we're not kids anymore.
h
Not today Justin
No title available
d e v o n
Show & Tell
if i look back, i am lost
shark vs the universe
hello vonnie
No title available
Cosmic Funnies
No title available
⁂
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Discoholic 🪩
Keni
Xuebing Du
One Nice Bug Per Day
Acquired Stardust
i don't do bad sauce passes
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Austria
seen from Germany
seen from Norway
seen from Italy
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Sweden
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Armenia
seen from Ukraine
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
@artificialbreezy
♡ you can call me Breezy or berry // 25 // this is the life of a fangirl, babe
♡ frank langdon apologist | jack abbot’s controversially young gf
♡ masterlist
♡ 18+ mdni
♡ inbox is always open
please note: some fics have been reposted from my old blog
— Unless stated otherwise, none of the pictures/gifs on my tumblr posts or banner are mine. credit to all owners
©artificialbreezy I do not give permission for my works to be stolen, plagiarized, or fed into any AI.
thank god for belmont cameli.
oh my god CUTE
BELMONT CAMELI Photographed by Mekhi Turner
Just My Luck - F.L
mdni • 18+ only
summary: Months into a dry spell and hours into a bad day, you get bailed on by yet another date. Lucky for you, your best buddy ‘ER Ken’ is always looking out for you, and eager to turn your day around.
tags/warnings: light angst, friends-to-lovers, smut, car sex, pet names (baby, beautiful), unprotected sex, accidental creampie, service top!Langdon (he talks u thru it i just know he does)
word count: 3.6k
A/N: seems to be kind of a theme in my fics lately…can we tell i want to go on a date. also can be read as either cheating or wholesome, family-friendly, god-fearing divorced!Langdon, depending on ur freaky inclinations. like marriage is not mentioned at all but i thought i would put it out there...bc EYE was thinking abt cheating #sorry #problematicfave
Just as you think things are looking up, the PTMC swoops back in to remind you; the other shoe always drops. Since the sun rose on this shitty, shitty day, you’ve already had to deal with mouthy elderly patients and two sets of parents bringing their children in, only to decide that your treatments aren’t whole grain or godly enough for their liking. You almost slipped in a small puddle of mystery liquid on your way to this very exam room. The clacking of your flailing lanyard is just the icing on the cake.
On cue, Langdon strides in, surveying the room with his cold, vacant doctor-stare. When his eyes land on you, they crinkle at the edges. Not with joy, but in mockery. He approaches, tutting and saying your name.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.” In one deft movement, he pulls back your lanyard and takes another look at the patient. Standing behind you, his breath fans against your neck. “Hold compressions,” Robby orders.
It takes a few more rounds but finally, the patient starts awake and you shudder with relief. You snatch your badge out of Langdon’s hands and he nods, giving you a mock-salute.
“You're welcome.”
Shaking your head and biting back a laugh, you ignore him all the way to the lockers. “You’re lucky it’s the end of our shift.”
“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”
“Because,” you say, opening your locker’s door right in his face and shutting it with a snap. “If I had to be around you any longer, you’d be sitting in one of those beds.”
“Ouch,” he teases, rubbing an imaginary wound over his heart. Your eyes linger on his fingers, on the dainty little beads of his daughter’s friendship bracelet. That final detail makes you shake your head, and walk a little faster away from the building.
“Somebody chasing you?” Langdon has to jog to keep up with you, hands in his pockets.
“Sort of,” you answer, leaping over a suspicious puddle. Langdon glares back at it as if he means to give it a stern talking to. You chuckle. “You know, I think I can make it to the bus stop on my own.”
“Sure, but then you'd have to go without my riveting conversation.” Even when he barely gets a laugh, Langdon remains undeterred. “So, what’s the rush?”
You grimace. “Have you always been so nosy?”
“Have you always been so secretive?”
“Touche, Clark Kent.”
He grins at the nickname but continues shooting expectant glances.
“If you must know.” You’re forced to pause at a traffic light, jabbing the button with your elbow. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”
“That doesn’t really answer the question, you get the same bus everyday.”
“Which you know, because…?”
He pauses beside you, shrugging and looking around as if he expects a passerby to give him a good excuse. “I drive past this stop everyday. You’re hard to miss.”
“Again, I say: nosy.”
He ignores you, scratching behind his ear. “So, you need a ride.”
“I can wait for the bus.”
“Or,” he shrugs again, “I can give you a ride.”
You swallow back the childish joke that’s just itching to jump out and readjust your bag, frowning at the twinge of pain in your shoulder. Langdon doesn’t miss a beat, holding his hand out.
“Let me take that.”
“I’ve got it.” As you step forwards, he blocks your path, arms held up in surrender.
“You’re not gonna let me help?”
You’re not sure why he wants to. The understanding, you thought, was that this friendship runs on a delicate balance of familiarity and professionalism. Joking, jabbing, borderline flirting, is all safe if it’s happening behind the hectic walls of the Pitt. It's a stress tonic, it keeps morale high. What it doesn’t do, is cross any lines.
Instinctively, your hand shoots up to shoo him away again, but you pause. You do need the ride. Already, tonight’s planned outfit is doomed to be void of accessories and your hair will have to forgo any of the styling options you dreamed up last night. There won’t even be time for a pre-date snack. You groan.
“Sure,” you say, trying to tamp down the fluttering in your chest.
Langdon even insists on helping you carry your bag upstairs. He takes your key, opens your front door for you, ushers you inside and offers to make you a tea, coffee, anything you want.
“So, your date tonight,” Langdon starts, dropping your things on the sofa. “Is he…you know. A boyfriend, or what?”
While he scoops coffee into a mug, you get to work. As you change, you rush between rooms, frantically, calling over your shoulder or yelling responses to each other. “Never met him. We’ve been set up. My friends think it ‘could be good for me’, or something.”
He waits for the coffee to brew in the living room, standing with his hands braced behind the sofa. “You disagree?”
“I don’t need a boyfriend.”
His gaze swivels as you hobble back and forth with curlers in your hair and one heel on. You wave a hand in his direction, decidedly ignoring that, if he wanted to, he could’ve left by now.
Langdon nods, brow furrowing. “Do you want one?”
You wave your hands again and keep staunchly quiet. Now, you’re strutting around in both heels, rifling through your sofa cushions to find a lipgloss you could swear was last seen in this room. Langdon watches in polite silence, presumably for as long as he can stand, before asking, “Do you need any help?”
“I’m fine, Frank. Thank you. Ah ha.” Inexplicably, the lost lipgloss is strewn between an armchair’s fuzzy cushions. You pull it out and stride back to your room. Getting ready at record speed, you messily unwind the curlers from your hair and flipping your head back and forth. When you leave your room, Langdon is still hanging around and you still have enough time for a budget-saving snack, in case the date is a cheapskate.
“You want some ramen?”
He blanches. “Ramen?”
“I don’t know, something light. In case–” You’re interrupted by your phone buzzing from the sofa. Langdon looks down like it’s calling him names and you pick it up, scrolling frantically. There’s no real reason to be nervous, to be so sure that bad news is coming. Worrying can’t stop it, and it can’t protect you from the sinking disappointment when you open your messages and it’s staring you right in the face.
When you notice Langdon stirring, you cringe away from him. “What?”
You grimace back at the phone, then roll your eyes. Neither seems to get rid of the weight of rejection, curdling acidic at the base of your throat. You roll your eyes again and force a laugh. “He’s not coming.”
“What do you mean?”
You hold your phone up absently. “Uh, the guy, my date. He can’t make it or something.”
“Or something,” Langdon deadpans.
Shrugging out more forced nonchalance, you read straight from your phone. “Sorry, have to cancel, my buddy’s having car troubles and I said I’d help him out.”
“Sounds plausible.”
A sarcastic response of your own sits on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted by the kettle boiling. It’s just a distant, bubbling hiss, but the shock brings a spurt of tears to your eyes.
“Hey,” Langdon begins. You shake your head and turn away, hands cupping your own face when he immediately starts to follow.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not.”
“Then turn around.”
You let out a growling sigh. Embarrassed, you face him and shrug, equal parts exasperated and expectant.
It seems like he’s about to say something but, even when you turn your palms up and raise your eyebrows, he keeps his mouth shut. About twenty minutes ago, this was fun. Now, unreasonable as it may be, you’re starting to feel a little rejected.
“Why are even you still here?”
He slowly pushes up from the sofa, blinking rapidly. “I…Do you want me to go?”
“No.” You groan, hands running down your face.
“Should I get your coffee?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Do you–”
You hold a hand up to silence him, trying to come up with a polite way to get rid of him. It would be easier if he wasn’t looking at you so wide-eyed and eager, if that strand of hair wasn’t hanging over his forehead, so primed to be romantically swept away. If he wasn’t being so nice.
“What do you need?” he asks, finally. You groan again, shaking your head.
“A day off,” you joke. Still aiming for nonchalance, you mutter the next one under your breath. “An orgasm. Or two.”
Langdon’s face drops for a split second, expression buffering. Then, he blinks away his shock. “Let me take you out.”
“What?”
“You wanna go out, right? If this guy won’t, let me do it.”
Now it’s your turn to buffer, mouth snapping open and shut aimlessly.
“I was already gonna be your ride there, right?” You don’t remember agreeing to that, but he’s not done. “I’ll take care of everything. I’m not sure where he was taking you but there’s this Italian place downtown–cliche, I know–you’ll love it.”
As he talks, he runs a hand through his hair, grabs your handbag off the sofa and takes the first jacket hanging by your front door. He checks that you’re following and gives you a certain, reassuring nod.
“Fuck that guy, alright? Let’s have the best goddamn night of our lives.”
As you’re pulling into traffic, thick, dark grey clouds threaten the humid kind of rainfall that ruins your hair and makes it hard to breathe. It may also be the tears threatening to fall. Langdon’s sweet, really, but it’s hard not to feel a little guilty. Beside you, he hums and taps the steering wheel, clearly pleased with himself for fixing yet another one of your problems. In truth, he’s only making them worse. Tonight sort of had an express purpose, which his presence makes impossible. You spend the entire car ride sending him awkward glances, hands fidgeting in your lap. At some point, you’re gonna have to tell him to go home.
He pulls into a parking complex, practically abandoned by the time you get to a floor with availability. Booming thunder rolls in the distance as you stumble out, limbs suddenly gelatine. Langdon has to lend you an arm to keep you steady out of the car park. More thunder, and a swell of nauseating anxiety behind your sternum. Today’s stress–the week’s stress, if you’re honest, the last few month’s–is catching up with you, fast. Irrational apprehension seizes in your gut and you cling to Langdon’s arm.
“We should go.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
He frowns softly, but doesn’t drop your arm. In fact, as you try pulling away, he only clings harder. “Hey, remember what I said? Don’t let that asshole ruin your night.”
You shake your head. “It’s not about him.”
Only, it is. Shaking your head some more, you let out a coarse laugh. You’re a doctor, for christ’s sake. You save lives and even when you can’t, you stare death right in the face. Bad days don’t paralyse you; they can’t. Normally, it’s because you get a little help: from friends, one-off dates or recurring flings, colleagues willing to vent over a few beers. All that, though, is precautionary. You’re not supposed to need help, or much of anything at all. The realisation of anything less is humbling at best. At worst, it’s humiliating and because you can't catch a break, this just has to be the worst case scenario.
Langdon’s hands are cupped around your cheeks. Palms warm and broad, you only notice you’re crying when he lifts them from your face to rub your shoulders, where goosebumps are sprouting in the sudden chilly breeze. The barrage of questions you’re expecting never comes. Instead, he simply pulls you to his chest, wraps his arms around you and whispers against your temple.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, I got you.”
You bite back more tears but your shoulders still shake, though you can’t tell whether it’s your sobbing or a bout of shivers. Langdon runs his hands over your arms again, expression pinched. Rain trickles, then picks up, pattering against the cars at the parking complex's edge.
“Chilly, huh?”
“It’s fine, we, uh…” you pull away, gesturing vaguely. “We should…”
“Go downstairs?”
You shake your head.
“Go home?”
“I don’t know, I think…I don’t know.”
“How about we sit in the car?” he chuckles, “Let you figure it out somewhere warm.”
Shut in the car, it actually does become a little easier to breathe. Langdon sits beside you, still cooing.
“Alright, alright. I’m not your daughter.”
“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “Force of habit.”
It gets quiet and you let it, relishing the steady hum of rainfall and whooshing wind. The longer you sit, the weather only gets more and more intense. Even if you wanted to now, you’re not going anywhere.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” You groan, shoving your face into your hands. “Tonight was supposed to go so differently.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I really did want to fix things, though.”
Your posture straightens and you fix him with an almost accusatory stare. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he fidgets, “it seemed like you were having a rough day.”
“And you thought I needed you to fix it?”
“Is there anyone else?” He asks the question to his hands, left thumb pressing into right palm as he massages his nerves away.
“I don’t need anyone else.” Your breath hitches. “I don’t need anyone, period.”
“But you could use someone. We all could, right?”
“Don’t you have enough of your own shit to worry about?”
“Don’t you?”
By now your shoulders and thighs are pressed together, both of you somehow shifted to the middle seat. You look up at Langdon, his pale blue eyes darting around your face.
“So, I could use you.”
“Yeah.” His hand is on your thigh and you don’t remember leaning closer, but his heartbeat beats urgently against your shoulder. “You could.”
Without allowing yourself a second of rational thought, you lean even closer. A single movement of reckless abandon and your lips are smashing into Langdon’s, his arm curling around your waist and pulling you into his lap.
“Is this a good idea?” you whisper into his mouth.
“Does it feel good?”
You nod, rolling your hips onto his.
“Then let's think about it later.”
He cups your face and kisses you again, softer this time, his tongue gently pushing through your lips. His hands caress a grounding pressure into your body. First on your thighs, then your back, then the back of your head as you grind into each other. You’re already desperate for him to undress you, but can’t tell how hard he is until he groans into your mouth, hips stuttering.
“God, you know–I never thought it would happen like this.”
Appalled, you pull away. “You’ve thought about this?”
Langdon only pulls you back with more pressure. His kisses trail from your jaw to your neck. “All the time. Can I take this off?” He gently tugs on your dress, then shakes his head and slides his hands up your skirt instead. “Actually, keep it on. No sense in you getting all dressed up for nothing.”
You run your hands over his chest and his breath catches when your fingers hit his nipples. His hips grind further upwards, as if it hasn’t occurred to him he can fuck you for real. You send his question back at him, tugging on his jeans’ zipper and he groans.
“Uh–I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t, uh…” He gestures around the car, then at his crotch.
“No condoms?” Avoiding eye contact, he nods. You giggle, grabbing his wrists to move his hands further up your skirt, when his fingers graze your underwear, you lean in. “I guess you’ll just have to practise some self control then, huh?”
You urge him to slide off your underwear and you unzip his jeans. Pulling him free from his boxers makes his jaw hang open and his hands clench around you absently.
“What–fuck–what do you like?” he asks, as you pump him up and down slowly.
“Well, for a start, this.” You tease his tip against you, dragging him through your increasing wetness as he watches, jaw still slack. When his hips start to jut forward, you open your legs wider and press against him, so that he’s as wrapped up as possible without being inside you. Langdon’s breath hitches and his hips roll automatically, chasing more of your warmth.
“Yeah? Just this?” He bites his lip and watches as you grind on his tip, then sink down to his balls, always sliding on just enough of his shaft to drive him crazy. “You want anything else? Want me to play with your tits?”
You moan and he takes the hint, rubbing one nipple with his thumb and kneading around the other, getting torturously close, then massaging in the opposite direction.
“Does that feel good? Want anything else?”
All you can do is whimper as his tip catches on your clit. You bite down on your lip, hips still working frantically, chasing as much of him as you can get. Langdon’s arms wrap around you more tightly and he bucks into you, straining with the effort of staying on the outside.
“Shit, that’s it, right there. Fuck, you’re so wet, I–fuck–I could do this all day.”
Still biting back moans, you bury your face against his neck and he tuts. “No, no, don’t do that.” He cups your face and brings it level with his, looking you straight in the eyes with his thumb catching your lip. “Lemme hear you baby, come on. Tell me how it feels.”
You whine. “It feels good.”
“Yeah?”
Your back arches as you try to press even closer against him and you nod through another whimpering moan.
“That’s it,” he coos. “Good girl. Take whatever you want. Whatever you need.”
The more he keeps talking, the more empty you feel between your legs. You need him to fill you, to rock his hips into you until there’s no room inside you for this bad day, your hectic job and the way it shreds your nerves. Nothing but him.
You aren’t sure how to tell him any of this, so you roll into him slower. Grabbing his face to give him deep, messy kisses, you let his tip slide further and further into you until he pulls back.
“Are you sure?” Though his voice is full of apprehension, his eyes are blown wide and eager.
“I need you,” you say against his face, hips never stopping.
“Shit,” he moans, “yeah, okay, I’ll–fuck, yeah. Whatever you want.”
As you sink down onto him, he holds your hips in a steady grip, letting off a constant stream of reassurances.
“I’ve got you, beautiful, just like that.” When he’s all the way in, he gets a little less coherent, but far more insistent. “That’s it, you’re–Oh, fuck. Fuck baby, just like that. Use me, baby, take whatever you want from me, I’m all yours.”
Thick and hard, he fills you perfectly. As you ride him, a dragging pleasure builds, spreading like a fever down your thighs, up your back. It heats your face and draws long, whining moans from between your lips, panting interrupted only by you crying out Langdon’s name while he offers more encouragement.
“Feels good?”
“Uh huh,” you moan. In response, he moans too.
“I know, baby, I know.” He moans again, voice breaking as you clench around him. “See how I can make it better? How I can make it–fuck, baby–make it all go away.”
You moan in agreement. This time, when you lay your head against his shoulder, he lets you.
“You close, beautiful?”
You nod and he brings your face closer so he can mutter in your ear. From his ragged breathing it sounds like he’s close, too.
“Alright, baby,” he says, thrusting up harder into you. “That’s it, right there. Feels so good, doesn’t it?”
All you can do anymore is moan. He nods and brings a hand back to your tits to sloppily circle a thumb over your nipple.
“So you’re gonna come, alright? Come for me, baby, show me how good it feels. Show me–” he grunts, “how good it feels to drain my fucking cock, alright? Lemme feel it, baby, I wanna feel it. Show me how much you like using this thick fucking cock to get off.”
His voice only gets more hoarse, talking you through your orgasm so fervently, he might as well be begging.
Your orgasm crests and you don’t even have time to react; it simply ripples through you. Waves of pleasure curl your spine inwards and Langdon’s hands don’t cease on your nipples. He fucks you through it, thrusts haphazard as he reaches his own peak. His moans get breathy and strained as he cums, and when he finally floods you, he wraps his arms around you and stills, buried to the hilt. It takes a while for either of you to get out of the post-sex haze but when you do, problem-solving Langdon is back.
“Shit, I shouldn’t–I can go to a convenience store right now, I’ll–”
You giggle, gesturing to the rain still pounding outside. “It’s okay, you’re fine.”
“Are you sure, I’m so sorry I wasn’t even thinking, I don’t–”
“Langdon,” you giggle and pat his shoulder, delirious. “Don’t worry. Let’s think about it later.”
your erotica doesn't need to align with your principles. you can find something hot and not believe it should be the way of things. you can play out dynamics in kink that shouldn't be replicated societally. what gets you going is not an indictment of your character
Dean Daddy Heyward-Di Laurentis
OFF CAMPUS 1.08 "The Line Change"
i miss Langdon it’s not funny anymore
Scenes of Domestic discipline with Brendon Park
This might be the most far out shit I’ve ever written. And that says a lot. Soooo many warnings. Heavy BDSM. Daddy kink. Pussy Inspection. Spanking. Free use. Loss of autonomy? But she freely gives it over. Unprotected sex. Kinda dark Brendon? Kinda fucked in the head Brendon? Idk. Reader knows she can safe word out at any time.
Your husband was a good husband. A great husband. No one has ever loved you quite like him. He provides, he protects, he adores. He’s so affectionate, kissing you constantly and hugging you ass much as your very, very clingy self needs. He lifts you up, and holds you down. He just had some… non traditional methods.
Pussy inspections. Whenever he felt they were necessary. Which was usually when you got home for the day. First off, it’s important to know how Brendon feels about panties. Which is unfavorable. When you’re home, he wants them off. So your inspection, and his feeling about it, depend a lot on how your inspection goes. Brendon doesn’t especially like you in pants, either. But he’s not a barbarian. You can wear whatever you want! He’s not crazy. If you’re in a skirt, like a good girl, your inspection starts one of two ways. Either A) you just got home, so he demands you take your panties off to give to him, or B) he confirms weather you were good already did so already. And why would you ever be bad for your daddy? He’d never catch you disappointing him, you’re his good girl. His best girl. If you’re in pants from being outside? Oh, you can just strip all the way down for him. That’s fine.
Either way. Once you pass the first step, you know how he wants you to present. Hands behind your back, legs shoulder length apart. Sometimes, usually, that’s not enough for him, and he’ll kick your legs apart with one of his feet. It’s deeply humiliating, the way it knocks you down.
He then bends you over with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades and no words. You know by now what he wants. And he’s not cruel, he usually does it over something go you to rest on. The table, the counter, the couch, rarely the bed or your dresser- but usually this happens on the first floor of your house.
Then he takes his time. Staring at your sensitive, fluttering little hole. Checking your reflex’s to made sure you respond to his touch right, stroking your lips, pinching your clit, expanding it and rubbing it to make you cry out and shake, begging your daddy. Pushing a finger in to make sure you’re tight, that no one else has been in his pussy. Pushing that wet finger against your little hole, to check, just incase. Sometimes he toys with you longer than you expected, you don’t question it. Let him pinch and stroke and fondle. But you know that this isn’t for your pleasure.
He doesn’t like bras at home, either. And daddy’s inspections are through, so usually he checks for tits too. But that’s just for your health, of corse. When he orders you to turn around so he can squeeze them, thumb your nipples. The way he states in your eyes as he gently tugs on your nipples at his leisure, groping the heavy weights on your chest.
Then comes your mouth. Ordering it open, and brushing his thumb over your teeth, ensuring your oral health. Ensuring your gag reflex is intact- after all, that exists for a reason, it’s important, baby.
And then he makes a distant sound of satisfaction, nodding that your inspection is over. He approves. You’ve been chaste, and kept yourself for your husband. You redress if you must like nothing happened, usually jumping to happily finally greet your hubby home from work, kissing his cheek and hugging him tight, or talking him though your mall haul. And he smiles in pure bliss. “I missed you too, kitten. Tell me everything about your day.”, he asked, carrying you over to the couch so you can snuggle up while you fill him in.
Inspections are a daily occurrence. You can set your clock to it. Even in those rare miserable instances Brendon travels for a conference, best believe he’ll have you on face time, stripped down and fallowing his orders to present to him.
Spankings. There were two kinds of spankings. Maintenance and punishment.
Maintenance was for your own good, he reminded you. They happened twice a week, before bed. You knew the routine by now. It had never changed. At 9 pm you stripped bare, and bent over Brendon’s knee where he sat on the edge of the bed. He started with his hand. He reminded you that he loved you more than all the stars in the sky, and that this was to remind you of that. That daddy was grounding you, helping you release your stress and anxiety through the pain.
First came his hand, alternating between each cheek. Some spanks soft and firm, some hard and fast. 10 to each cheek. And then, five to your pussy. And you were usually so good about it, lacking ego and shame as you opened your legs for him, allowing him access to the sensitive flesh even if it hurt, even if it humiliated you and stung.
Then he moved onto his paddle, a special one of wood and leather you’d picked out together, five hits to each cheek and one blow between your legs to finish you off for the night. Short and fast. And he’d be so proud of you when you were done.
Unless.
Unless you acted up.
Oh, then things are different. See, you know to take your spanking like a good girl. To stay calm on his knee, to breath in and out slowly and steady, you know to ask daddy for his other hand to hold if you’re feeling too overwhelmed (because he’ll always give you it, you’re his fucking wife, he loves you, of corse he’ll hold your hand. He’ll take a break to stroke your hair, to kiss your head and remind you he loves you and you’re a good girl.). You know how to be good and take it. And you know if you do, if you are, when he looks between your legs and sees you got wet like his perfect girl, he’ll reward you for taking it so well.
So because you know better, if you act up there’s consequences.
His spankings are so short. He’s too soft on you, really. So there’s no excuse for insolence.
But if you squirm, and wiggle, and jump away, and fight it? You will be punished.
Those soft and firm spanks from before are gone once he has to get mean with you. And when you’re acting up like this, you both know, it’s because you’re craving that firmer hand. You need the discipline and structure. So he’ll give it.
He holds your back down hard as he adds firm slaps to your ass. And breaks out his horse whip for your pussy. Usually on these nights he has to hold you down with one hand as he spanks you hard, has to force your legs open to abuse your little holes. He’s only satisfied once he breaks you back into being his good girl, tears and sobs and apologies for being bad. That’s when he knows he’s done his job, and he can pull you into his arms, shush and rock you as he insists it’s all okay, all forgiven, and daddy loves you. When you act out, he knows, maybe even subconsciously, you need extra to get the release and rebirth this gives you. Need him to break you down to build you back up.
Punishment spankings are different. Not just on Wednesday and Sunday nights, but when they’re needed. They’re not as soft as maintenance spankings are. They’re intense. There’s different paddles and rules.
Rule one. No moving. No asking daddy to hold your hand, no subtly rubbing against his leg and him pretending to ignore it. This isn’t for anyone pleasure. It’s a punishment. You don’t get the comfort of daddy’s lap for these.
They vary depending on how angry he is and his mood.
Of corse, he knows how to calm down. He wouldn’t actually risk really hurting you in a blond rage.
Brendon’s a good man. And a good husband. You know he’d never hit you anywhere but your bottom. He’s expressed his loud and firm disgust at the idea of any man raising his hand to their wife. He’d never lay a finger on your face that wasn’t gentle and full of adoration. He’d never hurt you. But spanking is different.
Punishment is necessary.
Sometimes he’ll tie your hands behind your back with one of his belts.
Sometimes he’ll tie you to the 4 corners of the bed if you’ve been really bad.
Sometimes he can just expect you to stay in place and take it, those sessions where you know you ere bad.
And your misdeeds vary. And they affect how you’re punished. As does your remorse.
Not wearing panties out of the house, lying by omission, back talk, not taking proper care of yourself, being unkind to him, being unkind to yourself, making bad decisions, forgetting your wedding ring at home. Teasing him at work, touching yourself without permission, pushing stupid fights because you’re hormonal or stressed. All these things have different punishments.
But punishment spankings are hard. They’re can involve his hand, far harsher than normal. They can involve one of his expensive leather belts, making clean lines across your rear. It can be your paddle, harder than usual. Your horse whip, focused on your ass instead of your pussy, painful and mean to the puckered hole.
And satisfied last until he’s satisfied. He can count the amount of times on one hand, but you’ve bled. You’ve cried yourself horse. He’s done when he’s done, or you safe word. And you never have. He needs to be confident he’s broken the rebellious spirit.
He’ll take care of you after, of corse. Lotion and bandages and kisses better and honey green tea.
But only after you’ve gotten the message, and apologized for being a bad girl.
It’s not the only punishment you use. But it’s common.
Another rule in your home is that you sleep naked. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it? After your spankings, you generally went right into bed, so why would you re dress? You never wore pajamas. Maybe if you were traveling Brendon made exceptions, but not at home.
You took your shower, came out in your towel, and put it in the hamper before climbing into bed with your husband. At first the idea was intimidating and embarrassing. Now it was just normal.
Seldom a night goes by where you go to bed without having sex, anyway, so why would you waste the energy on clothes you don’t need?
Brendon bought you two the most amazing marital home. So you have the freedom and privacy for all these kinds of free displays of your body.
Besides from sleeping naked, you also are free to swaim in your swimming pool perfectly bare, too, with the massive trees surrounding your lawn. No tan lines for this girl.
Brendon fucking loves it, coming home to your nude form dozing by the pool tanning (soooo lucky he can see the high SPF beside you) or swimming laps the way god intended.
That privacy also means you two can do whatever you’d like in and beside that pool. And believe me. You have.
You have sex when and where and how Brendon wants. Free use. It’s a negotiated part of your relationship, one which always brings you a little rush. Becuase it’s so fucking nice to feel wanted, especially by your sexy husband. He just can’t keep his hands off of you. How lucky are you?
Brendon’s not greedy. It’s not like he’s interrupting your housework for a blowjob, or bending you over every surface. But sex happens on his terms. You’ve never even imagined having to initiate before. When you get horny before Brendon does, usually a desperate look and some fluttered eyelashes are enough to get him to take you.
Brendon sat on the couch, lazily reading though a case study when he watched you walk across the room in a little sundress. And he stopped you, making a beckoning gesture with his hand wordlessly, placing his iPad down. “What’s up, baby?” You asked, seeming innocent to the effect you were having on him. Heavy ties free in the dresses, nipples pushing the fabric. Skirt so short when you bent down to pick up a fallen piece of paper he saw your glistening folds. You realized quickly what he wanted, as he firmly held your waist, maneuvering you and man handling do you were now laying on the plush, large sectional couch. He pushed your dress up your hips and down your chest, straps falling down your arms to put your goodies on display for him. He unzipped his jeans, pulling out his rock hard cock. He brushed his fingers along your lips to see how wet you were, and of corse you were. You always got so worked up by his strength. He actually enjoyed foreplay a lot. Pleasing you. Making you cum on his fingers and tongue, playing with you. But you didn’t need that right now. He pushed in fast, enjoying the sounds you made in shock. You held your legs open for him before he took over, keeping you in a makeshift mating press. And he kissed as he fucked you, too. Always did, the romantic. Rubbed your clit softly, bringing you to peak before he emptied inside you. Watched his cum drip from you before he helped you up, righting your dress and slapping your ass as you walked away happy and mindless.
Half asleep, you felt his lips on your shoulder. “Sorry, Princess. I’ll be quick” he grunted. And then he was easing into you. You gasped, reaching behind you for him. You just went. And he needed you again. “Relax, relax. Good girl” he muttered. You fell asleep before you could see how the story ended. You woke up with Brendon still inside you.
You’ll settle into bed for the night, and Brendon will roll over to position himself on top of you, stroking your cheeks, saying how much he loves you, caressing and fondling and taking whatever he’d like. He’ll fuck you romantically like a good husband, rating you out, licking you clit, and fuck you steady, slow and deep.
And yes. Of corse, cliche as it is, bending you over the kitchen counter and taking.
And your ass belongs to him, too. Don’t try to fight it. Accept it. He’ll prep you, of corse, but if he wants your ass he’s gonna take it. Using lube to finger you while your bent over his knee, ignoring whines and moans and protests. Sometimes that’s all he wants, to play with your ass. Sometimes, he’ll full on fuck it. Or maybe put a toy in it. He likes to play with how wet you get while he’s in your ass.
Toys are for him, not you. He’ll use them however he wants. Harsh vibrators to make you cum over and over again until your sobbing pulling at the ropes that bind you desperately, but plugs nuzzled in your tiny little princess hole to keep you ready for him. He likes to make you suck on them before he puts them inside you.
Oh. And obviously he cums inside you. Every time. He’s your husband. That’s where his cum belongs, deep in his wife’s pussy. Sometimes he’ll shyly- a shock for Brendon- ask you to pretend you don want it. Only sometimes, rarely. He gets very into it. And so do you, because you love making him happy. “Please, please daddy don’t, don’t cum inside me, please. I don’t want it.” He knows what’s best for you. And what’s best for you it to carry his load every day.
There really isn’t any privacy between you two. Why would you need it?
Brendon loves your bathroom, and the crystal clear glass shower walls. Comes in just to watch you clean yourself sometimes. Often. Only joins on rare occasion. Usually he just likes the show. He tracks your location, all the time. For your safety of corse. Checks your phone. Watches you change. Come to all your doctors appointments. That’s all his right.
And the lack of “privacy”, or boundaries between you is actually a good thing. Seriously! It’s so helpful. For example, when you’re completely exhausted, Brendon can come into the shower, scrub you down, and carry you to bed like the princess you are. And when you get a flat tire, and are scared and lost, he knows exactly where to come save you. And a doctors ear at every appointment you admitted, and your doting husband advocating for you, is truly for the best.
Brendon fully sees you, and fully knows you, so he can always take the best care of you.
Me coming onto tumblr dot com ready to make another post nobody cares about
frank teaching loser!reader how to ride him 😵💫 you’ve unlocked so many ideas in my brain
him guiding your hips.... grabbing your wrist and saying "put your hand on my chest" so you have some leverage... your nails digging into his skin as you sink down... "roll your hips a little, yeah like that. feel good?"... his big hands moving you up and down on his cock because you can't seem to keep a steady rhythm.... "like this, baby"... hearing your surprised gasp when he spanks you for the first time.....
sorry park the shark is heavy on my brain lately
cw: d/s undertones, pup as nickname, pussy spanking
i can't stop thinking about Park using just the tip as a punishment. like you've had an attitude for the past couple days, you're extra snarky and not at all listening to anything he says and he's finally like "okay fine we'll play it your way." and you just roll your eyes at him and move on. until a week later when your hands are handcuffed behind your back and Brendon’s teasing your cunt with his tongue until you have tears threatening to spill. "what's wrong pup? what do you need? hmmm?" and you're just whining. incoherent words leaving your mouth. truthfully, Brendon has no part in it, he’s taught you better than that. you know your manners. giving your pussy a little smack, he speaks up. "come on, use your words baby or you get nothing." he just stares down at you.
"you. want you." and he just gets so smug and you think it's because he's cocky but he’s just so proud of his baby. loves when you get all soft and dumb.
he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your collarbone. he speaks as he's rubbing his cock through your folds. "now, that wasn't so hard. was it?" and before you can speak up, he pushes his tip into you and takes himself out again. he swears he hears you plea for more. "you want more? don't be greedy sweetheart. you'll get what i give you. gotta show you what brats get. only good girls get to feel my cock in their stomach. now why don't you lay still and let me use your hole for a little while."
OFF CAMPUS, SEASON 1 | Stephen Kalyn as Dean Di Laurentis
lemme lick it neow
need them all at the same time i fear
falling for mclaren team principal!robby who also happens to be your dads best friend; headcanons !
contents: fluff, smut (18+ mdni), slight angst, age gap, dads best friend trope, secret relationship, friends to lovers, sugar daddy trope (if u squint), mentions of oral (m + f receiving), mentions of pinv, masturbation (m!)
mclaren team principal!robby who meets you through your dad and immediately takes a shine to you—he’s grinning every time you’re enthusiastically yapping his ear off about formula 1 and all the races you’ve been to since you were a kid.
mclaren team principal!robby who is oblivious to the little crush you have on him, thinking you’re just hanging around him because you like watching him work—unaware that when you go to bed at night, he’s the only thing on your mind.
mclaren team principal!robby who gives you his number so that he can send you pictures from races that you can’t attend—yes you may being slightly jealous that he’s obviously there and you’re not, but you’re also over the moon that he thinks of you during races.
mclaren team principal!robby who strikes up a friendship with you, but you don’t tell your dad, afraid that he thinks it might be crossing a boundary considering the huge age gap between you and robby—but you know nothing could ever happen between you two and you’re just happy being friends with him.
mclaren team principal!robby who visits your dad’s house in miami during the grand prix, where you beg your dad to let you tag along with him to the race, even though you’re only visiting for the weekend—and after an hour of begging, he gives in and lets you go with robby.
mclaren team principal!robby who, while you’re by his side, getting glared at by other staff members or crew or just the general public—and yet he’s not affected by it like you thought he would be, and maybe you think you might have a chance with him if you ever let him know you like him.
mclaren team principal!robby who drives you around in his big fancy sports car and you’re just so giddy to be able to spend time with him
mclaren team principal!robby who soon catches wind of your crush after being invited on your family’s yacht, overhearing you talking to your friend about how much you like him—and he starts thinking about you more after that, noticing everything you would do around him and piecing together the puzzle.
mclaren team principal!robby who invites you to a race overseas in europe, which your dad is reluctant to let you go to but you’re on a break from college and you eventually wear him down—and robby’s over the moon knowing he finally has some alone time with you.
mclaren team principal!robby who, on the first night there, relaxes with you in your hotel room, sitting on the balcony and taking in the views across the city towards the ocean—it doesn’t help that you’ve both had a few glasses of wine, which is now making you slightly tipsy.
mclaren team principal!robby who lets you climb into his lap and kiss him, not even questioning it, his hand going straight to the curve of your back, under your t-shirt and splayed across your soft skin—and you’re even sweeter than he imagined.
mclaren team principal!robby who takes you to bed but just kisses you until he can tell you’re sleepy and then he leaves—but not without you whining in protest, and he just tells you to get some sleep and that he doesn’t want to take advantage of you when you’re slightly drunk.
mclaren team principal!robby who can tell you’re upset at him the next day when he takes you to the race, turning around every so often to see you sulking and trailing behind him—so when he gets a free minute, he talks to you and promises you he’ll make up for it tonight.
mclaren team principal!robby who obviously manages to snag you free merch and you snap a picture of yourself in a baseball cap, sharing it to your instagram stories and tagging robby in it, feeling totally giddy at the way he’s treating you and making you feel special.
mclaren team principal!robby who’s exhausted after the races, a mixture of frustration and stress, and you’re worried he won’t make up for last night—but he keeps to his promise, laying you down in bed and burying his head between your legs until you let go all over his beard.
mclaren team principal!robby who you can tell is tired so you say it’s okay if he can’t go on but he shakes his head, determined to make good on his promise—and once he’s slipped inside you, bottoming out and groaning into your shoulder, you just melt into him, holding onto his shoulders as he grinds into you.
mclaren team principal!robby who mutters all sorts of comments into your skin, telling you how hard today was, how frustrating the qualifiers were and that he’s worried about sunday—but coming back here to you and getting to see you and be with you like this, makes everything alright.
mclaren team principal!robby who spends the night in your room, snuggled into your side, his arm draped over your stomach, snoring softly as you both sleep soundly—you just wished this could be fine, be normal, but you know it can’t, not when he’s your dad’s best friend and you’re half his age.
mclaren team principal!robby who doesn’t realise you’ve stolen one of his polos until the morning after, meeting him in the lobby of the hotel and he so badly wants to kiss you right then and there, but he has to keep it professional—so he clears his throat and smiles at you, to which you roll your eyes and mutter real subtle there and he just huffs out a laugh at you.
mclaren team principal!robby who doesn’t realise you’ve posted another picture of yourself, wearing his polo which obviously looks massive on you—your friend messages you first asking if it’s robby’s, but before you can respond, your dad messages you asking you to call him immediately.
mclaren team principal!robby who doesn’t notice you leave to call your dad, just finds you at the end of the day with your eyes all puffy and red, a forced smile on your face that he can see right through—so he asks what’s wrong and you shake your head, telling him you’ll explain when you get to the hotel.
mclaren team principal!robby who sits and listens to you recount the phone call with your dad, who asked you how you got a hold of robby’s polo and why you were wearing it all day, and you had to bullshit your way through the conversation—you made up an excuse of how it was a gift from robby because he brought extra ones, and somehow your dad bought it.
mclaren team principal!robby who feels bad for lying to his best friend about sleeping with you, but how could he not—you’re so pretty, glowing under the light of the european summer haze that shines through the hotel window, clad in only his team polo and he just folds immediately.
mclaren team principal!robby who when you return home, he drops you off and your dad insists he come in and chat, but he makes an excuse that he has to go home and take care of some business—in reality, he just can’t keep up the facade in front of your dad.
mclaren team principal!robby who texts you all the time while he’s at home, and you take a risk, slipping on his polo again and taking a photo of you in it, wearing nothing else—you send it to him with the caption missing you badly 🥲.
mclaren team principal!robby who hears the ping from his phone and checks the notification, smiling at the picture you sent, before responding with miss you too sweetheart i’ll see you soon okay?—all you can do is pout and respond with another picture, this time bunching up the polo until just your underboob is showing, knowing it’ll rile him up completely.
mclaren team principal!robby who knows he shouldn’t but responds with now take it all off baby show me what i’m really missing, and you can’t take his polo off fast enough, sending him a picture of you again—this time completely nude, his polo discarded beside you on the bed.
mclaren team principal!robby who sits at his desk at home, files abandoned as he unzips his pants, pulling his half hard cock out, stroking it and letting his head fall back against the leather seat—he looks down at his phone again, eyes flicking over every inch of your body, wishing he could be back in bed with you again.
mclaren team principal!robby who soon enough has you tagging along to every race, invited as his special guest and loving just how excited you get at being there, soaking it all in—and fuck, he’s definitely fallen in love with you, but it’s hurting him that he can’t show it off, knowing your dad would kill him in an instant.
mclaren team principal!robby who starts only buying one hotel room for the pair of you, relishing in the fact that you get to be alone with him whenever he brings you to a race—and of course, you lie and tell your dad how annoying robby’s snoring is through the walls and how he has the tv on way too loud.
mclaren team principal!robby who, during the monaco grand prix, is unaware your dad has come to surprise you, knocking at your hotel room door while you’re making out with robby—you roll your eyes and get up to check who it is and as he hears you say dad? what are you doing here?, all the colour drains from robby’s face.
mclaren team principal!robby who sneaks into the bathroom, convinced he’ll get away with it once your dad walks into the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed—but then your dad questions you, asking who’s suitcase is that? and you can’t come up with a lie quick enough before your dad bellows out robby if you’re in here i swear to fucking god.
mclaren team principal!robby who just wishes the ground would swallow him up right now, cowering behind the bathroom door and not daring to come out, eyes squeezed shut as he’s silently begging you to say anything, make up any sort of fucking excuse—but you’re silent, and then the bathroom door swings open.
mclaren team principal!robby who’s hands are up in surrender, pleading with your dad to take it easy and you’re trying to pull your dad away from robby before he hurts him, explaining that you came onto him and he’s been nothing but protective and respectful of you
mclaren team principal!robby who gets told to leave, buy another hotel room and robby just sighs in defeat, packing his suitcase and trudging down to reception—he’s then being sent to the floor above you, swinging the door open and flopping down on the bed, facing the ceiling and sighing.
mclaren team principal!robby who tries texting you later that night but the text doesn’t go through, so he calls you but that doesn’t work either and he realises then that your dads probably went through your phone to delete his contact and block him, hoping to god he hasn’t seen the conversations between you two—but unfortunately for robby, he has.
mclaren team principal!robby who, an hour later, gets a phone call from your dad, and gets quite the earful about the photos you sent him—he can’t even make up an excuse that he didn’t ask for them because he did, and to make matters worse, it was a nude photo that he was specifically asking for.
mclaren team principal!robby who’s not himself on sunday’s race and the team don’t do well at all, which frustrates him even more—he does a quick debrief before going back to the hotel and by force of habit, he uses his old keycard to the room he shared with you.
mclaren team principal!robby who’s met with your dad and robby panics, apologising and saying it was accidental, just used to coming back to this room—your dad’s still furious at him, but tries to have a civil conversation for your sake, knowing you’d be turning up soon.
mclaren team principal!robby explaining that today went terrible, fucking terrible, but when you’re there, everything goes great—you’ve completely turned his life around and filled it with joy and love and happiness, something he’s always craved for in life.
mclaren team principal!robby who’s last proper relationship was ten years ago, and since then he’s tried to settle down again but nothing ever works, nothing ever lasts—and then you come along and he sees a future with you, a real future, with a nice house, maybe some kids and a dog.
mclaren team principal!robby who sighs and stands up, starting to leave the room, thinking it didn’t work, because why would it work? why would your dad be okay with his daughter dating his best friend?
mclaren team principal!robby who stops in his tracks when you open the door and walk in, eyes welling up at the sight of you, a gentle smile on his face as he mumbles out a soft hi—before exhaling softly and walking past you to leave and go back to his own room.
mclaren team principal!robby who tries to live his life without you after that, moving on and dating someone else, but he can’t stop thinking about you, he never does—he even accidentally moaned out your name while having sex with another woman and only then did he realise just how fucked he is when it comes to you, like nobody else even matters except for you.
mclaren team principal!robby who’s home alone in between races, scrolling through the tv channels when his phone pings, an unknown number sending a photo, which he’s hesitant to open—but when he sees it’s you, camera angled down between your legs with the cap he got you covering your pussy, he doesn’t even hesitate to betray his best friends, your dads, trust once again.
taglist !
@robinavitchslut @popecodysgirl @quicksilver21 @rufles2 @archxve @alphabetically-deranged
