#top women’s magazine
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#im thirsty#raffle prize#crtq#top!john#sexquote#thicc women#4th doctor#stravinsky#hamster#vulnerable#alebecca#devil tony#homophobes#magazine
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"Going back in time to recreate the shot that I did in 1967- just mind-blowing," Twiggy says. It's been more than 50 years since she first modeled the Louis Vuitton Papillon bag-as well as accessories similar to the Vacheron Constantin watch and Tiffany & Co. chain bracelet shown here-for the original Bert Stern image and yet "I actually remember the shoot quite well" she says. "It's wonderful to be recreating it."
- Twiggy for Vogue Magazine!
I love this!!! 😭❤️
#fashion#sivcontributor#vogue#womenswear#women's fashion#twiggy#americas next top model#louis vuitton#us vogue#vogue magazine#supermodel#tiffany and co#bert stern
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#beauty#vintage#vintage women#beautiful women#vintage beauty#adult magazine#men's magazine#magazine#tip top
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goodxnight guys~~~
#completely forgot that there was another lxl interview back from when the [redacted] anime had just finished airing lmao#it’s from the same feature in which the [redacted] anime director outright said that thing about mona lol#(as in: the ‘mona’s a popular character with a fleshed out backstory but she’s just hiyori’s therapist friend in this loloops’ thing)#i was in such an upset disbelief about it at the time that i completely forgot about the lxl interview man… 2k22 sure was *a* year huh#maybe i’ll get to this interview on either wednesday or this weekend… i need to prepare my lxl tling mindset for the album interview lol#(im still unsure if the magazine will ship lmfao it’s been processing for a g e s [read: 3 days] since i bought it lmao)#(either way i think itll only come in earliest by this weekend bc im still waiting for my nghy impulse purchase standees too)#(and even if it does come i wanna tl the kawaikute gomen vol 1 bonus manga first [if it actually arrives])#(women’s wrongs are always top priority yk~~~~?)#(though. haha… i think i’ll have the entire hw manga collection when my next batch of purchases come in… s o b s my storage space—)#(the dolce manga exist as just ebooks in my collection thoughhhh. the dolce manga is p much the perfect mix of crack and tragedy tbh)#(like. there are scenes with girisha and his *girisha-ness* b u t there are also scenes with fuuma and his heartbreaking backstory)#(re-reading my (frankly) bad tl of ‘happy’ (shiina chapter) doesn’t make me happy at all.)#(i should really get round to reworking it these days… like the fonts and such are *atrocious*)#b u t i digress anyway lxl old interview tl (maybe) coming soon this week depending on exhaustion levels sorry for clogging the dash gn guys
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Monica Barbaro at Variety Power of Women 24'
#women#woman empowerment#female#hollywood#actress#monica barbaro#variety magazine#burgundy dress#gown#floral#brunette#fashionable#stylish#look of the day#american#top gun maverick#celebrities#pretty face
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toccara jones
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new magazine cover feat. this slutty bitch coming!!
#that one guy on steam being like 'you draw women too masculine!!1!1' and i guess my response is 'ok here's a guy with bedroom eyes' djfhdfkj#no but like you think duke dashing wouldn't be making love to that camera for a magazine cover shoot??#you think this man isn't merkopa's next top model???#MIND YOU i hate him he's gonna kick my ass but CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE he's hot.....#anyway yoinking some leyendecker pose cause i havent done that in some time and i found the perfect one for this! yippee!!#wip
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Kendall Jenner for W Magazine
#kendall jenner#fashion#photography#fashion magazine#supermodel#high fashion#moodboard#womenswear#2000s style#2000s nostalgia#instagram#kim kardashian#the kardashians#the jenners#top model#w magazine#women fashion#kendallandkylie#fashion trends#runway model#laquan smith#Prada#kaia gerber#marc jacobs#tory burch#stella mccartney#vogue paris#paris fashion week#nyfw23#london
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The Luxxemag | Best Luxury Fashion Magazines
Emma D’Arcy, at this point in their career, has become synonymous with the core character Rhaenyra Targaryen from ‘House of the Dragon’. They have made a big splash in the entertainment industry with this role, but there’s more to Emma than playing a stoic and badass Monarch – their distinct personality and style shines through in every scene. Read More.
#Best fashion magazines in India#Premium Luxury Lifestyle Magazine Online#Latest fashion magazines for woman#Best fashion magazines for men#Luxury fashion magazine Online#Luxury fashion magazine for men#Trending fashion magazine for Women#Best luxury fashion magazines for men#Top fashion magazines in india
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https://www.zazzle.com/z/aogzm6v8?rf=238378723538093137
FANTASTIC
#womens-black-tshirt#no-more-womens-black-tshirt#zazzle#nomore#womens-top#fashion#fashion magazine#walmart#departmentstore#hoogke#text-art#black-background#yellow-textart#yellow-words#tumblr#womens-black-short-sleeve-black-tshirt#tshirt#takeaction#media#community#art#fortmyers#florida#google#business#marketing#msn#googlebusinesslisting#business-listing#social-media-network
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"What emerged in two interviews with Trump, and conversations with more than a dozen of his closest advisers and confidants, were the outlines of an imperial presidency that would reshape America and its role in the world. To carry out a deportation operation designed to remove more than 11 millions people from the country, Trump told me, he would be willing to build migrant detention camps and deploy the U.S. military, both at the border and inland. He would let red states monitor women's pregnancies and prosecute those who violate abortion bans. He would, at his personal discretion, withhold funds appropriated by Congress, according to top advisers. He would be willing to fire a U.S. Attorney who doesn't carry out his order to prosecute someone, breaking with a tradition of independent law enforcement that dates from America's founding. He is weighing pardons for every one of his supporters accused of attacking the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, more than 800 of whom have pleaded guilty or been convicted by a jury. He might not come to the aid of an attacked ally in Europe or Asia if he felt that country wasn't paying enough for its own defense. He would gut the U.S. civil service, deploy the National Guard to American cities as he sees fit, close the White House pandemic-preparedness office, and staff his Administration with acolytes who back his false assertion that the 2020 election was stolen."
-- "How Far Would He Go", TIME Magazine's interviews with Donald Trump, April 30, 2024.
I know we're saturated in coverage of Trump and it's easy (and probably better for our mental health) to usually ignore most of the articles when we see them, especially since he's so full of shit and infuriating. But it's also important to recognize that he is going to be the Republican nominee for President and he could absolutely be elected in November, and if you thought his first term was scary and dangerous, you need to understand that in a second term he's going to have people around him that are better prepared and VERY willing to do the crazy shit that he wants to do to this country. They aren't even hiding the fact that they are seeking vengeance against political opponents whom they feel have wronged them, and are ready to fundamentally dismantle the democratic foundations that are barely holding this country together after nearly 250 years.
Just look at what Trump says about the people who he incited to attack the United States Capitol in an attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 election and halt the peaceful transfer of power that has happened every four years since 1789:
"Trump has sought to recast an insurrectionist riot as an act of patriotism. 'I call them the J-6 patriots,' he say. When I ask whether he would consider pardoning every one of them, he says, 'Yes, absolutely.' As Trump faces dozens of felony charges, including for election interference, conspiracy to defraud the United States, willful retention of national-security secrets, and falsifying business records to conceal hush-money payments, he has tried to turn legal peril into a badge of honor."
Oh, and please note that Trump -- a former President of the United States and possible future President of the United States -- said on the record in these interviews with TIME: "There is a definite antiwhite feeling in the country and that can't be allowed either." We are at a point where political leaders are outright saying that in this country again, and it's because of Donald Trump.
So, take the time to recognize that Trump is straight-up telling us the country we're going to be living in if he wins again in November. And understand that your vote matters -- and WHO you vote for matters -- because, as I've been saying for years now, ELECTIONS HAVE FUCKING CONSEQUENCES.
#2024 Election#Politics#Donald Trump#President Trump#Trump Administration#Vote#ELECTIONS HAVE CONSEQUENCES#TIME Magazine
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One Single Thread of Gold
Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Part 2 Summary: The three times Penelope tries to solve a Spencer Reid riddle and the one time she (and the team) meet the reason behind all the changes Trope: Fluff! Just fluff and team banter! w.c: 4.0k a/n: For some reason, my earlier post on this disappeared dunno why. But this is a very self indulgent fic as reader’s background is basically based on the industry I work in. I had a lot of fun writing the team banter and I hope you enjoy it too! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated 💗
The first clue presented itself on a dull Wednesday night as the team, minus Hotch and Rossi, were leaving the bullpen after a full day of pushing papers. Penelope in all of her sunshine and colorful glory was buzzing about these accessories that she once spotted on a storefront window.
“I saw a pair of earrings and a matching necklace that would look so good with that top you bought the other day, JJ. You know, the blue one with those soft sleeves—they would look great with it. It’s tres boho chic.”
JJ smiled, opening her mouth to reply, but Spencer beat her to it.
“Did you know that boho chic was actually a response to political and social movements?”
“Wait, what?” Emily interjected.
He took her disbelief as a sign to continue on. “Yeah, yeah. There’s an article written about it in Vogue—softness and femininity historically appears in moments of political stress and war. Just like in the 70s with the hippie and anti-war movement that defined their style as a generation.”
They all piled into the elevator and turned to face the boy genius like he grew another head. For all they knew, this could be a clone and a very bad one at that. The Spencer Reid that they knew had absolutely no interest in the realms of fashion.
Penelope was the first to break the silence. “Vogue?”
“Kid, what gives? Just the other time, you didn’t know how many shoes a woman owns and now you’re some kind of expert?” Derek asked with both eyebrows raised.
“Did not knowing activate some kind of button that made you want to read about it?” Emily added on, feeling like she was in some kind of TV prank show.
“What?” Spencer licked his lips, nervous with all the attention on him. He felt like he was about to slip something up that he had been keeping to himself for a while now. A hidden precious gem that was you. “I—I like to read.” A believable excuse except his voice went up an octave, giving him away.
The three women shared a look.
“But you read academic textbooks and classic literature,” JJ stated.
Penelope added on. “Not fashion magazines.”
He shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “I don’t discriminate when it comes to reading. If it’s interesting—” he shifted his weight one side to another, thinking that the ride down on the elevator seemed to be taking slower than usual. “—I’ll read it.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes. She was no profiler but she could smell a lie from a mile away way. That wasn’t the whole truth. Dr. Spencer Reid was hiding something.
“Okay, see you tomorrow!” he squeaked out as he ran out of the elevator once it hit the lobby.
She turned to the three profilers, stunned with the boy genius’ erratic behavior. “Huh, did anybody else get the feeling that Spencer was hiding something?”
“Maybe, but the kid does read a lot. Maybe he just ran out of books.” Morgan shrugged.
The other two profilers tilted their heads and slowly nodded in agreement. It wasn’t far off on something Spencer would do. He did once pick up a pamphlet in the airport to read as mentioned before to her by Derek, granted it was for a case but still, Penelope couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else.
So when she arrived home that very same night, she propped up her laptop and got to digging. Boy Genius was hiding something big and Little Miss Oracle of Quantico can find anything with her tech skills. She’ll get to the bottom of this mystery, once and for all.
———
Spencer was glad to be coming home to your presence. Having spied the lights still on from the outside of the apartment, he took the steps two at a time, excited to see his 2nd favorite person after his mother—you.
“Spence?” You called out, having heard the mahogany front door open. “Is that you, baby?”
“Hey, love. I missed you,” he deposited his satchel to the nearby sofa and ran to give you a hug.
You burrowed yourself into his arms. All the muscles in your body relaxing as you caught a whiff of his cedar wood perfume—the same scent you’ve gifted to him during the early stages of dating. “I missed you too. How was your day?”
“Better now with you,” his words coming out muffled as he refused to detach himself from the embrace. “Actually, I almost slipped up today.”
You extricated from his arms to give him an inquisitive look. The slight scrunch on your nose and raised brows made his heart flutter. How expressive, free, and trusting you were. It reminded him of your first encounter. How you teasingly asked him if he was a serial killer when he offered you a ride home in the pouring rain and how you easily accepted regardless.
“Yeah? Did any of them catch on?” you probed as you pulled him by his belt loops to the direction of the bedroom.
He laughed, finding your aggression cute. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Maybe we should schedule dinner with them sometime,” you coyly suggested as you slowly started to unravel his tie. “I mean, we’ve been together for over a year now and I have moved into your apartment, under the guise of watering your plants while you’re away. Which is a lie, by the way—”
“I have plants!” he protested. His hands divesting you out of his sweater, bringing to view his favorite silk set in deep purple that accentuated your skin and the blush on your cheeks.
“—that I brought over, Spence,” you quipped back. “But don’t worry, I won’t spill how the intelligent FBI agent fooled naive me into moving in with him.”
There was a glint in his eyes that sent shivers down your spine. “Love, I wouldn’t exactly call you naive—” his voice going an octave lower. “—not when you’re looking at me with those tempting eyes of yours.”
Giggling, you leaned in for a kiss, one that he quickly took over. His calloused dominant hand wrapped around the back of your neck, effectively caging you in while his other cradled your cheek—a stark contrast to the other. Kissing Spencer had always felt like a religious experience that you never want to part from.
Reluctantly pulling away, you caught glimpse of his need for you. His hazel eyes now dark as ink, nostrils slightly flared, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and his dominant hand dug into the fleshy nape of your neck. It made you feel desirable, like the goddess that he would call you when he’s on his knees tasting nectar from the source.
The discussion of inviting the team out for dinner was long forgotten. No other words were spoken as you pushed him on the bed—only the cries of his and your name and moans of ‘yes’ echoed well into the night.
***
The second clue was uncovered when Spencer walked into the cold windy bullpen with new black cardigan adorning his lithe body. It was non-descriptive to the untrained eye but for fashion enthusiast Penelope Garcia, she knew what those four white lines on the sleeve meant—luxury label and priced well above their pay grade.
She narrowed her eyes. The Spencer she knew wouldn’t dare spend his salary on anything besides limited first edition books. Something was truly up and she planned to get to the bottom of it as her initial online search turned up nothing.
“Reid, that’s a really nice sweater,” she complimented, throwing in her bait.
He smiled. The thought of who gave it to him warmed his heart. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks Garcia.”
Her sparkly pink kitten heels clacking on the floor as she came closer. “Can I see it?” she innocently asked.
The request threw Spencer off the loop but thought nothing of it as he shrugged and handed it to her—still warm from body temperature.
Her squeals caught the attention of the other profilers filling into the office.
“What is it, baby girl?” Morgan deposited his bag on the table and stationed himself beside her. “It’s Reid’s new sweater. Are you seeing something I’m not seeing?”
Garcia rolled her eyes. This was why females are considered more observant that their sex counterpart. Her chocolate thunder was a profiler but how could he not notice what she was deducing?
“Huh,” Emily surmised. “Based on the fibers, it’s definitely not polyester. Possibly a 100% wool, what do you think, JJ?”
“It says here on the tag—100% virgin wool,” she read out loud. “That makes it very expensive, right Garcia?”
The colorful tech analyst smiled. Her girls could never let her down. “Right you are, girlfriends! But it’s not only that, this—” pointing at the four stripes on the sleeve. “—this is a signature Thom Browne detail. Their prices go up to at least 600 dollars—” they all turned to Reid who seemed clearly agitated. “—now why does our boy wonder have a piece that could buy at most five cute heels?”
With his vast intellect, he couldn’t think of a way to weasel out of this impromptu interrogation. He couldn’t very well say that it was a gift now could he? If he did, that would lead to another hard hitting question ‘from who?’ He raked his hand through his curly hair, taking the same path as yours did just earlier as you gave him a kiss goodbye.
When you gifted him the cardigan from your last New York business trip, he really thought nothing of its material equivalence, besides feeling grateful and loved. It was proof that you paid attention to even the littlest details about him.
“Hey Spence, I got you something,” you looked up at him with sparkling eyes. The first thing you had done when you got home was run into his arms. A simple act that healed his aching heart from missing it’s other half.
You reached into your luggage, enthusiastically pulling out the black clothing wrapped in tissue paper like some magician pulling out a rabbit from a hat. “Here you go!”
“A new sweater!” He exclaimed.
You rocked on your heels, looking bashful as you explained the reasoning behind it. “I noticed you fidgeting when you wore the cardigan JJ gifted you last Christmas, the polyester fibers used on it must have been really itchy so I got you a new one—” your eyes widened at how your explanation could be taken the wrong way. “—not that her gift wasn’t great! No, it was very cute! It’s just—I want you to be comfortable and protected during your cases in cold states. Polyester is a good insulator of heat but wool is still the best.”
He loved how unabashed you rambled about your interests. That was one of the first things he piqued his notice. How you liked to share your knowledge about the fashion industry that you work for but never coming across as stuck up or snobby, you just genuinely wanted to educate anyone who had a wrong perception of the billion dollar commerce. Admittedly, he was one of them but hearing you rave about it’s nitty-gritty details and socio-economic movements changed his mind. It also helped that a beautiful and intelligent woman, such as yourself, was educating him.
He pulled you in for a kiss, stopping all the worries that ran through your head. “I love it. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing at all, baby. I like taking care of you. Just like how you take care of me,” you reasoned. “Plus I got it on sale courtesy of the magazine connections.”
A tap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. It was Penelope with an eyebrow raised at the subtle smile that graced his face while he replayed the moment in his head.
“Okay,” Morgan drawled. “What’s got you smiling, Pretty boy?”
“Nothing,” he squeaked out, turning to see Hotch make his way across the office. Spencer hurriedly collected his things and started to move even before their unit chief could call their attention.
“We have a case,” Hotch announced.
The remaining BAU members all looked at each other, silently communicating about Reid’s irregular demeanor, before piling into the conference room for another grueling scene of murder.
“He’s been acting weird,” Garcia rushed out. “Definitely hiding something. What do you think, Em?”
Emily nodded. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“A girl?” JJ guessed.
“Yes, must be a special one for him to keep secret for so long,” Garcia surmised. “Do you think he’ll hate it if I go further digging around to find out who she is?”
“Further?” Emily clarified.
JJ laughed. “Probably, let’s wait for him to volunteer the information. Okay, Garcia?”
She sighed, shoulders drooping, before nodding in agreement.
***
The third clue was quite literally handed to Penelope Garcia on the jet after a case when she accompanied the team.
“Cold Alaska is so not good for my skin,” she grumbled as she rummaged her bottomless bag for her favorite hand cream. “I love going with you all on trips rather than being stuck in my own tech cave but the weather wasn’t it.”
Morgan chuckled. “Aw c’mon baby girl, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy our time together?”
“You, my sculpted hunk, and the fireplace were the highlight,” Penelope turned to the other female profilers. “My beauties, do any of you have lotion? I think I lost mine.”
Before JJ or Emily could even utter a word, a tube made its way to her lap courtesy of her seat mate, Dr. Spencer Reid.
“Reid, since when do you carry lotion?” Emily inquired.
He shrugged. “Hand cream has it’s benefits besides from moisturizing the skin, it also provides an additional layer of protection. Depending on it’s properties, it can also repair and undo damage.”
The females all shared a look. This was another unexplainable behavior from their resident genius.
“We know that,” JJ stated. “We just thought you didn’t.”
His brows furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, besides from the fact that you’ve never shown interest about skincare before, isn’t it a stereotype for men not to know? Unless—” Emily slyly smiled and nodded at Garcia to continue.
“Unless you have a girlfriend that we don’t know about,” Garcia bounced on her seat.
Hook, line, and sinker.
Spencer’s eyes widened in alarm. He didn’t realize he was walking into a trap before it was too late. “What makes you say that?”
They laughed.
JJ started. “Besides from you suddenly being knowledgeable in fashion—“
“—or having a pricey sweater you’d never buy for yourself—” Emily added on.
“Or, or—“ Garcia reached out to touch his hand. Which made Spencer react with a high pitched call of her name. “—having a shea butter lotion with rough hands!” She waved the tube up in the air. “Plus, this is half empty. So either it’s not working which I doubt since this is a good brand or you keep this in your bag for a special someone to use!”
Derek chuckled. “Baby girl, you could be a profiler at this point.”
“Oh tell me something I don’t know,” she quipped back. “So Reid, want to tell us the truth?”
He sighed, finding no escape. “Yes, yes I have a girlfriend.”
The girls all shrieked with laughter and their own corresponding questions of who is she? How did you meet? How long has this been going on? What does she do for a living? Is she pretty? Oh I bet she is!
“Looks like that cat is out of the bag,” Rossi nonchalantly stated.
Four sets of eyes turned to look at one of the BAU founders. “Rossi, you knew about this and didn’t tell me?” Garcia gasped, a hand to her chest at the thought of betrayal.
He laughed. “I caught them on a dinner date once and our boy wonder over here—“ nodded in Reid’s direction. “—begged me not to out him yet, said he wanted to be the one to tell the team the news but that was like what, six months ago?”
“Six months ago?” Emily repeated.
“Wait, wait. Hotch, don’t tell me you also knew?” Morgan asked.
The unit chief smiled. “She was added to Reid’s emergency contact last February.”
“February? That’s almost a year ago!” JJ sputtered out.
The tech analyst turned to glare at the youngest member of the BAU. “Reid, you better start spilling all the details or so help me, I will stalk all your digital footprint when we land until I find out who she is, where she lives, and what her deepest darkest secret is.”
“What about hearing it all from her, instead?” He rubbed the back of his neck. The secrecy had gone on for so long and there was no time like the present to introduce his chosen family to his chosen partner—hopefully until the end of time. “She wants to treat you all out for dinner tonight.”
All four nodded vigorously as they watched him pull out his phone and send a quick text to which you readily replied and agreed to.
“My man,” Derek sighed. “Can’t believe you got a girlfriend without me being your wingman.”
“Answer me at least this, is she pretty and does she make you happy?” Garcia asked. No matter how nosey she may be, she only wanted the best for Spencer and if the recent lightness and smiles were all caused by his mystery girlfriend, she already approved.
“The prettiest,” Spencer gushed out. “She’s my own personal sunshine.”
The three girls melted into their seats. Their youngest was all grown up waxing prose over his lover.
“She makes you sappy too,” Derek teased.
***
[EXTRA - When the mystery was uncovered]
Spencer had never felt any more nervous that this moment as he, with the rest of the team minus Hotch and Rossi, wait for your arrival. He sat with his back to the restaurant entrance and his cardigan laying on the empty seat beside him as a reservation mark. His eyes had been going back and forth to his idle phone and to the conversation the team was having.
Morgan noted his state of distress and chuckled. “You okay there, lover boy? She’s still coming right, your mystery girlfriend?”
“Yeah, yeah. She said she was on her way 9 minutes and 24 seconds ago and based on the route and traffic, she should have been here 45 seconds earlier. Just worried that something might have happened.”
Penelope leaned in, picking on her bubblegum pink choice of drink as she did. “You know, if you just told me her name I could have tracked every movement by now and you wouldn’t be sitting here worrying.”
“What—no Garcia, I don’t want her tracked plus she didn’t want you to know everything about her even before meeting her,” his voice going up an octave in your defense.
She shrugged. “I’m just saying. I mean we don’t know a single thing about her—”
“We do know she exists and you’ve been together for almost a year now,” Emily interjected.
“Actually, it’s been more than year—one year and 124 days to be exact.”
“Buttercup, all I’m saying is we don’t even know how she looks—” Garcia gasped, having spotted a passerby on the window and what she was wearing. “Oh my gosh, that maroon coat is to die for and that textured leather bag—I wonder if I could track her down and ask where she got it.”
“Oh she’s pretty,” JJ noted.
Derek smirked. “Baby girl, tell me if you plan to ask her ‘cause I wouldn’t mind asking for her number.”
The tech analyst’s eyes further widened as she noted the attractive woman going inside the restaurant.
“You weren’t kidding about that coat, Garcia, it looks really nice,” JJ appraised.
Emily squinted her eyes, taking note of the garment in question. “It looks high quality, probably vintage and—is she going near us?”
“Oh gods, she is! Act natural, act natural!” Penelope chanted as she repeatedly slapped Derek’s arm.
The stranger stopped behind Spencer. “Hey handsome,” your melodic voice was a siren that called to his every being. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Penelope’s jaw dropped as she took in Derek’s flustered reaction.
“Me?” He pointed at himself, getting picked up in such a public setting was new even for him—the ladies man of the BAU.
You laughed. “Well, you too but I was more of talking to this lover of mine—“ you bent down, kissing your boyfriend’s cheek. “Hey, Spence.”
A series of gasps were heard all around the table.
The youngest stood up and turned to give you a soft kiss on the lips. “Hey, Y/N. I was starting to get worried.”
“I missed the train, sorry I forgot to send an update,” you explained as he helped you into your seat.
Promptly seating back down, he angled his body to yours—all attention on you as if you were the only one in the room. And in a way you were, with how molten his doe eyes stared, alternating between yours and your painted lips that begged to be kissed.
He always felt breathless when you were near. It was as if he found his very own Aphrodite to worship here on earth. Spencer was no believer of fates or destiny but he would pray and light a candle if he needed to, just to keep you his. Your intelligent mind complimenting his, your outgoing personality that draws anyone in, and your face that could launch a thousand ships.
Those eyes that could read the deepest crevices of his fiber of being. Those cheeks that begged to be caressed by his calloused hands. Those soft lips that deserved to be kissed and devoured until you, in turn, were as breathless as he was. He suddenly wished you both were anywhere else but here—specifically in the confines of the apartment where he was free to express his love, devotion, and adoration until you scream his name and beg him to stop. His hand, having found it’s way to your thigh, squeezed the flesh three times—communicating his promise to have your hair laid around you like a halo as you lay under him, bare and writhing with need.
The blonde on the other end of the table cleared her throat, cutting through the tension.
“Okay, Spence,” she smiled. “Mind introducing us to your girlfriend?”
He brought your hand to his lips, leaving a series of sweet kisses on your knuckle. “This is Y/N, my girlfriend. Y/N, this is the rest of the team. Morgan—“ he gestured to each one. “Emily, JJ, and Garcia.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you!” You exclaimed. “So sorry we’re only meeting now. We wanted to stay in our little bubble for as long as we could plus this handsome FBI agent—” you nudged Spencer’s shoulder. “—wanted to keep me to himself. But where’s Aaron and Dave?”
Emily whispered under her breath. “Aaron? Dave?”
“They had prior commitments, love. They did send their regards and Rossi wants to invite you to the next gathering at his mansion,” Spencer explained.
“Love?” Penelope squeaked out. This was really starting to feel like Twilight zone for the team members.
You nodded. “I’ll definitely plot it on my calendar. Now, I heard you had some questions for me?”
“How’d you two meet?” JJ asked.
“When was the first date?” Emily inquired.
Penelope brought out a pen and paper. “What’s you social security number?”
Derek snorted at that. “Do you have any other siblings?”
Spencer’s eyebrows raised further and further up with each question while your shoulders shook with laughter.
“She has all the time in the world to get to know each of you,” Spencer laid out. “No need to make it sound like an interrogation.” He was wishing to keep you forever, if you’d let him.
You smiled as you caressed his cheek, having caught on to the veiled meaning behind his words. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfiction#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfiction#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x reader#my own fics
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The BAU team meeting Hotch’s younger gf who looks like she walked off the front cover of a magazine & she’s so bubbly and has a really comforting energy! How would they react????
The satisfying little clicks of heels against the marble floor wasn’t enough to gain any of their attention usually, but accompanied by the delicately enchanting chimes of true laughter and sweet smell of baked goods—eyes were immediately lifting to investigate to the scene.
“Thank you so much!” An incredibly sweet, honeyed voice gushed genuinely, “here, all of these are meant for my boyfriend but I’m sure he won’t even notice.”
The team traded immensely interested looks as they surveyed the scene, Anderson (who was uncharacteristically blushing a bright flustered cherry red) was being handed a chocolate chip muffin by—wow—a startlingly gorgeous young women who was dressed in inviting soft colours and had a large sweet smile on her face that served to emphasise her lovely appearance.
“My day just got a hundred times better.” Derek grinned, swivelling his chair sideways to speak to the rest of his team while barely taking his eyes off you.
“You’re telling me.” Emily’s mouth hung open a little as she leaned forwards on her elbows to look at you more closely.
“Behave.” JJ scolded before her brief look of reprimand melted under Emily’s pointed stare, “she’s looks so sweet I just wanna eat her.”
“She has a boyfriend.” Spencer reminded them.
“What—?”
“Pretty boy—you and—“
“Oh—oh, no!” Spencer flustered, sputtering out the gulp of his coffee he had in his mouth (JJ handed him a napkin with a mothers readiness). “Not—I would be absolutely honoured—and—and, for lack of a sensical phrase, over the moon, to have a romantic relationship with a woman such as her but—no, unfortunately. She—she said a few moments ago that has a boyfriend.”
“Ah.” Emily blinked, a slow almost sheepish smirk on his lips, “I wasn’t really listening to what she was saying, just watching her lips move.”
“Preach sister.” Derek leaned forward for a fist-bump which Emily easily gave, both of them nodding in solidarity.
“Hello!” They all startled heavily as your gentle, happy voice chimed now much closer to them and mouths dropped subtly at just how beautiful you looked up close.
“Well hello sweetheart.”
“H-hi.”
“Hi gorgeous.”
“Hello!”
You blinked at them, an adorable giggle leaving you at the onslaught of greetings that came all at once. “Hi! You wouldn’t happen to know where Aaron Hotchner’s office is would you?”
“Hotch?” Emily furrowed her brows at you curiously and then seemed to forgot about, well, any of anything she was thinking as your bubbly smile and sparkling eyes turned her way and you gave a cheerful ‘yep!’ “Um—just, up those stairs, the first door at the top.”
“Thank you very much.” You told her, voice as sweet as the packet of fizzy haribos hidden in her desk. “It was lovely meeting you all, we’ll probably be better acquainted later on.”
With a sparkly mischievous twinkle in your bright eyes and another adorable giggle, you took off in a small spin that sent the enchanting mix of your perfume and the baked goods wafting over to all of them and they all watched, entranced, as you climbed the steps to their boss’ office.
After several seconds of dazed silence, Spencer gasped.
“Boyfriend—“
“Yeah I wouldn’t mind being her boyfriend either.” Derek murmured. “At all—really, no sweat off my back.”
“Hotch.”
JJ’s mouth dropped open as she realised where Spencer was going with his train of thought, rolling back in her chair as they pointed at him in realisation.
“Oh my God!”
“Hotch—hotch, is her boyfriend..?” Spencer sounded extremely confused, mouth falling open and closing repeatedly.
“Huh?”
“Reid, you are having a giggle.”
“No, he’s right.” JJ confirmed, mouth open and eyebrows raised. “She said she was here to see her boyfriend and she’s gone to see Hotch. . 2 plus 2 equals. .”
“. . An incredibly brokenhearted Derek Morgan.” Derek’s own mouth dropped open, craning his neck to see what was going on in the office of his boss before realising that Hotch had shut the blinds. Derek gasped, that sneak.
“And a flummoxed Emily Prentiss.”
“But she’s so—“
“Yeah.”
“And he’s like—“
“Literally!”
“Well, the last few months Hotch has been incredibly more relaxed, in fact his percentage of smiles given has gone up from a measly 30% to almost 84%, his laugh quota has reached high yet levels than I’ve ever known it to be. I had also noted that every Thursday he never goes home as late as he usually retires for the day and with this new revelation of a relationship—I assume this correlates to their date nights.”
“It does.”
Everyone turned in their chairs quickly to face their boss who now stood outside his office a faintly amused smile curving up his lips, at his side was you and you were wearing an amused and loving smile, eyes practically sparkling after Spencer’s speech on your boyfriend’s behaviour as they flickered up to said boyfriend beside you who looked down at you with soft, fond eyes.
“So you figured out my secret.” You grinned at them all, taking in Spencer’s red cheeks and Emily’s flabbergasted, dazed stare. “I’m Y/N, Aaron’s girlfriend!”
“Doesn’t that just crush a man’s hopes and dreams.” Derek pouted quietly to himself, straightening up in alarm when his boss’ intense eyes zeroed in on him.
“Honey, this is JJ—“ The blonde gave a warm, welcoming smile and a wave, “Spencer,” said genius gave a tight lipped awkward smile, hands flailing awkwardly and cheeks a burning fiery red, feeling this pulse thump when they smiled back directly at him, “Emily and Derek.” Both of the aforementioned gave waves with half flirty-ish smirks and half genuine smiles.
The door to Rossi’s office opened and when he stepped out and saw you beside Aaron he smiled happily, walking towards you both.
“Ah, Y/N!” He took you into an embrace, kissing both of your cheeks. “You get more beautiful every time I see you, is this big brute treating you right?”
“Always, Dave.”
He patted you on the shoulders, smiling, before turning to Aaron who was rolling his eyes at him fondly.
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Rossi!” Emily’s astounded voice exclaimed, “you—know Y/N—you knew about this—“
It was Dave’s turn to roll his eyes as he continued walking to descend down the stairs, tutting at her disappointedly.
“You thought I wouldn’t?” He countered, “who do you think encouraged him to go for it?”
You laughed at that and your boyfriend smiled down at you fondly, looping an arm around your waist—seemingly forgetting he was in his place of work and needed to keep up the facade of stone cold, emotionless boss.
“What—Rossi—get back here—“ Derek leaped up from his seat and trailed after the older man.
“What, you gonna come watch me take a leak?”
“If it means we get some answers!”
“Shoo parassita.”
All you could do was laugh again, smiling up at your boyfriend as his arm tightened around your waist and he pulled you closer into his side. You were very happy with your decision to come and deliver baked goods to him.
#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotch x reader#aaron hotch imagine#aaron x reader#hotch x reader#hotch x you#aaron hotchner x you#criminal minds#criminal minds imagine#aaron hotchner smut
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he's married ?! nanami kento.
sum. he's easily the top most handsome guy within his job. his relationship status is unknown, so what happens when his co-workers ship him with a female worker?
nanami is well known within his company. tall, insanely fit, and an attractive voice. it's not uncommon for men and women alike to find themselves thinking about him often. what's not common is knowing about his love life. no one knows anything and he would've kept it that way. but when push comes to shove, and you're shipped with someone who's not your beloved, nanami will make it known that he's not only taken but married.
in the coffee-break room there are three guys. now, there's nothing unusual about this — no, no. they're just three guys that are co-workers... except there's a twist. they aren't your regular co-workers, they're your uncommon trio of male gossipers and nanami just so happened to be their newest victim.
"shh, shh! he's here," guy one, tichi, whispers to the others, raising his eyebrows and pointing his chin to nanami's position.
the other two take a quick glance, nodding their heads when they've seen nanami's back faced towards them. it's a perfect moment to strike up a conversation, especially since it's just four men here.
guy two, tacho, shuffles his feet to the empty space near nanami. he pretends to open a sugar packet, fiddling with it as his eyes peep over nanami's shoulder. his heart skips multiple beats when the man himself turns around.
"morning to you, tacho," nanami greets, nodding his head before he turns his attention back to his cup of coffee.
"y-yeah, morning!" he stutters, awkwardly smiling in return. he turns his head to the other two in the background, mouthing the word 'help' to them. unfortunately, they do not give the aid to their friend. instead, tichi fakes a series of coughs and guy three, toeny, gives him a confident double thumbs up. there's no hope, tacho sighs.
it's a silent moment between the men — only the sounds of coffee brewing and a spoon coming into contact with the mug can be heard. tacho's mouth itches him, he happened to remember his group's recent conversation about nanami. he must ask — even if it costs him a mutual co-worker.
"so, nanami," he begins, waiting for nanami to give him the undivided attention.
nanami doesn't face him, but he hums in response. tacho doesn't mind this as an answer, so he continues, "i was wondering if the rumors of you being with the new worker, yeri, are true?"
there is one big lie in that question: there are no such rumors. it's just a theory the trio has been gossiping about every night. nanami's been helping out yeri for quite some time, one can only think that they have a special connection going on.
"that is bullshit," nanami gives a firm answer. nothing more, nothing less.
tacho's stunned, he blinks a few times to recollect himself. "oh — so you're not with her?"
nanami doesn't answer yet, but the two in the back give their unwanted reactions. tichi clicks his tongue three times, shaking his head in disappointment at tacho's second question. it's obvious dumbass, he thinks. toeny, on the other hand, presses his lips in a thin line, pretending to read a magazine that's been on the counter.
nanami reaches into his pocket, whipping out his phone. the trio's confused until nanami speaks.
"i am married man. this is my wife," he educates, pressing the power button to show you as his lockscreen.
he collects three gasps, internally nodding at their shock. that's right, i'm gladly taken.
"all this time you've been... MARRIED?!" tacho's voice heightens, he drops his spoon in shock. it's unbelievable yet somewhat believable.
nanami breathes out a 'yes', raising his arm to show the wristwatch. "she bought this for our five-years anniversary recently. it's quite expensive, going over four-thousand," he brags, emphasizing on key words.
he's been waiting for the precious day where someone indirectly asks for his relationship status. the day has come and he will spend it bragging about his beloved.
nanami doesn't give them a chance to speak, he carries on with his bragging, "she's a very lovely woman. all my bentos are made by her and she writes little notes for each. some may think it's childish but that's bullshit! they just haven't experienced the love of a woman. matter of fact, her most beautiful moments are when she's freshly awake. the smile she gives me is nothing but angelic."
his speech doesn't stop there, but it did for the trio. his words went in one ear and out the next. nanami's blabbering about his wife immediately set a blank face upon tichi, tacho, and toeny. they're jealous and also surprised.
"the way a woman can change a man will never not be amazing," toeny whispers, blankly gazing at nanami's ongoing speech.
#. ae-generated: jujutsu kaisen#tic tac toe ( tichi tacho toeny )#nanami x reader#nanami kento x reader#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#nanami fluff#nanami kento fluff#nanami drabbles#jjk fluff#jjk drabbles#jjk x fem!reader#nanami x you
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NOVEMBER ft. Somi
somi x male reader smut
9k words
"It's this challenge I'm doing. One whole month—thirty days—without having an orgasm," you're explaining, failing spectacularly at keeping things professional. Something possesses you to add: "No nutting. Hence the name."
Somi just stares at you. Flabbergasted.
Leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms; tearing your entire existence apart with her eyes.
"Can I just say, and I genuinely mean this in the nicest way possible—but that’s the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard."
—
Here's the conclusion you've arrived at from the one hour you've spent with her: Jeon Somi is some kind of demon.
It’s not a joke, it’s not some painterly metaphor you’re drawing—Somi has clawed her way out from the depths with nothing but a ponytail and an alarmingly tight pair of leggings; arriving on Earth, in the flesh, to make your life a living, breathing, sweat-drenched hell.
So, yeah.
Somi, the succubus. Or something close to that.
It's the only explanation for it really.
See, you're a photographer. Of women, specifically.
Beautiful women in intimate settings, sparse aesthetics. That’s your whole deal. Just homing in on the subject, capturing something ‘real’ without any distractions. Get the essence of who they are when there’s no one looking.
Pretentious, sure, but it’s what’s kept you in demand with the glossy magazines and the avant-garde galleries and the starlets desperate to convince the public that they’re more than just the pretty robots their agencies have programmed them to be.
So, suffice to say, you've met all the types.
The innocent idols that need a mountain of coaxing to come out of their shells. The stone-cold divas that barely acknowledge your existence, yet somehow still expect you to anticipate their every demand. And the flirts, willing to do just about anything for the camera with a wink and a nudge, if it means getting an edge on the rest of the industry.
But Somi? She just is.
Pure temptation incarnate, from head to toe, without even trying. Thighs that threaten to strangle your self-control, a waist that makes sinners out of saints, tits that would have physicists reconsidering the very nature of gravity, all topped by a dangerous smile that could melt a fucking igloo with its sheer wattage.
Somi’s hot.
She knows it, the world knows it, the public crucifies her for it. And she just takes it all, all of it. Melts it all together and forges it into armour.
And now she’s here, in your private space. None of the usual entourage of make-up artists, managers, whatever. Just herself and an absurdly sweet frappé. Looking so comfortable that it’s making you feel like you’re intruding.
She’s leaning on your table, ass flush against the wood, arms crossed, and her eyes—those fathomless dark pools—land on yours, holding them hostage.
Barely has to make any effort when she laces her words together, piles on an unhealthy dose of insinuation, cocks an eyebrow and asks—“So, how do you want me?”
Naked, preferably. On all fours, ass to the sky. Or maybe on her knees, mouth hanging open, tongue out, elbows squeezed together to make her tits sing.
Yeah, you're already composing the perfect shot in your head.
Fuck.
You rub your eyes. Maybe thirty days of self-imposed abstinence has finally broken you, and this is all some kind of feverish hallucination driven by your libido.
But no, Somi is still there, lounging in your studio, all curves and challenge. Just being insanely hot.
You cough, clear your throat. Put on the mask of someone far more professional.
“Anywhere you’d like,” you’re answering, keeping your expression decidedly blank. This isn’t the first time you’ve been the only outlet for a young sexpot desperate to let off some steam. You have the experience. But again—fuck. Thirty days is far too long. Somi is far too much. “Just keep it natural. Like I’m not even here.”
Somi just laughs, sweet and sinful, her whole thing. Pushes off the table with a grace that seems almost supernatural (again, see the demon theory), before adding a thought, like it just sprung up in her pretty head— “Easier said than done.”
Distractions aside, all things considered, she’s the perfect subject.
Gets what you’re going for immediately, makes herself at home amongst your studio's chaos. Glides around the room, runs her fingers over your equipment strewn about—the lights, the lenses, the negatives hanging in the corner.
The sway of her hips, the flex of her back. The dip of her brow and purse of her lips when she asks, "What's this for?", and the genuine interest when she listens to you explain about aperture, and light metres, and so on and so on.
(Snap a photo of her silhouette when she's by the window, leaning against the glass to spy on the passers-by.
Snap a photo of her smile, when you say something that's really not that funny, but she laughs anyway.
Snap a photo of her legs, when she finds a couch to lay on—stretching herself out, showing off their length, the tone of her thighs, the promise kept hidden by her leggings being pulled tighter and tighter.)
Another hour passes quickly, and you take a break there, more for your sanity than her endurance. Leave her to her own devices while you flick through the shots you’ve managed to get so far.
Only, when you scroll through your laptop, scan through the dozens upon dozens of rapid-fire photos you've taken—it's a horror show.
None of them work.
Not because of her, but because of you.
The way you've shot her. Far too revealing—you've put too much of yourself in these pictures. Turned them from images to confessions. Each one a fucking love letter to her body—her legs, her tits, her lips, her ass, her tits again—everything about her that makes you ache.
It's not art. It's borderline pornographic.
And yet, Somi's still just lying there.
Drinking down another pick-me-up that she's had delivered, this one with enough caffeine to take down several horses, chatting away so casually while you try to stitch your soul back together. Sipping and talking about who-knows-what, throwing out feelers, smiling easily, laughing sincerely, utterly oblivious to the havoc she's wreaking on your self-control.
An effortless grace when she lifts herself off the couch, saunters over to you and leans in far too close, gets far too familiar, lays on far too much charm when she asks, “Mind if I take a look?”
Yeah, you do, but you still force a calmness into your voice that you’re certainly not feeling when you turn the laptop so she can see.
“Wow,” is her initial review, and now she’s touching you, hand on your shoulder, tits pressed up against your arm and you’re certain that none of this is accidental, like an oh, just trying to get closer so I can better appreciate the photos you’re flipping through, never mind that you're getting a precise estimation of my cup size just from the feeling alone.
Do your best—ignore the pressure, the warmth, the softness. Watch her face, see all the tiny details; her eyes lighting up when she catches something she likes, her thoughtful hum at a particularly good shot. The smacking of her lips, the furrow of her brow, the recognition as you scroll.
One by one, with each photo, her expression morphing from curiosity to understanding.
She notices.
“You’re good at this.”
You wait for it. “That’s all?”
Her eyes glint, “None of these can be used though.”
“I know.”
The screen’s frozen on a particularly compromising shot: there’s Somi’s face, barely in it, just the bottom-half, her lips pouting out and looking all plump and delicious. Camera angled up high, pointing down the dip of her tight, sheer top and the shadowy valley that makes up her cleavage. Scanning down to her legs, folded to the side beneath her, the squish of her ass cheeks over her heels, spilling into the corner of the screen.
Sin, captured in fifty megapixels, barely contained inside a four by six frame.
A submissive dream.
“These for your personal collection, or—” and when she catches the heat rising up the back of your neck, changing directions, “—not that I mind, as long as I get a copy.”
Clearly finding all this much funnier than you are—that smile’s a knife to your chest. So sharp and knowing; it would have you gasping for air, if only you’d look.
Keep it cool, play it off with a shrug, “We’ll try again.”
“I doubt we’ll get any different results,” Somi’s predicting, bouncing on her toes now, getting closer and closer until she doesn’t need to make much of an effort to make herself heard. Close enough that she could feel you now, if she wanted to. Just brush her fingers over you and get a good idea of the reason why this photoshoot is going so far off the rails.
She instead leans her chin onto your shoulder, breath hot against your cheek. Like throwing a match on gasoline.
All the power of this girl, this woman, wrapped up in a single gesture. Wielding it so freely, so innocently, so easily. Heat that's self-aware, that knows just how much it's burning.
You caution, “Keep it professional.”
“Doesn’t that run counter to the whole aesthetic. I thought we were going for raw?”
“Natural.”
“What’s the difference?”
You need to stop yourself, shut the laptop, end the session right now before it’s much too late. Before you’re turning to her and realising just how close her lips are to yours, just how tiny her waist is compared to your hands, and you're saying the words that will end all semblance of propriety and professionalism— “With you, I don’t think there is one.”
“Well as long as we agree,” and Somi’s turning away, striding back to the couch, leaving you to breathe again. Making you thankful for the space, but missing the suffocation of her heat all at once.
Plopping herself down on the cushions, one leg folded under the other, leggings so thin you can see the shape of her underneath. Natural, just like you asked—looking like she's the only one here that’s exactly where she wants to be.
You’re thinking you’re off the hook.
Maybe you can get back to work.
Only, “So, it’s been a while, then?”
“Somi,” you’re saying her name for the first time, officially, and it’s coming out far too strangled. Far too needy. She loves the sound.
“Come on, humour me.”
“Somi,” again, you’re trying, clearing out the cobwebs from your throat.
“Sir.”
What the fuck.
She doesn’t move. Waits patiently for your answer.
You give her the inch, knowing she’ll take the mile.
Raking a hand through the back of your head. “Thirty days.”
The look on Somi's face is apoplectic. You're glad you have the wherewithal to capture it.
"It's a—" and you're feeling quite stupid as you explain it to her in detail; the abstinence for a month, the purpose of it all, the supposed benefits, "challenge."
That sends Somi ranting, hands flailing in the air. Incredulous, at you, at this challenge, at the idea of putting yourself through this self-imposed torture. “Stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”
And then, when she sees your face.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But seriously. Thirty days? And not once.”
Your voice is dry. “No.”
“Not even by accident?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Wet dreams, nothing? No jerking it? No sex? At all?” Somi’s bursting out laughing, hand flying to cover her mouth, barely even able to breathe. It’s so absurd to her.
And it doesn’t take long before she puts it all together. Processes the information, sees the picture she’s painted of you. The sad, desperate artist, with nothing but a dying hunger and a camera. Realises the predicament you’ve put yourself in just by having her here.
She’s not laughing any more.
“And so you chose today, November 30th, to schedule me?”
You’re very, clearly frustrated. “Not my choice.”
“I see.” She bites her lip. Angles herself just so.
“Dial it back.”
“Tell that to your boner.”
You look down. Pants distinctly flat.
Somi’s grinning. “Made you look.”
“Are you done?” You ask, forcing yourself to look away from her, busying your hands by screwing on a different lens, as if it’ll somehow make her appear any less distracting, like it’ll blur out all your worst intentions and bring back some actual decorum to this whole fiasco. “We don’t have much time left.”
Turning back to her, raising your camera, aiming straight and true and—
Somi, unzipping her heels, kicking them across the floor with a dramatic flourish.
Snap.
Somi, lifting her top up and over her head, stretching her arms up high to push her breasts out forward; making them tight, outlined, so obviously pebbled against the cotton of her bra.
Snap.
Somi, digging her thumbs into the waistband of her tights, pointing her legs up in the air so she can peel them off without getting up, thrusting her hips up off the couch to yank them over her ass.
Snap.
“Somi,” you’re saying again, because apparently, you’ve forgotten how to make other words.
“Just doing what feels natural,” she says, smile turning wicked, reaching behind her back to unclasp and oh, now she’s completely naked. Rearranging herself into this pose. As if she isn’t already the centre of your universe.
Thirty days, flushed directly down the drain.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
—
You’ve found it, the perfect photograph.
Somi, kneeling on the couch, hands folded on her lap, staring down the barrel of your camera with her tits out. Unreal. Works of art, both of them. Miracles of flesh, gravity be damned.
“You’re not taking any photos,” she points out.
You swallow hard. “I’m taking it in.”
Her hands come up to cup her breasts, giving them a bounce. For fun. For you. For the look on your face. You capture the jiggle. "Good, because I'd hate to think all this was going to waste."
It’s a little fucked up, how right Somi is. You wanted raw, honest—here it is, Somi as she kneels. Just being herself, being the woman everyone accuses her of being—the sinner, the whore, the slut.
Being the woman she knows she is, with everything that it implies—the confidence, the appeal, the fucking powerhouse of magnetic attraction. Not an image being projected, not a role she’s playing, but the reality of her, shooting straight into your veins, raw sex personified—as natural as breathing.
And before you know it, you’re capturing her lips with yours, an ‘mmmph’ slipping out from her as your mouths collide and your tongues meet.
It’s not intentional, it just happens. You lean in, she’s hot, she smells like heaven and sin wrapped in a neat little bow and you’re kissing her.
Tongue finds hers, attacks, retreats, joins and intertwines, and it’s everything you imagined it would be turned all the way up—sweeter, hotter, and so much more fucking dangerous.
Lips head south, tongue sliding along her neck, teeth on her shoulder, kisses into her collarbone; and finally, you’re at her breasts.
Softer than a dream, tasting like pure addiction; you kiss the tops of her breasts, lap up all the sweat that’s beaded down in between. Drag your tongue down, follow the curve, the dip, and ending at the hard little points poking against your lips. Filling your mouth with as much of it as you can—licking, suckling, making a complete mess of spit on her chest, and then biting, just a little, just to make her moan.
“So this is what denial does to a man, hm?” Somi slithers into your ears, under your skin, hands at the back of your head and holding you in place.
She arches into you, pushing herself closer, letting you taste, indulge. Feast on what you’ve been missing out over this long stretch of days.
And fuck, maybe it is the abstinence, the pent-up need, or maybe it’s the fact that tits in general are just fucking incredible things. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that it’s Somi, in all her outrageously perfect glory, so happy to be the one that gets to ruin you, that’s making you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust.
Not that it matters one bit.
Not that there’s any thoughts at all in your head; there’s just Somi’s tits and your tongue. Lapping it up like you’re trying to drink her in, memorise every contour, every curve, every little goosebump you induce with each swipe of your tongue.
Somi’s tits; a canvas, and your mouth’s painting the picture of a lifetime.
“Baby,” Somi coos, hands on the side of your face, lifting you up off the cushions of her breasts. She’s giggling, her fingers wiping at the strings of drool that you hadn’t even realised you’d been leaving behind. “Remember what we’re here for?”
Right.
The camera. The art. The job. The no-touching rule.
But your mind is a blurry mess of tits and need, and all your blood has headed south for the afternoon, and it's making you feel like you're melting from the inside out.
“Let me give you a hand.” Somi’s gentle with you, like you’re a stick of dynamite with a frayed wick, just the slightest touch and you’ll blow.
She takes your hand, fingers brushing against yours, little sparks of electricity making your hairs stand on end, and lifts your camera up to point directly at her.
And then, she smirks. As if to say, yeah, she’s read all your thoughts; seen straight into you and has discovered the vault where you’ve kept every one of your deepest, darkest impulses locked up for thirty long days.
Somi repositions herself. Poses her body, determined to bring every single filthy, desperate, starving fantasy of yours to life.
Reclining back into the couch, thighs apart, spreading her legs wide.
Showing off her cunt.
Bare and gleaming. Shaven clean—just this perfect, pink, wet little pussy calling out to you. Open like a fucking invitation.
You’re staring.
She waits for you to catch up.
“Now would be a good time to start using that camera.”
You take a step back. Heart racing, hands shaking; you’re usually so much better than this. Take a deep breath, lift the camera, do your job, make your art, capture as much as you can while you have fucking perfection putting herself on display for you.
The click, the shutter echoing through the studio.
It makes Somi sigh.
Her eyes find the lens, locking down her target. A fucking miracle of biology, that’s Somi. Born to have cameras on her, as in love with them as they are with her.
Her fingers dip, trace down over her ludicrously tiny waist, her abs, her bellybutton, stopping short of her mound. Dancing over her pussy, light as a feather.
Fucking grinning as she asks, “Like what you see?”
The camera’s flash answers for you.
Touching herself, stroking, circling, pressing down. Building a crescendo that you can see painted on her; through the tensing of her abs, the heaving of her breasts, her cheeks going pink, her breaths getting shorter, and her lips parting to moan.
You’re barely conscious of the fact that you’re talking under your breath, a singular demand— “Keep going.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thirty days of denial has turned you into a starving man, only for Somi to show up and make herself a full-course feast. The perfect model, but also the worst fucking thing possible for your resolve.
You take a deep breath, grip the camera tighter.
If you’re going to crack, you might as well go out with a bang.
Guiding her, as if she was any other client, and this was just another photoshoot— “Open your legs wider, Somi. Show me everything.”
Her eyes widen, pupils dilate. Sparks, excitement, lighting them up. She does as she’s told, pushing out her knees further, sinking down into the couch cushions.
Thighs quivering, pussy sopping wet and pulsing. All for you. For your camera.
Another click, the shutter again, like a time-bomb ticking down to your doom.
“Play with your clit. Tease it.”
Her hand obeys, delicate, slender fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, hips bucking slightly with each pass. The noises she makes are obscene. Harsh, breathy whispers that make you throb; moans that get caught in the back of her throat.
It’s a rush of blood straight to the head, an almost dizzying sensation, having Somi so eagerly following your every command. Her face says it all, this slut positively loves being told what to do.
“Keep it light. That’s it,” you say, stepping closer, hitting your marks, your angles. “Turn to me. I want to see your face.”
“Like this?” Somi breathes, turning to face you fully, her hand still playing with herself, stroking in a way that's almost cruel—so gentle, so teasing, so obviously designed to make you lose your mind. “Getting the pictures you’ve been dreaming of? Someone like me all spread out for you?”
You nod, jaw clenched, keeping steady. Or at least, you think you are, considering how good Somi’s making this for you.
Making sure you get the right shots of her—her pussy, swollen and puffy, dripping down a puddle onto your couch. Her tits; pinched until they’re hard and sensitive, a vivid red against the stark white of her skin. Her eyes, wide and wild and looking straight down the lens, communicating her arousal in a million different heated ways without saying a single word.
Let it be known; Somi knows exactly what she’s doing.
Knows when to sigh, knows how to arch her back, knows in which direction to pout her lips. Knows how to make every click of the camera count.
“Good girl,” you’re telling her, praising her, and it’s enough to make her keen.
“Am I?”
“Of course,” you say, leaning in closer, close enough to feel the heat of her body, a furnace against your skin. See the sweat dripping down her thighs, tiny little droplets shimmering against the muscle, begging to be licked away. “You’re doing so good, Somi. So, so good.”
You’re getting closer now, kneeling. All for the sake of the perfect shot.
Seeing her fingers work, spreading herself open, exposing her folds, glistening. Her clit standing tall and proud. Her entrance pulsing, waiting to be filled. It’s like watching a masterpiece come to life, a photo that’s been taken a thousand times before but never quite captured right. Until now. Until Somi.
Somi's smiling down at you, all knowing, all tempting, making your mouth water, and it takes all your self-discipline to not drop the camera and replace your lens with your tongue.
She laughs, low and throaty. “Looks like you’re enjoying the view.”
“You have no idea, Somi,” you answer, adding, “But you can make it better, can’t you? Make it wetter. Hotter.”
“Mmhmm,” she agrees, getting to work at making your instructions real. She’s a professional too, after all. A master of her craft. Her other hand snakes down to join her first; one hand pressing firmly down on her clit, the other plunging two fingers up into her cunt. Pushing in, curling, until it’s hitting that sweet spot that makes her preen.
“Perfect, Somi.”
You’re transfixed, as Somi starts to fuck herself in earnest, the camera almost forgotten in your hand. She’s so drenched that every stroke is accompanied by a wet, slick sound; and the way she’s creaming around her digits, dripping down her wrist, it’s far beyond a simple performance being put on for the sake of a photograph. It’s the real deal.
Somi’s breaths come faster, her eyes glaze over, and she’s biting down on her bottom lip, trying to keep from crying out too loudly.
You know you’re getting the best of her, can see it across her face: this is what she truly enjoys. Being watched, being desired, being told what to do all for your pleasure.
“Oh, baby,” she’s barely managing hushed, strained whispers, “Oh, oh, oh…”
You feel like you’re in a trance, your own hand wandering down, needing to adjust lest you rip right through your jeans. The sight alone is devastating enough, but it’s making you swell, until there’s no point in trying to hide it anymore.
“That looks so,” Somi’s licking her lips, seeing the state you’re in, seeing the desperation in your eyes, the strain down below, “Nice.”
The camera is your anchor, your north star in this whole mess. You keep it steady, even as Somi’s breaths grow shallower, turn to pants. Losing herself to you, to the moment, to being captured in all her vulnerability.
She’s fucking herself even faster now, fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, wetter and wetter still, knuckles turning white with the force she’s applying.
“You’re doing so good, Somi, such a good girl for me,” you’re reassuring her, unable to hold back your own need, your own desire from leaking into your voice. It’s a battle, a war really, against your own urges, your innate desire to just drop everything and dive into her, feel her tightness around you, make her scream out your name.
But it’s too soon, Somi’s too close, and it would be a fucking crime to stop her.
“Baby,” she gasps, the word a prayer and a taunt in equal measure, “Baby, I don’t think I can last any longer.”
You’re grinning now, heart racing, camera at the ready. “Good.”
Somi’s on a knife’s edge, balancing on the precipice of climax. You can see it in how her body’s seizing, how she throws her head back, exposing her neck to you—needing your kiss, your bite, your claim. But you resist, intent on capturing every moment of her unravelling.
Because you want to know. Want to capture it. How she cums. What sounds she makes, what noises she can’t keep in. What she looks like when she falls apart.
“Cum for me, Somi,” you’re telling her, “I want to capture it all.”
Somi trembles. She wants it too.
Her eyes screw shut, her breath hitches, and she’s there, sinking back into the couch, letting out this sweet little gasp of anticipation.
The studio goes silent except for the sound of her fingers in her cunt and the shuttering of your camera.
In, out, snap.
In, out, snap.
Fucking herself. Fucking you with her very existence.
And then—“I’m going to—”
Her body arches off the couch, a scream ripping from her throat, her hand working furiously, pussy clenching so sweetly around her fingers. It’s the type of photo people spend entire careers never getting to capture, the most beautifully obscene sight you’ve ever been lucky to witness—Somi, in the throes of pleasure, wracked by her own orgasm, all for the sake of your camera.
It hits her hard and fast and all at once, turns her body into a bow, taut and tense, before it’s released, snapped, melting her down into a boneless puddle.
You watch in awe as Somi cums, writhes and wriggles, and she makes these noises that you’ve never heard from a woman before; crying out so loud you’re surprised the neighbours aren’t banging down the door to see what the commotion is about.
It’s only when she finally relaxes, is released from her orgasm, that you lower the camera, out of breath from the sheer exertion wrought by just watching her.
You’re both near devastation—Somi sprawled on the couch, chest rising and falling, eyes closed and an elated smile on her face, and you, knees threatening to give out, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight of her satisfaction.
“That was—” Somi tries shaping the words, but they don’t come. She just lies there, lazy and sated, catching her breath.
Moments pass before she can open her eyes again, only to find you, standing over her, jeans vanished, cock out and level with her parted lips.
“That was just the beginning, Somi.”
It's just the sight of you, but Somi’s delighted. Seeing you like this—exposed and so ridiculously hard. All because of her.
She slides off the couch, kneeling at your feet.
“Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Anything at all. Just make sure you capture it.”
“Then suck.”
Wet, hot heaven. Somi’s mouth is heaven.
Tongue darting forward, swirling around the tip, teeth grazing the head, and you’re groaning, hips jerking forward involuntarily until you’re falling into her mouth.
Somi’s got a way about her, a finesse that’s unmatched in everything she does. So, so good for you; opening her mouth nice and wide, hollowing her cheeks just right, pursing her lips to make sure you feel it when she sucks.
Just gleeful when your hand finds purchase in her ponytail, when hers wrap around the base of your cock, and you push. Inch by inch into the sweet heat of her mouth, taking it all, making sure you can see it, see how thankful she is to be granted the privilege of swallowing you whole; of having you completely filling her throat.
Holding herself there, nose pressed up against your stomach, eyes looking up, watering slightly around the edges. Not even gagging, just warming your cock with her throat, pulsing, tight, unbearably hot.
She raises her brows.
Ah, that’s right.
Snap.
Pulling off you, dragging her lips, her tongue up your shaft, leaving behind a choked, drooling mess that she’s so fucking proud of.
Giggling around a mouthful of your cock, laughter vibrating across your skin, and it’s a wonder you don’t lose yourself right then and there.
But somehow, you hold on; brace yourself against Somi massaging your balls, tickling the underside of your tip with her tongue. Playing with you, taunting, enjoying every second. Popping your cock out of her mouth so she can truly take measure of you at your achingly hardest, so she can breathe onto your cock in wonder, “Just look at you.”
Balancing your length in the palm of her hand, barely able to wrap her fingers around your girth.
“So big, so hard,” she’s rapt, talking to you, to herself, making sure the ghosts haunting your studio know exactly what she’s dealing with her. “And it’s all for me, isn’t it?”
“Darling,” you’re calling her, making her swoon, “Take it all.”
And she does. Somi, eager, opens her mouth wide, and lets you fuck her face. Getting you deep, so deep that you can feel her throat clench around your tip, slurping, moaning, choking now, but never, ever stopping. Just drooling down your thighs like the good little slut she knows you need her to be.
You’re back at it, taking photos, trying to get the perfect angle, but it’s proving a big ask when your knees are wobbling and your vision’s growing blurry. You’ve got Somi’s eyes in the viewfinder, all wide and blown with lust, looking straight through the lens of the camera and at you, daring you to break first.
But there’s still so much more of her to capture, so much more of her face to fuck.
Her red lips against your skin. Her cheeks bulging with your length. The line of her throat as she swallows. The tears in her eyes when she gags.
Somi’s arms loop around your back, cupping your ass, pulling you closer, urging you deeper.
Winking, giving you all the right cues; a muffled, “Here,” she says with her eyes. “This angle.”
And she’s right. It’s perfect. She’s got a talent for this.
Taking you deep, feeling like your cock’s never going to be able to leave her throat, only to pull back so you can see just how much she’s enjoying herself. How much she’s into this, so grateful to have you capturing every moan, every gag, every little sound she makes as you fuck her mouth like it’s the first time—and after a whole month it might as well be.
“Fuck, take it, Somi, you’re doing so well,” you tell her, knowing what it does to her—the praise, the adoration. Absorbed straight into her bloodstream, making her work harder, suck better, choke a little more. “Such a good girl.”
She loves it. Her eyes brighten, she squeezes your thighs, nails digging in. She loves it all.
You’re getting so close, you can feel it—thirty days of denial are about to come to a head, and she's going to be the one to bring you there. And yet, you still haven’t gotten nearly enough pictures to do her justice.
Somi sees it too, she can tell, knows just how close you are, but still, she's just lie you. She wants more.
She pulls back, an idea hatching in that filthy mind of hers, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Wait,” she says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, cleaning herself of her spit, her drool, your leakage. “I want another photo. For comparison’s sake. Just for my memories.”
You’re not sure what she means, but you don’t ask questions. You just keep your camera at the ready, watching her move, watching her lean closer.
Your cock hovering just above her cheek, tip bumping up against her nose, leaving a wet streak across her face. She holds herself there, your length atop her face, and it’s all in view—her eyes fluttering closed, the tip of her tongue poking out to catch a taste of your precum, the way she’s breathing, deep and heavy, smelling the scent of you, inhaling it like it’s oxygen.
Somi—her face, her tits, her waist, her thighs.
Your cock.
All in view.
That’s the photo.
And when it’s done, you’re backing off, relearning how to breath, how to stand on your own two feet without crumbling to the ground. Somi’s tongue chases you but you’re out of reach, setting the camera down on the floor.
You need to get in on this. Fuck silly challenges. Fuck being a passive observer.
You’re done just watching. You need to feel her.
Somi looks at you all smug and satisfied, on her knees, awaiting your next instruction. “Finished taking pictures?”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you start peeling off your clothes, each layer like a heavy weight of your shoulders; until you’re just as bare and needy as she is.
Back to Somi, cradling her face, letting her lean into your palm. Running your thumb across her jaw, dragging it across her lips, stamping it onto her tongue.
She sucks.
Christ.
Thirty days of hell, given up for one moment in heaven.
Fuck it. She’ll make it worth it.
You tell her in simple, clear terms. “I’m going to fuck you now, Somi.”
“Please.”
It’s your turn now.
You relax into the couch, legs spread wide, cock throbbing in the open air, beckoning her to come closer.
Somi reads the room, your posture, your need, and she rises to the occasion. Joining you on the couch, back on her knees, thighs gripping on the outside of yours. Hands planted firmly on your shoulders, and the whole time, her eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second.
Appreciate her, this woman, giving herself over to you.
Untying her ponytail, sending honey-brown hair cascading down her face, caressing her neck, her shoulders, meeting the tops of her breasts, perfectly rounded and waiting for the return of your teeth. Her waist, her abs, tensing and releasing, with every hot breath. And her pussy, already there, shimmering, dribbling down your cock, waiting.
Somi’s waiting for your permission.
So, taking her by the back of her neck, pulling her close, kissing her hard. Forcing this whine into your throat as your cock bumps up against her folds, sets off fireworks down her spine.
It’s a translation. Your need, from your tongue to hers, telling her that it’s only her that can do this you. Can rip you from responsibilities, from sanity, from all the shit that’s been keeping you going for the last thirty days.
Telling her that it’s worth giving it all up for just a taste, because maybe that’s the point of the challenge in the first place. Not a matter of self-control but a way to save yourself for something—someone—so potent, so powerful, so fucking irresistible that you just have to surrender to.
You pull apart, breaths hot and ragged, tongues still connected by strands, your hands already at her waist.
“You’re going to ride me, Somi. You’re going to cum on my cock and I’m going to watch it all.”
Somi nods, understanding.
Letting you guide her by the hips, sliding her fingers between her legs to take hold of your cock, aiming it at her entrance.
Lowering herself down, slow, so fucking slow, like it’s a brand-new form of torture, until your cock is nestled at the entrance of her heat, and you’re both vibrating with the anticipation of it, the gravity of this moment.
You take a harsh breath. “Ready?”
Somi presses her forehead to yours. Teasing, “Are you?”
And then, inch by inch, dragging her cunt down your shaft, making you feel every bit of her wetness, her tightness, every bit of her heat, Somi takes you in.
Pussy tightening around you like a fist, walls pulsing, massaging your cock, like she’s already trying to milk you dry. This moan that’s torn from her lips, deep and primal, something she’s been holding in for far too long, this needy, unholy cry that takes the shape of your name.
And when she’s bottomed out, when you’ve filled her until all she knows is you, Somi looks down in your eyes, nothing but pure, unfiltered lust strewn across her face. “Everything you were hoping for?”
You try, but fail, to form coherent words, just manage a grunt of pleasure, a nod of your head, and she laughs—it's the sweetest, most evil sound you've ever heard. She's got you, hook, line, and sinker.
“Good to know,” she says, and that’s all she needs to start moving, to set the rhythm that’s going to shake the walls, send them crashing to the ground until all that’s left is the two of you fucking amongst the rubble.
Her thighs tighten around you, hips start to roll in a way that’s just too fucking good, too fucking perfect. The friction is everything, makes the world narrow to just the two of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the drenched slick of her pussy, the heavy scent of her filling the air.
“Baby,” she repeats, each time her thighs slap down against yours, each thrust all the way up into her guts. “This cock is so perfect for me, so fucking—”
A snap of your hips into her, pulling her down hard, making her tits jump at the force of it, making Somi wail. There’s her cunt, spasming around you, tightening, trying to hold you in, trying to keep you there, but you’re not letting up.
You take over, holding by the hips and fucking her, like you’ve been waiting for, like you’ve been so fucking desperate for, like she needs so badly.
“God, you’re really—really fucking pent up, aren't you?" Somi's words are chopped up by the relentless thrusts of your hips, making her stutter, her voice all strained and breathy. Bouncing on you now, letting you set the pace, eyes screwed shut, just giving herself over to you. “I’m so, so lucky. So lucky that it gets to be me that breaks you. That takes you. That gets all this cum you’ve been saving this whole time.”
You’re gritting your teeth, unable to do anything but just fuck. Driven mad by it, by every impulse coming right up to the surface.
Everything you’ve been holding back, it’s all here, being unleashed onto Somi.
Fuck her, fill her, make her scream—‘Please, please, please’. Those are the only thoughts in your head now. Forget about the job, the photographs, the responsibility—just be yourself, a man on the edge, ready to jump off the fucking cliff.
“Baby,” Somi’s repeating, as your fingers find purchase in her ass, as she lays kisses on your shoulder, marking you up along your neck and down your jaw. There’s other words too—filth, all of it; whining to you about how you’re filling her up so good, about how she’s so wet for you, about how you’re going to make her cum so hard. But it’s all just noise to you. Noise that can be summarised in the simplest of requests, right from Somi’s lips—“Please, fucking use me.”
It's the perfect way to come apart—have someone like Somi, with her heavenly tits in your face, and her greedy, greedy cunt soaking up everything you’re willing to give. Begging, wanting, needing to be ruined.
“So fucking tight for me,” you’re kissing into her chest, finding your voice somewhere between her breasts. Telling her, “Fuck, Somi, your pussy. It’s so good for me. So fucking perfectly wet.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Somi sighs back, arms barely hanging on, holding at your neck, unable to do nothing but whimper and bear it. Bear this fucking you’re giving her, your cock invading her cunt, making her pussy tighten around it like a vice, making her abs clench, her tits jump, her throat swallow—making her sweat.
It’s like she was made for this—cunt made for your cock, body made for your arms. Somi, perfectly designed to be used by you. To moan and whine at your mercy; to be fucked, to be filled, to ruin you and to be ruined all the same.
“I can’t, I’m trying but I can’t hold on,” Somi’s teary-eyed, kissing at your face, your neck, her breath hot and sweet against your ear. “Baby, please. I need to feel you. Need more of you.”
And you’re only too eager to oblige.
Lifting your head, pulling her body closer. Catching her left nipple in your mouth, sucking hard, nipping at the peak until she’s gasping, until she’s arching her back, pressing her chest closer. Feeling the flesh flush against your lips, hitting your chin with each hard thrust.
Fuck, her tits. You could suffocate between them only to claw your way out of the grave just for another taste.
Her nails dig into your scalp, demanding more—more attention, more adoration, more worship. You give it to her—switching between each of her breasts, suckling and licking, making her whine and buck against your teeth.
“Just like that, you’re so good at that, so good with my tits,” she moans, short, tiny sighs that send your hips jerking upwards. Fucking her faster, quick, staccato thrusts that hit her just right, make her walls quiver around you. “They’re yours, all for you. All of me is yours.”
Her orgasm builds; it’s palpable, a storm brewing in the studio, sweeping up everything in its path. Each breath she takes is a hitch, a little cry, a whine. So tight around you, fucking her so hard, so deep that you can feel it coming from the inside out.
“Filling me so good, so, so good,” she mewls, and there’s still some fight in her left, a burst of energy in her thighs, allowing her to grind down harder, drop her ass on you—an up, down, up, down that echoes through the studio with each smack.
“You’re going to cum for me Somi,” you’re telling her, detailing exactly how she’ll come completely apart. “You’re going to cum all over my cock, you’re going to scream for me when you do it, okay? Tell me how good it feels.”
“Yes, yes, yes, tell me what you want—anything—I’ll do it, I’ll be so, so good for you—”
“You’re going to beg me for my cum, Somi. Going to beg me to give it to you until you can’t take any more,” you’re growling, your teeth sinking into her tits, your tongue pushing up against her flesh, making her sing.
You’re fucking her apart, tearing her in two with your cock. This girl you've only just met, who only just walked into your life; nothing but sex in a pair of high heels, and you’re already rearranging the furniture of her soul.
Now she’s the one that can’t make sense of things, can’t form full sentences—just incoherent whines and cries, each one stacking on top of the other, until the foundation’s all tilted and it’s going to collapse any second now.
Just waiting for you.
Separate from her chest, take a fistful of her hair, pull her back so you can look in her eyes and see. See just how badly you’re ruining her, how terribly she’s falling apart.
Make sure she can see you, has her attention on nothing but you when you tell her, finally, “Cum. Cum for me, Somi. All over my cock.”
She’s breaking.
“Now.”
“Please, I—” Somi’s words live and die on her lips, barely making it out before it hits her, seizes her entirely, forces her cunt to strangle your cock as she shatters.
It’s all there, her pussy tightening, pulsing, clenching, releasing in this quake of bliss that feels like a sucker punch straight through your gut.
When she cums it hits her, hits you, waves of heat washing over your cock, splashing down onto your thighs. It’s the sensation. So overwhelming, so undeniable, grinding down her orgasm onto you, pleading, over and over and over again, “Don't stop, don't stop, please!”
Writhing in your arms, needing to be held close to stop her from falling off the couch completely. Eyes rolling, head thrown back, exposing her neck, the perfect arc of her throat. Her body jolts, jerks, twitches, and it has you fucking hypnotised.
And all Somi can do is say, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”
She keeps going, until each thread is unravelled, until you’ve fucked loose every last bit of control she’s got, until she’s nothing but a trembling mess in your arms.
But it’s not over, not yet.
You’re still hard, so fucking hard. Bursting at the seams. And Somi’s looking down at you, pulling herself back together. Seeing your cock, buried inside her. Seeing the mess you’ve made of her, her own pussy. Seeing everything.
And she’s smiling, because she knows what comes next.
“Use me.”
You lift her off your cock, so easy to carry; her tiny waist in your hands, she’s so light. Still shivering, these tiny, little aftershocks quivering through her, it’s like she’s clay in your hands, ready to be moulded at your discretion.
Somi gasps when she’s laid out on the couch, her legs spread wide, her cunt leaking down her thighs, all cream and cum. She adjusts herself, makes herself comfortable, presentable. Putting herself in the best possible state to be used by you.
“Use me, baby,” she repeats again, that sweat plea that’s going to be you’re undoing. She’s so, so needy, practically whining for more, for everything, for anything as long as it involves your cock and her.
You stand over her, cock at the ready, eyes on your next target, the natural stage for the grand finale, the pièce de resistance of this whole fucked up photoshoot—Somi’s breasts.
She follows your gaze, realises, “You want to fuck these tits, don’t you?”
You find your voice gravelly, deep. “Yeah.”
Somi giggles, hands at her chest, taking either side of her breasts, pushing them together with her palms and creating this gorgeous valley, just waiting for your cock. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“For you to beg.”
Somi blinks. Once, twice. Sees the look on your face, sees how hard you are for her, how desperate you are to let go.
But she knows how much you need to hear it. Knows how much she wants to say it.
“Please. Baby, please. Fuck my tits. Cum all over me. I need it.” Somi’s licking her lips, massaging her breasts together, showing you just how soft they are, how ready they are for you. “I need to feel your cum on me. All over me. My face, my neck, my chest. Everywhere. Let me do this for you.”
That’s it.
You’re back on the couch, straddling her stomach. Knees on either side of her waist, cock between her tits. Soft, warm, inviting.
“Like this?”
“Yeah. Just like that,” you manage, each word a mountain of effort as you watch your cock disappear between her breasts.
It’s a gentle push, that’s all it takes, and Somi starts to move, making her tits jiggle around your dick, squeezing it from either side as you slide your cock up and down. So focused, eyes on your cock, then back to your face, studying your every reaction, waiting for that moment when you crack.
And it’s coming so soon, you’ve been teetering on the edge since Somi first walked in—fuck, on edge for thirty days—and now you’re hurtling towards the fall.
You’re not going to last, not when Somi’s got you like this. Her hands moving with you, her tits bouncing in time with your strokes. The cushioning of her breasts around you; this gentle, sweet, torturous pressure that has you grunting, has you smearing drops of yourself all over her chest.
“Fuck, you look so good between my tits. So hard. Doesn’t it feel right? Like this is where your cock fucking belongs. This is what my tits were made for. For you,” Somi’s whispering, stringing these words together like a spell. “You can go faster, baby, I won’t break. Just let go and use me like the slut I am.”
Pleading for it, so desperate for you. Sweet words, encouragement, filth, like a drug, pushing you close and closer to the brink.
Just obey, pump faster, fuck her tits quicker, watch as your cock slices through her cleavage, the gloss it leaves over her skin. See Somi, licking her lips, devouring you with her eyes, just waiting for you to join her on the other side of oblivion.
“Cum for me, baby. Please, please. I need it—I need to feel it—please!”
Her tongue stretches past her lips, flicking out to catch the tip of your cock, making you groan. Leaning in, breath hot on you, cock hitting her lips with every thrust, every drive through her tits. So fucking greedy, so eager to taste, so needy to be the one responsible for your total ruin.
“Oh, oh, oh, baby—yes—yes—yes—yes—”
She pinches her nipples, twists them just right, moans—
You feel it immediately—your balls tighten, your cock swells, and then—release.
Intense is the only way to describe it.
So fucking intense.
White hot jets of cum spurt out, firing everywhere, making a mess of her, coating her chest, her neck, her chin, her lips, her nose—splashing down all over her.
It’s a frenzy, a natural disaster, a hurricane that’s been building for one long fucking month, and now it’s here.
The way her eyes widen, the way her mouth opens, gasping for air, the way she shakes—she wanted this, but there’s no fucking way she was prepared for it.
And when you back up, she dives forward, hand seizing the base of your cock and pumps. Wrists twisting in this aching motion, winding up and down your cock, wringing you out until you’re just a slave to her fingers, her tits, her touch.
“Keep going, baby, keep cumming for me, give me everything,” she begs, sending shivers all the way from your shaft down to your spine as she works your cock.
You do, you have no choice, no say in the matter. You give her everything.
You're coming apart, torn from your own body in sticky, hot waves that leaves you absolutely breathless.
And she’s a fucking mess. All of her—her face, her neck, her tits. So beautiful covered in you. So utterly used. So utterly yours.
It takes a moment for the tremors to stop, for the world to come back into the focus. You sit there, panting, feeling like you’ve just done a triathlon and then climbed a mountain. Somi’s just smiling at you, looking at you through her lashes, glued together with your cum, her own little giggles escaping every now and again.
She looks like a dream.
“Fuck, Somi—”
“Mm?” She looks so content, so at peace with the universe. Wearing your cum like fine jewellery. As if she’s the one that just had the best orgasm of her life.
“You’re—” But what the fuck do you say? That she’s ruined you? That she’s shattered your world? That you’ll never be able to look at a camera again without thinking of her?
Ah.
That’s what you’ll do.
You lean down, pick the camera off the floor, and then—snap.
Somi, looking so sloppy and obscene. Looking like everything you never knew you needed. Looking like she belongs to you.
She wipes away at her eyes, collects the cum on her finger, before dipping it into her mouth. Sucking, tasting the flavour of your need.
“Get the shot you wanted?”
You let out a long, heavy exhale, sliding off the couch, off her, sitting on the floor next to her. Resting your head on her thighs while Somi just lies there, sprawled out, utterly wrecked.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says. “One whole month.”
You remember to inhale. “Thirty days.”
She’s fighting a losing battle, cleaning the endless fountain of cum you’ve covered her with. Looking like she just streaked through a fucking snowstorm.
But she tries, collects as much as she can, smearing it into a sticky mess. Playing with it on her fingers, rolling it around her tongue, enjoying this way too much.
You raise the camera, aim it at her. The way she’s looking at you, the way her hand moves, so fucking casual—like it's her natural state of being. Making you believe that Somi should be covered in cum, all the time. It's only right.
You just can’t help yourself. You click.
“I haven’t been fucked like that since,” Somi starts, clearly not minding being the subject of your post-coital art. “Since ever. That was—"
“A trainwreck,” you’re saying, and then finishing when you catch the look on her face, “Not like that. It was insane. Intense. Really, thirty days or not, it was fucking life changing.”
Somi smiles. “Good to know I didn’t disappoint.”
“Just. These photos. Completely unsalvageable. None of that can be sent to your agency.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Somi says, so easily, so carefree, as if she didn’t just obliterate every single professional boundary you’ve ever set. “Let me have a look. There must be some photos at the start that are useable. From before you… lost focus.”
You pass her the camera, let her scroll through the shots, see all the pornographic filth the two of you have created. She flicks through, each click another photo, another reminder of what you’ve done, what she’s done to you.
And she’s enjoying it. These little smirks, the nods of approval. Fascinated by these photos of her, of her body in these stages of ecstasy.
“Ah, yup. No. Nope. Definitely not. Oh, and that one is just… yeah.” Somi’s voice is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of awe in it. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
“It’s what you do to me.”
“I can see that,” she says, continuing until she gets to the last of the photos. “That’s pretty fucked. These are pretty fucked up. But, like. Beautifully fucked up.”
“Thanks,” you say, throwing your hands up, letting one fall on Somi’s thigh. It rests there, draws a circle over the smooth warm, skin.
It’s a good feeling. Having her here, like this. So relaxed, so comfortable. Knowing her in the most intimate ways possible, yet still not knowing much about her at all.
She sighs when your hand moves higher. You throb.
Yeah. After thirty days, only one time is not going to be nearly enough.
You already want to dive back into the land of debauchery with Somi, bring up more of those repressed fantasies you’ve been waiting to realise, even though you’re still knee-deep in the aftermath of the first round.
It’s in Somi’s eyes as well, you can feel it in the air, from the heat radiating off her skin—she's not done with you either.
Far from it.
You're going to ruin her again. You're certain of it.
“So,” she says, making a show of cupping her tits, raising them up to her mouth. Licking them clean.
Your response is swift. Immediate. “We’re going to have to reschedule.”
Somi’s laughter is pure gold. “How does thirty days from now sound?”
You blink. Stare at her, unamused.
She raises your camera.
Snap!
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