When Katsuki And Izuku Become Friends Again It's Different From How Two Highschool Boys With So Much

when katsuki and izuku become friends again it's different from how two highschool boys with so much trauma between them would become friends, quietly and comforting. instead they revert back to the childhood they never had, going back to the days when they were kids and giving each other the life together they could have had. they revert back to eleven year old boys, folding their class notes into paper airplanes and aiming them at each other's heads. they have competitions to see who can turn in their math test first; they make inappropriate jokes in the hallways and izuku dares katsuki to burp the alphabet backwards. they don't talk about swan dives or burnt notebooks or sludge villains or muzzles, instead they merge all might figurine collections and collect hero trading cards. katsuki gives izuku piggyback rides across school and they run across the field, screaming at the top of their lungs. they go to the grocery store and izuku pushes katsuki around in the shopping cart, shoving him right into a shelf and laughing when katsuki gets a cartoonish bump on his head. katsuki writes property of kacchan on izuku's arm in sharpie and izuku gets him back by drawing a dick on his forehead. they still comfort each other on hard nights and hold each other after bad dreams, but more then anything they become kids again. izuku gives katsuki a chance to make it up to him, and katsuki gives izuku a chance to relive a happy childhood. when katsuki and izuku become friends again, it's laughter and tousled hair and the joy of innocence.

SH: *leans in ever so slightly*

Bakugou: ugh i think i like deku but idk if he likes guys

Kirishima: rlly? Hey midobro!

Deku: yeah kirishima?

Kirishima: dude are you💅?

Deku: pfft- no im ✌️

Kirishima: ah got it

Kirishima: yeah bro you totally got a chance he’s bi

Bakugou::….

Bakugou: HOW THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT-?

the devil is a gentleman; jim moriarty/reader (smut, bc I can't contain myself, 18+)

You started working at the National Gallery a couple of months ago. Today, the whole staff has gathered to give one of the most benevolent private sponsors a tour. What could possibly go wrong?

word count: 10,3k

warnings: female reader, kinda noncon, spanking, thigh riding, undernegotiated kinks, power play, choking, unprotected sex, name-calling, semi-public, slight bimbofication if you blink, sir/daddy kink, jim's pleased that you're not boooring

on the day our lord and saviour has risen we continue to sin - happy easter, y'all 🐰

pov: you're moriarty's favourite toy - THE PLAYLIST | pinterest

You're running late. It's your first offical and important meeting since you started working at the National Gallery and you're bloody late. You're running down the halls, the heels of your shoes clicking against the pale marble or shuffling over red carpet.

You huff out in annoyance, as you press the elevator's down button once (and another four times, for good measure) and whip out your phone. Five minutes left for a way that most likely will take you up to ten; seven minutes, if you're lucky. You fix your lipstick in the now darkened display and take a deep breath. You don't really know who you and your colleagues will be meeting today. You only have a name.

Moriarty.

You tried to google him, like you usually do when someone from the curator's team has a guest over - someone with either a lot of money or a special piece from their private collection to offer. You hadn't found anything. It was like he didn't exist. In a doubt-ridden moment, with all the insecurity and innocence of a newbie at office you could muster, you wrote a mail to the curator in chief, asking who exactly would be meeting with the team. You recieved a response in light speed, written by the chairman of the board.

Our principal sponsor will be visiting us this Friday afternoon. Mister Moriarty holds a chair at the board, but likes to keep his investments private and thus, requests a certain privacy concerning his financial involvement with the National Gallery Art Fund. We will expect all members of higher staff to be on their best behaviour.

To be honest, that had your imagination run wild. You immediately thought of an old man - like, nearly ancient - with a cane and medals pinned to his jacket's lapel. Friendly and maybe a little senile already, moving slowly and talking even slower - telling stories of a life well lived and loved ones long passed. You flick your thumb across your phone's screen to check the time and it comes back to life. Only a couple minutes left. The elevator pings lazily and you hurry to get in.

_

It's two minutes past eleven and thus, you're officially late as you scurry down the main hall. You love the exhibtion floors and you love your job - you worked your ass off for it and you're proud to have made into one of Britain's most prestigious collections just a few years after graduating university. A guard, who you like to chat with when visiting the exhibition and taking notes for rearrangements, shoots you a pitiful look. Great.

You can feel your nervousness rising with each one of your steps. You've never met anyone like him. Someone who already sounds like they are holding a lot of wealth and thus, power. His name sounds like it may be of irish decent, he could maybe even be aristocracy. Very, very old money an a deep-rooted, nearing traditional interest and involvement in funding culture and fine arts.

You scoot around the corner and your imagination continues to paint a distinct picture of an elderly, nice man as you make out a small group of people - your colleagues and, of course, the Gallery's director is there, too.

The image of the sponsor, your mind conjured up so diligently, starts to tear apart at the edges as you come closer and are able to take the first few glances at their faces. The air flickers with their energy, their tension and some of your closest colleagues look like they'd actually rather wouldn't be here - Monique, who you spent your lunch breaks with, looks like throwing up. All of them are wearing their best suits and dresses and, whilst you have also put a little more thought into what to wear today, you can't help but notice how upright and corrected they all stand. Hands clasped mannerly, hair in place. If you weren't so out of breath (or currently half running-half jogging) you'd probably laugh. This is absurd. Wealthy or not - he's just a man, not the bloody Queen.

"Where have you been?", your boss, the head curator, hisses, as you straighten your dress and come to a halt, breathlessly. "I had an important phone ca-", is all you manage to choke out while your breath runs short and you gasp for air. You don't get to elevate further than that, even if you would've liked to, since it had been a rather eerie call. Monique, who shot you a nervous look, suddendly snaps her head around and within seconds it's like a bolt of lightning struck the group and you feel its energy hitting you too, washing you away and making you buzz with it. They scurry around each other, whisper-yelling and clearing their throats, straightening their expensive garments and reassuring each other in posture and looks - it's rather contagious, really. As you look down the hall and towards the main entrance, you suddendly come to understand what turned your colleagues into a beehive.

He's here.

He just entered the building, the few visitors in the hall making way for him. You're pretty sure that they don't know he is, but he already looks, walks, behaves like he's important - superior. His dark blue suit looks expensive in the warm, but bright lights of the museum as he struts down the hall. You expected him to be older.

Well, you had imagined him to be old, maybe a survivor of the second world war, at least a little grey and with a lot of wrinkles. But he's not that. Not at all. He reminds you more of a cocaine-snorting and newly-rich banker, than an eldery man with even older money.

It's mostly his walk. He's obviously not in a hurry and seems to find joy in putting that on full display. It's a silent humiliation - directed towards you and your colleagues. It's a gesture of someone who knows that they can waste everybody's time and you're pretty sure that he likes to make a show out of it.

It's the way he's casually strolling down the hall, taking a long and well measured look over the brim of his sunglasses here and there, seemingly whenever he's feeling like something is worth his attention. It's all very City of him - overly confident and always in control - accentuated by the smug grin that's tugging at his lips. What's a little odd to you though, are the two men accompaning him. They look like bodyguards and you wonder why he needs security, given that he apparently likes to stay out of the public image anyway. But then again, what do you know about the rich and (sometimes not so) famous? One henchman's suit jacket slips to the side a little and you're pretty sure that you just saw a fucking handgun. You feel your head going numb for a second, thoughts starting to race - gun, gun, gun - but you're forcefully being ripped out of evaluating the situation by the museum's director.

He suddendly moves next to you, steps out of the group and you feel your senses sharpening - this is your job for fuck's sake, you should focus. If the man carries a gun, he's carrying a gun - he won't fire it at you, why would he? He's probably just using it to defend himself, his colleague and his employer, he won't spray a magazine or two just for fun.

"Mister Moriarty!", the director's approaching the man and they hug, like old friends do, reaching out for each other's hands.

"George, good to see you", their hands meet in a very benevolent manner and the stranger smiles. It's all teeth and rigid cheeks and it makes your skin crawl a little. "How are the kids?"

His voice is deep, with a charming irish accent swirling around the t's. You can't help but notice that he's quite handsome, even though or maybe even due to the coldness of his smile. Your stomach does a funny little flip and you drop your gaze. You decide it's best to just continue looking down at the polished marble, that looks even whiter as usual against your black shoes - it calmes your nerves, it's familiar. Just focus.

You take a deep breath. Maybe it won't be as bad as expected. At least he's not eighty and talking about his aching knee or backpain or the war or his dead wife - and he's nice to look at. You can't help but notice that your colleagues have visibly relaxed as well.

It should put you on the edge - what their behaviour implies should make you even more careful. It will be in an hour from now, that you will understand that they haven't been nervous, that the first couple of minutes of meeting James were and always are crucial.

In an hour from now you will understand that they have been one thing, first and foremost: afraid.

But for now it just feels like they all inaudibly released a breath, collectively slumping in themselves, and you find yourself relaxing a little more as well. The tension slowly fades from your muscles with every superficially-friendly word the two men in front of you are currently exchanging. This will be fine.

The afternoon is off to a good start. George and Mister Moriarty chat away and you and your colleagues are lining up behind his bodyguards. Monique smiles at you, she seems genuinely relieved.

He seems nice you mouth, reciprocating her smile. She swallows and takes a look at the two men strolling in the front of your little group and then, very confidently, shakes her head. You can feel your eyebrows involuntarily rising in surprise but then you remember that Monique's been living in London for only a couple of years, after living and working in Paris for most of her life. Maybe, you think, he just reminds her of someone - a certain type of rich and arrogant man - that she's met before. Maybe he's really just arrogant and thinking of himself as superior and that's what distrubs her.

It wouldn't surprise you, if Mister Moriarty turned out to actually just be that. A lot of the Square Mile boys are rude fucks with a lot of complexes, but you're used to it and maybe Monique just isn't.

You're entering a room dedicated to the Italian masters of the 16th century. George and Mister Moriarty come to halt in front of one of the most famous paintings from the collection - Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne. It's beautifully hung too - the only paiting in a small room, with it's powerful blue's and green's infront of a dark, wine red wall. You can't help to notice that he looks good here too, with his dark red and dark navy suit being complemented well by the dark red in the dim lights.

"Matthew here", your small group gathers around the two of them and George smiles at one of your colleagues, who you usually rarely see given the different epochal focus, "Has been working on a project, dedicated to answering the question of the most used pigments in the 16th century. It's one you financed, James. Would you mind to enlighten our guest of the current progress status, Matthew?"

You can feel his nervousness as he steps forward, but he's well-spoken and visibly calms once their conversation reaches a territory he's familiar on. Mister Moriarty is surprisingly friendly, listening calmly and when he speaks, you find yourself listening to him gladly. His voice is low and deep in his throat, with his accent slipping through rather thickly sometimes. He seems to be quite humorous as well, making one or two snarky and intelligent remarks, that has the group chuckling. You're pretty sure that your gaze locks with his own once, but you can't be sure with his eyes being hidden behind his dark shades.

George continues the tour after that and you note that Mister Moriarty seems to take a special interest in paintings from Goya, Bouguereau or Gericault, not caring much for the lively and colourful paintings of the impressionists, that are usually guests' favourites. It's the gruesome ones, the creepy and disturbing portrayals of death and humanity that he looks the longest at.

You wonder why and you think of his bodyguard's gun again. You wonder if-

No. No, most likely not. He's probably just an investment banker. Maybe he got lucky in the oil or real estate business. He's got nothing to hide, expect a few wild stories about parties or business trips that involve heavy drinking and drug abuse. Nothing else, ordinarily extraordinary.

The director has just finished talking about some water damage at the depot and the two men are strolling into the next room - your favourite. It holds one of your favourite paintings: Martin's Pandemonium.

You wrote your master's about this painting and it will be a center piece of you thesis, too. You come to a halt in front of it and watch Moriarty closely. You can see his eyes roaming over the painting, over its varying red and oranges, the way they seem to glow in the headlights, but also naturally form a strong and lively contrast to the dominant black paint.

"Isn't that just wonderful?", he nearly whispers and leans in close to the canvas, eyes dancing over its scenery delightfully, "So masterfully done."

You can't help but smile. It is, it really is. It's one of your favourite paintings, in general but also of the collection, and sometimes you stop by after work or when you're on the floor for planning, just to look at it for a moment.

"The roman soldier in the front, the colours. The massive building being swallowed by the dark", he makes a pleased noise deep in his throat and your stomach flutters, "The flames of the braziers and how they rage in the cracks, the sparks on the cliffs and rocks."

"Oh, those aren't sparks", you can't stop your mouth from opening and the words rushing out, can't fucking help the amused smile that forms on your face after, the way your eyebrows tilt in an equally amused fashion.

You boss turns around. Your colleagues turn around. One of Moriarty's bodyguards blinks, the other one shifts uncomfortably from one feet to another. For a moment nothing else happens, the man's eyes still trained on the picture infront of him. And then he slooowly turns around.

He's looking around, as if he's asking a silent question - Who just said that - and then he's turning in your direction. Fuck.

You can't see his eyes, still hidden behind the dark shades of his sunglasses, but you don't have to, the others' reactions are enough for you to realize that you're in deep trouble. Suddendly he doesn't look that friendly anymore and you feel very very dizzy, nausea crawling up your stomach. Shit.

"So terribly s-sorry, Mister Moriarty, Sir", you stumble over your own tongue, feeling the heat rising on your cheeks, your voice becoming quieter with every word, "I-I really didn't mean to - If t-that's what you see, then that's fine. Perfectly fine. It's always in the observer's eyes-"

Everyone's staring at you and you're painfully aware of that. It's also painfully quiet. Your vision zeroes in on him, a sharp noise filling your ears, in rhythm with the clicking of his dress shoes' heels. He's coming closer, approaching you. He's taller than you and it's something in his stance, his walk that activates you fight-or-flight - especially your flight.

"I am so sorry", you whisper, taking a couple of steps back as he's closing in on you. There's something very intimidating about him, with the way he so leisurely strolls, shoulders rolled back, one hand buried in the pocket of his pants. His movements are still elegant and careless, but there's also a dangerous confidence. It's what you noticed earlier downstairs, too - something that told you to just be careful, but of course you wouldn't listen to yourself, why would you? You can't see his eyes, but you feel his gaze pericing through you nonetheless.

"Really, Sir, I am sorry", you try again, hand clasping around the folder and your phone and you suddendly feel very useless, oddly disposable.

"Oh no, no-ho", and he nearly sing-songs, a sound that has your blood turn cold, voice silky, "No, you're not."

He's very close now, a few inches away from you and you can smell his cologne. It's a surprisingly warm and full scent; vanilla, musk and herbs, maybe a few spices. It smeels good and the realization throws you off guard. "Sooo", he stretches the o delicately as slooowly circles you, the sound of his heels making your skull vibrate and you can feel his gaze wandering over your body. He's mustering you, assessing your anxiety, your reaction. He's enjoying this. "Would you care to enlighten me, then?"

"Please", you say, quietly, not even knowing what exactly you're begging for. Please, don't make me do this. Please, don't be mad. Please, just forget about this. Please, don't be mean. Please, don't have me fired.

"Please", he mimics your tone mockingly, voice shooting up a few octaves and in volume, too. One of the other curators flinches at the sudden sound Monique looks genuinely scared. You look straight ahead, trying to remain calm as your eyes focus on a point right across from you that quickly starts to become blurry, just as he comes to halt right behind you. Your breath is flat, heart racing.

"Please, go ahead", Moriarty is leaning in close now, mouth close to your ear, his voice nearly a whisper and his expensive cologne wraps you in a cloud that leaves you with a dizzy feeling, has you feeling like you're drunk, "Tell me where I am - mistaken."

You gulp - you really rather wouldn't.

"Miss Y/LN", the head curator's voice is sharp and cuts through thin air. She's not asking you to. The director's fallen silent, looking down on his shoes, like he's waiting for the sub at rush hour and just tries to waste as much time as possible. "Miss Y/LN", she says again, more forceful this time, "Please answer Mister Moriarty's question."

You blink, eyes slowly becoming teary and you nod, taking a deep breath.

"You may start", Mister Moriarty says and you feel his hot breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, that has goosebumps errupting on you skin and shiver running down your spine, as he he's coming closer yet again, looking over your shoulder.

"Well, these aren't sparks or lights flickering, no optical illusions", you look to the side for a moment and your heart misses a beat at the fact of how close he is, "T-the first hint on what these round objects might be is - well, it's in the title, Sir."

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, collecting yourself. "The title - Pandemonium - is ancient greek and can be translated in many ways, depending on the century it's used in. The most common usage stems from the syllables its composed of: All or every, for the first part and Little Angles for the second half. In the christian Occident Little Angles was quickly believed to mean Little Demons, given by the stories of the Bible. Thus, given the painting is from the early 19th century, we are safe to believe that the title means All Demons."

He hums. You don't know, if he wants to know more, if you're allowed to say more and thus you just inhale deeply, eyes darting around aimlessly.

"Keep going", he murmurs and you nod.

"A-alright. So, uhm, as you may know John Martin was consulted by a publisher to create some illustrations to compliment a printed version of Milton's Paradise Lost. The painting was created by Martin in the process of the mezzotints for said publisher and that's where we can further determine, what these small dots actually are. Martin worked on a second painting, which sadly was never finished by him and was only passed on as an oil sketch. It's Satan presiding at the Infernal Council, and there we can observe the same odd, bright spots. But this time they are clearly depicting rows of demonic soldiers, sitting around him in a theatre. Martin uses the same technique and style to portray a mass of individuals or creatures, so-"

You stretch your arm out, pointing at the rows of bright yellow-ish dots on the canvas. "If you move in close you'll be able to identify the same pattern. These aren't sparks or optical illusions from the fire: these are rows and rows of demonic soldiers. Just as in Milton's piece, they are marching through hell's capital city Pandemonium to be ready for the day that Hell raises and swallows all life on Earth. It's a very clever trick to paint these soldiers so small, it really puts the palace on the ride side on the canvas into perspective. The painting is a really majestic and dark imagination of Hell, that also follows ancient greek ideas and representations. So, these aren't sparks, Sir."

Your voice ebbs and all you can hear, in the silence of the room, is the sound of your rushing blood in your ears. You let go of a shaky breath, as he starts to shift behind you and from the corner of his eye, you can see the way he's tilting his head.

"It's actually pretty easy to figure that out, if one knows or has read Milton's epic poetry", you nearly whisper, dropping your gaze.

Moriarty's quiet for a moment and then barks out a cackling laughter, placing one hand on your shoulder, the sudden touch making you jolt a little. His hand is heavy and the heat radiates through the fabric of your dress.

"Well, would you look at that?", he leans in close again, lips brushing over your ear and you shiver with it, as he growls, "Looks like we got ourselves a little smart-mouthed brat."

Your head swims and you feel like your knees will give up every second now.

Your boss takes a step forward and your gaze shoots up in surprise. The man behind you chuckles in an amused manner. "Mister Moriarty, please excuse Miss Y/LN's behaviour, I will take on full responsibility", you certainly don't like the way her eyes look, opened wide and frightened.

"That won't be needed", his hand brushes over your neck, fingers toying with the neckline of your dress, "But thank you, Misses Carter."

He smiles and you don't need to see it to feel sick by it. Then, his hand vanishes from your body and he steps away, appearing in your field of vision again. You look at him, unsure of the situation and intimidated by him but he just grants one bored look, before turning around, looking down the hall. "Shall we continue?", he looks at Geroge and his voice is nearing lethargic, before he sighs as if he's terribly extorted.

"Yes, sure", the director is quickly at his side, shooting you are warning gaze, before guiding Moriarty into the next room.

You feel like throwing up, with your nerves lying bare and a little voice in the back of your head that's drawing your attention towards your slightly slick panties. You wish there'd be a hole opening up beneath you, swallowing you whole.

"You", the head-curator hisses, red stress-spots already forming on her neck and cheeks and Monique watches her approaching you with visible concern.

"Upstairs, now. Vanish, work on something-", her breath is quick and she speaks in an even quicker staccato, nearly barking out orders, "Just stay out of his way. Don't. Don't come back down again."

She storms out of the room and after the group, her heels forcefully clasping against the marble.

"Good luck", Monique shoots you a pitiful look, before she quickly turns on her heels, leaving you alone in the huge room. _

A static noise is filling your ears, in sync with the racing of your heartbeat. You thought, that maybe concentrating on your most current task of looking at the results of recent restaurations, would take your mind off of how you royally fucked up just an hour ago. But you can't focus, hands shaking, thoughts racing.

Oh, those aren't sparks That's it. There goes your career. No one will ever hire you again, it'll surely make the rounds.

Care to enlighten me, then? - Smart-mouthed brat You feel cold sweat spreading on the palms of your hands. You can still feel his gaze upon you, his breath on your neck - moritfied by it, by your own stupid fucking mouth. And you're a little ashamed, too. You feel humiliated and put into place, but there's also something about his behaviour, about the way he treated you, that had your loins catch a little fire.

You should be embarrassed of yourself, being turned on by someone and by a situation that could easily be the end of your career.

No one's come to speak to you yet, none of them. Not even Monique. You fucked it up. You should really start packing your things. There's a sharp knock on your door, ripping you out of your thoughts.

"He wants to see you", it's your boss, huge and thickly framed glasses on the tip of her nose, her locks in still a strictly-kempt bun, "Now."

"Who?", you reply dumbfoundedly, looking up from the pictures on your desk that you zoned out upon. Her lips form a thin line, impatience drawn on her expression. You know the answer before she even opened her mouth. That's it. You're getting fired.

"Mister Moriarty, silly. Upper floor, conference room", she's not giving you a chance to respond and nearly has the door closed shut, as she turns around once more.

"And, Y/N? Don't fuck it up - again."

Your legs shake as you make your way from the elevator to double-doors at the end of the hallway. You don't even remember how you got here, everything from standing up and leaving your office to exiting the elevator is left in a blur. You knock on the door, sharp and loud and pain ignites in your knuckles, knees feeling weak.

Nothing. Your hearbeat picks up again, palms breaking out a cold sweat.

You knock again.

It takes another long moment, but then you can hear something from behind the closed doors. You're quick to realize: he keeps you waiting on purpose.

"Yes?", finally. You nearly choke on the words trying to leave your mouth.

"It's Miss Y/LN."

"Oh, do come in", he sounds amused but as you push the door open. Warm lights ghost over your face and you throw a careful first glance into the bright and huge room.

He isn't even looking at you. Instead, his eyes are trained on a folder on the desk in front of him. You're standing there, a few steps away from the door that slowly falls shut behind you, arms uselessly dangling at the sides of your body. You do not dare to move and the thought hits you like sharp slap across the face - you're afraid.

Slowly, deliberately, Moriarty turns a page, papers rustling slightly. You can't bring yourself to say a word.

As you're waiting - ordered, but long forgotten, not deemed important enough - your thoughts take it on themselves to run wild. You think about your colleagues in the main hall, about Monique's concerned look, the sharp voice of your usually very friendly boss.

Your assumptions about Mister Moriarty were right: he is indeed powerful. But in a different way than you expected and it slowly starts to dawn on you. He doesn't only hold the power or the possible influence that usually comes with money and richess.

He holds power over your employement - the whole bloody house - and it intimidates you, makes your blood sing and your nerves tingle with fear. But you also come to wonder why. Why is someone who's known so little about that powerful and how did he score such a position?

There are a few possibilities, but most of them are rather unpleasant to think about. You think about the gun again and you can feel your head, your neck tingle with rising anxiety. That he's in no way responding nor reacting to your presence makes it even worse.

You'e pretty sure why you're here. You'll be yelled at and then he'll fire you. Most likely he'll also have your professional reputation ruined and not a single gallery or museum will hire you ever again.

Like a deer in the headlights - prey surrounded by the hunter - you take a good, long look at him in a helples attempt to assess the situation. He's discarded his jacket and the sleeves of his dark blue shirt are rolled up a little. The ticking noise of his watch fills the room, as you're just standing there, saying nothing, not moving at all.

tick. tick. tick. This is ridiculous. But it could also be your last chance.

tick. tick. tick. You don't want to lose your job, you love it, actually. You also have a cat to feed.

tick. tick. tick. Do it for the cat. Do it for the cat. Do it for the cat.

tick. tick. ti- Fuck it.

If he wants to fire you, you want it to be over with quickly.

You clear your throat, pushing your shoulders back a little. You got this. He's only human, right?

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

Moriarty's head jerks up at that, piece of paper still in hand. You can finally see his eyes, with his sunglasses discarded on the table infront of him. They sent a shiver down your spine. They are cold - cold as ice.

"Oh", he says and you blink. Once. Twice. "That I did."

You should leave. Something tells you to better leave now, goosebumps spreading over your arms. This isn't worth it, you'll be fine with a written termination.

"I-", you swallow, "I can come back later, if you're preoccupied at the moment, Sir."

He grins at that and it throws you offguard. He carefully puts the paper down, leaning back a little.

"Oh, no. You'll stay", he smiles at you, but it's only his mouth, really - gaze stern and cold, eyes unmoving. Moriarty's just looking at you, tilting his head a little as you're just standing there, for a couple of minutes. You dare not to speak again, waiting for him to break the silence again.

"Come. Sit."

"What?", you blurt out. This is not what you expected.

"Sit", he gestures vaguely and you start to look around, but -

There's no chair, expect for the one he's sitting in. You swallow, taking another look through the room, just to make sure. No, none. He leaning back in his chair - the confirmed only chair in the room - spreading his legs in a likewise inviting and an impatient manner.

"I don't have all day. Sit, sweetheart", his accent is a little more audible now than earlier and it makes your knees go weak, his request makes your heart miss a beat.

You really can't say No to him, can you? Maybe, just maybe you can still safe your job. He could probably get you sacked on the spot given how much money he pumped into the latest restaurations and the exhibiton in general - you've seen the numbers, the redacted name.

You take a deep breath and nod, slowly walking towards him. The carpet muffles the clicking of your heels but it also makes your steps feel a lot more wobbly.

"W-where-", you try not to look at his lap but there's not really a way of preventing you from it, and thus your eyes flicker over his thighs, his groin. Your mouth goes dry.

He just looks at you, a mischevious grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, lightly patting his left thigh. You take another deep breath, eyelids fluttering a little, before stepping between his spread legs and slowly lowering down onto his left. There's a feather light touch, a hand on the small of your back, guiding you and keeping you in place, keeping you from loosing your balance, but it's gone as quickly as it came. You feel nervous - very nervous. Jim's warmth radiates through his dress pants and onto your skin. Even though the situation is so utterly wrong, you can't help but notice that being so close to him feels a little right - good - too.

As you've noticed earlier he smells nice, warm and extravagant and it makes you feel a little dizzy. You do not dare to look at him, even if you'd actually really like to right now, rather keeping your gaze down obediently, waiting for an order.

"There we go", he finally hums and his gaze wanders over your body, taking its time. You cannot see it, but you feel it, ice cold and burning hot. "Now we can discuss our little - problem."

"Problem?", you echo, mouth a little dry. Oh, you will be fired. He's just playing a little game with you.

Moriarty tsks at that. "Stupid little thing", his voice is low and quiet and it makes your skin tingle, makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment and something else, "You made me look like an uncultured illiterate."

"I'm sorry, Sir", you whisper, heart racing, and it's the truth.

He's tilting his head a little and the sudden movement has your gaze snapping up. He's looking at you, eyes oddly cold and plain, while his face mimicks a mockingly compassionate expression. His stare bores into you and you feel like you can't, won't, never will be able to escape it.

He has beautiful eyes. Dark, brown and with little whirls of green that probably show best in the sunlight. Your stomach does a funny little flip that results in an all too familiar pulling sensation, that shoots riiight down to your abdomen. Oh, you're fucked.

"Just couldn't keep your mouth shut, huh?", Jim hums, nearly sighs, one hand wandering over your thighs. Your skin tingles where he touches you and you can feel arousal starting to pool between your legs, dampening your panties. You look down on his hand, the way they push the hem of your skirt up, how his slim fingers dance over your skin. You're pretty sure that he knows what he's doing and your heart misses a beat at the thought, your stomach tingles with anticipation. "You know that I can't just let that - slide", he's put on a friendly voice that drips thickly and sweetly with venom and has you squirming in his lap, on his thigh, "You humiliated me."

"I- I didn't mean to", you whisper and look at him again but his stern look has your eyelids fluttering, quickly looking down again.

"You didn't mean to -?", his hand come to a halt.

Heat creeps up your cheeks. "S-sir. I didn't mean to, Sir."

He hums, rubbing soothing circles on your upper thigh again. "Didn't mean to", he repeats, rolling the words on his tongue for a little while, "Didn't mean to. D'you wanna know something, poppet?"

You nod, carefully looking up. The pet name has you feeling a little dizzy and you want him to touch you more. You are pretty sure that he's a dangerous man to say the least, but you can't help yourself - you want his attention, you want him.

"I don't care", Moriarty smiles, shows a row of pearly white teeth and you feel goosebumps rising, "I don't care what you did or didn't want to do."

You blink at him, unsure what to say next.

"Try again", he offers, but it's more like an order, anyways - you comply.

"I- I'm sorry for humiliating you, Sir."

He nods slowly and looks down on his hand, that is still resting on your leg, fingers spread, applying some pressure and groping you lightly.

"Good girl", he says and his tone hits you out of nowhere, voice deep and dark, making your abdomen tingle with want. Your breath hitches and you involuntarily lean in closer, thigh pressing against his crotch, upper body against his shoulder. That's insane. He's insane. You're insane.

"Ain't so hard to behave, is it?", he's rewarding you by pushing both his hands up further, gripping the insides of your thighs and spreading your legs a little. You mewl, your stomach fluttering a little. "Looks like someone's gotta teach you some manners, hm?"

You nod, mind already a little hazy, your fear of loosing your job long forgotten, buried deep beneath a thick cloud of lust.

"C'mon, silly, get up", Jim offers you a hand you take it gladly, following his order like someone flipped a switch. You can feel your breath shortening with anticipation, heart beating fast and heavy against your ribcage. He has you swing one leg over, now sitting on his thigh and the fricition against your crotch has your head swim a little. Slowly, spurred on by the hand on your back guiding you forward, you let your upper body sink against his, cheek resting on his shoulder.

"There you go", he hums, gripping your hips and pushing them back a little. The stretch in your back and lower body pulls on your strings deliciously and you sigh, hands aimlessly roaming over his arms and shoulders, coming to a rest on his biceps. You can feel the muscles twitch and flex under the thick fabric of his dark dress shirt, as he slooowly pushes the hem of your dress up.

The cold air hits your warm skin and then his fingers ghost over your ass, digits spread and kneeding the flesh, feeling you up. You wonder if he likes what he sees.

"Do me a favour, poppet", you hum at the way his accent swirls around the pet name, rolling your hip on his thigh once, desperate for attention and friction, "Count for me."

Your breath hitches. Oh.

Oh.

"Sir", you sigh, nodding feverishly with anticipation, "Yes, Sir."

Moriarty laughs at that, quietly and buried deep in his throat and it sounds like he's genuienly suprised and pleased. His hand rubs over your left ass cheek. "How many d'you deem fit, hm?"

"T-ten?", you try, biting your lip.

"Fifteen, then", you can hear the grin forming on his lips and your eyelids flutter.

"Y-yes, Mister Moriarty, Sir."

"Good", you can hear Jim chuckle and then his hand vanishes, only to come down with a loud clap a second later. It stings and your skin immediately ignites in a painful tingle, but it's just right, pleasure shooting through your core.

You huff out a breath, fingers clinging onto is shirt. "One", you breathe out, closing your eyes.

The palm of his hand rubs over the skin, before coming down again. "T-two", you whisper, pressing your nose into the crook of his neck, right above the collar of his shirt, breathing him in. It nearly has you loosing your senses, the thickly perfume mingling with his own scent, has you groaning against his throat.

"Enjoying this already?", you can hear him say mockingly, but doesn't wait for answer, hitting you again - two quick blows, one on the right and the other one on your left ass cheek.

"Three", you gasp, closing your eyes, "F-four, Sir."

He gives you four more and you're just stuttering out the number, as he slips one finger between your slightly spread legs, rubs it along your panty-clad pussy.

You know you're wet and Moriarty chuckles quietly as he feels you up, rubs over it with the palm of his hand.

"Should've known that this turns you on, you dumb whore", you moan against his neck, fingers pulling slighty at his shirt as you rock your hips against his hand.

"You love that, don't you?", two of his fingers start to circle your clit and you mewl, desperate for more you start to move your whole body against him, grinding against his leg and his fingers, breasts pressed flush against his chest.

"Who told you, you could move?", he growls, and two sharp hits make your cheeks tingle, skin burning a little. You whine, stilling your movements immediately, breath going heavy.

"P-please", you huff, straightening up a little, looking at him. Your eyes roam his face desperately and thus do your hands, wandering over his chest and feeling him up, fingers ghosting over his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt. You make quick work of them, popping two or three open, before he swats your hand away.

"Are you always that needy?", the venom in his voice goes straight to your core, has fresh arousal pooling in your panties, the disgust written on his face has your knees trembling.

"Only for you", you whisper and it's true. You had never felt like this before, this desperate for just the slightest touch, for him to just take you, make you feel good.

For a split second Jim's face turns soft but it's so quickly back to stern and cold again, that you later won't be sure if you imagined the smile tugging at his lips.

His free hand, the one that's not resting on your ass, comes up and gently strokes your chin, before his thumb traces the shape of your lips. "Open up", he commands and you do, tongue darting out a little. He pushes two digits in deep and presses down on your tongue, has you nearly choking around his fingers.

"You'll take the last five, girl and if I hear even the slightest sound", he looks delightful, "I'll give you ten more. Understood?"

You nod and his fingers rub over your tongue, has your drool slowly but steadily dripping over your lips and chin, down between his spread legs on his dark trousers. You dare not to close your eyes and meet his gaze, just as he lands the eleventh hit.

It stings wonderfully and it's hard to avoid any noise from slipping past your lips, with your mouth being forcefully held open by his digits, but you manage. His lips curl up in a cruel smile on seeing your eyes tearing up.

As he lands the fifteenth blow, you're a sobbing mess, fingers digging deep into his dark blue shirt. It's all too much, his fingers in your mouth, your aching pussy and his hand that's gripping your burning ass cheek, making your squirm a little - and yet, it's too little.

You mewl around his fingers and Moriarty raises an eyebrow, looks at you, pupils blown wide. You can feel his hardening dick pressing against your left thigh, hot and heavy through his slacks.

Slooowly, he's pulling his fingers out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting them and your lips until it rips and dribbles down your chin. You moan, aching your back and rolling your hips on his leg, once, twice.

Moriarty laughs laughs laughs, a cold and hard sound, that has his lips but not his eyes moving. He's obviously amused by looking at the mess he's made out of you and it makes you hot all over.

"Please, Sir", you breathe, hands roaming over his arms, holding his gaze.

"You should see yourself", the hand that grabs your ass travels down down down, between your legs and two of his slim fingers glide over your dampened panties.

"Please, I've been good", you beg, voice rough and he chuckles.

"Go ahead then, take what you need", he leans back a little more, raising his hands in an invitingly manner. Humiliation burns on your cheeks, turns them red red red as you sink back down fully on his thigh and roll your hips once. The friction is delicious and the mischievous grin forming on his face has fresh wetness flooding your folds.

You start to hump his leg, relishing in the fricition and the slight pain that comes with rubbing you sensitive skin along the fabric of your panties and his pants. You want him to touch you, to grab your hips, to do anything but he isn't even looking at you.

Actually, Moriarty isn't moving at all, still leaning back in the chair with one hand resting on your thigh, the other dangling at his side. You know he's playing with you, you can see and feel his hard dick pressing against his dark dress pants and your leg and it's the fire in his eyes that gives him away. You do what usually, not with him but with other man, does the trick.

You whimper loudly, your movements becoming more desperate with every roll of your hips. It's not enough, but you're getting closer, hole clenching around nothing and muscles in your abdomen contracting.

"Jesus, you're loud. They'll hear you, poppet, wouldn't that be a shame?, Jim hums, eyes roaming over your face, "Or maybe that's exactly what you want, huh?"

Your eyes are teary with both, pain and lust and you blink them away, feel them mingling with your mascara and running down your cheeks. Your gazes lock.

He lets out a breath through his nose, almost a scoff and turns his head to look at you. "If you cum now", he sounds so so bored as he sing-songs, like he's talking about the weather and your breath hitches, "I'll have your head."

You blink, movements coming to an abrupt halt. He's joking right? This is a sick joke, it has to be. Maybe his humour's a little twisted and -

Jim smiles. "Don't look at me like that. You know I can", his fingers run up your thighs, up to your crotch, thumbs ghosting along the hem of your panties, right where they meet your legs. Your muscles clench, both your hole and your clit begging for attention, for any sort of friction.

"You know I will", he hums, looking at the way you're split on his leg and then, in one quick movement, slips his fingers into your panties. You gasp, which quickly turns into a pleased moan, as he runs two digits along your folds, feeling up your slick.

"You're soaked, aren't you?", Jim's slowly pressing one finger into you and you groan, spreading your legs a little wider, "I ain't gotta touch you, rutting on my leg like a bitch in heat does the trick for you, doesn't it?"

"Oh my god", you groan, moaning again as his thumb finds your clit, rubs loose and slow circles over the sensitive skin.

"Answer my question, silly", he tsks, pushing another finger into you, making you squirm and legs shake a little.

"'S not enough, Sir, please", you rise your hips a little, fucking yourself onto his fingers. You know exactly what you want. You want his cock buried deep inside of you, rawing you until you can't sit for days. But you also know that you can't just ask him to fuck you, that much you've learned already. Luckily - like the gentleman he pretends to be - he relieves you of that.

“D'you want my cock? Hm? Want me to fuck you stupid, little slut?”

You nod nod nod, pleas falling from your lips like a chant.

Moriarty grins, all smug and pleased, and slooowly pulls his fingers out of you, hand gripping your panties instead.

"On the table", he orders and as you try to scramble onto your feet, legs shaking and a little numb he pulls, riiips the fine lace of your panties apart. The fabric falls to the floor and you throw a look at it. That was your favourite pair.

"Whoops", he sing-songs, eyes widening a little, pulling a mockingly sheepish face at you, "I just don't have all day, sugar." His hand darts up again, giving your shoulder a little push and you scramble backwards, bare ass hitting the desk's edge and he's onto you in lightspeed, pulling your dress up even higher, pressing you down on the table. The papers he was looking through earlier rustle and a few of them are sent over the edge, flying down and hitting the ground. The look in his eyes is wild and full of unhinged lust, like something inside of him kicked in a door, set itself free.

You know it shouldn't, you know it's wrong but it makes you want him even more. It pulls at your nerves, makes you wet wet wet and whine high in your throat, has your hands dart out towards the zipper of his slacks. He chuckles meanly at that, eyes quickly wandering over your body, your exposed cunt and spread legs. He seems pleased.

"Sir", you plead quietly and Jim scoffs, nods.

"Yeah, you want Daddy's cock, huh?", he's unzipping his pants, brows furrowed a little with concentration and you'd love to dart a hand out and trace the slight wrinkles around his eyes and brows with your fingers, kiss them with your lips. He's pretty like that - still mean and rude and arrogant - but pretty and your legs part a little more, like your body isn't fully yours anymore, inviting him in.

Jim is freeing himself from his boxers, pulling his hard dick out and jerking it slowly. The tip's glistening with precum a little already and you'd really love to lick it off, put him into your mouth, right now.

"Please", you whisper, hand darting out aimlessly, desperate for a touch. He denies you of it and thus, you let it run up your thigh yourself, over your abdomen and your belly, squeezing your tit through your dress. "Fuck", he huffs out and you throw your head back, "Dirty slut. 'M gonna fuck you so good."

You can feel one hand grabbing your right thigh and then he's entering you in one fluid motion. He's big and long and you feel yourself stretching around his cock deliciously, while his fingers dig into the flesh of your leg. You whine and feel yourself clenching around him, hip darting foward.

"Fuck, you're tight", he groans, "Not letting any guy hit that sweet, sweet pussy of yours, huh? D'you think you're special?"

You shake your head and gasp, letting your hands fall to the sides, trying to grip the edges of the table for any sort of leverage.

"Nu-uh, only you only you only you", you whine, rolling your hips onto his dick.

"Yeah, you know what Daddy likes to hear, don't you? Silly, obedient girl", and then he starts to move, finally and you groan, as he pulls himself out of you nearly completely, before shoving himself back in again, forcefully.

You moan, cheast heaving and knuckles turning white around the edges of the desk, as you grab them hard. Jim's leaning down, face coming close to yours and you find yourself drowning in his darkening eyes, the lustful hue that seems to suffocate you. You can feel the tip of his dick grazing your spongy, hot walls and pressing against your g-spot, rubbing over it. You gasp, eyelids fluttering as you try your best to hold his gaze. You can feel yourself leaking on his dick, trimmed pubic hair rubbing over your folds.

"Say it", he growls, your noses nearly touching and you suck in a deep breath, "Say it, poppet."

He rolls his hips into yours, slowly and deliberately, fucking you slowly. You feel like you're losing your mind, arousal - thick and heavy - taking over your body and making your squirt again, wetting his dark locks.

"I-", you moan, aching your back, desperate to feel him even deeper, "I'm - I-, I'm yours."

He slowly nods and licks his lips, his eyes wandering over your face. You feel like a deer in the headlights, like he's going to devour you alive any second now. Your abdomen tingles with want and you need him, need him to touch you, to fuck you hard and fast, reckless, taking from you, using you.

You can feel the way your hole clenches around his dick and he hums deep in his throat, left corner of his mouth twitching a little. He's holding back - you don't know why, but you do know that don't want him to.

"Mister Moriarty, Sir", you throw your best doe-eyed look at him, blinking and pouting a little, "Please, fuck me."

For a short moment he just looks at you plainly, then there's a fire igniting behind his eyes and he chuckles deeply, all teeth and crow's feet wrinkling a little. "You can do better than that."

A whine erupts from your throat and you push yourself towards him and his movements, bending your knees, allowing him to hit deeper. Moriarty hisses, eyelids fluttering for a short moment as your hole takes him in. You're so fucking wet around his dick and he's having a hard time controlling himself.

"Fuck me", you whisper, voice high and a little shaky around the edges, "Make me scream."

And that he does, as he - quick as a predator - closes one hand around your flushed throat and picks up a quicker rhythm. The stretch is delicious and the slight lack of oxygen has your thoughts swimming, head only focussing on him fucking into you.

You throw your head back carefully, giving his hand more space and you can feel his slender fingers wrapping around your throat, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw. Jim presses down and you yelp, a suffocated scream, hips bucking and legs kicking a little - anxiety fueling your lust. He's leaning forward more, practically folding you in the process, resting his forehead on yours.

"Look at you", Jim growls, voice coarse and dripping with lust, "Look at the way you let me ruin you."

You nod and his hand gives in a little, letting you suck in a few deep breaths. You can't focus on anything else, just his dick making you loose your mind with every thrust, his scent wrapping you in, pulling you down down down with him. It really feels like falling, like he's pulling you into his lair, never letting you go again. Your hands abandon the desk and dart up up up, running over his strong arms, shoulders and your nails scrape his neck, pushing pushing pushing until he's hissing.

"Whore", Jim spits out and you moan, loudly, lips nearly touching, his bottom lip grazing over the corner of your mouth, making you feel his grin. Your hands crawl up further, burying themselves deep in his dark hair. It's a little slick and sticky with the product he uses and you pull at them a little, desperate for leverage, desperate to just be closer to him. He moans.

It's a deep and powerful sound, vibrating through his upper body that's pressed onto yours. You nearly forget how to breathe and as your lungs suck in air again, you tug at his hair again, greedy to hear it once more. You're met with his gaze, boring into your eyes deeper deeper deeper into your souls.

"Li-like to hear you, Sir", you huff out, eyes a little teary. His look scares you, but in a good way. He closes his eyes so quickly and so unexpectedly, that you're pretty sure he wasn't planning to.

"Fuck", and there it is again, that sound. It makes you hot all over, makes you feel wanted and you whine.

"Fuck me fuck me fuck me", the chant escapes your lips faster than you can think or stop yourself and he grunts, complies.

Moriarty's pace turns fast and ruthless, pounding into you with the force of a possessed man. The sounds of skin hitting on skin fill the air, accompanied by his panting and your high-pitched moans everytime his dick hits the spot. He's so so close to you, tip of the nose rubbing against yours, gaze's locked and you can see his cheeks and neck redden as he's rutting into you.

His gaze drops to your lips occassionally and you'd love to taste them, but you do not dare to lean in and kiss him. The pain his unspoken denial ignites in your chest goes straigh to your core, has you whimper and squirm on the table. There's a certain, well-known pressure building in your loins and you sob with it.

"I-", you choke out, hand still in Jim's dark hair, digits pressed against his scalp, "Gonna-"

"Yeah", he breathes, groans deeply as he feels you tighten around his cock, "C'mon girl. 's gonna be alright, let go."

It only takes a few more, deep thrusts and a finger rubbing circles on your clit to tear it of you. You throw your head back as your orgasm rolls over you, as release hits you like a wave, his name on your lips. The world goes out in a bright light that quickly fills your vision, ears ringing and somewhere in between, the feeling of him shooting hot ropes of cum into your clenching hole, reaches you. You can hear him groan but he sounds far far away.

It takes a while for you to come back and you're still deep in subspace, as you open your eyes again, eyelids heavy. Your legs feel heavy, too and your head feels a little like its wrapped in cotton candy.

Moriarty straightens back up and you take him in with your eyes, as he closes the first few buttons of his shirt. His hair is messed up, a few loose strands falling into his forehead. His cheeks are flushed and he's panting, as his dick slowly softens inside of you.

You sigh, relishing the waves of your orgasm hitting you, legs shaking a little and chest fluttering as you keep watching him. Your whole body aches, your jaw and your back, but most importantly your ass. You're certain that you won't be able to sit comfortably tomorrow.

He's straightening the cuffs of his shirt, then runs a hand through his hair, bringing it back in place, before he looks at you again. It's the most open expression you've seen him wear all day - it's quite affectionate and you feel excitement bubbling beneath the thick cloud of lust that only slowly starts to fade.

One of his hands comes to rest on your knee and he's slowly leaning back in, hooking his arms underneath your leg and hoisting it up a little. You yelp as he pulls you closer and you want to say something - ask him what the hell is going on - but Jim's already pressing his lips on your calf, peppering the soft skin with kisses, taking his time as his mouth is delightfully making its way upwards. He gently sucks at the soft flesh of your thigh, biting and nibbling at the skin and it sends shivers down your whole body. Carefully, not wanting to anger him in any way you put one hand on his left shoulder, thumb rubbing over his warm skin under the dark fabric. He hums approvingly, lips wandering further; ghosting over your crotch, tongue licking a fat stripe over your abdomen, up to where the pushed-up hem of your dress rests on your stomach, then parting from your skin again, only to have his lips ghost over your cheek a moment later. His stubble prickles on your skin.

"What do you say, when Daddy fucked you good?", he whispers, voice low and you hot all over again, fresh wetness pooling between your legs. You can feel your own, fresh juices mingling with his cum that's dripping out of you.

You blush a little, but there's also something else swelling in your chest. You suddendly feel very powerful, but there's also something else, a fluttering sensation that alarmingly reminds you -

You do not want to think too much about it, it's a luxury you cannot afford. You take a deep breath and relish in his expensive scent, eyes fallin shut in pleasure and post-orgasmic bliss. "Thank you, Sir."

"Good girl."

_

"No, but seriously. How did you keep your fucking job?", Monique whisper-yells, as she starts to peel her orange. It's the fourth time she's asked in three days.

"I really don't know", you answer, for the fourth time in three days, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

"I kinda felt like he fancied you, you know", she says and that - that's something new.

"What? Who?", you blurt out, cheeks growing a little red.

"That dude - Moriarty. I mean, c'mon didn't you no-"

You can hear hasty footsteps approaching on the floor and the next second you two are being interrupted by Oliver, a young man working at the recption and tourist's information desk, entering the room. He's shoving his head through the opened door, red hair a mess.

"Flower delivery for you, Y/N, the postman left the bouquet with us. I thought I'd swing by, system told me you were having lunch."

You blink and Monique nods, invites him. You can't speak. Flower what?

"Neat. What's on the menue?", you like Oliver, he's fun but you can't really reply, thoughts occupied by and eyes trained on the large arrangement. You're glad they're not roses and you're struck by their beauty - pretty and soft spring colours and a lot of green; you can spot yarrow, lisianthus, hydrangea, lilies and sweet peas.

"Jesus, that's a lot of flowers. Got a secret admirer, Y/N?", Monique laughs and Oliver smiles, wiggles his eyebrows playfully.

"I think so", he says, "Card says Thank you for not being boring, love - Jim M. Weird. Happen to know anyone under that name, Y/N?"

Look... I've come to the conclusion that I have a type okay????

ANDREW SCOTT for ATTITUDE MAGAZINE

Deku: kacchan i need-

Bakugou: here’s your costume

Deku: oh thanks. I also forgot my-

Bakugou: lunch is right here

Deku: and my-

Bakugou: keys are on the kitchen counter

Deku: oh my god will you marry me?

Bakugou: already taken care of, we’ve been married 5 years

Deku: oh thats what that ring was