h a t

get

away

FROM

M̴̺͊́̚͘͝Ę̶̦̼̹̋̽̕

[xvitms]

the biggest proof I ever had that girls are natural sluts made to drool and get attention was when I realized that put my tongue out and making cute noises while edging was simply so much better than doing it in silence

[please-let-me-be-horny]

You don't want to run away.

You want to be chased.

You don't want to be a brat.

You want to be punished.

You don't want me to stop when you safe word.

You want to be gagged and fucked harder.

The only fantasy you have is maintaining the idea that you're innocent.

But we both know...

Deep down...

You're probably worse than I am.

[mamaswittlegirl]

i want to ride someone’s thigh while sucking on their fingers, making myself wet and all dumb down. just thinking about it makes me turned on <3<3<3

[toxicandtired]

If you think I wouldn’t ride the handle of a knife you are mistaken

[madeinhisim4ge]

It’s so laughable how, as a young trans man, I am seen as “she” who is corrupted rather than as a corruptive force in my own right. What gives you the right to say I was seduced into biting the apple, when I made that decision myself?

I have seen what lies ahead for The Fallen and I have left The Garden of my own volition.

The question is: will you follow me too?

[extinctcorruption]

Everybody always says home is a person, not a place. I disagree. My home is my house. An old building refurnished, partly under construction at the moment. It is the place where I grew up sharing a room with my sister. The big room, that is now my parents room. The banister made out of wood planks, whole tree trunks and old windows we found. The banister that took a long time to actually be made. The bookshelves with my parents books, now upstairs since we redecorated. I remember pulling books out and putting them in my shelf because I thought they looked interesting. The kitchen counters downstairs that many of our cats jumped on just to get shooed down again. Our garden where I used to make mud-potions and climb on the tall chestnut tree, giving my mom a fright. The elevated flower beds my dad built himself. The fire-pit where we grill and poke around the flames with sticks. Our patio where we dye our hair so it doesn’t stain our bathroom sinks. All those memories are contained in that house, that place. It is my home. I will always come back to it. One way or another. That place is my home.

[braintamer]

Patriarchal body positivity: fat bitches are welcome in the patriarchy as long as they know their place

Of course, as a woman, you should make attracting men your top priority. If you're single (unowned), you should be trying to attract men, and if you are owned, you should try to be as pretty as possible for your owner. But what do we find attractive? We all have our own preferences, but the one thing i think we all want is variety, no woman is worthy of having a man all to herself, and no man should have to settle for one woman. We deserve a wide variety of toys to play with. If I wake up one morning and decide that I want to fuck a black girl with green eyes and a fat ass, thats exactly what I'll do. My other girls can sit back and watch if they're lucky. This also means we deserve a diverse selection of body shapes and sizes to fuck.

Of course, all girls are property, so if man wants you to lose weight, you lose weight, and if a man wants you to gain weight, you gain weight, that should be simple enough to follow.

But what place do fatties have in patriarchy? That depends mostly on your fat distribution and general appearance. They should all be teased for their gluttony, but pretty girls with big asses and titties should be treated like prize pigs, while ugly girls with small saggy tits and square asses should just be treated like pigs. Pretty piggies get a team of servant girls feeding them their favorite meals, giving them foot rubs, and helping them with daily tasks like bathing when they get too fat to do it on their own. Ugly hogs should be treated like disgusting slobs, constantly told how fat and useless they are. These piggies should be forced to live in a barn, fed slop from a trough, and have their big flabby bodies hosed down weekly.

All this is to say, if you're a fatty, you don't necessarily have to lose weight in order to serve the patriarchy, you just have to find a man who likes your fat body, and be a good little piggy for him. 🐽

[divorceblogger]

[xvitms]

I'm really grateful for that pink text, it's so much easier for my dumb brain to read just the highlighted parts

[basilpaste]

this is what all of the gregory discourse feels like to me.

edit 2 say that i dont even think gregory was the one who dropped the elevator. but even if he did? he is like ten.

[wri0thesley]

business dealings - sampo x reader (3.5k)

sampo's line of work has given him a lot of experience in getting what he wants.

cw: corruption kink, naive virgin reader, sampo is manipulative n kinda sleazy. reader is afab but no gendered terms/language are used. reader is chubby, shorter than sampo. loss of virginity, blowjobs, coming inside.

not sfw, minors dni.

At heart, Sampo is a businessman.

He knows what he wants - generally, as much shield as possible - and he's willing to do almost anything in order to get it. Bartering, trading, a little bit of illegality (it's only illegal if he gets caught, after all) - talking his way both out of and into things. 

So when you'd looked at him, with your eyes all pretty and big and doe-like, admiration leaking into your tone as you asked him about what the underworld was really like . . . he'd decided that what he wanted next was . . . well. You. 

It’s surprisingly easy. 

Easy, because you’re malleable and naive to the ways of the more . . . nefarious sides of society. You’ve never had to worry about stepping foot out of your comfortable life, beyond the vague threat of the Fragmentum and the Eternal Freeze that bothers every citizen of Belobog. But your life within the city isn’t threatened; you look at the Silvermane Guards with respect and awe, but you don’t honestly believe yourself in any danger. And because of that certainty that bad things will not happen to you, you’ve developed quite a cute interest in those other things - like Sampo, and his trips to the underworld, his easy way of slipping between things, his adventures and the embellished stories he tells you. And you’ve become quite easy to get information out of, on top of all of that - anything to help Sampo out, after all. 

Oh, you’re adorable. 

He thinks about you a lot, when he’s embroiled in another danger he brought upon himself - imagines how to spin it so he’s the hero, and you look at him with those wide eyes and your mouth open, lips soft and kissable in the glow of the heat lamps, and you breathlessly say; “Oh, Mr Koski!” in that awestruck little tone he cannot get enough of. 

He thinks about you a lot, too, alone in his bed at night with one hand wrapped around his cock and his back arching. He thinks about the shape of your body beneath your clothes; the ample curve of your chest, the wide contour of your hips and how perfectly they would fit in his grip if you were beneath him. The fullness of your cheeks and lips, and how they would look wrapped around his length - the soft noises you’d make as he pushed it in just a little further than you could handle. 

He thinks, perhaps, he should feel guilty about it. The thing in your eyes when you look at him is almost hero worship. But Sampo Koski did not get to where he is by way of self-reproach, and surely one wants to help out their heroes when they can? 

So he does what he always does. He sets his plan in motion. 

And if this plan does not end in shield, but in someone sweet wrapped around his finger, thighs wrapped around his hips, mouth wrapped around his cock? Well. It’s a plan nonetheless, and Sampo has never been a man who says no to the spoils of his own schemes. 

He starts only small. 

Bends his head closer to yours when the two of you talk, making sure that you’re made entirely aware of the breadth of his shoulders and his biceps, the peek of his bare chest beneath his complicated (but fashionable--) outfit. Allows the sharp emerald of his eyes to wander, just enough to be appreciative - just enough that he can sense how your cheeks heat, how you twist your fingers shyly into the fabric of your garments. 

Lets his hand wander to a place that skirts the edge of being respectable; your waist, but almost your hip. The dip of your lower back, but so close to the tantalising curve of your rear. Your cheek, but so so close to the delicate pulse beating in your throat that he sees how it speeds up at his touch. 

Pays you compliments, thrown out as casually as a breath but aimed to strike at the heart. How pretty you look today. How much he appreciates your time together. How you’re always the highlight of his time on the surface - how he simply couldn’t imagine not coming to see you. You respond, as he knew you would, with eager little soft-voiced entreaties about how you feel the same, how much you appreciate him, how you’re always so happy to see him. How you just love having the chance to help him.  He knows that the time is ripe when he catches your chin in gloved fingers and smiles down at you and says, his voice carefully pitched like affable velvet;

“And what if I asked you for your help with something else, sweetheart?”

Your eyes go all big and wide. Even through the fabric of his gloves, he can feel the heat that has risen to your face. There was never any doubt about it, but he’s glad to have the confirmation even so - you’ve been nursing an innocent crush on him. 

It won’t be so innocent when he’s done with you. 

“Mr Koski,” you say to him, your voice squeaking with nerves. He can see, again, the quick beating of your pulse - the eager-to-please nature that makes you such a thrillingly delicious prospect to have in his bed. That hopeful look that you can be of use to him. He wants to ruin you. He loves the way you say his name. “Of course, I’d do anything you asked me to!” 

He chuckles at you affectionately and leans in so close he can feel your breath against his lips. You tremble under his touch even now - he can’t wait to see how you’ll tremble under his clever fingers later on, when he has you somewhere more private. You look into his eyes with the breathless delight of someone having a fantasy come true. Naive little thing. Still. It wouldn’t hurt for him to play the gentleman just a tiny bit longer. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, chivalrous as he wants you to think he is. Your lips part, and he thinks about choking you on his cock even as you go giddy inside over the concept of your first kiss.

“Yes,” you breathe - and Sampo’s lips meet yours. They curve into a smile as you kiss back - unsure, prim, pure as the driven snow. 

Sampo’s plan has been a great success. 

He’s going to get what he wants. 

He takes you somewhere that he knows will not ask questions. The Goethe Hotel is not an option, but a man like Sampo doesn’t get where he is by not having connections - connections who will not ask about the pretty, wide-eyed Overworld denizen who’s clinging to his hand so tightly, looking around like they’ve found themselves in a storybook. You don’t even have the sense to ask him where he’s taking you - you’re all caught up in the romance of his kiss, the sweetness of his compliments, and the fact that your daydreams are coming true. 

“You wanna make me happy, don’t you?” He asks you, thumb skating over your cheek, and you nod at him with a sweetness that makes his teeth ache. “Come here, sweetheart. Pretty thing.” 

You shiver under his touch like a shy flower blooming, petals soft and untouched by human hands. You whisper out his name when his fingers find the buttons of your outfit, your skin going hot and nervous - but he makes soft little noises of comfort, reassuring you even as you’re bared before his eyes. He can barely stop himself throwing you onto the bed and having his way with you. 

“Look at you,” he says instead, as you stand before him all shivering and hopeful and naked. “You’re gorgeous.” You press your thighs together at the compliment, teeth biting into the plumpness of your bottom lip. His hands slide over you appreciatively, pulling you closer to where he sits on the bed. He maps out those same places that have haunted his wet dreams; all of those curves, the plumpness of your thighs and your stomach, the weight of your chest in his hands as he swipes his thumb over your nipples and you make a sweet little noise of surprised desire that makes his cock throb in his trousers. 

“C’mon,” he says, with that crooked smile that makes fireworks go off in your stomach. “Would Sampo hurt you, sweet thing?” You shake your head, immediately - even now, you’re unwilling to think the worst of him. You’re perfect. “Get on your knees. I’m gonna teach you somethin’.” 

It’s a scene right out of his nighttime fantasies when you hesitantly sink to your knees. Your desire to please warring with your desire to hide. But oh, do you look lovely down there. 

“That’s right,” he practically purrs, stroking your cheek. He feels giddy with the power of it all as he looks down at you - and as he unzips himself, you stifle a gasp and he feels his cock twitch in his grip. He’s proud enough of what he’s packing, but he sees it through your eyes and wishes he could take a photograph of you right there and then. Hesitant and eager and shy all at once. “Open your mouth for me, hmm?”

Obediently, you do exactly as he asks. One of his hands fastens about the back of your head, keeping you in place - you start but do not fight it, looking up at him with your expression utterly open and guileless. You trust him, and the thought makes a ripple of pleasure go down his spine. Your tongue is pink and wet in the lamplight. 

“Good,” Sampo praises, and your skin heats again. He guides himself into your mouth - you make a soft noise of surprise, but don’t pull away - your eyes stay locked on him, an unspoken question in your eyes. Am I doing this right? Is this good? Are you happy with me, Mr Koski? “Use your tongue for me, sweetheart. That’s right. You’re doing great.”

You look up at him from between his thighs and he lets out a muffled groan of pleasure as your tongue swipes unsurely over the head of his cock. You’re so cute down there. Even better than he imagined. There’s no satisfaction like a plan that’s going off without a hitch - and as you manage to swallow down even more of his cock, as a trickle of drool escapes from the corner of your mouth and your eyes go watery with the effort, he can’t help but cant his hips into you.

“Shh, shh,” he says, as your eyes widen in surprise and you almost try and pull back. His hand stays in place on the back of your head. That look on your face is going to keep him company through some very lonely nights. “I’m only doin’ that because you feel so good, sweetheart. Don’t stop, okay? You’re so good for me. Perfect.”

The last comes as you bob your head, tongue tracing the veins of his shaft - he relaxes his grip just enough for you to carry on the movement. Sampo lets a sigh fall from his lips as he enjoys the wet tightness of your mouth around him, the hesitant licks. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate someone who knows exactly what they’re doing in a blowjob - but something about you, and this? Something about knowing he’s the first man to have your mouth like this, to guide you through these motions? Nothing could compare. 

He almost doesn’t want to pull out. He almost wants to keep going - to see your surprise when he comes in your mouth, to implore you to swallow and call you such a good little thing, to shower you in praise until you’re dizzy and drunk from it - but . . . ah. Who knows when he’ll have the luxury of this much time with you again? And you keep shifting on your knees, your chest heaving, surprised by your own arousal . . .

It would be a hard heart indeed that didn’t let you have the full experience, and Sampo Koski is a soft touch. 

“D-did I do a bad job?” You babble, as he pulls his cock out of your mouth. It slaps softly and wetly against the plump fullness of your cheek and Sampo swallows back more thoughts of hitting your pretty face with it until you pout and beg him to put it back in, to choke you on it, to ‘please please please let me make you come Mr Koski--’

“Nah,” he says, affectionate and easy. “Not at all, sweetheart. I just . . . have other things I want to show you.” Your face is open and hopeful as he leans down again and takes your jaw in his hand. “Tell me something.”

“Anything,” you breathe to him, and he thinks that he could make you spill every secret in your pretty little head right there and then. 

“Are you wet for me, angel?” 

Your eyes widen, and he chuckles again. Your gaze flutters shyly around the room, away from Sampo’s own - but he doesn’t let go of your chin. He jerks it just so; not too hard, just enough to be playful. He doesn’t really need you to say it - not from the reaction you just had - but . . .

“C’mon,” he says again, smiling crookedly. “Tell me. I’m not gonna think less of you.”

You swallow. He raises one eyebrow.

“Do I need to check for myself?” He asks you, and shoots you a wink. “Stand up.” You follow the order helplessly, breathlessly, still just a little too shy to put word to the feelings that Sampo is pulling forth from you. His hand slides over the fullness of your thighs, and you reflexively push them together and win another laugh from him. “Don’t be shy,” he says. “Spread your legs. C’mon. I’ll be upset if you aren’t, y’know!”

You let out a slow breath as you follow his order and his palm curves around your thigh, as his fingers slide up and tease the seam of your sex - and Sampo follows suit, a satisfied exhale as he finds you hot and slick. He lets his fingers slip between the plump lips of your sex and wins a soft little ‘oh!’ of surprise, a flutter of your lashes. His cock twitches again. 

He fondles you for a few moments; lets his middle finger slide to your entrance, tease it and draw circles around it. You bite your lip again, but you spread your thighs further apart to allow him better access, breath hitching as he slides just the tip of one finger inside of you. His smile doesn’t falter as he looks at you. 

“Sweetheart,” he says to you, voice like smooth silk. He sinks his finger in further, to his knuckle - you’re tight but wet, and you take it easily. “You’re soaking.”

“I--I--” You falter, almost ashamed, and Sampo lets his eyes go half-lidded. There’s a whine to your voice that Sampo knows well. “Mr Koski--”

“Sampo,” he corrects you. His smile is rakish. “Mr Koski’s cute and all, but . . . not when I’ve got my fingers buried inside of you, yeah?”

“Sampo,” you breathe out, and he gently moves his finger; pumps it in and out of you a few times and enjoys the sight of your thighs flexing, of your body shivering. Your nipples are hard in the cool air, the tremble of your body a siren’s call to throw you onto the thin little mattress. He lets his thumb ghost across the swollen nub of your clit and you let out a strangled noise of pleasure, a whimper that’s so close to a moan he can taste it. 

“That’s right,” he says. “Let’s get you on the bed.”

You’re pliable to all of his pushing, all of his touching - obedient to a fault, as he kisses your cheeks and props your hips with pillows and lets his hands stroke all over your body, learning the most sensitive places. The soft noise of surprise when he digs his thumbs into the indent of your waist, the inhale when he grasps your hips, the flutter of your lashes when his lips brush across your stomach . . . he commits them to memory. Part of the fun of taking someone as sweet as you is teaching them all the pleasures they didn’t know their body was capable, and Sampo is a thorough man. 

You tremble for him so sweetly, when he finally has you caged beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, again, and delights in the way you shiver, the shy way you pull away from his gaze. “Don’t hide.” The rub of the head of his cock through your slit, wetting himself in your slick, makes you squirm hot beneath him and gasp in surprise. He repeats the motion, swirling the tip of him against your clit, until you whine and your thighs twitch and he wonders if he could make you come just like this.

Right now, though . . . he doesn’t have the patience. 

Your hands curl into the broad muscle of his shoulders as he splits you open on his cock. You cry out, but it’s a noise that’s a culmination of pleasure and surprise as well as just a little sting, and Sampo commits it to memory the same way he tries to commit the velvet cling of your walls and the tight heat and the feeling of you, letting him take you in every way possible. 

“Sweetheart,” he says to you, his own words getting lost as months of fantasies and pining and imagining you come rushing to the forefront of his mind. “You feel incredible--”

He might say more. It’s hard to keep track of anything when he gets lost so quickly in the pounding of his cock against your walls and the way you gasp and cling to him as he fucks into you more desperately than he realised he was going to. You’re vice-tight about him, utterly willing to give yourself up and let him show you what to do. He has the sense to slip one hand between you both to play with your clit as he fucks you - Sampo Koski is a gentleman, thank you very much, he might be taking advantage of your naivety but obviously he’s going to make you come, dammit - and you respond to him with helpless, brainless whines and little thrusts of your hips. 

You’ve never felt like this before. You’ve touched yourself a few times - thought of Mr Koski a few times, if you’re honest with yourself - but this is new. The feeling of something thick stretching you out, of a handsome man above you sighing and whispering out your name . . . The delicious feeling, too, of doing something you’re not supposed to be doing. 

Your orgasm hits first, your body unused to the touches of someone who knows what they’re doing. Sampo is ruthless as you gasp out his name--

(“Mr Ko-- S-Sampo--!” - somehow, the way you trip over the title and replace it is even better than just hearing his name issue forth from your pretty mouth). 

His fingers don’t stop working over your clit even as you come, your channel pulsing around him wildly, your spine arching and a cry that’s pure pleasure working itself loose from your throat. All that your peak does is drive Sampo on, teeth grit, hips hungrily fucking into you until he feels himself twitch and his balls draw in tight and hot. 

He should pull out. The thought tickles the edges of his consciousness; that he should let his release splatter all over your thighs instead of filling you up with it, letting himself keep fucking it shallowly into your tight little cunt with the weak aftershocks pushing him to carry on thrusting--

But . . . oh. The thought of you beneath him, fucked out and leaking his come. Your virgin sex full to the brim with him, claimed and taken and filled . . . 

Sampo groans out your name and shoots rope after rope of his own release inside of you, losing track of anything but the feel of your body and the feeling of conquering something uncharted. 

You lie there beneath him, big pretty eyes blinking up at him, cheeks wet with tears of pleasure and surprise and over-stimulation. Your chest heaves against his, your heart rabbiting. Both of your skins sweat-slick where they press against one another. 

You look up at him like a hero who’s hung the moon and shown them a brand new world, and Sampo looks down at you like you’re just the cutest damn thing you’ve ever seen, committing the sight of you - fucked for the first time, ruined for the first time, claimed for the first time, and all by him - to memory. 

“You did great,” he says to you, and kisses you softly on the forehead. “Thanks for the help, sweetheart.”

He knew what he wanted, and he got it. But looking at you beneath him, remembering all the things he’s fantasised about, taking in how your hero worship doesn’t seem to have ebbed even the slightest bit . . . 

Business deals don’t have to be a one-time thing. 

[howlsofbloodhounds]

When your Boss is weirdly possessive of you, call that a Toxic Work Environment. (Art by Rahafwabas & superyoumna.)