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bonkhrnyjail · 8 months ago

Text

desert eagle

pairing: young joel miller x f!plus-size!reader (age unspecified, no specific physical descriptions other than plus-size and able-bodied) summary: joel gets reluctantly dragged to the strip club after a long day of work. god knows he wasn't expecting to meet someone like you... rating: explicit 18+ mdni word count: 8.8k (sorry) tags: thigh riding, oral sex, so much oral sex, ass play, 69, reader is a stripper, joel is down horrendous, JOEL MILLER LOVES BIG GIRLS, gentleman!joel, until he's not, sub!joel if you squint, joel and reader are both aggressively texan, i'm midwestern so i do not take responsibility for inaccuracies i did my best a/n: soooo this is based off of the beyoncé song desert eagle, the first time i heard it i immediately thought of this idea and i couldn't get it out of my head and i was having literal sex dreams about it so i decided to write it. this is my first time writing joel too so i'm scared :P anyways i love writing about confident beautiful fat women but i think anyone can enjoy this fic so yeahhh anyways you should listen to the beyoncé song and then read the fic or vice versa ok love you bye

Joel didn’t want to go to the strip club.

In fact, Joel wants nothing more than to be alone tonight, and yet he finds himself uncomfortably perched on the edge of a half-crescent booth, dragged along by Tommy and some of the idiot twenty-somethings he’d met on their most recent project.

“Loosen up, old man!” one of the cocky landscapers barked at him when he tried to decline. “A pretty pair a’ tits in your face’ll turn that frown right upside down!”

He almost did say no, almost played the foolproof dad card; unfortunately for him, Sarah had already planned to stay at her best friend’s house the next few nights, taking advantage of the last week of winter break. But he saw the premature wince forming in Tommy’s eye, waiting for the inevitable sting of Joel ruining his chances at making some semi-decent friends in this town—friends that wouldn’t land him behind bars on the weekend, anyways. So Joel surrendered with a begrudging grunt, under the terms that he could stop by home to shower and change clothes. Miraculously, he convinced the other guys to do the same.

Inside, violet and teal spotlights cast a thick fog across the large stage. It illuminates the performers whilst somehow clouding them too, their bodies winding and whirling in a periwinkle haze. Joel’s skin feels humid and suffocated beneath the clinging fabric of his flannel shirt; the glass of Jack Daniels he’d spent the last ten minutes nursing only abets the formation of dew trickling down his neck and spine. The only thing keeping him cool is the wet curls he slicked back sitting at the base of his skull, providing a momentary chill with any slight breeze. He feels claustrophobic, displaced; like his presence was altogether a clumsy wedge into somewhere he didn’t quite belong.

Nothing another glass of whiskey couldn’t fix.

Joel excuses himself from the group without much notice. The boys are hovering over a meaty stack of ones, attempting to divvy up the bills in even increments without having to count them out individually. He strides across the room with a languid ease, scanning the room and the scattered clusters of men, appeasing his unconscious instinct to confirm safety wherever he is—and to keep tabs on the people he should keep Tommy away from. He stops short for a moment, palming his pocket to confirm his wallet and keys haven’t left his side.

“Pardon me, honey.”

A soft, seductive drawl takes him by surprise as a hand on his lower back guides him inches to the left. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, the crisp snap of his neck to follow the voice leaving a slight dizziness in its recoil, the trailing scent of cinnamon and honey wafting beneath his nose.

When he finally sees you, actually sees you, Joel finds himself powerless to avert his gaze. Your body is awash with exquisite peaks and valleys, velvet curves clad only by precarious strings and swatches of fabric covering mere inches of glistening skin. The clack of your heels leaves him hypnotized as you leave him in your wake. His jaw slackens and his lungs become paralyzed as he witnesses the way your body moves like water with every step; like the current that flows across the edges of your figure, rippling as you step onto the stage and coil yourself around the silver pole.

Good god.

The bones in Joel’s knees suddenly turn gelatinous, a huff of air escaping his mouth as he stumbles backward into the bar, bracing himself with flat palms against the polished marble. He steadies himself, blinking out the sting beneath his lids, trying to moisten the dryness in his eyes—a consequence of his bulging stare.

A soft giggle lilts from behind him, piercing through his trance and hammering his conscience back into the earth. Joel turns to the source to find the bartender, shaking her head with laughter as she drags the rim of a glass through a bowl of salt.

“Don’t worry, ain’t the first time I’ve seen a man nearly lose his footin’ around Paloma,” she jeers, a smirk threatening the corners of her mouth. “She’s really somethin’, that girl.”

Joel nods, clears his throat, and swallows the saliva that pools at the back of his tongue. Somethin’ was an understatement, an insult to the ethereal vision twirling before him. The fog and dusky lighting prevents him from capturing a defined image of your face, only catching glimpses of soft cheeks and plush lips as you spin and float with ease, but he’s certain you’re breathtaking.

“You want another Jack?” the bartender offers, pouring out a picture-perfect margarita, the lime hue nearly fluorescent in the lowlight.

Joel grunts in affirmation, his eyes not once straying from your direction.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” she ribs, chuckling as she reaches for the whiskey.

“Sorry, long day,” Joel winces, suddenly painfully aware of how rude he’s been. “Is she, uh, new ‘round here?”

“Who, Paloma? Been ‘round for about… six months or so? She’s done real well for herself, honestly blew all us away with how much she was able t’make from the jump.”

He bites down on the tip of his tongue, a sharp, electrifying pain searing through his nerves. It does nothing to fracture the beguiling spell you’ve somehow cast upon him, and Joel finds himself staring again, studying your every move, knowing nothing but need.

“Do you know if she… when she’s done here? Her shift, I mean.”

The bartender laughs exuberantly, a wide smile revealing a far-too-pristine row of pearly veneers that nearly glow under the lilac beams.

“Well, I don’t think I can tell you that, sugar,” she coos, sliding Joel’s drink across the space between them. “But you can ask her yourself! I promise, she don’t bite. Sweet as honey, that one.”

Honey.

It still lingers in the air, thick and cloying in a way that grips like a hand wrapped around his throat, like a demanding croon singing over and over: Eyes on me. He can taste it too, a whisper of it stagnant on the back of his tongue, a lurking craving impatiently waiting to be satiated.

Joel thanks her in a low gravel, and strides back towards his table with newfound urgency nipping at his heels. He arrives at the booth with no reaction from the boys, the party too enveloped in counting their stack to be stirred by his presence. It’s only when Joel clears his throat, the force of it deep and thunderous, that the men take any notice.

“I’m gonna need me some of those.”

. . . . .

You didn’t expect the club to be busy tonight.

In fact, you practically relied on Wednesdays being the slowest day of the week. You often used the opportunity to practice new routines, test out new outfits, try something different with your makeup; pretty much anything you didn’t particularly prefer for a crowded audience to behold.

Tonight you find yourself testing the limits of a string-bikini-esque number, the laces doubled around your torso and triple-knotted in the hope of extra security, and the triangular fabric cutouts stuck down to the curve of your breasts with double-sided tape. You climb the pole with ease, perfectly-formed calluses on your palms and heels aiding you with improved grip.

It took just a month of pole classes for you to develop an addiction to the burn of sleek metal sliding across your skin. Something about the sting of it, alongside the quiver of your core, the aching clench of your thighs; it was a remarkable blend of pain that spilled through you like pleasure. It soon became an unholy replacement for Sunday worship—melding yourself around the pole; bathing in the sweltering beams from the spotlights; inhaling the musky scent of crumpled bills lying at your feet. It was entirely meditative, and you’d found a sort of spiritual enlightenment amongst it all.

You let your head fall back as the rod swings you around in tight circles. Normally you let your eyes close when you spin, but tonight you feel called to the fuzzy warmth that pools behind your brows when you get good and dizzy. Your surroundings bleed and curve like an Expressionist painting, and an unmoving figure lurks amongst the brush strokes, appearing and disappearing and blending until it’s a constant image: a broad, stoic, masculine body, melting into everything you can see.

The invasion peeves you. Sure, you know you should be pleased that a customer is watching, clearly interested and coming closer, but for Christ’s sake, you’ve been out for less than five minutes. At 6pm. On a Wednesday.

You carefully bring your body to a halt, slowly inching down the pole until your shoes meet the hardwood. Your vision lags far behind you, skipping like a scratched disc, and it’s enough to nearly knock you from your feet. A lightness billows through your blood and tries to whisk you away, but you sink against it, sitting on your heels and fastening your grip on the cold steel.

Lines begin to gain their sharpness again, and the figure in your peripheral starts to look less and less like a Van Gogh portrait. The man’s face is still muddled, dimly-lit and shrouded by the bill of a baseball cap. You smile at him on instinct, and you notice his chest jerk, like he was entirely unaware that he too was being observed; like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You also can’t help but notice how broad he is, even from this distance. The plaid lines of his button-up sprawl across his chest, his arms, his waist, and though the shirt clearly isn’t skin-tight, you can tell the expanse of him fills it out with ease. With a slight tilt of your head you motion for him to come closer, and your balance finally stills enough for you to trust your feet again.

The man strides across the room with a glimmer of urgency—not fast per se, but with a spirited buoyancy hot beneath his heels. He parks himself at the table nearest to you, pulling the chair from its nestled nook under the table, and makes himself comfortable, splaying his knees and crossing his arms tightly atop his chest.

God, he’s big.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before,” you lilt, descending the stairs from the platform and taking a seat on the table in front of him.

One of his hands peeks from beneath the sleeve of his flannel. It looks gruff, firm, and tightly grasps a palmful of ones, and the sheer width of his fingers make the bills look like Monopoly money.

“Ain’t really been ‘round here before,” he shrugs, his voice exactly as deep as you expected, and steeped in what you immediately recognize as a born and raised Texan.

His eyes are noticeably shifty, ping-ponging between the floor, the stage, your shoes, his watch; anywhere that isn’t your gaze. The majority of his face is still shaded by his cap, and even this close his features remain more vague than you’d like them to be. You realize he must be new to this, and you’ve heard that drawl before; the drawl of a man who was raised to mind his manners.

You don’t make him ask.

“You want a dance, baby?”

You graze your fingers over his, and have to bite down on a grin when his chest hitches sharply against the row of buttons resting over his sternum.

“I… um… no, thank you sweetheart—”

“What’s your name?”

He clears his throat with a stifled, nervous cough.

“Joel,” he blurts, a sober assuredness possessing his voice. “Joel Miller.”

He finally meets your gaze, just as a whirling spotlight dances over his face. A split second of illumination reveals a whiskey-brown stare, dripping with warmth, glinting with a sedated hunger. You bite down on the flesh of your cheek and extend your hand to shake his.

“Paloma,” you croak, imitating his baritone husk, pausing to repeat his cadence. “Paloma Blue.”

A dimple appears amongst a veil of brown scruff, the faint edges of a charming smile peeking through the shadow from his hat. His shoulders remain rigid, hiked with an invisible thread tugging them toward the ceiling.

You really can’t read him.

“Can I do somethin’ for you, honey? You seem tense,” you question.

“I was… I was wonderin’ if you might be interested in lettin’ me buy you a drink. When you’re done workin’, f’course. Wouldn’t wanna get you in any kinda trouble.”

You find it impossible not to let out a chuckle. It’s not the first time you’ve sent a man into a flustered mess of shifting-eyes and stuttering words, though that would usually come after he got too bold and you needed to put him in his place. Joel Miller doesn’t look like those men; college-aged hooligans or machismo cowboys that are all bark and no bite. He doesn’t look like a man who gets nervous; yet here he is, fidgeting profusely with his watch, and you’re quite relieved he’s sitting down.

“Well, ain’t you a sweet one…” you drawl, half-teasing despite the truth to the statement. “I’m s’posed to work ‘til close tonight, but if you can convince my boss to let me leave early, I’m all yours.”

You don’t miss the swell of Joel’s pupils at your affirmation, a look of determination you had yet to witness on the man. The chances of getting out of your shift tonight are next to none, considering there’s merely three of you working the floor and a new hoard of howling youngsters just came tumbling through the entrance.

You point out your boss behind the bar and Joel follows with his gaze, nodding and starting towards her without a word.

You’re a bit shocked at his immediate action; not to mention the lack of the typical prying you’ve accepted as routine. He’s been extraordinarily polite; a man of few words but refreshingly direct despite the subtle shake in his voice, and the honesty alone makes your cheeks flush.

You’re far more used to taking control and providing entertainment for the countless men that frequent the club, always catering to their needs first and foremost, smothering them with flattery—or degradation, if you notice a well-timed “good boy” summons a bigger bill from their pockets. It’s work, but it’s undoubtedly started to bleed into your personal life. The lines between you and your Paloma persona have blurred these days, making you unsure of what you’re supposed to want and what you actually want. You find yourself lost in thought, gazing at the black and white tile as your legs swing underneath you, until the interruption of two dirty boots break your trance.

“Boss said you’re good to go. F’you still want to.”

How the hell did he manage that?

Your jaw hangs slightly in shock, racking your brain to make sense of what he may have done to convince her. You can’t help but be impressed by his vigor, by all of it, and a smile lifts your cheeks to the heavens as you recognize the feeling stirring in your tummy, a feeling that has laid dormant for far too long. You want him.

“I’ll go get my stuff, just hang tight.”

. . . . .

Joel stands by the exit of the club, waiting for you to grab your things. He hadn’t thought a damn thing through before he asked you out, and his voice of reason was nowhere to be found when he forked over 200 bucks to the club owner to get you out of working for the rest of the night. Any semblance of forethought vanished when he saw you, all sashayed hips and strut and so undeniably, deliciously Texan. And your face—oh—once he saw that sweet face of yours… he didn’t stand a fucking chance.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know where exactly he should take you to get a drink. Should he have asked you to dinner instead? The last thing he wants is you to think is that he’s trying to buy you for the night, or that anything is required of you just because he got you out of work. He just wants to know you, be near you, bask in your presence. He wants to treat you like a gentleman, like he was raised to, because he’s damn sure the kind of men who wind up at that club don’t give a damn about chivalry.

You emerge from the narrow hallway leading towards the exit, clad in gray sweatpants and a flowy white tee that somehow still clings to the most feminine parts of your figure. You shoot him a beaming smile, a playful glint in your eyes as you haul a small duffel bag over your shoulder.

“You’re not takin’ me anywhere too fancy I hope,” you snicker.

Joel offers one hand to hold your bag and swings the door ajar with the other, holding it for you as you pass through. The trail of your perfume—that soft, sugary scent—leaves his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he tightens his grip on the doorframe.

“You need somethin’ to eat? We could get some supper,” he suggests, offering his arm to you.

“Yeah, actually, I usually wait ‘til after my shift, considerin’ work ain’t too far off from a non-stop Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Y’get used to it after a while, but—”

“Better safe than sorry, I bet.”

You look up at him and nod with a half-grin, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

With just a single look, Joel’s stomach flutters and dick twitches at the sight of you. The glow of your face beneath the warmth of the streetlight; your soft features and the intensity of your persistent gaze is beyond mesmerizing. You’re pretty, the epitome of it, all batting lashes and pillowy lips; the very definition of divine feminine. You’re the spitting image of the hazy being that appears behind his eyelids when he touches himself and lets his mind wander; the body he craves to wake up tangled with every morning.

He follows you to the passenger’s side of the car and opens the door for you without a thought, leaning in to his tendencies and muscle memory. You hum a sweet thank you as he extends his arm to help you into his elevated truck, but you barely need the support, your strong legs lifting you into the height of the car with ease.

As Joel turns the key in the ignition, the scream of the roaring engine sends a full body cringe snaking down his spine.

“Sorry, uh, she’s a lil’ noisy,” he winces with an apologetic brow. “She’s fine, runs great, just—”

“A bit of a talker?” you blurt.

He smiles diffidently and nods. You’re better with words than he is, and he finds himself thankful for that—lord knows he needs all the help he can get in your presence.

Joel flicks on the radio, an old Willie Nelson tune lilting from the rear speakers. You let out a hearty grunt of approval.

“Haven’t heard this one in forever,” you slurred. “Practically grew up on this music. ‘M sure you did too, I can hear it in that drawl f’yours.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches his arm around your seat, crooking his head back as he shifts the truck into reverse.

“That bad, huh?”

“Not bad! Just strong. Just how I like it, really,” you admit, pulling your lip between your teeth, doe-eyed and eager as you catch his gaze.

God, he’s absolutely fucked.

He dials up the volume as he clears his throat and starts down the jagged road. You relax into your seat, curling one of your feet up to tuck beneath your thigh as you hum along to the radio.

He knows exactly where to take you.

. . . . .

A twenty minute car ride with Joel revealed that he wanted to know as much as he could about you. He asked question after question, about your life, your hobbies, your family, and not one thing about your job, which was honestly quite refreshing. Not that you had any shame about your occupation, but most men were more fascinated about what it was like to be Paloma, and most importantly what it could mean for them at the end of the evening. Not Joel, though. It seemed as though he was almost afraid to breach the subject; out of politeness or avoidance, you weren’t sure. You crossed your fingers that it was the former.

You arrive at a little shack of a restaurant, some sort of fusion between a diner and a sports bar. It looks as though it should be empty, the exterior of it run down in a way that makes it appear frozen in time, but it isn’t. Clusters of customers sit in long-stretched booths that fill the width of the windows and the entrance is shrouded with people; some smoking, some chatting, and some seemingly waiting to get in. You scan the crowd and find that everyone visible to you appears quite innately blue collar, down to the sea of Levi’s Jeans and scuffed up boots, extra-illuminated by the cheap plastic solar lights haphazardly stuck into narrow beds of mulch.

Joel hops down from the truck before you can even say a word, and with a quick shuffle he’s arrived at the passenger door. You have to laugh at the absurdity of it, how it seems he has—cover to cover— studied a textbook of how to be a perfect gentleman. Alongside the frequency of nerves you can sense radiating from beneath his skin, you know you need to get a drink in him.

He offers his arm as you hop down onto the pavement and swiftly rests his palm on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd of patrons with ease. A cheap, crackling doorbell sound chimes as you pass through the doorway. The hostess offers a wide and toothy smile, hollering to announce Joel's arrival, by name, towards the kitchen. She appears surprised but delighted to see him, making a point to let him know how much she has missed him with a cringeworthy attempt at a bit too much physical contact. She asks about a Sarah, and your stomach tightens with concern—you hope to god she's anything but a wife. He requests a booth, a cozy, curved table in the shaded, sheltered corner of the restaurant, and the staff oblige him immediately, one waitress clearing the tabletop of dishes and the other wiping the surface down in one clean swipe.

“Hope this is ok,” Joel says. “You’re definitely not the only one wearing sweatpants in here, if it makes you feel at ease.”

“It’s good, seems perfect,” you slip the innermost part of your bottom beneath your teeth and let your eyes do the smiling. “They sure are treatin’ you like royalty in here.”

Joel seems to relax a bit, his spine softening into the back of the cushion and legs splaying wide. He isn’t looking at you as you observe him; his eyes dart around and he musters a casual wave to anyone visibly moved by his presence. The constant, worried scrunch of his brow smooths out for a moment, just as the beams of passing headlights rake over his features, and you finally realize:

He’s fucking gorgeous.

You could see him before, sure, but you didn’t actually see him, not with the lingering luminescence of the warm white that shines through the outspread window behind you. He was steeped in shadow, but now he’s colored in, every detail and curvature entirely yours to behold.

The bend of his nose draws your attention first, strong and angular, demanding your eyes pay it mind. Your gaze follows a natural map, a sporadic trail of sun spots that dance across his cheek, conspicuous evidence of long days working outside in the relentless Austin heat. A few silver hairs are sprinkled amongst his umber scruff; a well-kempt beard and mustache sits just above the soft curve of his lips, flushed with ruddy hue.

He’s gorgeous, plain and simple.

The waitress brings Joel a whiskey before even saying hello. Joel asks what you would like, calls you sweetheart in a low, thick growl. You order a vodka cran and try to ignore the hostess currently staring a hole into the side of your head.

“You gonna tell me why they treat you like royalty ‘round here?” you tease.

“Not royalty—” he cuts himself off with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “They just ain’t seen me in a while. Used to bring my little girl here for breakfast every Sunday.”

“Ah,” you release with a sigh, the ball of tension sitting in your chest following behind. “Sarah?”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Was worried she might be a wife for a second there.”

“Oh, no, I- I’m not… I wouldn’t…”

“S’alright. I’ll admit though, I’m real glad she ain’t.”

Joel’s face turns a soft shade of pink and a whisper of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker, lingering on your lips, a flame dancing behind his pupils, before meeting your gaze again. You can’t control the smile that possesses your face, nor the simmering heat that blankets your chest, and you can’t recall that last time a man made you feel like this.

Every facet of Joel’s appearance exudes an air of dominance. He dresses much like the hordes of men who approach you with their usual excessive bravado and unwarranted sense of ownership over your body, but he seems to act entirely the opposite. He seems apprehensive, wary, like he’s trying desperately to be the right kind of man around you, to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

You decide to try what Joel orders, some sort of off-menu special order the waitress jokingly calls “The Miller Deluxe”. It isn’t long before you finish your drink, and another appears before you can even ask. You inquire more about Joel’s daughter, his life, his work; returning the line of questioning he surveyed you with in the passenger’s seat of the truck, and you find yourself mirroring his smile as he tells you all about Sarah. He rambles off a brief explanation of his business and Tommy; you immediately know who he is, a somewhat troublesome regular visitor at the club. Joel apologizes for Tommy before you even say a word about him, and your food arrives at the table before you can explain that he’s more of an occasional nuisance than anything else.

The whiskey seems to unwind the tension in Joel’s stature, and words begin to flow with much more ease than they did before you arrived. A natural, charismatic charm seeps through, sticky sweet, until it’s all but enveloped his demeanor, blanketing his palpable apprehension with an earnest geniality that radiates warmth like a fireplace. It washes over you, clinging to every inch of your skin, seeping through to your veins and igniting a flame low in your belly, a flickering heat that demands to be noticed.

You’re fairly certain he won’t be the one to cut through the guarded distance between you. Despite the unmistakable hunger in his eyes, he remains heedful, taking extra care to keep his hand from grazing yours as he reaches for the chip basket and keeping his body at least a foot away from yours. You want—desperately want—to shatter the glass partition he seems to have placed between you, to destroy the self-imposed barrier keeping his temptation at bay.

You start by sliding closer, closing the gap between your knees until they touch. That gets his attention, but he doesn’t retreat, he only meets your eyes with a look of inquiry, curiosity, and a hint of apprehension. You flash him your most doe-eyed, encouraging smile, sanctioning the proximity of your bodies, silently divulging that you want this, that you like him, that he can finally release the imprisoned breath he’s been holding beneath his sternum since he uttered his very first words to you.

Joel swings an arm around your shoulder, resting against the wooden panel atop the booth seat, leaving a few inches between your skin and the sleeve of his flannel. He doesn’t have to tell you a thing; you oblige him immediately, leaning your shoulders back and relaxing into his forearm. You fit seamlessly into the crook of his elbow, and the warmth emanating from his body makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.

The second vodka cran—the one that you nearly shotgunned—possesses your will for a split-second and you find yourself reaching for his face, whisping the pad of your thumb across his wiry scruff. Despite the rough tickle it leaves behind, you immediately crave the sensation elsewhere, certain that the drag of it across a more delicate area might just feel like heaven.

“Can I be honest?” you whisper in a low lilt, tracing the brim of his cap with lazy fingers.

Joel nods with a thick swallow, his Adam's apple jumping almost comically in his throat.

“Yeah, f’course,” he responds with a strained attempt at nonchalance.

“I don’t like this hat.”

You grip the bill of the hat, wiggling it back and forth playfully. Your actions are outrunning your thoughts by a mile now, and you’re unable to keep your hands from wandering towards Joel’s magnetism. His face transforms into a bewildered, amused grin, one brow furrowed and the other cocked toward the ceiling.

“Mm,” he hums, a low, resonant sonance from the pit of his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t see you,” you whine. “Can’t see that pretty face of yours, s’all hidden by a shadow.”

“I, um—” he whisks the hat off, running his fingers through a slicked mountain of curls. “My hair’s still wet.”

Christ. The light bathes his face, every detail revealing itself to you in absolute glory. He’s fucking beautiful, his features demanding of your undivided attention, an impossible balance between striking and soft. The flicker of need at the base of your core spreads at the speed of a wildfire, setting you ablaze with a hunger you can no longer ignore.

“Joel?”

His name spills from your throat, sliding off your tongue like a siren’s nectar. Your fingers find their way to his mane, weaving through the strands with a gentle tug. His inhale catches in his lungs, the air held prisoner as your nails trace along his temple and jaw. His eyes finally meet yours as the pad of your thumb drags across his lower lip, and it’s only then that you will his breath to freedom, a stuttering exhale pulsing with anticipation.

“I think we should get the check.”

A momentary shock quickly turns to realization, and with widened eyes and a stifled smirk he nods, wasting no time to flag down the waiter and ask for the bill. Neither of you speak; you find it almost impossible to do so, your gaze spellbound to the curve of muscle and veins that lay beneath his collar, and you swear you can see his pulse jumping beneath his skin.

You want nothing more than to feel the rush of it beneath your tongue.

Joel offers his arm to help you out of the booth, his flannel rolled to his elbows, exposing his thick and freckled forearms and a modest watch strapped to his wrist. He wastes no time whisking you towards the door, his palm flat against your lower back, waving a few rushed goodbyes to the folks he chatted with on the way in. You can feel his heat, his fervor, singeing your skin through your shirt, his fingers curled into the soft skin just above your ass. He holds the door for you as you lock eyes; you’re met with primitive opacity in his gaze, the desperation of it surging straight to your cunt.

You grasp his hand, and book it towards his truck, counting down the seconds before you lose control.

. . . . .

Joel hums with surprise as you twist the neck of his flannel into your fist, tugging him into you and colliding your lips savagely with his.

Fuck, you taste better than he could’ve possibly imagined.

He didn’t intend for the evening to end like this. In fact, he almost wanted to avoid it, wanted to take you out with the crystal-clear message of no expectation whatsoever. But he’s just a man after all, and the second your eyes started talking and hands started wandering, he knew there was no way he could resist giving you what you wanted.

His hands find their way to your hips with magnetic force, slipping under the hem of your shirt with ease and grasping at the softness that lies beneath the fabric. The strength of his hands is enough to push you flat against the passenger door as he tilts your pelvis towards him, easing your knees apart with an effortless nudge of his leg.

You gasp into his mouth as he pulls you onto his thigh, grinding you into the thick denim. The sound of you, breathless and needy, stirs a ravenousness in his chest that Joel had thought was long laid to rest, an avidity that only you have managed to awaken. You, in all your glory, drenched in honey and cream, calling out to him to come and taste.

As he bucks your hips a second time, you whine, your hands shooting up and tangling in his hair. You tug his head back, distancing his lips from yours, and he can’t help but groan at the loss of contact. Your gaze bears into his eyes with a newfound ferocity, a determination that leaves him straining against the confines of his jeans.

“You gonna give me what I need, Joel Miller?” you speak against his mouth in a hush.

Goosebumps litter the better part of his neck and chest as his eyes struggle to keep you in focus. The sting of pain at the back of his scalp only swells his desire, a sensation so staggering that he finds his breath caught, full and tight in his lungs, escaping only through labored, silent sighs.

“M’gonna give you whatever you need baby, whatever you want,” Joel pants, slurring his words against your gluttonous smirk.

Suddenly you’re diving beneath his jaw, dragging the heat of your mouth across the pattern he knows follows a prominent vein in his neck. Fuck, it feels euphoric, his pulse jumping against your tongue, every rush of blood to and fro delivering another wave of want straight to his cock. He gives in, letting his eyes roll back into his skull, no longer able to maintain any semblance of insouciance as he’s damn near collapsing under your spell. He can’t recall the last time he’d been touched like this. On the rare occasion he’d bring a woman home he found himself falling into routine, taking control because that’s what he sensed she would expect, fulfilling some sense of duty as a man that he never quite understood. He’d always felt a sort of magnetism toward assured women, but somehow they were never the ones who ended up in his bed, only wavering ladies who looked to him wide-eyed, waiting for instruction.

He’s quite sure he’ll never go back.

Joel drags your hips against him once again, this time increasing the friction, bearing you down on his thigh enough to feel the damp spot that’s pooled between your legs. You yelp, biting into his neck, the sting of your canines against his skin bordering on vampiric. Joel hisses, the pain once again blossoming into some sort of pleasure, twitching and crying from the head of him.

“Babydoll—shit—” he curses, stunned as you drag your lower teeth towards his ear, undoubtedly leaving behind a sketch of crimson. “You wanna get in the truck baby? Plenty’a room in the backseat.”

You hum in agreement, your lips wrapping around his earlobe, flicking it against your tongue before giving it a feeble nip. Joel fumbles in his pocket until he manages to unlock the door with his key, wasting no time as he pulls you tight to his chest, swinging the door ajar before offering a hand to help you inside. Despite his lust-stricken haze, his gentlemanly charm seems to be beaten into the very fiber of his being. You step into the car, gracing him with a personal view of the perfect splay of your hips and ass, only revving his hunger as he follows suit.

. . . . .

You don’t allow Joel but a second before you’re caging him in between your legs, straddling his thighs against the backseat of his truck. The rough grip of his hands on your hips, grinding you down on his knee, kneading into your curves; it was enough to set you entirely ablaze. No more matchstick flickering at the pit of your stomach, every cell in your body is pulsing with need, pleading for release by the hands of Joel Miller.

You can’t help but glide with a sharp rock of your hips across his lap, desperate to return some friction to the pounding ache within your walls. Your eyes lock with his as your clothed cunt skims the sizable tent of his jeans, observing him feverishly as he groans at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he grunts, his chest heaving as you slowly drag away again. “Easy, easy baby…”

His hands find the valley of your waist with ease, slowing your pace to an achingly languid speed. With each brush of your throbbing clit against the seam of your panties, another gush of slick floods from your core. It’s filthy, obscene, soaking all the way through the thick material of your sweatpants and onto Joel’s denim. You can’t even remember the last time you were this wet. It makes you burn that much more, the way his mere presence alone was enough to turn you into a sopping mess.

“Joel—” your palms cradle the curve of his jaw, holding him still to allow you to study him in the lowlight.

He’s so fucking beautiful, positively mesmerizing, his pupils blown wide with a raptured stare, the sharp curve of his nose like something carved from ancient marble. The pad of your thumb snakes across the pout of his lower lip, pressing down until his jaw goes slack, parting his mouth with an exhale.

Joel seems to lose himself in your gaze, his eyes not once leaving yours as you slip your thumb between his teeth and force him even wider, applying pressure to the tip of his tongue and feeling the muscle flex against your fingertips. You need his mouth, need it anywhere and everywhere and right fucking there, you need him to clean up this mess he’s made of you.

“You know how gorgeous you are, sugar?” you hum, spreading the slick from his tongue across his lower lip and down his chin. “You know I don’t do this for just anybody, right?”

“You’re the gorgeous one, baby, so goddamn gorgeous,” Joel pants, snaking his hands higher, up the bend of your waist until his palms reach the yielding skin that cloaks your ribcage. His thumbs trace the band of your bra; smooth, fluid motions that send chills crawling up your spine. “So beautiful I reckon’ it might jus’ kill me.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweetness, his accent reduced to a slurry of words, appearing to be drunk on your aura. It seems you’ve managed to reduce him down to his very core, the heat from your body melting through the hardened layers of gruff masculinity to reveal an almost desperate eagerness to please, a yearning to relinquish control.

“I can’t have you dyin’ on me, honeypie,” you allow your hands to wander, your fingertips finding their way to the uppermost button of his shirt. “I got far too many plans for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You lean down to kiss him once again, your thumbs making quick work of the trail of remaining buttons. Your lips move sloppily against each other, the both of you unable to stifle your muffled moans, swallowing each other’s pleasure as your tongues waltz in the in-between.

“Tell me what to do, baby,” Joel croons against your cheek. “Fuck, want you s’bad, jus’ wanna make you feel good.”

Your fingers nestle into the damp mess of curls at the back of his skull. With an innocuous little tug, you guide his lips to the expanse of bare skin on your chest, his mouth settling at the heart of your sternum. You don’t even have to ask, his tongue darting past his lips, savoring the taste of you with a deliberate torpor. The graze of his scruff against your thumping heart feels better than you could have possibly imagined, sharp yet soft, ticklish enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You blanket the backs of his hands, your fingers settling in the spaces between his, maneuvering the wide expanse of his palms to splay across your breasts. You can’t believe the sheer size of his hands, enveloping your tits entirely, calluses harsh against the sensitive peaks veiled beneath the mesh of your bra.

“Touch me here,” you sigh, unable to keep yourself rocking slowly against his thigh. “Taste me. Show me how bad you want me, pretty boy.”

Something akin to a growl claws from his throat, and you gasp as his nails hook around the seam of your bra, exposing the peaks of your breasts with a relentless tug. He wastes no time, pulling your nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud mercilessly.

“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s good baby,” you bear down into his thigh as his thumb finds your other nipple, rolling it between his forefinger. Your core surges with another wave of need, crying for attention, spilling her tears from your center and dampening the denim-clad thigh beneath her. “I need— shit— I need you lower, Joel.”

In your hungered haze, you push Joel flat against the seat of the truck, his eyes wide and wild as you climb atop him, his chest hiking and falling against your bare tits. He looks downright enraptured, licking his lips like a kid in a goddamn candy shop, fiending for a sugar high.

“You wanna taste me, sugar plum? You gon’ let me feed you?”

“Christ—” Joel curses, his hands wandering along your torso, lifting your shirt above your head and flinging it across the dash. He unclasps your bra with his free hand, sending it flying the opposite direction. “Please darlin’, need’ta taste you.”

You manage to kick off your sweats while Joel holds you steady by the hips, his eager words somehow igniting even more fervor in your movements. His thumbs knead into the give of your lower tummy, meandering beneath the waistband of your panties and twisting the elastic around his knuckles, slack-jawed and nearly possessed by the sight of your bare curves alone.

Joel gives you a nod, cupping your ass to ease you forward as your knees find a home adjacent to his ears. He pets along the length of your thighs, damn near drooling at the sight between them.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” Joel slips a finger beneath the seam of black lace, teasing against the soft damp skin closest to where you need him the most. “M’a big boy, can handle myself.”

You gasp as he shoves the soaked cloth covering your cunt to the side, brushing your desperate clit with his knuckle as he does so. You’re bare to him now, surely glistening and ripe and ready to be devoured.

“Don’t doubt it, cowboy,” you croon, raking a hand through his curls before lowering yourself onto his eager mouth.

A rocket of white-hot pleasure shoots straight through you as Joel latches on to your clit, nestling the bud between his lips. The searing sensation is enough to make your hips twitch forward, sending your hands to scramble for purchase to keep you upright. You can’t even make a sound; the release of euphoria coursing through you stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you to choke on empty inhales until Joel finally gives your nub a moment of reprieve.

His tongue dips into the pool of your center, sending another swell of nectar from your core, coating his scruff in sweet slick. You hear him groan, muffled between your thighs, as his arms lock around your hips and push you down even further.

“Fuck, Joel—” you hiss, trying to keep yourself from grinding against the sharp curve of his nose, pulling yourself away slightly.

You swear you hear a hum of disapproval from between your legs as Joel chases you with his mouth, his grip tightening and his fingers digging mercilessly into the give of your thighs. His tongue is deep, drinking straight from the source of your arousal as his arms begin to rock you against his face, his nose grazing against your clit with an impossible precision; sending wave after wave of pleasure coiling up your spine. It seems dangerous, the way he’s devouring you without a single breath, but he holds you steady, bearing the weight of you onto his mouth with no hesitation.

“Baby, shit sweetheart— you gotta breathe,” you manage a fistful of his hair, pulling him off you with considerable force.

He looks thoroughly dazed; glassy irises and pink parted lips glistening with your dew, like a man who’s been given a taste but is nowhere near satiated. His chest swells and shallows rapidly beneath your ass, each breath bringing more color to his cheeks and a myriad of pearls forming across his hairline.

“Need more,” Joel pants, his fingers weaving around the lace stretched across your hips. “Need these gone, angel.”

You oblige him with a swiftness, pulling the garment to your knees, dismounting him to allow you to slip it past your ankles. His palms cup your ass and squeeze, his thumbs spreading you open to reveal even more of yourself to him. The stretch feels good, the sensitive muscles fluttering with the shock of the exposure, sticky and soaked from the steady drip seeping from your sex.

“So pretty…” he kneads into your pliable cheeks. “Can I taste it? Please sugar, need’ta taste all of you.”

God, his desperation is like a siren song, your desire burning hot and full in your throat. You hum with approval, mounting him once more but reverse this time, a wave of goosebumps skittering across your skin in anticipation.

He starts gentler this time, licking a languid stripe from your taint to your tailbone. His tongue splays across your skin, wide and flat, making sure not to miss a single inch. A guttural moan escapes your lungs; an uninhibited response to the forgotten feeling of heat in that region, an entirely distinctive kind of pleasure that sends your eyes spinning to the back of your skull. Your nails dig crescents into the cushions your hands are so violently clinging to, your back arching, curving in a manner to match the little moons left behind by your fingers.

Joel groans in response to your noises, biting at the supple flesh gathered in his hands, his hunger surely spurred by the sweet sounds of your euphoria. Like a switch, his mouth turns greedy again, lapping against your puckered skin with a ferocity that makes you cry out his name. He gives you no moment of respite, jerking your hips toward him and seizing your clit with his curved tongue and pulling you into him, his nose practically fucking your cunt.

“Ohhh, that’s…” you trail off, your eyes beginning to water from the sheer intensity of it. “Christ, you’re heaven.”

At that, Joel seems to lose control, seemingly possessed by a determination to make you meet God. His palms jerk your hips back and forth, your clit never once escaping the grasp of his lips, his nose delving into your pussy with reckless abandon. Pleasure ravages the whole of you in a frenzy, wave after wave surging in your belly until you’re all but crying, quivering as you white-knuckle the headrest holding you steady. Your orgasm topples through you, your vision blasting with light as your walls clamp again and again, squeezing the length of Joel’s nose buried in your cunt.

Joel doesn’t release your clit from his mouth until you’re yelping, twitching and gasping from overstimulation. His grip softens as you fly forward to your hands and knees, your chest heaving with exhaustion, your muscles bearing through the aftershocks of your release. His lips find the backs of your thighs, trailing sweet, slow kisses across the expanse of skin. They feel like praise, almost like he’s thanking you without words; a mellifluous tempo of graciousness that you had yet to experience from him.

Part of you wants to linger in the divinity of this moment, but from your position you find yourself face to face with the bulging mass beneath his jeans. It looks painful, the outline of his shaft straining against thick denim and a sturdy zipper. You manage to unbutton the pants with your one free hand, slipping your palm beneath the waistband effortlessly.

“Jesus, Joel,” you chuckle, astonished by the way his cock fills your palm, heavy and thicker than you would have ever anticipated. You begin to stroke him above his boxers, softly and slowly, swirling your fingertips across the head of him as you feel him groan beneath you, dampening your fingers with his weeping tip. “Lemme help you, sugar.”

Joel grunts out his approval, his palm splayed across your ass, seemingly as a means to ground himself to this mortal plane. The callused pads on his fingertips clutch you relentlessly as you free his dick from the confines of his clothes, holding the base of him steady as you glide the tip of your tongue across his glistening slit.

His hips jerk forward at the sudden contact, sending the length of him thrusting into your open mouth. You welcome him wholly, savoring the salty musk that coats your cheeks and the sting in your jaw as you stretch to accommodate him.

“Fucking—shit—” he growls, his breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. “C’mere, god damn—”

He tugs you back onto his open mouth, burying himself into you once more with a reignited ferocity, drinking the remnants of your orgasm. You yelp, your throat flexing around his tip as he flicks your overstimulated clit, the blend of pleasure and torment accosting your nervous system.

It’s downright mean, the mercilessness of his tongue sending you straight into overdrive. Two can play at that game.

You take him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks as you swirl your tongue around his girth. He groans into your pussy, licking you faster, pulling your lips apart with his tongue and spreading them like angel wings. You can’t help but grin, the unspoken competition between you revving with intensity with each passing second, sending the both of you toppeling into bliss, warmth spilling down your throat as you cry out against his cock. Your thighs begin to shake as you reach your peak, tears beading in your eyes as you grasp tightly onto the flexing muscles in Joel’s legs. You choke on his name as his dick falls from your lips, bearing through surge after surge of euphoria. The pleasure is so consuming that it coils itself around your windpipe and renders you mute, holding you hostage until it’s had its way with you and leaving you dizzy when it finally relents.

Your arms give out on you and you collapse, exhaustion possessing you for a moment until your consciousness returns. You feel Joel pressing soft, sweet kisses to the back of your thigh, and suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re likely crushing his sensitive dick beneath your weight. You ease off of him slowly, your legs quivering with the effort, turning to face him as he shifts himself to a seated position and fastens his jeans.

The moonlight catches the sweat beading at his hairline; the glassy whites of his eyes and the dew on his lips beaming under the cool-toned hue. He looks like art, soft lines and harsh edges painted exactly where you’d want them; masculine shadows dancing across his skin as he shifts his weight, daring you to watch them move. You’ve never been so completely mesmerized by someone. Not once in your life has a man rendered you speechless, but here you are; irreversibly hypnotized and a stranger to the English language. You’re aware of yourself—painfully aware of your staggering silence and your gawkish gaze—and you shake your head, laughing at the unbelievable effect washing over you.

Joel’s cheeks turn ruddy, his irises shifting between you and his lap as he drapes his arm across his chest, giving his own shoulder a hearty squeeze.

“What’s funny?” he breathes, insecurity creeping in his throat.

You come to suddenly; the stark realization that you’re probably making the man nervous is enough to break you from your trance. You crawl towards him, your fingertips grazing the underside of his jaw, tilting him towards you until your lips are merely an inch apart.

“Nothin’ sugar,” you hum, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “You’re just one hell of a cowboy.”

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #plus size reader #plus size!reader #joel x reader #young joel miller #tlou #the last of us

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stargazer-sims · 5 months ago

Text

Spots

Gabe: Hey, what’s up?

Scout: Nothing much.

Gabe: Really? I don’t even remember the last time I saw you without your camouflage. Everything okay?

Scout: Just thinking.

Gabe: About what? Your appointment this morning?

Scout: Yeah.

Gabe: Are you worried the procedure isn’t going to work?

Scout: No, I’m certain it’s going to. It’s just… you know I have to be un-camouflaged for the procedure, right? I literally haven’t seen myself like this since last time I was pregnant.

Gabe: And…?

Scout: And there’s a lot of emotional baggage to unpack. For one thing, I didn’t realize I still have belly spots.

Gabe: Doesn’t everyone? Of your species, I mean. The last time I hooked up with a Sixamish guy, I noticed he had spots on his stomach too.

Scout: Then he was probably pregnant, or he gave birth recently. Or he had elevated hormone levels. That’s what Dr. Max thinks is happening with me. The spots are supposed to fade a few months after giving birth, but it seems like I’m stuck with mine.

Gabe: Does it mean anything? Like, is it bad?

Scout: No, it’s not bad. It means I’m exceptionally fertile, apparently.

Gabe: Seems kind of ideal for what you're doing.

Scout: It is. I'm just not thrilled about having more spots. I don't even like the ones I originally had.

Gabe: I know you don't like them. Nobody can force you to, but for what it's worth, I think they're beautiful. I think you're beautiful. I've never seen anyone else like you, and I forget in between times how much I like how you look without your camouflage.

Scout: That's the whole problem. I want to be beautiful without bringing my spots into it. I don't want to be judged and categorized by something superficial that I don't even have control over.

Gabe: You want to know something? Even the single-colour spots that your people think are ugly look beautiful to me. If it weren't for you explaining it, I'd have no clue which colours are supposed to mean what, or who's supposed to be more important or whatever. To me, you’re all equally worthy.

Scout: That’s one of the things I like about humans. Fewer arbitrary biases.

Gabe: Nah, we’ve got plenty of arbitrary biases. Maybe we’re a little better at being aware of them and trying to overcome them, but there are still a lot of human jerks who’ll judge people for stuff they can’t change about themselves.

Scout: Well, at least you’re not a human jerk.

Gabe: Nope. *whispering* I’m just the human who can jerk you off.

Scout: *laughing* Are you serious right now?

Gabe: Am I ever serious?

Scout: Are you trying to distract me?

Gabe: Is it working?

Scout: I’m supposed to wait for a week after the procedure, remember?

Gabe: Have you ever actually done that?

Scout: Uh… no. But, I should try to hold out longer than last time though, don’t you think? Like, maybe make an effort to follow the guidelines?

Gabe: You’ve already held out longer than last time, or did you forget about the cops knocking on the window of the van in the laundromat parking lot?

Scout: I wonder what they thought was going on in there?

Gabe: I doubt it was what they actually found when they opened the back door. I mean, you might look like a human most of the time, but you definitely don't sound like one. They probably thought I had a wild animal back there.

Scout: Well... you kinda did. Admittedly, I'm not exactly tame at the best of times.

Gabe: True.

Scout: We made some good memories with that old van. Kinda wish we still had it. We could, you know... take it for a spin.

Gabe: I'm sure we can think of ways to entertain ourselves without the old van.

Scout: Yes, I'm sure we can.

Gabe: I could count your spots.

Scout: What?

Gabe: And for every spot, I could tell you one thing that makes you awesome.

Scout: Every spot?

Gabe: Yeah.

Scout: The ones on my belly go all the way down. I'd have to get naked if you want to count them all.

Gabe: Luckily, it's a short journey from underpants to naked. I could help with that.

Scout: You've got further to go than I do. How about I help you instead?

Gabe: No arguments here.

Scout: Can you really think of one good thing to say for every spot?

Gabe: Yeah, I can. But you've got a lot of spots. It could take a while.

Scout: We've got all night.

Gabe: One good thing for each spot into the proverbial wee hours, then. By the time we're done, you're going to hear so many compliments, you might actually start believing them.

Scout: Why do I get the feeling you're on a mission?

Gabe: 'Cause I am. Some day, I hope you can see yourself the way I see you, and who better to help you learn than the person who knows you best and loves you the most?

Scout: The person I love the most too, and the person I trust the most. I'd never let anyone else count my spots, you know.

Gabe: I know. Now, where do you want me to start counting?

#ts4 #sims 4 #scout mccoy #gabriel devereux #low level spice #stargazersims

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detective-piplup · 2 months ago

Note

14, 17, 30, 31 for fic ask game :3

HELL YEAH fic ask game time let’s go

14) What makes you happiest? New fic comments, kudos, bookmarks, user subscribers, story subscribers, or Tumblr asks?

AbsoLUTELY comments, followed close by tumblr asks about my writing, but everything is awesome on that list tbh

17) What is something you recently felt proud of in your writing?

I haven’t done much writing recently tbh, BUT the way I characterised Black Sapphire Cookie in my most recent Cookie Run write. quite simply put I did so much with very little. and I hit the bullseye. how did I do that. honestly everything about that write to me I need to feed the shippers I attracted at some point lmao

30) Have you noticed your style change over time?

ABSOLUTELY YES. I’ve gotten better at taking it a bit slower and describing more and so my very short and punchy style has kinda relaxed a little into something still quick but more nimble than rushed . if that makes sense. it makes sense to me

31) What fic meant the most to you to write?

Answered this in 2024 for my year in review BUT I think, not counting the fireknight I have in drafts (so we’re pulling from 2024’s list here) it’s technically my WindKnight Miitopia fic. I still think that one’s some of my best writing… but I’d also give it to the second chapter of my RGB Hisui Exile write!! Snufkin’s POV was a PAIN IN THE ARSE but I did it and it’s solid!! So it means a lot

Ty for the ask!!

#answered ask

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mitchipedia · 15 days ago

Text

I migrated from Mastodon to Micro.blog. Here's what worked well, and where I have problems

If you were following me on Mastodon or any other Fediverse service, you should now be following me on Micro.blog, without you having to do anything about it.

I started using the Micro.blog service regularly in late 2022 to host mitchw.blog, about the same time I became active on Mastodon. Both Micro.blog and Mastodon are part of the Fediverse, meaning they can communicate with the world using the ActivityPub protocol.1

Until mid-May this year, I posted to both Mastodon and Micro.blog, using Micro.blog’s automated and manual cross-posting tools. About a week ago, I decided to consolidate Mastodon onto Micro.blog

Why did I make the change?

Simplicity: One less place to post, check replies, and otherwise manage.

Formatting: Micro.blog supports links, blockquotes, embedded images and other formatting. Mastodon does not.

I can post as long or as short as I want: Micro.blog supports posts of any length. Most Mastodon instances limit posts to 500 characters.

Indeed, that’s one of the best features of Micro.blog: Titles are optional, and posts can be of any length and complexity. They can be just a few words, like a tweet, or they can be full-fledged articles with embedded media.

Design: Micro.blog gives me a nicely formatted blog on the web. Mine is at mitchw.blog. My Mastodon account looks like every other Mastodon account.

Newsletter and syndication: Micro.blog gives me a daily newsletter, and automatically syndicates to Bluesky and Tumblr.

My followers stay with me: Because Mastodon and Micro.blog are both part of the Fediverse, Mastodon users can follow me on Micro.blog. Most of them won’t even notice the difference, except that my posts will be formatted more nicely.

I just like blogs, RSS and newsletters better than social media platforms: I like the IndieWeb philosophy: Own your own domain, publish to your own site first and optionally syndicate elsewhere.

Glitches and trade-offs

No reposting: Micro.blog doesn’t support reposting or let me see other people’s reposts. This is a significant problem for me because I like seeing what other people repost. But I can live without that.

Follower invisibility: Micro.blog doesn’t let me see how many followers I have. I don’t care about that.

No likes: Micro.blog doesn’t let me like other people’s posts, see who has liked my posts, or how many people have liked my posts. This is a minor inconvenience.

On social media platforms that permit likes and reactions, I like other people’s posts to acknowledge or thank them. But it’s relatively easy for me to just send a one-word response or emoji in that circumstance.

I also watch whether my posts get likes to see if anybody is reading particular posts.

And I sometimes find it interesting who likes my posts. Sometimes one of my posts gets liked by a celebrity, which can be cool. Just this morning as I write this, a politically conservative friend, with whom I have sometimes sparred online, liked one of my anti-Trump Facebook posts. That was interesting. Sometimes I get a like from a friend I haven’t been in contact with in years, or someone who has a big following on social media and whose posts I’ve admired. I feel good about that for a bit. But I can live without it; the tradeoff is worth it.

Second try’s the charm: I made two tries at this recently, the first time in early April, and the second time in mid-May. The first time I tried it, the migration failed; my followers on Mastodon failed to make the journey to Micro.blog. I reported the bug to Micro.blog but tech support on Micro.blog was unresponsive for several days2, so I reversed the process and did it again a month later.3

My second migration, in mid-May, was mostly successful. My Mastodon account still shows 157 followers. It should show zero followers — they should all have moved to Micro.blog. I’m just not going to worry about that for now.

Because Micro.blog does not show follower counts, or who is following me, I don’t know if my other 500 Mastodon followers successfully made the journey or whether they fell into the ether. I am getting replies to my Micro.blog posts from Mastodon, so I know that many people did make the journey. I can live with the uncertainty.

The big problem

As a first step in the transition, I exported the list of people I followed on Mastodon and imported that list to Micro.blog. I thought I would simply shut down my Mastodon account and live in Micro.blog. This part of the migration proved easy — and it was a bad idea!

Micro.blog is not a great Mastodon client; it doesn’t support link previews or (as noted above) Mastodon boosts.

After a day or two of struggling with Micro.blog’s limits as a Mastodon client, I reactivated my Mastodon account and am using it for reading but not posting. That means I can’t conveniently reply to Mastodon posts, but I find I rarely want to reply to something on Mastodon, so it’s no loss. Still, I’d love it if there were an easy way to open Mastodon posts in Micro.blog, or to spoof a “from” address in a reply from Mastodon. However, the latter solution would have major potential security problems.

I am now slowly unfollowing all Mastodon accounts from Micro.blog so that I am only following them from Mastodon. This is a painstaking process; I do a few every day. It’ll take a while, but that’s OK; I’m not in a rush.

What about BlueSky and Tumblr?

In addition to Micro.blog and Mastodon, I cross-post to BlueSky and Tumblr.

The split between Micro.blog and BlueSky doesn’t seem to be as much of a source of irritation for me as the split between Micro.blog and Mastodon. I’m having difficulty articulating why that is. BlueSky permits text formatting; that’s a big part of it. Oddly, while BlueSky permits formatting from syndicated services like Micro.blog, it does not permit formatting in native posts.

Similarly, Tumblr, like Micro.blog, supports posts of any length and complexity, and I don’t get many comments on my Tumblr posts, so the split between Micro.blog and Tumblr doesn’t seem like a big deal to me.

I don’t see Tumblr as a long-term problem; soon, either either Tumblr will shut down or I will quit.4

What about Facebook?

Most of the conversations on my posts happen on Facebook. I am not happy about this. There is no way to automatically post from Micro.blog to Facebook, so I manually cut-and-paste from one to the other.

An insight

I think I just don’t like Twitter-like services — not Mastodon and not Bluesky. I was a Twitter addict in the late 2000s and 2010s, but I lost interest in Twitter even before it became Nazified. I think I’ve lost interest in reading or writing prose chopped up into 300- or 500-character chunks.

Also, on both Mastodon and Bluesky I follow a large number of strangers who post a lot of political minutiae that pisses me off without enriching my life.

I’m in the process of unfollowing anybody whose posts don’t interest me. I’m spending just a few minutes a day on that process, and I expect it will play out over weeks.

If I end up following just a few people on Bluesky and Mastodon, I can live with that. I will continue to post to those services.

How’s it going so far?

I’m happy with my migration from Mastodon to Micro.blog.

Posting is easier now that I don’t have to worry about how my posts look on both Mastodon and Micro.blog.

I seem to be getting significantly more discussion for my posts on Micro.blog than I did when I was splitting between Mastodon and Micro.blog. I don’t know why that is, but I’m happy about it.

And if I change my mind about migrating from Mastodon to Micro.blog, I’ll just reverse. I’ve done it before. That’s something that’s great about the fediverse; it’s easy to join a particular server, and easy to leave.

Here’s a helpful post on how to migrate from Mastodon to Micro.blog and here’s another.

If this paragraph doesn’t make sense to you, maybe quit reading here, because the rest of this is super-nerdy and not of interest to most people. ↩︎

This is a significant concern I have with Micro.blog. I’m overall satisfied with the service, but tech support is hit-or-miss whether they’ll respond to requests in a timely fashion. ↩︎

When you migrate your account from Mastodon.social, the server puts a 26-day lock on your account before you can do it again. I expect this is done to prevent tomfoolery. ↩︎

I’ve been saying that Tumblr will soon either shut down or I will quit for about 15 years. I expect I will continue to say it for many years more, while continuing to remain active on Tumblr. ↩︎

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jurassic-amber · 1 year ago

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Prepare thyself mortal. For I have questions to bestow upon thee.

1. Do you have anything resembling a story / route planned for Abigail? Supporting characters, ect?

2. Ever drawn a metal guitar before?

3. Regarding your Digimon artwork, what inspires you to create digimon? Do you have a favourite digimon you’ve designed? Is there anything in particular that inspired their design?

4. I *know* you’ve got a character who transforms into a monster somewhere in that brain of yours. Tell us about them. All of them.

5. What is your favourite Iterator OC? Why? Is there anything that particularly inspired their design (both art and character wise)?

6. How are you so fucking good at art?

7. Do you have any Pokémon OC’s? Or hell, OCs from existing works you haven’t talked about?

Love you and your art, please share more :happyhugs:

1: I’m very vague on Abigail’s story overall, but I know how it ends, specifically. If they were in a game it’d be a very short game compared to base game Undertale, only going up to Waterfall before encountering the “final boss” they couldn’t beat. (Hint: it’s not undyne) Gonna leave it mostly in the dark besides that for the time being (because it’d take too long to draw)

2: Nope, but here’s a quick sketch of an electric guitar

3: Ohhhhh well, in the beginning I just drew a bunch of rookie level digimon to practice and do a sort of “attribute swap” where I draw stuff like plant digimon as dragon digimon or dragon digimon as birds, etc etc. But a lot of more recent work is actually modern designs for pen and marker drawings from when I was like 7! Some have changed names, some have improved colors, all of them have improved designs. Here’s an example!

When I get around to drawing their champion and ultimate levels it’ll probably diverge even more as I get different ideas as to where I want the lines to go. I also just love making digimon cause I often draw to fill empty niches in works I notice, and digimon basically has infinite of those cause you can partner a digimon up with any character and then try to think of a special line for them! As for my current favorite… it’s a strange choice, but definitely CryoGreymon! Most of the body is traced from official art of the normal Greymon, but I liked the modifications I made. I redrew an entire leg to give him a wider stance, added more spikes and stripes!!

It’s a champion form of Snow Agumon cause they never gave him a digivolution despite being the coolest variant (Hehehe cool and snow, get it?)

4: At first I was gonna do Aria for this, but then I remembered Cloe and fuck yeah let’s do her.

CLOE, pronounced Chloe is a character for a sci-fi mystery game, and when I say sci-fi, I mean space travel and aliens sci-fi. She’s an early game red herring meant to be reasonably suspicious to the characters, but obviously innocent to us, along with being a parody of every horror movie alien. She’s from a species that grows to disguise itself as other creatures and infiltrate their society. Her species needs a very high protein count. However being a species means they don’t all think the same. Some eat the creatures they disguise amongst, others steal prey, some intimidate others into satisfying their hunger. Cloe herself is an orphan and only survivor of an alien ship that crashed into a human controlled planet, and isn’t a species allowed on human controlled planets. Fortunately the agency that ends up handling the case where she’s exposed also was established in the first place to handle these type of situations. She follows one of the protagonists around after it’s obvious she’s innocent, and post game she goes under his care for the foreseeable future. As an alien she’s not allowed in normal school, so she spends her time at his house both studying and finding hobbies, like speedrunning in video games.

5: Not sure if you meant my favorite one I’ve made? I’m still trying to come up with all their designs tbh. But my favorite concepts ever were the vague one of Gifted Order and I also really like Two Bloodstained Hands. Gifted Order basically makes a part of themselves into a Slugcat, but gives themself rot in the process. They don’t quite see it as themselves, but are satisfied to give part of themselves freedom. This is inspired by a plot point in a game I like, leaving it vague which. I also like Two Bloodstained Hands’ concept of being feared just because they associate with violence in their work even though they aren’t a violent iterator

6: A lot of it is really just doing it over and over again, but aside from that I might have a couple tips? Most objects are made up of basic shapes, then you smooth them over. Depending on your art style, you don’t have to use every shape either, just a circle for the head is fine if you’re drawing something simple. Hair can be done with just wavy lines usually. And one thing I learned recently is practicing line weight!! Balancing thin lines and thick lines can give more direction to artwork or help highlight the silhouette if the outside is made thick.

7: god, I have so many… but in terms of Pokémon, I do have a bunch of fakemon designs! Remind me later and I’ll put up I’ll the fan-eeveelution designs I made

#my art #art #drawing #original character #digimon #original digimon #iterator OCs #fakemon #sci fi #god it feels weird putting such a variety of tags here even though they’re all applicable #imposter syndrome but it’s just me worrying about spam tagging

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queenbees21 · 1 year ago

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When you become friends

𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐨 (𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐲) - 𝐌.𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Warning: grammar errors, not proffered

Reference: None

A/n: hello honeys! I’m sorry I haven’t been posting much, my last one was on December! I lack motivation to continue writing for a while, and I guess I just stop and disappeared for a moment. I did try my best to keep updating so that everyone knows I’m still online and safe. But anyways I’m back and I’m still going to continue writing as much as I can. Thanks for reading hope you enjoy! <3 — 👑🐝2️⃣1️⃣

Ps: I might make one of these BF scenarios for Chuuya (bsd) next. I’ve recently watched the show and I’m absolutely in love with him! He’s so cute. ❤️🥹

Word count:

Ever since the day you bumped into Mikey, he officially declared you his “Friend”.

…

You said no.

….

You let out sigh; you try figuring out what Mikey was like and his intentions? Regardless; it doesn’t seem like you’ll ever get him. He’s one hard cookie to crack. He’s very good at hiding his emotions too. Although; there is one thing you learned from experience, and that would be-

He’s very energetic.

Yeah, he’s hard to keep up with. But he also sleep almost Every. Single. Day; in school and because of that, his friend- Draken? Was it? Would always carry him after.

Yeah, there’s no way your able to read him. He’s just— actually… wait… what is he truly like? Well i guess in a way, you could put it; is that he’s… enthusiastic and full of energy….

Yeah, that seem to be about right. Not completely, but close enough. Not the sleeping part but outside of school he’s the most energetic…

You had also heard that he and his friend are in a gang together. Toyman? Tomon? Or something? You forgot the exact name. It was very hard to pronounce…

And that he was the leader of the gang. You’ve never seen him In action, so you don’t know what he’s like as a leader. I’m sure he’s pretty energetic and goofily like… maybe?

But oh how wrong you were.

He was no were near “goofy” like, as a matter of fact. His aura change drastically. You really couldn’t keep up with this guy, he’s so different from others and just so confusing!

He was strict and a commanding leader.

….

It was actually kinda…. Hot

…

‘I can’t believe you’re thinking this way (Yn)!!’ You face palmed yourself. How can you be thinking this way? Why would you? Your mother taught you better than this!

Her exact words were-

“Don’t talk to guys that are in gangs, their nothing but trouble. If trouble is what your seeking for, then trouble is what you’ll get.”

…..

Well that’s easier said then done! Cause that particular “trouble” is literally following you around!!

You look over your shoulder, watching as Mikey trying to get your attention. He had followed you all throughout the whole day of school, and your after-school clubs...

You sighed to yourself and stopped in your tracks. Mikey noticed this and also stopped. You then took a deep breath and turn around. "Why do you keep following me Sano?" You question, tilting your head slightly.

He thought your gesture was cute and smiled teasingly. "Because we're friends-"

"We're not friends! I barely know you?!" You blurt put, cutting him off. He only chuckle and thought nothing of your attitude. He was quite entertaining by it.

Which irritated you greatly…

You sighed and rolled your eyes as he went on to say how you both were ‘friends’?

“We’re not friends!”

“Yes we are! And you can’t do anything about it!” He crossed his arms, letting out a playful huff with an exaggerated expression on his face.

“……” you sighed and shook your head and continued on walking back home. To which he followed you to make sure you went home safely. And you couldn’t help but appreciate it that.

You rolled your eyes at the silly thought, it made your lips twitch into a small little smile.

You eventually made it back home and invited Mikey to come inside for dinner. Because your mom asked to.

He sat down besides you as you both were watching a movie on Netflix. It was in Japanese and you put the subtitles in Spanish, that way you are about to read it, and he was able to listen to it in his native language. Which he appreciated.

“Here.” You hand out some popcorn towards him, as you kept your eyes on the screen.

“Thanks!” Mikey replied. He gladly took the some of the salty snack from the bag; eating it as he kept his eyes on the screen.

Timeskip

You wave Mikey goodbye as you watched him leave your home. You closed the door behind and saw they your mother was picking up after you both.

You moved over to her and help her out. “I’m glad you’re making new friends dear.” She smiles warmly. You were slightly surprised by her words, and didn’t get the chance to say anything before she stood up to go to the kitchen.

As you cleaned your thought were preoccupied with your mothers words

“I’m glad you’re making new friends dear.”

“Friends huh?..” you whispered to yourself, as a smile had threatened to tug on your lips. You were happy, you actually did make a friend.

<< 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 >>

A/n: sorry for the short ending, it was a little rushed. I couldn’t think of an idea of how to end it 😭 but nonetheless; hoped you enjoyed, stay safe and have a good day and night! ❤️ ~ 👑 🐝 2️⃣1️⃣

#boyfriend scenarios series (M.S)

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karen-carlisle-off-the-artboard · 5 months ago

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What's Happening with Twixtmas book/book box?

https://karenjcarlisle.com/2024/12/22/whats-happening-with-twixtmas-book-book-box/

Greetings gentle readers,

You are probably wondering what is happening with my upcoming book Twixtmas. Well, strap in. It’s a long story.

Originally, I planned to do a novella-length story, set after book one, and leading into the future book three. It was scheduled for release early December (before Christmas). Well, that is didn’t happen. Obviously. And I need to explain why.

What follows is a tale of woe, a tale of pain, a tale of frustration, and a plead for your patience, and my ongoing apologies.

The original plan:

As I said, I had planned a novella length story, about 70-80 pages long (comparable to Cogs and Conspiracies and Blood Ties). Pre-orders were priced accordingly at AU$18 (incl postage within Australia), with the final book price expected to be around AU$20 (incl post), and the book box pre-order price of AU$80 (also including postage), and post-release price of AU$85. Those of you who have already pre-ordered will still get your book (or book box) at the original price.

Why it’s changed:

You’ve most likely seen my blog or social medica posts about my mental health journey and chronic health issues. For those who don’t know, I have PTSD and anxiety, have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, migraine, and several other health issues. This year, I’ve also had heart issues (and was just recently cleared – yay!). I’ve also finally admitted I need a walking cane on bad days. The most annoying part is any, or all, of these can flare up after events, when triggered and, worst of all, without notice. And it sucks. Big time.

After a run of three events in (end of ) October, November, and early December (well, it was my own fault), I hit a wall. I had a pain flare that meant I was out of commission for almost three weeks. I pushed myself to catch up and managed to claw back about two weeks.

Then summer hit early, with a vengence (wrapped in a prickly blanket of anxiety). Both are triggers for my fibromyalgia. Cue another three weeks of hell! I haven’t had a flare this bad in years. I was unable to sit, stand, get in and out of the shower, or lie down without assistance. I’m just grateful my Dearheart is understanding; he acted as a part-time carer for the first two weeks. (He’s a keeper.) After crying in pain til 2am, I ended up at the doctor. The meds had my loopy, unable to drive (and not a legally-responsible adult for a week).

By now I was almost five weeks behind schedule.

A mini-heatwave heralded another pain flare, which is ongoing. I’m currently in my fourth week of this pain flare. I have good days and bad days, and have to limit my time sitting at the computer.

Where I’m up to now:

I managed to finish the mammoth structural edit before the second wave hit. I’m now working my first pass of major line edits. (This usually takes 2-3 passes), and have one chapter left. Then I start all over again. If you’ve pre-ordered the book or the 12 days of Twixtmas book box, then you should have received three updates by now explaining each set back and updated information on the story.

Chapters 1 to 4 are with my editor. Chapters 5-11 are with my alpha reader. I will hopefully be finishing rewrite #2a before Christmas, and will be starting the next rewrite pass after a few days break (to try to squash the current pain flare).

Book Art: Pencil sketches are done. They just need to be digitally inked.

The Good News:

Looks like the book will be longer than first expected. Here’s the figures:

Original expected length: 17,000 words (Novella length: approx 70-80 pages).

Original chapters: 6

Current length: 47, 579 words (still with a chapter to go).

Recalculated expected length: 45-50,000 words (Novel length: approx 170-200 pages). (Note: This count may change slightly with the next round of rewrites.) This is comparable to Doctor Jack & Other Tales in length.

Expected chapters: 12-13

Book Art: there will be 3 original (drawn by me) images in the paperback.

What this means to you, Dear Reader:

This means the book will be more than twice the length I had originally envisioned. (The characters made me do it! There’s also a few easter eggs and hints for book three. 😉 Spoilers!). I’ll need to recalculate print costs for the larger book before publication day, so you’ll see an increase in the book and book box costs soon.

Patrons will receive the first copies, followed by pre-orders. I hope to have these posted a week or two before publication. Those who have already pre-ordered paperbacks or book boxes will have the original cost honoured (and thank you for your patience) are getting value for your money.

My sincere apologies for the delay. I will keep you all posted.

Rescheduled publication date:

Watch this space.

Seriously, it doesn’t look like the book will be out til January, 2025.

Thank you, again for your understanding and patience.

Further information about Twixtmas:

Twixtmas will be available in paperback and eBook. Book art will be in the paperback only.

#12 days of Twixtmas #aunt enid #Aunt Enid Mysteries #behind the scenes #book box #books #christmas story #life #news #novel #novella #pre-ordedr #pre-order updates #processes #Twixtmas #updates #writing

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sunbeamedskies · 7 months ago

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Heretic/Writer's Guilt

I had my first ever movie-going experience in a foreign country!!

Ever since the trailer first came out, I knew I wanted to see Heretic really badly. Hugh Grant as the villain? Commentary about spirituality/religion? A24? Sign me the fuck up!

It felt especially fitting to have my first cinematic experience in England be a movie starring Hugh Grant. He is such a legendary British actor, as well as one of the primary reasons American women romanticize British men

This post will contain no spoilers. I will make a part two with spoilers later

There have been moments here and there where I truly remember I am in England and my mind gets blown again. Going to a movie theater and seeing only British ads before the trailers start, coupled with seeing the British-style release dates (day-month-year) which follow every trailer, was one of those moments

Though I had a great time overall, I felt a slight dulling of emotions that used to happen a lot whenever I went out to see movies. It stems from a sadness caused by not writing enough- a variant of writer’s guilt. Lately I’ve been writing some, but have started to feel a bit bad because I’m still not writing regularly enough. Writing novels has been a goal of mine since I was little, and it is the most realistic path for me to someday write movies and shows

Unfortunately these days, it seems like screenplays rarely get made unless you’re already a famous actor or director. Even if a fledgling screenwriter is successful in getting a film made, it’s rare for others of theirs to get picked up often enough to have a steady career. I went back and forth in my head for years wondering if I should pursue being a novelist or screenwriter first. They were both equal dreams of mine, yet I wasn’t trying to actively achieve either. I had written books before (bad ones I wrote as a teenager- but hey! Still full books) and had no experience writing screenplays. I tried writing a couple, but it always felt a bit awkward to not write as many words as I do when writing stories. One day though, something hit me- I noticed that popular authors constantly had their novels adapted into shows and movies, and some were even allowed to write the screenplays for them. I had a lightbulb moment- this is how I can best achieve my dream! Ever since then, my focus has been on novels

I thought my longest partially-written screenplay was 40-50 pages, but I just looked it up and it’s 79! That’s one thing about writer’s guilt- oftentimes writers who are sad they haven’t written on a regular basis in a while have actually done more than they think they have. They write little pieces here and there which add up, forget they spent a few days writing a lot, etc. This screenplay is one I will alter a lot if I ever complete it. It’s nostalgic to read parts of it, though I haven’t read it in full yet. I’ll share a piece of it below, but be warned- this might be too cerebral/highbrow for some of you:

JANINE

(ecstatically)

No way! 3d porn?! We have to watch it NOW!

CUT TO:

Janine and Tom are sitting on the couch with 3D glasses on, excitedly watching the movie. They’re sharing a bowl of popcorn. There are moaning noises coming from the TV.

JANINE

He’s about to get a boner!

TOM

Watch out!

They both duck in unison.

TOM

Woo! That was a close one.

JANINE

I never knew dodging boners could be so thrilling!

TOM

I think he’s about to blow!

They both dodge in unison.

I know, I know. There are too many metaphors about politics/climate change/the philosophical landscape of 1600’s Italy to count. I’m sorry if your feeble minds can’t comprehend it all

In all seriousness, this was going to be a silly, raunchy, Judd Apatow-esque romcom. Honestly, I really might rewrite it to be a genre-bender of some kind someday- who knows? There was about a decade where I barely wrote, but re-reading stuff like this reminds me I did write every rare once in a while. I wrote a whole 100,000 word book recently which failed to get me a literary agent, but I now recognize its flaws and plan to edit it heavily soon. It’s also a big turn off for agents to see a 100,000 word non-fantasy book by a potential debut author, so that hurt my odds from the start. But my latest novel is almost done, there are six or seven other novels I’ve written parts of, plus countless other ideas floating around my head. I need to do a better job of reminding myself about how far I’ve come instead of focusing on the negative

I wrote the above scene years ago before the rise of VR porn, by the way. Maybe it’s a sign I really am ahead of my time

Love,

#personal #writing #writer #write #heretic #a24 #movie #movies #books #book #guilt #dream #goal #hugh grant #britain #england #horror #london #british #cinema

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maybege · 2 years ago

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may's candid and personal take on fandom

On a more candid note, I’d like to talk more about my experience as a writer in fandom. I spent a long time thinking about this (a better part of the last six months, on and off) as I am usually trying to keep my opinions to myself due to events that are long ago now.

I really need you all to be kinder to writers.

I have been here since sometime around May 2020 and I think it is telling that the fandom circles around the same problems again and again and nothing ever changes.

Interaction is really low and I am not the first writer to lament this, nor will I be the last one but maybe I have this naïve hope that if enough people read the same thing again and again, it will finally stick. I know I haven’t put out content on a regular basis for a long time now but while it is not directly related to the level of interactions these works get, that rhythm will for sure not improve if interaction stays as low as it is. It can be really disheartening to know you have over a thousand followers and the reblogs/comments on your works do not even exceed 50.

Obviously, the way tiktok and fast paced social media work have influenced how we interact with things on all kinds of platforms. But I really need you all to understand that a like on tumblr does not count the way it does on Instagram or maybe even tiktok. That is a bookmark at best. Do I mind if you serial like an entire series of mine? Of course not, I am happy to see that someone is actively reading something of mind and enjoying it. But please have the courtesy to maybe comment on the masterlist or the most recent part.

Fandom is taking and giving and I think it is unfair that it is somehow is expected of writers to pump out story after story without having to give them something (comments, asks, reblogs) for it. And when someone complains about it, suddenly we are deemed as ungrateful to the few that actually read our stuff.

Back in lockdown, there was more of a balance for obvious reasons. But now that I see that writers cannot post as much due to real life or maybe other reasons, it is like the number of notes has diminished across the board. Writers in fandom are people who are not (and cannot be) paid for their works. (Side note: If you accept fanfiction commissions or money for fanfiction, I will find you quicker than the mouse mafia because you will not ruin this for us.) On one hand, the expectation seems to be that writers should update ever single week without fail. On the other hand, it seems too big an ask of readers to actually comment/reblog the things that they read.

(Waiting for a new chapter for weeks, months, hell, even years, was never unusual in fandom spaces and I need this to be more common knowledge.)

Then again, the negativity in fandom has really fucking increased. It comes and goes in wavesand I will not pretend to be affected because I was so inactive this last year. (This is simply a side note but it is something that I think needs more attention: The way I see poc creators treated is despicable and while I do not write for PP characters anymore because of all the drama, people really need to reflect how they see Pedro Pascal as a human being instead of a sex object.)

For me, personally, I have noticed that if I get genuinely angry at something happening on tumblr, it is time for me to log off and really focus on real life and I think it is something that we all should take to heart. Sadly, the more time passes, the more I am convinced that this fandom might not even be worth it anymore and I genuinely understand many creators who decide to leave permanently. It often feels like people are just there to create drama or to vague or that important and serious posts about how we should treat each other and the actors we admire are simply ignored in favour of the “I don’t like drama.” line. Which, like, one is drama and one is not. (Spoiler alert: Discussions on fandom inclusion and racism within fandom are not drama.)

Anyway, Readers need to be more mindful of the power they have over writers and if you want to complain that so many creators have deactivated or become inactive, I would like to ask that you reflect on when was the last time that you commented on someone’s fic.

#fandom #idek if this makes sense #but i really need to vent this out #also yes you can send me your personal opinions but i ask that you be respectful because we are all adults here

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slytherinsomniari · 2 years ago

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The Beastmaster’s Secret| San Bakar x F! Reader

Pairing: San Bakar x F! Reader

Summary: A while after the battle for the final repository, an unexplained form of magic is cast and the Keepers mysteriously have human form once more. One of these Keepers has had his eye on you for a while and is certainly not going to waste this opportunity and let you get away.

Word Count: 2973

Themes: Smut, Breeding Kink, Fingering, Teasing, Masturbation, Underage, Teacher-Student Relationship

A/N: Okay so I’ve explained before but I do not have any sexual experience so if I have depicted the sex and the position incorrectly, I deeply apologize. All I did was look at a diagram/picture of what it would look like and used my imagination. I also apologize for the long wait. I haven’t really been inspired to write for a bit and have become addicted to character ai instead lol I know this fic is probably disappointing since I’m not sure if it is perfectly finished but I wanted to get it out. Maybe I will go back and add things later but for now, here it is.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hogwarts has become an interesting place lately–and that’s saying something. While the school was normally magical and exciting, the most recent event that had occurred was by far one of the most intriguing things to have happened. The Keepers who had been paintings in the Map Chamber were given human form once again. It was an odd bit of magic; no one knew how they came to life but one day they had emerged from the Map Chamber and that was that. Once they got used to the feeling, they began to use this wondrous opportunity to walk around the school, observing classes and exploring the castle and its grounds. They wanted to see how Hogwarts had changed since their time and what kind of magic was being practiced there. On their walks around the castle, every time you saw them you felt like you were being watched. You couldn’t pinpoint the source of this feeling at first as you tended to look away, but one day you happened to look at them and found that Professor Bakar was the one who had been looking at you the entire time. His sharp gaze followed you every time he saw you. You never knew what he wanted, but you knew that for whatever reason, Professor Bakar had his eyes on you.

Returning from your last class one day, you walk through an empty corridor and find the man himself waiting for you. He approaches you swiftly, cornering you before you have the chance to come up with an excuse to run or walk past him. Eyes boring into you, he places his hand on your shoulder and brings his mouth to your ear, saying in a low voice, “Meet me in the abandoned room on the sixth-floor corridor at midnight.”

The message was quick but his tone left no room for questions. He resolutely walked away from you, leaving you to confusedly walk back to your common room and prepare. Attempting to distract yourself, you focus on doing your coursework that was due and pass the time. Time passes by and soon it is pretty close to the meeting time so you begin to get ready. Your corset had been hurting you since you wore it for a long time and likely didn’t lace it properly due to laziness, so you opted not to wear it, hoping he wouldn’t be able to notice. The imminent meeting made you incredibly nervous but you left, not knowing why you were meeting the professor to begin with. You arrive at the abandoned classroom and go inside. The classroom is medium-sized and while abandoned looks practically as good as new.

“Professor Bakar? Are you here?” You look around, eyes scanning the room for him but you are unable to find him. You walk more towards the middle of the room and are about to sit down by a wall when you feel a presence behind you. Your distracted eyes move towards the presence and standing in front of you is Professor Bakar. He wears his usual unreadable expression but his eyes have a seriousness that makes you freeze up. The door closes suddenly, startling you.

“Professor Bakar, why did you call me here?” You question, getting a little nervous.

“I have a task I need you to complete, Y/N. It is of the utmost importance.”

A bit confused, you reply, “What is it? What is this task you want me to complete?”

“There have been many distractions lately, and that is unacceptable. Every time I stroll through the grounds I see this…distraction. I need to get rid of it forever. Or rather, I need to punish the one causing the distraction. I need to punish you.”

You give him a look of confusion, not comprehending what he had just said. Before you could fully come up with a response, he moves his hand and tilts your head up, making you face him. His eyes bore down upon you, filled with intent and desire. He places his lips on yours, moving them in a leisurely way. Soft lips mesh themselves with your plump lips in a way that feels timeless. You melt into the kiss, letting him control your movements. It was something so simple and yet it put you in a hypnotic trance. Your guard was lowered completely, enabling him to do what he did next.

His fingers go from your chin down to your collarbone, from there tracing downwards to your chest. Your heart pounds in your chest and you can’t believe what is happening. His finger hits the top button and he hooks it, bringing it down and unbuttoning your shirt. Your breasts are exposed as the shirt unfurls and he drinks in the sight of them. He grabs your shirt and pulls it off your shoulders, his hands touching your bare skin in a long caress before the shirt abruptly falls to the ground.

“You will do as you are told. If I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it. I do not want to repeat myself.” The glare you receive is both unnerving and so god damn hot. Fuck. I don’t know what's going on anymore but please, please just take me now sir.

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl.”

As a small treat, he grabs your breasts and toys with them, flicking his thumbs over your nipples as he massages you with his fingers. With each touch, your eyesight becomes blurry and your face becomes flushed. You wonder how he is so easily able to make you fold but the thought is thrown out as he riles up your senses even more. With each gentle touch, each grope, he pulls you further and further away from rational thought. When you are far enough, he makes his next move, certain that you would collapse under his trained hand just like a beast he’s breaking in for training.

“Remove your underwear.” You comply, letting them slide off your legs before you toss them aside.

He moves behind you and slides his hand underneath your skirt, gliding it down your body until it hits your clit. A slight pulsing begins in your nether region, not going unnoticed by your professor. He pulls you against him, keeping you there with one hand on your waist. Purposefully, he slowly traces his finger across one side of your clit, moving in a back and forth motion. His touch is as delicate and tantalizing as the persona he created for himself. While he was kind and caring on the outside, it appeared he had a hidden dark side–one that you just happened to draw out. The feeling of his finger on you elicits from you a shudder and a whimper.

His finger moves to the other side and does the same motion. You want him to insert himself into you–fingers or otherwise–but so far he refuses to. Instead, he prefers teasing you agonizingly slowly, watching as you begin to subconsciously beg for his touch. He begins rubbing circles on your clit, moving at an even, leisurely tempo. The feeling is amazing, sending soft ripples of pleasure throughout your body. Whimpers come out more freely now as you begin to buckle under his expert fingers.

His fingers jam into you with sudden force and immediately slow down as he sensually moves them around, knowing the exact spots to stop at and tease. The contradictory nature of the forces cause you to let out a mixture of a mewl and an astonished grunt as you flung your head back into his chest. Your breasts heave and your breathing becomes staggered as he pumps his fingers into you. Bucking your hips into his fingers, you submit your body to his highly experienced will and touch. One, two, three. Every time he inserts his fingers in you it's heavenly. Inserting a mixture of three fingers, he toys with you as he enters you. The effect he is having on you strengthens and he brings it to the next level.

“Outstretch your arm.” You do so, slowing your grinding down to await your orders.

“Touch yourself.”

Mute, you do as he says and put your hand through the waistband of your skirt and reach down to your clit. Once there, you begin rubbing it slowly, turning yourself on with your own fingers. It should have felt odd to be aroused by your own touch, but the thought never crossed your mind. It just felt pleasurable. In a moment you did not dream of, Bakar moves his hand to the opposite side, tending to it while you stroked the other side. A new sensation is produced at the double touch, and, following his lead, you stroke and plunge your fingers into yourself in alternating movements that compliment his. Drool pools down the side of your mouth and dribbles down your face as a result of your increased need for him. You can only get out short high-pitched whimpers, too overstimulated to do anything else. Body tightening, you cry out as you release onto both of your guys’ fingers.

Cum runs down your trembling legs, coating them with the sticky substance. The feeling of it on your thighs makes you feel so good. But it’s not enough. You needed more. You needed him in you and you wanted your body to swallow his cum.

“Professor,” You pant, “More. Give me more, please.”

Removing your skirt, he takes a long look at you. You were in the perfect condition now. Your body was loosened up and you had no control over your senses anymore. You could now be impregnated by him. This is what he had been waiting for ever since he saw you. He knew you were the one when you blessed his eyes with your perfect childbearing hips and your innocent personality. He had to have you–had to seduce you and plug your body up with his cum.

Showing his true aim, his nature changes and he becomes much more aggressive. He throws you down, making you land on your hands and knees and you grunt upon impact. Gingerly, you inspect your hands and knees. It’s definitely going to leave a mark but you don’t care. You just wanted him.

“Lie down and get on your knees.”

Shaking and in heat, you obey your senses and get into position, placing your arms on the ground and your ass in the air. Bakar’s gaze pierces you as he silently watches you, making you wait for him. Eventually he removes his pants and begins removing the rest of his clothing. You aren’t allowed to see him–to see him reveal his body–and cannot tell when he is coming to you. He feels powerful with the knowledge that only he will be able to tell when he will strike. You are at his complete mercy.

He kneels down and places himself over you in a dominant position. He grabs your hair roughly, forcing you to cry out and pushes himself into you. A surprised “Oh!” comes out of you, making you melt into the ground as he forcefully thrusts himself into you. You wanted to hold onto him as he fucked you but he had other plans. He wanted to dominate you, to control you as he got rid of his pent up desire for you. He would only stop once he was satisfied, so all you could do is lie there and take it.

You didn’t care anymore and let out loud moans every time he thrust into you. The hand holding your hair pulled with the increasing pace, creating tension from both ends. There isn’t much you can do from such a submissive position, but you try your hardest to help him go deep inside you. You grind your ass into him and try to go along with his thrusts but he just forces you down even more and makes you sit and do nothing as he takes you from behind. He was going to get what he wanted and he wouldn’t let you even make a move until he was satisfied with his control. Despite it being so forceful, you enjoyed it immensely. The feeling of his cock as he violently pushed himself into you over and over again was absolute heaven. He went deep inside you and your walls were clinging onto him for dear life.

He bends down and places alternate soft and hard kisses all across your back and finds a spot on your side, creating a hickey on it. It would become one of many markings he made on you. He liked to mark you and show everyone who you belonged to. In time, you would grow to love it as well. The onslaught continues and you can feel your body growing tighter and tighter, as if it will explode. Soon after that, your peak hits you completely and your body tells you it’s ready. You arch your back and let out,

“Oh, fuck Professor.”

Your orgasm hits and you feel a warmth as your cum leaks out onto you. You feel so satisfied and would feel complete, but there was only one problem. While you have released, Bakar has not. Not satisfied, Bakar continues his rough treatment of you in pursuit of the completion of his pleasure. Yanking your hair, he declares, “We aren’t done yet. Be a good little whore and take me like you mean it.”

“I’m sorry sir. Please, screw me as hard and as long as you like.” You groan in unconcealed delight.

You let out extraordinarily loud moans as his thrusts become very forceful and animalistic. The sheer force took away all forms of thought and communication and all that would come out were tortured, aroused moans. It honestly should have hurt you. It should have made you cry out in pain but all it did was make you throb and moan in ecstasy. You would not be able to walk after this, but this was exactly what he wanted. All of this was to make you realize what you have been doing to him. He just kept pounding into you relentlessly, only focused on pleasing himself and on how good you felt around him as he took you for all your worth.

He came into you as you had your third orgasm, by then your body had started to shake and you had fully become his whore at that point. His load was long and heavy, his seed far more potent than you realized. He had withheld his cum for this moment, unleashing his massive load into you. You moved him further into you, wanting every single part of it. The feeling of his sperm hitting you on the inside was heavenly. It felt so right, you didn’t want the feeling to end. You were his prized beast, so you wanted to make sure you took him properly. All of you belonged to him, including your cunt. Your hole wasn’t filled all the way yet and you didn’t want to stop until he used you properly.

You mewl quietly, “Fill me with every last drop. Breed me like one of your beasts until I explode.”

Bakar continued thrusting at that, increasing his speed even more and making sure his semen went deep inside you. With that comment, you agreed to be his personal whore. He would make sure you knew what exactly that meant for the rest of your life.

He kept you in there for hours afterwards, fucking you regardless of whether or not you could take it and spilling every last bit of himself into you like you had asked. You had lost track of how many orgasms you had, but you knew it was too many to count. Following every order, you lost your mind in the multitude of ways he ravaged you. He always took you rough–he liked it like that and you grew to love it and wanted to please him. Your body was full of his seed, so much so that it spilled out. Your belly swelled with his gift and you were so grateful, rubbing it and hoping you were just as fertile as he was. He wanted you to be his and his alone, so he took every last bit of his cum and shoved it into your ravaged cunt. While he did want you to have as many children as possible, what he really liked was seeing how your belly swelled with his seed every time he came in you.

The fun eventually came to an end but only for that day. From then on, Professor Bakar would visit you almost every day, roughing you up and filling you to the brim just as you begged him to. His need for you was so great that for a lot of times, he would take you in recently abandoned classrooms. The danger of being caught excited you both and quite honestly you wanted to be known as his cumslut. You never silenced yourself, rather you moaned loudly and opened yourself to him so he could fill you in the time you had before your next class. He had made you so dependent on him for pleasure and made you crave sex so much so you soon began seeking him out multiple times a day yourself. Suffice it to say, you were bred so many times by your professor that you got pregnant soon after the visits started. Pleased with your condition, he moved you into his renovated tower and from then on you lived there, being filled to your bursting point with his cum every day and giving birth to the many children he placed inside you. You had become tamed by the beastmaster, trapped forever in his tower of pleasure. And you loved it.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy x reader #san bakar #san bakar x reader #san bakar fanfic #professor bakar #Professor Bakar fanfic

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writingwithcolor · 4 years ago

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What Does Our "Motivations” PSA Mean?

@luminalalumini said:

I've been on your blog a lot and it has a lot of really insightful information, but I notice a theme with some of your answers where you ask the writer reaching out what their 'motivation for making a character a certain [race/religion/ethnicity/nationality] is' and it's discouraging to see, because it seems like you're automatically assigning the writer some sort of ulterior motive that must be sniffed out and identified before the writer can get any tips or guidance for their question. Can't the 'motive' simply be having/wanting to have diversity in one's work? Must there be an 'ulterior motive'? I can understand that there's a lot of stigma and stereotypes and bad influence that might lead to someone trynna add marginalized groups into their stories for wrong reasons, but people that have those bad intentions certainly won't be asking for advice on how to write good representation in the first place. Idk its just been something that seemed really discouraging to me to reach out myself, knowing i'll automatically be assigned ulterior motives that i don't have and will probably have to justify why i want to add diversity to my story as if i'm comitting some sort of crime. I don't expect you guys to change your blog or respond to this or even care all that much, I'm probably just ranting into a void. I'm just curious if theres any reason to this that I haven't realized exists I suppose. I don't want y'all to take this the wrong way because I do actually love and enjoy your blog's advice in spite of my dumb griping. Cheers :))

We assume this is in reference to the following PSA:

PSA to all of our users - Motivation Matters: This lack of clarity w/r to intent has been a general issue with many recent questions. Please remember that if you don’t explain your motivations and what you intend to communicate to your audience with your plot choices, character attributes, world-building etc., we cannot effectively advise you beyond the information you provide. We Are Not Mind Readers. If, when drafting these questions, you realize you can’t explain your motivations, that is likely a hint that you need to think more on the rationales for your narrative decisions. My recommendation is to read our archives and articles on similar topics for inspiration while you think. I will be attaching this PSA to all asks with similar issues until the volume of such questions declines.

We have answered this in three parts.

1. Of Paved Roads and Good Intentions

Allow me to give you a personal story, in solidarity towards your feelings:

When I began writing in South Asia as an outsider, specifically in the Kashmir and Lahore areas, I was doing it out of respect for the cultures I had grown up around. I did kathak dance, I grew up on immigrant-cooked North Indian food, my babysitters were Indian. I loved Mughal society, and every detail of learning about it just made me want more. The minute you told me fantasy could be outside of Europe, I hopped into the Mughal world with two feet. I was 13. I am now 28.

And had you asked me, as a teenager, what my motives were in giving my characters’ love interests blue or green eyes, one of them blond hair, my MC having red-tinted brown hair that was very emphasized, and a whole bunch of paler skinned people, I would have told you my motives were “to represent the diversity of the region.”

I’m sure readers of the blog will spot the really, really toxic and colourist tropes present in my choices. If you’re new here, then the summary is: giving brown people “unique” coloured eyes and hair that lines up with Eurocentric beauty standards is an orientalist trope that needs to be interrogated in your writing. And favouring pale skinned people is colourist, full stop.

Did that make me a bad person with super sneaky ulterior motives who wanted to write bad representation? No.

It made me an ignorant kid from the mostly-white suburbs who grew up with media that said brown people had to “look unique” (read: look as European as possible) to be considered valuable.

And this is where it is important to remember that motives can be pure as you want, but you were still taught all of the terrible stuff that is present in society. Which means you’re going to perpetuate it unless you stop and actually question what is under your conscious motive, and work to unlearn it. Work that will never be complete.

I know it sounds scary and judgemental (and it’s one of the reasons we allow people to ask to be anonymous, for people who are afraid). Honestly, I would’ve reacted much the same as a younger writer, had you told me I was perpetuating bad things. I was trying to do good and my motives were pure, after all! But after a few years, I realized that I had fallen short, and I had a lot more to learn in order for my motives to match my impact. Part of our job at WWC is to attempt to close that gap.

We aren’t giving judgement, when we ask questions about why you want to do certain things. We are asking you to look at the structural underpinnings of your mind and question why those traits felt natural together, and, more specifically, why those traits felt natural to give to a protagonist or other major character.

I still have blond, blue-eyed characters with sandy coloured skin. I still have green-eyed characters. Because teenage me was right, that is part of the region. But by interrogating my motive, I was able to devalue those traits within the narrative, and I stopped making those traits shorthand for “this is the person you should root for.”

It opened up room for me to be messier with my characters of colour, even the ones who my teenage self would have deemed “extra special.” Because the European-associated traits (pale hair, not-brown-eyes) stopped being special. After years of questioning, they started lining up with my motive of just being part of the diversity of the region.

Motive is important, both in the conscious and the subconscious. It’s not a judgement and it’s not assumed to be evil. It’s simply assumed to be unquestioned, so we ask that you question it and really examine your own biases.

~Mod Lesya

2. Motivations Aren't Always "Ulterior"

You can have a positive motivation or a neutral one or a negative one. Just wanting to have diversity only means your characters aren't all white and straight and cis and able-bodied -- it doesn't explain why you decided to make this specific character specifically bi and specifically Jewish (it me). Yes, sometimes it might be completely random! But it also might be "well, my crush is Costa Rican, so I gave the love interest the same background", or "I set it in X City where the predominant marginalized ethnicity is Y, so they are Y". Neither of these count as ulterior motives. But let's say for a second that you did accidentally catch yourself doing an "ulterior." Isn't that the point of the blog, to help you find those spots and clean them up?

Try thinking of it as “finding things that need adjusting” rather than “things that are bad” and it might get less scary to realize that we all do them, subconsciously. Representation that could use some work is often the product of subconscious bias, not deliberate misrepresentation, so there's every possibility that someone who wants to improve and do better didn't do it perfectly the first time.

--Shira

3. Dress-Making as a Metaphor

I want to echo Lesya’s sentiments here but also provide a more logistical perspective. If you check the rubber stamp guide here and the “Motivation matters” PSA above, you’ll notice that concerns with respect to asker motivation are for the purposes of providing the most relevant answer possible.

It is a lot like if someone walks into a dressmaker’s shop and asks for a blue dress/ suit (Back when getting custom-made clothes was more of a thing) . The seamstress/ tailor is likely to ask a wide variety of questions:

What material do you want the outfit to be made of?

Where do you plan to wear it?

What do you want to highlight?

How do you want to feel when you wear it?

Let’s say our theoretical customer is in England during the 1920s. A tartan walking dress/ flannel suit for the winter is not the same as a periwinkle, beaded, organza ensemble/ navy pinstripe for formal dress in the summer. When we ask for motivations, we are often asking for exactly that: the specific reasons for your inquiry so we may pinpoint the most pertinent information.

The consistent problem for many of the askers who receive the PSA is they haven’t even done the level of research necessary to know what they want to ask of us. It would be like if our English customer in the 1920s responded, “IDK, some kind of blue thing.” Even worse, WWC doesn’t have the luxury of the back-and-forth between a dressmaker and their clientele. If our asker doesn’t communicate all the information they need in mind at the time of submission, we can only say, “Well, I’m not sure if this is right, but here’s something. I hope it works, but if you had told us more, we could have done a more thorough job.”

Answering questions without context is hard, and asking for motivations, by which I mean the narratives, themes, character arcs and other literary devices that you are looking to incorporate, is the best way for us to help you, while also helping you to determine if your understanding of the problem will benefit from outside input. Because these asks are published with the goal of helping individuals with similar questions, the PSA also serves to prompt other users.

I note that asking questions is a skill, and we all start by asking the most basic questions (Not stupid questions, because to quote a dear professor, “There are no stupid questions.”). Unfortunately, WWC is not suited for the most basic questions. To this effect, we have a very helpful FAQ and archive as a starting point. Once you have used our website to answer the more basic questions, you are more ready to approach writing with diversity and decide when we can actually be of service. This is why we are so adamant that people read the FAQ. Yes, it helps us, but it also is there to save you time and spare you the ambiguity of not even knowing where to start.

The anxiety in your ask conveys to me a fear of being judged for asking questions. That fear is not something we can help you with, other than to wholeheartedly reassure you that we do not spend our unpaid, free time answering these questions in order to assume motives we can’t confirm or sit in judgment of our users who, as you say, are just trying to do better.

Yes, I am often frustrated when an asker’s question makes it clear they haven’t read the FAQ or archives. I’ve also been upset when uncivil commenters have indicated that my efforts and contributions are not worth their consideration. However, even the most tactless question has never made me think, “Ooh this person is such a naughty racist. Let me laugh at them for being a naughty racist. Let me shame them for being a naughty racist. Mwahaha.”

What kind of sad person has time for that?*

Racism is structural. It takes time to unlearn, especially if you’re in an environment that doesn’t facilitate that process to begin with. Our first priority is to help while also preserving our own boundaries and well-being. Though I am well aware of the levels of toxic gas-lighting and virtue signaling that can be found in various corners of online writing communities in the name of “progressivism*”, WWC is not that kind of space. This space is for discussions held in good faith: for us to understand each other better, rather than for one of us to “win” and another to “lose.”

Just as we have good faith that you are doing your best, we ask that you have faith that we are trying to do our best by you and the BIPOC communities we represent.

- Marika.

*If you are in any writing or social media circles that feed these anxieties or demonstrate these behaviors, I advise you to curtail your time with them and focus on your own growth. You will find, over time, that it is easier to think clearly when you are worrying less about trying to appease people who set the bar of approval so high just for the enjoyment of watching you jump. “Internet hygiene”, as I like to call it, begins with you and the boundaries you set with those you interact with online.

#PSAs #asker concerns #diversity #motivations in writing #writing with diversity #blog housekeeping #internet hygeine #asks #WWC

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spnhunter4life · 2 years ago

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So Long Version 2 Chapter 7

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: Reunited at last! I couldn't keep them apart forever. Will they finally admit their feelings?

Series Masterlist

Ages 21 and 23 March 3, 2002

It was a Friday afternoon and I was sitting in bed in the spare room at Bobby’s, reading a book. The curtains were open to let in the sunshine. It was a bright day, but a cold one. I would have liked to sit outside and read if it wasn’t winter and we weren’t in South Dakota.

I’d been at Bobby’s for two months now. The grumpy but fatherly hunter had taken me in with no questions and was letting me take as much time as I needed. I’d been doing what I could to keep my presence from being an extra burden for him. I made lunch and supper for him most days and pitched in on all the research he did for different hunters.

I’d also been slowly working on cleaning and organizing things a little bit, although that was mostly just to keep myself busy. I didn’t like sitting around with nothing to do. I just hadn’t quite been ready to get back into hunting yet. I was thinking I’d probably call Dean in the next couple days though. Two months was long enough. It was time for me to get back into the world.

I was just finishing my chapter, thinking I might go down to the kitchen to grab a snack and see if Bobby needed help with anything when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I called out.

The door squeaked open and Bobby peaked his head in.

“I just got a call about a car that needs to be towed. Another idjit hit a small patch of ice and ended up in the ditch. I’m heading out to take care of it. Just wanted to let you know not to worry about feeding me tonight. I’ll grab something in town,” he said. That explained why I’d heard his old truck start up ten minutes ago.

“Okay, sounds good,” I said, smiling up at him.

“You want me to bring something home for you too?” He asked.

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll make something here,” I told him.

“Alright. Call me if you change your mind,” he said. Then he left, closing the door behind him. I heard his truck pull out of the driveway a minute later.

I went back to my book, finishing the last page and a half of the chapter I was on. Once I finished, I went downstairs in search of a snack.

Banana in hand, I made my way to the living room, looking through the books and notes Bobby had piled on his desk to see if he’d made any progress on our most recent research topic. It didn’t look like he had.

There was a hunter down in Louisiana looking for a way to kill a pagan god he’d found there. The problem was, he didn’t even know which god it was yet. We’d already gone through books on Norse, Greek, and Japanese gods. I grabbed a book from his shelf about Celtic gods and started reading.

~~~~~

I was at the stove a couple hours later, browning some hamburger, when there was a knock at the door. I was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t been expecting company.

I moved the hamburger off the hot burner and on my way to the door I grabbed a pistol Bobby had left laying on the table. I held the gun behind my back in my right hand and opened the door with my left.

“Dean,” I gasped out in surprise.

“Hey sweetheart,” he smiled.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he stepped into the house and pulled me into a hug which I eagerly returned.

“I came to see how you were doing,” he said. “I haven’t heard from you much lately.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” I apologized. “I’ve just been trying to keep myself busy.” I walked back to the kitchen and returned the hamburger to the hot burner.

“I can see that,” he said, noting the much less cluttered rooms around him as he followed.

“I’m making some food if you’re hungry. It’s just tacos, nothing fancy. But Bobby’s not eating, so there will be plenty.”

“Yeah, I noticed his truck was gone,” Dean said as he made himself comfortable at the small kitchen table. “Where’s he at?”

“He had to go tow a car.”

“Speaking of cars, have you picked out which one you want yet?” He asked.

“For what?” I answered. The hamburger was just about done, so I moved to the cupboards in search of the taco seasoning.

“Well, generally they’re used for driving. You know, getting you from place to place. But if you had another use for it in mind, I’m all ears,” he teased. I huffed at the sarcastic comment. “I heard you and Bobby were talking about fixing up one of the cars out here.”

“Oh. Yeah, we have been,” I said. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

“We were talking a couple days ago and he mentioned it,” he told me. And then, after a second’s hesitation, “I assume that means you’re ready to get back into hunting?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m getting bored with sitting around all day,” I told him as I measured out the taco seasoning and water, poured them into the hamburger, and stirred it all together.

“Good,” he smiled. “Well in that case, did you have your heart set on one of the piece of crap cars out here? Or could I interest you in a ‘67 Impala?”

My heart soared at his offer. Hunting with Dean had always been the plan, but now that it was becoming a reality, I had a hard time containing my excitement. I turned the stove off and turned to face him.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “A car that old? It’s gotta have all sorts of problems.”

“It’s in perfect working condition,” he assured me.

“Isn’t that a pretty big car though?” I asked, continuing the game. “I think I’d be more comfortable driving something smaller.”

“Ah, well you’re in luck. The car comes with a chauffeur.”

“And what if something goes wrong and it breaks down?”

“The chauffeur doubles as a mechanic.”

I smiled and started pulling toppings out of the fridge and setting them on the counter.

“That sounds like an offer I can’t refuse. Go ahead and dish up,” I told him, grabbing two plates out of the cupboard.

He came to stand beside me and grabbed a plate but didn’t get any food.

“Seriously though,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You’ll come with me?”

“Of course,” I told him. “I was actually planning on calling you soon to try and make a plan about when and where to meet you.”

“Great! Because I could use a hunting partner. And there’s no one I’d rather have watching my back.” He started putting together a couple of tacos.

“You already have a hunting partner,” I pointed out.

“Not anymore. Not really,” he said, moving over to give me room to get my own food.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you and your dad still hunting together?”

“No. He’s been taking off on his own more and more since Sam left. It was getting to the point where I was lucky to see him a couple times a month. He’d find me to check in sometimes and occasionally we’d do a job together, but that was about it. So about a month ago I told him I was fine on my own. I said he should just keep doing his own thing and I’d do mine,” he explained.

“Dean. Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

He shrugged and took his full plate to the table.

“I didn’t see a point. You were going through a rough time. I didn’t want to make it worse by whining about my dad. He may be a bit of an ass, but at least he’s still alive.”

“Just because I’m going through something doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to be upset too.”

“It’s not a big deal, Jenna,” he said.

It was a big deal. But I wasn’t going to push it right now. Right now I just wanted us both to be happy. I wanted to be able to be excited about seeing Dean again and the fact that the plan was to stay together.

“Well it’s his loss,” I said, smiling at him. I finished assembling my tacos and sat at the table with him.

“Did you ever think we’d be here?” He asked.

“At Bobby’s?” I smirked.

“No, smartass,” he laughed. “Did you ever think we’d be hunting together? And everything that comes with it. You know, all the hours in the car, staying in the same place, working together… just being together every day like when we were kids?”

“Honestly? Not really. But I’m so glad that we are,” I said. “I’ve missed you so much. All I’ve really wanted since the day we were split up is to be back with you. Losing my dad was horrible and I don’t know if it’s something I’ll ever truly get over. But I can’t pretend I’m not grateful that we’re able to be together again.”

“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “It’s a relief to know I don’t have to leave you again in a few days.”

Not having much more to say on the subject, we sat in comfortable silence while we ate.

We were putting the food away when the door opened, letting in a burst of cold winter air followed by Bobby.

“Oh good, you made it,” he said when he saw Dean. “I’m glad to know there are still people out there who are capable of driving in a little snow.”

“What do you mean, he made it? You knew he was coming?”

“‘Course I knew. When I told him a couple days ago you were looking to start getting back into things, he said he was on his way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” I exclaimed.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” he said innocently. I scoffed. “Anyway, why don’t you let me finish cleaning up while you head upstairs and pack.”

“You’re kicking me out?” I joked.

“As a matter of fact, I am. Oh, don’t give me that look,” he said when Dean and I both looked at him in shock. “You know you’re welcome to stay whenever you need, but what you need now is to get out of here and go hunt something. So get packing. You’ve got an early morning ahead of you.”

“I do? I asked at the same time Dean asked, “Don’t you think we should actually find something to hunt before we just take off driving aimlessly?”

“I caught wind of what sounds like a wendigo a few hours over the Minnesota border. I’m sending my two closest hunters to check it out,” Bobby said.

“A wendigo,” I said exhaling loudly. I hated those things. “Great. I’ll get packing.”

~~~~~

At 6 o’clock the next morning I said goodbye to Bobby as Dean packed the car. He and Bobby had already said their goodbyes.

“Thanks for everything,” I said as I gave him a hug.

“It’s what you do for family,” he told me. “I was happy to help. And truth be told, glad for the company.”

Dean honked once, letting me know he was ready to go.

“If you’re ever wanting more company, just give me a call. We’ll stop by,” I said. He smiled.

“You and Dean take care of each other,” he ordered.

“We will,” I told him. Then I stepped out the door and walked to the car where Dean was waiting for me.

Ages 22 and 24 April 16, 2003

The bar we were at was getting crowded as happy hour hit its peak and patrons steadily trickled in. The large room was filled with the drone of many voices and the clinking of glasses and bottles. The table I was sitting at was slightly sticky from drinks spilled earlier in the night.

Dean and I were in Nebraska. We had just finished a hunt with Eric and Penny, two friends Dean had made in the years we were separated, and the four of us were celebrating the win. Or at least, we were supposed to be.

Dean was chatting up the blonde that had walked in the door fifteen minutes ago. She was wearing a skin tight tank top that showed off her ample curves and a pair of what might have been the shortest shorts I’d ever seen. It hadn’t taken him long to notice her at the bar and immediately announce that he was going to get refills.

“So, um,” I started, clearing my throat a little as I turned my eyes away from the bar and back to our table. “How did you two meet?” I asked.

The two hunters were happily engaged soulmates. I hadn’t really had time to get to know them that well while we were working, so I was trying to remedy that now.

“I met Eric for the first time while he was working a case,” Penny said.

“And you were working the same job?” I guessed. It didn’t happen a lot, but as had been the case with mine and Dean’s dads, sometimes hunters ended up working the same case by coincidence.

“No, actually I was the case,” she said.

“You were? What happened?” I asked, confused. I knew she was human. So how could she have been so caught up in something that Eric came after her?

“There was this ghost,” Eric continued, picking up her story. “A real nasty one. It was actually possessing people. By the time I got to town it was riding around in this beautiful thing,” he said, smiling at his fiancee.

“He saved your life,” I said with a smile.

“He did,” she confirmed. “After that, learning what kinds of things are out there, I couldn’t go back to normal. I had no one and nothing I needed to stick around for. And we realized pretty quickly that we were soulmates. So I’ve been with him ever since.”

“That’s really great. You guys are lucky,” I told them just as I heard Dean’s loud laugh coming from the bar. I turned to look at him. He and blondie were sitting close to each other. She had her hand resting on his bicep and he had what I considered his flirty bedroom eyes out in full force.

“How did you get started hunting Eric?” I asked, frowning a little as I turned back to them.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he told me.

“I’m not worried about it. I was just curious. Although, I realize I probably shouldn’t have asked. That’s usually not a happy story. Sorry, I’m not really used to meeting other hunters,” I rambled, hoping I hadn’t offended him.

“No, not that. I’ll tell you about it if you want. It’s really not an exciting story. What I meant was, I wouldn’t worry about Dean,” he said.

“Dean?” I asked, feigning ignorance as I felt my cheeks flush slightly at my lack of subtlety. Thankfully the lighting was poor enough that it wouldn’t be noticeable. “I’m not worried about him either. Just wondering when he’s going to actually bring our drinks back.”

They shared a quick look. Penny put her arms on the table, leaning closer to me, causing the arm Eric had slung around her shoulders to fall away.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “What do you see when you look over there?” She asked, nodding her head in Dean’s direction.

“I see–” I started.

“No. Look at him and tell me what you see,” she instructed.

We stared each other down for a while, me looking for an explanation, her daring me to do what she said. Finally I sighed and gave in. Turning around, I looked at Dean again. It was exactly what I expected to see.

“I see Dean. Flirting with a girl. Not bringing us the drinks he promised,” I deadpanned.

“You want to know what I see?” She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “I see him putting on a show.”

“What are you talking about?” I questioned.

“We may not know Dean as well as you, but we know him well enough,” Eric said. “I’ve seen him pick up girls before. This is different.”

“How so?” I asked, so curious to figure out what they meant that I forgot I was supposed to be pretending not to care.

“I don’t have a good way to explain it to you. But there’s a difference. He’s flirting, sure, but there’s no real intent behind it. It’s like he’s not trying to pick her up, he’s just going through the motions,” he explained.

“Then why has he spent the last 20 minutes with her?” I asked pointedly, turning back around in my seat.

“Why do you know how long it’s been?” Eric countered.

I didn’t have a good answer to that. Thankfully Penny jumped in.

“Let me ask you something else,” she said. “How long have you guys been hunting together?”

“Just the two of us?” I asked. She nodded. “Uh… a little over a year.” I answered.

“And in that time, has he ever gone home with anyone? Even once?”

I thought about it. He hadn’t brought anyone home. Since we always shared a room, I would have been very aware of that. I would have noticed if he didn’t come home one night too. And I couldn’t remember him ever not being around. I would remember if he had. I would have either been worried because I didn’t know where he was or annoyed because I did know where he was.

“No, I guess not,” I said, surprised at the realization.

“Something to think about,” she said.

“Oh good, you didn’t forget about us,” Eric teased Dean when he brought our drinks just a few seconds later.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Dean asked as he set our beers down. “I was just asked to deliver some drinks.”

“Whatever,” Eric said. “Did you get her number?”

“Nah. Not really my type,” Dean replied.

Someone nudged my foot under the table. I looked up to see Penny looking at me with a small smile. Think about it, she mouthed at me.

So I did. I thought back on the year I’d spent with Dean. I remembered how many girls he could have been with, but hadn’t. It made me happier than I wanted to admit. But what was the reason for it? Why was Dean – ladies man, impulsive flirt, and best looking guy in any given room – going home alone every night? I couldn’t come up with an explanation, so I let it go and just enjoyed the rest of the night.

Chapter 8

#supernatural #fanfiction #dean winchester #original female character #bobby singer #original characters #soulmates #soulmate!au #dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester x soulmate!ofc #so long v2

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scuttling · 4 years ago

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Lavender

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 9,244 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad's Best Friend Friend From Work Hotch, Me turning a naughty, smutty story into something way more aka my specialty, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Semi-public sex, Office sex Summary: You absolutely dread going home for vacation, to your sickeningly cheery childhood bedroom and opinionated parents, but meeting your dad's friend from work at a stuffy cocktail party has the potential to make this a vacation you'll never forget.*Requested by anon, severely altered by me 😅 Link to A03 or read below! Most people would jump at the chance for an unexpected two week vacation, but you are not most people. When your boss emailed you to inform you that there had been some kind of glitch in HR’s system and you actually had two weeks of paid vacation that were set to expire, your anxiety had kicked into high gear. There isn’t enough time to coordinate travel with any of your friends, too short notice, and you’re kind of afraid to travel alone, though you’d never admit it, so that’s out.

There’s always the prospect of hanging out at home, catching up on all the shows you started but never had time to finish, doing things you’re always too busy for, like cooking and cleaning out your closet and going to the animal shelter to pet the dogs and cats.

Unfortunately, those dreams are crushed when you accidentally let slip during a call to your parents that you have the time off, and they literally insist you come home, will not let you get off the phone without confirming your plans.

You only live about an hour away from them, but for one reason or another, you rarely visit.

The minute you step into your childhood home, you’re reminded of why you rarely visit.

“There’s my little do-gooder!” Your dad is all but waiting at the door when you arrive, pulls you into a hug despite the fact that your hands are full of luggage. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, acting like it's possible something has changed about you since you had lunch together a month ago in DC. “Oh, you’ve got that serious lawyer hairstyle now,” he remarks with a chuckle, even though your hair is styled the same way it was at that lunch. He might not mean it to come out this way, but it sounds condescending.

“That would be appropriate, considering I am a lawyer,” you remark, trying to keep the snark out of your tone. You know he always means well. “You look good.” He takes his hands off of you and puts them on his stomach.

“Your mom has me on some kind of greens and beans diet, says it will help me live longer.” You smile, a little awkward, not sure what to say about that—your dad is typically the meat and potatoes type, so you figure some variety can’t hurt, but if you say that you’ll never hear the end of it, and you’ve already got a headache.

“Where is mom, anyway?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, and your dad clues in, takes it from you and starts walking up the staircase.

“Oh, she’s at the gym, then taking care of some last minute things for the party.” You pause at the base of the stairs, sigh softly.

“Party?” You weren’t told about any party. Your dad keeps walking, and you’re forced to follow.

“Yeah, nothing major, just some people from the office and their spouses coming over for drinks tonight. Maybe some of their kids,” he adds innocently, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.

By kids, he means sons: eligible sons to try to set you up with. You wouldn’t mind being in a room full of hot, single men vying for your attention any other time—in fact, it’s been a little while, and your most recent hookup was lackluster, so you’re a bit more tightly wound than usual—but the kinds of men your parents bring around aren’t your type at all. You’re career driven yourself, but all they want to talk about is how they plan to be the youngest partner at their firm, or the clubs they can get into, or worst of all, money. Your potentially somewhat relaxing vacation just went to shit in no time at all.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I think mom got you a dress, honey. Check your closet after you get unpacked.” He pushes the door to your former bedroom open, and you’re assaulted by the color lavender; somehow you’d actually forgotten how purple it is. “You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” He sets your bag on the bed—oh god, the frilly purple comforter, you may have actually repressed that memory—and you drop your other luggage there too. “I’ll give you some time to get settled in, maybe order some lunch for us? Vesuvios?”

As irritated as you are about the party, it’s sweet that he remembers your favorite restaurant. You went there for dinner after you graduated from high school, college, and law school, so there are lots of great memories associated with the place.

“Do they adhere to the greens and beans diet?” you ask with a grin, and he puts his finger up to his lips to silence you.

“What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?” You shake your head fondly, and he slips out of your room and leaves you to it.

You start unloading your clothes into the empty dresser, hanging them in the closet that holds things like your prom dresses, graduation gowns, old cheerleading and volleyball uniforms. Every touch of silky fabric is a memory, and at this point in your life most of them are good, even if they weren’t at the time. It’s kind of nice to remember where you came from, when where you are now can be so hectic, so fast-paced you don’t see the forest for the trees.

Feeling nostalgic, you walk over to your desk, where you spent so much time with your face crammed into textbooks it’s not even funny, and flip through your old stationary set—what teenager had her own stationery? You were a total nerd—and photos you’d taken off the mirror but left sitting in a pile to be packed away eventually.

You snap out of the past after that, finish putting your toiletries away, setting up your laptop and chargers where you want them, then shove your empty suitcases in the closet and grab your phone to head downstairs.

You meet up with your dad in the kitchen, where he is opening steaming takeout containers full of Italian food. You grab some plates from the overhead cabinet and lean against the counter, look over the offerings to decide what you’ll have.

“So how are things at the ACLU?” he asks with a bit of a teasing tone. You’re well aware of the fact that he thinks you could be doing more—translation: making more—in private practice, or working for the government like he does, but neither of those things interest you and he is well aware of that.

“They’re really good, actually. We’re working on a disability rights case now that will probably make national news if we win.” It’s been forever since you had penne arrabbiata, since it’s not very easy to eat at your desk without running the risk of staining your blouse with spicy red sauce, so you load up your plate with it, add wilted spinach for color, a piece of garlic bread because it’s garlic bread. You lick your thumb, and your dad points a finger in your direction in that way that means he’s about to give you life advice.

“When you win; if you’re not confident about your capabilities, no one else will be.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly, nod, because that’s a pro tip you’ve heard time and time again. “If you came to work at the bureau, you’d win more of your cases; Constitutional law isn’t easy.” He says that like you don’t already know, like you haven’t been working in your current department for more than a year. You sigh.

“I’m not really the bureau type, dad.” You take your plate over to the breakfast table, sit down and start to pick at your food. Arguing about your chosen career path is enough to make you lose your appetite, even for your favorite dish. Your dad follows, sits across from you.

“You’re so smart, honey, you could be if you wanted to.” He takes a bite of fettuccine alfredo, points his fork at you. “Hey, maybe you could talk to Jim from the Office of General Counsel tonight—or maybe Aaron. You’d be really interested in the work his team does.”

“Who’s Aaron again?” You don’t recognize the name, so he’s probably not one of the attorneys on your dad’s team, but he works closely with so many departments you might have heard it before and missed it.

“Friend from work. He’s the unit chief at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’re criminal psychologists or something. Profilers,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s what they call them. They get into criminals’ heads, analyze them and interrogate them. I know you minored in psychology, I bet he could get you an internship.” You laugh at that, because he always gives you advice about furthering your career, but that’s a step backward for you and he can't be so dense not to realize it.

“An internship? I’m a little old for that, don't you think? Not to mention I have a job that I love.” You stab at your food, more than a little agitated by the current conversation.

“Never too late to get your foot in the door, sweetie. It’d be great to see you more, that’s all I’m saying,” he adds, ending on a gentler note, and you sigh. Your mom does it too, but your dad is an expert into guilting you into doing what he thinks is best. Unfortunately, you’ve never handled guilt very well.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, if it means that much to you,” you promise, and you both smile and make easy small talk for the rest of the meal. The dress your mom bought for you for the party is a black, sleeveless, designer cocktail dress, something more form fitting than you would normally wear—she is evidently trying very hard to find you an eligible bachelor tonight. You pair it with your favorite jewelry, simple heels, and when you head downstairs your mom acts like it’s prom night all over again.

“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful!” She puts her hands on your arms, spins you around. “You’re looking too thin—must be eating a lot of salads on that paralegal salary,” she throws over her shoulder to your dad, and they both laugh. You wish life were a documentary so there was a camera you could look into with an unimpressed expression.

“I’m a staff attorney actually. Fully accredited,” you add, but it’s no use. If you don’t follow in your dad’s footsteps, you will always be seen as living beneath your potential, and therefore always the butt of these types of jokes.

You love them, really, and you know they love you, but they are not the most supportive pair by a long shot. They made sure you got into a great college, let you follow your law school dreams—and you’re grateful, won’t deny their money is a privilege so many other people in your position do not possess—but that was only because those were their dreams as well. As soon as you told them about taking the position at the ACLU, it was like the tables were turned, and instead of your accomplishments, all they saw was wasted potential.

It’s enough to keep you away most of the time, which sucks, but it is what it is. It’s easier to love them from afar, so that’s what you do.

At the party, you shake hands, talk about the weather, introduce yourself to so many middle aged white guys and their sons that their faces all start to blur together. After half an hour you excuse yourself, head to the bar for a drink, and come to stand next to a middle aged white guy you have not introduced yourself to—this one, you’d have remembered, because he is tall, broad, serious looking, and very handsome.

If you were a dog, he’d have your ears perking up, no doubt about that. Instead, your heart just races a little.

“I have to say, these FBI parties are even less fun than I thought they’d be,” you comment as you wait for your drink. The man lifts the corner of his mouth in a slight smile.

“Get a bunch of men who are past their prime in one room, and all you hear about are the glory days. Can’t get a word in edgewise.” The bartender hands you your glass, and you turn to fully face the stranger.

“Why aren’t you talking about your glory days?” You immediately kind of want to slap yourself. Your social skills have been exhausted tonight, apparently. “I’m sorry, that was rude; I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re… past your prime.” You give him a brief once over, because he deserves it, is even more gorgeous up close than you’d initially assessed; he chuckles softly, sips on his own drink.

“It wasn’t rude, it was… shrewd.” His own gaze lingers on your face, maybe the neckline of your dress, just a little. “Your father’s really happy you’re here, wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Yeah, he's one of the most ambitious people I know; he gets an idea in his head and won’t rest until he’s seen it through.” It’s a quality that sounds good on paper, but when it’s constantly being applied to your life, it’s more tiring than anything. “Right now he’s trying to get me to bully one of these poor guys into giving me an internship, as if I’m not twenty-nine years old with a career of my own.” He wets his lips, laughs again.

“I think I’m the poor guy—Aaron Hotchner. I’m the unit chief overseeing the BAU.” Wow, 0 for 2. This guy’s got to think you’re a complete idiot. He extends a hand and you shake it firmly, melt a little because his palm is so broad, his fingers so thick.

“Right, I’m so sorry. Feel free to tell me right now that I’m not the right fit, and I’ll slink off and hide in a corner somewhere for the rest of the night.”

“No need for that. You strike me as someone who would be a great fit for my team, if that was something you actually wanted.”

You aren’t looking for a career change in the slightest, but you can’t deny it would be tempting to report to this man every day.

“It’s not that I’m not curious about what you do; my dad told me a little, and it sounds really intriguing. I just have a lot on my plate right now. If the offer had come up before I started my current job, I would be all over it.” You smile, shrug. “Unless you could have me intern for the next two weeks I’ll be on vacation, I’ll have to politely decline the offer you haven't actually made me.” You smile, and so does he.

“Now who’s ambitious?” he asks with a raised eyebrow; the way he says it, like he finds it charming, makes your face heat a little. You’ve never connected like this at one of your dad’s FBI events, and even though there’s no way it ends well—if anything even starts—you feel the need to see how far you can go. Even if it’s just a little flirting. Even if it’s just tonight.

“Have you ever been here before tonight?” you ask after a beat. You take a sip of your drink, and he mirrors you. You lean in a little closer.

“Once, briefly. I didn’t get a grand tour, or anything.” You smile—bingo—and reach out to place a hand on his arm.

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you one, if you like. Usually my dad is all about it, but he looks occupied.” You both glance across the room at where he is in the middle of a group of men—still discussing their glory days, no doubt—and Aaron looks at you again, nods.

“Sure, I’d love one.” You show him around downstairs, the backyard, the garage—he doesn’t seem to care about the cars at all—and then go upstairs, show him guest rooms, the master bath your mother recently remodeled; he gets a little closer as you go, and you smile more, flirt a bit. You stop outside the door to your room, block it with your body while you talk about the art hanging in the hall; he’s very good at reading your body language, apparently, because he leans closer to you, puts his hand on the doorknob next to your hip.

“What’s this room?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you put your arm over his.

“Oh, no, we’re not going in there. That’s my old bedroom.” He smiles, and you grimace.

“You mean the room I most want to see now? Come on.” He turns the knob, hears it click, and you cover your face with your hand, sigh.

“This is going to be really embarrassing. It’s exactly the way it looked when I went to college, and that was over ten years ago.” You push the door open with your hand, walk in and flick on the light. Aaron follows, chuckles.

“It’s... purple. Cute.” He makes toward the bed, touches one of the frills on the comforter with his big, broad hand. The juxtaposition of your innocent lavender bedding being stroked by the fingers you can’t stop staring at is a very interesting one.

“No, it’s not cute, it’s horrifying,” you say, and when he walks toward the open closet, you begin to regret this little tour. He pulls out your prom dress, your cheerleading uniform.

“Cheerleader, huh? You don’t seem the type.” He looks over at you, and you push it back into the closet, lead him away from it with your hands on his arms.

“I’m not. It was important to my mom.” The two of you are by your dresser now, and he leans in to look in the mirror, at you standing behind him and not his own reflection.

“I see. Do you always put other people's needs before your own?” You sidle up next to him, and he turns to face you.

“This is what you do, right? You… deduce for a living? Like Sherlock?” That makes him laugh, which in turn makes you smile.

“It’s called profiling, but that’s accurate enough.” You feel a challenge brewing inside you, take a step closer to him.

“Okay… What can you tell me about myself by looking around the room? Remember, this stuff is from ten years ago; a lot could have changed.” He crosses his arms, nods.

“You’re right, but your core values wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he walks around the room, taking things in, touching things, looking back at you briefly and then rifling through parts of your past. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I think your father wants you to work at the bureau, and you don’t want to because you’ve always felt like you’d live in his shadow if you followed the same career path. You want to blaze your own trail, do what fulfills you, not let his last name be what moves you up the ladder.”

That’s all scarily true, so you nod, cross your arms, lean your butt against your desk.

“I think you’re afraid of commitment because you don’t think any relationship you’re in will ever measure up to what your parents have.” That stings a little, but he’s not wrong. He points to a flyer stuck to a cork board, something about a charity project you’d worked on that revolved around recycling. “Environmentally conscious: I bet you drive a hybrid, and if your dad bought it for you, it’s a... BMW.”

He glances back, and you encourage him to go on. He points to a copy of your Georgetown diploma hanging on the wall, then picks up a cheerleading trophy on your dresser.

“You were a cheerleader to please your mom, went to Georgetown to please your dad, excelled at both; you’re an only child, so you felt you couldn’t let them down. My question is,” he says, looking up at you curiously, “what pleases you?” The words make your heart beat fast; you lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Not much.” He comes closer, arms crossed again.

“Why?” God, that’s a loaded question for a Friday night, for the first day of your vacation. You absently wonder if he’s going to bill you for this impromptu therapy session.

“I find it difficult to ask for what I want,” you ultimately say, and he moves even closer. His stare is probing, and you speculate that he may have been a lawyer before the FBI. The look on his face is the same one you’ve seen in many courtrooms over your short career.

“Of course you do. You’ve never done it before. You've spent your whole life asking other people what they want from you.”

You feel very seen, and you kind of hate it, but you also kind of like it—that he’s able to dissect you like this is a huge turn on. What that says about you, you’re not entirely sure; maybe that you enjoy being seen for who you are—for all that you are—instead of who you know, or who you could have been, for a change.

“I think you didn’t lose your virginity until college—your second year.” It feels like bringing that up is a bold move for him; he doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. “I would guess you got drunk for the first time around then, too. Your first year you were trying to navigate the feeling of not being under anyone’s thumb anymore; your second year, you finally felt like your own woman, you wanted to try new things, but it made you feel out of control and you don’t like that. Even now you only drink socially, never to get drunk.” He is directly in front of you now, and he reaches out a hand, brushes it over your cheek. “I also think you gravitate toward men you find inappropriate and unattainable so you don’t have to worry about being the reason your relationships fail.”

He looks into your eyes with a questioning gaze. It’s a painfully accurate take, but he softens the blow with the gentle touch.

“Wow, you’re kind of an asshole,” you breathe, but you smile, and he laughs low.

“Maybe. But am I wrong?” You nod your head, and his face falls a little, so you narrow your eyes to mess with him a bit.

“Only about one thing: I actually drive a Kia hybrid. And I bought it myself, for your information.” He smiles, and you press your hands against his chest; it’s crazy how quickly he drops back into the serious expression you first saw him wearing by the bar. “Are you unattainable and inappropriate?”

“I work with your father; we’re the same age. We play golf together sometimes.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, doesn’t back away or remove your hands. You slide them down his body, over his stomach, stop at his belt, and he looks the way you feel: tightly wound, aroused, a little breathless.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Aaron. May I do some profiling of my own?” You look up at him, curious, and he nods.

“Be my guest,” he murmurs, and you lean back. You rake your eyes over his body slowly—there’s no mistaking your appraisal for what it is. “No ring on your finger, but there’s no way you haven’t been married before. My guess is you’re divorced, and it wasn’t your idea.” You look up at his face, smile softly. “Sorry. You weren’t exactly pulling punches either.” He huffs a laugh.

“You’re right: I wasn’t pulling punches. You’re right about the divorce, too. Go on.” You nod, hum.

“Okay. You have a strong moral compass; you always do what’s right, even when it’s difficult. It’s what makes you such a great leader for your team. You like to go by the book, you’re a Fed through and through—but when it comes down to the bureau or the people you care about, you’ll fight the establishment with all you have. You aren’t a blind believer in the government; you have your criticisms, and you aren’t shy about voicing them.”

“Unlike your father,” he says, and you sigh. “You don’t have an appreciation for his work.”

“No, I really don’t.” Your dad specializes in Freedom of Information Act litigation—he does his best to keep the FBI from actually living up to its commitment to be transparent with the American people, and it doesn’t sit right with you, never has. You may both be attorneys, but you could not be more different if you tried. “But I’m profiling you, remember?”

“Right. Please continue.”

“This might be going out on a limb, but I think you went to law school. The way you speak, and the way you looked at me earlier? It was a little like cross-examination. Am I right about that?” His answering smile actually looks pleased.

“You are. I was a prosecutor for a number of years before joining the FBI. I think it’s something you don’t ever really lose.”

“For better or worse,” you say with a smile of your own. Happy with your assessment, you move a little closer again. “One more thing. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would normally let a woman take you into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing her. Childhood or otherwise.” You smooth your hands down either side of his tie, over his firm chest and solid midsection. “Maybe you saw something in me you liked?”

“I was... dreading coming here tonight.” He brings his hands up to cover yours, but doesn’t pull them away, just holds them. “If you’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to them all—no offense to your father—and I was contemplating a good excuse to leave early, if I’m being honest. Then you showed up at my side—my friend’s mysterious daughter that I’ve heard so much about—and you’re funny, and charming. Insightful. Vulnerable.” He squeezes your hands, presses them closer to his chest. “Beautiful. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at someone and felt an instant connection. Do you feel it?” His voice is just above a whisper, and you nod lightly.

You aren’t the type of woman to take a man into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing him, childhood or otherwise, but he makes you want so badly you’re almost ravenous—you’ve felt this way before, maybe twice in your life, but neither of those experiences ended with you getting what you wanted. You really hope this time might be different.

“Kiss me?” He takes a breath and then presses his lips together.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But will you?” After a beat, he does, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, moving his hands to your face as he deepens it.

It’s not a hard kiss, but rough around the edges, your noses pressed together, mouths seeking contact even as you pull apart for breath. He kisses like he needs it, tastes like bourbon, feels like heaven; it’s steamy, wet, makes your chest heave and your pussy throb. When he walks you backward, gently presses your body against your desk, you hop up onto it easily and pull him closer, between your spread knees.

“Aaron,” you sigh over his lips, and his hands move to your thighs, pushing up your dress so he can get closer to you. You glide your fingers through his hair, plant a hand on the desk, then feel something tip over, hear the soft sound of paper sliding over the edge.

Aaron looks down, picks up a lavender envelope; he holds it up with a question in his eye and an enamored look on his face.

“‘From the desk of…’ You had personalized stationery at eighteen?” His mouth is a little red from the kiss still, and he’s teasing you, perfect; you smile, can’t believe this is happening.

“I liked to write to my congressman… and Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” you pant. He chuckles, kisses you a little softer than before, then moves down your throat, sweeps his tongue over your pulse. “Mmm. Right there.”

He pauses to look up at you, hair mussed from your fingers, and you push his jacket off his shoulders; he shifts to full height, helps you take it off, and you drape it over your desk chair, work the knot of his tie loose.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, freeing his buttons. You unclasp his belt, open his pants, and stretch up for a kiss, touching his face; you nod when you pull back.

“Absolutely. Are you?” He nods too, all serious eyebrows you want to kiss, mouth you want back on yours, on your throat, anywhere.

“Absolutely.” You step down off the desk, run your hands over his arms, then kick off your shoes and walk over to the door, close and lock it; when you pass him again, you guide him to the bed and sit in his lap, clutch at his shoulders and kiss him with as much desperation as he showed you before. There’s a lot of heavy breathing, sighing, moans from you both, and if just kissing is this good, you can’t imagine what he’ll be like inside of you.

When you can find it in yourself to stop kissing him, you pull back and climb out of his lap, present the back of your dress so he can ease down the zipper. He pushes it off, large, warm hands gliding over your body until it hits the floor in a heap unbecoming of the designer label. Your mother would lose her mind.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Aaron says as he moves his hands to your hips, sliding your panties down and leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. You sigh, press a hand to the back of his head while his mouth explores you where you’re soft and sensitive. You’d like it lower, but there may not be time for that tonight. “What do you want with an old man like me?”

“None of that.” You sweep your hands over his shoulders, sink down onto his lap again, and his hands fall to your bare hips, squeezing you softly; you close your eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed by just the simplest touch. “Like you said: I feel a connection.” Your fingers move to push his shirt open, to lift his undershirt so you can get your hands on bare skin and soft body and hair. He groans, and you kiss him, deep and slow, hands moving to take off both shirts and add them to his jacket on your chair. You take a deep breath, reach out to touch his cheek. “Connect with me.”

He takes your hand, brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, then drags it down so your fingers slide over his lips; you swallow hard, can feel wetness pooling between your legs, so you slide off of him and onto the bed—however sexy it may be to leave your mark on him, you do both have to return to the party at some point.

Sitting up beside him, you touch his body, ease his pants and boxers down; he takes them off along with his shoes, and you pull the comforter out from under you, push it to the side, let yourself lay back and bask in the look and feel of him as he settles between your knees, leans in for a kiss.

It’s even more intense than before, somehow, his thighs against yours, strong arms supporting him, and you drag your nails lightly up his body, tip your head back and sigh when his lips trail from the base of your throat to your jaw.

He moves a hand low, rubs his fingers between your lips and presses one finger inside you, slowly glides it in and out so you’re moaning, sighing his name.

“That feels so good,” you breathe, and he moves his mouth to yours again, soft and wet, the slide of his tongue sinfully delicious. He adds a second finger, earns more gasping moans, then a third; with the help of a capable thumb stroking over your clit, you come, and he kisses the praise right out of your mouth and then pushes inside you.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours, keeps you close as he thrusts inside, gradually lowering his weight onto you until you feel him everywhere: chest soft against yours, stomachs pressing together as you both work your hips, as your hands grasp his back to keep him close, heavy. Connected.

“You’re perfect. You feel incredible, baby,” he speaks against your lips in a rare moment apart, and you hitch your knees up higher, press the heels of your feet against his ass.

You thought he looked turned on before, but now he looks like he’s being consumed by it, like he wants to thrust deeper into you, make a home in your body and never leave; you would be more than okay with that, to spend the next two weeks beneath him, holding him close, sharing breath and sweat and pleasure so complete it changes you profoundly.

He moves a hand behind your head, cradles it, and sucks wet kisses against your throat—nothing so deep as to leave a mark, but that doesn’t mean you’re not panting, whimpering, begging for more.

“Aaron. Hmm, oh. You’re so gorgeous, I—everything about you.” He pulls away from your neck, peers down at you, and you’re sure you’re a sight to behold in your desperation; your palms smooth down his back, to his sides, and you hug him close, squeeze him hard when he comes, panting your name against your throat and pumping roughly inside.

You meet his every thrust, dig your nails into his hips, and he leans forward, covers your mouth with his and grinds against you until your second blissful orgasm shudders through your limbs. You clench tight around him, moan, then slowly sag back against the mattress, more thoroughly satisfied than you’ve ever been in your life.

He shifts, half on top of you and half off, his kisses gradually slowing, his hands sweeping over your shoulders, your face, your arms. When you’re calm, content, you sigh, kiss his hands and cheeks and lips; you’re warm, and you curl around him, overheated skin on skin, and never want to leave.

“Mmm,” he rumbles against your shoulder, mouthing at it, and you sigh, scrape your nails through his hair.

“Mm hmm. Think I can die happy now,” you murmur, and he shifts up to look at you, a smile curving softly from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die on me, now.” You smile too, scoot closer for slow kisses. You’re both happy to lay there, quietly kissing, but eventually it’s clear you need to return to the party in order to avoid suspicion—not that you think anyone would ever guess what just occurred.

You dress side by side, turning to have him fix your zipper, reaching up to help him with his tie. When you’re both technically decent enough to head downstairs, you plan to give him a head start, but the two of you get caught up in one more deeply sensual kiss that almost makes you want to just say screw it and take his clothes off again. He can tell, has the barest hint of a smirk on his face when the kiss breaks, and he punctuates it with a soft press of lips before walking out the door.

With your spare few minutes, you look around the room—and at your rumpled, frilly, lavender bed, on which you just had super hot sex with one of your dad’s friends, it’s still kind of sinking in—and wonder what the rest of your vacation could possibly bring that could top this night. At breakfast the next morning, you find out.

You and your parents are discussing the party, who got too drunk to function, who left with the wrong wife, which of your dad’s friend’s sons you got along with most, and then he drops the bomb on you.

“And see, honey, I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial.” You choke on a bite of scrambled eggs, try to wash it down with a sip of juice; your mom pats you on the back until the moment passes.

“What?” you ask, voice barely a squeak. You clear your throat and try again. “What about Aaron, dad?” He flips the newspaper he’s holding to the next page and peers over it at you.

“I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial. Before he left last night, he told me all about the internship—it’s nice of him to set it up for the two weeks you’re here, so you can get some experience under your belt.” You briefly think about your experience under Aaron’s belt, but it’s really not the time.

He really set you up with an internship—one he knows you aren’t interested in—based on the offhand comment you’d made about squeezing it into your two week vacation. You’d be kind of irritated at him for making the plans on your behalf, but if it means the next two weeks are anything like last night, he’s going to make it well worth your while.

The internship excites both of your parents, and your mom declares it a girls day, takes you out for some new clothes, since you didn’t bring any workwear, for a manicure and pedicure and then drinks. She talks about what a great opportunity this will be for you, and you don’t have the heart—or maybe you just don’t care anymore—to argue about what great opportunities you’ve already made possible for yourself.

Sunday is for relaxing, and not internally panicking about seeing Aaron again. Friday night was incredible, but you didn’t think it would turn into anything, considering he is your dad’s friend, and you’re only here for a couple weeks.

You have to hand it to him, though: if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, and this internship is his way of getting to spend more time with you, he has managed to do what you haven’t been able for twenty-nine years—find a way to please your parents while finally pleasing yourself. Monday morning, you show up at the BAU office to receive a photo ID badge and fill out some paperwork. You don’t actually get to meet anyone from the BAU until after lunch, and when you do, Aaron is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, I’m looking for Unit Chief Hotchner?” you say to a fair-skinned woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile. “I’m interning for the next couple weeks.” There is a man with her, Black, tall, bald, with very expressive eyebrows; the eyebrows don’t look like they think very highly of you.

“You’re an intern? A little old, aren’t you?” After a beat, his face breaks into a smile, and you roll your eyes, huff a laugh.

“Charmer. Yes, I’m definitely too old to be an intern; do you have overbearing parents by chance?” He raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back.

“No, but enough said.” The blonde woman laughs, and he nods in your direction. “I’m Derek Morgan, this is JJ Jareau. Come with me, I’ll take you to Hotch.”

You thank him, follow as he leads you across the room and up some stairs.

“So what’s he like, Agent Hotchner?” you ask, wanting someone else’s opinion of Aaron as a boss, a coworker—anything other than the one night stand that wasn’t. You really know so little about him.

“He’s a good guy; smart, fair, great at what he does. A little tightly wound; could stand to live a little.” He looks back at you with a grin. “He’ll probably remind you a little of your dad.”

God. It almost makes you throw up in your mouth a little.

“You know, I doubt it, but thanks for the warning.” He knocks on a closed door at the end of the hall, and a moment later, Aaron answers it. His expression doesn’t change as Derek introduces you, and when he walks away with a friendly pat on your shoulder, Aaron gestures you in. He closes the door behind you and looks carefully over your face.

“Hi,” he says, and you see that hint of a smirk on his face again. You take a moment to appraise the room—there’s a window with blinds that are closed, a desk and chairs, bookcases, a printer, more windows on the far side, a loveseat. You look back at Aaron with a raised brow.

“Hi. What am I doing here?” His expression gets serious, like he can’t tell if you’re pleased or upset with him for the surprise. You sit down on the loveseat, set your bag down, and he sits down next to you.

“I know you wanted to get your father off your back, and you did say if I could squeeze an internship into two weeks that you’d be interested.” You smile a little, because you did say that. “I thought it might be nice to see you a little more, too. You’re under no obligation to stay,” he assures you, briefly looking down, and then he takes your hand. “But surely there are worse ways to spend your vacation?”

You give him an uncertain look, like you’re really trying to decide what you’d like to do, and then you push up your skirt and swiftly straddle his thighs, press your hands against his shoulders. His mouth falls open a little, and you lean in to catch it with yours.

“I have been thinking about you all weekend,” he mutters into the kiss, wraps his arms around your back. “Have you thought about me?”

“Only every night.” He groans at your words, lets his head fall back a little, and you press your lips to the column of his throat, nip softly with your teeth. “Every morning. Every minute.” You bite at the shell of his ear, kiss it, card your fingers through his hair. “Do I have an actual job to do here?” You pull back, and he raises his eyebrows; you can’t help the grin that takes over your expression. “Because if not, I’m going to focus on making this the best two weeks of your life.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, a little rougher than before, deeper, and you tug on his hair, pant against his cheek when you separate.

“In that case, no. You don’t have a job to do here.” You tilt your head, and he smiles a little. “I'm the boss, I make the rules.” That kind of thing has never done it for you before, but you have to admit it’s making you feel some type of way right now. You sweep your hands inside his jacket, squeeze his sides.

“Mmm, yes you do. Hey, do you think there’s enough room for me to fit under your desk?” He wets his lips, and you climb off of him, walk around to check it out for yourself, bending over his desk in your tight black skirt to peek beneath it. You look up to see Aaron is not shy about taking in the view, and you grin. “Spacious.”

He walks toward you, and when he’s closer, his eyes look dark with need; his hands look like they ache to reach out and touch. You step forward, let yourself be caged in against the desk by his arms, and you arch your back a little, open his belt slowly.

“I didn’t set this up so you would feel obligated to do this.” You sigh, lean up to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I know you didn’t. But if I want to?” You tug down his zipper, slip your hand inside his underwear, feel him hot and stiff in your palm. “And you want to?” He nods tightly and you kiss him again, squeeze him softly, sweep your tongue between his lips. “Then let’s.”

You take a step back, push his chair far enough out of the way that you can crawl under the desk, come up on your knees; he exhales deeply, then sinks down into his chair, stretches his long legs so they rest on either side of your body, holds his pants open for you. You look up at him, hope he sees how ridiculously eager you are to do this, and you take his dick out, stroke it a couple times, and cover it with your mouth.

“My god,” he sighs, head resting back against his seat. You hold him with both hands, suck deep and wet, moan a little when he spreads his legs further apart. “Your mouth feels so good, baby. Does this make you wet?” You pull off, move one hand to slide up his stomach, clutch his shirt there.

“Very, but I’m patient. Want to make you come.” He wets his lips, sighs, and you dip your head, lick up the length of him before sucking him back down.

He is all perfect, desperate noises, soft grunts and moans, gently palming your head as he gets closer, and you’re pretty sure he’s about to get off when there’s a knock at the door. He mutters a curse, and you squeeze his stomach, determined to make him come in the next five seconds. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Just a minute,” he manages, his voice strained, and he puts his hands on your arms, but you stroke and suck him quickly, actually sigh in relief when he spills in your mouth; your only regret is that he couldn’t be louder.

As soon as he’s through coming, you duck under the desk to wipe your mouth, and he hurries to fix his fly, to close his belt. There’s another knock, and he exhales, calls for whoever is on the other side to come in.

He accidentally bangs his knee off the desk, winces, and you lean back against it, panting, your heart racing.

“Aaron!”

Your eyes snap closed. What are the actual chances of this? You don’t know enough about karma to have an opinion on it, but you come to the sudden realization that you must have done something wrong in a past life.

“Hey, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Aaron asks, managing to sound like he is in fact not talking to the father of the woman who just swallowed his come.

“Looking for my little girl, of course. Had to see what she was getting up to on her first day at the FBI.”

“She’s actually… downstairs. In the mailroom. Interns start at the bottom and work their way up.” You stifle a laugh, because despite your compromising position, that’s kind of funny.

“Oh, okay. Agent Morgan thought she was up here, but I guess she must have snuck by him. Would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be happy to hear it,” he says, and you think you might be out of the woods, but you hear your dad’s voice again.

“Hey I almost forgot to mention: Monday Night Football tonight, got a bunch of guys coming over to watch the game. You interested?”

“You know, that would be great. You can text me the details. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Sure, of course. I really appreciate you taking care of my girl.” You have to bite your lip this time, and Aaron taps his foot against your hip.

“It’s my pleasure. She’s really wonderful. You should be proud.”

“I am. I’ll text you the details,” he says, and then the door closes and Aaron pulls back, looks down at you beneath the desk. You kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

“Close call?” you say with a shrug, and he helps you to your feet, then lifts you up and sets your ass on the edge of his desk. He grabs your face for a messy kiss, and you cling to him, breathless when he pulls back.

“What does it say about me that I’m turned on again?” he asks, and you shake your head, pull him close for another kiss.

“I don’t know, but I’m really turned on, too. Can you—” That’s as far as you get before he strides over to the door, flips the lock, and comes back to push your skirt up, tug your panties down to your knees so quickly it makes you gasp. He gets on his knees slowly, looks up at your face, and puts his hands on your hips, takes a few deep, thorough licks of your pussy. “Oh, my god.” You put your hand on the back of his head, drop your ass harder against the desk and press your other palm against it for support.

He is as enthusiastic as you were for him, slipping his tongue between your lips, gliding rhythmically over your opening but not pressing in, the tease. It feels insanely good, so much but not quite enough.

“Aaron. Oh, mmm—please. Please.” You sigh, dig your fingers into his hair, and he puts his hands under your ass and tilts you back on the desk, dives lower to start thrusting inside you with his tongue. “Yes, yeah, right there,” you murmur, and you rock your hips a little; your hand slips, sending you further back on the desk so that you’re almost laying back on it, and it makes you feel so deliciously dirty that you groan, grab at the collar of his jacket at the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling back to look up at you, and you nod, frantic; he licks his lips, lifts your legs and puts them over his shoulders, then dips down to stroke his tongue inside you, to press a finger inside alongside it.

“Holy—oh, yes.” You toss your head back, whine, and come around his finger while his tongue flicks in and out until you’re left breathless, spent.

You press yourself up to sitting, and Aaron stands, kisses you deeply, hands on your face while you’re still slick on his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he helps you get cleaned and straightened up, his kisses soft presses of lips this time.

“I should try to get some work done,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to; after that, you can’t really blame him.

“That’s okay; I brought my laptop, so I can work on some stuff too, if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t of course, and you get set up at the other end of his desk. You’re both plugging away at your work when you’re reminded of something from earlier; you close the lid of your computer and look over at Aaron, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes football.” He smiles, taps his pen against his chin.

��I don’t. But I figured you’ll be there.” You smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll see if my old cheerleading uniform still fits—you know, just to go with the theme.” You open your computer back up, but the look on Aaron’s face out of the corner of your eye is very, very promising. “Mmh, that feels good,” you murmur, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder and the other on his thigh; he is propped up against your pillows, massaging your bare breast and your clit while you roll your hips in his lap. Your cheerleading skirt fits, mostly, but you couldn’t zip it all the way; still, it’s the only thing you’re wearing, and you can’t deny the whole situation is so hot it hurts.

“You feel so incredible. Taking me so well.” He can’t kiss you in this position, and you can tell he wants to—you really want him to—so you feel a little like a tease as you work your ass and thighs atop him. “You know you’re beautiful, but I can’t stop saying it. You’re perfect, baby—in this little skirt?” He moves the hand from your breast to your hip under the skirt, squeezes you there. “So sexy. Do you remember any cheers for me?”

You groan, roll your eyes.

“Not worth the orgasm to embarrass myself,” you say, and he lifts his hips, slams up into you hard. “Mmh. Okay, almost worth the orgasm, but not going to do it.” He lifts an eyebrow, pumps his hips up again.

“Really? Not even if I…” He lunges forward, lifting you out of his lap and making you laugh, then maneuvers you onto your stomach, gets on his knees behind you, flips up the skirt.

“God, Aaron,” you sigh, and he presses his thighs right up against your ass, slides inside, pumps slow and steady while squeezing your cheeks, pulling you back toward him. Your fingers dig into the stupid, frilly bedspread, which will probably turn you on for the rest of your life, now, and you move back against his thrusts, moan.

“Worth it now?” he asks, filling you so completely, and you pant, hum.

“Wouldn’t you rather I just moan your name?” He leans forward at that, hands planted up under your arms, and leans in to speak into your ear; the way he’s pressed against you, the angle is perfect, and you’re right on the edge when his lips brush your throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that instead.” It takes about two seconds for you to come, and you aren’t shy about it, let his name fall from your lips in an endless string of praise. He hammers against your ass, the roughest he’s been—and god, does it feel good—then comes inside you murmuring your name.

He pulls out, rolls you over, and you finally kiss, make it count; it’s like the first night, how you can’t get enough of each other, messy, desperate, curling tongues and soft, eager lips, but you know you can’t keep it up forever, because his presence downstairs will be missed much sooner than Friday’s party.

You help him get dressed—in jeans and a blue polo, maybe the only time in your life a polo has made you wet—and then throw on a t-shirt and jeans of your own, head downstairs. You detour for the kitchen to grab a couple beers while he heads into the living room, and then you plop down next to him on the couch and hand him one like you weren’t just defiling your childhood bedroom yet again.

“There you are,” your dad says when he registers your presence—it’s impossible to get him to look away from the tv when a good game is on. “So how was your first day at the office? Think you’re going to like it there?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I was resistant for so long.” You shift, put your leg under your butt, and take a sip of your beer. “It’s not going to be a career for me, but I have a really good feeling about the next two weeks.”

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