#i just remembered that this sound existed and i though of them
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avelera · 7 hours ago
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Weird Arcane worldbuilding question/conundrum but… do they have doctorates in Piltover? And if so, do Jayce and Viktor have them?
I was going to say they don’t have them at all, but then I remembered that Cait calls Singed “Dr. Revek” so actually yeah, doctorates do exist.
But when Ambessa calls Jayce “Mr. Talis” he corrects her to Councilor Talis. Now, technically Council as a rank probably outstrips Dr. so in terms of etiquette it would be correct to defer to.
(Personally, I think it would have been very sexy to have Jayce say, “Actually it’s Councilor Talis. Or Dr. Talis.” But it could have also come off as insufferably arrogant which… also would have fit S1 Jayce very well.)
And of course, it’s a running theme that Zaunites don’t have surnames, that maybe you need a House for that, so Viktor would just be Dr. Viktor which sounds… odd. Clearly they’re just avoiding titles in that respect. The one exception so Zaunites not having surnames is Sky Young being referred to as Ms. Young, even though she’s from the Undercity, and even though it’s very possible she has a doctorate (or is working towards one in their lab).
So I think my conclusion is that Arcane decided to default to Doctor being a term only used for medical professionals, not engineers or other disciplines with an advanced degree. Heimerdinger is never referred to as Doctor, though as an immortal and the Dean of the Academy he certainly has the highest degrees available, one would assume.
So only Dr. Revek/Singed as a medically inclined professional gets the Doctor title. Jayce and Viktor as Hextech scientists continue to be “Mr.” despite almost certainly having advanced degrees themselves.
(RIP my desire to have Jayce correcting someone who thinks he’s an idiot by reminding them he has a doctorate, it lives on my heart.)
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rottenpumpkin13 · 4 hours ago
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A long time ago, you received an ask about what languages the Firsts would like to learn. It went something like "Zack wants to learn Spanish because of -insert reason-" "Sephiroth wants to learn Latin totally not because of One Winged Angel" "Genesis wants to learn French to sound better than everybody". But the one I actually remember is Angeal:
Angeal: "If I had to learn another language, I would like to learn English, because nobody understands when I say to PUT. YOUR DISHES. IN THE DISHWASHER. PUTTING THEM ON THE COUNTER BY THE SINK DOES NOTHING."
I would like to counter this response by saying I put all the dishes neatly in the dishwasher for years until a new member of my family straight up refused to learn how to do it right. If the bowls aren't balanced the right way, they won't get washed. If you put things in the wrong location, you waste a lot of useful space. But this man flat out said "I refuse to learn how to do this right because I don't care".
So out of SPITE, dishes now sit on the kitchen counter because I refuse to be bothered when no one else gives a shit. What does Angeal think about this if this is something one of his fellow Firsts did?
Angeal may try to project an image of humility and honor, but he combats petty with petty. If he realizes people who have the privilege of owning a dishwasher are being disorderly out of spite, he'll do things to be even pettier. This includes:
• One time he witnessed Sephiroth dump a perfectly good mug of coffee down the drain, and made it his personal mission to mess with him. Over a month, he methodically swapped all of Sephiroth's coffee with decaf and watched Sephiroth slowly descend into madness.
• When Genesis couldn't be bothered to wash his dishes in the break room, Angeal turned it into an art show. He'd collect the dirty dishes and created elaborate display outside Genesis' office, complete with angallery-style label like "Exhibit 17: A Study in Neglected Responsibilities"
• Changed all the settings on Zack's computer so it would autocorrect "SOLDIER" to "SHOULDER" in his official emails to Director Lazard. Lazard received three reports about "SHOULDER Second Class performance reviews"
• Orchestrated a three-week psychological campaign to convince everyone—including Sephiroth himself—that he was allergic to coffee. Every time Sephiroth took a sip, Angeal would squint and ask about non-existent rashes until even Sephiroth started second-guessing himself.
• Loves cooking extravagant meals just to send photos to his friends with captions like "Made your favorite dish… Not for you though" or "This could've been yours."
• Claims everyone's preferred spots, especially Sephiroth's cherished right-side aisle seat in their usual mess hall booth. He'll sit there with a straight face while watching Sephiroth's internal blue screen. (punishment for the coffee)
•Steals Sephiroth's favorite coffee mug, making it mysteriously appear in increasingly bizarre locations around the 49th floor. like inside the copy machine, balanced on top of the water cooler, in the middle of board meeting tables, and once inside the vents.
• Changes Zack's training sessions into "essential SOLDIER skills" that suspiciously look like chores, like organizing the filing room, polishing all the doorknobs in the building, alphabetizing Angeal's spice rack, and putting coffee beans in the air vent in Sephiroth's office, so that Sephiroth constantly smells coffee whenever he's working.
• Weaponizes his infamous lectures. Once subjected Genesis to a 45-minute lecture on "proper pizza etiquette and the spiritual implications of throwing out the crust." Gives Sephiroth an hour-long lecture about resource conservation whenever he spots him with coffee. Sephiroth is in hell
• Takes malicious delight in creatively misinterpreting Sephiroth's requests:
Sephiroth: The coffee maker needs cleaning. Angeal: *Completely disassembles the coffee maker and spreads all its parts across Sephiroth's desk and cleaning supplies* Sephiroth: *visibly fighting the urge to cry*
• Maintains a detailed "incident log" where he documents everyone's minor transgressions. Once pulled it out during a board meeting to remind Genesis about "The Great Stapler Misplacement of Last Tuesday." Adds a tally mark under Sephiroth's name every time he spots him with coffee.
• Started a rumor that his office plant can sense irresponsibility. Strategically moves it around the office to "watch" people. Zack is completely convinced it's judging him.
Zack: I swear it droops when I forget to hand in my reports! Angeal, watering plant: The voice of nature speaks the truth.
• Sephiroth has quit coffee.
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yujinmikotoba · 2 days ago
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the thing that makes me so insane about homumiko is kind of just… the mundane tragedy of it all. it’s all just so visceral to me. they both existed on the margins of society. one of them a social outcast, clearly neurodivergent in several different ways though that’s not a concept people understand or even really exists yet. the other is recently widowed, and a japanese exchange student in a vehemently racist victorian england. they come together and for 6 years they make each other feel whole. free to be themselves.
one day, unexpectedly, they find themselves in the position of having to raise a child. that’s okay though. they can work it out together, take things one day at a time. and just as they begin get used to it and settle into this new life one of them is forced to leave. no negotiations. so he does.
and that’s not the end of their relationship, they’re adults, this isn’t an all or nothing situation. they find ways to keep in contact, they send each other letters, telegrams, etc. but in the meantime 10 years go by. significantly longer than they ever were together. honestly I wonder when they were first reunited did they even remember the sound of each other’s voice?
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yoomiwrites · 3 days ago
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Missing Ghost³
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Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name “Mihawk” and sets out to find him, convinced he holds the key to her past. As she sharpens her skills and follows his trail across countless ports, Mihawk is always just out of reach. Finally, she arrives at a port where his ship waits, knowing her answers are close.
Note: I need to update my work / pinned thingy. But I am waaaaay to lazy to do so now. Maybe later. Anyways, here we go, the next chapter of this story! It's not easy at all to picture how Mihawk behaves, so pls bear with me. Again, I can't give any promise on when I'll update this again but if we hit 30 reactions, the next chapter should come soon!
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The port town was a labyrinth of noise and chaos, bustling with merchants, sailors, and the occasional mercenary weaving through the crowded streets. Every step I took felt heavy, my eyes darting over every face, every corner, searching. I had no plan, no strategy beyond following the tug in my chest that pulled me forward, a feeling that whispered he was close.
The whispers from the crowd had grown louder the further I moved into the town.
“Did you see him?”
“He cut them down like it was nothing—”
“Hawk Eyes Mihawk...he’s here.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening as I pushed through the throng. The streets led me toward the edge of town, where the noise shifted from bustling trade to something sharper—shouts, cries, and the unmistakable clang of steel. My feet carried me closer before I even realized it, my heart pounding louder with each step.
And then I saw him.
Dracule Mihawk stood amidst the carnage, his black cloak flowing around him like the wings of a predator. His sword, massive and imposing, gleamed in the dim light as it cut through the last pirate standing, a clean, effortless motion. Blood spattered the ground around him, bodies crumpled at his feet, but his expression was calm, almost detached, as though the chaos around him was nothing more than a passing nuisance.
For a moment, I froze, unable to breathe. I knew him. Not just the name or the reputation, but something deeper, like a half-remembered melody finally coming into focus. His piercing golden eyes swept the crowd, sharp and calculating, and then they found me.
Our eyes locked.
My breath hitched. Something stirred within me—a pull so strong it felt like it might drag me forward against my will. My body moved before my mind could catch up, weaving through the bloodied scene as if the danger didn’t exist, as if the corpses littering the street were invisible.
He watched me, unmoving, his gaze unwavering as I drew closer. There was no fear in me, not even hesitation. The tug in my chest grew stronger with every step, guiding me toward him like a thread pulling me home.
The stench of blood thickened as I reached him, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. Up close, he was even more imposing than I remembered—or imagined. His face was sharp, chiseled, his eyes unreadable yet filled with a weight I couldn’t name.
For a moment, the world seemed to still.
“It’s a surprise you’re alive,” he said at last, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “For a stupid, clumsy Marine.”
His tone was cold, biting, but there was something beneath it—something I couldn’t name. Relief, maybe? I wouldn’t have noticed even if it had been more obvious; all I could feel was the strange pull toward him, as if I’d finally found the one solid thing in a world I didn’t remember.
My lips parted, but no words came. What could I say? That I’d been looking for him, chasing a shadow, convinced he held the key to a past I couldn’t recall? That the sound of his voice stirred something in me that felt almost like belonging?
Instead, I simply stared, the silence between us stretching as the blood of the slain pirates pooled at our feet.
Mihawk’s golden eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, unreadable, before he turned without a word, Yoru slung across his back like a silent guardian. His boots crunched against the bloodied ground as he began to walk away, as though the entire scene—the corpses, the chaos, and me—meant nothing to him.
I blinked, momentarily stunned, before my feet moved on instinct. “Wait!”
He didn’t stop, didn’t even glance back. Determined, I hurried after him, weaving through the crowd that had started to gather at a cautious distance. The people parted for him like waves around a ship, their hushed whispers trailing behind him.
“Stop walking away from me!” I demanded, raising my voice, though it wavered slightly under the weight of his presence. “You called me a Marine. What do you mean by that?”
No response. His pace was steady, unbothered, like I wasn’t even there.
“I know you,” I pressed, desperation seeping into my tone. “Don’t I? You wouldn’t have let me live otherwise… Right?”
Still nothing. His silence made my chest tighten, but I refused to back down. “Say something!”
Finally, he slowed, just enough for me to catch up to his side. I looked up at him, trying to read the sharp angles of his face, but his expression remained impassive.
“You know something about me,” I insisted, walking briskly to match his long strides. “You have to. Otherwise, why would you…?” I gestured vaguely behind us, to the battlefield he’d left in his wake.
He stopped abruptly, and I nearly stumbled to avoid bumping into him. His gaze swept over me, piercing and calculating, as though he were dissecting every word I’d said. I shifted under the intensity, suddenly aware of how much smaller I felt beside him.
“You don’t remember,” he said finally, his voice low but firm, as if stating a fact he had just confirmed.
I frowned. “Remember what?”
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—something almost like recognition mixed with irritation. “Anything,” he said, more a statement than a question.
“I remember…” I hesitated, unsure how to explain the fractured pieces of my memory. “I remember waking up on a beach. No one knew who I was, not even me. But I…” My voice trailed off, searching his face for a reaction. “I knew your name. And now, seeing you, I know you. I don’t know why, but I do.”
Mihawk regarded me silently, his gaze as sharp as the blade on his back. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t reply, but then he asked, “What else?”
“What else?” I echoed, confused.
“What else do you remember?”
I swallowed hard, the weight of his question pressing down on me. “Not much,” I admitted. “Just… flashes. A storm. The sea. And you. I’ve been searching for you ever since I remembered your name. It’s all I’ve had to go on.”
His expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, a tension that hadn’t been there before. He was piecing something together; I could see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes, the faint tilt of his head.
“You really don’t remember anything,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.
I shook my head. “I don’t even know why I’m here. Why I’ve been chasing you for so long. But you know something, don’t you?”
Mihawk’s gaze held mine for a long moment, and for the first time, I thought I saw a flicker of something human beneath his icy exterior. A shadow of doubt, or maybe… curiosity?
Finally, he turned away, his voice calm but edged with finality. “If you’ve forgotten, it’s no longer my concern.”
“No!” I grabbed his arm without thinking, my grip firm despite the tremor in my hands. He looked down at me, one brow arching in faint surprise, but he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t care if it’s not your concern,” I said, forcing steel into my voice. “You’re the only one who knows anything about me. And I’m not letting you walk away until you tell me.”
His expression hardened, but he didn’t shake me off. Instead, he studied me again, his eyes sweeping over me as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface.
“Tell me what you remember of the storm,” he said, his voice quieter this time, almost contemplative.
I frowned, unsure why it mattered but willing to cling to anything that might give me answers. “There’s not much,” I said slowly. “The waves were huge. My ship—if it was even mine—was breaking apart. I remember clinging to something, and then… nothing. Just darkness. When I woke up, I was on a beach, and everything was gone. My past, my name, everything.”
Mihawk’s gaze grew distant, his jaw tightening as though he were wrestling with something unspoken. Then he let out a soft scoff, shaking his head.
“You were more trouble than you were worth back then,” he muttered, his tone almost bitter. But there was a faint edge of something else—something softer—buried beneath the words. “It seems that hasn’t changed.”
I frowned, unsure whether to be offended or relieved. “So you do know me.”
He didn’t answer, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth told me enough. He turned again, starting to walk away.
“Hey!” I called, jogging to catch up. “Where are you going now?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “If you’re so desperate for answers,” he said, his tone as sharp as Yoru’s edge, “you’ll have to keep up.”
And just like that, he was moving again, leaving me to scramble after him once more.
The silence between us stretched, heavy and suffocating as I trailed after Mihawk. My questions had grown quieter with each unanswered attempt, his cold indifference wearing down my resolve. His steps were steady, unyielding, as if no force in the world could sway him.
Eventually, my voice gave out entirely. I stopped asking. The only sound left was the crunch of boots against the dirt road and the faint hum of the town fading behind us.
Mihawk led us to a secluded spot near the cliffs, where the restless sea stretched endlessly before us. He moved with practiced ease, lowering himself to sit against the trunk of a lone tree. His massive blade, Yoru, rested beside him, its hilt gleaming faintly in the waning sunlight. Without a word, he tipped his hat forward to shield his face, his body language making it abundantly clear that he intended to rest—and that he had no intention of speaking further.
I frowned, standing a few paces away, unwilling to let him dismiss me so easily. “You can’t just ignore me,” I said, crossing my arms. “Not after all this.”
He didn’t even lift his head. “I can,” he said simply, his tone low and unbothered. “And I am.”
My fists clenched. “I’ve been chasing you for years! You clearly know something about me—why won’t you just tell me?”
He let out a quiet, exasperated sigh, tilting his hat back just enough to reveal one sharp, golden eye. “I don’t care about your search for answers,” he said, his voice cold and measured. “And you should consider yourself fortunate that I don’t find your presence intolerable. Yet.”
The word hung in the air, a warning, and I felt a chill crawl down my spine. For a moment, I thought about turning away, giving up. But something in me refused to let go, the pull toward him stronger than ever.
“Why don’t you mind my presence?” I asked softly, taking a step closer. “If you really didn’t care, you could have killed me back there. So why didn’t you?”
His gaze lingered on me, unreadable, before he tipped his hat back down. “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you,” he muttered.
I opened my mouth to argue, but then he spoke again, cutting me off.
“Your name is Y/N.”
I froze, the words hitting me like a jolt of lightning. “What…?”
“You asked for something,” he said, his tone growing sharper. “There it is. Y/N. It’s your name.”
My breath caught. Hearing it felt like a key turning in a long-locked door, a fragment of something lost slotting into place.
“That’s my name?” I whispered, the sound foreign yet familiar on my tongue.
“Yes,” Mihawk replied flatly, already tipping his hat lower again as if that settled the matter. “Now leave me to rest.”
I wanted to say more, to ask a thousand questions that burned on the tip of my tongue, but his tone brooked no argument. For now, I swallowed the flood of emotions welling up inside me and took a hesitant step back, clutching the name he had given me like a lifeline.
Y/N. My name was Y/N. And whatever lay ahead, I wouldn’t let him bury the answers again.
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Good Omens: on fate and reality
In season 1 of Good Omens, The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch play a vital role in helping to avert the Apocalypse. Anathema dedicated her life to understanding Agnes's prophecies and thereby helping to fulfill them. But in the final episode of season 1, when the package with the follow-up collection of prophecies arrives, she decides to burn them, because she does no longer want to live her life according to the writings of her ancestor.
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This is interpreted by many as Anathema taking her fate in her own hands instead of subjugating herself to something that was foretold. But the fact that she burns the prophecies instead of studying them does not necessarily mean that she changed her fate. It is entirely possible that her life will still take the road that Agnes foresaw for her. Agnes probably even predicted the burning of the new prophecies.
The only difference is that now, Anathema knows that all the decisions she makes are of her own free will, while otherwise she would have always wondered what she did because she wanted it and what she did only because Agnes had prophesied it.
A further indication that people acting according to their free will does not contradict the idea of fate is God's Ineffable Plan itself. At the end of season 1, when the Apocalypse has just been averted, Crowley asks Aziraphale: "What if the Allmighty planned it like this all along? From the very beginning?" Aziraphale agrees that this might very well be possible.
So even though all the people involved made their own free choices, they could still have been acting according to a plan God laid out very long ago.
Conclusion No. 1: Free will and fate are not mutually exclusive.
However, it seems that some things can be altered. Adam as the Antichrist has the power to bend reality. He uses it to change the fact that Satan is his father and to bring back people from the dead, for example Lesley. When Aziraphale expresses doubt about Mr. Young really being Adam's father, Crowley says: "It is. It is now. And it always was. He did it."
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So Adam did not only change reality for the present and the future, but also for the past. He was able to make things that had already happened undone.
Conclusion No. 2: In the Good Omens universe, reality can be altered, even retroactively.
And the ability to change reality does not seem to be limited to Adam. Another example, as Goldfarb Styrt (cf. p. 127; cited below) points out, is Crowley being able to get himself and his Bentley through the burning M25, while Hastur gets discorporated. Crowley simply imagines that everything is fine, and by imagining it, it becomes real. Goldfarb Styrt (cf. p. 123, pp. 126-127; cited below) also suggests that it might be the individual's interpretation of reality that matters.
That sounds really fitting to me. Because the Bentley is burning, no matter how Crowley imagines otherwise, and it explodes as soon as Crowley isn't concentrating on keeping it together anymore. And, as @indigovigilance mentions in this post, the people who witnessed the incidents during the attempted Armageddon, like Atlantis rising from the sea, still remember them, even after Adam undid everything again.
But Crowley and the humans interpret the aforementioned events in a different way than you would expect, and their interpretations have an impact.
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In any case, reality and the ways in which it can be altered are important themes in season 1 of Good Omens. And season 2 contains hints that they might play a big role in the finale as well. The most prominent example of these hints is the recurring mention of the Book of Life.
I will go into more detail about the Book of Life in my next post, but the important bit for now is that by erasing someone's name from it, you create a version of reality in which "they will never have existed". So the Book of Life is another tool to effectively alter reality.
Conclusion No. 3: Reality and the possibilities to alter it are important themes in Good Omens and will be relevant to plot of the finale.
That's it for now. What are your thoughts on fate and reality in Good Omens?
Work cited: Goldfarb Styrt, Philip: Sola Fide. Ineffability, Good Omens, and the Reformation. In: Giannini, Erin and Taylor, Amanda (Eds.): Deciphering Good Omens. Nice and Accurate Essays on the Novel and Television Series, pp. 120-132.
@kimberleyjean
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5mary5 · 7 months ago
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Diavolo: barbatos...am I ugly?
Barbatos: nonsense looking at you right now you are the most beautiful boy in the world
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Solomon: Barbatos am I ugly?
Barbatos: Very much
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sonknuxadow · 4 months ago
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tails is the brother sonic knows about, but i think it would be devastatingly funny if all continuities just have a sonia and manic somewhere out there, living their lives blissfully unaware that they’re all technically related
god that would be hilarious imagine they just show up one day in idw sonic or something with no explanation . this feels possible considering how little we know about game sonics past and underground already had the triplets not knowing they had siblings until they were teenagers . underground is just the one timeline where they were made aware of eachothers existence
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starlight-diesel · 1 month ago
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Sorry if this is dumb but where is your dni?
Really just all that's in my pinned post. I feel like it goes without saying that I don't want pedophiles/zoophiles or whatever they're called now (bc there's new names everyday) on my page as well as like. racists and ableist people and queerphobes and shit. So I didn't really feel like I needed to make a big long dni stating the obvious. I haven't really worked on it at all because like. Shit really all I want is for creeps and homphobes/transphobes etc etc to stay off my page.
And I've just got such a stressed and busy brain atm, I just wanted to make the general statements and stuff. Maybe I'll add all that I've mentioned later.
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grrrrriffin · 10 months ago
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Whatever. Beni info dump
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bmpmp3 · 2 months ago
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My sudden onset and inexplicable obsession with genbu in the past year is really fun because I'm developing a lot of tuning skills that apply to literally no other voicebank and will never apply to any others again
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pankomako · 1 year ago
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sometimes i think about interactions boat and i have had and things he's said to/about me over the years and it makes me feel as though i must occupy some little space in his heart. like i live in his mind rent-free the way he does for me, although not nearly to the same extent lmao.
speak of the goddamn devil i just got a steam notification he's playing tf2
anyway i never thought i'd have that kind of effect on a person, much less my favorite content creator. but it sure appears to be that way, and idk. it makes me feel special. warms my heart n all that :)
#was one of two people to give me their phone number when i had to drop off of discord 2 years ago#never took advantage of it though (shy (also we have different brands of phones so texting probably wouldnt work right#other person was an irl friend (never contacted them either#i remember one time YEARS ago when he was wanting to read jjba on stream or smth like that#him: it's like REALLY not family friendly me: well i shouldnt watch bc i am a Child him: no its ok you dont have to skip It's very dirty th#like guy clearly just wanted me there bc he enjoys my company And he's said he does! i remember him saying he likes seeing me in chat#and once again he was the one that wanted me on the staff team when usually the staff pick new recruits and boat has final say#and apparently he's talked about me to his other friends. that's kinda where the old Time to Mod in-joke started#he was using voice to text to talk to whoever and said my username but the thing misinterpreted it#that coupled with the meme drawing i did that he edited so it's him just saying 'pain'. eventually that dumb fucking image spawned#and then there was the night he spammed it and spam mentioned me in chat when he was streaming while i was ASLEEP#once we were in a vc and he was like 'wow i'd forgotten what your voice sounded like' NEVER heard him say that to anyone else. What#dont even get me started with him and my artwork (man would probably flip tf out seeing what i can do now LOL)#guy literally wanted ME to design an official tff logo but at that point they were kinda slowing down so it never happened#but yeahno i just. ugh. our friendship means a lot to me. i am ITCHING to speak to him again you have no idea#and to just give him a big ol hug. been wanting that for such a long time#quite frankly a friendship dynamic like no other ive seen#dont mind me REMINISCING. im sooo sappy about him he's the most important guy in the world to me#if god exists he knew we'd be too powerful if we grew up together
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pom-seedss · 6 months ago
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I chose to be fat. I chose to take medication that had a primary side effect of gaining weight. I chose that over not having medication. When I was starting to gain weight, I had several doctors warn me off of the medication because I was gaining weight. I chose to continue to take the medication.
I wasn't doing it explicitly to be fat, but I chose to become fat none the less. I chose to continue to become fatter as I was being told off for it. It was a choice.
Acting like nobody would ever choose to be fat, makes it seem like a terrible fate worse than any other.
My doctors noticed I was gaining weight and tried to persuade me to go off of the medication that was otherwise saving my life. I had to tell them point blank that I would rather be fat than dead before they would stop hounding me about it.
And frankly, it shouldn't have gotten to that point. My increased weight wasn't affecting my health, I had many lab tests to prove it. But despite this, it was considered a problem because being fat isn't ever something people would choose.
Being fat is fine. Being fat is good. Being fat isn't just some conscripted shameful fate you cannot ever change so you might as well work to accept it. It is glorious and beautiful and amazing.
While I think it is useful for some people to be reminded that bodies are complex and our body shape is often not within our control.... using that to shrug and say "no one would be fat on purpose otherwise" still makes being fat a bad thing. It still paints our natural human variation as an abomination no one desires.
Even if bodies were 100% malleable, we could change them on a whim and we could reshape ourselves however we want: some people would still be fat. Some people would choose to become fat. Some people would actively work towards that state of being because they like it!
it literally HAS to be okay to choose to be fat in order for fat liberation to mean anything at all tbh
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kbwrites · 3 months ago
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Heated Waters
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synopsis: being married is hard, being married without seeing each other is even harder.
⚝ content: Hiromi Higuruma x F! Reader, nsfw, bathtub sex, fingering, Hiromi neglects his wife, but boy does he make up for it
⚝ wc: 1.9k
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“Yeah we do it pretty much every day.”
Satoru said, taking a leisurely sip of his water. His pale face alight with mischief, a shit-eating grin across his lips. His three coworkers stared at him in (jealousy) disbelief.
Suguru was the first to break the silence, wanting to save face “Everyday is a bit much, isn’t it, Satoru?”
Satoru chuckled, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he watched his friend squirm. "What about you guys? How often do our married friends get it in?" His gaze flickered to Nanami, who cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from his coffee cup.
“Twice a week, I suppose…”
Satoru's smile widened, clearly entertained by the responses he was drawing out. He then turned his attention to the oldest among them, Hiromi Higuruma, who was carefully straightening his tie, a subtle attempt to avoid eye contact.
“What about you, Higuruma?”
“Your wife, (Y/N) is a little younger than you, right? C’mon Higuruma-San…She a total freak?” Satoru teased.
Hiromi's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as his grip on his coffee cup tightened. He took a slow, measured breath, his voice strained but controlled when he finally spoke.
“Please don’t talk about my wife like that.”
But Satoru, ever the instigator, didn’t back down. “It’s just us guys riiggght? And I can’t lie Higuruma, you’re one lucky guy. (Y/N) is a catch.”
Nanami nodded in agreement, as did Suguru, though both seemed to sense the discomfort growing in Hiromi. The older man could only sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the conversation.
It was true—you were everything he could have ever wanted in a partner. Beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted—his perfect match. If heaven existed, Hiromi was certain you’d be the only one worthy of it.
But long nights in the office, and early mornings preparing for court would take a toll on any relationship. The truth was… Hiromi hadn’t touched you in over a month. By the time he came home—you were fast asleep, and weekends were spent running the mountain of errands you couldn’t get to during the week. You loved each other of course, but it was hard. A month without feeling the warmth of your husband's hands all over your skin was starting to weigh heavily on both of you.
“You don’t have to answer Higuruma-san..” Nanami chimed in, sensing his elder colleague’s discomfort.
“Over a month.” Hiromi exhaled, the truth slipping out before he could stop it.
The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.
“WHAT?” Gojo audibly gasps. “Your wife looks like THAT and you haven’t f—”
Suguru swiftly cut him off with a well-placed elbow to the chest. “Satoru… leave Higuruma alone.” The long-haired male warns. “Still, that is surprising.”
“I know I know..” Higuruma pinches his bridge. He wanted nothing more than to have his wife under him… on top of him. But the endless stream of work kept him trapped in a cycle of exhaustion. “I’ve been so busy I can’t even remember the last time I actually spoke to her properly.”
Suguru offered an apologetic smile. “Sounds like you need a break.”
“Sounds like you need some puss—” Nanami quickly elbowed Satoru in the chest before he could finish his sentence.
Hiromi shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle as he ran a hand through his dark locks, clearly frustrated with himself. “I appreciate your concern, guys, but I don’t see how I can take a break right now. I have so much work to do, and I’m the only one who knows how to handle all of it.”
“Higuruma-San. Satoru will take care of the paperwork for you.” Nanami suggested with a deadpan expression.
“HUH?” Satoru blurted out, clearly caught off guard by the sudden assignment.
“Yeah,” Nanami continued, ignoring Satoru’s protest. “It’s not like he actually does any work around here anyway.”
Suguru smirked, nodding in agreement. “That’s true. You might as well make yourself useful, Satoru.”
Before Hiromi could protest, the trio moved in unison—Suguru grabbing Hiromi’s briefcase, Nanami steering him toward the door, and Satoru sighing dramatically as he resigned himself to the task.
“Are… are you boys sure about this? I don’t want to burden you–”
“Nonsense! Go home and take care of your wife!”
Hiromi placed his briefcase by the door, his tie feeling suddenly too tight around his neck. He loosened it with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he glanced around. The familiar scent of home greeted him. It was comforting yet bittersweet, a reminder of all the moments he had missed. The living room was tidy, the soft hum of the dishwasher running in the kitchen. You had clearly been busy, taking care of the house as you always did, even when he wasn’t around.
“Honey?” Hiromi calls out to you, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.
Frowning, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before making his way down the hall. As he approached the bathroom, he noticed a faint light seeping out from under the door, accompanied by the sound of water gently lapping against the tub.
He hesitated for a moment, then slowly opened the door.
The sight that greeted him made his breath catch in his throat. There you were, reclining in the bathtub, your eyes closed, head resting on the edge as steam rose around you. The soft glow of candles illuminated the room, casting a warm, serene light over your features.
You looked so peaceful, so beautiful—that it almost hurt to look at you. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he took in the sight, but the guilt and longing only deepened. How long had it been since he’d taken the time to appreciate you like this? Since he’d been able to just… be with you?
You opened your eyes, gaze meeting your husband as he leaned against the door frame.
“Hiromi?” you murmured, your voice soft, almost questioning, as if unsure whether he was really there or just a figment of your imagination.
“Hey Honey…” his voice equally soft, as he took a tentative step closer. The warmth of the room seemed to wrap around him, melting away some of the day’s stress.
“You’re home early.” You muse, looking at him as you rested your arms on the tub. He doesn’t respond, just walks towards you with purposeful steps.
Hiromi stares down at you with half-lidded eyes.“The guys decided I need a break.” He paused, his breath hitching slightly as he continued, “Can I join you?” A playful smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.
“Only if you take off your clothes this time.”
A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he unbuttons his dress shirt, letting each article of clothing fall to the tile floor. As he finally sheds his boxers before settling behind you. You exhaled softly, the tension you’d been holding onto for weeks dissipating as you sank into your husband’s embrace.
Hiromi didn’t waste a moment, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, placing lazy, lingering kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His breath was warm against your skin, his kisses slow and unhurried, as if savoring every second, every inch of you.
His hands weren’t idle either, tracing gentle patterns along your stomach, moving upwards to cup your breasts with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He nipped lightly at your earlobe, his voice a husky murmur, “I’ve missed you… more than you know.”
“Missed you too ‘Romi..” Your voice trembling as the almost foreign heat began to pool in your core.
Deft fingers teased your nipples, rolling and pinching—eliciting a soft moan from your lips as your body arched into his touch. Your hand reached back, tangling in his dark locks, pulling him closer as his lips traveled down to your shoulder, his other hand snaking under the water to your aching cunt.
“ahhhh… s-shitt..” You cry out as Hiromi’s fingers slowly circle your swollen bud. His touch light, teasing.
“Thirty-two days… I’m so sorry m’love.” He mumbles into your shoulder as he slips a slender digit into your entrance. Your walls flutter immediately around the intrusion, as he gently pumped into you.
He adds another finger, curling up to the spot he had neglected all those weeks. He extended his thumb to rub your clit. You arch your back against him, feeling his cock twitch against your ass.
“Hiro…” you moan, reaching behind for him, but he bites down lightly on your shoulder.
“Not yet, pretty girl, want you t’cum first okay?”
He whispers as he feels your gummy walls clench around him.
He speeds up his ministrations, digits stuffing your cunt as your pussy throbs and squelches. Your whimpers echo around the tiled walls, water lapping around your bodies.
You feel the pressure building as each thrust of his long fingers brush against your g-spot.
“g-gonna cum!”
“Cum f’me sweetheart please—god… need it so bad.” Hiromi mumbles as he pumps even faster.
“a-ahh!” you cry as you reach your high, walls clenching as you cum on your husband’s hand. He removes his fingers from you, moving to gently circle your clit as you come down from your orgasm.
You both stay there for a moment, your heavy breathing the only sound occupying the space, mingling with the gentle slosh of water against the porcelain tub. Hiromi’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer.
Slowly, he lifted you, the warm water swirling around you both as he maneuvered you to face him, settling you on his lap. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your knees pressing against the cool sides of the tub.
You straddled Hiromi, your bodies now fully aligned, chest to chest. Your husband's dark, half-lidded eyes bore into yours, his expression a mixture of raw need and unspoken tenderness. He let his hands rest on your waist for a moment, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your damp skin as he took in the sight of you.
“I don’t know how I’ve stayed away from you for so long…” his voice breaking slightly as if the admission pained him.
Your breath hitched as you shifted slightly in his lap, feeling the tension between you intensify. Hiromi’s hands slid up your sides, his touch deliberate and slow, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as his lips finally found yours. The kiss was deep, full of hunger that had been simmering between you both for far too long.
His grip on your waist tightened as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that left you dizzy with need.
Breaking the kiss, Hiromi leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
Without a word, he rose from the tub, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Water cascaded down your bodies, pooling at your feet as he carried you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing wet kisses down the side of your neck.
He laid you gently onto the bed, your back sinking into the soft silken sheets, but Hiromi didn’t waste any time. His gaze darkening as he climbed over you, his body hovering just above yours, his eyes drinking you in like a man starved.
“I’m going to make up for every second I’ve missed.”
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leahcee · 11 months ago
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don’t mind me I’m just reminiscing? thinking about the past?
#was thinking about how I don’t think I’ve ever gotten exactly what I wished for for christmas growing up#like the only time I can remember is when I was 12 and my parents got me tickets to one direction#but besides that like I’ve never gotten anything I specifically asked for on my lists#so I just like stopped asking for things and would tell people to get me whatever they think I’d like#idk makes me kinda sad ;/#whew and let’s not forget the shared gifts I’d get from other family members#since me and my sister are only three years apart they’d get us one gift and the same applied for our birthdays at times too#ridículos#here’s the catch though I’ve noticed that she’d get better gifts for any occasion where gifts are a norm#bc she’s like white and my family practically praised her for just existing#I doubt it was intentional but all the colorist comments growing up really fucked with me for a bit 😅#anyways how I got from never getting what I ask for to colorism who knows#anyways just thinking bc like since I’ve turned 18 my parents stopped getting me like gifts with any effort? on Christmas Eve to day (depend#ing) they’ll tell me that my gift is a <<shopping spree>> and no it’s not an actual shopping soreee#what they mean is they want to take me to get two outfits for the workplace#like it’s nice but it’s not what I want????#so I just give up and say ok thank you so much!!!! bc I’m a people pleaser and I know they’re trying and they think they’re doing what’s#best but it’s not to me at least#and I know it sounds like I’m bratty and like what parents get their 23 y/o gifts anyways? and I should be lucky that my parents are even#caring enough for all that and that I have a good relationship with them and what not#and I should be grateful for what I have#which I am I definitely recognize all of that it’s just that like idk#I’ve never actually felt seen by anyone? like no one’s gotten me things based on what I say I like in conversation#idk if it’s just me as a person but I remember what people tell me they like and hold onto it for future reference#idk whatever it’s not a big deal I work now and make my own money I can get the things I want#sorry for ruining anyone’s holiday cheer or any good vibe#personal rant#personal
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joelsgoldrush · 7 days ago
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“lovers once a year” | 9.4k
dbf!joel miller x f!reader
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SUMMARY: One always craves what is out of reach. Like the forbidden fruit that lingers just beyond grasp, tempting with its sweetness. Joel became the town’s greatest sinner, and you, his best friend’s daughter, are the tantalizing temptation he knows he should never indulge in. Your very existence marks the path to his ruin. He can't help but follow it. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. joel’s POV. a lot of introspection. mentions of alcohol. miscommunication. no outbreak. dbf!joel. age gap (25 and 56). petnames. religious imagery. car sex. oral sex (f!receiving). fingering. unprotected p in v. riding. missionary. doggy style. orgasm denial. crying. hair pulling. thumb/finger sucking. cum shot. creampie. reader sits on joel’s lap and has hair. moodboard for aesthetic purposes only. A/N: the fact this idea has been sitting on my drafts for over a year is just crazy. i finally found the time to put into words, and i know i’m a little late to the whole dbf!joel trope, but i’m a real sucker for it... hope you like this one! <3
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No one could’ve ever said Joel was a great best friend.
For one, he was terrible at remembering important dates. His mind just didn’t catch hold of details like that—never had, really. He wasn’t the sentimental type, either. At best, he’d manage a pat on the back or a firm handshake, maybe even a call on Christmas if he remembered. Emotional displays weren’t in his nature, far too used to keeping things at arm’s length.
Luckily for him, Stephen never seemed to care much about these things. They’d been friends for over forty years—which is, well, a hell of a long time, especially considering each had gone off to carve out his own life. They’d trudged through both primary and secondary school side by side, and Joel felt Stephen’s absence like a hollow ache the day his friend left for university in another state.
Technology eventually offered them more ways to connect, but it didn’t make keeping up any simpler. The years had tested them, and somehow, they’d held on to the quiet strength of their friendship—a bond they’d forged across decades and distance, held steady like the roots of an old tree.
Stephen was the laid-back type, always down for anything as long as a cold beer was part of the deal. It was rare for him to lose his temper, having a way of letting nuisances slide. Joel could bend every rule, yet Stephen’s patience never wavered. He was unflappable, hardly bothered by Joel’s mood swings, which was what made them a match made in heaven. Nothing could throw him off.
Though Joel doubts Stephen would stay so calm if he knew what he’d done to his daughter. As mentioned, Joel’s not exactly what you’d call a good friend—particularly considering he’s slept with his best friend’s daughter. Just once, to be fair. One ephemeral, impulsive encounter. Right here, in this very house, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days ago.
His gaze drifts across the room, settling on you at a smaller table a few meters away, surrounded by your younger cousins, ages five to fifteen. He watches as you scroll absent-mindedly on your phone, your brow furrowed in concentration, only tearing your eyes away from the screen when one of the kids hurls a handful of salty peanuts at you.
You press your palms flat against the tablecloth, eyes narrowing as you scowl playfully at the child, a mischievous glint in your expression. “You’ve got ten seconds to run,” you utter in a tone meant to sound ominous, tickling his sides until he erupts in laughter, his giggles filling the dining room with raw joy.
Joel’s been here for over two hours, but he can’t recall a single detail about the night’s events. All he knows is you—he’s studied your every movement, following the shape of your silhouette through the crowd. He’s accepted a few drinks, engaged in shallow conversation with your relatives, trying his best to play the part of a man with nothing to hide. But despite his efforts, despite every attempt to appear unaffected, he feels a slow burn kindling in the pit of his stomach, an ache that curls through him in a deliciously destructive way.
It’s when you look up, locking eyes with him, that he nearly mutilates the chicken breast on his plate, the knife skittering over porcelain with a screech. He quickly mutters an apology, excusing his clumsiness and blaming it on one too many drinks. Meanwhile, you don’t quit glaring at him, a hint of a challenge dancing in your stare.
This shouldn’t feel the way it does, this hazardous, risky game you’re playing. At one time, he might’ve thought this was something only seen in movies, something imagined and unreal. But here you are, and here he is, and the indisputable hunger in your eyes is as real as anything he’s ever known.
Suddenly, his memories drift back to a year ago, to your grandmother’s 84th birthday—the night it all began.
Stephen had left Austin when he was eighteen to pursue a college degree. That’s how he’d ended up in New York, and from that point on, he never came back. It’d been amazing to see him as an equal when they were teenagers, but as they grew older, the only things they shared were the white hairs scattered all over their beards and the memories of much better days.
Whenever they got in touch—which didn’t happen often—your dad would talk about you. You were just a name without a face, an empty canvas. Close to graduating, with only a few subjects and finals left. Psychology was your major—weren’t you smart? Joel remembers typing back with a string of exclamation marks to show his contentment. His best friend’s daughter was a success; how could he not be happy?
One random day, Joel’s phone buzzed late in the afternoon, flashing with Stephen’s name. It was rare for them to talk outside the usual birthdays and holidays, so seeing his name on the screen sent a small jolt through him. A dozen scenarios raced through his mind as he picked up, each one edging between concern and curiosity.
Just like that, Stephen dropped the news without any preamble. “I’m moving back to Austin,” His voice came in clear, and there was something unusual about it, brisk but almost nostalgic. Joel gripped the phone a little tighter, processing the words. “In fact, I’m filling up the gas tank as we speak. There’s someone at home who wants to see you.”
That someone had been your grandmother. With a twinkle in her eye, she’d insisted on inviting Joel to her 84th birthday. “It’s the perfect chance for you two to reconnect,” she’d declared, her tone laced with warmth and hope. She adored Joel, practically worshipping the ground he walked on, often reminiscing about the vibrant young man he had once been.
Who could deny anything to an elderly person, especially one as cherished as her? He was strong, physically imposing, but not strong enough to resist her wishes.
The reunion was going as well as it could, given the circumstances. After all, it was a strange kind of delight, seeing his best friend for the first time in decades. Joel thought they’d do what friends do—sit back, drink, smoke, and trade stories about the good old days. 
Then you walked into the room, absolutely gorgeous and with a smile that was all teeth, and you reached out to shake Joel’s hand as you introduced yourself. The contrast hit him instantly—your skin was satin-like against his, smooth where his was rough and calloused from years of handling concrete and steel. A subtle heat bloomed where your fingers touched, the chill of the rings on your hand sending a shiver through him, as if his senses had sharpened in that brief instant.
You pulled away, taking a step back, your eyes flicking between him and your dad. Joel’s arm fell back to his side, his hand forming a tight fist, the bite of his nails embedded into his palm to keep him grounded. But he couldn’t stop himself from scrutinizing you—every detail of your face, the curve of your smile, the effortless way you carried yourself. Your beauty was at fault, not him. You were completely out of reach, yet close enough to marvel at. He was no more than a man, bound to notice the charm of a pretty girl like you.
That you happened to be the daughter of his best friend—that was just a cruel stroke of fate. 
“Oh, sweetie. I’m glad you got to meet Joel at last!” Stephen’s voice cut through his thoughts, an arm draping across Joel’s shoulders, pulling him into an affectionate embrace. “He’s that friend from school I’ve been telling you about.”
Stephen looked so at ease, so utterly pleased, that Joel could only swallow back the lump in his throat. What kind of sick joke was this? What could he have possibly done to deserve this twist of the knife?
With a soft laugh, you folded your hands behind your back, tilting your head to the right. “My father wouldn’t shut up about you,” you said, light and melodic, drawing him in like a lure. Joel found himself adrift in the sweet cadence of your voice, entranced by the delicate chain glinting at your throat, resting just above the neckline of your shirt, the v-cut hinting at a world of temptation.
He blinked owlishly, fighting the images clawing behind his eyelids. “Well, he’s a good man, your father,” Joel managed, his smile strained. Not because it wasn’t true, but because there was a blaring alarm in his head, warning him to get a fucking grip. He knew himself well enough to read the signs, the underlying meaning beneath these nerves, the quickened pulse, the quiet, undeniable urge to reach out and feel you.
He was gone already. He fancied you, and his mind raced with thoughts he knew he had no right to entertain. He imagined what you’d taste like, the way you might sound if he were between your legs, encouraging you to gasp his name. Yet, he was aware that these fantasies were as treacherous as they were forbidden, even more with you standing right in front of him. And your father, just inches away.
From the kitchen, someone called out to Stephen, and with a weary sigh, he unhooked himself from Joel’s shoulder. “Coming!” he shouted back, already angling himself toward the door. He glanced back at the two of you, half-smiling while rubbing his temples. “I forgot how exhausting it is to host a family birthday party. I’ll be right back. You two go ahead and chat without me.”
Fuck, no, Joel thought to himself. Don’t leave me here. Where the hell are you going?
Joel resorted to remaining silent, choosing instead to take a long sip of his beer to avoid the occasion of sin. He refused to look in your direction, fixing his gaze on anything that didn’t involve your bare legs—the same legs he’d just been eyeing in those damn denim shorts, which exquisitely hugged your thighs. But, then again, he shouldn’t even be noticing that.
As he peered down at the carpet, he couldn’t ignore the movement of your shoes as you stepped closer. He observed your fingers playing idly with the frayed edges of your shorts, your body inching nearer, and he braced himself in anticipation of whatever you might say next. When his eyes landed on yours, he was met with an aura of expectancy, a cocky smirk pulling at your lips.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr. Miller,” you murmured, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed with effort. Letting your hand linger beside your face, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, glancing at him through your lashes. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Joel felt the flush rise to his cheeks, and there was no mistaking it—you were doing this on purpose. Were you trying to push him off balance, to see how far he’d bend before snapping? Was this just a game for you, a bit of mischief to spice up a family gathering? The idea irritated him, but he couldn’t entirely ignore the thrill woven into the discomfort. A quarter of his mind itched to play along, but the rest of him screamed to find the nearest exit.
“Y’can just call me Joel. No needa be so formal,” he mumbled, lifting the beer bottle to his lips once again, the bitterness spreading across his tongue.
“But I like Mr. Miller better.”
His mind conjured all those images of fire and damnation, of being dragged to some dark, smoldering pit. Rotting in hell, he could already see himself within the flames. Tugging at the collar of his flannel, now too tight and hot, he gave a rough, clearing cough. “M’gonna—go find your dad.”
He was glad you didn’t try to approach him in public again. For a few hours, he felt something close to tranquillity—not fully, though, as he could still hear echoes of your voice in the silences. Every so often, out of the corner of his eye, he’d catch you orbiting near him, lurking in his peripheral vision, even though you sat at a different table.
Later in the night, he wandered upstairs in search of the bathroom, instead stumbling upon your father’s childhood bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he took the liberty to enter it, a familiar scent filling the room. He ran his fingers over the walls, still papered with posters he recognized well. It was as if time had paused there—everything remained as it had the last time he’d been in this very room. The framed portraits, the worn bedspread, and Stephen’s desk, scattered with foreign bills under a layer of glass, each one a memento from the different countries he had visited.
It was only a matter of time before you found him, a light knock on the open door drawing his attention. Joel turned on his heels, catching sight of you, acknowledging your presence with a slight bow of his head. You ambled toward him, curiosity alight in your steps, twisting the chain of your necklace, a restless gesture that betrayed the energy simmering beneath your calm exterior.
He scratched the back of his head, offering a half-hearted smile. “This isn’t the bathroom, right?” he joked, attempting a casual tone. The joke was a weak one, admittedly, but you laughed anyway, a nonchalant sound that showed the gleam of your teeth.
“No, I don’t think it is,” you replied, sliding onto the edge of the desk with an effortless ease. “What brought you here?”
“Birthday parties can be a bit overwhelmin', dontcha think?” 
“Totally.”
And then you went back to watching him, your eyes tracing his features with an almost stubborn intensity. 
“You gonna stop doin' that?” he asked, the words coming out sharper than he meant, though they didn't make you flinch.
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Lookin' at me all doe-eyed.” His voice didn’t waver, but he advanced in your direction. His knees nearly brushed against yours, the weathered denim grazing your bare skin, and only then did a flicker of uncertainty soften your confident stance. “Whatever it is you’re after, it’s not gonna happen. So quit tryin’.”
You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself to your feet. “You sure about that?” Before he had the time to react, you were standing inches from him, your chest pressing against his, just close enough for him to feel the soft weight of your breasts. “Should I pretend, then, that I haven’t noticed you’ve been half-hard all night?”
Joel's jaw tightened, his teeth gritting almost painfully. His fists flexed by his sides, his entire body feeling heavier, muscles pulled taut by some invisible thread. "Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” You hooked a finger inside his belt loop, tugging him that much closer. Your breath, fresh and minty, mingled with the faint scent of your perfume, and he inhaled both, heady on the mix. “You’re gonna teach me a lesson?”
There was only so much patience a man like him could summon, and you were a thorn in his flesh, determined and unyielding. He leaned in, voice gruff as he uttered three words that made your brows knit together. “Close the door.” You stayed frozen, lips parting in surprise. “Did y’hear me? M’not into exhibitionism. Close. The. Door.”
You did as he asked, obliging, stepping back to close the door before returning to your place. Without warning, he turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the cool glass of the desk, a sharp chill that made you yelp. His hand settled firmly on your back, guiding you down until your chest was flush against the surface as well. In one swift motion, your shorts were gone, followed by your soaked panties, a damp spot where your arousal had begun to seep through.
He slipped his fingers inside you first, his hand covering your mouth to stifle the needy whimpers escaping your lips. The roughness of his beard grazed your cheek as he hovered over you, his breath hot in your ear as he spoke. “Bein’ too fuckin’ loud, doll.” Matching the rhythm of the slow drag of his fingers, his hips pressed forward, grinding against the curve of your ass, each movement making his mouth go dry. “Y’want this cock that bad?” He nipped at your throat, and you, against his sweaty palm, mumbled what could have only been a muffled Yes. “Then I need y’to keep real quiet for me, alright?”
His jeans and boxers hung around his knees, his cock leaking and throbbing at the tip. Joel realized what true desperation felt like, dangerously close to busting his load at any given moment before even getting the chance to be fully inside you. On top of the desk, your body trembled, and you reached back, pulling your top higher up to bare more of yourself to him. He unclasped your bra with one hand, while his other guided him to your entrance, his lips pressing reverently against your spine as he pushed inside, savoring the heat of your walls wrapping around him for the first time. It certainly didn’t feel like anything he’d ever experienced in his fifty-six years of life.
It had been short, and harsh, and fast. Borderline animalistic, what experts would label as a quick fuck. The moment he breached your entrance, you begged for more, fucking yourself back onto him until his thighs met your skin. You acted as if possessed by a greater entity, diabolic, though Joel didn’t mind it. He relished it, welcomed it. But he couldn’t let you take the reins. He asserted his dominance, snapping his hips forward with a force that drew moans from the depths of your lungs. He was the one in control, driving himself deeper and deeper within you. Suffice it to say you seemed to love it, if the sounds he elicited from you were anything to go by.
It was what you wanted, what you needed. One way or another, he’d caught onto what those lingering glances throughout the party had signified. Every glance you’d thrown his way had been leading to this—a silent promise that whatever was happening had been destined to be the night’s climax.
You bit down on his palm as you reached your peak, tightening around him, and perhaps it was the thrill of it all, the knowledge that he’d need far more time to become well acquainted with your body, that had him chasing after you. Holding back until you came had been a feat, pulling out seconds prior to his release, stroking his length once before painting your skin with his seed. A low, primal groan escaped him as he slid his length between your cheeks, prolonging his high, each heated pulse marking you in a way that felt undeniably his.
As he regained his composure, he watched you swirl your thumb along your lower back, collecting a trace of his release, and bringing it to your lips to have a taste of him. You softly laughed when he cursed under his breath, turning your face lazily to the side. “Damn minx y’are,” he rasped, closing the gap between your mouths, his claiming yours in an urgent kiss. Your mewls faded beneath the insistent press of his mouth as he sought to suppress the strange pull in his guts, reluctant to confront the unfamiliar sensations churning within him.
Things wrapped up quickly after that. You both returned to your places, resuming the roles you’d stepped out of briefly: Joel had been in the bathroom; you had been on the phone with a friend. When he reappeared downstairs minutes after you, no one thought twice about his slightly damp hair.
For the remainder of the party, the two of you exchanged no further words. The time for him to leave came, and he offered only a nod of his head across the packed living room. It was a farewell only Joel would give, a subtle acknowledgment that left you wondering about its meaning. There were no explanations, no parting words.
The next time he saw your father, the mere thought of seeing you again terrified him. If it’d happened once, then the temptation would still remain undiminished, strong enough to awaken the lust and the longing veiled in silence. But you weren’t there anymore—back in New York, focused on finishing your semester at college. The surprise must have been evident on Joel’s face, a bewilderment that prompted Stephen to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Remember I told you she hasn’t graduated yet?”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember now,” he said, wishing to convince both your father and himself.
You were out of the picture, no longer around. Yet, the two of you now shared a secret. You still do, to this day. He’s no stranger to the notion that some things never seem to change. After all, he’s a creature of habit—same breakfast every morning, same brand of bread he’s been buying for years. Like all his other preferences, he’s come to realize he likes his women a certain way. And though he hates to admit it, you fit the bill perfectly.
Betty, Stephen’s mother, was turning eighty-five tonight. A seat with Joel’s name was saved at the big table; they wanted him there, his best friend and his best friend’s mother. How nice it was to actually feel wanted. He liked that feeling. Still, he’d had to bite his tongue when your father mentioned you’d be there, too. You had graduated at long last, with your birthday having been just a couple of weeks ago.
“Can’t believe she’s twenty-five already,” Stephen muttered with a chuckle, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Sitting beside him, Joel gripped the arm of his chair, sinking his nails into it. “Me neither, man.”
His choices had led him to this moment. The clinking of glasses rings in his ears, blending with laughter and the rich aroma of food that fills the air. None of it manages to distract him. He can't help but track you down, eyes scanning the room, relentless in their pursuit of yours. The need to see you goes beyond any shred of restraint he might have faked to have. Joel can’t muster the decorum to feign indifference—God, not when you’re near, when the pull toward you feels like gravity itself. He’s keenly, almost painfully aware, that he’s not even pretending to be indifferent, his interest etched plainly in the way his gaze persists, refusing to pull away.
It’s his first time seeing you in a year. A lot can change in that span of time. He can’t help but be amazed, because you look just the same as you did back then. Only your hair’s a touch shorter. He wonders if it’s even noticeable, or if he’s just spent so long memorizing your features that he’s losing his sanity. He bets it’s the latter.
A light pressure on his shoulder makes Joel jump, breaking down his reverie. He turns quickly, eyes widening. "Betty," he exhales, patting his chest with a smile, eyebrows lifted. "Jeez. Y’scared me."
“Y’alright, Joely? Y’look a bit pale.” The older woman reaches up, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead with a gentle familiarity. Through her lens, he’s still young. “Doesn’t seem like you’ve got a fever, though.”
"That’s ‘cause I’m not sick." Joel takes her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "How’s everythin’ goin’ so far? Got all these people together just t’celebrate ya’."
"It’s a wonderful night, sweetheart. So happy y’found the time t’be here," she replies, pinching his cheek in that affectionate way that earns her a quiet laugh from him. Her eyes then catch sight of a familiar figure. "Oh, look who's here. If it isn’t my beautiful granddaughter."
He stops smiling. In fact, he thinks he even stops breathing for a second as you intrude yourself into the scene, settling yourself beside your grandmother, flashing him a knowing grin. “I was getting kind of bored with the little ones.” 
“Y’know Joel, right, dear?”
“Yes.” A pause, a beat you draw out between breaths. “Yes, I do.”
Betty leans his way, her warm hand still on him. “Have y’heard the latest news? This young lady just graduated.”
“Stephen told me,” he answers, looking up at you with a reserved nod. “Congrats, kid.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”
There’s that damn name again. Were he alone with you, he’d laugh in your face, but he can’t. Under the scrutiny of family and friends, he knows he’s cornered. Joel’s starting to believe you think you’re untouchable, that there are no consequences to your actions. You might look the same, maybe a little older, but that teasing, provocative spark in your eye hasn’t changed a bit.
“Always so polite, my child,” Betty says, cupping your cheek with a light pinch, a grandmotherly gesture perfected over the years which she seems to repeat often. “Any boyfriends back in New York?”
This would, without a doubt, be the perfect moment for him to excuse himself and stand up—a conversation he’d rather not be privy to. But with you positioned right in front of him, escape isn’t an option. “Still single, grandma,” you respond unfazed, as if you know exactly what you’re doing. “No one to worry about. Better like this, anyway.”
“But what’s the problem? There aren’t any boys y’like?”
He doesn’t even know what makes him say it—some impulse, some hidden tension surfacing—but he jumps in, his voice carrying a slight, sardonic edge. “Boys are more foolish than ever these days, Betty. Surely y’wouldn’t want her to settle for the first idiot who crosses her path.”
Betty clutches his arm, shaking her head in feigned shock. “Oh, not at all! It’s all about waitin’ for the right person. There’s no rush, for either of you. You’re still on your own, Joely?”
Time to drink again. He drains the last drops of alcohol remaining in his glass, feeling your eyes on him, intense and searing, and then he clears his throat, swallowing down the words he’d rather say. “Affirmative.”
“Well,” she sighs contentedly, patting each of your hands as though binding you both with some invisible thread. “Just means y’two have to wait a bit longer, right? Time has its way.” She chuckles, eyes soft with memory, turning to you. “Darlin’, this man here was quite the heartbreaker in his day. He and your dad would find all kinds of trouble with the ladies!”
“How so?” You cross your arms, playfully tilting your chin up. “Joel Miller, the charmer of the town?”
“Guess I’ve been known t’make a fool of myself,” he shoots back, silently cursing the moment he missed his chance to slip away. “Stephen got more fans than I did, though.”
“I did what?” Joel feels an elbow nudging his back, and there’s his friend, grinning in his usual easy way.
Joel's luck in life had been more bruised than blessed, a string of hardships that seemed amplified compared to what most people experienced. Being drawn in by you—in which category did that fall? Good luck or bad? He couldn't decide. Every glance and delicate smile you aimed his way stirred something reckless within him. Was it pure thrill, or a warning?
He laughs every time Stephen cracks a joke, but he’s barely listening, his mind half-tethered to the present. It’s like he’s watching himself from afar, observing his reactions as if he were an outsider. He isn’t stoned or drunk, just acutely mindful of your presence. He catches himself peeking up at you from where he sits, jaw tight, his brow creased. You meet his gaze with a slight squint, a polite look that hides something far more dangerous.
Boys are more foolish than ever these days. He’s sure of that much. They’re young, untested. But what about him? He’s no model of virtue, either. He’s made his share of mistakes, left good women behind—women who were willing to love him in spite of his flaws. They’d seen through the layers he wore like armor, and yet, in the end, he couldn’t hold on to any of them. He carried the ghosts of every past life, fragments of who he’d been and what he’d left behind, and he knew those shadows weren’t for everyone.
A thought pierces through him, sharp and sobering: what would Sarah think? His lovely daughter, grown and settled into her own life, would likely be mortified to know her father’s infatuation with a twenty-something. The weight of that realization sinks into his chest, and that seems to be his last straw.
He can’t possibly take it anymore. Rising from his chair, he mutters something to Stephen about needing fresh air and makes his way to the backyard door, exhaling deeply and gripping his car keys. The cool night air hits him, stepping outside, a temporary relief as he heads toward his truck.
Just as he’s about to open the door, he hears your voice. You call his name, your tone soft but distinct. He doesn’t turn, only lets out a long, weary sigh. “What?”
“Where are you going?” You stop a few steps behind him, watching the way his shoulders visibly tense. “Are you mad at me?”
“What?” He faces you, almost snapping his neck in his rush to look at you. “Why would I be—I’m not mad at ya’.”
“Then what’s wrong? Why are you leaving so early?” 
He scrubs a hand over his nape, fingers pressing into the tension gathered there. “Would y’like me t’break it down for ya’, how messed up this is?” His gaze drops to the ground, unable to meet yours. “I’m riskin’ the only real friendship I’ve had here for… for somethin’ that I can’t even wrap my head ‘round. This isn’t okay, no matter which way I look at it.”
In that moment, it’s as if reality pulls you under. The mask of subtle, practiced arrogance falls apart, scattering in fragments around you. He watches, waiting for you to gather them up, to hide behind that composed veneer again. But you don’t move. You leave the pieces where they lie. Instead, you confront his gaze, unguarded, and ask, “Do you regret what happened between us?”
Another question. You seem to be full of them. They just keep coming, one after the other, as if you already had them prepared. I don’t, he thinks to himself, but would it do you any good if you knew it? “Don’ start with those mental games.”
“Then come back inside.”
“I know myself well enough to know what’s gonna happen if I do that, darlin’.”
Neither of you breaks the silence that’s settled between you, thick as the night air. You slip your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders slightly hunched, head hanging. Once again, like all those times before, he’s struck by how young you are compared to him. The difference stretches between you like a chasm, bridged only by these stolen moments. The weight of his years presses down on him, the choices he’s made—the mistakes and the half-hearted attempts to mend them. He’s got decades on you, three of them to be precise.
Joel never thought of himself as an ever-lasting free spirit, the kind of man who clings to youth or pretends to be something he’s not. Right now, with you here, he feels reckless, like a boy again. Stupid, impulsive, like the foolish young men he used to shake his head at—the very ones he’d warned your grandmother about.
“You left without even saying goodbye last time,” you mumble, low but clear, as you scuff the toe of your shoe against the grass. “And now you’re doing it again.”
He inhales sharply, clenching his keys, feeling the edges of the brass biting into his palm. For a moment, he thinks the sharpness will give him something to hold onto, but he knows the sting is nothing more than a weak anchor. “You’re a smart girl. Don’ need me to spell this out.”
“I know exactly what you mean, trust me. I get it.”
“Then why do you keep pushing?” His pent-up exasperation slips through despite himself, and he can see the hurt flicker across your face, the way your forehead barely puckers as his words hit harder than intended.
Even as you look away, a trace of that hurt fading, you stand firm. You shake your head after a beat, seemingly trying to brush off your doubts and confusion. Joel can’t decipher if you’re feigning innocence—if you are, he thinks, you could be one hell of an actress. “I don’t know. I guess I want to see how far this can go.”
You take a small step forward, testing the waters. Your feet move cautiously, not aiming to scare him off. Each step draws you nearer until there’s only a whisper of space between you, close enough for him to catch your scent, and he has to force himself to peer down to meet your eyes. They hold a quiet intensity: pleading, wide and earnest, already trained on him. Gleaming like two lone stars cutting through a moonless, empty sky. 
It baffles him, the question forming unbidden in his mind. He goes even further, can’t help but wonder: why him? What is it that you see in him? What makes you keep coming back for more? You’ve already had a taste, a story you could tuck away, a secret to be shared with your friends someday around a campfire. So why, he would like to know, are you still here, seeking something from a man like him?
“I like you,” you blurt out, fingers drifting to skim over the worn fabric of his flannel, almost hesitantly. That tentative gesture sparks something raw in him, a low rumble of desire that feels like it’s been lying dormant for too long. Heat pulses through him, hot blood racing through his veins, awakening every nerve, each beat of his heart more insistent than the last one. “I think you like me, too.”
“You’re insufferable,” he bites out through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching so hard it nearly hurts. He closes his eyes, half hoping you’ll disappear, that he’ll find some reason, any reason, to call this off. Though when he opens them, you’re still there, waiting, unshaken. “I wish I knew how to stop this. How to walk away.”
“That’s not what you want.”
“We don’ always get what we want, kid. You’ll figure that out soon enough.” He means it as a warning, but even he hears the way his voice falters, his defenses crumbling in the face of your unflinching state.
You let out a slow sigh, your arms falling to your sides, eyes roaming over his features as if you’re memorizing every line. Your focus dips to his mouth. “Maybe,” you murmur, and he feels the warmth of your breath against his skin. “But some things are worth fighting for. And sometimes, those who don’t give up… get the best in the end.”
With a gentleness that stuns him, you lean in, bringing your lips to his in a featherlight kiss. You pull away, and he helplessly notices the way your lips part, how your breath hitches, and for a split second, the guilt becomes palpable, the significance of wanting a woman he knows he shouldn’t. You stand there, chest rising and falling, skin tingling, a faint trail of goosebumps visible where your neckline meets your chest. 
Apart from the glint in your eyes, he catches the persistent, quiet ache of want. He isn’t sure if it’s just physical attraction, if it runs deeper, or if that’s all it is for him, either. He doesn’t need to know. The simplicity of it all is a short-lived relief. It’s an easy escape, though, this bare minimum of understanding—you want him, he wants you. Let it be enough for one more moment, for tonight, just another memory he’ll have to lock away. Yet he’s aware, deep down, of his own pattern: promises broken just as easily as they’re made. He’s only fooling himself. The part of him that knows this isn’t something he’ll let go of so easily sits there, silently taunting him, daring him to make another compromise he won’t keep.
From where you remain frozen, he’s certain you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he weighs every possible outcome. “It’s gonna happen, isn’t it?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and before you can react, his arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and turning you toward the car door. The cool metal pressing against your back startles a gasp out of you, but the suddenness only heightens everything—the heat of his body, the toughness of his hold. 
He doesn’t waste time with words, having always been a man of action. His hand cradles your face, inspecting your features to later crush his mouth against yours. Your tongue finds his without hesitation, seeking him out, hungry and unrestrained. He savors your eagerness, the way your hands roam over him, clutching at his shirt, tugging him closer by the belt until your lower halves are pressed tightly. The taste of beer and mint clings to your lips, and a husky groan rumbles from him as your fingers find their place in the longer strands at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling him impossibly closer. 
He could lose himself in this, the simple, electric thrill of kissing you, how you fit so perfectly against him. Hours could slip by, and he wouldn’t mind, but then reality pulls him back; it’s too exposed here, right outside his truck where anyone could stumble upon you. “Get in the car,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, fumbling to unlock the door. It takes him three tries, and he chuckles, feeling the warmth of your laughter beside him as you tease him.
Once inside, his mouth finds yours again, this time more urgently, his hand pressing against your back, tracing the line of your spine through the clothes. “Tell me y’want this,” he breathes, his kisses trailing down your throat, latching onto the tender skin there. “C’mon, baby. Tell me y’want it. Tell me y’want me.”
A soft, breathy sound escapes you as his mouth fixates on that sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilt your hips instinctively, craving contact in search of relief, and he shifts you onto his lap, guiding your thighs to settle over his. Desperately working to undo the buttons of his shirt, yearning to uncover him, you pant against his cheek. “J-Jesus Christ, I need you. Please, touch me. Anything will do. Just—”
He’s silently grateful for your choice of a dress tonight. It makes things easier for him, and he gets right to it, bunching the fabric around your waist, hands roaming over the soft skin of your hips before moving his fingers lower, tracing teasing lines over your clothed center. He can’t fully make out the murmured words you breathe into his ear, but your voice drives him like a lighthouse guides a sinking ship, and he adjusts his movements, pressing with more intention. The only sounds filling the car are his ragged breaths and your gasping moans, and he holds you close to his chest, cooing softly as you start to rock into his hand, asking for more. 
His fingers find their rhythm, circling your clit in deliberate flicks. Joel watches as you unravel, trembling in his arms, a hint of drool spreading over his shoulder from your parted lips on his skin. His grip tightens as he tugs your underwear down your legs, grinning when you kick them impatiently to the floor of the car. Now, as he strokes his digits up and down your folds, you turn to putty on his lap. In another world, he’d have you laid out in his bed, enjoying each inch of your body. But here, in the cramped, dim backseat, he keeps the lights off. He knows it’s reckless, yet that barely slows him down. His cock throbs at the very risk of getting caught, at the edge he’s walking just to have you like this.
“Goddamn, you’re soaked, aren’t ya’?” He doesn’t expect you to answer, at least not in any coherent way. He sinks his middle finger into your bare heat, searching your face in the dark, contemplating the fluttering of your lashes. His hand weaves into your hair, a firm tug guiding your gaze to his. Your head tips back, a moan spilling from your lips at the new sensation, rolling your hips into his palm with earnestness. “It’s gonna be a tight fit, huh? If this is how you’re grippin’ my fingers, I can’t imagine what that cunt’s gonna feel like wrapped ‘round me.”
Studies suggest that in those final, fleeting moments of life, memories flood the human mind—a last journey through a person’s years before crossing over. If he were to die after tonight, he knows your face would be there, etched into his last breath. He can almost picture it: struggling for air, teetering on the edge, with that reddish, towering figure of mortality looming over him. But even then, he’d find solace in the thought of you, thrown into oblivion. You’d grant him a last-minute reprieve, easing the ache. You’d be the one who’d hold back the shadows. This constitutes the apex of his life, and he knows he should be worried, yet intellectual dominance doesn’t stand much of a chance when confronting the heart of a man. Not when that heart, so long starved of its pulse, has finally found someone worth remembering.
He makes space for himself, thrusting his long fingers into you until he’s got your slick coating his palm. One hand settles firmly at the small of your back, guiding your movements, while he feels his collected composure faltering. You mouth at the rough stubble along his jawline when you start to get close, breathless whimpers clouding his thoughts. “Joel,” you call out to him, as if that alone would make wonders. “Oh, fuck. Please, I waited a whole year. I need to come.”
A whole year. You were his once a year, and he was yours, a bittersweet ritual bound by time. He never would’ve thought this party could bring him such pleasure, though he can’t pretend he’s against it. Last time, he hadn’t taken the chance to pull you under and make you fall apart as many times as he’d wanted. He’s intent on making up for that missed opportunity, determined to make you enjoy every moment.
He withdraws his fingers abruptly, and a sharp laugh nearly escapes him at your reaction. You reach instinctively, grabbing for his hand, trying to guide him back to where he belongs between your legs. But he’s already moving, maneuvering you down until you’re lying on your back, fully under his command. He lowers himself, replacing his fingers with the warm insistence of his mouth. The sound that escapes your lips as his mouth presses against your center is nothing short of a scream—a wild cry that fills the space around you. He’s grateful he parked far from the other guests, because that sound would turn more than a few heads. 
Joel laps at your arousal as if it's the fountain of youth, the very essence of everything pure and precious in the world. He presses down on your thighs until they rest on either side of him, unclamping your legs from around his head. The suppleness of your skin feels divine under his fingertips, and he brushes his thumbs over your trembling form, coaxing you into calmness, to let him have his way with you at his own pace. It's an absurd paradox—aiming to soothe you while his mouth continues its fervent worship, tracing intricate patterns against your most sensitive flesh. His beard, streaked with gray and freshly trimmed, glistens with your slick, and Joel smolders with all-consuming passion.
When his friends had told him to go out more, maybe find someone to date, he's certain they didn't mean this. The smart choice (scratch that: the correct one) would have been to pursue a woman his own age. But fuck it—he's spent a lifetime doing what's right. Every road he might've taken would've led him here, to this moment, with you. Part of him believes he must still have something left, some spark of appeal. To have a pretty little thing like you, so eager, so willing, offering yourself to him? He has to have something. His knees ache from where he kneels on the unforgiving surface, but the burn is inconsequential, and he’ll endure anything to be what you need.
Joel trails his hand up your body, over the curve of your breast, before gently groping it, his palm covering yours in a shared grip. He runs the tip of his tongue along your folds, his saliva mingling with your wetness, aquiline nose grazing your sensitive bud. “You’re tellin’ me you’re this tight ‘cause you’ve been savin’ yourself for me? You do know what t’say t’make a man happy.” He spreads you open slowly, his gaze lingering on the way your cunt glistens, a sense of satisfaction rippling through him. You remain silent, your breath shallow. “Still with me, sugar?”
“It’s just that—I’m so close.” You bite back a moan, nails digging into the soft leather of the seat. Joel hums in response, his lips closing around your clit. Agitation flickers across your face as you try to grind your hips against his mouth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
The pressure is gone as he notices your thighs quivering again, his movements halting immediately.
“No, Joel. Please—”
“You’ll come when I tell ya’.”
He’s having the time of his life. Damn right he is.
He suddenly realizes he's still dressed from head to toes, the heat building in his body becoming too much to ignore. With a frustrated grunt, he undoes his belt, yanking the metal zipper down, longing to rid himself of the constricting denim. A strangled noise escapes him as you suck on his neck, fisting his base, giving him a few purposeful tugs.
“Now, you’re gonna ride me,” he murmurs, making a pause to shrug his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor of the car, “and you’re gonna like it. Don’ want you t’hold back this time, understood?”
His back ends up against one of the fogged-up windows. The air is thick with the apparent scent of sex—a phrase he’d only ever heard in movies, but now, it’s undeniably real. Joel holds his cock, aligning the tip with your entrance as his lips crash against yours in a hungry kiss. A deep groan escapes him, vibrating over your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. The sensation intensifies when your wet interior welcomes him, velvet walls molding to his size. Your brows scrunch together at the stretch, a choked whimper catching in your throat. As your hips sink fully, your ass flush against his thighs, your body clenches around him, that abrupt tightness drawing a stuttering gasp from him.
“For God’s sake,” he exhales, the words rough as his forehead bumps into yours. His hand splays over your ribcage, fingers curling slightly. “Sweetheart, you’re—killin’ me here.”
“I can feel you everywhere,” you huff, your arms looping around his neck to pull him closer, holding your breath. He takes the moment to capture your nipple between his swollen lips, leaving a shiny trail of spit in his wake. You lift yourself, the motion teasing, before sinking back down onto his lap, taking him in fully. “Can feel you in my stomach.”
When you begin to move, Joel loses track of everything else. Time seems to stretch, bending and reshaping itself each time his tip finds some hidden place inside you. He’s fifty-six years old, yet in this moment, his soul feels infinite. Invincible. He brings his hand to your lips, thumb grazing over them before slipping inside. Your warm tongue envelopes it, and when you start to suck dutifully, muffling your moans, his body jerks in response. His eyes drift to your glistening chest, where a sheen of sweat makes your skin glow in the dim light. You’re the most captivating woman he’s ever seen, and he knows he’ll never look at anyone the same again. He can’t tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the way your body merges with his, the way you undulate your hips on top of him.
You move back and forth, and he drives into you, filling you to the brim with every calculated thrust. He thrusts upward, stealing the air from your lungs, the sharp motion making you sputter as your body struggles to keep up with his.
“That’s it.” His voice is a husky growl as he wraps his arms tightly around your back, your chests sticking together with sweat. His pace quickens, the rhythm becoming more insistent. “Takin’ it like a good girl. You feel exquisite, baby. Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
“So big inside me,” you pant, your own pace faltering as you surrender to Joel’s unforgiving tempo. His hooded eyes flicker to yours, catching the way your pupils have swallowed up your irises, dark and blown wide with desire. A shiver runs through him as your fingers dig into his shoulders, your grip leaving faint crescents in his skin. “Missed your cock so much, Mr. Miller.”
Fuck, not that shit. If it’s possible, he grows impossibly harder. He pounds into you with renewed intensity this time, his singular goal to leave you speechless, boneless, completely undone. He wants you limp and shuddering, with nothing left to give. “Enough of that.” His hands find their place on the soft globes of your ass, molding and squeezing until the pressure has you mewling, the sweet sound shooting straight through him. His lips ghost over the shell of your ear. “Responsive everywhere, honey. Have any idea how much fun I’m gonna have with ya’?”
Who would’ve believed him back then? It proves this isn’t some once-in-a-lifetime fluke. It happened before, and now it’s happening again. He might as well surrender to it—accept his fate and move through the motions like a man resigned to what’s already written.
There’s a moment when your moans sharpen, turning high-pitched and dazed, and the way you constrict him sends his eyes rolling to the back of his skull, a guttural noise tearing from his chest. His movements still, clutching your waist to pin you in place, denying you the chance to move, to bounce on him.
Then you break. A sob wracks your body, tears spilling over and tracing hot paths down your cheeks. They gather, fusing together as they slide along your throat and pool in the hollow of your jaw before disappearing lower. “Asshole,” you hiss, the word fragile as you push your face into the curve of his neck, seeking refuge in his embrace.
“Sorry? Couldn’t catch that.” He makes sure to keep you securely tucked under his chin, tilting his lower half upward. “If you want me t’stop, just say the world and I will.”
He’s messing with you, plain and simple. He doesn’t actually expect you to take his words at face value. But you do, grinding down harder, impaling yourself further on the length of his cock, and your arousal trickles down, slicking the coarse hair of his thighs.  “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me.” Slotting your mouth over his, you attempt to move, chasing any sort of friction against your clit. Sadly, pleasure doesn’t come on its own—it’s Joel who can make you feel good, and he’s not obliging. His hand seizes your hair in a rough grasp, tugging sharply. Eyes fluttering shut, you hunch forward, submitting to the sharp edge of his control.
“What an impatient little thing y’are.” Joel grabs your thighs and turns you over, your back pressed against the leather seat. The brusque shift pulls him out of you, the cool air a cruel tease before he taps his head against your swollen folds, then fills you again in one powerful thrust, kissing your cervix in the process. A deep moan rips from your lungs, deep and guttural, as your legs tremble uncontrollably on either side of him. Your ankles dig into his back, fervent to keep him close. His balls rest heavy against your skin, full and aching for release. “Gonna give ya’ what y’want, okay? You’ve been on your best behavior,” he mumbles with his lips stuck to your forehead. “That’s a good girl. Think she deserves to come after all.”
Only then does he find his rhythm again, ramming into your drooling hole. For the third time tonight, he’s captivated by how you teeter on the edge of overwhelming pleasure. He has you eating out of his hand, taking all that he offers, and you do so willingly. He knows he could ask you for anything, and in exchange for an orgasm coaxed by him, you'd comply without thinking twice. In many ways, he’s not so different. He gathers some of your saliva, using it to moisten his fingers before slipping them between your bodies, rubbing your clit as he continues to hit your bundle of nerves. Where his stamina comes from, he has no clue, though he’s determined to keep pushing.
Your face becomes a living poem, each cry of yours adding to its verse. Your head nearly reaches the door, but he cradles it with his arm, ensuring you don’t hurt yourself. “Close,” you whine, struggling to keep your eyes from falling shut. “Joel, please. Let me—”
“Give it to me, darlin’.” Another thrust, another moan. “Drench me, c’mon. That’s what y’want, isn’t it? To come all over this cock?”
The way he’s worked you up has its rewards, leading to a release that feels like an eruption. You bite down on his shoulder, your cries growing louder, chanting his name without pause. It loses all meaning after being chanted so many times, but the way you say it still has an undeniable weight. He doesn’t mind it one bit, not when he’s finishing right after you plead him to fill you. His jaw hangs open as ropes of his seed spill inside you, and he sags against your frame, giving short thrusts to push his cum deeper into your warmth, your pussy milking him dry.
“Oh, God…” he groans, fumbling with one of your breasts, holding onto something for dear life. “Jesus Christ.” 
“Don’t pull out yet,” you say, grinning when you feel him twitch. “Stay a little longer.”
Too personal. Too intimate—dangerous in his books. Normally, he'd tuck himself back into his briefs, drive the woman he’s slept with home, and that would be the end of it. No happy endings in his story. So he’s surprised when he supports his weight on his forearms, claiming your lips in a voracious encounter of tongues and teeth. He caresses your cheek, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, and you sigh contentedly.
The two of you lapse into a heavy silence after that. He clears his throat, and says: “I should’ve asked you for your number that one time.” In the heat of the act, he’s being too honest. Regret will come knocking on his door once his excitement fades. His eyes bore into yours, dubious. “M’sorry for that.”
“Well, you could ask me for it now,” you admit from beneath him, and Joel pulls away for a moment, trying to gauge if you’re serious. He doesn’t think you’re joking. “To make up for lost time.”
This must be the onset of something else. He can't quite put it into words, but he feels it in his chest, in every place where your skin merges with his. He's no fortune teller, and there's no way for him to know where this path will take him, whether it leads to ruin or salvation. Though in this moment, he doesn't care—not now, at least.
At last, Joel blindly reaches for the pocket of his jeans with one arm. “How long are you stayin’ in Austin?”
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dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3
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readwritealldayallnight · 28 days ago
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“I just can’t believe it Si…”
“I know, lovie. Me either.”
“They’re so perfect…” you mumble dreamily, only half aware that you’re still going on about the sight in front of you, an overjoyed smile stretched across your lips as you lean back against Simon’s strong, muscular chest. He has his arms wrapped around your middle, chin resting atop of your head as he also gazes down before you both. “I can’t believe we actually made them. We made these perfect little things…”
“Dunno about we, I think you’re givin’ me too much credit there.” He admits, adjusting to press a quick kiss into your hair, craning his head so that now his cheek is smushed against the crown of your head.
“Don’t sell yourself short mister,” You laugh, leaning your head back to try and catch his eye, reaching a hand up behind you to run your fingers through the hair at the base of his scalp, earning a satisfied hum in return, feeling the vibration of it going through his chest into you. “You definitely were a part of the process, Simon. Couldn’t exactly have planted those seeds myself.” You add with a wink.
“Oh I remember, love, I was there.” He chuckles as well, his eyes meeting yours, the overwhelming feeling of pure contentment radiating off you both, the love he has for you reflected back at him in your own shining gaze. “You that did all the hard work though. Growin’ ‘em til they were ready.”
“Yeah but they’re our babies, Si.” You insist, his grip tightening around you at yours words.
“That they are. That they are.” He agrees, glancing down at the baskets set before you.
A moment passes where you continue to hold onto one another, enjoying the bliss that is existing alongside each other, feeling the other breath, heart beats falling into rhythm, both simply appreciating the view in front of you. Though you can’t see him behind you, Simon’s smile is wavering, unsure how to pose his next question, not wanting to sound as though he’s making fun of you.
“We are going to use them at some point though, right?”
“Eventually.”
“M’not sure how long berries last, lovie. And Johnny’s countin’ on that pie we said we’d-”
“Simon,” you cut him off. “Johnny’s damn desert can wait. I’m admiring my children.” You decide, casting another glance towards the baskets full of fresh blueberries, strawberries and raspberries you’d spent so long growing, the very literal fruits of your labour, the first successful pickings from the garden you and Simon planted outside your new home.
“Oh, so they’re your children now, are they?” He teases.
“If you’re talking about eating them so soon then yes, I will take custody.” You joke right back.
“Why’re you so gorgeous when you’re bossy?”
“Probably a side effect of the military, my love.”
“Well maybe we can look at having me plant a different kind of seed soon, aye? Kind that takes about nine months to grow?”
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