post-verbal

If I was wealthy I’d get weird surgery recreationally and spend five grand on six academic texts per week and have a fancy office that’s only for sucking dick and smoking and wear fabrics made of evil and I’d have two personal trainers that I double book so they have to compete for my attention and I’d smell obscure and irresistible and I’d have machine guns and a sculptor that I fund who lives in the woods and is not allowed to leave but gets whatever they want brought to them because the art is just that important and I’m not allowed to see it until it’s done and also theyre dying

sometimes a fic can just be about the age old question 'how emotionally bad for everyone involved can a threesome be when they all did in fact agree to be there'

Is that a trebuchet in your pants or are you just happy to siege me