#just that only had like four examples

[countdown-til-sanders-take-over]

this is a formal apology for every time i've read ur fnaf theories, gone "ah... of course! yes!" and then forgotten to respond

This is a formal apology for every time I've read one of your asks, not immediately had a TQ&/E, and forgotten to respond

[pallases]

english prof just left LOADS of feedback on my essay omg this is so exciting

[guinevereslancelot]

kinda surreal to watch my friends who are younger than me getting married and having kids meanwhile i haven't ever been in love

[creatediana]

"Junho" - an exercise in willow charcoal done 4/22/2024 in about 20 minutes of Lee Junho from 2PM

[whimsyprinx]

my desire to make more dnd characters vs the fact that I’m in no campaigns and don’t know when or if I’ll be in a campaign are fighting

[fwoosheye]

Good grief if you're younger than Minecraft you shouldn't even have any social media yet. Y'all should be out there and develop social skills and learn how to interact with people irl and stuff. Internet manners ≠ irl manners

imagining a ten year old seeing this tweet and going “damn… i can’t retweet it” before walking away sadly and kicking a can

[drdemonprince]

The data does not support the assumption that all burned out people can “recover.” And when we fully appreciate what burnout signals in the body, and where it comes from on a social, economic, and psychological level, it should become clear to us that there’s nothing beneficial in returning to an unsustainable status quo. 

The term “burned out” is sometimes used to simply mean “stressed” or “tired,” and many organizations benefit from framing the condition in such light terms. Short-term, casual burnout (like you might get after one particularly stressful work deadline, or following final exams) has a positive prognosis: within three months of enjoying a reduced workload and increased time for rest and leisure, 80% of mildly burned-out workers are able to make a full return to their jobs. 

But there’s a lot of unanswered questions lurking behind this happy statistic. For instance, how many workers in this economy actually have the ability to take three months off work to focus on burnout recovery? What happens if a mildly burnt-out person does not get that rest, and has to keep toiling away as more deadlines pile up? And what is the point of returning to work if the job is going to remain as grueling and uncontrollable as it was when it first burned the worker out? 

Burnout that is not treated swiftly can become far more severe. Clinical psychologist and burnout expert Arno van Dam writes that when left unattended (or forcibly pushed through), mild burnout can metastasize into clinical burnout, which the International Classification of Diseases defines as feelings of energy depletion, increased mental distance, and a reduced sense of personal agency. Clinically burned-out people are not only tired, they also feel detached from other people and no longer in control of their lives, in other words.

Unfortunately, clinical burnout has quite a dismal trajectory. Multiple studies by van Dam and others have found that clinical burnout sufferers may require a year or more of rest following treatment before they can feel better, and that some of burnout’s lingering effects don’t go away easily, if at all. 

In one study conducted by Anita Eskildsen, for example, burnout sufferers continued to show memory and processing speed declines one year after burnout. Their cognitive processing skills improved slightly since seeking treatment, but the experience of having been burnt out had still left them operating significantly below their non-burned-out peers or their prior self, with no signs of bouncing back. 

It took two years for subjects in one of van Dam’s studies to return to “normal” levels of involvement and competence at work. following an incident of clinical burnout. However, even after a multi-year recovery period they still performed worse than the non-burned-out control group on a cognitive task designed to test their planning and preparation abilities. Though they no longer qualified as clinically burned out, former burnout sufferers still reported greater exhaustion, fatigue, depression, and distress than controls.

In his review of the scientific literature, van Dam reports that anywhere from 25% to 50% of clinical burnout sufferers do not make a full recovery even four years after their illness. Studies generally find that burnout sufferers make most of their mental and physical health gains in the first year after treatment, but continue to underperform on neuropsychological tests for many years afterward, compared to control subjects who were never burned out. 

People who have experienced burnout report worse memories, slower reaction times, less attentiveness, lower motivation, greater exhaustion, reduced work capability, and more negative health symptoms, long after their period of overwork has stopped. It’s as if burnout sufferers have fallen off their previous life trajectory, and cannot ever climb fully back up. 

And that’s just among the people who receive some kind of treatment for their burnout and have the opportunity to rest. I found one study that followed burned-out teachers for seven years and reported over 14% of them remained highly burnt-out the entire time. These teachers continued feeling depersonalized, emotionally drained, ineffective, dizzy, sick to their stomachs, and desperate to leave their jobs for the better part of a decade. But they kept working in spite of it (or more likely, from a lack of other options), lowering their odds of ever healing all the while. 

Van Dam observes that clinical burnout patients tend to suffer from an excess of perseverance, rather than the opposite: “Patients with clinical burnout…report that they ignored stress symptoms for several years,” he writes. “Living a stressful life was a normal condition for them. Some were not even aware of the stressfulness of their lives, until they collapsed.”

Instead of seeking help for workplace problems or reducing their workload, as most people do, clinical burnout sufferers typically push themselves through unpleasant circumstances and avoid asking for help. They’re also less likely to give up when placed under frustrating circumstances, instead throttling the gas in hopes that their problems can be fixed with extra effort. They become hyperactive, unable to rest or enjoy holidays, their bodies wired to treat work as the solution to every problem. It is only after living at this unrelenting pace for years that they tumble into severe burnout. 

Among both masked Autistics and overworked employees, the people most likely to reach catastrophic, body-breaking levels of burnout are the people most primed to ignore their own physical boundaries for as long as possible. Clinical burnout sufferers work far past the point that virtually anyone else would ask for help, take a break, or stop caring about their work.

And when viewed from this perspective, we can see burnout as the saving grace of the compulsive workaholic — and the path to liberation for the masked disabled person who has nearly killed themselves trying to pass as a diligent worker bee. 

I wrote about the latest data on burnout "recovery," and the similarities and differences between Autistic burnout and conventional clinical burnout. The full piece is free to read or have narrated to you in the Substack app at drdevonprice.substack.com

[farawayfromthemoon]

cmon Berlin you can do better 🥲

[clockwayswrites]

5 Times the JL Learned Batman was Married and the 1 Time They Met the Spouse.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five.

Barry sped into his seat. The chair rocked with the sudden occupation and settled just before the monitor flicked over from the Justice League logo to Batman’s face.

Barry leaned over to Hal. “Is it just me or is he extra scary all large up on the screen like that?”

“I don’t know,” Hal whispered back with a smirk. “I think the glare loses something.”

“Hum. You know, I don’t think he’s actually glaring yet. I think that’s just the pain,” Barry decided.

The fact that Batman wasn’t at a hundred percent was obvious. Instead of his usual heavily armored suit, he was in some sort of under shirt that definitely wasn’t made for heavy fighting. More startling, he was in a domino like Nightingale wore rather than his full cowl. The edge of a white bandage was stark against his neck.

“Oh come on, don’t say that,” Hal whined, though kept it low enough for only Barry (and nosy Supermen) to hear. “That’s just depressing. Spooky shouldn’t be down and out like that.”

“You know he’d be here in person if he wasn’t, and I mean,” Barry said with a little gesture towards the screen.

Whatever Hal was going to say got put to the side as Wonder Woman stood.

“Obviously, the last mission was a hard one,” she said, as if Batman being too hurt to come in person wasn’t example enough of that. “I believe we can all agree that going over the facts to make sure we are either better prepared for the next threat like this or can even prevent it is wise. Batman, if you will—”

Wonder Woman cut herself off with a bemused smile as she looked at the screen.

There was someone else on the display with Batman. The League couldn’t clearly see the person what with the lighting and camera angle, really they were hardly more than a shadow, but that wasn’t too important. What caught Barry’s attention, at least, was the look on Batman’s face.

It was soft.

Maybe they could just see more without the usual cowl but Batman was looking at the person like Barry had never seen the man look at anyone else.

Batman’s mouth moved, but there was no sound. Still it was obvious that he let out one of his little huffs of air before he leaned forward to accept a water bottle and something else. Medication, Barry guessed, by the way Batman knocked it back. He shook his head once before he glanced back at the screen.

Instantly his face schooled into his normal stoic mask. It was so quick a transformation that if Barry hadn’t seen the soft look himself he wouldn’t have believed it ever existed.

The other figure moved off screen as Batman unmuted. “My apology, apparently I was over due some medication. My husband is a little… pushy about that.”

A loud snort of laughter came off screen.

Batman glanced briefly that way.

“Holy shit, Batman has a husband?” Barry whispered.

“Wild, right?” Hal murmured back.

[timmydraker]

Tim Drakes parents were very traditional and overly proud of the fact that they came from old money.

They boasted about this in many ways for several years, but once their son was born they decided they would use him as a prime example of how they would continue the old ways they learnt.

Tim learnt things like piano and proper dinner etiquette before he was four, and learnt old Latin and French as a means to showcase his wealth and knowledge. They made him learn many things and luckily he enjoyed most of them, especially when it came to STEM and reading.

They also valued the arts and wanted him to learn as much as he could about architecture and literature.

When he showcased some knowledge for waltz and ballroom dancing, they decided he should do dance lessons.

This is where Tim discovered Ballet and fell deeply in love with the artistic and passionate form of dance. He began to study it around the same time he grew an interest in Batman, though he had yet to try get photos of the man.

Tim talked to his instructor and asked the older man about male dancers in Ballet and Mr Volkov was more that happy to help. Tim’s parents weren’t very in tuned with their son by that point and only cared that he was attending classes that were traditional, so they payed no mind to him learning ballet.

The skills he learnt regarding balance and core strength was greatly appreciated when he began to stalk Batman and Robin. He would do his warm up stretches while thinking about what patrol route the two would make that night, considering why Bruce Wayne chose to become The Bat while he counted each step 1, 2, 3, 4 with the music. He wondered to himself why Jason Todd became Robin when Dick Graysons motivations were much more obvious as he practiced and perfected sauté and focused on how his hands were placed, something he often forget was important.

By the time he became Robin he had been allowed to do several permanences, and was practicing for his role as Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake in just a few months.

It was one of his biggest dreams to play as the Prince in such an iconic performance, especially when he got along well with both Odettes dancer and Odile’s.

Bruce and Dick are excited for him, though Dick shows it better, and Tim is overjoyed to know that his parents will be in town when the opening night is. They say they’ll come and are proud of him for being in such a well known play and doing so in the traditional manner that the play was once made in.

Tim does wonderfully and Alfred organises for it to be recorded for them all to watch later.

Tim is greeted by them back stage after it ends and excitedly runs up to Dick to receive a huge hug. Dick is loudly saying how proud he is and that he’s so impressed his brother can do such an amazing dance. It’s the first time they’ve seen him perform and they were enamoured.

But Bruce looks tense.

“Bruce? Did… did you not like-“

Bruce cuts him off with a hug, “Of course I like it. Loved it even. It’s just…”

It’s then that Tim looks around and notices his parents aren’t there. They could have just gone home, but they wouldn’t give up a chance to boast about their money and successful heir.

Unless…

Tim looks down and tries to hold back his tears, “they didn’t show, huh?”

Tim can’t help but break down once Dick moves in to hug him, yet as Mr Volkov and some of his costars who are his friends come up and join them, he feels okay.

It’s not Janet and Jack, but it’s nice. It’s warm and kind and maybe that’s all that matters.

[emptymasks]

They're done! I really want to try and make prints again as it's been years and I've never felt like I was very good at making whole posters. Dipping my toe back in with these silly chibis of each Papa with every Ghoul they've had. Perhaps they can also work as a guide for those wanting to learn all the characters? I added in a fair amount of little references with the Ghoul's poses so it'll be interesting to see what you guys figure out and notice!

The prints are on pre-order and won't ship out until November. I've put up 25 of each to start with but if they get low on stock I'll keep adding more until I have them printed and then it'll be a set amount in stock.

Also a reminder about the stickers of every Ghost Papa and Ghoul that I made earlier this year that are also available as customisable badges! Thank you so much to everyone who already bought them and got Etsy to list them as a 'bestseller' for a while. They're still up and in stock.

EDIT: someone informed me Delta was not in Secondo's era so sorry little water ghoul but he got edited out of that drawing.

Characters featured on the prints and are also available on stickers and badges: Papa Emeritus I / Primo, Papa Emeritus II / Secondo, Papa Emerirus III / Terzo, Papa Emeritus IV / Cardinal Copia, Aether, Air, Alpha / Fire, Aurora, Chain / Water, Cirrus, Cowbell, Cumulus, Delta, Dewdrop / Sodo, Earth, Ifrit, Ivy, Lake, Mist, Mountain, Omega / Quintessence, Pebble, Phantom, Phil / Special Ghoul, Rain, Sunshine, Swiss, Zephy.

I can’t link to my Etsy without risking Tumblr hiding the post from tag search results, but the link is in my pinned post, my carrd, I’m emptymasks on Etsy. Reblogs help support artists more than likes ❤️

[ID: Four landscape drawings, one for each of Ghost's Papas and the Ghouls that were in the band with them while they were the lead singer. Each Papa is in the center with each of their ghouls standings to their sides. Every character has their name written above or below them, on brightly coloured backgrounds for each Papa's robe colour. Also, individual pixel art chibi drawings of 69 characters from various European musicals (listed above) that are available as stickers. These drawings are also available as badges where they are placed inside circles to show what they will look like as physical button badges, some of them with plain colour backgrounds and some with 1-3 different pride flags as examples of how you can customise the backgrounds.]

For those who want to know what the little references in the prints are and don't want to guess, they're under the cut:

Omega can be a stompy boy when he's playing guitar, Alpha likes to throw up peace signs, Air is very found of the rock horns hand symbol, there's one close-up photo of Lake out there where you can clearly see his black sclera contacts and he's doing double 'horns' hand symbol, Mountain infamously takes his shoes off when playing the drums and leaves them on the stage at the site of his drumkit, Dewdrop likes to like.. most things including his guitar and his picks and sometimes his own hand, Pebble liked to hand out his drumsticks at the end of shows by dropkicking them into the crowd, Omega wore a flower tucked into his guitar strap during one show and Terzo constantly flirts with him more than other ghouls, Delta is suspected to be the ghoul that attempted to kick an audience member off stage when they climbed onstage and attempted to kiss Terzo, Zephyr was the only band member and only keyboardist who sat down while playing, the special ghoul played by Tobias wore a nametag 'Phil' in an interview, Swiss constantly is showing all his teethies with his smiles and always wiggling and moving around, Aether and Dewdrop often interact with Dew teasing/bothering Aether, Dew and Rain also often interact with Dew constantly reaching to grab his neck and attempt to kiss him, aaaand I think that's everything I intentionally included other than just generally tried to get the poses and expressions to match the personality we've seen from each ghoul.

[cutebat]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected, but Defiant Reader

The First Page

Warning(s): Neglect, emotional abuse, physical abuse, mind break (There are no yandere themes yet, but will be in another chapter)

(This chapter is basically the first part of the prologue and some things fixed)

~~~~~

10 years old.

You were only 10 years old when the Gotham's billionaire, Bruce Wayne, entered through the doors of the orphanage that you lived under of.

You could remember the owner holding your hand as she lead you to the man who is going to be your father.

You remember when he placed his hand on your head as he introduced himself to you and promised that he'll give you a great life.

You remember when you came to the manor as he introduced you to your new family that consists of four new older brothers, one new older sister, and a butler.

You remember when everyone would talk to you and welcome you with loving embraces.

You also remember a few days foward when Bruce gave you a costume that resembled a white dress with pink details, which earned you the title of Batgirl.

And after all of that, it's like it never happened.

~~~~~

You are now being ignored by everyone.

Nobody gave you a glance, made excuses, and basically beat the shit out of you. Well, not exactly.

For example, there was one day when you came up to Bruce with a flyer in your hand.

"Um, hi, Bruce... I know you're busy right now, but... I'm going to have a school play and I got the main role. So... I hope you can stop by and watch."

You tell him in the nicest way possible.

However, Bruce was so focused on his paperwork that he didn't give you a glance. All he said was...

"Hm? Yeah, I'll go check it out if I finish all of this."

And suprise, suprise, he never showed up.

This resulted in you crying in the girl's restroom all alone in your costume.

~~~~~

There was also a time when you felt like you needed to train more, so you did it by going up to Dick who seems to be training with Damian.

"Um, guys? Can I join you two?"

You ask as you smile awkwardly as your two older brothers turned to you.

Which is why you became surprised when Dick smiles.

"Sure! But, do you mind if you wait until me and Damian are done with this sparring session? It won't take too long."

He said with a chuckle as Damian looked like he was glaring at his little sister.

You didn't want to be rude, which is why you just nodded before you went over to the corner and watched your brothers train.

As an hour passed, Dick and Damian stopped, which made you take the chance to finally train with them.

However, you seemed confused when you saw the two turning around and walking out of the batcave.

"He-Hey, Dick? I thought you and Damian were going to train with me."

You speak up in a timid tone, which the two clearly heard.

"Oh, about that. Sorry, (name), but we were already planning to go to the cafe for a break. Maybe tomorrow, okay?"

Dick said with an 'apologetic' expression before he leaves with Damian.

Because of this, you never asked him to train with you again.

~~~~~

These were all easily common, but there were some moments when it scarred you.

One time, Tim was basically forced to bring you to a mission along with his friends.

As the patrol went on, you seemed to get distracted a bit when you spotted Conner having some trouble.

Because of this, you left the scene and quickly dived in and fought alongside the teenage Kryptonian. Thanks to you, everything was handled.

Conner thanked you before someone yelled out your name. This made you jolt as you turned to see an angry Tim storming over to you.

Before you can say anything, he cuts you in.

"What on earth were you doing?! I told you to stay where you are, and you just had to ignore everything I say, don't you?!"

He yells as if someone murdered his close family member.

This made you so shocked as Conner was stunned. When Cassie and Bart came over to the spot, they were both shocked to see their friend, yelling at his little sister.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Calm down, Tim. (name) didn't do anything wrong. I was the one who called her over to help me."

Conner defends you, but of course, Tim doesn't listen.

"Don't even try to defend her! She knows what she did! Oh, I am SO going to report this to Batman, so don't even try to cover yourself up!"

Tim said in a frustrated and angry tone towards you before he used his grappling hook and swooped down, leaving you behind with his friends.

"Hey, what the hell, asshole!"

Conner shouts out at his friend as he was shocked to him this angry.

He lets out a sigh before he looks over to see Cassie and Bart, comforting you as you are crying in their arms.

~~~~~

Yelling wasn't the only thing that you had to endure.

You even went through moments when things got a little too... physical.

It all happened when you were just trying to help someone in need.

You were walking down the hallway during the night as you just wanted a cup of water. As you were wandering down the hallway, you noticed some voices from someone's bedroom.

Jason's bedroom.

This made you curious as you got close to the door to hear Jason talking amongst himself as he sat on the edge of his bed.

He kept muttering stuff out of his mouth, which made you worried.

That is when you made a mistake by going inside.

"Jason...? Are you okay?"

You ask in a timid voice.

At that moment, Jason snaps his head towards you before everything starts to go blur. All you remember is him grabbing something like a pole type object before it was brought down towards your head.

And then, you woke up in your own bedroom, except you have a bandage wrapped around your head.

When you sat up, all you saw was Alfred, the family's loyal butler. No sign of your other family around, concerning about you.

Luckily, you recovered, and the wound went away after a month.

And, of course, Jason never apologized for what he did to you.

~~~~~

A few months was in, and no improvement has been made. You were always ignored. They made excuses of not wanting to spend time with you, and some of them actually hit you a few times.

All of that happened to your ten year old self.

But, did you give up on that spot? Nope.

You discovered on the internet what you can do to please your family to gain their attention. There were a lot of results, but the one that kept popping up the most was trying to reach your best achievements, which would result in them showing you more support from them.

And that's what you did.

You started to join in many after-school activities and studied all your might. It was tiring, and you almost passed out from exhaustion, but you kept going because you wanted at least your family to notice you.

The problem is that they never did.

They never congratulated you, celebrated on your accomplishment, and most of all, they didn't even give you a glance when you showed off.

All of that for nothing. Damn.

~~~~~

The breaking point wasn't because of all that. It was when someone else entered the family.

Duke Thomas.

A metahuman teenager whose parents died from the Joker Venom.

You thought that they might treat him the same way that they had treated you.

But, nothing.

Duke was showered with love, attention, and even praise.

The things that you never got when you came here.

Whenever you pass by whatever event that they're holding, you will always see them together. Being all happy, chatting, and laughing with one another.

They never do that when they're around you. Even on your birthdays. Actually, when was the last time they all celebrated your birthday?

At that moment, something inside you just snapped. Like, a loud crack echoes through your head that makes a loud ringing sound, kind of like a wake-up call.

Then, it all clicked.

They never cared about you.

They never even liked you.

The only reason why Bruce adopted you is because nobody wanted to.

~~~~~

The thoughts kept running through your head as you walked into an alleyway with a trash bag in hand.

Earlier today at school, you dropped out the clubs that you absolutely hated and pretty much just purposely laid back in your classes.

You feel empty.

When you finally reach the dumpster, you got on top of some stacked boxes because of your height and open the large lid.

You could only stare inside that had a lot of black colored trash bags. Your eyes were blank as you stared down inside.

That's when you muttered out.

"Why even bother...?"

With that, you tossed the trash bag that you were holding on into the dumpster.

After what it felt like hours, you finally got off of the boxes that you were standing on top of before you walked out of the alleyway.

As you walked away, something fell out of the trash bag that you threw out.

It was a white bat eared helmet.

The accessory that once matched with your costume.

That's right.

You were no longer Batgirl.

You never were, anyway.

•

•

•

Taglist: @somebodyrandom-613 @delias-stuff @endism @ragdol-666 @snowy-violet @sleepydhanie @missikkj @k1ttys-w0rld @box-of-kinderjoy @thetreefairypersonalblog @thelibraryofdeez @animegoddess15

(If you want to be on the taglist, let me know!)

[teapartyprincess4two]

Hi

Can i ask for a johnnie guilbert x reader where the reader is a friend of tara who is a very private person, so she gets know in the channel as "baby" and people start to notice that johnnie gets shy and is always looking somewhere off camera (to her)

A LOTTTT of pinning by johnnie (like so much it hurts)

And maybe at the end he confesses she kisses him and a lil sum-sum 😏

Thank uuuuu 😘

Babygirl- J. Guilbert

pairing: shy!reader x Johnnie

classification: fluff

warning: use of y/n, slight cursing, slow build up, Jake and Tara are dating in this, suggestive content but NO smut, very long

inspiration: request^^, Deaf, Mute, and Blind Baking, Becoming Tara Yummy for a Day

summary: You didn’t choose a life in the limelight, you were just famous by association, and now you’ve earned yourself the nickname “babygirl” by the entire internet.

—

Most people wish they had the fame you had, they spend their entire life reaching for an unattainable dream that fell in your lap by coincidence. They wish for the fancy cars, the expensive clothes, and especially to be so famous they’re stopped by fans on the street for a picture.

Tara, your best friend, was one of those people. She spent her childhood and teenage years fangirling over pop stars and YouTubers, hoping that one day people would be fangirling over her too. She worked hard to earn the platform she has today, bringing you along with her to the top. But you never asked for any of this.

At first her newfound fame didn’t affect you, you were just a recurring background character in her videos and would sometimes, but very rarely, have a main role in them. Although you tried remaining in the background, the internet is quick to get attached to shy, background characters and before you knew it the fans were begging for more content with you.

So now you and Tara are a well known YouTube duo and you’re featured in almost every one of her videos, most of the time opting to participate from behind the camera. You especially remain behind the scenes when Jake and Johnnie are involved, specifically because you’re never able to hide your crush on Johnnie and would probably die from embarrassment if the fans caught on.

Like today for example, Jake and Johnnie are over at your house filming. They’re filming a video they’ve filmed many times before, they’re turning Tara emo. The three of them are piled onto the couch, discussing topic after topic as Johnnie packs on black eyeshadow on Tara’s eyes.

“Ow, Johnnie. You’re hurting me!” she squeals as Johnnie accidentally pokes her in the eye with the bristles of the brush. You can’t help but giggle from behind the camera, watching as Johnnie becomes flustered. “Sorry! I only ever do my own makeup, okay?” he apologizes, not becoming any more gentle with his motions. Johnnie glances at you quickly, a smile forming on his face because of your laughter.

“Why are you laughing, Y/n? You’re next,” Jake chimes in, following his statement with a boisterous laugh. Your face flushes slightly as you reply with a laugh, “no I’d prefer not to be tortured.” Johnnie laughs at this, sending you a fake pout, “you hate my look that much?”

Your face becomes even more red, if that was even possible. You didn’t mean the comment like that. Tara, whose face is being attacked with makeup, chimes in, “No, Y/n is too babygirl for this.”

“Oh God, you’re making me sound so high maintenance,” you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief at Tara’s comment. “It’s true though!” she exclaims, turning to face you just as Johnnie begins applying eyeliner, causing a black streak to run from the corner of her eye to her hairline.

“Guys, Y/n is probably the most high maintenance out of the four of us. She gets a manicure exactly every two weeks, she gets her hair redyed like once a month, her room is NEVER dirty. She almost never ever has dirty laundry, AND she irons her clothes. Who irons their clothes?” Tara exclaims, flailing her arms in the air dramatically.

“So yes, she’s babygirl,” Tara’s talking to the camera now, completely oblivious to her appearance. You scrunch your name at the nickname, the internet tended to latch onto things like that, “First of all, you look ridiculous right now. And secondly, don’t call me that. I don’t need to be known as ‘babygirl’ for the rest of my life,” you reply, laughing as Johnnie tries to fix his mistake but fails.

Jake, who’s sitting on the couch next to Johnnie, straightens up and leans forward to look at Tara. He immediately laughs at the sight, the black eyeliner smudged all over her face. “You’re just mad that it has a nice ring to it,” Tara retorts, choosing to ignore the mess Johnnie made. You scoff, glad that the camera isn’t on you to catch how your eyes train on Johnnie.

“Okay, but doesn’t it sound cute?” Tara proposes the question to the boys, waiting expectantly for them to answer. Jake was always quick to agree with her, it was a trait she trained him to have over the years of their relationship, “yeah, it’s pretty cute.” Tara nods her head in triumph, turning to Johnnie for his response.

Johnnie doesn’t know what to say, he agrees that the nickname is cute, but he’s afraid he’ll say too much and expose his crush for you. “Johnnie?” Tara says, widening her eyes as she awaits his response.

“What was the nickname again?” Johnnie asks, trying to act casual. But if the cameras zoomed in they’d easily catch how his hands tremble as he fixes Tara’s eyeliner. “Babygirl?” he reiterates, attempting to sound confused and oblivious. Tara nods her head, causing Johnnie to mess up once again, but he’s too busy trying to keep his composure to care.

Coming from him the nickname doesn’t sound so bad, it actually makes you want to take back everything you just said. “Babygirl is cute,” he murmurs, sending you a small glance before quickly turning back towards Tara. You hide your face in your hands, trying to hide your flushed cheeks and the smile that won’t go away no matter how hard you try.

“Enough with the babygirl talk,” you groan, but you really loved hearing him say it.

—

From that moment on, you were known as babygirl within the fandom. You couldn’t escape the nickname no matter how hard you tried, and the fans loved teasing you about it. Whether it be through edits, Instagram comments, or tweets; the fans were always calling you the nickname.

Johnnie, Jake and Tara are currently filming yet another video, despite your protests. The three of them are standing behind the kitchen counter, with either tape on their mouths, earmuffs on, or blindfolded. They were trying to bake a cake, something they struggled to do even without the inhibiting factors, so all they were really doing was making a big mess.

They understand your hesitance with being on camera, so they never force you to make any special appearances, but you still loved to watch. You sit behind the counter, just out of view of the camera, watching in amusement as the three interact.

Johnnie keeps getting distracted by you, fumbling and stuttering his way through the intro. You watch as Johnnie struggles to find the supplies needed for the video, searching through every cabinet in the kitchen. “Every time Johnnie says he’s ready, he’s never ready,” Jake comments, adjusting the black beanie on his head. “Where the fuck did I put it? No, Jake where did you put it?” Johnnie replies, scavenging for the baking supplies.

“They’re in the pantry,” you comment, walking over to Johnnie briefly and guiding him towards the pantry. Johnnie smiles at you, grateful that there’s at least one sane person here to help him. The interaction was caught on camera, but you were too distracted to realize.

“Thanks babygirl,” Tara exclaims, bopping her head to the music blasting through her headphones. You roll your eyes, helping Johnnie take everything out of the grocery bags and sprawling them out onto the counter. Once everything is in order, Johnnie’s mouth is quickly covered with a sticker, but he’s happy he isn’t blindfolded because he can keep sneaking glances at you.

The entire situation was chaotic, none of them had any clue how to communicate properly and they had less knowledge on how to bake a cake. Jake’s arms were stretched forward as he tried finding his way through the kitchen, Tara’s loud singing making it hard for them to concentrate on one task alone.

Tara, who wore the headphones, was more focused on singing than the cake. You watch them intently, unable to stop yourself from laughing, “you need to whisk the cake!” Tara, who can’t hear a single thing you’re saying, repeats your statement causing you to burst into laughter.

Johnnie pulls out a plastic butter knife, deeming it appropriate for the task. “Get the beater!” Tara yells, following it by belting out song lyrics. Johnnie has no idea what Tara is talking about, so he sends you a pleading look. If there’s anyone here who’s going to help him finish this cake, it’s you.

“The whisk, get the whisk!” you exclaim, trying to talk over Tara’s singing as best as possible.

“What’s going on?!” Jake asks, one of his flailing arms slapping both Johnnie and Tara. Johnnie’s laughs are muffled by the sticker as he holds the whisk out for Jake, guiding him to the bowl.

“Babygirl?!” Tara is being so loud, her voice a good three octaves higher than normal. “Stop yelling!” you exclaim, but she ignores you and changes the song, continuing to belt out the lyrics.

“Y/n, we need your help,” Jake comments, stirring the bowl so aggressively that it was twirling. “We have no idea what we’re doing,” he continues, lifting the whisk up and blindly taking a lick.

“JAKE DON’T LICK IT!” Tara yells.

Johnnie’s laughter and shocked scream are muffled, his face scrunched up as he laughs uncontrollably, and you can’t look away. You wish you weren’t so shy, so that way you’d be able to join them in this fun activity without feeling anxious.

“This cake is going to be so bad,” you chuckle, catching Johnnie’s attention. His eyes linger on you for a little too long, a moment the fans were definitely going to clip and edit.

“What did you say?! Did you say my singing is bad?!” Tara is still yelling, following each and every statement with loud singing.

Many dirty dishes and a messy kitchen later, the cake is finally done. The oven rings throughout the kitchen, and Jake and Tara send Johnnie to fish the hot pan out. The cake didn’t look too bad, but considering you watched them make it, you weren’t too excited to actually try it.

“You have to wait until it cools to frost it!” Tara exclaims, the headphones causing her volume to be more than pleasant. Johnnie can’t respond because of the sticker, and he doesn’t want to wait for it to cool, so he continues haphazardly spreading the icing over the camera. Jake, on the other hand, is in his own world.

“That actually looks disgusting. It’s raw,” you gasp, watching as Johnnie lifts the spatula to reveal an uncooked, watery mess. “It’s undercooked!” Tara yells, her inability to hear you causing her to repeat everything you say in different words.

Johnnie’s muffled laughter is infectious, earning a string of laughter from you. “Let’s just eat it,” Jake suggests, facing the complete opposite direction of the group. The beanie on his head inhibits him from seeing the state of the cake, but even if he could see it, he would probably still ask for a bite.

“Wait let me help,” you get up from your seat and walk behind the countertop, immediately searching for something to serve the cake in. “This is gonna have to do it,” you hand Johnnie three plastic cups. He scoops up the raw batter, the liquid cake jiggling in the cup and running down the sides, immediately coating his fingers in frosting and batter.

“We’re gonna get salmonella,” Tara is staring at the goopy mess in shock, how had they managed to mess up such a simple recipe?

“I wanna see… I think we should take this off,” Jake yanks his beanie off, a fit of laughter attacking him as soon as he sees the state of the cake. Tara was subconsciously poking at it, creating a big hole in the center. Johnnie’s hands were full of chocolate frosting, and he held them up in exasperation as he waited for someone to remove the sticker from his mouth.

“Here lemme help you,” you murmur, gentle hands removing the sticker. Your touch lingers a little too long, but he doesn’t complain. If he had it his way, you’d have your arms around his neck and his lips would be on yours.

“Thanks, babygirl,” he whispers in return, loving how easily the nickname riled you up. You hated how much you loved hearing him say it.

“This is actually not that bad!” Tara’s boisterous voice breaks you two from the intimate moment, forcing you to reenter reality. “Try it,” Jake suggests, going back for a second scoop.

Johnnie is hesitant, but he grabs the cup and puts a spoonful of the raw cake batter in his mouth. His face contorts in disgust, but it couldn’t be that bad, could it? “Here let me try,” you take the cup from him, using his spoon to take your own bite.

As soon as the cake hits your tongue, you’re gagging. “Oh wow this is horrible,” you say, fighting the urge to throw up. They’re all laughing at your reaction, Jake pulling a long hair from his mouth in the process. “I love this hair, adds flavor.”

“Oh my God, I’m gonna throw up,” the hair Jake held between his fingers was only making the situation worse for you.

“See, she’s so babygirl,” Tara laughs, joking about the situation even if she found it equally as gross.

—

It seemed like your friends were always filming because every time the four of you hung out there always seemed to be a camera lurking not too far. Like today for example, Tara gathered everyone for a casual hangout, but once you arrived she explained that everyone was going to be living like her for the day. At first, you declined her invitation, making a lame excuse about not feeling good. But she begged and begged for you to be in the video, and before you knew it you were an integral part of it.

“Okay, since you guys are becoming me for the day, it’s only fitting that you dress the part. So, put on these track suits,” Tara says as she hands you, Jake, and Johnnie each a pink track suit. You’re trying to hide from the camera as much as possible, but Tara keeps pulling you back in every time you almost wander away.

The three of you shimmy into the outfits, immediately feeling the Tara Yummy essence wash over you.

“This is sexy,” Jake comments, admiring his figure as the sweatpants hang loosely from his hips. “I’m serving cunt,” Johnnie says, joining Jake in admiring himself. Their tattoos peeked through, contrasting the pink outfits entirely.

You emerge from the hallway seconds later, the track suit providing you with a newfound confidence, “I feel so stupid, but I also kinda feel like that bitch.” You stand still, allowing the camera to pan to you before hitting a dramatic pose. You turn around to show the camera the backside of the suit, the word babygirl written in curly white letters across your ass. “Slay, babygirl, slay,” Tara chimes in, strutting over to you and hitting the same pose.

“Let’s please not start with the babygirl jokes,” you groan jokingly, adjusting the sweatpants that kept riding up, you were starting to get a wedge. But you knew you weren’t going to escape the babygirl comments today, especially not with it written across your backside. It was like a label that you were forced to wear for the rest of the day, and the fans would surely seize the opportunity and run with it. To top it all off, the four of you were so well color coordinated that you looked like a 90’s girl group, ready to perform on stage at any moment.

“This is fun, but I still don’t understand why I’m being forced to do this,” you say, staring at Tara blankly.

“Because you’re my best friend,” she replies cheerily, offering you a big smile and booping your nose. It was hard to stay mad at her. She walks away, joining Jake as they engage in conversation.

“And you’re babygirl,” Johnnie teases, coming up from behind you unexpectedly, immediately causing a blush to form on your face. He loved watching you get flustered over the nickname. He laughs at your reactions, relishing every bit of it.

“Alright, first things first, time to eat. Mama’s hungry,” Tara says, ignoring yours and Johnnie’s interaction before facing the camera and leading everyone to the car. Jake and Tara are far ahead, leaving you and Johnnie to trail behind.

“It’s gonna be leaves,” Johnnie whispers to you, earning a laugh in response. He loved making you laugh. “Yeah, how much you wanna bet we end up at Health Nut?” you ask, settling the bet with a firm handshake between you and Johnnie. His hand holds a firm grip on yours, almost like he’s hesitant to let go as he says goofily, “$2, take it or leave it.”

As predicted, the four of you end up at Tara’s favorite restaurant; Health Nut. It’s no one else’s restaurant of choice, but you’re living as Tara for the day so it doesn’t matter what the rest of you want. You’ve been here with Tara enough to be familiar with the menu, so you order a simple salad and drink before moving to the side and allowing Johnnie to order. Once he’s finished ordering, he pays for your meals before letting Jake and Tara order.

Johnnie is playing it up for the cameras, trying to embarrass himself with his actions before the pink track suit does it for him. He’s sitting on a toddler chair and you stand next to him, choosing him as your comfort zone.

Because you always opted to remain behind the scenes, most of the viewers weren’t completely aware of yours and Johnnie’s dynamic. You two were always clinging to each other in uncomfortable or unfamiliar situations, making quiet jokes to make the other laugh. You both also had a huge crush on each other, which further served as a gravitational pull.

“Order for… babygirl?” the employee calls out, a hint of confusion in their voice as they read the name on the order. This immediately causes you to laugh out loud. “You did not do that,” you whisper shout at Johnnie, who held his hands up in feigned defense as he tries not to burst into laughter. You awkwardly grab the food, both of youwalking over to Tara and Jake’s table.

“Did they just call you babygirl?” Tara asks as soon as you’re sitting down. “Yes dude, fucking Johnnie told them that was my name,” you laugh, hiding your red face in your hands. They call out Tara’s name and she dismisses herself briefly to pick up the food.

“Let’s go!” She exclaims from the restaurant’s front door, bag and drink in hand as she pushes the door open and walks outside. “Oh, I guess Tara Yummy eats in the car,” Jake says sarcastically, the three of you following Tara to the car.

Once you’re in the car, you and Johnnie sit in the backseat while Jake and Tara occupy the front. “I wanted to eat in there, but you guys are so embarrassing,” Tara says, handing Jake his food.

She doesn’t give any of you enough time to respond, “you guys are already pretty embarrassing, but the pink track suits make us all look genuinely crazy.” She’s obnoxiously shaking her salad from the front seat, causing the entire car to rock.

“Damn, don’t gotta put your whole pussy into it,” Jake laughs, earning a sly remark from Tara. Soon, they’re lost in a conversation of their own, leaving you and Johnnie to talk quietly in the back seat.

“Why do you keep pushing this ‘babygirl agenda,’ sir?” You ask, both in true curiosity and to make light of the nickname. He blushes, mindlessly picking at the salad in front of him.

“Oh come on, don’t get all shy now,” you tease, piling up a good bite on your fork. He smiles at you awkwardly, preparing to admit something embarrassing.

“I think it’s kinda cute,” he admits with a shrug, taking a big bite of his food. Your eyes blow open in shock, this whole time you thought he was teasing you, but now it turns out he thinks it’s a cute nickname? “Don’t make fun of me,” Johnnie pleads in defense through a mouthful of food.

“I’m not, I just wasn’t expecting that,” you respond, trying not to be too loud. You couldn’t help it though, your giggles were soon filling the backseat. There was something about the confession that gave you hope that maybe you and Johnnie could be more than just friends. But you don’t want to get your hopes up, ir could easily all be for the video. You’re about to say something crazy and bold, but you’re cut off by Tara.

“Are you two done flirting? Cause I’m in the mood for coffee.” Leave it to her to ruin a sweet moment.

—

The day is finally over and the four of you are now wearing pajamas, reminiscing on the day’s events. Tara and Jake leave once the video is over, leaving you and Johnnie to lay on the large couch. The room is silent, but it’s not awkward, you’re both just catching up and joking.

“I was serious earlier, by the way,” he murmurs, staring at the ceiling above. “Yeah?” you say in a teasing tone, rolling over on your side so you’re facing him.

He takes a deep breath before continuing, “Yeah. If I’m being honest, I’ve had a crush on you for a long time. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed, I mean the fans definitely have.” You mindlessly play with the strings of your robe, subconsciously scooting closer to him.

“So that’s why you keep calling me babygirl?”

“Mmm yeah, mostly. I think it sounds cute,” he smiles down at you, your figure just slightly further down the couch. You feel a surge of confidence wash over you, something you don’t usually feel as a shy person, and straddle his lap.

He looks at you in shock, both arms limp at his sides. “Say it,” you whisper, moving your face dangerously closer to his. You use your hands to grab his, placing them on your waist. He feels excited, nervous, and shocked all at the same time, was this really happening?

You grind your hips down onto him, hoping to elicit a response from him. “Babygirl,” he whimpers, the sudden friction sending a shiver up his spine that has his hips bucking. You hum in response, finally inching close enough to connect your lips to his.

You’re in a heated make out session, completely obvious to the world around you. Johnnie’s hands are roaming your body, your hips are grinding down onto him, and your fingers are tangled in his hair. You kiss from his lips down to his neck, sucking and biting the delicious skin until you leave a hickey.

The situation is about to escalate, but Jake and Tara interrupt before it can. They saunter in loudly, both you and Johnnie jumping off of each other in shock.

“About damn time!” Jake says, applauding you both for finally make a move on each other. “Get it babygirl!” Tara laughs, joining Jake in his obnoxious round of applause.

“So annoying,” you groan, throwing a pillow at them and shooing them out. Once they’re out of the room, you and Johnnie share a sheepish look.

“You’re never escaping that nickname,” he chuckles, silently pulling you back on top of him. “That’s okay. If you’re the one saying it, I don’t mind,” you murmur, kissing him again.

“Okay, babygirl.”

—

MASTERLIST

a/n: Such a good request, I LUV being challenged with these specific requests!!! Hope I did it justice bby, I rewrote this like 5 times & had a different storyline each time. Also, I mentioned the famous hickey (💀💀) and I changed it from “baby” to “babygirl” because he mentioned that he’s “so babygirl” on Trisha’s podcast.

anyways, enjoy hunny bunches. Luv uuuuu

-L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

—

taglist: @nicksmainbitch @sturniololovers @mayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐

note: requests are open, I will be writing as many as possible because you guys have sooo many good ideas. Please be patient 💗✨

[joeloverture]

HOOK 'EM PT. 2

hook 'em hot stuff | coach!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | series masterlist | notifs blog | on palestine pairing: college football coach!joel x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] old habits die hard, so they say. you never understood why, but here you are, breaking into coach joel miller's house for a taste of what he's been keeping from you. warnings: (18+ mdni) reader is a bad example (a REALLY bad example), joel is so nonchalant that it's almost crackfic material, getting a semi when a pretty girl attempts a break-in, guilty joel attempts to keep his morals intact (and promptly fails), age gap (22/52), could be considered dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, undernegotiated kink for sake of storyline but don't follow this example, explicit content, pussy pronouns, daddy kink, brat tamer!joel, degradation, praise, meanish!joel, pussy slapping, belting/spanking with a belt, body writing, m!masturbation, cumplay/eating, panty play(?), face slapping, orgasm denialish (you'll see) [no use of y/n] word count: 7k (wtf) a/n: howdy. real cowboys never die so i'm back to continue what i started *checks watch* 11 months ago. (i also promised that if they won the game, i'd write this.) again, all of this is for entertainment parody, and any college implied here is incredibly fictionalized. coach!joel captured all of our hearts and he's here in this incredibly out of pocket (so out of pocket it's right) sequel. enjoy 💋

“This is head Coach Miller at Austin. I can’t get to the phone right now, but you can leave a text or a voicemail and I’ll be sure to get back to you–”

The answering message, as it plays through the tinny speakers of your phone, is dry, lackluster. As if Joel hadn’t wanted to record it at all, had said fuck it after the first take. It sounds nothing like the voice that had talked you through two of the best orgasms of your life.

You’d tried to rationalize it at first – he’s busy, a coach at one of the biggest college football programs in the United States, it’s approaching the playoffs, maybe he’s out of state recruiting some shithead high schooler – but after four missed phone calls and two unanswered texts spread out through the course of the week, you figure that’s that.

He’d been so tender with you after fucking your brains out. Dragging a wet rag along the seam of your thighs, redressing you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’d even refused to let you walk to your dorm alone so late in the night, his guarding, protective arm hanging around your waist as he’d escorted you to the shitty building. Now you’re leaving clingy voicemails in his inbox, staring at a ceiling that’s probably full of asbestos as you try to make peace with the fact that Coach Miller didn’t give a shit about you – only your pussy. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

You were probably just some dumb college girl to him, close enough to graduating that he didn’t lose sleep at night over hitting it, but too far from adulthood to complement his crows feet and successful career.

Conclusion: even if it was the best sex of your life, you should’ve hightailed it out of there the second he’d offered to take you over his knee.

Again – you’re not known for making the best decisions.

You roll over on your stomach, burying your head in your arms and shutting your phone off.

The worst part about it all is that you’re fucking horny. Unbearably so. Even just sitting there, you can hear Joel’s filthy words carouseling through your head, that initial groan when he sank all the way inside of you. Your persistent horniness isn’t the only problem, either. Lately, your roommate never seems to leave the dorm, and when she does, you find that Joel has ruined your vibrator for you. Your pussy might just shrivel up if it doesn’t get the loving it deserves. He’d lit a permanent goddamn bonfire in your stomach, and it just so happened that he was the only one with a fire extinguisher. 

But the same guy probably wants nothing to do with you. Probably came to his senses enough to know that everything about fucking his star player’s ex girlfriend is a recipe for bad news in the making.

There’s a version of yourself that doesn’t know when to stop. That’s the version that must be controlling you as you reach for your phone, opening up a new search. ‘Where does joel miller live?’ And, theoretically, you could stop right there, press the tempting little ‘x’ at the top of the screen and pretend that your mind hadn’t even gotten that far, that desperate. Instead, you click on the first article that appears: Miller’s new $1,000,000 Tarrytown home.

You could even stop there. Tarrytown isn’t a place for someone like you, waist-deep in student loans that need paying off. Tarrytown is wealthy and upscale, pretentious and genteel. In fact, you’d only passed through there once, almost blackout drunk in the backseat of your only sober friend’s car. You’d nearly jumped out of your goddamn skin upon seeing a roaming peacock with its feathers all spread, clucking through the street in search of a mate. She’s teased you about it ever since, but with what you have in mind, you’re about to be impersonating that peacock. 

Knowing that the bastard lives in Tarrytown would usually be enough to put you off — if it were anyone else. Your ‘eat the rich’ values apparently stutter when there’s a chance of getting your pussy eaten.

Curiosity kills the cat, and so you poke around Zillow for recent sales in Tarrytown. Lucky for you, only one fits the description in the article. It’s multi-story, built on a half acre behind a centuries-old oak tree. And going for the hefty price of $1,002,358.

Nine minutes away. A good commute. Gated, and probably for good reason, considering what you’re about to do.

You throw on a nice, lacy set underneath your black clothes and top it all off with a black baseball cap. You’re pretty sure it’s Lucas’s, your shitty ex’s that had technically started this whole mess, but you can’t be too sure.

You don’t tell your roommate where you’re going, just that if everything goes well, you won’t be back until tomorrow morning.

You chain your bike to a lamppost, and it sticks out like a sore thumb on the cobblestone sidewalk. Even though you’ve already seen the pictures, Joel’s house is hardly even a house. It’s a fucking palace with windows for walls and a vaulted roof. Everything is stacked on top of each other, and the oak tree mentioned in the listing casts a shadow along the structure. The gas lamps adorning the gated limestone archway are on, and the flames wince across the concrete path leading into the home. They aren’t bright enough to blow your cover if Joel happens to peek through the many, many windows, but you steer clear of them regardless.

The gate really isn’t that tall, only about eight feet off the ground. A nearby sturdy tree gives you a good place to prop yourself up as you haul yourself over it and into a well-kept patch of ferns. You roll into the dirt, grunting as you almost fall flat on your ass. Your elbows catch you at the last second, and you take a few deep breaths.

You dust yourself off, squinting through the front of the house in hopes of catching a glimpse at him. He’s definitely home, and probably away, too, judging by the amount of lights that are on. Still, no sign of him. All football coaches have to be a workaholic. You wouldn’t be surprised at all if he was in his home office with his feet propped up, watching tapes of his opponents to prepare for the next game.

Good. Less chance of him seeing you right away.

Joel seems like the type of guy to subscribe to the ‘fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,’ philosophy, so it makes sense that both of his garages are closed. You half-crawl, half-crouch your way through the front yard, careful not to crush any more of his plants as you creep your way up the front steps. You give his front door a shot. Locked, too.

“Shit,” you mumble to yourself. You inch through the brush, turning the corner of the house and taking cover behind his rumbling air conditioning unit so you can scan the back patio.

Of course Joel Miller has a pool. And you’d bet good money that he never uses it. There’s an unlit fire pit surrounded by a sunken seating area nearby, and you slink through the area to make your way over to the terrace. Your hand reaches out for the doorknob, but it doesn’t even get there before you’re eating shit for the second time that night.

A body slams into yours as you hit the ground with a cry, your shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as concrete scrapes at your palms. Even though it’s dark and everything feels like you’re trapped in a kaleidoscope, you’d have to be an idiot not to recognize the familiar weight pressing into you. Strong thighs wrap around yours. Calloused hands grab at your wrists, effortlessly pinning them over your head. You squirm, trying and failing to knee at the small of his back.

You should be scared, terrified, maybe, of what he could do to you. Push you into the pool and tell you to fuck right off at best, call the cops and have you arrested for two counts of trespassing at worst. But instead, all you can think about is the insistent press of his bulge between your legs, his broad shoulders hanging over your torso, his long fingers twisted around your hands. All of it renders your heart racing and your body motionless. You look up at him, unable to stop yourself from eye fucking him. Loungewear is a good look on him, gray sweatpants low on his waist and a tattered longhorns t-shirt. He has his reading glasses on, and fuck, if it doesn’t do something to you.

A tiny whimper slips out, and, naturally, that’s when Joel’s dark eyes flash with recognition.

Joel mutters your name, surprise thick in his tired voice. “What the hell are you doin’ in my backyard?” He goes back on his haunches and lets go of your hands. You rub at the sore spots he’d left in his wake.

You don’t answer, opting to look away to hide the shame that’s plain as day on your face. This was stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.

“Are you always tryna catch a charge?” Joel asks. He shakes his head at you, forehead wrinkling as he furrows his brows. All you can do is nod in response. “Un-fuckin’-believable.”

He finally lifts off of you, groaning as something in his back pops when he stands upright. He reaches down at you, and, stubbornly, you ignore his hand in favor of picking yourself up. You dust yourself off again, winching as you brush against a patch of skin that’s sure to bruise later.

“C’mon,” Joel says, nudging the back door open. You step inside and pause to wipe your shoes on the rug beyond the threshold.

The interior is also just as fancy as the Zillow photos had suggested. You find yourself in a lounge with a vaulted ceiling, surprised to find just how Joel the space is. There’s sports magazines on the coffee table and a half-empty longhorns tumbler filled with black coffee. The TV on the mantle of the fireplace is playing a rerun of a Dallas Cowboys game, surrounded by memorabilia like an unmarked high school football helmet, probably a souvenir from his varsity career.

“Now, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

“You didn’t answer my texts,” you say, albeit a little dumbly. You rub at one of your elbows to try to shake off the embarrassment.

Okay, aloud, it does sound just a teensy bit like an overreaction.

Joel blinks at you. Takes off his reading glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, releases a long, winded sigh. “Shit – hun, I’m so sorry–”

“Save your sorries,” you spit back, suddenly angry of all things. Angry that he has you wrapped right around the same fingers that had been inside of you, angry that he hadn’t answered your calls, your texts, your voicemails, angry that he has the audacity to ask what happened. “All that talk about treating me right and you can’t even pick up the fucking phone. I’ll leave right now if you’re not interested, but the least you could do is let me know.” Your lower lip quivers.

He goes quiet, toeing at the ground. His hands land on his hips. “Darlin’–”

“He cheated on me and you trampled all over my emotional vulnerability so you could get your dick wet. How the fuck does that make you any better than the boys you promised to be better than? You’re just like them. Fucking your way through half of the campus and nothing to show for it.” You’re breathing heavily as your eyes burn more and more by the second. You keep thinking you’ll have more to say, but you don’t. Everything in your body feels like lead, and time moves like molasses. Only silence meets you. Of course, it’d end like this. You, humiliated, and him, held all but unaccountable for his actions.

You squeeze your eyes shut before turning around on your heel to leave the way you’d come. His hand, soft and guiding as opposed to the last time he’d touched you, wraps around your forearm. You plant your feet in the ground, but still don’t turn around to face him. “You’re right,” Joel says, voice acquiescent. “It wasn’t fair to you. But ‘s part of why I didn’t pick up. Ain’t right, you ‘n me. I took advantage of you. Practically coerced you.” You swallow, but it’s like swallowing needles. “You shoulda reported me the second you got back to your dorm. For… for violating you like that.” He damn near spits the word out like it’s poisonous. Violating.

If that’s what’s holding him back…

You shift, facing him. He scratches the back of his neck. His flush bleeds down to his chest. “Joel, the absolute last thing you did was violate me. I wanted it. Haven’t stopped fucking thinking about it. That’s why it hurt so bad when you left me hanging.” A frown pinches your lips. “You could’ve at least let me know, Joel.”

“You needa quit thinkin’ about it. Ain’t gonna do either of us any good.” He exhales. “Besides. Even if I wanted to reach out, I’ve been workin’ 17 hour days in prep for next week’s game. This is the first day I’ve had peace ‘n quiet since we…” He trails off, cheeks somehow reddening even more. 

“How often do you do that?” you can’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do what?” he asks, his own lips falling into a frown. He looks a little bit like a kicked puppy, being on the receiving end of your confrontation.

“Take girls half your age over your knee at the workplace. Let them call you ‘daddy’ while they squirm in your lap. Fuck them?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and hisses. You can almost see the memories flashing behind his eyelids. “Gotta stop talkin’ like that, hun.”

“No,” you say, voice quiet. “Really. How often?”

“Never,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “Been over a year since I was last with someone. Been a whole lot longer since it… felt that good.”

You take a step closer to him, tongue slipping out to lick your lips. “Felt good for me, too.”

He shakes his head, still denying what you’re laying out so plainly for him. “Just ‘cause it feels good don’t make it right.”

“Doesn’t it?” you ask. You cock your head, brows brought together and eyes round with want.

He takes a slow, unsteady breath. But he doesn’t step away.

“I’m an adult Joel.” You reach out to him. Again, he doesn’t step away. Your hand flattens against his shoulder.

“Not one of your brutish, sweaty players who only thinks in frat vocab.” You drag your palm down from his shoulder, across his chest, fluttering along his stomach.

His eyes close as your thumb snags the waistband of his sweatpants. Still, he doesn’t intervene. “I’m a grown woman with a future ahead of myself. It’s not in the handbook that you’re forbidden from engaging in this sort of thing with a student, so long as they’re not one of your players.”

“Yeah, yeah, I read the handbook, kid—”

When you palm at his bulge, he’s already hard.

You hitch a brow at him. A snide remark sits on your tongue.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grouses, and then shoves you back on his couch. Your impact knocks a tacky, tasseled throw pillow out of the way. You yank off the cap you stole from Lucas and toss it over your shoulder.

“Beggin’ for a dickin’ down,” he says. “Trespassing on my fucking property for it like some lunatic. That’s how bad you need this cock?”

You nod like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else. With how you act when you think of Joel, that’s… probably the case. “Joel, plea–”

He slaps you across the face. Your vision pixelates and your head rings, but the handprint blooming on your cheek translates to slick blooming in your panties. “Nuh uh,” he says. “You know my name, smartass.” You moan, hips jerking to meet his.

“Daddy,” you whine. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about.” It is. No silicone toy or plastic cock nestled in your bedroom drawer compared to the man in front of you — and you’d know. You tried them all.  

“Ain’t a surprise there,” Joel says. “Bet you’ve been rubbin’ yourself silly thinking of your daddy, mm?”

“Yes!” you damn near squeal out as Joel roughly palms at your tits. You get stuck in the labyrinth of your shirt as you fumble out of it, arms finding all the wrong holes. Finally, you toss the thoroughly wrinkled scrap of fabric over the couch. “Every day, sometimes more,” you admit, because it’s the embarrassing truth. When it comes to him, you’re loopy, off-kilter, teetering with desire and want.

“Dirty girl, aren’t you?” he says, unclasping your bra. He lures your arms out of the straps. His throat bobs as he eyes you up. Based on how you look in the reflection of his dark eyes, he’s been thinking of this. Because for all his virtuosity, Coach Miller crumbles at the thought of defiling you. And he damns himself for it.

He says, “Came allllll the way over here to get fucked in this little number. Why, ‘cause your fingers ain’t enough anymore? Buzzing buddies not doin’ it for ya? Can’t make yourself come without me, hm?” 

“No, no, I can’t—” you exhale at him, desperately arching your back to push your tits into his sports-calloused hands. He gives you nipples a squeeze and twist, and it’s electricity straight into your clit. Your squirm, legs kicking helplessly beneath him. “Daddy.”

He pouts at you. “Damn shame. Creamy, drippy little pussy like this…” You hadn’t noticed his hand lowering until he cups a hand around your clothed mound. Your hips jerk. “Bet she’s squeezing real good ‘round nothing, isn’t she? Wants to take daddy nice ‘n deep.”

“Please, daddy, I want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. Your head lolls back as his thumb presses over your clothed clit, the friction from your panties amplifying the sensation as he rubs you in tight, successive circles.

“Yeah, well that’s what you want. What you’ve earned is a belting. Hell, maybe even a paddling for a repeat offender like yourself. Gotta stop getting into scenarios where I needa spank you right. Clearly didn’t whack ya hard enough last time, girl.”

You pout at him, and he only rolls his eyes. “Really. First you had some revenge syndrome, and now you have dick disease. Have to make you earn it, sweetie. ‘Specially when you keep on diggin’ your own grave.”

“You spanked me last time we did this,” you mumble.

“Oh yeah? And I remember you leakin’ everywhere like a goddamn busted pipe. So shut your trap and bend over for me, mhm? I know this pussy likes when I’m rough with ‘er. Know you like it.”

You cross your arms. Consider leaving chin-up with your pride intact — not out of lack of interest, but out of stubbornness. But you can already feel your wetness smearing across your thighs. Not only did you come all this way hoping for this exact thing, but you can imagine just how uncomfortable the bike ride back to your dorm will be with the seat of your bike pressed into your crotch.

You bite the bullet and toss a pillow to the floor. You fold yourself over the couch.

It feels distinctly familiar and indistinctly unfamiliar. Just a few days ago, he’d hauled you over his knee for the same reason. Attraction lit like a match, and discipline served properly.

You hear Joel shimmying around in the vicinity and tilt your head to look at him. First, you’re captured by the broadness of him, how he can easily manhandle you with his stature. But it’s hard not to be distracted by how his house, for all of its grandeur, is little more than a fifty-year-olds bachelor pad.

The walls are mostly bare apart from the occasional art that looks like he snagged from Homegoods. Everything is so modern and brutalistic, all sharp-edged and cubed. “You need to hire an interior designer with that batshit crazy salary of yours,” you tell him.

He huffs out a half-laugh, and returns to your side with a belt he pulled from the table. You squint at the buckle. It’s a pewter longhorn. Of course. It’s like they have a longhorn fetish. They just can’t shake the obsession with the cattle.

“Gonna spank me with your livestock whip?” you snort. 

Joel stares you down, unimpressed. “You think you’re funny,” he says. He sits next to where your cheek rests on the couch and gently rubs a circle into your back. His face turns serious for a moment. “I know I didn’t verbally establish this last time — and that’s on me — but you can ask me to stop any time. I hope you know that.”

You give him what feels like a bit of a dopey look. “I know, daddy. I know my limits, too.”

“Attagirl,” he says, patting you on the back. He gives you a look, seeking permission, and you nod. He tugs your pants down. They slump to your folded knees. You tap your fingers against the soft material of the couch. Joel reaches over you and under the gusset of your panties, swiping a long, thick finger through your weeping cunt. Your hips rock, chasing the sensation, and as if reprimanding you, Joel gives a swift tug to the back of your panties, lodging them deep within your cheeks. You squeak in surprise and stop your squirming. He chuckles breathlessly above you.

“Still got this… calligraphy… ‘a mine all over your ass.” He traces his thumb along each letter of the trophy he’d left you. The w, the h, the o, the r, the e. When you left the stadium that night, it was with a reminder of exactly what Joel thinks of you. “‘S like you’re tryna make it last, mmm? You like knowing you’re my whore?” 

A tiny whimper splits from your mouth, forehead tilting into the crook of your shoulder as to hide your face. You manage a nod.

“Nuh uh,” Joel says. He reaches for your wrists and pins them behind your back. “Thought you’d knew better than to be repeatin’ the same song and dance. I know you can behave, slutty girl. Just gotta give you a nudge in the right direction.” He palms your ass cheek the same way he’d palmed your tit, and a chill travels along your skin at the perceived feeling of him being so close to your cunt.

He’d ravaged and ruined you, and you walked right back in to let him do it all over again.

Joel folds the belt in half, the gaudy buckle clanking as he turns his day-to-day belt into the perfect implement to administer your punishment. You muffle one of your noises as he drags the leather along your skin, raising gooseflesh in his trail. You can tell he’s tracing the letters, stretched and faded to near-obscurity, along your ass.

You expect him to bring it down across your ass, but instead, he teases it between your legs. Your breath stumbles over your teeth as the leather streaks along your clothed clit. Your hips chase the passing sensation, and the bastard snorts at you. In spite of Joel’s grasp around your wrists, your fingers twirl in anticipation.

“Pathetic ‘lil pussy. Dripping and squeezing even if you’ve got a thrashing comin’ up. Maybe it’s because you’ve got a thrashing coming up. Masochistic mess over here.”

You scoff, “Yeah, and a hot mess, if ‘Lil Joel is any indicator.”

The first hit takes you by surprise. Leather erupts across your ass cheeks, and your fingers scramble for purchase — impossible to find, with how Joel grips your wrists. You make a surprised noise, head tipping to knock your forehead into his thigh. “Shit, were you the quarterback? Packing a punch this time, Coa— mmph.” Your trailing, pathetic sound is muffled by the abrupt splat of his belt back on your exposed ass.

“Had enough ‘a your sass, baby. Can’t be giving me lip when your other set is salivatin’ all over my floor.”

You grunt, squeezing your eyes shut so you don’t glare at him. Dick. Fever licks up your spine. It wraps around your neck, making you lightheaded and nebulous with want. Arousal leaks down your inner thighs. When you press them together in hopes for relief and that Joel’s old man eyes will sabotage him, you’re not shocked by the next thwack of leather against your skin. It still makes you jolt.

“Not gettin’ away with that, sweetheart. Better not see ya ruttin’ against this couch either. Already had to scrub down the one in the locker room since you sprayed your pussy juices all over it like a sprinkler.”

“Yes, daddy,” you grumble. He raises a brow at you, face stern and hard.

You make up for it not verbally, but by arching your back and wiggling your hips. A willing participant in your own demise. It’s only a matter of time before the anaphora of Joel’s belt whacking against your ass has you keening for his cock. You’ve already begged for it every night this week — just with your own hand fishing between your legs for an orgasm you can’t seem to catch, and with his name glued to your pillowcase with your drool.  

“See? That’s more like it.” You press back into him as his hand lets go of your wrists. It’s a brief respite, and you cling to the edge of the couch as his hand traces down your back, cupping your ass. Your eyes roll back as his finger slips past your panties and prods at your entrance, barely half of a knuckle.

“Daddy,” you pout.

“Sweet… as…” You look up through lidded eyes at him. Watch as your slick stretches hammocks between his fingers. Watch him slide them into his mouth, sucking them clean with an audible pop. You cunt clenches, demanding something that he doesn’t seem eager to dish out. “sugar.” he finishes. His fingers glisten.

“Daddy,” you say again. Needier this time. Longing. Wanting.

“Bet you could come untouched from this shit, couldn’t ya?”

The thought makes you shiver, but you shake your head back and forth fast enough to give you whiplash. You want — need him to touch you.

“Aww, poor little thing wants to come?” he all but coos at you. This time, you nod fast enough to take your own head off. “Too bad.”

You squeal as he brings the belt down again, toes wriggling as if they can run away from how electrified your body is. “W-what?” you choke out.  

“You want daddy to let you come?”

Your hands fist into the couch cushion. “The fuck do you think?”

You don’t even see him move before you feel the belt, ripping like lightning along your inflamed skin. “After you snuck into my stadium?”

“After you vandalized one ‘a our new uniforms?”

You’ve tensed this time in preparation, but it’s not enough. The next swing of his arm has you crying out. Your pussy clenches and more wetness gushes from you. “Ungh, Daddy!”

“After you came snoopin’ around like the Pink Panther?” Two lashings, for that. Both in rapid succession, crackling flames along your hypersensitive skin. You don’t even have time to give him snark. You wail, and half of it jerks out of you in a ragged moan.

He’s too quick at giving your ass another lash. “After being a cock hungry temptress who’d do anything to get that drippy ‘lil hole between her legs stuffed?”

If you were sore after your first encounter with the man, you fear for your capability to sit after this one. “I’m sorry!” You sniffle a little, and while your eyes may be watering, you squeeze your eyes shut so not to cry. It’s embarrassing enough to be laid out in front of him like this, quivering with juices weeping down your legs.

“Cute,” Joel snorts. “Sorry for what, exactly? Bet you got a laundry list of misdeeds. Risqué little girl like you, so quick to put her ass up in the air and take a beating insteada owin’ up to her mistakes.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out. “F-For breaking in.” You frown. “...Twice.”

“Coulda had you in the slammer by now, girl. But no. You just want me, dontcha? All up in your guts…” He grabs your ass cheek and squeezes, kneading the flesh there and leaving it with a shrill slap. You whimper. “Whallopin’ this pretty little peach. Sortin’ you out. Bein’ your daddy.” He grips the inside of your thigh, nudging your legs further apart. His hand, large and ridged with callouses, travels up your knee, over your thigh, down to your core. You shudder.

“Daddy…” you plead. You tilt your head and look up at him properly. How he looms over you, his free hand wrapped around your opposite shoulder so he can hold your side against his thigh. A tiny smirk quirks his lips, and his nose crinkles. There’s a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. “Please.” Your voice comes out as a lust-thickened whisper, bittersweet like molasses.

You think he might throw you a bone. Might thrust a finger or two into your dripping heat, which throbs and has a heartbeat of its own whenever he’s around. Instead, he slaps your mound. Your clit twitches, and you stream slick onto his hand. “Ah! Daddy!”

“Drippin’ like a busted pipe, baby. All from bein’ tossed around a bit.”

You’re floating, now. Or perhaps a more apt way to describe it would be that you’re firmly planted on the ground — just facedown while the room spins and spins and spins.

“Honestly, I didn’t know this elite university admitted little sluts like yourself. Bet you hold yourself all prim and proper while you’re all academic during the day. Then you get home and, what, rub yourself silly? Spank yourself because you know you deserve it? You wanna get split open on this cock, roughed up, talked down to.”

“I do, Daddy, I do!” you whine. “I told you — I’m sorry! For all of it. Please, I want whatever you’ll give me. A-Anything.” You feel as if your bones are matches, each one lit up in a chain reaction all the way to your core, which melts and melts down the insides of your thighs. “I’ll do—”

“Anything, baby?”

You nod eagerly, your moistened lower lip jutting out.

“Alright, alright,” he says. His voice is calmer now. Steady. He pats you on the ass softer this time and taps the couch next to him. You scramble up on the cushions, kicking off your shoes and pants in the process, and lay back. Your fingers twitch with the desire to just touch him. From this angle, you can see the definition of his bulge in his sweats. You remember how all of him felt inside of you, as if your entire body had to reshape itself around him, had to make room for the amount of space he occupies. He tosses his belt onto the coffee table.

Your cunt is a kickdrum between your legs. Juices dribble down the creases of your thighs, and for a moment, you fear that you’re actually ruining another couch of his. If you are, he doesn’t say. Just hitches his waistbands down and —

You audibly moan.

“Slutty ‘lil whore,” he says as he takes his fat cock in hand. Precum beads at the tip, and you find yourself licking your lips. You salivate at the sight of him. The heavy balls hanging low beneath his cock, his girth, and the taut, tan skin of his thighs. He’s enrapturing.

“You’re cute, baby,” he says, but the words are condescending. That’s probably why it makes you drip. “You look real good with them ‘fuck me daddy’ eyes. Maybe they’re jus’ that glossy ‘cause your ass is still stingin’. But you deserve it, dontcha? For wanting it?”

“Yes sir…” His eyes flash with something narrowly close to possession. Your teeth dig into your lower lip. With his free hand, he reaches up to your lips, pulling down your bottom lip and running his tongue along the seam of it. You take it upon yourself to suckle on his thumb, tongue swirling around the rough pad of his fingertip. Your tiny moan buzzes around the digit. “Mmph.”

Joel’s eyes, dark and dilated, trail up your exposed form. “I’d shove my cock down that tight throat of yours, but you ain’t earned it.” His hand drags down your chest, tugging and groping at bare skin. His wet thumb plucks at your nipple. Your hips hitch, grinding against thin air. Joel tuts. “Thought I whipped some sense into ya. Or some goddamn manners, at least.” His hand leaves your chest and pins one of your thighs to the couch. You squirm.

“Daddy,” you mewl. “I need – something.”

“Daddy,” Joel mocks in a high-pitched, imitated whine of your plea. “You stay right still. You’re fortunate enough I’m letting you watch.”

It’s then that you realize what he’s planning to do. Deprive you by jerking himself off all over you.

“No, no, please– I promise I’ll be good! I’ll be good, please, I n-need your co–”

Joel slaps you across the face. Again. This time, it’s harder, enough for your head to roll to the side and your eyes to roll back. Your cunt throbs. Your hearing clangs like windchimes. “Do not whine at me like a petulant child. You’re a damn lucky duck that I ain’t knocked you on your ass for all the shit you been pullin’. So you’ll sit there, and if I see you raise so much as a fuckin’ hair on your head to touch yourself, I ain’t afraid to spank that pussy raw, too. Bet you wouldn’t be touchin’ it if it was all sore and achy.”

You look down and give a small, half-nod.

“Go on. Be a good girl and ask for it,” Joel says, brow hitched. Self-righteous bastard.

You mumble something faintly under your breath.

“Wanna repeat that, baby?”

“Jerk your cock off on my pussy, daddy,” you whimper out, hips still squirming on the couch.

“Mmm, that’s more like it.”

Joel taps his cock against your clothed clit. A warning, almost. “Ngh, daddy, I–”

“Don’t start,” he scowls and inches back a bit. Then, he wraps his hand around his cock and gives himself a languid pump. He groans, eyes going lidded as he starts up at a steady pace. 

“I was going to say… I want you to come on me.” You take heavy, labored breaths, matching the rapid rise and fall of Joel’s chest. Sweat is darkening the creases of his shirt as he works himself. 

“Yeah? Ain’t a surprise, there. Filthy slut wants daddy’s come all over her pussy? Gonna walk back to your dorm with it dryin’ on your undies?” You’ll make fun of him for that later. But now, all you can do is nod at him. “Or maybe I’ll stuff ‘em in your smart mouth. See how ya feel when you can taste how much of a whore you are.”

You gasp, back arching even though there’s no pleasure for you to chase. He gets off on this. On denying you. Degrading you. It’s a high like nothing else. “Please, I– I want you to stuff them in my mouth–”

Joel hisses. You see his cock twitch in his fist. “Make you walk home all leaky and wanting, just like a hussy should? For all those fits you’ve been pitchin’?” He grunts as his hips roll to meet each wet thrust of his fist. His lips are parted, head hung while he stares at your soaked pussy. How your panties cling to your folds. He moans, thumb brushing over his tip. More precum drips from the head, trailing down his wrist. His back curves inwards as he leans closer to you.

He squeezes the hand he’s got wrapped around your leg. “Daddy, daddy!” He’s close, you can tell. Each breath he takes is short and rasping. Each thrust gets clumsier. You think you could come from this alone. The image of him, huffing and red-faced while he fucks his fist right in front of you and calls you names. “Come on me, please, I want to be covered in you–”

He moans, and his cock jolts in his tight grip. “I’m comin’, baby, I’m comin’.”

Ropes of his cum sprays on the gusset of your panties, once, twice, but before the third spirit, he wraps his hand through the leg holes of your panties and tugs up. You make a choked, frazzled moan, and maybe it’s the way the fabric pinches your clit, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you as if you were made to be devoured. Maybe it’s just how pent up you are.

You tense and then shatter in one go, your orgasm gushing into your panties. Seizing, your back arches up off of the couch as one of your palms clambers for purchase over his. “Fuck, daddy,” you moan pathetically, hips thudding against the couch while you rock into the taut fabric. You fall back, limp and reeling. 

“Fuck,” Joel says, breathless. He stares at where your white-stained panties steep in your convulsing cunt, how more juice seeps out of them with each clench of your wrecked pussy. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm. “Really are a nasty girl. A little pain slut, aren’t ya baby?” His eyes glitter while he looks at you, and you imagine he must be close enough to getting hard again that he can’t come through on his promises of anger.

“Roll over for me,” he says, tapping your thigh. 

“Mmph?” You say, arm thrown over your forehead. Your eyes squeeze shut while the aftershocks hurdle through your muscles. “Oh, yeah.” You fumble, and your sweat-slick skin sticks to the couch as you turn yourself over. 

You hear a little pop, and can’t help but look over your shoulder. Of course. A Sharpie. This time, it’s gold.

“Gonna get a reputation, Miller,” you smirk at him, kicking your feet while he situates himself between your knees. He tugs your soiled panties off, and, as promised, guides the gusset to your mouth. You suck on it, eyes fluttering as you savor the conjoined musk of your mingling juices. It’s tart, but a little sweet. You feel the marker tugging at your ass, and hiss a little when he traces over a particularly sore spot.

“Yeah, well you already got one. I’m just makin’ sure you don’t forget.” He gives your ass another smack when he’s done, and you squeak. The couch stops slumping, and he pads across the room.

You stay there, head rested into your elbows and panties hanging out of your mouth while he rummages around in the vicinity. He comes back with some aloe gel. Gentle, he removes your panties from your tongue and tosses them on the table. You lick your lips, giving him a knowing look. He only rolls his eyes as he massages it into your bruised skin.

“Went a little hard on you this time, darlin’,” he says after a few moments of comfortable silence.

“I liked it,” you say.

“Yeah, I noticed.” He pats you dry. “If you got any ice packs back in your minifridge, wait a while before you ice that. Gotta let the skin repair for a day or so.”

“Aye-aye,” you say before rolling over to face him again. He’s tugged his sweats back on, but he’s golden with a post-sex glaze, a glow of sweat and contentedness. 

“‘M sorry,” he says again.

Your brows pucker. “I already told you, I lik-”

“No, for how I treated ya. Ain’t right to promise you somethin’ I can’t give ya.”

“You just gave it to me. Quite well, might I add,” you tease with a cloying grin.

“I can’t take you out,” he says. Your grin slips. He drags a hand down his face. “Everyone in this fuckin’ state, everyone in the goddamn south, even, knows who I am. Imagine the shit they’d say. Lucas–”

“Is a dick,” you say.

“Is a dick, but is also my kid. My mentee. The future of this team and my career, too. And even though he might be an asshole, he’s a good throw. Not to mention the three decades b’tween us. Not a good look, ‘specially for you. You got a whole world ahead ‘a ya. I can’t take that from you just ‘cause we have good sex.”

“So let’s just keep having good sex,” you say. “It’s the simplest thing in the world.”

“Yeah,” Joel says with a roll of his eyes. “Simple.” But then he seems to look like he’s thinking about it. Properly. He swallows. Crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Fine.”

“Really?” You say, brows raised. You’re surprised that worked.

“Want me to take it back?”

“No,” you say.

He simpers. “Thought so. Now c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” He beckons you down the hallway after him, and you scoop your long-abandoned clothes off the floor. 

A smarter version of yourself would agree with him. But this version of yourself, the version that hopped his fence tonight, wants nothing more than to run back to the throttle of his hand and the loosening of his belt.

That version of yourself is the one who follows him down the hall.

[cazshmere]

Astrology Observations Pt. 9 🐳

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER: These are just my personal observations and are meant for entertainment purposes only; it may not resonate with everyone due to the nuances of astrology. Please respect my work and avoid copying or stealing it. Enjoy reading!!

🐳 mercury-mc aspects and people perceiving you as a naturally funny and smart person, SUPER WITTY too. Also could be someone who is known to gossip around🤭😋!!

🐳 venus-uranus aspects in the natal makes the native attracted to people who are “different” from them, say they like people from different cultures from themselves, or different styles or there’s something different about the ppl they like! possibly because of the level of intrigue they bring🤨

🐳 merc-pluto aspects and lowkey (or highkey lmfao) having a superiority complex and thinking you’re better than others especially if you have fire signs in the chart too😭😂, don’t blame y’all tbh, y’all are THAT bitch fr💅🏼

🐳 I read somewhere that the placement of a tattoo is believed to activate the energy of that specific area. For instance, getting a tattoo on your arms, hands, or fingers is said to enhance communication. One example I can think of is Jungkook from BTS, his entire arm is covered in tattoos, which aligns with his role as a singer and could symbolize enhanced communication skills 🎤

🐳 wherever chiron is placed can show what you can do to heal on a deeper level, for instance chiron in the 8th and 12th house, please go deep into spirituality - practice meditation, mindfulness, tarot and another esoteric practices, you will genuinely feel healed.

🐳 whenever venus is in retrograde and you have the urge to reach out to an ex or you feel like starting a new relationship, DO.NOT. Venus retrograde is calling you to find what you need to work on internally and to NOT seek external validation. what you seek in someone else is what you need to work on yourself. Instead of seeking validation from a partner, seek that validation from yourself!!💗

🐳 pluto in the houses shows how and where we self destruct, for instance pluto in the 3rd house OVERTHINKING everything and ruining experiences for you, Pluto in the 5th house getting involved in unnecessary drama, pluto in the 10th house caring too much about how YOU are perceived and willing to step on others to get ahead in life

🐳 uranus in the 1st/3rd/5th/11th and 12th house gives immense creativity when it comes video editing or editing in general! most editors with fan accs probably have these placements 📱

🐳 you tend to get more involved in spirituality, like looking up tarot readings or going through astrology observations, when you have 8th or 12th house synastry with someone lmao. These overlays will have you looking up tarot readings or scrolling intently through Tumblr to learn more and more about this placement or overlay 😭😭😭 feral behaviour frrr

🐳 no cause I wanna talk about how 8th house synastry and missed opportunities are such a BIG thing. It's like when things are finally looking up for you both, something always seems to go wrong and stops you from getting together 💀

🐳 based on personal experience, the worst type of men I've encountered had four common placements, especially in their big 3 and these are taurus, gemini, virgo and scorpio. Me being a sag dom with a virgo dsc and a scorpio venus doesn’t help cause I keep attracting these placements when it comes to men💀💀💀. But fr tho I'm TRAUMATIZED by them😭😭. When I see any of these in a man’s big 3, I'M SPRINTING FAAAAR AWAY💀🚩we outta here

banner & pic credits to the rightful owners <3

© cazshmere 2024 [All Rights Reserved]

[magicalmanhattanproject]

Okay, so with Quackity Studios tweeting about adding new people and the need for tolerance and patience with people who don't speak English, let's just take a second and have a chat about what that's gonna look like.

First: you will hear things or read things on the translator that hurt or offend you.

This is inevitable. Do not immediately post about it. What you need tolerance for is hearing things that hurt or offend you and what you need patience for is figuring out of malicious intent was present or if this is a hill worth dying on right now.

As an example, we're pretty sure at this point that Korean is gonna be the next language added. The second person pronoun in Korean sounds a lot like the n-word in English. The n-word in English, if you're not aware, is like the single most offensive slur we have. It's not something that you want to hear unexpectedly. But also, if we get Koreans, they're gonna be using the word for "you" and English speakers are gonna have to be able to tolerate that.

On the other side of things, Korean has a complex system of honorifics and addressing someone without an honorific would be considered very forward and intimate at least if not very rude. None of the QSMP languages have honorifics though and only French really retains formality* so no one else is going to address them with honorifics unless they specifically explain it to people and walk them through it. That will probably be weird and uncomfortable for them and they're going to have to be able to tolerate that.

*Spanish and Portuguese do technically have formal vs informal but it's disappearing quickly in both of them.

These natural cultural clashes and pain points are going to be harder to overcome since we also know that at least some of these creators won't speak English at all so they can't just switch to English to helpfully explain things to us easily in a way we understand. We're going to have to deal.

So here's the thing: just because there can be cultural miscommunications and mistranslations, that doesn't mean that people can't also be assholes. How do you distinguish between the two?

Step One: Assume good faith. Assume that everyone in a given encounter is trying to communicate respectfully and compassionately and that a failure to do so can be overcome

Step Two: Don't get involved. Especially not in Twitch Chat. Two or more people trying to communicate through a language barrier does not get easier when they're also trying to wrangle hostile viewers.

Step Three: Are you sure you heard what you thought you heard or saw what you thought you saw? Did the translator fuck up? Is it a word that just coincidentally happens to sound like another word? If this is the case, the streamers can ask for clarification or use another tool and get it cleared up. Keep watching and see if they do.

Step Four: If they did say what you thought they said, are the streamers handling it? We had a thing a while back where Bad called some friends, including Bagi and Etoiles, uncultured because they didn't get a reference he was making and Etoiles was like "bro I'm French" and Bad apologized. That should have been the end of it, but I had to see people arguing about it for weeks. The problem was solved in 10 seconds.

Step Five: If the person is doubling down, are you sure this is something you can fix by yelling about it on Twitter or Tumblr? Would it be better to let people who actually know them talk to them behind the scenes? Pierre made a few missteps in the beginning of the server, Quackity said they had a chat, Pierre hasn't misstepped since. It's just easier to sort things out in private, one on one conversation than yelling at someone in public.

In short: it's fine to take note of behavior in case patterns start to emerge in it, but yelling on social media about how so and so is the worst person possible is not constructive.