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[imhpackaging]

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[danger-xylophones]

I am going feral over the costumes in this show

There's a lot of good things going on and for every criticism I have, I can find something good happening elsewhere

Rings of Power’s elven clothing & armour - design appreciation

Requested by @klngfili thank you I hope you like these!! ♥

My favorites are easily Elrond’s blue and gold outfit, Arondir’s chestplate and Galadriel’s armour.

rop design team very good job thank you

[fayes-fics]

Lessons In Motion

Lessons Series Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: An eventful carriage ride with the boys.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest, dom/sub dynamics - dom!Bridgertons sub!reader, masturbation, dirty talk, mild degradation, light spanking/slapping, hair pulling, vaginal fingering, cockwarming, exhibitionism, breast play, edging, bondage restraint, sensory deprivation (blindfold), anal sex, vaginal sex, double penetration.

Word Count: 6.3k

Authors note: Is this the threesome I should be writing? No of course not. Sorry. This was indeed inspired by the synchronised head tilt in the s3 trailer 🤷‍♀️ Part of Lessons-verse, chronologically this takes place before Lessons in Breeding. Thank you to @colettebronte for betaing. Enjoy! <3

You bounce nervously in your shoes, craning to see the ride you are awaiting. 

You slipped out the side entrance of the music hall, eager to escape prying eyes, leaving them to exit through the front, picking up their family carriage together. Being a guest in the family box for the evening is one thing; an unattached woman leaving publicly with two of the most eligible bachelors in the country is another matter entirely—you have no desire to provoke the wagging tongues of the Ton. But that does not mean you wish for your night with them to be over, far from it.

With a whinny, a two-horse carriage rounds the corner into the quiet street a few hundred yards from the venue and comes to a halt before you. The windows are all obscured by thick, draped curtains. So much so that you hesitate, hang back under the shadow of the mature oak. Until that is, the door swings open, and a very familiar face pops out, expression bemused.

“Does my girl not wish for a carriage?” Anthony teases with an expectant, fond tone.

You giggle and rush towards the vehicle, climbing in quickly. The door slams behind you as a fist knocks upon the ceiling to indicate for the driver to move on. The carriage is dimly lit by one tiny glass lantern flame flickering, both sets of eyes are eager on you, that molten heat in your belly as you sit opposite them, both so handsome.

“Did you enjoy your evening, gentlemen?” you query, feigning innocence.

They both comedically tilt their heads in brotherly unison, matching bemused grins claiming their lips as Benedict giggles behind his fist.

“Considering where you had your hands all night, you know well we did,” he pipes up, raising an eyebrow pointedly. 

“Twas rather a boring recital, sir.” Your invocation of his play title makes his chest swell and his pupils dilate. “Should I not have kept myself sufficiently entertained?” He appreciates your sass, nodding with a knowing smirk. 

Indeed, you were greatly entertained. But not by the singing onstage. Sitting in the Bridgerton family box, a rigid cock in each hand as you teased them mercilessly, the angle of the seating allowing you the privacy to do so unseen by other patrons. Never letting either of them climax, taking them somewhere close then backing off, each huffing quietly, a white knuckle grip on their chair arms, as your fingers were coated with pre-cum. Most entertaining indeed. At one point, Anthony had hissed how he would have you on your knees and down your throat if you prolonged the torture much longer, but you knew it to be an empty (and entirely welcomed) threat. Now, in the privacy of the carriage, you rather suspect you are about to be taught a lesson for that cheeky behaviour.

“I do believe it is time for payback, brother,” Anthony opines, voicing your exact suspicions, them exchanging their trademark glance—so much communication with no words.

“Yes, I rather suspect a lesson is in order: that which you do unto others, you should expect done unto you,” Benedict forebodes.

Your stomach ripples as he grabs your ankle and roughly pushes it out wide, a hand travelling up your leg, gathering your dress around his forearm as he does. Soon, they discover the secret you held this evening: that you wear no chemise, no stockings, no undergarments at all, in fact—just your blue silk dress and ballet-style shoes.

“You filthy little vixen,” Anthony growls as he sees a flash between your legs.

“Do not pretend this type of indecency is not exactly what you want from her, brother,” Benedict counters dryly as his hand trails up your inner thigh, your breath quickening as he reaches your apex. You cry out, staring Anthony down as Benedict's fingers plunge into your pussy, burrowing deep, leaning his head into yours. “Always so hot, wet and wanting, are you not?” he rumbles into your hair as his fingers start to rock.

“Yes sir,” you know better than to ignore a question that is asked of you. “Only for you and my lord,” you add, knowing they always want to hear it.

“That is right,” Anthony preens, fighting with the buttons of his trousers and taking his sizable cock in hand, watching you moan and squirm on Benedict's invading digits, dripping down onto his palm, the sounds he draws from your body already obscene. You have been soaked since teasing them at the recital.

“I bet even the driver can hear this tight little cunt. Our filthy beautiful girl just drenching herself like the bitch in heat she is…” Benedict remarks casually.

You love it when they call you such taboo names in play, an illicit thrill running down your spine as he smiles predatorily and curls his fingers, hooking against your pussy wall, making you gasp. It's not quite enough pressure. Your head swings to look at him, silently requesting more.

He chuckles. “What did I tell you earlier?” 

“Teasing?” 

He nods as you pout, sliding his lips right to your ear, his breath hot there. “Until you are a mindless and trembling creature who will do whatever we tell you to.” 

You bite your lip and exhale raggedly, your belly constricting at the thought and at the sight of Anthony lazily pumping his cock, wanting to ride it so much your fingers flex upon the velour bench seat, rocking your pelvis with each stroke Benedict takes, hoping to catch a dash of friction upon your engorged clit. He tuts admonishingly when he senses what you are trying to do, curling his free hand around your inner thigh and spanking there. A stinging slap that makes you jump and mewl.

“Stop trying to come so hastily, darling girl. We decide if and when that will ever happen…” Anthony calls out from across the carriage, grabbing your leg and pulling it high and wide. He yanks off your shoe and bites your instep, not hard, but enough to make your whole body jerk, so you slide deeper onto his brother's fingers, moaning and throwing your head back, the rocking motion of the carriage somehow making it a worse tease.

“‘Tis not a long ride to either of your lodgings… surely you cannot tease me forever,” you speculate, spiralling slowly under such expert ministrations, an itch in your brain that needs to be scratched, even your teeth feel on edge.

“Oh, my girl, we are not headed to either place. Oh no. We are headed to our country retreat. The ride will take the rest of the night,” Anthony crows. “Our family will be remaining in London. So it will just be the three of us… with hundreds of acres to ourselves,” he grins devilishly, still slowly pumping his cock as he speaks.

“But…” you splutter, “I have nothing with me! No dresses, no shoes...” fretting mildly even as your stomach quivers with the thought of time spent alone with your boys.

“Oh, you sweet thing,” Benedict chuckles in your hair,  rotating his fingers so they drag over that sensitive spot that makes you shudder. “As if we are going to let you wear anything except our jewels. You shall be naked for days.”

“If you truly object, say your word now,” Anthony states clearly.  “And we shall drop you at your home.”

Benedict pauses his motions, awaiting your answer, both always respectful of your full consent. You look at them in turn, then merely shake your head fractionally, basking in their wolfish smiles. Wanting to do this with them—a new illicit adventure. The idea of days alone with both of them in a luxury country idyll is so beguiling. And a definite step forward in your dynamic as a throuple.

“Well, then, might as well tear off this dress right now; start as we mean to go on, right brother?” Benedict breezes as he withdraws his fingers from you, making you whine at the loss. But then he trails them across your decolletage, dipping his head to suckle your juices from your skin, his teeth sinking lightly into the swell of your breast, making you groan loudly and push up into his mouth.

“Agreed,” Anthony practically growls, pushing his trousers further down, cupping his balls now with his other hand.

“But my lord,” you stumble, tearing your eyes reluctantly from that tempting sight up to his face. “I need my dress to alight from this carriage when we arrive. Surely your staff should not see me naked?!" Your dissent is light, core pulsing at the mental image of them parading you naked up the front steps of a grand country house for all the gathered staff to greet your debauched arrival.

“Please,” Anthony withers, “what is a touch of nudity when they will likely find us fucking you in every way and place possible? Our darling little plaything, always so keen, are you not?” 

“Yes, my lord, Always.” 

Your whisper is obedient, watching him squeeze his cock more forcefully in his fist, his gaze locked between your splayed legs as Benedict yanks down your neckline roughly. The sound of fabric tearing fills the carriage, then their approving grunts as they realise you are without stays. 

“Get her naked, brother,” Anthony orders brusquely.

He sets about the task with enthusiasm, your dress ripping along the seams as he deploys both large hands and tears the fine silk asunder. It is one Anthony had paid for, so you do not mourn its loss, you rather suspect he will replace it with one identical in short order.

“If I am always to be naked, then will you warm my body when I am cold, sir?” You coquette, batting your eyelashes, playing up the damsel in distress to Benedict as he pushes aside the remaining fabric from around your front.

“Always sweet girl,” Benedict promises duskily, trailing his palm down your flushed skin, pulling you in for a kiss that is all tongues and heat. It has you canting your now naked body into his, desperate for his fingers, or even better, his cock, to be inside you.

As if sensing your need, Anthony intervenes as your lips break apart, perhaps jealous at the amount of time his brother has had with you. 

“Alright, enough of that. I think you are plenty prepared now. Come, my girl,” Anthony pats his thigh invitingly, “come sit on my cock.”

You make a victorious noise and slide out from around Benedict, Anthony grabbing your waist and spinning you around to face away from him. 

“Hello, my darling girl,” Anthony greets, his tone like velvet, pulling you snugly against his frame, the brocade of his waistcoat tickling your spine.

Your responding greeting turns into a cry as he guides you down onto his cock, splitting you open in that way it always does, a stretch that is just the right side of discomfort, that heavy weight pressing far inside that you yearn for.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and pulling you back into a plundering kiss, making you pliant in his arms.

“Fuck me, my lord,” you beseech when you realise he is holding your hips down with a slight force, preventing any movement.

“But we have hours,” he drawls unhurriedly, “how about you sit still and just enjoy the ride, hmmm?”

You mewl in protest; as much as the carriage ride is indeed a pleasant rocking motion, your clit is throbbing, needing friction, craving release. You attempt to coax him by squeezing his cock so he groans throatily.

“Stop that. If you defy me, I will never let you come.”

He forcefully grabs your knees and drapes your thighs on either side of his woollen trousers that are bunched around his hips, then splays his legs wide. There’s a burning stretch on your inner thighs as he now holds you obscenely open. You are powerless to do anything but sit obediently upon his cock, whining slightly as the need claws at the edges of your mind.

Across from you, Benedict watches, seemingly transfixed by the sight of you naked and pinned open, speared on Anthony's cock, whimpering as your attempts to move are quelled by those firm hands clamped on your hips. You watch as he unbuttons and takes himself in hand, just as Anthony had, his eyes hungrily raking over your body. It makes you want to climb into his lap and fuck him over and over. 

“Will you fuck me, sir?” You lobby, hoping it will get a rise out of Anthony, that it will catalyse him into taking you hard, possessively.

“You know I will, sweet girl,” Benedict responds huskily. “But as my brother says, we have hours, and you will learn your lesson today…”

“I promise I have learned my lesson not to tease either of you,” you implore sincerely, hopeful for absolution, but both of them merely huff a laugh, suspecting it a hollow pledge. 

You pout again but relent, leaning back into Anthony, accepting your fate. His lips graze your temple as you rest your head on his shoulder and try to get comfortable. Try to ignore the pulse in your engorged clit with every heartbeat. Try to ignore the press of his frenulum inside, a pressure you feel compelled to rub against. Try to ignore that tingle in your nipples where they pucker hard, desperate for a tongue or some rough fingers.

And that is how you stay for what feels like an eternity. Just the noises of movement and horses upon what is now a dirty track, bright moonlight seeping through the cracks in the curtains as you sit in silent submission, The rocking of the carriage meaning you must occasionally endure the jolts of his cock against your hilt, making your breath catch. Your eyes alternate between fluttering closed and opening to see Benedict idly grasping his cock, but it's too tempting a sight, so you swallow hard and close them again. 

However, with your eyes closed, you see worse images dancing before you, taunting you. Flashes of them both lathing their tongues all over your skin, of you on your knees between them, a cock in your mouth and one pounding into your pussy, a loop of carnal push and pull. It makes you leak more, a trickle leaving your body and pooling at the base of Anthony’s cock, nestling in his hair there.

“I can feel how aroused you are,” Anthony purrs into your hairline, almost startling you after many minutes of quiet. “How it is taking every fibre in your being not to defy me. Let’s see how good you can really be for me. Remember, you may not move.”

That’s all the warning you get before his warm, lightly quill-calloused fingers slide over your clit, rubbing an agonisingly light, slow circle. Not enough to do anything but make you shudder and pant, needing more, tiny sparks igniting through your heavy pelvis. Fighting so hard to keep your hips still, wanting more than anything to buck up, bear down onto the hook of his fingers, frottage yourself until you come clenching around his cock so steely and hot inside you.

“Please, my lord,” you grit out, turning to bury your nose into him, huffing his spicy amber cologne, lips brushing the rasp of stubble on his strong jaw.

“I could listen to you beg all night,” Anthony confesses and there’s an edge to his voice that is dark, dangerous, unyielding. 

You lament when his fingers disappear, but he rolls his hips with the motion of the carriage, his cock sliding just a fraction deeper, making you cry out, the change of angle promising so much. Your hand flies out for purchase upon something solid but instead seizes the carriage curtain, unintentionally pulling it back so the glass is revealed.

“Oh, excellent idea!” Anthony lauds. “Yes, show yourself to the world, darling girl; show what a wanton thing you are for us.”

By now, though, the busy streets of Mayfair are long behind you. You are out in the darkness past Blackheath, moving fast down the Dover road to rural Kent. If there are any prying eyes, they will only catch a glimpse of you utterly naked, seated upon a clothed Viscount.

“Open the rest, brother,” Anthony clips.

Your eyes ping to Benedict as he releases his cock and pulls open the draped fabric on either side, hooking it back so the inky blackness of night is all around you.

“Imagine being seen, my girl,” Anthony baits. “There could be a highwayman right now lurking among those trees.”

Benedict leans forward, his hand suddenly clasping the jewelled necklace draped around your throat, the one Anthony presented you with just last week. His motion pulls you upright away from Anthony, the tilt of his cock inside you catching your breath.

“They may want this darling girl,” Benedict joins in. “Will you give it to them? Or will you offer something else instead in order to keep it? A more precious jewel perhaps….” He releases your necklace and trails that hand down between your breasts, over your belly, spidering lower until he grazes your clit. “Will you allow him this? Your greatest treasure?”

You moan loudly at his expert touch, a stroke of his middle finger under the hood of your clit making your whole body quake.

“N-no sir, I would not,” you stumble. “That belongs to my lord and to you.”

“Oh, good answer,” he winks, eyes twinkling in the moonlight streaming in as his now wettened finger traces back up over your belly. “But what if that is what we wish? To watch you be fucked by a stranger? A thief in a mask? Would you then?”

“I would do whatever you and my lord want, sir,” you pledge truthfully, then inhale sharply as he grabs the back of your neck and moves in close, his lips ghosting yours as he speaks again, teasing you with an almost kiss.

“I could watch you be fucked by a dozen men and enjoy every single one. I do so love the way your eyes roll when you are being taken rough. How you always, always plead for more, greedy little one that you are.” 

Your eyes flit down to see his other fist speeding up around his cock. It makes you clench around Anthony, who groans hard, the air in the carriage somehow notching hotter, tighter, like it’s a fight to breathe.

“Sir,” you murmur on his lips, “Please help me; I am in such need.”

You feel as much as see that crooked, laconic smile claims his face, his cock still in hand. “What do you want from me, darling girl? Be specific, maybe I will do it…” 

“Suck my nipples,” you request boldly at his enticement as he tilts back to watch you speak. “Maybe bite them a touch? Use your wonderful fingers upon my pearl; you can surely see it is so swollen...”

You know such explicit language will work for him, and sure enough, his nostrils flare as you ask for precisely what you need, his tongue flicking out to trace around his lips.

“Brother, will you allow it?” Benedict checks, his gaze flitting briefly to the man you sit upon.

“I will,” Anthony concedes, “on one condition: do not let her come, not yet.” He grabs a fistful of your hair, making you inhale sharply, jerking you back against his body, trailing his nose over your cheek. “I do so need her desperate and crying pretty tears for me before I shall allow that.”

Benedict slides to his knees before you, between your splayed legs, and you tremble as his damp lips ghost over the valley between your breasts, nuzzling your skin, inhaling deeply, trailing the point of his nose left to your nipple. You moan loudly as he suckles you into his hot mouth, lips pursed around your puckered teet. Then he glances the edge of his front teeth over your skin, causing a shudder down your spine. His hand cups your other breast, fondling your nipple with swipes of his thumbpad, teasing, while his teeth clamp down and tug away—a beeline to your core. 

You mutter a curse and thrash your head a little, settling on pressing your nose into Anthony’s neck and whimpering lightly, so much sensation coursing through you, his cock is still rigid and unrelenting inside you. Muttering as Benedict keeps feasting upon your breasts, biting, suckling, fondling, not allowing you one moment without the tormenting thrill, a quake in your thighs, an odd tingle in your arms, a pressure behind your belly that is a ball of need, wound tight like a spring.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” Anthony sighs, wrapping an arm around your head, his bicep bulging against your face through his jacket. “Now you have some sense of how we felt earlier tonight…”

At that, Benedict slides his thumb over your clit, flicking in a sideways motion that has you screaming into Anthony’s skin, clawing your hands into both of their hair, grasping their scalps and making them both growl.

“My lord, sir, please….” 

It's a broken, pitiful sound, teetering as you are, reality a blur, a buzz in your brain that is febrile. A tear of frustration prickles your eye at the prolonged agony of denied ecstasy. Just as you are incapable of defying them anymore and have to break, Benedict pauses, pulls back, and watches with that killer smile as you protest even louder, breasts wet with his saliva, goosebumps covering your entire body.

“She is so beautiful like this, brother,” Benedict groans, grabbing himself again and squeezing a few times as if staving off his own orgasm. “You should see it from here….” he adds as he falls back upon the opposite bench.

“I want to,” Anthony confesses, kissing your temple. “I want to see what you look like, my girl, struggling like this; I wish this damn carriage had a mirror….”

“There is one way….” Benedict shrugs, probably aiming for nonchalant but missing entirely. “She may do the same to me?”

“Do you want that, my girl? To sit upon my brother as well?”

“Yes, my lord,” you confess, always eager to gratify them both. “Will I be allowed to come if I do?”

He chuckles into your skin. “Not yet. But if you are good for him too, maybe then.”

Hope flares as Anthony closes his legs and hoists you up and off his cock, you emitting a slight lament at the loss of him as he helps you to turn around and guides you onto Benedict’s lap. Before you know it, you are once again invaded intimately, the stretch different in ways you can’t fully articulate but just as wonderful. Sliding deep, Benedict’s responding moan is hot in your ear as you settle upon him. He hooks your legs over his in the same manner Anthony did, pushing his knees wide open, perhaps even more so, and you hiss at the tugging sensation in your tendons.

“See, brother?” Benedict crows. “Look how spectacular she is…” the words are nuzzled into your temple as he drops a sighing kiss there.

“‘Tis quite the sight…” Anthony agrees lowly as he starts to unwind his cravat while sitting back to admire you. “But I feel she may need those rebellious hands restrained….”

Your belly roils as Anthony grabs your wrists, jerking them forward and binding them with the soft white silk, looping the fabrics many times before tying a tight bow that is unyielding. He doesn’t even ask for your colour, knowing such things are always a green light. What’s new is he guides your bound hands up high, then backwards, curling them behind Benedict’s head with an amused arched eyebrow.

“Don’t you dare move those arms until I say so,” Anthony warns, and all you can do is nod and bite your lip.

“Oh, excellent idea,” Benedict rhapsodises, staring fervently down the plane of your body draped naked over him.

It’s all at once similar and yet different to moments ago with Anthony: the stretch of a cock impaling you, the ache in your thighs forced so wide open, but now with the pulse in your wrists with your hands bound behind Benedict’s strong neck, your fingernails sinking into the plush ruched fabric on the wall behind.

“Watch me, my girl,” Anthony commands.

Drowsy and shaky with unmet needs, you observe as he touches himself again, his proud cock still glistening with your juices as it passes through his fist, tempting, teasing you. Attempting relief by undulating upon Benedict, but balance is more difficult now your hands are bound, instead resorting to supplicant pleas, hoping his empathetic nature will win out.

“Not yet,” he soothes through gritted teeth, but you can sense his quandary, wanting so much to rut into you, his hands flexing upon the dip of your waist. 

“You believe I have learned my lesson, do you not, sir?” Your soft appeal is blatant manipulation, reluctantly looking away from Anthony to twist sideways and stare beseechingly into his hazy blue eyes, finding a storm of desire there. Your lips tingle for his kiss as he goes to answer but is interrupted.

“Stop trying to cheat my girl,” Anthony counsels tersely. While he has welcomed Benedict into your dynamic, sometimes residual jealousy rears when you appear to have a moment of connection with his brother, wanting to gain control—the upper hand.

“You heard him. So, are you going to be a very good girl for me?” 

Benedict’s voice is a resonant vibration through your back, his frilly shirt tickling your spine. You would do anything for him when he asks like that. Your resounding nod is rewarded with a kiss, and his long fingers snagging around your nipples, your pussy clenching reflexively upon him as his tongue rolls over yours. It makes him stutter a growl into your mouth, which tastes like sin laced with smoky whiskey. 

And so you do as asked—sitting meekly, submissively, that heavy distracting weight inside you keening quietly, throbbing between your legs as Benedict tweaks your nipples almost lazily between his paintbrush-calloused fingers, his lips on your neck, sucking gently, a sensation that is all soft, wet heat. Your hooded gaze is glued to Anthony idly stroking himself, only a fraction of movement designed to keep himself aroused, no doubt. 

Minutes tick by, so you lean back into Benedict’s body as his touch softens, allowing your breathing to syncopate to his, his chest rising and falling against your back. Despite your thrumming arousal, the effect is soporific, and you find yourself growing so sleepy, eyelids too heavy…

…“Wake up, sweet girl,” Benedict’s bemused voice rings in your ear.

You startle, having no concept of how much time has passed. You are impressed when you realise he is still rock-hard inside you, your legs closer together now.

“For how long was I asleep?” You query, stifling a light yawn. A warmth blooms behind your ribs when you realise that, at some point, they unhooked your arms from behind Benedict's head, your hands resting in your lap, still bound in Anthony’s cravat.

“About a quarter hour,” Anthony chuckles. “You looked so peaceful, but we decided to rouse you to deliver the good news. We believe that you have indeed learned your lesson, sweet girl….”

“Yes, my lord, I have!” You enthuse, suddenly awake again, feeling an instant quickened throb in your clit, hoping it means they will finally take pity on you, fuck you, let you come.

“Then it is time for your reward…” 

Anthony’s tone is both benevolent and filthy as he flicks open a small vial that he must have retrieved from somewhere while you were sleeping. He shuffles his trousers down his legs a little further, the smell of olives and clove swirling in the air as he pours the oily substance onto his cock. 

“What is my reward, my lord?” You ask as your stomach clenches. 

But you already know. There is only one reason he does this. It’s when he wants to claim your bottom, not your pussy.

“You get both of us inside you at once, darling,” he answers with a dangerous smile, and Benedict groans as again, on instinct, you clench around him in excitement.

“She likes that idea, brother,” Benedict offers sardonically from behind you.

“Use your cravat, sir, blindfold me,” you petition, twisting your head to look at him, wanting to feel as much as see tonight.

“By god, I adore you,” Benedict gruffs, his voice laden with admiration and arousal as he dives in for a quick kiss. 

Then you feel him fighting off the teal silk behind you, unwinding it rapidly before settling it gently over your face, the gossamer soft fibres still warm from his neck, scented lightly of him. He ties a bow behind your head and then drops a kiss on your shoulder. Then two sets of hands assist you up off of Benedict's cock. You revel in their touch as they gently spin you and guide you backwards onto Anthony’s now bare lap, his trousers around his knees.

As the carriage rocks gently, two oiled fingers slide between your cheeks, and Anthony whispers sweetly as he swirls a finger around your bottom, extolling soft praises as he always does when he takes you here, preparing you for him. 

When you murmur that you are ready, you exhale shakily as you feel that intense blunt pressure, now more familiar to you, as he breaches your tight hole, your body stretching to accommodate his oiled cock, slowly sinking into his lap as you take slow, relaxing breaths. 

“Exquisite,” he stutters, his hands moving to hold your waist tightly, guiding you the last few inches until you are seated to his root—the utter fill like a sense memory. After a few moments of allowing you to adjust, Anthony changes his stance, pulling your legs open wider and shifting inside in a way that feels pleasurable and makes your hands flex in your binding.

“You like that, do you not?” you can hear the smirk in Benedict’s voice even if you can't see it, feeling his intense gaze upon your body as you raise your head to the sound of his voice and nod.

“Hands above your head, my girl,” Anthony instructs, and instantly, your hands shoot up, the silk binding on your wrists flexing as Benedict grabs your arms and hooks them behind Anthony’s head, his heat looming over you as he does so.

“Good, now are you ready for me too?” he checks, and you just know he has an arched brow, that menacing look; you can hear the pump of his cock in his fist, saliva gathering in your mouth at the very thought.

“Yes, sir.” 

“You do not want gentle tonight, do you?” Benedict intuits, likely seeing the hunger writ large across your blindfolded face as he kneels on a little footrest; you can feel his hips at the perfect height, the edge of his cropped jacket snagging the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“No, sir.” 

“So very different to the first time we did this,” Anthony remarks knowingly in your ear, invoking the memory of that landmark night in your burgeoning dynamic—the night you truly became a throuple.

It makes you almost wistful even in this carnal moment, that now familiar press of both their bodies, of being sandwiched between them as Benedict leans in. Although tonight, it is not warm skin upon yours, but the slight scratch of wool, the tickle of silk as they remain clothed. 

“Perhaps we indulge you too much, with both of us at once…” Anthony chuckles.

“No! Let me have both..” you twist back to implore him, even though you cannot see. “I need you both so much, my lord, sir, I am aching…”

“Well, I cannot deny such a pretty appeal as that, brother,” Benedict avows, and that is all the warning you get before he guides himself into you. 

You groan loudly as his tip nudges into your pussy, the stretch of two cocks always making your eyes roll, your toes scrunch hard. Anthony’s hands grasp your thighs, holding you open as Benedict slides deeper inside, their breath uneven, knowing they can likely feel the pressure of each other as much as you can. A curse slips from your lips as they both finally rest entirely within you.

“Darling girl, you always take us so well,” Benedict’s voice lauds, dark and decadent, “so magnificent.”

Your eyelids flutter hard against his cravat, bound and blindfolded, split open upon two cocks… you can think of nowhere else you would rather be.

“Please fuck me…” you entreat, feeling as if you have been pleading for hours with them, your mind scratchy, clawing, like a wild beast clambering up the sides of the carriage, wailing to be sated.

You almost howl as finally, finally, they take pity upon you. Benedict withdraws and then thrusts back into you, aided by the rocking motion as the carriage hurtles through past the fields of Kent, the journey seeming to speed up, mirroring the fevered atmosphere within.

Blindly, you seek a kiss from them both, swivelling to Anthony, then Benedict. Desperate, hot, open mouths meet as you start to set a rhythm together, the friction and fullness radiating pulses of pleasure outwards from where you are joined.

You love it when you are caged between them like this, pinned, hands tied, unable to see. Unable to do anything, indeed, but submit to their whims, entrusting your body and gratification utterly to them, to lay back and take it. Take the endless surges of pleasure, the push and pull, the drag of them both inside you as they change tempo, catching you unawares and making you moan and babble. The noises they wrench from your body are drowned out by the thrum of wheels upon dirt, by the thundering of hooves before you, all of you chasing destinations, literal and ephemeral. Windows fogging with panted breaths, the carriage air almost cloying, all three of you moaning unfettered as pleasure mounts.

“Do you think the coachmen above can hear us?” you gasp out, eyes rolling at the overwhelming sensations of both moving within you, their hips snapping roughly.

“Do you honestly care?” Anthony challenges, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he rolls under you.

“She wants them to watch, most likely,” Benedict pants, his hands a vice-like grip on your waist as he fucks into you.

When you do not respond they both huff a laugh.

“Your silence says so much,” Anthony remarks and suddenly, your hair is in his fist, the force making your back arch, sliding both of their cocks deeper, your moan unbridled. “Whose good little whore are you?” he demands hotly, a glance of his teeth upon your jaw.

“Yours,” you rasp, eyes fluttering against your blindfold, head tilted to the carriage ceiling, feeling the burn on your scalp, your nipples pebbled hard against the rough rasp of Benedict's jacket lapel.

“Then repeat it,” Benedict bites out, his mouth sucking harshly upon your shoulder, leaving his mark, a darkened patch you know he will have you look at in the mirror in the coming days.

“I’m your good little whore,” you echo breathily, for them both, the degrading words ratcheting you higher.

They both groan at your utterance, their hands becoming a more urgent hold. Fingertips grazing and tweaking your nipples, you know not whose. Teetering so close, you beg. Beg them to go faster, to touch your clit, to hold you down, be rough, do anything to make this fever upon your skin, buzzing in your mind, break over you, release you from this prolonged heightened state, leaking profusely around their cocks, slack-jawed, strung out with need.

When a hand worms between your bodies, snagging against your clit, you convulse around them, both groaning at the restriction, curse words falling from them in harsh pants as finally you reach the peak you have been seeking forever. One flick of a thumb, and you are gone.

The intensity of your orgasm is breathtaking: transported and hurtled into the skies far above, your whole pelvis contracting and rippling around both of them as they cry out as your vice-like grip. Static buzzing in your skull as they seem to sandwich into you even harder, your lungs gasping for air as your body feels rearranged, your mind floating on a sea of bliss as their movements become harsher, more desperate, you pulling them over the edge with you. Benedict withdraws suddenly, a warmth splashing upon your lower belly as Anthony growls hard under you, feeling the ripple of his cock as he releases inside your bottom.

For a few moments, it’s just panted breaths, all slumped together in a damp pile. Exchanging sated smiles as they tenderly unwrap the cravat from around your eyes and wrists, delicately kissing your skin as you rearrange. Playtime over, back to yourselves, a shared affection between that is undeniable now.

“How much longer until we reach your country home?” you ask as you curl up into their joint embrace, hands caressing your skin in soothing swirling patterns, a languorous pull in your bones now that you are finally satiated. A flickering glow behind your ribs at the idea this is just the start of something new with your boys.

“I have absolutely no clue, my darling,” Anthony confesses with a carefree bubble of laughter, “and I do not particularly care as long as you are in our arms, right brother?” he adds, tilting his head leisurely towards Benedict.

“Absolutely,” Benedict concurs, “If only all carriage rides were this stimulating…” he jests wistfully.

“They could be… if you always take me with you,” you breeze, giving him a chaste kiss.

“We shall never travel again without you,” Anthony attests over a stifled yawn, his stubble abrading your collarbone as he burrows his head into your neck and sighs contentedly.

And that is how you all finally rest, a tangled pile of limbs, your naked body warmed by their tight hold as the carriage whisks you through the countryside under a blanket of stars. 

Taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @kisskissshutmydoor @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies

[woso-dreamzzz]

Icy III

Mapi León x Ingrid Engen x Teen!Reader

Summary: He watches your match

He sits up in the box with Laporta, stretched out on the foldout chair like it's his personal throne.

He's wearing a new suit, freshly ironed and tailored to fit his body perfectly. His hair has been cut and styled to give that almost effortless look about him.

"Trust fund, I reckon," Patri says from your warm up circle," That guy that's up there with Laporta."

"No way," Pina disagrees," That's new money, not old. Probably a hedge fun manager."

"Or some kind of oil and gas giant," Mapi laughs.

"None," You say," Real estate at first then tech and then big pharma over in the states."

"What made you guess that?" Mapi asks and you stubbornly kick the ball away.

"I didn't. Laporta's not going to get money out of him anyway. The wife is the one that invests in sports but only ones she gets good profits out of. Two NFL teams, a Formula One team. She owns a tennis stadium in Paris. Big investor in the Olympics."

"Oh come on," Patri complains," There's no way you just know that off the top of your head."

"It doesn't matter. If Laporta wants money he should talk to the wife."

You can feel his gaze on you throughout the match.

It's a team at the bottom of the table and you're so technical that they can't get close but you can still feel the weight of his stare on you at all times.

'You carry the weight of our family'.

He's told you that many times.

'If you cannot exceed expectations then we have no use for you'.

He's told you that too, something you remember as you cross the ball into Pina, who taps it in easily.

You celebrate together, hugging and you feel Ingrid's familiar presence behind you as she gives you her customary kiss on the head.

You look up at him in the crowd, just out of reflex but you can't see much.

He's still splayed out like he's a king on a throne, looking down at you like you're a peasant in the street, fighting with someone else for just a scrap of bread.

That's his idea of entertainment, like holding up a magnifying glass towards an ant hill in the middle of a sunny day.

You feel small under his gaze, dipping your head in submission as you walk back into your position.

You assist in the next three goals.

Alexia.

Aitana.

Even Keira.

You're good at that. You've perfected the art of assisting.

Mapi's even joked before that you're going for the record of assists from one person this season.

Alexia says she's going to make you be more selfish and shoot more but you don't think you really need to do that, not when Caro can do it instead of you.

This is one of the rare matches where Caro's being rotated so gets no minutes. You fill her place though, like you always do, setting up goals and carrying the ball down the wing.

Barcelona win, of course, and you drift back to Ingrid and Mapi like you normally do.

Mapi grins at you, arm thrown over your shoulder and a frown on her face as you go rigid under her.

Laporta is on the pitch with him, stuttering over his words and hurrying to keep up.

He stops in front of you.

"Y/n."

Your head drops automatically, thoroughly chastised as you step out from under Mapi's arms.

His hand clamps down on your shoulder and you can tell how this is going to go before he even opens his mouth.

"Of course we're very proud of her," His honeyed tone tells Laporta," We've wanted nothing but the best for her."

For them, you correct in your head.

"She's always had such a passion for football. We love watching her play."

He's never seen you play in his life.

"We-We're very happy to have her here!" Laporta tells him," She's a real talent. You're produced quite the footballer."

He laughs, waving away the compliments as his hand feels like a shackle around you. "You're too kind. Sports has never quite been my thing. I'll have to talk to the wife about what we were talking about, I'm sure you'll understand."

"Of course! Of course! Take all the time you need!"

He will. You know he will.

He'll discuss with her and they'll write up a contract if it's really something they're interested, about what they pay in and what they get out of it.

She's always been better at the sports side of it, despite her background in real estate. She knows how to talk people around in circles. How to get through the little boy's club that every sport has. She'll get what she wants if Barcelona is even something she's interested in.

You hope it isn't.

"I'll leave you alone with your daughter," Laporta says and you want to call after him.

You want to tell him not to leave with your father.

Barcelona was supposed to be yours. You were supposed to be safe here.

You can't control when they summon you in Norway but if you're in Barcelona, they're not supposed to be able to get to you. You're not meant to be subject to their whims in Barcelona.

You want to go home. You want to go home with Mapi and Ingrid and curl up in your bed with Toast and not move for a week.

His casual hand on your shoulder grows heavy in an instant, nails digging in to your skin through your shirt and you have to keep the smile on your face to keep up appearances for the cameras you know are on you.

His lips graze your ear as he whispers to you," If you ever blindside me like this again then I promise you won't like what happens next."

"Sorry, Father," You say back.

"You better be. I didn't like sitting up there with potential business partners to see my own daughter down there like a football hooligan."

"Sorry."

"I'm better than that and I raised you to be better than that too."

You resist the urge to tell him that he didn't raise you at all.

Your wrist twinges, the phantom injury flaring up like it always did when you're nervous.

You throat bobs, already closing up as you fight back tears.

"I'm sorry."

"Apologies mean nothing." His voice is harsh in your ear and you find a point ahead of you to stare at so you don't cry.

If there's something that he hates more than apologies, it's tears so you stubbornly don't let even one fall.

"Who's this, y/n?" Ingrid asks, clearing her throat and you flick your eyes to her.

"My-"

Your father says his name, sticking his hand out and he's back to playing the role of proud father. "And you are?"

"Ingrid Engen. I play with y/n on the Norwegian team too."

"Ah! Yes. I think she's mentioned you before!" He's lying.

He didn't even know you played on the national team.

"And I'm Mapi. She lives with me and Ingrid."

"I can't thank you enough," Your father says," She can be quite a handful sometimes." He laughs but no one laughs with him.

"I think she's delightful," Ingrid says," Very helpful. Very studious. She's the best in her class."

The smile on his face is real now, like it always is when he hears about your academics.

He started in real estate and then moved to investing in technology and pharmaceuticals. He and your mother are scarily intelligent and it might be the only thing they passed onto you.

"We expect nothing less of her," He says," I'm sure everyone at the party will be glad to hear it."

Your breath stutters in your chest. "The party?"

"Yes! The party! I must have forgotten to tell you! We're having a little get together with a few potential business partners. We'll have to get you a dress."

"I don't need to go."

"Don't be silly!" His hand tightens on your shoulder and you know that this isn't a discussion. "There's some people I should introduce you too."

Your head drops again, the fight leaving your body.

"Do you want us to go?" Ingrid asks, ever polite though you feel like without her and Mapi there you won't survive. "So you two can have dinner?"

Your father is laughing again, finally releasing you and you take several quick steps to duck behind Mapi.

"I've got a flight to catch. Meetings to get to. Far more important things."

He can't see you anymore, not with your head bowed and pressed against Mapi's back and you finally let the tears fall.

Ingrid watches your father leave, down the tunnel and escorted to the player's exit by the staff that seem to be falling over themselves to make him happy.

"Y/n," She says, coaxing you out from your hiding spot," Oh, sweetheart...Are you okay?"

You look at her, bottom lip trembling as the tears run down your cheeks.

"Ingrid," You say, sounding small and wounded like an animal," I want to go home."

Ingrid nods as Mapi tucks you under her arm.

"Let's go home."

[weird-and-unwell]

“Autism isn’t a disability”, “it’s just a difference”.

I am of lower support needs. I hold down a (part time) job. I have travelled around my home country. I live alone.

At work they complain about my speech. I’m too quiet, they say, “barely audible” is the words used at my autism assessment. My voice is all monotone, and it needs to be more expressive. I get this complaint every week for a year straight, until my manager gives up. I don’t attend trainings because I forget and find it overwhelming anyways. My coworkers form friendships, and I watch them talk, wondering how they make it look so easy. I get a new manager, I tell her I find the work socials too overwhelming to attend. She tells me I can just say I don’t want to come. I don’t know how to tell her that I desperately want to, to be like the rest of my coworkers, instead of constantly being the one sat on the sidelines.

I come home, and I can hear my neighbours again. The niggling background noise messes with my head, and I meltdown; I throw myself on the floor, I hit my head on the ground repeatedly as I scream and cry, tear out my hair and scratch my arms and face. When I complain, people tell me that I just have to accept that neighbours make noise, that I should just ignore it, or block it out. I am the problem, the one overreacting. I put in earplugs and it hurts and I'm crying again. I wear headphones but I can't handle the noise for that long.

I have reminders set for everything. Every chore, no matter how big or small. My phone beeps at me, reminding me that I need to wash the dishes. If I don't go now, then tick the little box on my phone to say I did it, it won't get done. My home is almost always a mess despite this. It's not just chores either. I won't think to wash, dress myself, brush my teeth or hair, without those reminders. And unless someone actively prompts me to do so, I will do those tasks "wrong". I haven't changed my underwear in a month, and I'm currently aware that's a problem, but within the hour I'm going to forget all over again until I'm next prompted.

I can't sleep without medication - it's not unusual for autistic people to have messed up circadian rhythms. Without my medication it's hard to even tell when I'm awake and when I'm asleep. When I was younger and at school I slept through so many lessons, and when I have my mandatory breaks from my sleep meds I sleep through every alarm I set. I want to work full time some day, and I'm terrified of what my sleep issue will mean for me then.

I don't travel independently. I don't travel anywhere alone, always with someone or to someone. If to someone, I have assistance the whole way. I find it embarrassing sometimes. Yes, I have a job that requires a certain level of intelligence. No, I cannot get on a train by myself. If I am not shown To The Train, To My Seat, I will be unable to travel.

Last time I travelled, I was left alone at the station for ten minutes. I stayed rigid and sobbed the whole time. I was overwhelmed. It was too loud, I didn't know where I was or where I was meant to be going, and until the assistance person came back I couldn't do anything because for some reason I cannot understand it.

I spend a lot of time trying to explain to people that despite my relative competence, I am unable to do many things. Why can I understand high level maths but not how to get on a damn train? No fucking idea.

"Autism isn't a disability" most severely affects those with higher support needs, and this is absolutely not to take away from them. But for fucks sake, autism is disabling.

Maybe you personally are extremely lucky and just find you're a little "socially awkward", or just find some textures painful or nauseating. Maybe you would be fine with just a couple of adjustments.

But for a lot of us, even lower support needs autistics, it doesn't work like that. I will never sleep properly without medication. I still have the self-harming type of meltdowns as an adult, over things that are deemed as being "just part of life". I live alone but have daily visits from family - if I'm left fully alone I forget all the little daily things one is "meant" to do. I had speech therapy as a child to get me to the "barely audible" "mostly correct" speech. I don't mask, I'm not really sure how I would to begin with.

I'm not unhappy with being autistic. It's just who I am. Life would be easier if I were neurotypical, but I also wouldn't be me. I just wish those luckier than me could...stop saying it's all chill and not at all a disability.

Because yes, socially, I am "awkward". I obviously don't make eye contact - I stare down and to the side of whoever I speak to. People think it's weird or creepy or a sign of disinterest. My autism assessor wrote down about how I often use words and phrases that don't make sense to others, even though they make perfect sense to me. In my daily life this means I'm frequently misunderstood, and have to try explain what I mean, when what I mean is exactly what I said, and the true issue is that what I mean just doesn't make sense to others. I gesture, at times, but again, my gestures apparently don't make sense in relation to what I'm saying. I take things literally, I have almost no filter, and I can't explain how I go from topic to topic.

And yes, I do have sensory problems. Sometimes people, including others with sensory problems, tell me that "sometimes sensory issues have to be tolerated", and I wonder what they think of as being sensory issues. I'm sure they do struggle, but if I say I can't handle a touch, I mean you will need to forcefully hold it against me for me to touch it more than a second and it will make me meltdown. If I say "I can't eat that", I mean that I am unable to swallow it, that I will gag and choke and inevitably spit it back out, as much as I try. If I say I can't handle a noise, I mean I'm so close to a meltdown and my meltdowns are a problem for everyone around me.

But yes. Autism. Not a disability. Just a fun quirky difference.

[sleepymarimo]

A TAMA...WHAT? - TOJI FUSHIGURO

"toji. if anything happens to my tamagotchi while i'm gone, i'm actually never talking to you again."

"...huh?"

: ̗̀➛ 1.2k cw: none! silly goofy fun, tamagotchi death :'(

the sorcerer killer isn't sure what to do with the small device in his hand, which looks a little too colorful for his liking. too flashy. when you'd called him a few hours ago to tell him you needed a favor, he didn't expect to be a damn babysitter to a pixelated pet for a whole week.

he would've declined, maybe suggest a "compromise", but you seemed a little too serious about your threat of not speaking to him ever again.

and, despite his best effort to maintain a nonchalant front, he knew that he wasn't going to take that risk.

you'd let him stay at your place, a nice perk, so now he lays back on your couch and fiddles with the buttons while watching the small pet eat or play or even work. how does this thing have more of a stable life than he does?

lips set into a focued pout, those big digits of his nearly crush the poor buttons into dust. "the hell do you want now?" he growls, having just set down the device to watch a boat race on t.v.

toji's never been intimidated by new jobs, by thinking outside the box, but at this moment he'd rather be taking on a horde of curses.

yet... he kind of gets the hang of it. maybe a little too much.

by day three of his tamagotchi journey, he feels pretty confident about taking care of the pet. pride surges through his veins when he checks all the stats and sees no issue, the tamagotchi thriving under his care.

he becomes a little too obsessed with the toy sometimes.

shiu, on a call with the assassin, finds himself having to pause when he swears he hears this constant beeping in the background.

"fushiguro-"

"just hold on," toji interrupts, the phone resting on the table while he works on the tamagotchi. "this thing is sick as shit. i gotta give it medicine."

the mediator isn't even sure what to say at that, a part of him wondering if his mind is playing tricks on him. "i thought you were just going to get her a new one. you're still keeping up with that thing?" shiu asks into the receiver, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he reaches for a cigarette and lighter.

another few beeps can be heard through the phone, then a relieved sigh. "fuck no. and m'not 'keeping up'," toji specifies, almost offended. "m'owning this piece of crap. it's easy work."

on the other end of the phone, shiu finds solace in a deep inhale of cigarette smoke. luckily, he's able to get toji on a pretty good gig with the promise of outstanding pay.

even during the meeting a couple days later, the sorcerer killer is brushing off high end clients as soon as he hears that damn beeping. "gimme a minute," he gruffly says, before mumbling in a more hushed tone. "s'fucking needy..."

raising one hand as if he's putting a simple pause on the conversation, he uses the other to click click click until he deems the virtual pet satisfied.

meanwhile, shiu is embarrassed as hell and makes an effort not to look the client in the eyes.

content enough, toji places the tamagotchi back in his pocket with a gentleness that he doesn't usually, if ever, displays. "a'right. so how much are ya paying again?"

...

by the time you arrive home a day later, exhausted from a flight and too many train rides, you're ready to be reunited with your virtual companion.

"okay toji," you call out, the door shutting behind you with a click. "where's mimitchi?"

you hear his heavy steps before you see him, his frame rather... rigid. "well hey to you too," he greets, stopping just before you and giving your form a quick once over. "and who the hell is mimitchi?"

sighing, you give him a proper hello before looking at him a little suspiciously. "that's the tamagotchi. mimitchi is her name," you explain, starting to tap your foot. where was it? "so...?"

his eyes momentarily widen, like he's genuinely surprised. "huh? it's a girl? and that's her name? what the hell..."

while it's a funny sight, you don't stop giving him that pointed look. your arms even cross, indicating that you really weren't in the mood.

toji scoffs at your little display, shrugging his shoulders. "i lost it," he replies. "must've fell out of my pocket or something..."

your heart drops. "you what? seriously? toji!" a pout settles on your lips, sincere disappointment written all over your features.

does he feel bad? yes, he does. with a sigh, he steps closer and wraps his arm around you, placing it on your lower back. he's shitty with words, but he knows how to ground you.

"look, sweetheart, i'll get you another one," he starts, his words making your heart feel a little more light. "tomorrow we can-"

breep! beep beep beep!

breep! beep beep beep!

while you freeze, toji's hand goes straight to his pocket. "shit, i thought it fucking silenced it."

jaw dropping, you look up at him as if he's just stabbed you in the back. hell, he might as well have!

"are you serious?" you chuff, not believing his audacity. your hand reaches for his pocket, but he's quick to pull out the tamagotchi and hold it out of your reach. "oh, you asshole! i can't believe you."

caught in the act, he allows himself to scowl just the smallest bit. "y'the one who left her," he points out, as if he has a say in how to be a present parent. "i'm just stepping up."

your offended gasp triggers a chuckle from him. reaching for the tamagotchi again, you whine when he moves it even further from you.

the back and forth lasts for a while, until a truce is made.

sitting on the couch, you hold the device and check up on mimitchi, who seems to actually be in pretty good condition. you're thoroughly impressed, even letting him know so.

"you're still a jerk for lying," you point out, sure that you weren't going to drop that anytime soon. he just shrugs, acknowledging his wrongs but not really apologizing, as per his usual style.

however, seeing that your beloved mimitchi is already retired and aging... you decide to let him have her. if he wanted the full tamagotchi experience, he was going to get it.

so, while he smugly pockets the toy once more, you just wait.

that moment comes a whole two days later, the day starting off just like any other. in your room, the morning light barely shining through your window, you wake in time to hear those dreaded sounds that no tamagotchi owner wants to hear.

beep...beep...beep...

then, you hear toji abruptly sitting up on the couch, pushing buttons left and right. "not a fucking chance..." he mumbles, surely not expecting a cute toy to have such an abrupt end.

you can only muffle your laughs as he stands, those heavy steps of his coming straight for your door to demand an explanation.

an: lol this idea came into my mind and i just had to get it out. hope you enjoyed bc i kinda laughed writing it:')

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus [ aftermath ]

— summary: maybe he doesn’t hate you as much as you thought. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo au, modern au, aged-up characters (sylus is in his mid-30s), mutual pining — notes: a happy ending for the holidays. happy holidays, all! [ part 1 | part 2 ] — now playing: some days - stella jang

It’s been nearly a week since you kissed your boss that fateful night.

Well, more like since he kissed you. 

And it’s strange because even though he was the one to initiate it, he’s been avoiding you like a sickness. His curt good mornings have felt glacial, where they were once warm enough to light the torch of your day. Your daily briefs have felt rigid, and the car rides together have made you want to tuck and roll out the door. Worst off, he hasn’t maintained consistent eye contact with you since Christmas Eve, his gaze often fleeting away, studying the floor or the blurred space over your shoulder.

It really pisses you off. It’s bad enough that the night replays in your mind like a warped record, bringing with it warring feelings of relief and hurt. Relief because, maybe, he didn’t push you away as much as you initially thought. Hurt because the look on his face when he booked it to the elevator, leaving you to nurse bittersweet emotions and a broken smile, is permanently ingrained in your memory. 

The pain overshadows all because he won’t even look at you now. 

Were your lips chapped? Is it because you didn’t know what to do with your hands? Did you smell offensive? Were you just shit at kissing? Said thoughts hover in your mind like a nebulous cloud stretched across the galaxy, even as you sift through documents and folders, trying your best to distract yourself. 

Mr. Sylus is tucked safe in his office behind you. Over the past few days, he’s made a point to arrive earlier than you—which is alarming considering you’re usually the night heron, showing up to fix his coffee, line up his daily schedule, and greet him with an unbridled smile. 

You slam the folder you were working with shut, garnering a few perturbed looks from the staff scuttling about on the tenth floor. Sighing, you pitch yourself back in your chair, a pout inhabiting your features. If he wants to be childish about it, sure. But you’ve rarely been one to let sleeping dogs lie, and the awkwardness between you affects your at-home life as well. 

Your gaze flits to the lower drawer of your desk. You scrutinize the lacquered cherry wood, contemplating barging into your boss’ office and giving him your makeup present. You figured maybe, just maybe, he was partially upset because he’d been expecting something more practical for Christmas. And perhaps that’s why he rushed out that night, all stone-faced and covering his lips with spindly fingers. 

You still remember their taste—their feel. Your lips still tingle, and your face bleeds bashfulness whenever you recollect. They were slightly chapped but warm as they moved against yours. And, through the union, it felt like he poured something molten into the chasm of your belly. Something that set your heart rate into overdrive, the gears in your head whirring until steam billowed from your ears.

A swift hand covers where your heart thrums, and you shake your head to dispel your memories. Was kissing him really worth it if it meant your working relationship would suffer? Obviously not if you’re mulling over it so hard. But with determination bleeding over your countenance, you bend to throw open your bottom drawer. An oblong, matte black box peers back at you from within, intricately dressed with a scarlet bow. Scarlet, like the irises burned into your memory, looking at you with utter mortification.

Banishing your thoughts, you snatch the present from inside. Kick your drawer shut, standing so quickly that the front wheels of your chair bounce against the floor. You turn towards the heavy oakwood door of his office, the embossed letters of his name challenging you, and you steel your resolve.

But fate has been the most fickle bitch as of late, intervening when she sees fit, burning your efforts to mere soot.

A familiar, mellifluous voice calls you from behind. And just your luck, it would be her. You swivel, greeting Ms. Hunter with all the rehearsed ease of someone in your field. 

She’s all bright-eyed and youthful with a thousand-watt smile. Gorgeous despite being in uniform, her hair windswept and cheeks mottled pink. A part of you would love to hate her, but you’ve truly no reason to. She’s never disrespected you, never called you out of your name. She’s been sickeningly cordial since you met her.

“Hey! Sylus in?” she asks, and your heart plummets into your stomach. Why else would she be here?

You nod rigidly, dropping back into your seat with the finesse of a bowling ball. And you take up the handset of your desk phone, dreading the familiar drawl of a particular voice on the other end. 

“Speak,” he answers, the curl of his voice making your stomach do somersaults. Despite its flatness, this is perhaps the most emotion you’ve heard from him in the last few days.

“Ms. Hunter is here to see you, sir.”

A part of you hopes he turns her away–tells you he doesn’t want to see anyone, even if it’s his darling lady friend. And you feel you might get your wish when he’s silent for a beat, the crinkly static being your only company. Instead of answering your prayers, he simply answers, “Let her in.”

Your stomach freefalls to your feet. Your mask of a smile twitches, your disappointment sluggishly leaking through the fissures. “Of course, sir.” And you hang up, standing once more to lead Ms. Hunter into the place you haven’t been allowed into for days yourself.  

She nods curtly, brushing past you, her hair wispy and the scent of stale Jasmine staining her clothes. When the door clicks shut behind her, you melt into your seat until your shoulders touch your ears, and you kick your excuse for a peace offering under the shadowy abyss of your desk. 

And to think you’d worked so hard to muster the courage to confront your boss, too.

—

It’s nearing lunch, and you’re shoving things into your bag as your stomach reminds you that you skipped breakfast. You sling your pack over your shoulder, pushing your chair under your desk, preparing to hit the cafe in the city’s heart for something quick. You barely make it two steps before you’re summoned for the second time, though there is no high and light voice curling around your name this time.

This one is low and even, velvet-smooth, furling in your chest like smoke, sticking to your lungs like ash. You whip your head around to meet a familiar sheen of white hair. 

He stands in his doorframe, a pensive look on his face, scarlet eyes smoldering with something you can’t quite place. Has his hands stuffed in his pockets, and he’s looking between you and your bag, wordlessly inquiring where you’re off to.

With a nervous laugh in your throat, you turn to face him fully. “Was just about to grab some lunch. You want anything, sir?”

He shakes his head, the barest cant to his lips. It’s gone before you’ve time to appreciate it.

You don’t know whether to laugh or scream as you fiddle with your fingers. At least he’s trying to approach you first, no matter how uncomfortable the exchange. You wonder if Ms. Hunter had something to do with this. Maybe he told her what happened six nights ago, and she gave him a pep talk to put him back into good spirits. But you know that’s just wishful thinking. In fact, she seemed uncharacteristically somber when she left his office earlier, barely acknowledging your goodbye. 

“Can I speak to you before you leave?” he asks, brows slightly furrowed, head tilted, lips set in a stiff line. 

Something cold drips through you. You grab the strap of your bag, grip white-knuckled, and the leather squeaks. Despite the dread turning your limbs to lead, you plaster on a smile and nod. He motions into his office, stepping aside to let you in. And you try to ignore how your heart threatens to leap from your rib cage because this is the part where he fires you, isn’t it?

Oh well. The job was good while it lasted—something to fatten up your résumé and harden your heart.

It’s warm inside his office. Of course, it always is. And you’ve missed this, not having been amid these softened, gray, accent molded walls all week. It smells of cracked cinnamon sticks and vanilla beans with something inherently Sylus snuck in between. The city stretches like a yawning beast against the horizon, peering through the ceiling-high windows behind his desk. 

Strangling the strap of your pack, you ease into a red, tufted armchair, your legs bouncing and your throat growing dry. You jolt when the door shuts and admonish yourself for being so jittery. If Mr. Sylus intends to fire you, you’ll face it head-on with a smile on your face. 

So you muster one as he moves to inhabit the space mere inches away from you, leaning against the edge of his heavy, cherry wood desk, arms crossing over a broad chest. He’s as devastating a sight as ever, his blazer slung over the back of his rolling chair, his forearms bleeding from cuffed sleeves. And the sight of his veins, branching like a roadmap beneath his skin, still makes your tongue feel heavy in your mouth.

You’re going to miss this. 

He looks contemplative as you toy with your bag’s zipper. And your cheeks ache from smiling so hard. Wonder how long you’ll have to keep up this act before he drops a bomb on you. 

“How are you doing today?” he queries. And you blink rapidly, not expecting him to open the floor with small talk. Regardless, you’re grateful he’s offering you more than curt grunts, even if it’ll be the last time you hear them.

“Um…I’m doing alright, I guess.” 

Your stomach growls, disrupting the tension that brews between you. You rub your stomach placatingly, and Sylus snorts, perching virile hands on the edge of his desk, leaning back. He seems a little more open. A little lighter, and you find your lips twitching with a genuine smile this time.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to steal you away from your lunch break. I promise to be brief.”

You nod as a knot of nerves forms in your gut, warring with your hunger. Straightening your back, you cross your ankles, hands flattened in your lap. Here it comes—

“Do you…have any plans for New Year’s?”

You blink again, brows pinching. “Wh-wha?”

He sheepishly rubs the scruff of his neck, and you can’t recall a time you’ve ever seen him so at odds with himself. He reminds you of an adolescent, rallying the courage to ask out their crush. 

“A friend of mine owns a cabin up in the woods.” He looks at you, wetting his lips. You nod, cautiously encouraging him to continue. “He usually hosts this whole weekend extravaganza there every New Year’s. Bringing a plus one is a bit of an unspoken rule. I was wondering if you didn’t already have plans—”

You unconsciously lean forward, brows lifting. 

“—if you would like to accompany me?”

Well, that took a left turn. A hand placed over your heart, you laugh, the knot of your nerves slowly unraveling. So, does this mean your boss doesn’t hate you?

“I would love to!” you say with a little too much enthusiasm. And he smiles in turn, stuffing his hands in his pockets, chuckle infectious. 

The load of the air a little lighter, you exchange small talk, and it feels as if nothing’s changed between you. Like that fateful Christmas Eve night, you didn’t make an ass of yourself, and he didn’t regret kissing you.

Sylus walks you to the door, twin smiles donning your faces. You turn to him on your way out, awkwardly running into the hardened planes of his chest. He steadies you with tender fingers wrapped around your arms, and the gleam in his eyes siphons the air from your lungs. You find your gaze falling to his lips, his mirroring yours. And had there not been people still milling about, you would’ve kissed him.

“W-would you like to grab lunch together, sir?” you ask instead, caught up in the alluring stir of his eyes—the wispy dance of darkened lashes, the tremor of pink lips.

“Of course,” he answers, his warm breath fanning over your mouth. He sweeps some errant hair behind your ear, the glide of his knuckle against your cheek reminiscent of pill bugs rolling over your skin. 

You nod, pulling yourself from the spell the moment cast. And you lead the way, trying vainly to stifle the grin splitting your face in twain, Mr. Sylus a warm and homely presence at your back as the pair of you make your way to the elevator.  

[enha-stars]

✧ let me take care of you

pairing: soft!jake x reader (angst, smut, fluff)

summary: after years of feeling unloved, you now have jake and he loves you so much and he's not afraid to prove it

warnings: shitty parents, crying, feeling insecure, minor angst, kissing, oral (f rec), unprotected sex (don't), hair pulling, jake being in love, mdni

you stare at the picture frame in your hand with apprehensive eyes, gripping the old wood so hard that your palm begins to sweat. you thought you had tossed it years ago, but a small, childish part of you knew that you hadn’t. 

you swallowed the lump in your throat as your thumb gently grazed the glass, wiping the smudge off your mother’s blank face. setting the rest of the box down, you sank to the floor, still clutching the picture frame close to your heart. 

pulling your sleeve over your palm, you wipe the dust off the frame and gaze at your parent’s faces. they stare back at you with little emotion, uptight smiles and thoughtless eyes. your eyes flicker down to the little girl seated between them and your frown deepens. you almost don’t recognize yourself, the tight smile and sad eyes. 

unconsciously, you raise your hand to your own, real face and brush your lips, fingers grazing your cheeks. your skin is the same as it’s always been, but you can recognize the ridges and bumps on your face. your heart settles a bit, knowing that the little girl in the photo learns to stretch her muscles and that she moves on. 

you drop your hand and bite the inside of your cheek, a sudden wave of emotions crashing into you. that isn’t true, is it? because even though it’s been years since you’ve seen your parents, you still feel like the little girl from the photo. you know that sometimes, your smile isn’t as bright as it can be and you can’t help but glance over your shoulder. 

you glance down at the promise ring on your finger and quickly drop the photograph into your lap. you don’t want any part of the photo to touch the ring, it being so pure and lovely. it didn’t deserve to be tainted any more than it already was. 

this is how jake finds you, sitting on the floor of the storage room with a single photograph in your lap. he pokes his head into the room and he instantly smiles at the sight of you, eyes softening. he steps into the room and notices your rigid shoulders and the way your entire body is trembling. his smile drops and he scans the room, eyes falling on the damaged box beside you. 

“there you are, darling.” he pays attention to the way you jump, startled by him. he frowns, bending down to match eye level with you. “what’re you doing, y/n? what’s that?” 

his eyes fall to the picture frame in your lap and you immediately hold it close to your chest, hiding it from him. “it’s nothing, yuni.” 

you look up jake and his heart sinks at the look on your face; your slightly glassy eyes and furrowed eyebrows, lip pulled between your teeth. he moves closer to you, eyes filled with concern as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“what’s wrong, darling?” he cups your jaw and rubs the part of your skin you had touched earlier. it’s enough to make you drop your gaze, hoping the treacherous tears that gathered wouldn’t fall. 

you want to hide the picture frame, but you know it’s pointless. instead, you just tilt it away from you and watch as jake’s eyes glance down. his eyebrows furrow and you watch as his features harden. it makes you feel a bit better, knowing the picture affected him just as it had you. 

gently, he picks the frame out of your lap and stares at it, staring at your parent’s blank faces. he hasn’t seen this photo in a long time and he can’t say he missed it. jake knew of your parents, knew of the trauma they caused; the years of neglect that had turned into indifference. he hated them, more than he ever hated anyone. 

he wants to smash the frame into bits, but he notices the way your bottom lip wobbles and the slight tremble of your shoulders, and instead, he simply puts the photo back in the box. he closes the flaps and pushes the box back into the depths of the room, moving it far away from you.

you watch with heavy eyes, a sudden feeling of gratitude as he puts a good distance between your frozen parents and yourself. he frowns at the direction of the box before his eyes travel to you and they soften, a small smile on his plush lips. 

he cups your cheek and grazes his thumb under your eye before he stands up. you stare up at him from the floor and he extends his hands to you, a tender smile on his lips. “come on, darling. it’s time for dinner.” 

hesitantly, you slip your hands into his and he firmly tugs you up, making sure you don’t have to use an ounce of strength. you jolt up and he laughs at your bewildered expression, a soft crinkle in his eyes. your heart feels heavy, but you smile at the sound of his laughter anyways. it’s always been one of your favourite sounds. 

you stare at each other for a few seconds. you try to hide the sudden sadness in your chest, the overwhelming feeling of being too much and being too unloveable has begun to build a home within your heart. jake can see it, no matter how hard you try to push it down. he sees it in your eyes, the way the light in them has suddenly dimmed. he feels it in the lightness of your touch, the way your skin hovers over his.

he hates it; hates that even now, your parents have the ability to dig through barely mended cracks and settle between your bones. he hates that you doubt yourself, doubt your ability to be loved and cherished. if you could see how much love he holds for you, you’d never question it again. 

he squeezes your hands once before he drops one and laces your fingers together, pulling you out of the storage room and back upstairs, hoping the change of scenery would also change your mood. you simply follow behind him, knowing you’d follow him anywhere. 

jake brings you to the family room and you both smile and layla’s soft yawn, waking up at the smell of both of you. he guides you to the sofa and you fall back, sinking into the soft brown material as layla nuzzles her head into your thigh. you grin at the dog and scratch behind her ear, breathing deeply as your heart begins to quietly settle. 

jake stares at you and layla with a soft smile, his two favourite girls. you glance at him and almost frown at the gentleness in his eyes. your lips quirk upwards and he grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. he pats layla’s head and stretches. 

“you sit here and watch something, i’m just going to finish up dinner.” 

you instantly shake your head and try to stand up, but jake stands right in front of you, his legs pressing into your knees. “jae,” you frown. “let me help you.” 

jake shakes his head and crosses his arms. “no. i want to make you dinner.” he doesn’t want to leave you with your thoughts, but he also wants to take care of you. he just wants you to be full and happy. 

“i want to help, though.” usually, you don’t mind it when jake cooks for you. but the picture brought up past insecurities, ruining your perception of everything. you didn’t deserve jake, nor his effort. he shouldn’t waste his time making you dinner. “why don’t you sit with layla and i’ll cook.” 

jake uncrosses his arms and cups your face with both hands, tilting your head up. he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your nose, and then your forehead. “you can cook tomorrow, darling. besides,” he brushes his nose against yours, “layla likes you better.” 

a small smile spreads across your face and it makes jake’s heart beat faster. no matter how many times he saw it, it would always make him flush. you had the prettiest smile and he wanted it tattooed on his chest. 

jake leaves you in the family room and rolls his sleeves up as he turns on the stove. thankfully, he had finished the majority of dinner earlier, when you were downstairs cleaning. he smiles briefly when he hears the familiar tune of your favourite show’s theme song, happy you listened to him. 

he works quietly around the kitchen, grabbing different spices and mixing different things as he thinks about you. it had taken you a long time, but you slowly healed from all the suffering. it didn’t mean that it didn’t still affect you. jake knew it did. he knew that some mornings, you woke up feeling like you didn’t deserve any of it. sometimes, he’d catch you looking at him with so much longing and pity and it made him sick. 

you were everything to him. everything. he had never met anyone more deserving of love; you deserve only the good, most purest parts of life. some nights, he’d dream about handing you the world and begging you to do as you please. 

regardless of what you thought, he didn’t hate it when you got like this; when the days felt darker and the grass felt dull. he knew that this was normal, that everyone had better days and not some good days. he only hated that he couldn’t take on the burden and sadness himself. 

if someone had to feel it, he rather it be him. 

your eyes lazily stare at the television as your rub layla’s stomach, smiling every time she grunts out of content. your eyes are on the characters in front of you but your mind is far away. you try not to focus on the noise and smell coming from the kitchen because you might lose your mind if you do. 

you don’t deserve jake; not even in the slightest. you had been pretending for far too long but seeing your parent’s faces, their hollow eyes and empty smiles reminded you of your place. if your own parents couldn’t love you, what made you think that jake could? what made you think that you deserved his love?

you bite back a sob, hating that two very familiar, sinister voices argue back and forth in your mind. here you were, sitting comfortably on the couch while jake cooked you dinner. what was wrong with you? you stopped rubbing layla’s stomach and she lifted her head, nudging your arm with her nose. 

you sunk further into the sofa, trying to block out the negative thoughts. you hated that one look at your parents unravelled all your past effort. you have been so good recently, happy and satisfied. but now, you weren’t so sure. how could jake be happy with you? 

after almost thirty minutes, jake walked into the family room, holding a tray with one large bowl of pasta and two glasses of juice. he smiled at you when you reached over and grabbed the small table from beside the wall, setting it in front of you. 

jake set the tray down and you inhaled, smiling up at him because of the aroma. it smelled amazing and looked delicious. your eyes narrowed at the single bowl and you raised an eyebrow at him. he grinned at you before plopping down right beside you.

after fixing his position beside you and throwing an arm around you, he picked up the bowl and set it on his lap. he ignored your questioning eyes and spun some pasta onto the fork before bringing it to your lips. your eyes slightly widened and he smiled softly at you, eyes crinkling. 

“say ah, darling.” 

confused, you parted your lips and let jake feed you. you chewed slowly as you watched him shove a fork full in his mouth, eyes drifting to the television. you swallowed and hummed in appreciation. the pasta was really good. 

jake brought another bite to your lips and smiled encouragingly at you when you opened your mouth for him. “atta girl,” he whispers softly, proud of you. he sets the fork back in the bowl and uses his thumb to wipe some sauce off the corner of your lips, bringing it to his lips. 

your heart feels heavier in your chest at his actions, a sudden urge to cry overwhelming you. you knew what he was doing; you finally understood it. you never really could hide it from him, and he was never good at being subtle either. this was his way of taking care of you, of making sure that you didn’t lose yourself to your head. 

he reaches out and grabs the cup of juice before bringing it to your lips, nodding at you encouragingly as you tilt your head for him, letting the cold, sweet liquid wash everything down. he smiles and drinks from the exact place you had. 

jake kept his eyes on the show as he fed you and himself, his arm keeping you warm and close. you tried not to make a sound as tears gathered in your eyes with every bite, a conflicting feeling filling your head. you didn’t deserve this; didn’t deserve jake’s softness or his love. 

swallowing, you turned your head and swept your gaze over his face; the soft ridges and dips you loved. gingerly, you brought your hand up to his face and brushed the back of your fingers against his cheek. without thinking, jake leaned into your touch and you almost sobbed. 

he turned his head slightly and frowned at the look in your eyes. while your eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with love, your lips wobbled and your shoulders were stiff. 

“what is it, darling?” his words are so quiet, whispered against your fingers. it breaks your heart. 

you wet your lips. “i think… i think you deserve better, jaeyun. i’m a lot to handle and you shouldn’t have to take care of me like this.” 

jake stares at you, his eyes widening and narrowing with each word. he sets the bowl of pasta down and turns to full face you, legs touching. his arm is still around you and he shuffles closer, until your bent leg is almost in his lap. he grabs your hand and laces your fingers together, bringing your hand to his lips. he kisses the back of your hand softly before looking back at you.

there are tears in your eyes and he wants to kiss them dry. 

he inhales a deep breath and rubs circles into your skin. “y/n, my darling.” he squeezes your hand and you look up at him, eyes wide. “you are not a lot to handle. you’re perfect for me, don’t you understand?” he glanced down at your intertwined fingers. “i don’t deserve better. i deserve you. i only want you. i’ve only ever wanted you.” 

you shake your head and try to pull your hand out of jake’s but his grip is too strong. he looks up at you and your heart drops at the sight of his misty eyes. “i want to take care of you, darling. let me take care of you.” he kisses your hand again. “you’re not too much, y/n. you never have been and never will be.” 

everything around you feels quiet as you absorb his words. you’ve heard them before, mainly from him, but they never get easier to believe. you’re more angry at yourself for letting the insecurities get to you. “doesn’t it get annoying, though? having to deal with me like this?” 

“oh, darling,” he breathes out. gently, he pulls you closer to him until you fall into his lap, legs on either side of him. his hands immediately fall on your lap and yours on his shoulders. he looks up at you with wide, shiny eyes and you brush his dark locks out of his eyes. at your movement, layla jumps off the couch and scurries off. 

“i wish you knew how much i loved you, darling.” he squeezed your waist and his head fell forward, landing on your chest. he breathed in your scent and your hands traveled from his shoulders to his hair. “it’s not annoying, pretty baby. you are not annoying. i’m not dealing with you, i’m with you. i love you. i love you with all my heart.” 

you let his words sink into your head, becoming a mantra. you shut your eyes as his hands travel the length of your back, slipping under your shirt. he pushes you into him, until you’re flush against him and then he presses a soft kiss to your neck. 

“you are so loveable, darling. you know that?” he looks up at you as his lips brush against your jaw. “you deserve this; all the love i have is for you.” 

you bite your bottom lip as a sob threatens to escape. instantly, jake hugs you tightly and rubs your back, his nails scraping the surface of your skin. you shudder into his body as a few tears escape your eyes, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. he whispers sweet nothings to you as he presses soft, open mouthed kisses on your shoulder and neck. 

you sit like this for a while, jake hugging you tightly as you silently cry into his shoulder. the sight of your parents had opened an old wound but jake’s strong hold and sweet words tried their best to close it, reminding you that even though they couldn’t, he loved you. 

after a bit, jake moved his head back and you followed. you both stared at each other, eyes shining. his lips turn upwards and you can’t help but smile at him. he wipes the tears that spilled from your eyes and pulls your face to his, pressing his lips softly against yours. it’s a gentle kiss, just two lips pressed together, but it’s enough to make your eyes roll back.

he pulls away too quickly and your lips follow his, capturing them in another kiss. jake laughs against your lips, hands flat on your back. you slip your tongue into his mouth, softly grazing his teeth. the kiss is passionate and wet, and jake loves it. he knows you’re trying to convey your feelings through it, and he accepts it. 

you needed to kiss him, to pour your gratitude and love into it. his words and reassurance had built a home in your heart and you knew that he was right. you only wished he knew that you loved him as much as he loved you, if not more. 

you pull away from him and pant into his mouth, eyes still shut. jake is mesmerized by the string of saliva that connects your lips and he sticks his tongue out and traces your bottom lip. you open your eyes at the feeling of his tongue on your lip and you shift on his lap, inner thigh brushing against his bulge. 

you both hiss at the feeling and you arch into him, a turmoil in your heart and body that only he can soothe. jake’s eyes are blown wide and his lips are swollen. there’s nothing but fondness shining in his eyes and you know he can see the love in yours. 

“can i show you how much i love you, darling? let me take care of you.” he presses his thumb into your bottom lip and you kiss it. “will you let me?”

you nod and it’s all he needs. his hands travel from your back to your lower thighs and he lifts himself off the sofa, holding you close as you wrap your legs around his waist. as he walks to your bedroom, you press soft kisses all over his neck and face. 

he kicks the door open and walks further into your room, gently dropping you on your back as he falls with you, still captured between your legs. you giggle when he groans and he brushes his nose against yours, glad to hear your laugh. 

“graceful as ever, yuni,” you tease, sparkles returning to your eyes. 

“always am, darling.” he puffs his chest as he stands straight, pulling his shirt off. your laughter dies on your tongue at the sight of him. it doesn’t matter how many times you see him, how many times you lay with him, the sight of his bare chest will always make you speechless. 

jake tilts his head at your silence and raises an eyebrow. “what is it?” you mumble something and jake leans forward, arm on either side of your head. “what was that, darling?” 

you roll your eyes and frown. “you’re so handsome.” 

jake laughs at your deadpan tone and kisses your forehead. “you sound so upset about it.” 

shaking your head, you rest your hand on his heart before letting your fingers drag down his abdomen, rubbing his hard chest and abs. “‘m not, just in awe.” 

jake leans down and kisses your eyelids before he grinds his hips into yours, smiling in satisfaction when your eyes flutter shut. he lines his clothed dick with your pussy and presses down, grinning when you reach for him. “you know my body belongs to you, don’t you?” he trails his nose down to your neck and kisses below your ear. “now, let this body show you how much you mean to me.” 

you find yourself nodding and jake smiles. he strips you slowly, grinning whenever you huffed in annoyance. he was glad that even though your heart might still feel a bit heavy, that right here, as you lay beneath him, your giggles were breathy and your eyes shined. 

jake stares down at your naked body and bites his bottom lip, eyes darker than ever. “fuck, darling. look at you,” he practically whines. “such a pretty girl.” he kisses you passionately, completely devouring you. you tug at his hair, swallowing his harsh breath. 

he pulls away and moves down your body, kissing and licking your collarbones and breasts. you breathe out his name when he flicks his tongue against one of your nipples before sucking on it. his hands are on either side of you as he cages you in, alternating between both breasts. 

he moves down, pepping kisses to your stomach. your body begins to shake and jake looks up just in time to watch your eyes crinkle as laughter bubbles out of you, a bright smile on your face. he’s staring with wide eyes, unable to breathe. 

“it tickles,” you shrug. 

“i love you,” he breathes. 

you poke your cheek with your tongue and let all the negativity dissipate from your chest at the sincerity in his voice. “i love you too, yuni.” 

“no, y/n,” he lifts his head a bit. “i really love you.” his eyes are almost pleading. “smile for me again.” 

you grin at his ridiculous words and he drops his chin on your stomach, looking at you with bright, burning eyes. you massage his head as you stare back at him, quite used to his staring. it made you feel wanted, loved, and you would never tell him to stop. 

eventually, he came back to his senses and kissed the skin near your belly button before he spread your legs further apart, kissing your hip bone. your legs trembled as jake grinned at your pulsing pussy. “so wet already,” he noted. 

you didn’t have enough time to say anything before he buries his face in between your thighs, pressing a soft kiss right on your clit. your head falls back as he inhales, mumbling into you. 

“this pussy was made just for me,” he licks softly. “made to be taken care of by me, by my tongue.” he pushes his tongue into you and you moan at the feeling, griping his hair. he hums as he licks and swallows and your legs tremble. 

jake sucks on your clit, pushing his tongue in and out of you as he swallows everything you offer him. you whimper when he presses his face further into your pussy, his nose grazing your folds. 

“fuck,” you pant. “yuni.” 

“that’s it,” he mumbles. “tastes so good.” 

you shut your eyes as you arch your back, trying to close your legs around his head. jake glances up at your expression and he knows you’re close. he laps up all your juices and holds your thighs in place when the pleasure got to be too much and you sobbed out his name. 

“good girl,” he encourages as you cum all over his face. he sucks and continues pushing his tongue deep within you. “cum for me, my precious darling.” your grip on his hair is tight but he loves it. 

he whispers quiet praises into your pussy as you cum. “the prettiest girl, cumming so well.” once he’s swallowed everything, he kisses your clit and licks it once when it clenches around nothing. he looks up at your fucked out expression and he can’t help but coo at you. 

“did so well for me, darling.” he moves up the bed, pressing soft kisses up your body. impatient, you grab his face and crash his lips against yours. you moan into his mouth as you taste yourself on his tongue and he sucks your tongue.

“think you’re ready for me?” he asks against your lips.

you nod, too fucked out to think properly. “yes,” you mumble. “fuck me, yuni.” you open your eyes and stare into his dark ones. “show me how much you love me.”

jake kisses you again as he lines himself with your entrance and slowly pushes in, your cum and slick making it easy for him. he hisses as your pussy sucks him in and you gasp at the stretch. he whimpers as he bottoms out, your arms around his shoulders as his cock fills you up. 

“move, yuni,” you beg, needing more friction. “please.”

jake lifts his head from your neck and kisses your cheek before he shifts his body weight and slowly pushes your legs upwards until your knees press against your chest and your ankles are thrown over his shoulders. 

without warning, jake begins fucking into you, pushing his pelvis against yours. you moan out his name as his dick pushes deep within you, reaching parts of you he had claimed for himself. 

he rocks his hips back and forth as he fucks you, eyes blurry as you mewl out incoherent words. you look so pretty like this, legs pushed up as he fucks into you. he’s so in love with you and he hopes you never feel bad about yourself, but he doesn’t mind fucking it out of you either. 

“taking me so well, darling,” he pants, gripping your thighs. “love this pussy so much,” he babbles. “never want you to be so hard on yourself, but i’ll fuck it out of you.” he presses his forhead against yours. “i’ll fuck it out of you every time, don’t worry. i’ll take such good care of you.” 

jake’s slightly losing his mind as he fucks you, his hips slamming into yours as your ankles dig into his shoulder. he doesn’t even notice the pain, too focused on your warm and gushing pussy. 

at his words, you sob out his name and squeeze around him and jake unravels. “cum for me, pretty. let go, let me have it all.” 

you sniffle. “i’m cumming,” you whimper. “yuni, i’m– please.” 

jake fucks you harder, making the bed rock beneath you. he breathes the same air as you as he pants, sweat coating his back. “cum,” he whispers. your back arches off the bed and he sucks on your neck as he feels your cum soak his dick. his cock twitches and he lets go, fucking his cum into you. 

you continue to cum until you’re breathless and jake is no better, giving you everything he has. you pull at his hair when you begin to feel overstimulated but jake doesn’t care, he continues to rock his hips into you, fucking both of your cum into your pussy. he’s almost in tears. 

“jaeyun,” you beg. “please. too much.” 

Jake slows his pace and lets his muscles relax. his grip on your thighs loosens and he kisses your forehead as he gently places your legs back on the bed. he tries to pull out of you but you grab his chain, keeping him in place. 

the slight burn makes him whimper and the look in your eyes is so wild and soft that when you smile, he swears he could cum again. 

“keep taking care of me, yuni.” 

jake presses his lips against yours softly and shifts closer to you, his dick still inside your warm pussy. “i plan on it, darling.” 

he smiles at you and promises himself that by the end of the week, you’ll have replaced your promise ring with an actual one.

[glitter-soda]

People online will say basically everything about you is a ~~spectrum~~. Your gender, your sexuality, everything is up to the individual and nothing is set in stone and having concrete definitions is so harmful~

Except political views. There are only two rigid types. If you don’t check off literally every single box of this approved list of liberal beliefs, you are automatically a conservative and probably a fascist.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Monster, Inc. 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss is an asshole, you know this. But what happens when he turns his wrath upon you? (plus!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, this reader is known as Missie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Monday's are always difficult. Especially as you cling to the good vibes of a girls' night out. The mood was a bit spoiled by the presence of few unexpected bosses but Elfie and Billie kept you all on track. Still, it wasn’t enough, you’re not ready for another week. 

You might not be but you make sure Mr. Hansen is. You have everything on his desk waiting. His coffee is in a travel thermos keeping warm, his daily itinerary is ready for him, and when he gets in, you’ll go to get his breakfast so it’s hot and fresh. 

You yawn and uncrinkle a pleat in your dress skirt. The brilliant shade of green is as bright as an emerald with a trim of yellow at the collar, belt and hem. It's loud but you don’t mind a bit of boldness. 

Mr. Hansen rushes by so quickly he catches you by surprise and your barely catch sight of him over your monitor as you snap your teeth down around another yawn. He’s so quick, he’s a blur. His door shuts behind him sharply and you stand as you go rigid as a pole. Oh no, what now? 

You don’t linger to figure it out. What you know about Mr. Hansen is that it’s best to let him simmer down on his own. The time it takes you to get his organic wrap should be more than enough. You head off with your purse and a bounce in your step.  

It feels good to be moving around. If you’d sat any long, you would risk an ambush nap. You can’t imagine your boss would appreciate that. 

You get to the bistro and put in your usual order. They know you there. They have a ticket ready to ring up and you pay with the company card. You step aside and chatter with the girl at the till about her film class in college. She’s sweet and very passionate about independent movies you’ve never even heard of. 

You claim your order and the complimentary iced tea Kamila made you. You thank her extra and head out, making note to return the favour the next time you stop by. You rush back to the office building a block over and barrel into the elevator. You smile at a man from the eight floor and wait for yours to ding. 

You carry on through the ritual of readying Mr. Hansen’s breakfast. You zap it in the microwave just to make sure it’s still warm and set out the porcelain plate. You lay it out with the little side of greens and tomato salad and leave your iced tea on your desk. 

You knock on Hansen’s door. No answer comes but you know better than to let yourself in. You knock again and put your ear to the door. A third time gets you a response. 

“Fast,” he demands from the other side. 

You open the door and declare your purpose, “Breakfast, Mr. Hansen!” 

You bound over as he keeps the back of his chair to you. You can see the top of his head over it despite his efforts to hunch down. Is he hiding? You put the plate where you usually do as he angles away from you. Is it Mr. Hansen? His hair isn’t that dark... 

“Mr. Hansen, is everything okay?” You ask tenuously. Silence. You hold your breath as he doesn’t move. You gulp and take a step back. “Sir...” 

“Fine,” his hits the armrest and spins around. 

You let your breath out with a gasp. Oh god. His hair is pitch black. The box dye has that blueish tint to it and is less than complimentary to his skin tone. Not to mention he didn’t touch the mustache. You do your best to control your expression and your. 

“Oh, wow, Mr. Hansen, did you get a new tie--” 

“Shut up!” He roars, “it’s not funny.” 

“Nothing’s funny, sir, I didn’t laugh.” 

“I can see your cheek...” he wiggles his finger tersely, “don’t.” 

“Sir, really, I’m not,” you assure him, evening out that ripple in your stomach and your breath. “You know, when I was in college, I killed my hair with bleach and died it green.” 

“Yeah, because green looks so good on you,” he chirps as he scowls at your dress. 

“Thanks, sir,” you smile, “but there is a point. I hated it. I got colour remover and managed to get to a decent brown.” 

“Colour remover?” He narrows his eyes. 

“Not as harsh as bleach but it stinks like rotten eggs. I think you could probably get at least a few shades lighter. And since it’s not green, you won’t go greener. Shouldn't.” 

He shifts his glare to the wall and his forehead pinches. His nose crinkles by his nostrils and he pokes his cheek with his tongue. He clucks and shakes his head. 

“Fine, go get it.” 

“Oh, uh, me? Sir--” 

“No one else is seeing me like this so go fucking get the remover,” he rolls his chair towards the desk and snatches up the wrap, “that shade of green makes my eyes bleed.” 

You give another gentle expression. You truly pity him. You’ve been there before. He was only trying to feel better about himself. To try something new. It happens, but you’re not so sure he should trust you to fix this one. 

There’s not much of a choice. You go back out to your desk and grab your iced tea and purse. Off to the pharmacy. It's kind of fun. An unexpected adventure to keep yourself from falling asleep. It’s exactly what you need. And who knows, if you can help Mr. Hansen get the inky dye out, he might lighten up. Literally.   

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

..size kink with Slash?

A/n: Slash loves horror and you cannot convince me he wouldn't buy those monster fucker toys, I refuse to accept criticism

Warnings: Smut, use of toys, monster!fucking kink, masterbation, fingering (f receiving), oral (m receiving), if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

University was hell, globally known so. You didn't even want to go, you weren't at a particularly renowned school and had a fairly dark outlook on the whole working part of life.

You're parents did what they could to encourage you and helped you afford your own shitty apartment so you didn't have to work multiple shitty jobs on top of Uni, but it wasn't what you wanted. You didn't know what you wanted.

How you managed to get to it, you weren't sure, but one night you made a new twitter account and posted a video of you getting off on just your fingers.

You fell asleep and woke up to a lot of positive comments, people getting off to you, telling you how pretty you are and asking for more, more, more.

You kept posting to Twitter, small clips whenever you felt like it or needed a confidence boost. People started asking for more, so you went to OnlyFans.

It was just a whim, you genuinely didn't expect people to start paying for your content, but they did. They payed for clips of just your voice, asking to watch you cum, to see your tits. Individuals were paying for special pictures, ones just for them, asking you to post videos of you calling out their names, or pet names, surnames.

You got paid to feel good and get compliments. This was the work you wanted, this was perfect for you.

Soon you had people sending you toys, bullet vibrators and dildos. You felt strange about using those at first, especial for content, and you said as much to your fans.

Once again, they came to the rescue, sending you all kinds of affirmation. It was like having the most supportive partners.

One day you got a bigger package. At first you thought there were multiple toys in one box, upon further inspection it was not...

"Hi, love, I've been thinking about you a lot, all small and fragile just for me, send me something with this and I'll give you a pay day iiii]; )'" The small note read, a username at the bottom.

The toy in question was something else, from one of those monster fuckers. It had a suction on the bottom so you took it out of the box and set it down on the floor of your apartment. It had to be at least eight inches, it was a squishier silicone which was comforting in a sense. It was rigid with bumps and and spikes, some sort of demon dick.

Your eyes bugged trying to think of how that girth would fit in you.

Still, you were curious.

You got yourself set up, camera and lube, though you didn't turn on the camera just yet, wanting to get a feel for the toy on your own.

You stared at the toy, shiny with lube and staring daggers into you. You took a deep breath and hovered over it, you couldn't help but think about trying to get off of it, what if you didn't have the strength? What if your legs gave out under you and it got pushed deeper into you?

You held it to your prepped hole, having taken a minute to get yourself ready for it, and slowly sunk onto it.

The stretch, the spikes and ridges, the length. All of it. It drove you crazy.

And thus started your relationship with this fan, who you'd come to call Slash, occasionally daddy.

You felt something towards him, though he continued to pay for all your interactions, and you wanted him to in order to keep you relationship 'professional', as you thought it.

You swore, the toys he sent you were just getting bigger, and if they weren't bigger there was more texture. He'd send you little rubbing pads, vibrators, tentacles and tongues, all just for his eyes. His notes were always so sweet, some had filthier messages but most were just calling you sweetheart, telling you how much he loved you.

While you wanted to remain 'professional' with him, meaning not getting serious since he was just a client, a customer, you didn't mind letting him pay for casual texting, though you felt bad for making him pay just so he could listen to you complain about Uni or your parents or some other little thing. But he insisted.

Your phone buzzed and it was a text from Slash.

"I'm coming to your city on tour-" You stared at that word for a second, he was on tour? "-mind if we meet somewhere?" You stared at his text, so many questions racing through you mind.

You went straight to google, looking up who Slash was and finding this guitarist that had a heat pooling between your legs, a dull ache in your core at the hundreds of pictures you found of him shirtless and sweaty, his smile and watching video after video of his hands working on those six strings.

"We don't have to" Another text came up on your screen. "And sorry if that sounded creepy, you wore a sweatshirt with your Uni on it, figured there was a link."

You hurried to text back. "I'd love to meet up!" You replied, biting your lip hungrily.

"Great, I'll be in town tomorrow, just give me an address and a number." Your brows furrowed at that. "And bring some toys."

"A number?" You asked after a moment.

"For sex" You set your phone down after that reply. You'd never thought about that, but you needed him. This wasn't just some fan anymore, you needed to feel him inside of you, to hear his voice right in your hear in person. You needed to smell him, lick him, suck him.

You needed him.

You weren't sure how much to charge him, if you even wanted to charge him, but he made the decision for you as you got a notification for four-thousand dollars. You stared at the notification wide-eyed.

"Did you want more?" He texted.

You sat waiting in a suite at a five-star hotel, it was nothing like you'd ever imagined.

It was around twelve when you heard the door open and made your way out of the master bedroom to the living area. Slash came in wearing a tank-top, some band on the front, tight jeans and that hat with sunglasses.

He smiled when he saw you and came further into the room, setting a guitar case down along with a suitcase. "Hey, sweetheart." He greeted, making his way over to you, his hands resting on your hips as his eyes trailed over you. "Fuck, you look even better in person." You were speechless.

His voice was so soft, unlike anything you'd expect, but it was raspy from years of smoking. He wreaked of sweat and it took every part of your being to not shove your face into his pit and hump his leg, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.

"You brought your toys?" He asked, bringing his eyes back to yours.

You nodded, looking over your shoulder to the bedroom. "Yeah, I brought, uh, a bag of my-my favourites."

He looked towards the bedroom. "That's perfect, sweetheart, lead the way." His hands fell from you, you whined softly at the absence of his touch and prayed he hadn't heard it.

You walked into the room and handed him the duffle bag you brought full of toys. He took it, though he was confused. He looked at you and could tell you were nervous about this whole thing.

"You've never done this before?" You shook your head slowly, head tilted down and gaze glued to the ground. A wider grin spread on his face as he set the duffel on the bed and opened it. "Don't worry, I have."

He poked around the bag a bit, seeing all you brought, a sense of pride building in him as he realized you brought a lot of the stuff he'd gotten for you. "You like monster-" He froze as he turned back to look at you and saw you'd stripped. "Oh, fuck..."

He took a step closer to you and stopped, you couldn't hide the disappointment you felt when he didn't do anything.

"Can I touch you?" He asked, you looked up at him, a nervous look still on your face.

"Um, yeah... I thought- I-I thought that's what you paid for..?" He rolled his eyes and took his glasses off.

"Yeah, but I want you to be comfortable." He said, setting his glasses and top hat down on the nightstand. "It's no fun if you don't want to get fucked."

"I want to." You said, much faster than you thought you should've. He turned back to you, a somewhat surprised look on his face. "I mean, I- maybe..." You trailed before shaking your head. "I want you to fuck me so bad." You said, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "I don't want to walk for a week, I need you so fucking bad."

Slash was pleasantly surprised by your words, voicing your desire for him. "That's a good girl." He said, coming closer to you but still not touching you. "So, I'll ask you again. Can I touch you?"

"Yes, please." You gleamed. Slash smiled and brought his hands to your waist, feeling up your sides and squeezing your hips.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked, already leaning down to you.

"Yes, please." He closed the gap, crashing his lips onto your. Plush, soft and warm.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. He was so strong but his touch was so gentle.

He pulled away, you lips chasing his and he just smiled down at you.

He went to the bag you'd brought, digging through it and pulling out on of your little grinding pads, some tongue or something, whatever it was the texture always drove you crazy.

He dropped it on the floor and sat on the bed. "Why don't you get on your knees for me?" You did as he asked, dropping to your knees in front of him, hovering over the toy while Slash pulled himself out of his pants, hard cock nearly hitting you in the face.

You wrapped your hand around the base, stroking him a few times, laying kitten licks to the tip and relishing in the soft sounds that came out of him.

You took him into your mouth, gagging slightly on his length. Slash tossed a pillow down for you and gripped the back of your head, moving you himself. "Focus on the toy, alright?" He said, forcing himself down your throat.

You got the pillow between your legs, the toy on top for you to grind against. You moved in sync with Slash, moaning around him. At some point Slash gave up on pushing you down on him and just started fucking your throat, lows groans leaving him.

The sight of his head tilted back, eyes shut and hips rutting into you all to chase that feeling of ecstasy. You felt him twitching down your throat, low groans slowly morphing into louder moans as his seed coated your throat.

He held you down on him, waiting for you to swallow all of it before he pulled away. "Look at that... beautiful girl, swallowed it all, didn't you?" You smiled up at him, wiping your mouth as you nodded.

Slash looked back to the bag you brought, digging through it and pulling out more toys. You stood up in front of him, legs shaky from the grinding pad. "What-what were you thinking..?" You asked, fidgeting nervously as you watched him look through everything you brought.

"I was thinking a lot of things." He said, pulling out a long tentacle thing with a rubber string on the bottom. "How does this one work?" He asked, looking back at you.

You picked up your phone, opening an app and handing your phone to him. He clicked a button and it started wiggling, a grin spreading over his face. "Oh, I like this one." He looked back to you, handing you the toy. "Put it in.

You held it nervously, Slash stopped the toys movements. You moved closer to the bed, thinking he meant for you to lay down or something, but he stopped you.

"Standing." Your eyes shot to him. "Can't see everything I wanna see when you sit down, use it standing." You took a small step back, eyes flickering between him and the tentacle in your hands. "If you can't take it just tell me and I catch you, alright? But I wanna see, first." You nodded, his words comforting you slightly.

Using lube the toy slipped into you rather easily, Slash gave you a moment to warm up to the stretch. You'd never used any of your toys standing before, you'd never thought of doing so since your legs always got so weak, the way Slash was eyeing you had your legs going weak.

You gasped, feeling the toy start wiggling on a slow setting, a consistent movement. Your thighs squeezed together, hands tightening into fists.

Slash grinned wickedly at the sight. "Got your belly bulging already." He gleamed. You looked down and saw a noticeable lump coming and going in waves. You were mesmerized by the sight of it until Slash set the tentacle to it's fastest setting on pulse.

Your knees went weak as moans ripped from you. Slash caught you, chuckling at your weakened state. Your body twitched in his arms as he held you to his chest. "Does that feel good?"

Fuck, yes, it did. It was so fucking good, his arms around you, something wriggling and hitting deep inside of you. "Fuck, m'cumming, m'fucking cumming!" You moaned out.

Slash's fingers came to your clit, rubbing it gently, a stark contrast to the toy inside you and sending you over the edge with a small yelp.

Slash waited for you to ride out your high, until you were twitching and shaking and dependent on him for stability before he turned the toy off.

He moved you over to the bed, helping you to lay down and took the toy from you.

You lay there, weak and shaky and so, so needy. You scanned around when your breathing had calmed down a bit and saw Slash digging through your bag once more and pulling out more overstimulating toys. "We're gonna have fun tonight, aren't we?"

You woke up the next morning, body aching everywhere, a pillow between your thighs and a shirt you didn't recognize covering you.

You reached for your phone and saw a text from Slash. "Had a great time last night, can't wait to do it again iiii]; )' gave you a little bonus and an extra night at the hotel, thought you deserved it."

You had another notification from him; $10,000.

[sim0nril3y]

12 Days of Kinkmas | Day One: Toys

Note: It is the begining of the 12 Days of Kinkmas and we are starting off with toys! Enjoy! Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), established relationship, use of toys (m receiving), oral (m receiving), handjob (m receiving), canon-typical swearing.

After an evening out with your girlfriends having a little Christmas celebration with some festive cocktails, pulling of Christmas crackers and even a joyful present exchange. You had purchased a nice stationery set for your chosen friend and the one that had received your name had gotten you a very interesting present. It sent you into a fit of laughter but then your mind had spiralled with dozen different ideas.

As you had returned home to Simon, he was watched football highlights on the TV, finishing his second beer of the night, eyes flitting from the screen and then back to where you were happily telling him about your evening. “… Oh, and I got a present…” You held out the festive themed bag, tag hanging off with the writing ‘Hope you have a very Merry Christmas xo’

“Lucky you…” Simon mentioned, slipping the silk handles from your fingers and peaking inside, seeing a box tucked away inside. “You already opened this?” Quirking a brow and gazing in your direction as you nodded in response at him. “You know only naught girls open their presents early…” He muttered with a teasing edge to his tone. “Well, I think you’re going to want to open this one too, Simon~”

A moment later he tugged open the bag and pulled out a box. A frown plastered his lips as he turned it around to view the proud display of a small wand vibrator across the front, descriptive words announcing just how powerful the device was and the amount of settings that it had. “Bloody hell.” Simon muttered, glancing at you then with a little smirk. “What’ve you been telling your friends about me? They think I can’t make you cum or something?”

The most delightful giggle fell from your lips. “No, I think I know who this is from and they are just very sex positive.” Then shrugging a little as you pinched it from his hands and observed the box. “They probably gifted it for us to use together~” You teased with a wiggle of your brows.

For a moment Simon looked frazzled, then laughed. “Seems like more of a gift for you, love.” Then patting your knee. “I’m not opposed to you having fun with it though.” He squeezed then gently with a tender smile. “Go on. Up to bed. I’ll be up in a bit.”

The toy remained in the box until well over a week later, Simon was laying back on your bed, legs spread with you knelt between them, carefully removing your mouth from Simon’s rigid cock and glancing up into his eyes with a mischiefs smile on your face. “Why don’t we give our new toy a try?” Your hand wrapped around and massaging his cock up and down slowly.

“Babe…” Simon huffed, head tilted back into the pillow and choking out a soft moan. “It’s not gonna… gonna feel good for me. You use it and I’ll watch.” He encouraged softly, brushing his thumb across your cheek soothingly. “How do you know it won’t feel good if you don’t try?” Tilting your head into his touch gently and nuzzling into him. “We can take it slow. We can take it at your pace, baby.” You coaxed.

For a moment or two Simon remained quiet and then you said. “I don’t want to pressure you. I won’t-” “We can try.” Cutting you off and gazing at you warmly. Simon can feel the excitement rushing through you, the way your hand squeezes his length and then excitedly reach into the bedside draw to yank it open and tug out the box. It was clear this wasn’t the first time that you were opening it, the box opened with ease and the toy rolled out into your open palm. “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.” You promised in a sweet tone, beginning to speed up your hand on his cock, tapping the button on the vibrator and smiling as it buzzed to life.

“Babe-” Each of times thoughts and worries seemed to wash away the moment that the head of the vibrator nestled against the underside of the head of his cock. “Fuckin’ hell.” He grit out through his teeth, chin tilted up and panting gently before glancing back down at your overly pleased face. “That feel good?”

Reaching out Simon’s hand gripped onto your wrist, holding it between his fingers so tight you were sure that it was going to leave marks. “Do you want more or less?” You questioned, glancing up at him to try and gauge his reaction.

“K-keep going.” Simon ground out in particularly a snarl, tilting his head back again as his hips arched up. “Okay~” You purred playfully, carefully rolling the vibrator around the head of his cock trying to find the most sensitive place to play with.

There was no denying that Simon looked so damn handsome like this. His strong form was pulled taut, flexing and rippling each time you tried a new place. His cock was leaking down over your hand down, fighting back an intense orgasm that was going to burst from him. “D-don’t st-stop…” He requested in little more than a grunt, his hips flexing upwards to attempt to fuck into your hand. “Hey… Hey…” You coaxed him softly. “Let me… let me do this for you.”

Carefully moving the vibrator his shaft and nestling it under his balls that were drawn up tight, leaning forward you wrapped your lips around the engorged head of his cock, listening to him groan lowly. It was a mere few minutes of suckling before Simon emptied into your mouth with a low grunt, eyes rolling, toes curling, muscles contacting.

Turning off the vibrator and placing it aside Simon huffed and whined, body convulsing a few more times before practically melting into the sheets. “You okay?” You questioned, rubbing your hand over his lower stomach soothingly. “Yeah…” Simon huffed. “Yeah, m’good.” Glancing down at you with tired dark eyes, soft smile playing on his lips. “Good.” You giggled gently. “Does this mean that you’re gonna trust me next time that I say something is gonna feel good?” Your free hand rubbed his inner thigh and Simon smirked before snatching it away and growling out. “Don’t push it.”

12 Days of Kinkmas | Regular Masterlist | Ask | 14-12-2023

[lostreverb]

sent from above

(kai anderson x reader) in where you try to make your boyfriend's day a little sweeter

content: angst, use of knives (nothing crazy)

a/n: kai brainrot + maternal instincts combo goes crazyyyy

--

You sit on Winter's bed, watching as she sifts through boxes from her closet.

"You really do like my brother, don't you?..." She says with a solemn cadence.

You nod. "I do."

With a sigh, Winter hands you a faded piece of paper. It feels delicate, like it might crumble in your hands. "This is it…"

You trace the faded cursive carefully. "I won't tell him. I'll say I found it while cleaning. Thank you so much Winter."

"Uh- Yeah, no problem. Just… remember that he’s—"

"I know."

For weeks, Kai's paranoia has been ramping up, and you wanted to do something—anything—that might ground him, even briefly. So you'd gone to Winter, asking if she still had one of her mother's old recipes.

As anything was with Kai, this was a risk. This gesture could easily be turned against you; he might even accuse you of using his mother’s memory to manipulate him.

But for some reason you don't care.

--

Later, you're plating the dish when you hear the heavy clomp of combat boots, quickening as they approach, then coming to an abrupt stop.

"Perfect timing." You look up at your boyfriend and smile, holding the dish up slightly. "I made something for you."

Kai slowly walks to you, silent, calculating. He steps close—so close there’s barely space between you, with only the plate in your hands separating you.

"Apple Pie. The all-american dessert." Your words come out in a low murmur.

"Correct." He flicks open his pocket knife, carving off a bite and balancing it on the blade. "Open."

You part your lips instinctively, and he guides the piece to your mouth. As you bite down, the sweetness of the pastry mingles with a faint metallic tang from the knife's edge. Kai pulls it back with a slow precision, leaving a sharp taste lingering amid the warm notes of apple and spice.

Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he turns the knife around, offering the handle to you. His eyes hold yours, dark and watchful, as you take it and mirror his gesture, bringing a piece to his lips. He leans forward, just enough to take the bite. As the familiar taste hits him, there's a shift—a crack in his steely facade. And for a split second, you see the boy he used to be, before everything turned dark.

Without a word, he raises a hand, a silent command for his guards to leave. They exchange glances but obey, slipping out of the kitchen.

Now, it’s just the two of you, alone.

He speaks in a whisper, but each word drips with a mix of wonder and suspicion. “She sent you… didn’t she?”

The words hang in the silence, and for a moment, his intense gaze softens, his brow knitting as if he’s trying to make sense of what he’s just said. “I knew it,” he breathes. “I knew she…”

He pauses, staring at you with a vulnerable intensity you've never seen before, like he's fighting to believe in something beyond his hardened reality. It's as if he's convinced that his late mother, somehow, some way, has sent you into his life—an angel, perhaps, to guide him, to protect him from the shadows he can't escape. The idea fills him with a fierce, quiet hope. His mistrust, his paranoia, all of it seems to melt away as he stares at you, searching for some sign, some proof of his mother.

You set the plate carefully on the counter behind you, keeping your movements slow and gentle, as if any sudden motion might startle him. Stepping forward, you raise your arms and slide them around him, feeling the tension that coils through his frame. Your hands find their way to his back, moving in soothing, slow circles, the warmth of your touch grounding him.

At first, he stiffens, caught off-guard by the unexpected embrace, his arms remaining at his sides. But gradually, as your hands continue their gentle rhythm along his back, he softens against you, letting the rigidity melt away. His shoulders drop, and you feel the faint rise and fall of his breath, a steadying rhythm that seems to settle him, little by little. Your touch is careful, maternal—each motion reassuring, as if you’re somehow reaching into the lonely places he’s kept hidden, places starved of comfort.

You press your cheek lightly against his shoulder, and the silence stretches between you, filled with a sense of calm that seems almost foreign to him. You can sense him leaning into the embrace, accepting the warmth you offer, maybe even craving it, though he would never say so.

--

tags (ask to be added or removed anytime!): @fear-is-truth @juliamaximoff @jazz-berry @violetsghosts @quickreider @tiffysdeath @honeymoon8 @wcnderlnds @lacucarachapisser @xrag-dollx @oceanblvd111 @andiloveher @vi0l3tgard3ns

[isak-dot-gov]

Growing Stronger (Lie to Girls Pt. 2)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Singer!reader

Word count: 1065

Part 1

My masterlist :)

...........................................

The flight back to Storrs felt like an eternity, the hours dragging on as you replayed your last conversation with Paige in your mind. The promotional tour for your album, Short n' Sweet, had been a whirlwind of interviews, performances, and long hours. You were exhausted but relieved to be heading back home, even if it meant facing Paige after everything that had happened.

As you stepped off the plane and made your way through the terminal, you couldn’t shake the mix of excitement and apprehension. You had missed Storrs, and you had missed Paige, but you were also anxious about how to navigate the conversations and emotions that lay ahead.

When you arrived at your apartment, you saw Paige standing outside, her posture rigid with nervousness. Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. Her expression was a blend of hope and trepidation, and you could see the strain in her features.

“Hey,” you said, your voice soft as you approached her.

“Hey,” Paige responded, her voice wavering slightly. “Can we talk?”

You nodded, feeling the familiar pang of anxiety as you unlocked the door and led her inside. The apartment was quiet, the usual hustle and bustle replaced by an eerie calm. You set down your bag and motioned for Paige to sit on the couch.

“Let’s talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Paige sat down, her eyes scanning the room before finally settling on you. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she began, her voice trembling. “About everything that’s happened and about the lies I’ve told.”

You took a seat beside her, your heart racing. “And what have you come up with?”

“I’ve come to realise how much I’ve hurt you,” Paige said, her eyes filling with tears. “Listening to your album—especially ‘Lie to Girls’—made me understand just how deep my mistakes went. I’ve been lying to you, and it was wrong.”

The room was filled with a heavy silence as Paige’s words hung in the air. You could feel the raw emotion in her voice, and it was clear she was deeply affected by your music. The pain in her eyes mirrored the hurt you had felt.

“I know I can’t undo the damage I’ve done,” Paige continued, her voice cracking. “But I want to make things right. I want to prove to you that I’m committed to being honest and transparent from now on.”

You took a deep breath, trying to process her words. “It’s going to take time, Paige. Trust isn’t something that just comes back overnight.”

“I understand,” Paige said earnestly. “I’m willing to put in the effort. I’ve been working on how I communicate, how I handle things. I want us to be able to talk through our issues, not just avoid them.”

You looked at her, seeing the sincerity in her eyes. “How do you plan to show me that you’re committed to changing?”

Paige reached into her bag and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. She opened it to reveal a delicate silver bracelet with a heart-shaped charm. “I wanted to give you this,” she said, her voice soft. “As a symbol of my commitment to making things right and to remind you of how much you mean to me.”

You took the bracelet, your eyes welling up with tears. It was beautiful, a simple yet meaningful gesture. “Thank you,” you said, your voice choked with emotion. “It’s really thoughtful.”

Paige smiled, relief evident on her face. “I want to do more than just give you gifts. I want to show you through my actions that I’m serious about making changes.”

The conversation shifted to more personal matters as you both began to open up about your feelings and experiences. Paige talked about her struggles with honesty and how she had been working on improving her communication skills. She mentioned seeking advice from her teammates and even talking to a counsellor to better understand herself and her behaviour.

As the evening wore on, you found yourselves reminiscing about the good times you had shared. You talked about your favourite memories, your plans for the future, and how you could rebuild your relationship. Paige listened intently, her eyes never leaving yours, as if she were drinking in every word.

“I’ve missed you,” Paige said softly, reaching out to hold your hand. “I’ve missed us. And I want to make sure that we don’t just get back to where we were but that we grow stronger from this.”

You squeezed her hand, feeling a mixture of hope and uncertainty. “I’ve missed you too, Paige. It’s going to be a journey, but I’m willing to take it with you.”

Paige nodded, her eyes filled with determination. “Thank you for giving me this chance. I won’t let you down.”

As the night grew late, you both decided to watch a movie, something lighthearted to take your minds off the heavy conversation. Paige made popcorn and settled on the couch beside you, her presence comforting and familiar.

The movie played in the background, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the song, “Lie to Girls.” The lyrics had been a mirror reflecting the truth of your situation, and it had been painful to confront. But it had also been a catalyst for change, a way for Paige to see the reality of her actions and work toward making amends.

After the movie, Paige walked you to your bedroom. “I know you’re tired,” she said, her voice gentle. “But if you want to talk more or if you need anything, I’m here.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of calm as you prepared for bed. “Thank you, Paige. I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

As you lay in bed, you felt a renewed sense of hope. It was clear that Paige was committed to making things right, and you were ready to see where this new path would lead. The road to rebuilding trust would be challenging, but with open communication and mutual effort, you believed it was possible to create something stronger and more enduring.

You closed your eyes, thinking about the future and the possibilities that lay ahead. You had faced a difficult period, but with Paige by your side, you felt a glimmer of optimism. The journey would be long, but it was one you were willing to take together.

................................................

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. This is the first part of Shibari man/Shibari Asshole/Rigger!Harry x Rope bunny!Reader ((the one I teased here))

The one where Harry runs shibari classes and you think he should smile more

WC: 2.4K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series; the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠) 

When you were a little kid, your brother had an ant farm. 

An acrylic formicarium that’d started out as two boxes with a set of tubes. Over time, it morphed into a staggering, caged cityscape of twisting, pellucid hoses and burrows that spanned the entire length of the desk in his bedroom. 

You'd watch them scatter the tunnels as a little girl, lugging cracker crumbs and bits of fruit off your sticky fingers, weaving along the chutes connecting the boroughs of their curated city.

Your brother did what any nasty, older brother would do— those harvester ants were the torment of your childhood. You'd bicker, and he’d threaten to spill them into your bed when you were sleeping. Told you that the colony would eat her toes, that you'd wake up to wiggle nothing but grisly, little, ichor-soaked stumps.  

The gory intimidation tactic never really did much.

You'd still press your nose to the screen barring the insects and smudge your fingerprints over, fascinated as they congregated to the wet cotton ball in the depths of their home. 

You think it's a little like that now, wandering the swarming alcoves in the underbelly of New York. You're a little harvester ant (all exoskeleton to sheathe the pulpy anguish of a long day— ball it inside, keeping your face even and your mouth in a line), plodding through a network of crystalline, vinyl tubing. Swimming against the swathing current of the colony seeping past you in their beanies and their coats, deadpanned on their dog-eat-dog pursuit of errands. 

During the evening rush hour, it’s teeming under the city that never sleeps. It’s a stunning exhibit, maybe, for a tourist whose hometown flickers every porch light off by nine and has one tributary of a road that seeps away from the community, but it doesn’t help the headache thrumming behind your temples. Instead, it kindles the narked throb in your limbs until it feels like an itch in your bloodstream.

The day’s chewed you up with its sharp, ivory incisors and spit you out. Left something tired and empty. The dregs are grounds of a mucky ire, ready to be shed under the scalding spew of a showerhead. 

You mingle through the horde, slinking the gaps you can manage to squeeze past. Your nose burns. Anti-seize lubricant. Cherry cleaners and old concrete. Musk and brake dust. Ground up, heated steel from the wheels burning — metal on metal. Grease. It smells like asphalt and strife. 

The car is packed. A lumbering throng that weaves and scatters, either casting indignant looks over their shoulders when they’re nudged as you politely shoulder your way through, or soul-sucked into their phones altogether, scrolling in detachment. 

There’s one tawny seat, empty and tucked against the back wall. You inch for it on aching ankles, burning knees; the bits of a long day left sewn into your joints. It gnaws into your marrow, and nothing sounds better than hot water on naked skin. You twist—

Marimba blares from you bag. Someone casts an irrationally exasperated side-eye over their shoulder. You straighten out, and rummage through the contents. Find a battered lanyard. A spare stick of deodorant. A hair tie coated in lint and a sparse handful of change—

Drink water. You thumb the alarm off. 

When you sit back, it’s rigid. Firm and uneven. Warm, like a breathing furnace. It takes you all of a split second to recognize that you've managed to perch on a splayed thigh, clad in denim that’s shredded at the knees, rather than the grooved, ochre plastic of a hovering seat.  

You had thought there was little emotion you could have summoned beyond something drained and miffed. The day surprises you, yet, in its dying breaths. Like a mortified buoy, embarrassment bobs from the cesspool when you startle up and twist.

There’s a man in your seat. 

He looks oddly comfortable, almost as if he’d been there all along. As if you had just conjured a mirage of an empty seat. The only acknowledgement he gives you, blinking up from the phone cradled in his enormous, right hand, is a stoically disgruntled glance from behind the squared, pitch-framed lenses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Um. Excuse me—” you blink. Your brows crease, “I was sitting there.” 

He spares you a glance. There’s gems in his sockets. Emeralds. Dewy and dulled from the same, shitty day of skyscraper-morphed incisors gnawing. He looks away, and they coruscate in the near blinding glare of his LED, cast in a faint echo over his glasses.

“No, you weren’t.”

You blink again. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he denies it. You're forced to stare at the part in his hair; the way a burnt umber curl sweeps over his temple. He scrolls over his screen, instead, with a neatly saffron-lacquered thumb. 

You swallow a flattering epithet that (his obvious disinterest) nearly wrests from your mouth. A flimsy facsimile of a smile sculpts over. Appalled. Nearly seeping into the beginnings of borderline deranged as your threadbare composure gets toyed at by a prick with a clandestine pair of scissors. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Well. I was going to.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, brows kinked, “because this seat is taken.”

A little noise clambers from the back of your throat. You swallow it down and scoff. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

It’s dry, derisive, disinterested. The three D’s that are going to get his glasses plucked off and tossed to the floor to be crushed under someone’s heel. 

“Unbelievable.”

His eyes— mossy, reminiscent of the woods— sweep up. He’s quiet. Stony. For the first time, you really get a good look, and decide, instantly, that if he weren’t such an apparent dickhead, maybe his specs and his voguish jumper would make him look sophisticated. Handsome, with his even slope of a nose, full, pink lips, and the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and jawline. 

There’s a sharp contrast to him, like inverted colors. Patchwork of sutures that don’t fit. It’s off, his cozy sweater and his soft hair. He looks like a warm, barbed hug. 

Prickly— saguaro, in a Marc Jacobs pullover, with stinging spines sticking through the stitching. 

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s softer that you'd intended. 

You quiver— everything, all over. Your bottom lip wobbles, your mandible sets, your fingers wring at the strap of your tote. They twitch and stretch at your side with this provoked, goopy slurry of cortisol and adrenaline. It permeates your pericardium. Snakes the tubing with an incensed warmth— embers kindled.

“Do you realize how rude that is?” 

Asphalt and strife. Someone to your side glances over their shoulder and then turns back. The stranger blinks up at you from his phone with soft features chiseled apathetic. Vetiver and musk. 

“M’not sure what you mean.” 

“Are you joking? You stole my seat, dude,” you wave out with your hand. 

He blinks again. 

“I don’t think it ever belonged to you, to be fair—“ then, “Is your name on it?” 

It’s a childish retort to spall your argument into flinders. Your eyes narrow into anticipatory slits. 

“No—“

“Then I suppose it’s not your seat, is it?” he responds sharply— chiaroscuro to the lax, impassive shape that molds his face, “S’first come, first serve …dude.”

A stranger grazes your shoulder blade in passing— something you've become accustomed to. People finding walkways in strait gaps on a train that’s packed like a can of sardines. 

“Oh my God. You are such an asshole— I could be pregnant.” 

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes trail. A slow once-over, wry and disbelieving. Sage and owlish. A stray curl stemming from the forefront of his crown meddles to coil over his forehead. The corner of his otherwise indurated mouth twitches.

“Are you pregnant?” 

No.

“Yes,” you glower. 

It slinks from the back of your throat, unbidden— this lie. Rides up the back up of your tongue and slips through the cracks of your teeth. It’s curdled and twisted, miasmic pulp in tar— who the fuck lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?

You're never going to see him again. 

You're never, ever going to see him again. 

You cup your hand over the underside of your tummy. Sell it, now that you have to. All soft flesh under the button of your jeggings, shrouded under the boxy shaping of your fleece turtleneck— where a baby (that definitely doesn’t exist, last you checked), the size of a citrus limon, would curl up. You tuck your palm over the phantom at your underbelly. 

You've had a shitty day, and now you've been backed into a corner, offering the universe shitty manifestations with your hands cupped out. 

The seat stealer ogles. Meanders from your strategic hand placement to your ireful scowl. Back. His mouth purses. 

“So, it’s not that you could be,” he clarifies, slowly, “It’s that you are.”

Languid. Unrushed, like an overflowing, murky lake lapping at a berm. Someone brushes the back of your arm. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you lying?” 

You scoff. He’s fully transfixed on you now, the glow from his smartphone dimmed on its pending shut-off timer. 

“Are you kidding? Who—“ you hike your tote up, “lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?” 

He purses his lips again, ruddy pillows bordering the sharp chasm of his mouth where the tools to dissect her claims are stowed. Bobs his head. 

“How far along are you, then?” 

You grit out, teeth bared, “Thirteen weeks—“

And a stranger prods past with enough force to nudge you forward. Enough for your shin to brush against the bespectacled stranger's own. Enough to step into his space, nearly between his parted thighs. He frowns. 

He does another slow sweep with his gaze. Furrowed brows, glimmering viridian dancing from behind limped lenses. Gleaning pieces like cattail and twine for a nest. Deciding; are they worthy? A grip over your underbelly, the little frown on your lips that mirrors his own, the way you suddenly crowd his atoms. He’s unconvinced, almost. Apathetic. 

You fully expect him to tell you to fuck off, but then he nudges with his stubbly chin. You shuffle back as much as you can with about three, broad strangers at all sides. 

He bleeds out into you, for a moment, all heat, when he clambers up and steps in to make your cycle — this game of musical chairs to the tune of white noise, flitting on a screeching rail through a tunnel— smoother. He’s broad. Tapered. Thick in the shoulders, a carnegiea of a man towering when he nearly presses his firm chest to you, wrapped in french terry. He’s much softer to the touch than the spikes bristling from his mien implicate. Woodsy and clean, like smoke, and cedarwood, and soap. It flushes the miasmic undertone of grease the subway always has. 

He cocks his head. Sit down. 

“Congratulations,” he tells you when you slot into the nook, splaying your tote over your lap. 

He’s kept your seat warm. 

Whether the statement is in reference to your unborn pseudo-baby or your victory, you're unsure. 

-

-

-

-

KNOTS resembles a yoga studio, with its clean, tall walls, its french oak flooring, and its bone-white bulbs, linearly tiled into the ceiling. It smells like an amalgam of grapefruit cleaning products and spritzes of an air freshener that vaguely echoes the lapping sea. 

Salt, an airy ozone, muguet. Something pretentious that doesn’t fit into the city. 

If it weren’t for the myriad of ropes, lubricants, and toy cleaners stacking the shelving units by the front, you would have felt as if you were here to attend a pilates class. Cycling, maybe. Something sweaty and less …abrasive.

You're late for your seven-to-nine open level, beginner’s course— two soporific hours of staring at rope and tying knots that you'll never get back.

(Slaphappy and fecklessly inept at knot-tying are two traits that don’t work well to take up shibari as a hobby.

“Please— she’s been begging for months and none of those online tutorials make any fucking sense.” 

“So— why don’t you take her with you?” 

“Because I want it to be a surprise,” Niall had opposed. Puffed his chest, “I wanna surprise her. Like a proper ropes guy, you know. And she’s so flexible, too, I could tie her in loads of positions—“

You'd raised your hand. “Spare me.” 

Niall’s always been a glass half-full. Crystalline, effervescent. A bright color.

You couldn’t bear to ruffle his plume when, two autumns ago, he spent a Wednesday afternoon standing outside a women’s handicapped stall in an auto shop for pure, courageous moral support as you took an actual pregnancy test— not even by his doing, and he still was a very good sport. Even if he’s absolute shit at knots beyond tying his own shoes.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he struggled with twine and a palomar, it wasn’t going to matter how bendy his girlfriend was.)

You're fourteen minutes late. Eight-hundred-forty seconds and change for every two steps, by the time you find the right door in the balmy corridor of boundless doorways. The portly, alder ingress squeals on its hinges when you shuffle, as quietly as you can manage, into what vaguely resembles a dance studio. 

The attendees look the part, too, perched over their yoga mats in contemporary dancer garb, turning their chins over their shoulders at the disturbance. Dress casual and comfortable. There’s only about eight of them, and they coil in a piqued coterie ahead of the instructor, who has about six varying ropes, diverse in their tint and structure, and then he peers up—

It’s him. Saguaro, with the frames and the eyes like beds of flinty malachite. 

He’s holding a furled, plaited cord, the head of the class, and he pauses, blinking up. Briefly. He clears his throat—

”—Jute, on the other hand, has great knot stability. You can see here, the braided texture— that makes it less slippery.”

Compunction crinkles the valley of skin between your eyebrows as you trudge in alongside Niall— he’s much more amicable about it, mouthing apologies and raising his hand in friendly hello’s that don’t receive much beyond awkwardly indifferent glances. You sink to your knees toward the back, which isn’t all that far from the front, all things considered. It’s a small class. The wood burrows into your tailbone— were the yoga mats a complementary piece? Were you supposed to bring a yoga mat?

“It’s great for floor bondage, but it’s water sensitive. So if you want to work it into suspension, don’t wash it too often. Otherwise, you’re losing carrying capacity.”

The city of New York is a metaphorical hayrick. It’s a paradox, since the big apple is the furthest thing from watery mud, fir-constructed barns, and scythes sweeping through crops. 

Theoretically, though, you should have never seen this man again. 

He should have become swept into the mound of straw— got lost in it. Mortification strums at your muscles, tensing every sinew. It scars deep— scrapes at your cartilage. If you'd known this needle would prick your thumb again, maybe you wouldn’t have waged war for the seat on the subway. 

And yet, here he is.

[dev1lm4n]

lesson two: tease

ko-fi | series masterlist (5 out of 7)

pairing: porn star!joel miller x f!reader

summary: tension is on the rise between you and mr. miller. wicked fantasies hadn't posted for an entire month! desperate, you decided to get even more bold with your requests and he had no difficulty in complying.

word count: 4.8k

warnings: explicit (18+), set in 2013, pre-outbreak, age gap (joel in mid 30's and reader in early 20's), inexperienced but not dumb reader, blowjob, f masturbation, check umbrella warning on series masterlist

notes: tension is literally on the rise! the vase is about to crack, but tonight he decides to indulge. fellas if you enjoyed this do COMMENT, REBLOG or buy me a KO-FI ;) love y'all

Broad shoulders.

During the time when you simply saw Mr. Miller as a figure in your lewd fantasies, you knew that it was the roughness of his build that attracted you. There’s a certain market for it; for women and men alike who enjoyed those who're built like burly vikings straight out of a movie. Those who enjoy men with a slight plumpness on their front, those who salivate over their strong and reliable arms, those who strive to caress their calloused fingers and press kisses onto their rigid knuckles. You’ve never confessed this to anyone - mostly terrified for their reserved judgment over the topic - but you fit perfectly in that box. Time after time, you wonder if it’d feel nice, if you could just press your nifty fingers into the coils of his muscles, if he’d let out a groan.. a moan perhaps from the sensation.

Rough fingers.

After spending two minutes staring intensely at his sturdy, slightly hunched build, you finally gathered enough courage to summon yourself into the kitchen. God, he looked so good just washing the dishes. His already calloused fingers didn’t have to worry about the damage those cheap dish soap does, because if anything, it’d just make it better. More ridges means more texture and more texture feels better. Two of his fingers entered the soapy lining of his mug, spreading the cleaning product into every crack and crevice. It looks a little erotic, you decided. Your filthy mind conjured up altered scenarios which implemented the same motion. You’d be on top of the cold countertop, various kitchen gadgets set aside as his fingers delved into your cunt. He’d spread your wetness the same way he did to the mug.

Thick mustache.

He took notice of your presence. He watched you and you allowed him, even if he did so wordlessly. Water continued to spill out of the faucet. It hit the empty bottom of the sink and sprouted upwards in a gauche manner, effectively wetting his gray shirt in blotches and dots. You breathed out what could pass as a dry chuckle and in return, he quirked his lips. A grin. A youthful one that almost made you forget of his crow’s feet and faint lines. His thin upper lip almost disappeared as it was tugged on both sides, but the dark hair on top remained pristine. It was thick, you concluded. Not as thick as Uncle Tommy’s, but thick enough that he’d get marinara sauce on it every pasta night. Thick enough that you wonder what it’d be like to have it graze your sensitive pelvis.

Fuck, he’s hot and you’re unreasonably horny.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he parroted back, only with the help of that damned nickname he’s stamped onto you.

Crunch

You bit into the red apple you found during your little scavenging trip into his refrigerator. The sound broke whatever trance he had placed you under. With those eyes of yours, pupils rounded and lashes batted, it was a dangerous game you’re playing. When had you gotten so shameless towards Mr. Miller? Perhaps it’s when he touched you in an irrevocably pleasurable way, or perhaps it’s when he hadn’t posted a video for an entire month. He missed his posting schedule, two whole weeks post-’Dirty Fridays’, and it’s severely messing with your head. You’ve always been a good viewer. Always being content with what he had put out and would never harass him for more, but it’s been a long month repeating the same 13 minute long video.

You’re bound to get restless.

“Didn’t see you come home yesterday.”

“I was busy.”

Crunch

With other girls? In that trailer studio of yours? The question sat on the tip of your tongue. A breath away from being exposed into the dense air. You turned to lean your lower back onto the edge of the countertop, eyes still trained on his as you hitched yourself atop the smooth surface. Your fingers grazed the squared edges, just to keep you occupied while you dug under the surface of his browns. You wondered what he was so busy with - wondered what’s going on behind the tightly knitted cloak of guise he wore, wondered what he thought of you after his little lesson. He wasn’t a shy one. Mr. Miller stared back into your pupils. His chest raised and lowered with every blink he took.

You swallowed nervously.

“Workin’ doubles,” he cracked. “I ain’t sharin’ the job with anyone other than Tommy.”

“Is that so?”

“You think I’m lyin’?”

Crunch

You couldn’t read him. You’ve never been able to. There’s just a huge boulder sitting behind those irises, one that’s blocking you from understanding him even further. It’s not like it’s your business anyway. You’re content with spending your downtime with Sarah; screaming your hearts out to Taylor Swift’s I Knew You Were Trouble on the radio, painting each others’ nails, and making the ultimate pancake with chicken. You’re content with just watching him through his videos, reimagining those situations with the new knowledge you’ve acquired from him. You’re content with standing at a distance from him. So, it wouldn’t be logical to get all protective over him. What are you? His crazy ex-girlfriend?

“How’s Sarah?”

“Great,” you mumbled, mouth still half full. “Taught her fractions yesterday. Swear she’s getting smarter than me.”

“How’s Simon?”

Crunch

Things with Simon, surprisingly, went on smoothly. After that mediocre dinner, where you proceed to let Mr. Miller finger you afterwards in order to introduce you to the new world of sex, you’ve exchanged a few messages and a few perfectly appropriate photos. It’s been awhile since you actually put any effort into trying to get into a relationship, due to work loads and a special dependance towards a pornstar, but it’s much better than you expected. He’s a nice boy. He would treat you right if you gave him the chance to, but you couldn’t help but think that you’re doing all this out of spite. Doing this to show off how capable you are to Mr. Miller, to busy yourself off those plaguing thoughts of him.

“Simon’s doing okay. Fine. He took me for ice cream after my classes yesterday.”

“Offered you a ride, right?”

“Yup.”

He taught you well.

“You’ve done it with him then?”

Your heart clenched.

“Done what?”

“What I taught you.”

Why is he so candid about the entire ordeal?

It was like being held at gunpoint. You watched his eyes, then found it to be too oppressive so you looked down to meet his wet hands. He had finished washing all the plates and cutleries from the breakfast you and Sarah made, though his thick fingers still gripped onto the edge of the metal sink, wet and dripping. You looked up once again, trying to find a part of him that doesn’t make you all jittery and awkward.

“Yes.”

Your lie must’ve been undetectable since you quickly caught on to how his brows tangled and unraveled, a habit of his you’ve picked up recently, signaling that he’s processing the information and giving it a good thought.

“Was it as good?”

Crunch

You nodded surely with a mouthful of tangy apple. There’s no way you could get away with lying so blatantly the second time so you decide the nod would affirm your position better instead of scramble it. He cocked his head to the side, arrogant as always, with some sort of interest in his eyes. You could just tell something foul was about to come out of those sharp tongue of his, when all of a sudden, a clatter sounded out from beyond the window. Both of you turned your heads in sync, following after where the presumable source was. There he was. Tommy in all of his youthful glory. One of his jean legs drenched and beside him was a metal bucket, laying pitifully with its contents poured out onto the sidewalk. He was cursing. A garbled mess of English, while he soothed his pained arse.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He let out a sigh as he finally tore his gaze away from you to wipe his hands onto a kitchen rag.

“Gotta get goin’,” he whispered hurriedly, fingers running down his messy hair to smooth them down. “You need anything, sweetheart?”

You shook your head no and he took it as a cue to leave the premises. He rushed to pick up his phone from the dining room table, eyes fleeting to find his wallet right after.

“Hey, Mr. Miller.”

He turned his head to meet your eyes.

“You busy tonight?”

Dinner had always been a lonesome affair for you.

Back when you still live in your parents’ cluttered mishmash of a house, you’d always opt out of family dinner. Not because you weren’t particularly fond of your mother’s cooking, her one pot recipes will still remain nostalgic in your head despite time, but more because you’d rather not indulge in petty arguments. They’d always argue. Your mother would flash you that look of hers, silently demanding you to stay on her side when it comes to dealing with your father’s frequent misdemeanors. He’d complain about the tiniest bits of things. If the lettuce was too wilted or if you were wearing too much makeup. He’s an ass, sure, but it’s not like your mother’s planning to abandon him anytime soon. They’re conjoined at this point. Even when it’s massively unhealthy, especially for spectators like you.

In Mr. Miller’s home, oftentimes, you’d put together an edible meal for the entire family. Mr. Miller was a hard worker, according to the accounts that he made, so it’s not rare that you’d have to fry up sausages and whip mashed potatoes together for Sarah. It’s not as if he made it your responsibility. He’d encourage the two of you to order take outs or phone in the pizza place, but that couldn’t be good for Sarah’s growth or his own pocket. And as much as you’d like to deny it, you’re growing way too fond of the Millers.

But it’s been far too long since you crossed path with Mr. Miller. Far too long that you might’ve forgotten what his natural musk after a long day smelt like. Far too long that you might’ve forgotten how heavy his boots were as it dragged across the tiles. Far too long that you surely misses him.

You’re nervous.

Unreasonably so when the promise you’ve made with him was simply for dinner. Nothing less or more. Just dinner. Was the invitation you gave him.. too much? Was it too flirty? Was it silly to think that he might’ve entertained the little show you put out? The desperate stares and chewed lips, you’re undeniably begging for attention. Begging for him to pay attention to you, see what you’re made out of, doesn’t he want to unravel you more? The audacity you have was laughable.

How pathetic, you thought. 

Just like clockwork, Mr. Miller showed up right after your self-deprecating cycle. Right after all that flirty and playful energy got brutally murdered by common sense. Right after they were buried in a graveyard of mistakes and what was left was simply the putrid scent of shame. Your head perked up expectantly. As if the mere sight of him in his work uniform,  a combo of worn-out flannel shirts and dark-washed jeans, would cure you of exhaustion. Mr. Miller came barging into the hallway. His thumb and index finger diligently massaged the tall bridge of his nose, eyes closed and nose flared from breathing too hard. Your eyes finally made its rounds to where his free arm was propped up on his waist. Sleeves rolled to where it was physically impossible to roll them higher.

He didn’t look like he was in the best of moods.

And somehow.. somehow it excites you.

“Hi, how are you?” you spoke stiffly as if you’re one of those supermarket cashiers, posture straightening upon his arrival.

“Not good,” he replied gruffly.

Mr. Miller made his way to you. He appeared to be the same height and stature as he’s always been, but for whatever reason, he looked a lot larger. As if he could bite and tear you into chunks of flesh if he truly desired to. His movements were staggered. Each step seemed to be more and more of a hassle to him. He had this.. frown on his face. You could even call it a scowl. Forehead waved with folds of worries, lips tightened into an irritated pull as he finally settled down across from you. This new side to him made your limbs limp and your heart spasm. A squeeze each time his narrowed eyes met yours.

“Everything.. okay?” you mused out.

“Just a bunch of shit piling up,” he reasoned, looking down to meet the plate you carefully crafted for him. “Nothin’ to worry your pretty little head.”

The plate’s cold, boiled asparagus hardened and packaged chicken dried, but he didn’t even consider complaining. His brown eyes took in the effort you gave, a brief sheen of guilt glazing those pretty eyes of his before he picked up his fork and spoon. You watched him with care. His every move calculated and drilled deep into your head.

“Sarah asleep?”

“Mhm. I bored her to death with trigonometry,” you chuckled lightly. “She’s okay. Just.. she’s been asking for you. Asking me why you’re always home late.”

Joel’s eyes perked up from the plate. He met your eyes, but it almost felt like he’s looking right through you, over your head to where he could contemplate his decisions. You knew this just from looking, but Joel Miller had a fear of not being a good parental figure. Sarah only had one and he’s barely ever home. That sort of thought festered over him and took over any sort of inhibition. Any sort of clear thinking, that he’s doing all these side jobs to help support her further in life, that it was all for her. Mr. Miller beats himself up too much, but it’s not like you had any right to intervene. You watched as he indulged in the asparagus, seeing how it’s grown cold enough to feel like metal rods when bitten into. He chewed on it with a solemn expression, a curl between his brows.

“Sorry for putting you through this, sweetheart,” he hummed. “I could.. should actually hire help.”

You waited a beat.

“You’ve been doing me too much favor. It’s not.. right.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Why?”

“Always happy to help.”

“But-”

“It’ll cost you too much for help. You’d be sleeping at your job if that happens.”

He could easily earn up to thousands if he gave into the temptations and started working for a mainstream adult film company. One that’s easily recognized from its corny storylines and cringy high-pitched over-the-top moans. Mr. Miller would be a hit, you’re sure of that. Mainstream porn only requires two things when it comes to male actors: a pretty reasonably-sized cock and charisma. Both in which he had under his belt. If he weren’t so particular with the actresses he chose, the angles in which he filmed, and the routine in which he performed in, perhaps he wouldn’t have to beat himself up to skin and bones. You leaned your cheeks onto the palm of your hands as you watched him devour his dinner.

“I need a favor.”

His fork paused.

“But you- well, you’ll laugh.”

He looked up. The crinkles beside his eyes seemed a lot more prominent, as if he’s thoroughly entertained by your youthful silliness.

“What is it? Somethin’ for Simon is it?”

He’s spot on and it’s making you shrink.

“What?” he chuckled gruffly. “You gonna ask me to teach ya how to blow a guy? Oh.. or how to hang him up in ribbons?”

You looked away, awkwardly scratching your elbow.

“Fuck. I’m spot on, am I? Didn’t take you for a kinky gal.”

“No! God, no,” you looked at him, horrified. “Not the latter.”

“The former then?”

“The former.”

The former. You couldn’t bear to wait for his delayed answer. It’s shameless for you to be asking a second time, but you couldn’t help yourself. You’re pent-up, desperate, and he’s your porn star crush forfuckssake. You stood up from where you’re seated. Your gaze was averted completely, to the point where it’s tilted at an uncomfortable angle to shuffle away from his attention. It’s better to sleep it off. Then maybe you’d act like all this didn’t happen the next day. Sarah’s going to be around for breakfast, so he’d surely keep his mouth in check and draw his way out of this. Wouldn’t he.. would he-

“Hey, hey slow down.”

You felt a hand stop you. His grip was tight, possibly bruising if you were to retaliate any other way. It was still hard to meet his eyes, especially when you had to make the special effort to tilt your head up in order to meet his searing gaze. You waited instead, letting him hinder you of any movements as you stared intensely into his flannel-cladded chest. What was he going to say? Is he going to call you up for your perverseness? Was he-

“I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I said I’ll do it.”

His voice clambered in the chambers of your heart. Masculine, thick with an inch of Southern bass, he took hold of your other hand with those thick fingers of his. This was different from your first lesson. He looked much more.. impatient. A bit of a rough edge when it comes to handling you, a pretty little thing that’s too brave and forward for your own good. His scent, fragments of wood and a taste of clean laundry, permeated the thick air around you. You inhaled him. All of him for the first time in a very very long week. He released the steel grip he had around your wrists and traced it over the rough outline of your body. Up, up, up, until he reached the span of your shoulder. Your breath hitched. All you could feel in your heart was a repeating desire for himhimhim.

He pushed you down slowly, guiding you to lower yourself before him. Right until your knees hit the freezing linoleum tiles beneath his feet. What were you doing? Is it the right decision to fall back into the same old mistake?

“Have you ever practiced on anything before?” he chuckled, almost demeaning in a sense. “A banana or a hairbrush perhaps?”

You shook your head no. All you could see was his dirty jeans, stained of dry concrete and paint.

He brought his rough fingers down to graze against your chin, tilting it upwards so that you’d face him. His eyes were dark, hooded, and trying its best to conceal its obvious amusement. Your chest heaved up and down. Nervous of what he’s about to do next.

“Let’s practice first, ‘kay, sweetheart?” he muttered.

Mr. Miller brought his other pair of fingers next to your face, cradling it with such reverence. He swiped your lips. Bottom then top, only to delve inside your mouth to wet it with enough lubricant. He’s initiating it. His little routine. The older man brought two of his fingers, his index and middle, before he inserted it slowly into your wet cavity. Slowly. Achingly slow. He made sure that you’re comfortable with just a knuckle deep before he proceeded to push in further until the tips sat at the very beginning of your tongue. It wasn’t a familiar feeling like rubbing your clit. You struggle not to gag, or to whimper at the sheer lewdness of the scene unfolding.

“Ah, what a smart girl,” he mused. “Lay your tongue flat for me.”

Your clammy palms fell helplessly atop your smooth pajama pants, gripping on the cotton everytime it felt like too much. His thick fingers separated to make the girth much larger, preparing you for what’s to come. It’s almost as if you could taste him. Taste the natural scent Mr. Miller has around him at all times, taste the carnal desire he held for this. You knew he wouldn’t openly admit it, but this time, it truly looked like he’s looking forward to ripping your innocence away. All his feigned affection stretched thin as you obeyed him perfectly. Tongue flat on the base of your mouth, you breathed in through your nose as best as you can.

“That boy wouldn’t like it if you’re sharp with your teeth,” he muttered as he pulled his fingers away. A string of saliva connected the tip of his wet fingers to your slacked jaw. Oh, how vulgar. Your tight entrance twitched and throbbed inside your panties. Arousal started to wet the thin material, painting dark circles that contrast with the bright color. You were heaving, panting from the sudden increase of oxygen. “So no teeth, keep your tongue flat, and breathe through your nose.”

“You got that, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, Mr. Miller.”

“Alright. Would you like me to take my pants off or do you wanna try it yourself?”

You looked up at the tempting prospect. He gave you a little nod, affirming that you indeed had the upper hand to the situation. And just like that your hands were quick to get on the perimeter of his belt. You loosened the leather from its metal confines, slowly pulling it away from the hook before leaving it. The leather hung from where his two front loops were located. Meekly, you looked up once more as your soft fingers felt his buttons up. He hissed through his pursed lips, a good reaction you assume, as you slowly unbuttoned the main button. You were confident enough now to tug away at his zippers. Step one was completed, you’ve successfully opened him up like a Christmas present.

But.. what’s next?

“What do I do next?”

“What do you think you do?”

You reached out for the waistband of his briefs, but you were quickly met with a little slap on the back of your hand. Not a hurtful one. Just a little reminder.

“It’s best if you get him worked up first so he’s fully hard when you’re ready,” he whispered. “Why don’t you press some gentle kisses on it?”

You hummed in agreement, before you did as you’re told. Even with the dim lighting of the dining room, you could see clearly where the outline of his cock is. It’s semi-erected, you deduced. You’ve seen him in all his glory to the point where you could calculate how much more he could grow. Gently, you closed the gap between you and those pair of briefs he’s wearing. Your mouth was hot and warm in contrast to the cold air, so when you finally pressed a kiss on top of his clothed shaft, his cock twitched immediately. You could feel it and see it too in certain lighting. Encouraged, you press even more kisses on each and every spot, slowly building up the desire until you reach the leaking tip. You nuzzled your nose close. It smelled like him, salty with a tinge of masculine musk.

This turned you on so much that you inevitably grinded your bottom towards the cold tile. Nothing was there to satiate your throbbing core, just a short term burst of pleasure.

“Shit, sweetie,” he hissed. “I think you’re ready.”

With haste, you quickly tugged on his waistband. You didn’t expect for his length to pop out that quickly, the startled reaction you had was proof of that. He looked.. pretty. Blushed beige with a ruddy tip that's covered. It’s a little silly that that’s the first thing that came to your mind, but it’s the truth. You’d never guess that you could get this up close. Eye level to the cock you’ve been fantasizing about, where you could practically see each and every one of his veins. You didn’t say one word. Instead, you settled on observing the new interest. Your one finger went up curiously to touch the white substance that’s pooling up top. Sticky, you thought. Out of curiosity, you stuck the lone finger down your throat. Salty was the next thought in line.

“Didn’t expect you to taste it,” he chuckled.

You simmered in the sudden embarrassment.

“What’s next? Should I just put it in my mouth?”

“You could.”

“There’s another way?” you peered up curiously.

“Well,” he hummed. You watched as his finger pried your lips open once more, urging you to stick out your wet tongue. “You could make a show out of it. Look me in the eye and lick me slowly.”

You quirked your eyebrows as if unsure if this will work. You’ve never taken yourself as a ‘sexy’ person. Will this even work? To get rid of those plaguing thoughts, you decided to take a leap of faith. You stuck your tongue out more and slowwwwly dragged it along his salty length. You made sure to keep your eyes on his, watching his every micro reaction to decide which one pleased him more. This is supposed to be about Simon! Why are you.. seeking for his validation? On instinct, you pulled the hooded skin back to reveal his furiously red tip. You laughed nervously before you experimentally sucked on it. The wet warmth instantly had him buck up into you, a strained groan following suit. 

“Oh shit,” he cursed. “You’re doing good.”

Getting confident, you decided to suckle on it a little more. It tasted a lot more intense than what you’ve tasted of him, but it wasn’t bad at all.

“You think you could take more, sweetheart?”

You nodded before letting his length infiltrate your mouth even more. The end touched the back of your throat ambitiously before you had to pull back and set yourself onto his sensitive tip once more. It wasn’t as easy as his co-stars are making it seem. There was a rhythm in which you have to master, a balance of push and pull so that you don’t gag at the intrusion. His soft groans were heavenly. You didn’t get to hear much of it the first time around, but now it’s all you could think of. You can’t take it anymore! You just had to touch yourself.

“Shit, you’re a dirty gal, are ya?” he chuckled. “Had to touch yourself to this?”

You cried out a muffled moan. It was all too familiar. The way in which you slipped your hand into your pants, shuffling between the layers of panties to rub at your clit. You were already drenched with need. Strings of arousal webbed between your fingers as you rubbed figure eights all across the sensitive patch of nerves. You’re losing track of the rhythm and Mr. Miller took notice of that. He was kind enough to lead you. His fingers slotted perfectly behind the crown of your head, guiding you in a pace you could tolerate.

“Perfect mouth for little Simon,” he degraded.

Mr. Miller’s large hands continued to move you at a certain pace. The time slot left for you to gather your breath tightened and it’s almost like you could pass out from the lack of oxygen. But it felt too good. He tasted too nice. You’ve got his cock in your mouth and it’s spurting out tangy liquid goodness onto your tongue, what else can you ask for? 

You continued to grind onto the palm of your hand, desperate enough to not think of how shameless you looked. So slick, your fingers let out a lewd pop everytime it dipped inside of you. Usually you weren’t fond of vaginal penetration by yourself, but the thought of having his cock inside of you left you rabid. This was supposed to be about Simon, is it not?

“You wanna know what a real man tastes like?” he mused out lazily.

You nodded desperately. Mr. Miller held your head tight against his pelvis. Your nose grazed against the coarse dark curls he had as he twitched inside of you. You continued to slick the pads of your fingers against yourself. An entire week of masturbation being combined into one as you felt that familiar pressure build in your stomach. A coil waiting to be snapped.

“Sh- shit.”

Mr. Miller broke first. He hunched slightly as he rode his orgasm out. You could see how his legs trembled and his hips bucked himself even further down your throat. 

There it was. The salty trace you tried earlier came in big spurts down your throat, only when you couldn’t fit more did it start seeping out your mouth. It dribbled down the gaps between his softened cock and your aching mouth, stripes of white just trickling down vulgarly. You moaned into his cock, wetting the flimsy material of your panties. A combination of the scent his cock gave to the familiar rubs to your clit had you seeing stars. You knew for a fact that the linoleum tiles would be soaked with your juices when you come up to your feets. 

This isn’t a problem anymore, it’s a catastrophe.