#GETTING TO THE WORD COUNT AND REALIZING THAT THIS IS THE LENGTH OF A NOVELLA………………..I SCREAMED

[gutsby]

Father Figure

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Parents’ Weekend looks a little different this year with Joel showing up in the place of your father.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Dad[dy] kink. Age gap. Oral (m!receiving). Premature ejaculation (Joel cums in his pants while he’s kissing you AS REAL LOVERS DO). Drinking and drug use. Gratuitous dad rock references.

Note: We all saw that video. This was begging to be written.

Another note: For a more immersive read of the pregame, listen to my freshman year Kegs & Eggs playlist (yes, it sucks).

Word count: 19.0k

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Freud would’ve had a field day with this shit.

Really, there was no sane explanation for the obsession that seized you and your friends come Parents’ Weekend every year. But there it went. Again. Like clockwork, all the forty- to fifty-something fathers arrived for their first meal on campus. Like the cock-starved coed she was, your roommate bumped your shoulder as you walked and nodded to the first set of families approaching the dining hall. Out of the pack, you spotted four grey heads.

“Would, would, would, and would,” Aly observed, almost clinically. Her strides were long and resolved in their path

“That one could get it.” Her brother shrugged on your other side. He tipped his chin up, then added: “Look.”

And look you did. The batch of men, women, and all their college-aged children struck you as little more fun to ogle than your average wall of paint waiting to dry. Though the moms and dads were, admittedly, the kind of attractive you rarely saw outside an L.L. Bean magazine—as were all the rest of the kempt and polished crowd that populated your school—you were hungry as fuck. You’d agreed to join your roommate’s family for the kickoff banquet of the weekend, and you needed food. On top of that, you’d sworn off middle-aged men forever.

Aly and her brother didn’t know that, though, so you played the game and trudged ahead. When a handsome blue-eyed man born in 1970-something stood back and held the door open for your trio going in, you had to fight back a smirk at the look Aly gave him after thanking him.

“Oh, he wanted me bad,” she hissed once safely inside.

“Looks a bit like Rob Lowe,” you offered noncommittally.

“What about your dad? Is he gonna be here tonight?”

That last fragment of conversation had come from Aly’s brother, and the curiosity in it was sincere. Then he’d wiggled two dark brows your way and said he bet your dad was a silver fox like no other, and you’d had to roll your eyes before strolling into the wide open dining area. You were late; the food, evidently, was all already served.

“My dad’s at home with a broken femur, so…no,” you answered slowly. Starting to weave your way through a sea of round tables and following Aly’s lead as you did, “Probably not your type. Just old. Very embarrassing.”

You stuck your index in your mouth and pantomimed gagging, and the sophomore beside you just laughed.

“Yeah? Desperate, too?” he challenged.

“Pathetic, really,” you replied.

For a second, you felt a pang of guilt at the way you were describing your father. Surely he couldn’t deserve being characterized like that. Then you recalled how he’d boned your mom’s best friend while he was married, had never really made amends after the fact, and was still fucking said mistress’s brains out on the reg to this day.

You’d done plenty of wrong behind his back, to be sure, but that kind of took the cake for fucked up betrayals. He could stand for a little bit of ribbing every now and then.

Presently, Aly was paving the way straight toward a pair of bright and beaming faces at a table near the back.

“Our parents named us after a goddamn Grateful Dead song and the city they first saw the band in concert. Nobody does pathetic better than Scott and Michelle.” She waved her arm in a wide arc and grinned over there.

And you would’ve gladly countered that no, that actually makes them very fucking funny and cool, but the chance to do that was gone in a moment—the next had you approaching their table and meeting with big hugs.

Even for you, who had never seen these people before in your life, there was a warm welcome. You got long, suffocating embraces and cheery greetings of, ‘Oh, you must be Aly’s roommate!’ and ‘We’re sorry you got stuck with our shithead kid’ before you had a grin plastered on again and were being ushered to sit down.

You took note of the little placards opposite each chair, counted four, five, six of them altogether, with an empty spot beside your own, per usual, and you took your seat.

“Dallas, honey, I love you,” the woman across the table, Michelle, said with all the restraint she could conjure up, “I love you to pieces, but what the hell are you wearing?”

That steered the conversation in a decidedly light, playful direction from the start, with Aly’s brother defending his decision to be decked out in full school-sponsored athleisure tooth and nail. He’d been recruited to play lacrosse, so naturally, wearing the far-too-tight crimson lycra was all part of the deal. Aly insisted that he just wanted to show off the biceps he didn’t have, Scott hypothesized it was the crisp, wintry Boston air that had made his son dress like a total douche, and Dallas tried bringing the inquisition to a speedy end by lifting one middle finger up and flipping his napkin into his lap.

“Fuck you guys, I’m hungry,” he declared, emphatic. Fighting the urge to laugh along then grabbing a fork.

Just as fast as he’d picked it up to dig in, though, his mom was slapping the silver utensil out of his hand.

“Not yet,” she chided.

“Why? We’re all here,” Dallas groaned.

“Because,” his father returned, scrubbing at the stubble on his chin before casting a quick look around him, “We’re still waiting on one more to join us. See?”

With that, Scott nodded toward the card next to you, and immediately, your cheeks warmed. You shook your head, mouth working a little less fluidly than you would’ve liked as you piped up and told them—assured them all, rather:

“My dad’s not coming. He got a little, uh…hurt at work.”

And you were certain that would be the end of it. You’d just moved to grab a fork yourself, eyeing the plate full of food in front of you then, when another hand stopped you on the spot. It was Aly beside you, grip insistent as she gave your wrist a little shake, and in your periphery, you could see her tilt her head the opposite direction.

She was staring, silent—totally unlike herself.

Normally when something crossed her path nearby to make her twist her whole fucking neck to get a glimpse, it was followed by a dry remark. A comment, a compliment, or a lewd invitation to fuck me, please.

While the last of the three clearly wasn’t an option to use around her parents, you at least would’ve expected to hear something. When nothing came, you turned your head too, having just snagged a bite of roast beef on your fork and shoveled it in before looking that way.

You followed her gaze and nearly inhaled the food.

With a startled gasp and a ‘Christ!’, your eyes widened to find a man who wasn’t your father at all—just his best friend and your ex-fuckbuddy, Joel Miller, walking over.

It was a sight you weren’t prepared to see in a million years. What the everliving fuck this man was doing two thousand miles from Austin, Texas, on your college campus, striding into the very first meal of Parents’ Weekend, looking like that, was so far beyond your comprehension you couldn’t speak. You just stared and sucked in the sharpest, strangled breath, fought back a cough, and tried not to die swallowing a cube of meat.

From the way that man was approaching you now, asphyxiation might not be the worst, you thought idly.

Joel’s here.

Joel’s here, and he’s wearing slacks and a button-up.

Joel’s wearing business casual, and he’s walking over.

Who the fuck does this man even think he’s trying to—

“Sorry I’m late,” Joel cut in, smile bright and easy on his face. Then, stepping behind your chair, leaning down:

“Hey, sweetie. How are ya?”

He kissed the top of your head.

The tone sealed his fate completely.

Joel was pretending to be your father.

This wasn’t his brightest idea.

Call him sick, insane, selfish, besotted, or rotten straight down to his core, Joel Miller was no longer one to care. He had a goal in his head. Less than a week ago, you’d left him high and dry in Austin after having told him you loved him—in the middle of climax, but aloud, no less—and the month before that, you’d left him again. Back to college, where you could happily pretend he didn’t exist.

Tonight, he wasn’t letting that happen. This weekend, Parents’ Weekend, was of course reserved for families, but Joel knew your father wasn’t coming. He knew you wouldn’t be expecting your dad or anyone else to be there, and since you’d taken to the usual course of ignoring all his calls and texts, he felt he’d had no choice.

You couldn’t stay closed off like this forever.

Eventually, you’d both have to reckon with what this was and how to move forward, or the mess of the last month would never change. You would never believe he saw you any differently from a one-off hookup or a taboo outlet of pleasure. And if that was all you saw him as, so be it. But he had to get the truth of it out now, one way or another.

Even if he had to roleplay the father figure and play the most fucked up game of paternal charades known to man, he’d get the answers he needed this weekend.

You were good at games. Unfortunately, Joel was better.

He’d take this fake-out to the max and be the best faux father you’d never asked for. Maybe you’d hate him for it.

As he’d squeezed your shoulder and sat down beside you at the table, felt your gaze heavy and stunned on his, he also couldn’t help but hope you might still love him after.

“Scott Ingram. Pleasure to meet you.” The broad hand had been extended his way before he was even fully seated. The face across from him was kind. Intrigued. Tinged with a faint trace of curiosity, “So you’re dad?”

“Stepdad, yeah.” Joel had had to leave a bit more room for plausibility before he’d made his formal introduction.

Then he’d met Michelle. Aly. Dallas. The latter two more piqued with interest than the first, as though unsure of what they’d just been told, but willing to go on anyway.

“Old and pathetic my ass,” Dallas had murmured your way, low enough for Joel to know those words were meant for only you to hear. You stiffened in response.

“So glad you could make it up! Is your leg doing better?”

Aly had smiled warmly over at him, and Joel had only hesitated a second. Then he remembered his friend.

“Oh, my— yeah. Just…peachy. Yeah. All healed up.”

He didn’t flit a look to you; he could feel the searing imprint of your gaze and the way you hadn’t bothered to hide your frown when he’d referenced the leg he’d never broken. The way you could’ve pulverized the napkin in your lap to dust from how hard you were squeezing it in your fist—you didn’t like to admit it, but that was your nervous tic, and Joel knew it well. He propped his elbows on the table and didn’t miss the way a head turned his way from a neighboring group. Then another. He hated every starch white button-up he owned with a burning passion, but he couldn’t deny this one was eye-catching.

Not that it mattered, really, because the only glossy gaze he cared to snag was presently nailing him with daggers in its path. Still, it was a comfort to know he’d make a good-looking corpse if that look of yours ever did kill him

“Oh, my, my, oh hell YES—”

The sing-song trill of a baritone beside him roused him from his trance. He looked over and saw Scott grinning.

“—honey put on that pa-a-a-a-a-arty dress!”

It was Michelle that finished the line for him, while they both bobbed their heads along to the Tom Petty song blasting overhead. Evidently, dad rock would be alive and well all weekend. Joel wasn’t mad to see that happen.

“You a Tom Petty fan?” Scott jerked his chin up to him.

Before he could answer, though, Michelle interjected:

“I’d say he’s more of a Simon & Garfunkel guy.”

Whatever the hell that meant. Joel smiled.

“Mom, Dad. Please stop,” Aly moaned.

“Seriously.” Dallas’s mouth was full.

And, just as he fought to swallow the heaping glob of food he’d just crammed in, his dad snapped his fingers.

“No, I know it! You’re a Billy Joel man, Joel. No doubt.”

Joel blanched as white as the shirt on his back. You coughed. He hadn’t even noticed you’d chanced a bite of food beside him, but now you were sputtering—choking on a morsel of beef or mashed potatoes or something—and he didn’t think twice. He pivoted right to you and dropped a hand on your back in the space between your shoulder blades. He patted you twice, eyes a little wider.

“Hey, you OK?”

Fleeting memories of a night not too long ago flashed through his mind: driving town by town, state after state, blaring Billy Joel extra loud in his Bronco with you riding shotgun. It had been something special between you then. Now, your gaze was on him like you despised him.

“I’m fine,” you answered, tone clipped.

You shrugged his touch away. Joel blinked back to Scott.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he said, thoughts occupied by you all the while, but he reckoned it was something his neighbor had wanted to hear, because he saw a satisfied little smile cross his lips, ‘I told you, Michelle.’

“Everybody likes Billy Joel, dad.” Aly rolled her eyes.

And Joel would’ve liked to look your way again. Maybe dropped the fatherly moue for half a second and flashed an apologetic look shared just between you and him. But then the conversation shifted; the whole table began to eat, more pleasantries and questions about home life and backgrounds followed, and all the talk from there converged on where they were planning to go out after dinner—how they’d make the very most of Parents’ Weekend. You sat back and ate in silence, mostly. You wouldn’t meet his gaze for even a moment, and when you rose from your seat to get another drink, Joel felt himself stand too, as if out of habit. He hadn’t meant to.

It hadn’t been his intention to follow you out of the dining area, strides swift to try and keep up, but he did.

It hadn’t been his goal to corner you by the soda dispenser, either. Away from the eyes of everyone else, or at least in a private enough space not to be seen by too many people, Joel felt a little more at liberty to talk. He lowered his voice and drew even closer then to speak.

“Sweetheart—”

You’d filled a cup halfway with water. As soon as he’d said that word, ‘sweetheart,’ you turned and chucked its contents directly in his face. Liquid splashed up at him, and for a second, Joel had only to stand there with his eyes closed and his body completely frozen in place.

Water dripped in silence before he wiped at his chin.

At the same time, you were tossing your cup aside.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ call me that,” you growled.

Then, shortly: “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Honestly, he didn’t know. He opened his eyes.

And, just as he raised both hands in a semi-conciliatory kind of gesture, you scowled and backed away from him.

“You’re sick, Joel. Pretending to be my goddamn da—”

“I know. I know,” Joel winced as he spoke, wrinkles no doubt creasing even deeper along his face as he saw yours fall. You weren’t happy to see him in the slightest. “I know it’s fucked up. I just…needed to talk to you, hon.”

“About what?!”

He could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. He wanted to cup them in his hands, or else kiss the frown off your lips in a way that would be totally inappropriate for a stepdad to do, but already, he sensed his resolve was eroding. It didn’t matter, anyway, because you weren’t letting him get within an inch of you, based off your look.

“Darlin’,” Joel sighed, “There’s just so much—”

Of course, the next moment was punctured by a voice. His words were cut short; you were both forced to turn.

“It’s all settled now,” Aly declared with cheery conviction. She snagged a cup and started filling it up with Sprite, “Pregame at Dallas’. Seven Oaks after. Lucky’s after that. Maybe a brief intermission at The Alley, if you’re up for it. Afters at A.J.’s, probably. Depends what the vibe is like.”

Joel had barely processed half of what was said, and it still sounded like a lot from where he stood. He blinked.

Then Aly’s eyes fell to his collar, and she lifted a brow.

“You got a little…drinking problem there, Joel?”

He glanced down at the mess on his shirt and tried to smile with her. It was hard to fight the color jumping to his cheeks simultaneously. He scrambled for the words.

“Oh, uh—”

“Dad’s real smooth with it,” you cut in, suddenly, like the paternal moniker was nothing at all. You didn’t look back, “I’m fine drinking wherever. Your parents coming, too?”

Aly’s grin stretched even wider. It looked devious.

“They wouldn’t miss this bingefest for the world.”

At just the intonation of those words, Joel’s pulse sped up. He saw a knowing look pass between you and your roommate, and in a second, he sensed he was fucked.

He really shouldn’t be drinking tonight.

A hundred shots probably wouldn’t have been enough to kill it—this ringing in your head hurt like a motherfucker.

Joel wanted to talk.

Of course he wanted to talk.

Just on his terms, on his time, with your closest friends and their family members all assuming he was your dad.

Because that made a lot of fucking sense.

You’d meant to split from Joel the second you showed up. Dallas’ off-campus house was many things, but small and quiet were not among those descriptors, and you planned to use all of its space to your advantage tonight.

Simply put, the place was a glorified playground for college degenerates. Afforded the distinct honor of housing eight members of the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity in 2,700 square feet for over fifty years, the Craftsman home was no small wonder to anyone who saw it standing today: the house was shit. Dallas loved it.

You’d enjoyed it, too, for at least the first year or two of college. Then you’d wisened up to the antics of a few too many numb-skulled Pikes, got tired of listening to the same ten tracks being blasted in your ears every other weekend, and decided you’d just stick to the bar scene, where at least patrons were prohibited from standing on elevated surfaces and breaking bottles over their heads.

When Dallas rushed, and eventually joined the fold last year, you’d been hesitant to go back. Then, when he’d promptly decked the first guy who tried dragging you up onto a table with him, you figured you could safely visit again and not have to worry while your friend was there. The kid did a pretty good job of weeding out assholes.

“My lady.” He stood and bowed before presenting you with a fifth of Pink Whitney like it was the finest wine.

The bottle was half empty. You’d been passing it back and forth for the last hour in between rounds of pong.

“Been sayin’ shit like that ever since he saw Gladiator II.” His housemate Cory called from closeby. He flicked his wrist once and sank his shot in the second to last cup.

“You are not General Acacius, brother,” Cory’s teammate Pete chimed in. With a lucky throw of his own, he hit the final Red Solo cup and shook his head like it was nothing.

You were all on the third floor, away from the noise downstairs. While the so-called ‘pregame’ surged ahead on first, in the basement, and outdoors, you’d managed to find relative quiet among eight or nine friends and acquaintances, plus a guy railing lines off a frisbee in the corner. Nobody knew where the fuck he’d gotten it from.

“I like to pretend,” Dallas said with a shrug. Then, once you’d taken a swig of the pink drink and handed it back: “My parents play next. Gavin, put the coke away, please.”

Gavin sniffed the air at least four times like he had a cold. Then he tucked his credit card back in his wallet, put the wallet in his pocket, and knocked the frisbee on the floor.

‘Yessir’ was all you heard before he was leaning back contentedly. The girls Cory and Pete had just played seemed equally indifferent as they sauntered off—likely looking to get their hands on whatever the hell else the redhead had in his jeans and quick to forget about the game. Blow was way too easy to spread at these parties, and clearly, no one gave a shit about redemption round.

“Gavin.” Dallas’ tone was a warning.

At the same time, his housemate had just snagged an ID where it was left on the table and held it up to the light.

“Hang on, it looks like this guy, uh…” Cory squinted to read the text on an apparently too-old driver’s license. “Looks like he called dibs on next round…Joel Miller.”

Your grip tightened on the spot. You said nothing. Cory was just then starting to remark that this dude’s the spittin’ fuckin’ image of that one guy from Game of Thrones, Dallas, come look, when the door to the room swung open, and in walked the man of the hour himself.

Joel was joined by Scott, Michelle, and a horde of others.

Well, maybe five in total. They were all freshmen girls.

Giggling, grinning freshmen girls who were quite literally hanging off his body on either side, or else trailing behind him, admiring him like he was the single greatest thing.

Where were all their fathers? That was your fake dad.

Christ, that sounded bad, and you hadn’t even said it.

When Dallas offered you the bottle again, you declined. You were more than just buzzed. And Joel was drunk.

Apparently.

And was he—well shit, were they trying to strip him?

One of the bubbliest girls from the group was tugging on Joel’s shirt. Three buttons were already undone, and a smooth, tanned patch of flesh glistened through the ‘V’ in the fabric. He’d been working up a sweat downstairs.

A sea of black-and-grey hairs peeking out through the trough of cotton was the last thing you saw before you had to look away. It was too familiar. And there you saw some girl fresh out of high school, feeling him, teasing at the material while she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“You are so lying!” she slurred, voice pitchy and shrill.

What was worse, you couldn’t even fault the girl for it. That had been you just a few short years ago, hadn’t it?

Beside her, her friend snagged his sleeve: “Show ussss!”

Scott and Michelle had approached the table where Dallas was setting up the cups for the next round and you were trying not to stare. You reckoned you were failing pretty miserably at the task when the next thing Mrs. Ingram did was lean in closer to you and whisper.

“Real hot commodity with the girls, isn’t he?” It was soft.

She was right.

You forced your gaze to your feet, pretending to assess the wet and sticky mess underneath them. You hummed.

“Yup. Real ladies’ man,” you answered quietly. Strained.

“They’re convinced he’s got some ink hidden under his shirt. That’s a creative way to get a man topless if I’ve ever seen one.” Scott chuckled next to you, tone teasing.

Something twisted in your chest, though you couldn’t quite place what it was. It hardly felt like jealousy at all—but that was worse, somehow. Joel was your stepfather in every other mind but yours and his, and here he was, soaking in all this attention that you couldn’t give to him.

Maybe that was for the best.

Joel deserved a woman he didn’t have to love in secret.

“OK, who’s up—Joel or mom and dad?” Dallas asked.

“I’m out. Joel can take my place. And don’t we—”

Pete snapped his fingers, then pointed at Cory.

“We forgot to grab the other keg, didn’t we?”

“Fuck me.”

“Let’s go.”

They were gone in a second. That left Joel, Scott, Michelle, plus one open spot. Dallas set the last cup.

“Who’s gonna be Joel’s partn—”

“ME!”

That had to have come from three girls, at least. One on the couch and two more on either side of Joel, along with a slew of hopeful looks from others in his orbit.

They’d dispersed some, thankfully. Though not physically clinging to your pseudo-stepfather and begging him to peel off his shirt, they stayed close.

One of them giggled and nudged her friend: “Maya can!”

The girl who’d just been playing tug-of-war with the front of Joel’s button up waved her hand in mock indignation.

“I suck at pong. You go, Claire,” she crooned.

It was clear from the sideways glance the first girl had flashed that she wanted Joel to protest. Maybe insist that she play anyway, if you had to guess. It was all so confusing—what with how this group was flirting, and fighting, and insisting simultaneously that they couldn’t possibly play, even though they’d like to, but maybe…

Your skull started ringing again.

You were just about to turn to leave, when Dallas cut in:

“Sorry, ladies. Gonna be a Daddy-Daughter duo tonight.”

Then he gestured to you, beckoned to Joel, and grinned. Your stomach could’ve plunged to that floor you’d just been pretending to study. You quickly jerked your head.

Even Joel, for all his calm and unaffected dealings, the pretty damp mop of hair hanging in ringlets against the sides of his face, and the way he kept pretending not to be concerned by the flock of girls, had to pause a beat. You saw his throat work. Before you could try and decipher the look that was crawling up his face, you made the split-second decision to interject yourself.

“No, Dallas. I’m not playing again.”

You tried to avoid grinding your molars.

This time, the tone he heard wasn’t one of a thinly veiled acceptance—something begging to be disputed when it tried to decline the offer—but instead an emphatic ‘no.’

No way were you playing another game with this man.

Joel already had your head fucked ten ways to Sunday by being here at all, and now you had to pretend to be platonic, his goddamn beer pong partner, while a gaggle of freshmen girls sat frothing at the mouth for his dick?

Yeah, but no.

Hard fucking pass.

You didn’t care what it looked like. You shot Dallas a look, grabbed a stray Solo off the table, and made your way to the door, calling something over your shoulder about being too tired to play, and offering your spot to Maya.

That should make your old man happy enough.

It wasn’t like he could do anything here with you.

And then you left. Before you did, though, you passed Gavin and the mysterious white bag he was starting to fish out of his pants, and without thinking, you grabbed his hand. You didn’t like doing coke, had never seen the point in taking your level of intoxication that far out on an ordinary night, but, all things considered, this evening was anything but normal. You deserved some relief. If that couldn’t come in the form of Joel packing all his shit and leaving, then so be it. But you weren’t about to hang around and play the nice and polite stepdaughter when all you wanted to do was scratch your fucking eyes out.

A few lines wouldn’t be the worst way to start the night.

Joel wasn’t drunk.

He wasn’t tipsy, either.

And even if he had been, he wouldn’t have appreciated the way this hazel-eyed firecracker had nearly crushed his toes from how hard she’d jumped up and down at hearing you abdicate your position. Maya had shrieked, and Scott and Michelle hadn’t been able to fight back smiles, and trying not to wince too hard, Joel had politely excused himself. He’d claimed that he needed some air.

The oxygen he found down the hallway a few minutes later was stale as shit, but he couldn’t exactly complain.

He’d asked for this, after all: the thumping bass, shaking floors, passageways that reeked of weed and cheap perfume, and girls that refused to let go of his neck.

Well. He hadn’t asked for that last thing.

Thirty years ago, he might’ve found it cute—what Maya and Claire and every other glossy-gazed Phi Mu seemed to be offering with every bat of their lashes. Now, if the arms latched around his throat weren’t yours, the idea just made him sick. He cleared his throat and walked.

And before long, his feet had carried him to the end of the hallway. Where in the hell had you gotten off to?

Would you be back soon?

And why had you taken that kid with you?

Joel’s palms were sweaty by his sides. He didn’t like being kept in the dark—didn’t think traveling some 2,000 miles to be closer to you would still leave him wondering like a fucking idiot if he would see you again.

Then he reached for the nearest door. A bathroom.

The door was just cracked, allowing a sliver of light to shine through and a peek at a sea of tile flooring to greet him. Joel pushed on the knob without thinking to knock.

When he stepped inside, he had to stop.

It was too much to process and walk at once.

For the first time in his life, he felt shell-shocked.

You were on your knees in front of that red-haired fucker. Stabilizing one hand on a denim-clad leg in front of you, patting his thigh, having him murmur something back—probably words of encouragement for how nice your mouth felt around him—and then tilting your head up.

Joel could only see you from behind. His vision was red.

“What the fuck are you DOING?!” he bellowed out.

The two of you leapt apart, your head jerking back.

He wasn’t thinking. Joel blew straight past you and went for him, the little pencil-dicked Pike who’d just had his dick down his stepdaughter’s throat, presumably, and he grabbed him by the shirt. He shoved him hard against the bathtub on the wall, watched him flail a few steps, and then, before the kid could recover his balance, Joel shoved him again. He might’ve tripped further back and fallen into the tub, had the older man not reached for him again—and reared back to punch him square in the face.

That blow never landed.

In the next instant, a smaller body was forcing itself in between him and the kid, and the only other thing Joel could see through his own blinding rage were your two eyes—wide and panicked and horror-stricken, clearly.

“JOEL.”

Still not prepared to retreat, Joel reached out again.

Your hand knocked his down in a blink. Hard.

“J— Dad. Dad. Stop. Please don’t hit him.”

Suddenly, that tone was approaching a plea. You must’ve caught a glimpse of the rage pulsing through his veins and sensed it might’ve been too much for him to control—but of course, Joel knew better. He could always stop.

He stepped off and turned to you at once, teeth bared.

“How the fuck could you even—” he started again.

“I’m sorry, dad,” you broke in, words sounding like a sob, “It’s not his fault. Really. I— I didn’t mean for you to see.”

Sucking some other guy’s cock. Yeah, of course not.

Joel’s face flared with an anger unlike anything he’d felt in years, and if it weren’t for the skittish sack of shit stumbling away, and the warning that was starting to radiate off your skin, he would’ve liked to knock him out.

He might’ve, if the kid hadn’t run out of the room.

If you hadn’t turned slightly, he might’ve yelled again.

And then he saw it, from where you’d pivoted—the toilet.

Sitting on the smooth white porcelain lid in three thick stripes, the sight greeted him like a punch in the gut.

He wasn’t sure what it meant for an excruciating second. He stared. Then he processed what that substance was.

You’d been crouched over the toilet doing a line of coke.

He wanted to feel relief. For a moment, maybe, he did.

When your eyes narrowed on his and you shook your head in a scowl, it didn’t feel like he should be happy. Or ready to celebrate this latest discovery. Instead, realizing that you hadn’t been blowing a guy in this bathroom but were simply doing drugs in front of him, Joel felt bile jump up his throat. It was like a knot the size of his fist, and he wasn’t sure how to react, but he couldn’t stand that look on your face. You were just as angry as him.

“What the hell was that all about, Joel?!” you snapped.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut back in:

“Sorry, sorry—I mean ‘dad.’ You fucking asshole.”

“And this is why you up and left?” Joel hissed.

“I just—”

“Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

“I didn’t—”

“What that could’ve been laced with?”

He pointed to the cocaine on the lid of the toilet—apparently there hadn’t been enough space on the skinny porcelain sink to set up your lines—and at the same time, to Joel’s amazement, you sank to your knees.

“Well, I don’t know, dad, why don’t we test some out?”

And then you swiped a casual touch through a line and lifted your index to your mouth. With your other hand, you pulled at your bottom lip a little, and were evidently about to test your drugs the old fashioned way: by rubbing the powder against your gums to see if it made them numb. Joel swatted at your wrist before you did.

“Don’t,” he growled. Without even realizing it, he reached and grabbed your chin. His fingers engulfed half your face in an authoritative, upward-tilting grip. “Put that stuff anywhere near your mouth, and you will regret it.”

That didn’t seem to stir you, but your hand stayed put.

Joel stepped away just as quickly. He went to the door.

He shut it.

And when he returned, you hadn’t moved from where you’d been knelt. He was glad. Something quiet and dull throbbed between his ears, though he wasn’t recovered enough from the shock of the last few minutes to really investigate that. He just stood back over you, frowning.

His voice was lower when he spoke again:

“What am I gonna do with you, honey?”

It was a question as much for himself as it was for you, and your lips twitched at the end of it. You shrugged, and you sank back onto your heels, peering up as you did.

“You thought—” you started, soft.

“I thought you were in here blowin’ that little shit.”

Your smile split into a grin. Your eyes glistened.

“Is that so?”

Joel didn’t have the strength or the presence of mind to answer, so instead, he just nodded. His scowl deepened.

“You and me,” he resumed, having just exhaled a breath, “We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat later. Got that?”

And he meant it. Not just about drugs and other men and the dangers of accepting cocaine from strangers. He had more to tell you tonight than his overwrought mind was likely capable of sharing right now, but he’d say it.

Soon.

Eventually.

Once he got this bulge in his slacks sorted out.

With you, it was never a conscious decision, and it rarely ever occurred at times it was appropriate to happen. Like when your friends and their family and half of the Pike fraternity weren’t all milling about around this house. When he hadn’t almost decked a kid for giving you coke.

When you weren’t shuffling on your knees to greet the growing erection in his pants with a grin on your face.

“Will this ‘chat’ come before or after you fuck Maya?”

That was it.

Joel seized hold of your head again—this time, from the back. One palm rounded the base of your skull and yanked your face forward, mushing your nose and your lips against the fabric of his pants in an obscene sort of kiss. He made you rub your face against the hardened tent there, and he groaned when you whimpered. The reverberations of it traveled from his groin to his brain in two milliseconds flat and made him think insane things.

Like having your mouth right now.

Taking from you here what he thought he’d almost lost.

The sight of your head hovering anywhere near another man’s crotch made it crystal-clear to him, though he’d known it well before: he wanted you. He needed to have you. How you could even crack the joke about a shred of his attention being elsewhere had him tightening his hand in a fist in your hair. He didn’t care if it felt wrong.

“You know what girls like Maya can do for me?” he said.

He tilted your head back so your gaze could find his. He didn’t let you answer, but he let you stare for a second, and then he worked your pretty parted lips over the front of his slacks again. He let the taut grey fabric tease the cusp of that opening, tasting a bit, before drawing back.

“That’s right,” Joel went on as if you’d just responded, “Nothing. Absolutely fuckin’ nothing. Open your mouth.”

And you did. Wider. From the look of it, there was spit pooling inside, and your tongue hovered just within it when your lips met the front of his pants. You cupped your mouth around his clothed erection and kissed it.

Your eyes were locked on his as you did. The sight felt extra obscene—Joel couldn’t ignore the fact that he was dressed in near-formal attire, and you had on jeans and a tight cropped tank. He looked polished and professional; you were a beaming pretty thing making space between his legs to kneel. You felt like a dream with your lips over his swollen, aching cock; Joel felt old. Paternal, almost.

Was it wrong to think you needed to be taught a lesson?

Of course it was. He wasn’t your dad. He didn’t do that.

But when you smiled up at him with your lips still brushing his straining bulge, Joel couldn’t resist the smallest impulse to wonder—what if he showed you?

What if he let you know exactly what he wanted, how he needed it done, and that he only ever craved it from you? If he couldn’t say it outright in words, he could guide you.

Teach you.

Your tongue traced the seam of his zip, and he groaned.

“Damn near gave your old man a stroke, y’know that?”

“I know,” you said softly. Kindly, “I’m sorry, daddy.”

His cock throbbed at that last affectionate word.

His hands couldn’t help themselves: one stayed planted on the back of your head, and the other made its way to his belt. He undid his buckle, button, and zip in a blink.

“And what was that prick’s name?” Joel grumbled.

“Gavin.”

Your mind seemed two million miles away from any shit-brained fratboy at the moment as your gaze fixed itself on the length he was working out of his pants just then.

When it bobbed out and got within an inch of your rapt expression, your lips parted on instinct; you leaned in.

Swiftly, Joel’s hand on your head halted the movement.

“Gavin, huh,” he returned, tone treading on patronizing. He knew you were salivating for that little pearl on his tip. He gripped your hair hard. “This what you’d do for him?”

You whimpered.

“No, daddy. No, just— just you.”

Joel hummed his approval but didn’t let you move. He watched you eye the head of his cock like there was no single sight more appetizing in the world, and then he saw you lick your lips. You’d get positive reinforcement.

He would take things slow, and by the end of it all, he hoped to have made it clear that this was what he wanted: you, and only you. That he didn’t want you doing this with anyone else other than him. Here, now, or ever.

The last was a lot to say, so he fed you an inch instead.

He let his cock slide between your lips and stretch them.

You breathed something soft and sweet at the first intrusion of his tip; your mouth cushioned that inch, and his head was immediately enveloped in warmth. Your tongue darted out to greet him in a gentle lick. Joel groaned again, and his fingers constricted in your hair.

“That’s it, honey,” he told you, “Suck on daddy.”

His hips hadn’t meant to jump, but the pleasure from just the cusp of your mouth was too much for him not to flinch a little. He stabbed another couple inches in that pliant ‘o’ and felt you work your jaw open to take him whole. You looked so obedient. You were doing so good.

You bobbed your head gently, and his hand didn’t need to coax you at all. You were hungry, mouth sliding up and down his thick, throbbing dick and leaving trails of spit in its wake. You wanted to please him now; he could feel it.

You had no idea what you did to him. All he wanted now. It was like trying to explain a color in words, and all the man could do was just hold your head in place and watch you take him. When your back straightened and one palm braced itself up against his thigh, the other about to curl around the base of his length, he shook his head.

He brushed that hand away and made it rest on his other leg, so you were left with just your mouth around him.

You peered up, confused. Joel was, too.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to do, but he knew he had to lead the way. Make you see what he wanted you to by guiding your motions and filling your mouth the way he needed. He tried as much by shifting his left hand to meet the right at the back of your head. Gently, he pushed your face forward to suck more in.

“Breathe through your nose, baby. Wanna feel you.”

Feel you deeper, he should’ve said. Either way, it made for a slow and painstaking slide down your tongue—sensing you flatten it and inhale a shallow breath as he worked his way in—and at the stretch, you gagged a bit.

Joel eased up, just enough to let you flit your gaze to his.

“You wanna feel me, too, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

You nodded, mouth still full of cock. Your eyes glistened in a way that said you might’ve guessed there was more to it, but you weren’t exactly in a position to ask just what. You let the fingers of both his big hands splay against the back of your head, and your jaw slackened more. Your gaze stayed on his as his cock slid deeper.

In that, there was wordless, tranquil reprieve. The sight of his spit-soaked length stuffing your mouth, skin all shiny and wet, and the way he kept going further and further and further, until your soft pert nose grazed the hairs of his belly, made Joel’s member swell harder still. There was scarcely an inch in between your lips and his heft of stomach. Your eyes were still fixed on him, and as the seconds ticked by, there was moisture welling at the corners. Joel moved his hands to thumb at those tears.

“Good girl. You’re doin’ so good for daddy,” he praised.

And something stirred in the depths of his body when he felt you try to nod again, like you were thrilled to be giving him pleasure and wanted to show it in some way.

Joel could’ve stayed like that for hours if his dick would only have let him. As it was, though, he felt the stir in his stomach accompanied by something else—a familiar pinch, and a warning jolt of pleasure. He cursed quietly.

You’d just started. He’d barely got an inch down your—

“Fuck,” he cursed again, when he sensed you swallow around his dick. The head of himself was breaching somewhere deep within your throat, and he felt it.

This wasn’t what he’d planned. You’d taken him deep before—at your father’s birthday bash last month, actually—but then you’d been blowing him under a table. He couldn’t hold your gaze or watch your throat open around him, couldn’t see the minuscule wince in your eyes or try to brush that discomfited look aside with his thumbs in the way he could now. He felt it in the pit of his gut, though: he would burst if he didn’t slow down.

With that one grounding thought, Joel tried pulling out.

Your body below him responded in sharp protest.

‘Daddy, no’ seemed almost to jump off your tongue, though it was presently weighted down by his cock. Your nails worked deeper into the fabric of his pants, like the tight, possessive grip was all you could manage to let your intentions be known to him. Then the look flared in your irises, too. They were begging him to stay in place.

Joel obeyed. Though it was you on your knees for him, lips, tongue, and throat pulsing and sucking to give him the utmost pleasure, he felt pangs of powerlessness, too.

He couldn’t help it when your lips stretched more, when your mouth opened wider, and your throat took him in all the way. He was fucked. He let out a sharp, hoarse grunt to let you know as much, and he cursed out loud again.

And then, completely axing his every well-laid plan, Joel felt the first rope of cum unload from his throbbing tip. Then another. And another. And another hot flurry of pleasure cropped up from that place your mouth was presently attached to him, and this time, the wave was too much to be overcome. The whole thing flooded him.

Without a hope of beating out that primal instinct, Joel just cupped your face in his palms and let his climax fill your throat. He couldn’t think, and while you seemed a tad surprised at how early it came, you didn’t fight it, either. You simply sat back, peered up, and let him fuck your mouth in the gentlest, most desperate thrusts, mind likely eager to feel his spend paint your open throat.

You hardly had to swallow at all—hardly could swallow, with how deep he’d gone. His cum jetted in milky strings through your plush, wet channel, and Joel could feel it gliding down with just a moment’s hitch of resistance.

Impaled as you were, you gagged once, and he withdrew in the next instant. He didn’t wait for you to catch your breath or for his cum to get down inside you. He felt too much to be troubled now; he yanked you to your feet and drew you into him. He pushed you back against the sink.

Your legs latched around the backs of his, and your body was thrust against the mirror. It was tender, somehow. Joel didn’t fight to claim your lips or invade your mouth with stifling kisses; he just pressed you to the reflective glass and hedged you in under him. He kissed you gently.

In between movements against your body, he mumbled:

“I’m sick of missin’ you all the damn time, sweet pea.”

He wasn’t sure where it came from. It just came.

Much like he had, except the stringy ropes of cum that had spurted from his dick seemed far less of a mess than whatever the fuck was coming out of his mouth right now. He felt exposed as soon as he’d spoken it you.

Then he saw your lips twitch. You kissed him back.

Someplace within where your mouth slotted over his, you were able to get out a couple murmured words yourself.

“I wish you didn’t have to,” you returned in a whisper.

You snaked your arms around the back of his neck and kept kissing him, over and over again, like your body was just starting to melt, and the heat was making you dizzy.

Joel could relate. Every time you touched him, he felt it.

He gripped your legs where they were still curled around his sides, and he held you tighter to him. He pressed his torso to yours until he was half-sure he was hampering your breaths, and then he pulled back. Briefly. Panting.

When he opened his mouth to speak, you cut in for him:

“I wish you could…be here. I wish we didn’t have to…”

Hide.

Your mouth seemed to have your mind and your usual reservations beat by a mile. It was moving fast, like his. Before you could stop yourself, your thighs constricted around his hips, you pulled him in closer, and just as you were about to finish that last quick, splintered thought—

“We’re leeeeeeeeav—OH! Shit!”

Aly Ingram’s sing-song tone was shortly supplanted by a shriek. She’d thrown open the door, unannounced, and when she saw the two of you collapsed against the sink, Joel’s undone pants hanging precariously over his hips and your mouths scarcely two inches apart, she jolted.

Or jumped, really.

She almost leapt through her skin, it seemed, and before she could even begin to recover, she just slapped her hands over her eyes and stumbled back. She was drunk.

“I didn’t see that! I did not seeee—”

“Aly!” you half-hissed, half-groaned.

“I literally didn’t see shit. You’re all g—”

Before either you or Joel could utter another sound, or attempt to split apart, Aly let out a second shrill yelp. This time, it was because she’d just tripped over a trash can backing out. She’d only very narrowly regained her bearings, had grabbed hold of the doorknob and was dragging the door shut, when the girl all but sang again:

“Have fun, be safe! Don’t make babies!!”

Joel scarcely knew how to react to that.

As it turned out, your roommate was open-minded.

Ply her with four or five shots of tequila and a couple High Noons, and she’d probably believe the moon was made of cheese if you told her in a serious enough tone.

But your goal tonight hadn’t been to convince her of a lie—it was to get a big, ugly truth off your chest that you’d been hoping to keep under wraps this entire weekend.

Now, after getting caught with your fake stepfather’s jizz drying in your throat, you had had to come clean about this thing. It wasn’t a story you’d wanted to tell, but it was one that needed sharing given the circumstances.

Aly had laughed her ass off when you told her everything.

Blame it on the strobe lights, the thumping music, or the thick, fetid air of the bar you’d just arrived at, but Aly had laughed a lot. She’d squeezed her eyes shut and slapped the tabletop beside her, like that was the single most insane thing she’d ever heard, and why don’t you write her a How-To? She’d love some tips on boning old men.

“He’s not that old!” you’d protested over your beverage.

She’d bought the drink. She said news like this was cause for celebration, and you couldn’t deny that. Smiling as you spoke, you figured this was good.

In fact, you thought getting caught by your closest friend was one of the best things that could’ve happened, all things considered, because now you knew at least one person was supportive and in your corner regarding Joel. On top of that, you had someone to help cover your ass—if a touch or a look between you two was too suspect, she’d tell you. From the second your group had Ubered to the bar, she’d been keen to see you close…though not too close. Presently, she grinned and squeezed your leg.

“I think you two would make a damn cute couple.”

“Huh?” You had to shout over the music to be heard.

“A cute couple!”

“Come again?”

You were really trying your best, but the blare of Bon Jovi overhead was a bit too much. You leaned in closer to her.

“YOU AND JOEL WOULD MAKE A CUTE COUPLE!”

And, as if on cue, Joel and Aly’s father reappeared at the table, holding the drinks they’d left to buy. Thankfully, the volume in the room was near-deafening, and neither seemed to have heard a word of hers. Scott was nursing some bottom shelf whiskey concoction while Joel double-fisted two shitty beers beside him. You had to admit, the latter looked good from where you sat: one more button was popped on his icy white shirt and a smile was plastered on his face, eyes straying to you more often than they should. The moment after that, you were doubly grateful for the blast of ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ in this bar—the next thing you knew, Joel was dropping his head casually and murmuring in your ear,

“Aly sure likes to stare, doesn’t she?”

Followed shortly by:

“Wanna give her somethin’ to watch?”

He was clearly joking. Your cheeks warmed anyway. Then, when he started to lift his head, he left a quick, parting kiss to your temple that could’ve been construed as a paternal gesture. To anyone else but you, him, and Aly, it likely was. Your gaze slid from Joel’s face to his forearms, where the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. He smelled like pine, sweat, and Natty Light, and you were just about to tell him that somehow that combo worked for him, when Scott interposed, loud as hell.

“You ask her yet?!” he bellowed.

He knocked shoulders with Joel in a playful way, and the pair nearly stumbled sideways. Scott elbowed his ribs.

“He’s drunk as shit,” Dallas observed idly.

“Well, what’s he—” you began to say.

Before you’d even finished the question, your answer came in the form of Joel nodding, visibly pretty buzzed himself, as he waved his friend off with a shove and a laugh. Scott just grinned bigger as Bon Jovi gave way to Steely Dan over the speakers. Joel leaned back to you.

“Scott invited us to go skiing out in Jackson, Wyoming.”

“He loves planning trips drunk,” Michelle added.

“Like they’re best friends,” Dallas chuckled.

You ignored Aly’s half-concealed smirk on hearing that; you were too stuck on the look Joel was giving you. Like he was drunk, but dead serious—like he’d agreed to this.

Something set for a future date, however nebulous and far-fetched and stupid the idea may have been, made your insides stir a little all the same. You tried tamping it down with another sip of your drink, but you still shared a glance with Joel. He was watching you more intently.

“Is that something you’d wanna do, hon?” he asked.

You might’ve liked to warn him that he was drawing too close—that his breaths were too warm on your cheek and Aly was straightening in her chair, blinking harder—but anything even approaching a remonstrance was evidently never meant to leave your mouth, as the next second had you nudged off your barstool, taken by the hand, and dragged toward the bustling crowd at the center of the room. Scott had suggested dancing; his son had readily agreed and was now leading you out to the crowd himself. You snagged one fleeting look at Joel.

Mr. Ingram had been dying to get out there, apparently. Behind you, the man spun his wife the best he could through the jam-packed dance floor of students and parents bumping their way through the very best of the ‘70s and ‘80s. He took a few graceless turns himself; while Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen, and AC/DC reigned supreme over the wide open space, he pulled some mildly impressive moves. More importantly, though, he didn’t give a shit how he looked. This encouraged your group to let loose a little, too, and you somehow found yourself burrowing even further into the sea of people.

Your arms were compressed on either side of you. Your shoulders were bumped, and nudged, and given little more than a quarter of an inch for your chest to expand in the shallowest of breaths. Every pull of your lungs was an effort, and still, you couldn’t help but smile as you ran a quick look over the heads of everyone around. This was fun. Private, even. With dozens of nameless, faceless bodies gyrating in time with the music, you could blend right in. You could pretend that everything was normal.

Even with the press of a familiar form at your back, you could pretend it was just the crowd forcing him there—that Joel had just sauntered in behind you by accident.

It was risky, to be sure. The lights above flashed in bright white bursts, undulating with every pulse of the song being played, and it wasn’t too far from you that Aly and all the rest of them were strewn throughout the crowd.

But Joel hadn’t seemed to have noticed. Beneath the myriad limbs of the bargoers around you and him, he moved a hand to your waist. It hovered precariously for half a second, then tightened. It drew you closer to him.

You tried to push it away on instinct, heart jumping in your throat: what if Scott or Michelle or anyone else turned their heads at that moment and found him touching you there? What if the grasp their eyes caught wasn’t the wholesome, blameless kind that was meant to be shared between stepfather and stepdaughter? Who the hell was supposed to do the explaining to them then?

Clearly Joel wasn’t all that concerned about it; he slid his palm back up your side and gripped your hip hard after you’d nudged him off. He took a daring step forward, and you could feel him shake his head behind you. Smiling.

“And if I made a joke about father-daughter dances—”

“I would kill you with my two bare hands, Miller.”

Your backside glanced off his front. It wasn’t so much a deliberate move on your part but a byproduct of the rhythm. Some soft rock song was coming to an end, and your body rolled gently with his. The friction was minimal. This kind of proximity was easy to be explained away, if Dallas ever happened to look in your direction—

“Joel!”

Something hard pushed into your ass. You had to steel yourself quick, eyes darting furtively about to make sure no one had seen what you’d just felt between your legs. Then you tried wriggling away, off of him, and were rewarded with another hand on your side. It gripped the flesh just above your hipbone with a tender conviction.

Joel’s lips grazed your cheek briefly. His grip loosened.

“See what you do to me?” he murmured, and the fingers that he’d eased around your waist were turning you back.

Facing him now, away from your group. More bodies filled in between you and them, and the force of that influx pushed you closer to Joel. It shoved you together. It almost couldn’t be helped—that was what you kept telling yourself, anyway—when your frame melded to his, and his hands lowered to your hips, and one finger worked its way through your taut, denim belt loop in a manner completely unbecoming of a normal stepfather.

That callused finger held you firm to him with your jeans. It didn’t give an inch, and his eyes on yours did the same.

You were drifting further out. This didn’t matter as much. Anyone who saw you now would just have to guess that you were Joel’s, and Joel’s was yours—if only for now.

Your lips and his were gravitating closer then, too. You were just about to part yours to speak, when one soft, opening sequence broke out in the air, and you groaned.

No fucking way.

An all-too-familiar mid-tempo tune flooded the room and coursed in and out of your skull with a low, rhythmic tick.

It was eerie. Dreamy. Nearly haunting in the way it rang out right here, right now, with Joel’s hold on your sides tightening more and more with every passing second.

You hoped like hell he didn’t know this song, though you were half-certain this was a big hit from back in his day.

When Joel tipped his head back and fell right in step with the swaying cadence, you weren’t left guessing for long. Of course this slick bastard liked George Michael.

Of course he did.

What more of an appropriate song to be dancing to now, other than fucking ‘Father Figure’ of all the throwbacks?

Joel lifted both arms in a half-shimmy, half-slide and flashed a shit-eating grin down at you. It was smug.

‘For one moment, to be warm and naked at my side.’

Joel raised his brows with it, as if hearing the lyrics for the first time and being shocked. He wasn’t, clearly, as he rolled his shoulders in a stupid and seductive way, and dragged you closer to meet his body’s movements.

‘Sometimes I think that you’ll never understand me.’

Right. You would likely never understand Joel Miller.

‘But something tells me together we’d be happy.’

Well…as long as your father didn’t kill him first.

Emboldened by the pre-chorus beat and the ever-increasing swell of people around him, Joel snaked an arm around your waist. He let your body fall in line with his, rolling in gentle sorts of motions until he could find what kind suited you two the best, and he led the way.

When his head dipped to yours, you could feel it coming.

‘I will be your father figure. Put your tiny hand in mine.’

This time Joel was singing along, grin wide on his face. As if to mirror the lyrics, he took your hand and squeezed it. You might’ve rolled your eyes or pulled away when the man leaned down and slid his touch to your wrist. He kissed your palm. Then he kissed it again, sponging his lips to the skin in time with the rhythm of the song. It was both innocent and lewd. Wholesome and sensual.

Something trapped between perverted and polite, like Joel was testing the waters while trying not to make it seem that way at all. You kept moving in time together.

Joel’s other hand held you to him. His fingers flexed.

“You can’t…”

When his grip slid to your ass, you shook your head.

As much as you would’ve liked to indulge the urge that was currently flooding your system, the timing was off. The choice to give in now was wrong, and risky to make.

Your roommate and her family were no more than fifteen feet away. No matter how many strangers stood between you and them, Joel was toeing a dangerous line with his hand lowered to where it was. With his face only inches away and a sly grin spreading on his lips, it was clear he knew better than this. But he was eager to talk.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

Where that single term of endearment had once made you bristle, you now sensed it warming your insides.

You nodded but were quick to add: “Joel, we can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because…”

You found yourself trailing off again, just as you felt Joel’s erection grind into your front, somewhere close to the space between your legs. It rubbed right where you needed him. While another stream of airy, dreamlike notes floated out and a tenor’s voice crooned if you ever hunger, hunger for me, you peered up to find Joel deep in contemplation. He didn’t blink when you met his gaze.

Instead, he nudged you sideways. You inhaled a breath, and not long after that, you felt your back pressed to one of the lone barstools sitting at the outskirts of the room. You’d strayed far. And now, away from all the people that you’d come here with, you had two big hands sliding up the sides of your body. Cupping your face. Guiding your mouth to meet a warmer, more desperate set of lips than you’d ever been expecting to find. Joel’s kiss was rough.

It was open and aching—a wound not willing to be soothed by anything other than your tongue on his. Swiftly, he coaxed your jaw open and slid in. He licked in. He practically panted into your mouth, fingertips carving crescents in your cheeks from just how hard he was holding your face. He didn’t let up, and that hunger bled from his lips to yours. You felt a heady wave wash over your brain, and at the same time, your thighs tensed.

You pulled away.

Your lips were bitten numb. Your cunt was throbbing.

While your pulse thundered through your ears like a fucking kickdrum, your grip loosened on the front of Joel’s shirt, and you started to turn yourself from him.

What you needed to do was leave. What you couldn’t stand was getting caught again, and risk it being someone who wouldn’t take to it as kindly as Aly had.

But even as you walked, you felt a pulsing in your skull.

Between your legs, the feeling was worse, like there was something thrumming a frantic beat in that precious and defenseless place that you knew was needing him most. You were weak. You swiped a hand over your mouth like that would do anything, and you kept walking, knowing how closely Joel would be following you all the way out.

On such a clear, frigid night, the air outside should’ve been a relief. Instead, your pulse hammered and swelled. Your cheeks burned. You could’ve ground your teeth so hard that you cracked enamel, and it still wouldn’t have been enough to bite back the words inside your throat.

You turned to Joel wanting to tell him no. The expression that met yours said he was expecting as much—and was preparing to object—when you swiftly cut him off again.

It should end there. Nothing good ever came of you shedding your inhibitions or clothes with Joel Miller.

He reached out; you winced. You shouldn’t say it.

“Let’s go home, Joel.”

You were running again.

You’d nearly knocked him to the floor the second he’d turned the key in the door of his dingy little motel room, lips frantic over his and hands making fists in his shirt. It was exactly what he’d been hoping to see—part of why he’d booked this place and made the drive that weekend, to have you cradled in his arms again—but as he crossed the threshold with you all over him, Joel grew unsettled.

He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but something told him that you were only here to escape an unsavory urge. Like he was a bad habit to be flooded from your system.

You seemed to say it with every motion of your hands: skating down his front, clawing at the buttons, busying themselves with quickly trying to rid him of the fabric while your eyes stayed trained anywhere but on his face. It stung. Normally Joel wasn’t the type to ruminate on the reasons why a girl might be tearing his clothes off, but tonight, with you, this wasn’t what he usually did.

The ache unfurling in his chest wasn’t the kind to be imparted by just anyone, he kept reminding himself.

Which was why he took hold of both your wrists. Tightly. Just as you were about to try and peel his shirt from his shoulders and expose the whole naked expanse of his chest, he stopped you. He swallowed as you groaned.

“Joel.”

“You didn’t want me kissin’ you at all back there.”

In the bar, outside the building, in the car ride over here. You’d scarcely let him hold you for half a minute before begging to be taken home, and now that you were inside this room, alone, now you wanted to be touched by him.

Joel tried not to feel stupid saying it aloud, but hell, he felt pretty fucking pathetic peering down at you then.

You shook your head. Took a small step back from him.

“Yeah. Trying not to get us caught again, remember?”

And when you backed off, you stayed off, if only to start unfastening the little straps of your top and kick your shoes off your feet. You made your way over to the king-sized bed at the center of the room and sat down. Joel took off his own shoes but didn’t follow, opting instead to rest his weight on the old TV stand across from you.

He planted his hands on the hardwood surface on either side of him, watched you shuffle to the edge of the bed, and had to steel himself when the next pieces of clothing came sliding off your body. You were lifting your shirt over your head, then dragging your jeans down your legs.

Before you were stripped bare, Joel cleared his throat.

“I said we were gonna have a little chat later, too.”

He sounded like a dad. This really had to stop.

Instead of following his lead, you only kicked your pants off at your feet and leaned back. Joel approached the bed, and you greeted him with a coquettish look, like you already knew where this was going. But you couldn’t.

Joel made sure that you wouldn’t when he cupped your chin in his hand and made you tilt your face up to him.

“Honey,” he started, stern, while you reached for his belt.

You’d almost succeeded in threading your fingers through the leather and tugging it loose when Joel’s grip drew tighter. He jerked your chin up in a pinch, ignoring the roll of your eyes, and for yet another beat, he felt that obscure urge to discipline you again. Like you needed it.

If he could just control himself and play things right…

“Listen, I’m not trying to be your father.”

Wait. No. That came out wrong.

Your eyes widened some.

“Oh, really, daddy?”

Well, shit.

Joel straightened where he stood and tried not to puff out his chest like an old father-type might do, but the effort was useless—everything the man said and did was like the fucking calling card of a patriarch. He scrubbed a hand over his face and pretended not to see you grin up at him, your gaze bright and fiery as the Fourth of July.

He could hold important conversations and still not try to jump your bones immediately. He could control himself. He could slap on a semi-austere look and just tell you.

“I love you, you know that, right?” he blurted out.

Your eyes widened again, this time in alarm.

“Christ, Joel.”

You were sliding back on the bed. Shaking your head and pursing your lips in a grimace like this wasn’t happening.

“We’re not doing this again,” you added in a grave voice.

Joel was already making his way up after you—again, like a fucking moron, he felt—crawling on hands and knees across the moth-eaten, coral-colored bedspread and trying not to panic and failing miserably, per usual.

“‘S’alright if you don’t wanna say it back, I just—”

“I didn’t mean to say it in the first place, Joel!”

But there was a strain in your words. Denial.

You were working in earnest not to expose that sliver of self that wanted him, too. Joel could feel it. He planted his knees on the mattress and met you closer to the headboard, where your breaths were coming in faster. You shook your head, but you also didn’t stop him when he drew in even closer and lowered his body to yours.

He was hovering, almost.

Just as he’d been poised above your soft, beaming face all those weeks back in some little podunk town—at Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge, where you’d been stuck together, only to fuck each other for the first time that night—he pressed a touch to your side. He rubbed his thumb just over your hipbone, where the panties you had on still clung to your skin, and he watched you tense up.

It was like before, only worse: now you knew his touch, and he knew yours, but there was a dread in your eyes.

As if you couldn’t stand to be under him, you slid back.

“Joel, please…don’t,” you murmured hoarsely.

“Don’t what?” His stomach dropped.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

That he loved you?

Joel never thought one string of words could hurt him so much, but there it was. While his heart unwound and his ego met with a swift and unceremonious death, he felt something like agitation twist inside him, too. Cruelly.

This was what he’d come this whole way to tell you.

The man could handle rejection; that wasn’t the problem. What bothered him now was how unflinchingly committed you seemed to misunderstand his intentions. Something surged in his chest again, and this time, it wasn’t all hurt—it was anger, too. Why you refused to accept that someone might love you was beyond him.

He didn’t reach for you again or crowd you further, but he raked a hand through his hair and heaved a hard sigh.

“Why won’t you believe me?” This time pleading.

“It’s not that I won’t—I just can’t, Joel. I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

You started to speak, but then that balloon of rage swelled bigger in his chest, and it wasn’t meant to be directed at you—it was only meant for himself, why wasn’t he enough—and he spit the words like venom.

“Haven’t I shown you that I mean it? That I— I— I care? I’m here. I came to see you. I’m telling you that I love you. How else am I supposed to show the woman I love that I care when you won’t let me in an inch, except when—”

“Except when you’re seven deep in me?” you scoffed.

It was bitter and derisive, and you slid farther back.

“For Christ’s sake,” Joel gritted through his teeth.

He didn’t even wait for you to interject, as he came back: “Is that all you think of me? Is that what I am to you?”

His voice was loud, and he hadn’t meant for it to be.

He was pushing off the bed, watching you sit back.

“I just think it’s real convenient,” you snapped again, “Betraying my trust by not telling me about dad’s affair, finding me in a weak moment, letting me believe you feel the same so you don’t have to deal with this…this…guilt.”

Joel couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think I did all of this out of pity?”

“I think you’re trying to be a—”

“That I would lie about it?”

His heart rate was spiking. He felt his pulse thudding in his ears as he stalked around the footboard and scowled.

“Joel, I—”

“No.” He shook his head hard. He was sincerely trying not to fit the bill for ‘hot-headed, explosively angry father,’ but the efforts he made seemed all in vain. Joel could hardly talk now without raising his voice to a shout.

“I have—” he started, only to stop himself, swallowing.

His throat ached, and he almost choked on his words.

“I have been in love with you this whole fuckin’ time!”

His eyes burned. The sound came out angry, hoarse. Maybe he was; he just couldn’t contain it anymore. Silence filled the open space, and time distended.

He couldn’t stand the way you wouldn’t believe him, even now, as you straightened and shook your head.

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have.”

“You don’t mean—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!”

He stared back and watched your gaze erupt in ire. Indignation. Lips drawing tight and teeth baring and hands gripping the bedspread beside you, as if enraged.

“I do. I can. You’re— you’re full of shit.”

Your words made him want to hurl something at a wall.

“Am I?!” he bellowed.

“Yes!” you spat.

“How can you say that?!”

And, without meaning to, Joel’s knee hit the side of the nightstand while he turned abruptly from you. The whole thing shook; the lamp nearly toppled, and the man immediately reached for it, then out to you. The gesture was a reflexive apology, but you responded by shoving his hands off. An angry sound racked through your body as you moved from him—“You—you don’t mean it, Joel.”

“I do. I mean it. Believe me, I do.”

That sound from his chest could’ve been half a sob.

He reached for you again, knees sinking with the springs of the mattress beneath him, and you shuffled further back. Your movements slowed. Suddenly, Joel’s stopped.

He couldn’t see it without a wince—your hands shaking. Your fingers tried making fists but failed, and in an effort to conceal the fear they held, you seized the comforter.

His throat ached, and that pain only soared in a second.

“You can’t…you can’t mean it if I’m just a secret to you.” Your tone was a rasp. The lips that spoke it were curled, revealing teeth still gritted. Eyes filling with more tears, “You can’t say you love me if…if you’re just gonna leave.”

By the end of it, your words were ground to a murmur. Your voice was hushed and slow and begging to be spared notice, as though every syllable hurt to say.

Your bottom lip was quivering too. He knew you were kicking yourself for it—could see the embarrassment etched into your gaze as you blinked back nothing, then one, then two, then a barrage of slow, hot tears—but no matter what you did to fight it off, your body trembled.

The whole thing was practically vibrating with hurt. Humiliation and anger had evidently joined the mix, and before he could even think to speak, you mumbled again:

“You’re gonna leave me, Joel.”

The hurt wouldn’t stop.

“You don’t love me.”

Your voice cracked to continue, pain clinched with a sob.

“You can’t.”

In the look that met his, he saw a wall of warring fears. It wasn’t all for him, either. There were wounds that were the work of years beneath the surface of your skin, ones entrenched in flesh since long before he’d ever known you or laid a finger on that part himself. It started young.

Your lashes battled to keep the tears at bay, but the floodgates had opened. Your secret was gone. There was no sense in feigning indifference when the truth was laid bare—that you didn’t deem yourself worthy of love, and likely never had. Regardless, you worked hard not to cry. You scrunched your nose, mashed your lips together, and stared anywhere but him, and the tears kept flowing. Gently, but without slowing, they streaked down in turn.

“No, sweet pea, I love you. I love you. I ain’t leavin’.”

It was all Joel could do to keep his own vision clear.

He already knew you wouldn’t believe him, but that didn’t stop him from saying the words all the same.

“I— I said it first,” he went on, words tumbling out.

You turned wet, sad eyes to him in utter silence, and that made him want to ramble on forever. As long as it took.

“At the fair, a month before you ever said it, I was trying to tell you I loved you then. You ran off before I could.”

That was the truth.

If Joel had any hope of regaining your trust, it would need to start there. And out of one truth came another.

“I already knew I loved you before that. I would’ve said it, except it just felt wrong, with all that…that stuff I knew.”

He meant knowing about his best friend, your father, and his little rekindled romance with his former mistress. It wasn’t right, keeping you in the dark about something like that, but he also hadn’t wanted to hurt you. There was more to the story that complicated things further, and frankly, Joel had been too swept up in the novelty of this thing you two had had to choose the smarter path.

That didn’t excuse what he did. Hell, it only hurt him worse seeing your eyes gloss over and stay fixed on his.

Knowing you’d trusted him not to hurt you—and he had.

If you didn’t accept what he told you now, he wouldn’t fault you for it. All he could do was slide off the bed and pull you to a perch on the edge, while he planted himself on the carpeted floor and kneeled in between your legs.

Cupping your tear-stained face in his hands, pleading:

“Baby.”

You blinked back at him but ventured nothing.

“Sweet pea, I am not keeping you a secret.”

A beat.

“I’m not leavin’. I want more—need more.”

And for some reason, that felt like a weightier admission than he’d even thought possible. He wasn’t good at this.

He wasn’t quite cut of a cloth to know just how to soothe you and make things right, but he did know that holding you felt right to him. So he did. He rubbed his thumbs in little circles over your warm, wet, puffy cheeks, and he pulled your face closer to his. He held your gaze and watched an internal war wage somewhere far behind your eyes as you tried to contend with this new feeling—that of being wanted and needed and loved as you were.

You sniffled between his two broad palms.

“I want you to stay,” you said softly.

Joel’s heart hammered at that.

He couldn’t hope to leave out the rest. He let go of your face then and felt an irresistible urge to go on, even if it was much too soon and he had meant to show you later. As stupid as the idea had been, he’d already made it, and there was no going back anyhow. He would tell you here.

He reached in his pocket for his wallet. He broke your gaze momentarily to take it out, flip it open, and then card his fingers through the bills a few aching moments before pulling it out—the thing he’d wanted to show you.

When he held it up, a set, he flitted a quick look to what he’d lifted between you and him, as if the sight might give him answers on what to say. Sadly, nothing came.

Joel was totally on his own in explaining what this was. Lucky for him, though, you didn’t seem keen to judge.

“They’re…they’re tickets,” he started. Stupid.

You raised a brow, trying to read, and he forged ahead. Just as the words first appeared to register in your mind, and the faintest look of shock took shape, he hurried out:

“Billy Joel’s got a show comin’ up in Austin this June. I…I thought— well, I hoped, I guess, that maybe we could…”

Spit it out, Miller.

Spit. It. Out.

He frowned.

“I’m no good at this. Sorry. I wanted us to go…together.”

And then…

“And I want your dad to know about us before then.”

There it is.

The last lynchpin in the man’s resolve was gone. He’d said it. There was no turning back from what he’d offered, or what it required, and now you knew he wanted things to be real and committed. Serious.

Terrifying.

Your eyes remained fixed on his. For a second, that look, and your whole upper half, appeared so still Joel thought you might’ve stopped breathing altogether. You blinked. Glancing down at the tickets in his hand and batting your lashes again, as if you weren’t quite sure how to answer.

Then, at last, he heard a sharp inhale—Or was it an exhale? He couldn’t tell—and before he could blink back or wonder so much as a thought, the breath was battered out of his own chest. You rushed him.

You’d moved so fast, hugged him so quick, Joel scarcely knew what was what until he felt your arms snake around his neck. You joined him on the filthy, soiled floor and dropped your knees on either side of his body in a kind of straddling hug. It was as swift as it was unexpected, and it took him a second to adjust. But no longer than that.

Joel was relieved to feel your warmth. Squeezing him. Choking him, almost. He didn’t think you’d ever held him that hard in his life, so he did all he could to soak it in.

It was only when he heard another sob that he paused.

“You…you want to?” Your voice was tiny against him.

“‘Course I do, darlin’,” Joel answered in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He cupped the back of your head to him and held you tighter, “Of course I do.”

Then, because the impulse struck again: “I love you.”

He didn’t need you to say it back; a look was enough. When you drew back and met his gaze, eyes still doused with tears but smiling faintly at him, Joel was content to see your acceptance. Allowing love in in some small way.

And when your lips succeeded that look, meeting his in a soft kiss, and your body shifted up toward the bed, he didn’t protest. He kissed you back. Joel didn’t have to have love spelled out in words for him to feel what you meant. You said it gently, but somehow with even more force than when you’d stumbled into this room together, touch beckoning him in as you laid back on the mattress.

Admittedly, every inch of this place was seedy. On such short notice Joel hadn’t had much of a pick among his choice of accommodations, and the shortage showed. Still, when you slid up that old, worn bed and stretched yourself in wordless welcome, he couldn’t have asked for more. He only wished that he could give you more, but for right now, at least, that was out of the question. He leaned in and found your lips like second nature, slotting between your thighs and kissing you harder. The concert tickets had shortly been cast aside on the night stand.

“I love you.”

It slipped out again, and Joel didn’t care. His tongue chanced past the seam of your lips and, once inside, explored every contour, ridge, and crevice it could find.

While he did, a touch palmed your breasts over your bra. Your skin was warm; gaze soft, the last he’d seen of it. The scent of you rose to greet him like a mist of some wild intoxicant: citrus, mint, a tinge of sweat, and a liter of your favorite fruity drink, if he’d had to guess. You flooded his senses. It wasn’t enough for him simply to hold flesh in his hands and explore your body with his lips and tongue; Joel wanted to consume something more, though he hardly had the words to articulate it.

You unclasped your bra just as his mouth slid down to your neck. There was a beat—your sharp intake of breath when his teeth met skin and marked it with the tenderest bite—and then your arms reached out. You discarded your bra and bared yourself to him, and when Joel tilted his head to take in the view, he had to groan your name.

There was no other logical route for him to go.

You’d just begun to wind your fingers through his hair when he slid down to greet that newly-exposed place.

“I love you,” he repeated against your skin before drawing one nipple between his lips. He kissed it.

Your grip grew tighter.

“Joel, please.”

His teeth had only reappeared a second to tug the pebbled flesh between them, tongue hungry and wet and laving gently across that hardened peak, when your legs wound around him too. You pulled his body into you.

Joel was helpless to the inducement. His torso fell more heavily to yours and his lips suckled with a vigor that betrayed sheer desperation. He felt it strain in his pants. When he moved from one breast to the other, he heard a wet pop, and the whimper when he re-attached himself was enough to make the bulge he felt swell even bigger. His tongue caressed in laving, measured motions along the curve, and he tried not to grow overly eager from it.

Don’t get too excited. You need time. Lots and lots of—

“Joel,” you exhaled on a particularly harsh press of his mouth. Your ribs heaved with it. “Come— come here.”

He was clambering back up in an instant. The ministrations of his lips that had practically engulfed your skin and smeared it with his saliva were swapped in a blink with them returning to your chin, jaw, and cheeks, planting kisses in between the words he murmured next.

“Yeah? Every—” To the side of your mouth. “Everything OK, sweet pea?” Feeling guilty but also simply needing to calm himself down. “Too fast?” Another to your cheek.

It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t gone too far, too soon before. In fact, it was a pretty regular occurrence with the sex you had. Joel just needed a reset—had to make sure this was alright, and that he could cool down if needed.

He felt a pinch in his groin but ignored it.

Suddenly, your gaze was on his again.

Fingers carded through the sweat-damp, striated tufts of black and silver hair at the sides of his head, and you leaned in closer until your nose and his were touching.

“Here,” you pressed him, low. Need crept into those words, and your grasp constricted. “Stay here, please.”

It was clear you were inviting him back to your lips, to kiss them, so Joel did just that. He bracketed his arms on either side of your head and let his mouth explore as it had before. Where he resumed at equal force, you met him with still more warmth and wanting and open fervor, tongue curling around his in some soft and wordless plea

Below the belt, Joel was throbbing. He didn’t need to reflect long at all to know what that meant. Then your lips parted wider, your ankles dug deeper in the backs of his calves, and your hips started grinding against him.

Dry humping.

Whining at the friction.

“Feels…feels so good, Joel,” you told him breathlessly.

“You like that?” His lower half mimicked the motions.

Need blossomed across your face as the ridge of his cock rubbed in just the right way through his slacks. Something harder than he meant—a thrust, like he was fucking you into the bed—shook your frame, as well as the mattress underneath it. Springs creaked. Metal groaned. Warmth spread, from the pit of his stomach to where your body met his. The movements kept going.

You were slick beneath him. You must have been. Your whines had heightened to punctured gasps and your hips were so desperate, rubbing your barely-clothed core to the front of his pants and brows pinching as if—

You were already expecting this to end.

You didn’t think that he would stay.

“Baby,” Joel panted again.

By now, desire consumed him, but the urge to smooth that tiny crease of worry was coursing just as powerfully. He swallowed, gripped the linens beside your head in one hand a little harder, and opened his mouth to speak.

Another flick of your hips. Another sigh. Another whine.

Another pinch somewhere deep within him, and a groan.

Suddenly, your hands were on his shoulders, sliding up and toward his neck. Your fingers clawed for his hair.

“Joel,” you panted back.

Joel had tried to slow the motions of his lower half to talk, but yours had only sped up to grind yourself against him. He could feel the heat bleeding from you now. Wetness formed and expanded in a patch through your pink cotton panties and likely stained his front, or would.

His cock was swollen stiff and throbbing. Precum pearled at the tip of him, no doubt, and with every jerk of your body, he could feel it smearing and aching to slip in.

He wanted to be inside you. His balls twitched, his stomach ached, and his senses were suffused with you, a white-hot desire to paint your mouth, your skin, or your insides with his cum nearly as strong. But he had to stop.

Then you kissed him.

Joel’s lips were still parted when your mouth found his, kissing him sweetly and without reserve. Your fingers that had threaded through his hair pulled taut. Hard.

Your center slid up the length of his fully clothed cock, and with one more press of your legs, Joel felt you.

He’d never wanted anything more in his life, and still, he fought to speak—to reassure you that he wasn’t leaving.

“Joel—”

“I know, I know. Baby, I—fuck.” His breath hitched in his throat when his bulge pulsated again. His head swam.

With what meager resolve the man still possessed, he ventured another kiss, then drew back. His eyes dropped and searched your expression, half-crazed, and just when the words were taking shape again, you parted your lips and brought them to his. You rolled your hips, balled your fingers into fists through his hair, and with your mouth and his a quarter-inch apart in puckered, pretty ‘O’s, panting with every thrust that shook the bed:

“I love you, Joel.”

It was a breath, and the taste had never felt sweeter.

One more jerk of his hips and you were drawing in once again, panting in his mouth as if to make sure he heard.

“I— I love you. I love you so much,” you murmured, low.

His cum unloaded in thick, hot ropes. He couldn’t stop it.

Joel Miller, at the age, maturity, and level of experience he could boast, had never cum virtually untouched and in his own fucking pants since…he couldn’t remember when. But he was. His spend pulsed out from the head of his cock in dizzying bursts, and his stomach clenched. He gripped the bedspread and let out a guttural groan while he soaked the front of his boxers from inside them.

His dick throbbed and leaked, and his breathing slowed. He mumbled something back, quietly—‘I love you, too.’

Then he pushed up and off of you, out of the bed.

Seconds stretched; he didn’t feel it. Stars burst behind his eyes with every step, and he staggered that path to the bathroom like his life or his pride might depend on it.

As a matter of fact, the damage was already done. He’d jizzed in his pants like an overeager teen getting his dick touched or sucked for the very first time. What was worse, you hadn’t been doing either when he came; you’d told him you loved him, and that was enough.

Enough to make him look like a goddamn idiot, Joel thought without blinking. He kicked the door shut behind him and reached for the zip of his pants.

Sticky. Wet. A whole fucking shitshow below the belt.

He ran the tap. He had his undone slacks and boxers pulled down past his hips, and he was facing the sink in seconds, assessing the extent of the damage. Then his face flushed red at the sight of the sticky, milky mess swarming his groin and he could’ve kicked himself. He settled for yanking a towel out from one of the cubbies beneath the counter and running it under the water. He daubed quick and without much precision, gaze darting to find dozens more clumps of his spend strewn about than he thought possible. He’d cum an absurd amount.

Before he chastised himself, though, he had to pause.

“Joel?”

Your voice was soft. Sometime since he’d unzipped and started scrubbing his crotch in vicious circles, you’d appeared at the door, head peeking around curiously.

You must not have been standing there for long, because you actually drew closer to join him. Feeling comfortable enough in roughly thirty square feet of space, you shut the door again and leaned your hip against the counter.

If Joel didn’t know you better, and he wasn’t already occupied with wiping cum off of his cock and balls, he might’ve searched your face for a smile. A smirk, maybe.

It wasn’t like teasing each other was suddenly off-limits now that Joel was brimming with embarrassment. Half your communication was giving the other shit for little mishaps and quirks, and he expected that his last accident in the bedroom would be no different.

He flinched when you reached out instead.

Hooking your fingers under the waistband of his pants and his plaid boxers, you shuffled in closer to him and let out a breath. You tugged once, twice—gently, so as not to further disrupt the mess or make him wince—and then coaxed the fabric down his legs, lower and lower.

When you peered up at him, Joel couldn’t find so much as a trace of amusement in your eyes or on your lips. You just nudged his slacks to the tiled floor and hummed.

“It’ll be easier if we wash it off in there.”

You nodded to the shower behind him.

Joel turned slightly, as if considering or trying to get a glimpse of the freestanding shower with its wide-open, mildewed curtain seeming to beckon him in, then stopped. He turned back and chucked his towel.

“Alright,” he said while kicking his pants off at the ankles. Talking softly and not meeting your gaze, “That’s fine.”

He pivoted once more to peel his shirt off and make toward the shower by himself, and you surprised him, again, when you bypassed his much larger frame and hopped in first. You slid your panties off and tossed them into the pile of clothes by the sink, and you twisted the knob on the wall. You sidestepped the first stuttered sprays and drew the curtain back in wordless invitation.

Joel hovered, eyes scanning the cramped space.

“I don’t think we’re both gonna fit in here.”

Then, as though to emphasize his point:

“I can wash off by myself. It’s…fine.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so stilted, but that was just how he felt: stiff and awkward and raw with feelings of recent embarrassment. He tilted his head to the side.

Your head tipped right back, and you raised a brow.

“Just get in, Miller. Freezin’ my fuckin’ ass off.”

And there was a smile: the first one. Faint.

Not mocking, snide, or condescending. Just the kind to usher him in and drag the curtain behind his hulking body, wipe a slick, wet hand over your mouth and grin—‘You do know I’ve seen you naked before, right?’—and that set his mind at ease. He almost smiled himself.

“So you remember that I’m a grower, not a shower.”

Joel cupped his hands over his softening length in faux protective fashion, as if you hadn’t seen the thing dozens of times by now. When he sidled up and cornered you between the soap tray and the shower stream, he found the edges of his lips kicking up a little, unable to help it.

You’d seen him hard, soft, and everything in between—mostly hard when near you. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing that you were getting to experience him like this.

That made him lean in closer. Chance another joke.

“Looks like your old man’s stamina has taken a hit, too.”

Joel had meant it to sound playful. Suggestive, even. Instead, it came out dismal and gruff, like he was trying to overcompensate for something he was sorely lacking.

He might’ve wanted to kick himself again, were it not for the next move you pulled on him, which was enough to pluck his thoughts—and his breath—out of his body.

Without wasting a second to pretense or teasing, you simply brushed your hand down his front and touched him, gently. He was softer, smaller, and almost wholly spent from his last exertion; still, you reached and wrapped your fingers around his length with care.

Sparks ignited from the place where you trailed. Joel had to swallow a groan, oversensitive and fairly stunned, and his palm came to rest on the wall behind your head. His chin dipped toward his chest while his gaze dropped too.

He watched you stroke him once, rub your thumb along the tender skin, then bring your left hand to join the mix, carrying a bar of soap with it. You started from the base.

“Baby,” Joel rasped. The muscles of his stomach clenched while you drew circles to spread the soap.

“My old man,” you repeated affectionately.

It was artless and kind. Friendly and gentle. Most every other time he’d been touched where you had him, the hands had meant to arouse, and seek something else. Here, you were trying to help. Clean him sweetly and without concern for yourself while also drawing him in, like you always did. It made his chest hurt—and not in a way totally unconcerning for a man his age. Nonetheless, he leaned into that feeling and shifted his body to yours.

His head and your head were now doused with water, his hovering above so close that little droplets streaked from his chin down your slightly upturned face. Joel could feel you watching him. He flicked his own gaze back to meet yours, and as he did, your palm stroked him from root to tip. His hips jerked involuntarily; he swelled in your grip.

His cock stiffened but still remained far from fully erect. Joel swallowed, anchored his hand harder on the wall, and wished himself a decade or three younger, at least.

“You alright with this?” he muttered.

“With what?” you mumbled back.

Joel sucked in a breath just as your hand, and the soap, slid back down his length, and rubbed casually around it. You assumed a leisurely pace and scrubbed his tummy.

“My body ain’t what it was—”

“And it’s more than enough.”

Suddenly, your eyes weren’t just resting on his but pressing. Piercing. The circles working to clean his skin increased in pace and force, and you set the soap aside. You nudged him closer to the water, but all Joel felt was the urge to draw you with him. The shower stream pelted his chest, his belly, his freshly soaped lower half, and past the suds, a gradually hardening cock. Gradually.

You had him in your hand; you were rinsing him clean. Joel should’ve extended some murmured thanks, a calm and uncalculating touch coming to rest on one of your shoulders while you did him this innocent favor. Your lips twitched. His cock hardened. Then your back was flat on the shower wall, and Joel was hovering over your drenched and naked frame again, only his touch was descending to your hip instead. He held it firmly.

“You could have your pick of any guy—”

“Good thing I only want you.”

Your grip tightened too. Now that you’d scrubbed him clean, you seemed ready to let go in the next second, but old habits died hard. Joel leaned in to nose your cheek.

“That so?” His hand moved from your hip to what he knew would be a scorching heat between your thighs.

Two thick fingers glided through your folds and forced a whimper out of your throat. You were soaking wet, and not just from the shower’s spray. Joel rubbed that slick, delicate seam with all the self-control he could muster in the moment, and he kissed your cheek. Every inch he could feel of you was brimming with warmth and need.

You tilted your chin and caught his lips. You parted your legs and held his almost-fully erect length in your grasp.

“I— I mean it, Joel,” you answered him, surprisingly soft then. You kissed the sides of his mouth while you continued to stroke up and down. “I want you.”

Joel’s hips shifted involuntarily. As if moving of its own volition, his lower half stirred beneath your touch, and shortly, he had your legs spread wider and his body slotting in the gap between. His fingers pushed deeper.

And, just as his hand was all but cupping your mound and the wet heat of your cunt was pulsing against him, Joel slowed. He sucked in a breath and met your gaze.

“How do you want me, sweetheart?” he murmured.

In reply, you gripped his base and guided him closer. Flicked your thumb over the fat, leaking tip and sighed.

“Right…here.”

“Right here?”

Joel hadn’t meant to move you so quickly, but one blink and your hand was off him completely; your back was turned to him, and your ass was pressed flush with his groin. He had to hunch in the tight, wet, fog-infested enclosure with his chin jutting in over your shoulder and his palm splayed over your tummy. He spoke softly again:

“You want daddy in here, pretty girl?”

Your whine was all he needed to hear.

And perhaps it would’ve been wise to wait a beat or two. Work two fingers in and out of your aching cunt, drag his tongue through your folds, or else use his throbbing tip to ease you open for him. Before he could even think to make use of his hands, mouth, or head, though, you were reaching behind and taking him yourself. You pressed a palm to the wall and pushed up on the tips of your toes, and with impatience bleeding through your every movement, you slid back onto him. You did it quickly.

In the absence of adequate foreplay, entry wasn’t swift. Joel almost choked at the feeling of how tight you were around him—how rigid and warm and narrow you felt on that first slide. He planted a grounding hand next to your own out of sheer necessity. He held your hip in his other and swallowed a groan that seemed fit to nearly kill him.

“Sweetheart,” he panted against your neck, “Easy. Easy.”

You tried to nod your understanding but slid up just as fast. From a glimpse of your profile, Joel could make out some consternation fanning out. Your brows pinched.

The pretty, slick ‘o’ encircling his cock clenched again, and it was evident you were trying to force the motion back down against your body’s wishes. You whimpered a little and dropped your free hand between your legs.

Joel kissed your jaw. Your cheek. Your ear. Partly to remind you that he was fine to take things slow and partly to quiet his own hammering heart inside him.

It wasn’t working.

You were just so. fucking. tight.

“I— you gotta slow down, sweet pea,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Your walls pulsed again, and it nearly sent him spiraling. The second your ass met his hips and he was buried to the hilt, he stifled a groan into your neck.

“But I need you, daddy,” you whined, “Need you inside.”

Another grunt. Another moan. Another suffocating pulse.

“I’m gonna blow if we don’t slow down some, honey.”

It was mortifying, but it was the truth. Tonight, Joel just couldn’t seem to keep his cum confined to his balls like he normally could. Presently, they rested firm and heavy against the globes of your ass and were just then preparing to hit a rhythm as you rocked back and forth.

Your gaze flashed to his over your shoulder.

“That’s OK. You…you can— oh.”

Before you could finish that thought, your words were torn from your tongue and lost to a shuddering moan. His cock plunged deep within your soft and airtight channel, and your head lolled back a little more.

Out of habit, Joel pulled out and then plunged back in, feeling the wet clutch of you stretch around his cock.

“I can what, honey? What can daddy do?”

Lax as his voice made him sound, the man was coming apart at the seams; he had only to search your face for a fleeting, desperate moment, find you hungry as he was, and he thrusted even harder, absorbed the shockwaves of your pleasure while he fucked you up against the wall.

Gradually, the spatter of water on white glossy tile gave way to the sounds of your skin and his hitting again and again. Your face softened, and the once-taut walls eased to accommodate his girth. You squeezed Joel from base to tip, making the most obscene noises when he slid in and out, and from the look you gave him then, he could sense the need before it ever left your lips. He saw desire fill your pretty, glossy stare and felt compelled to sate it.

Again, it seemed you were begging him to stay.

Expression so pleading and sweet and soft.

“Daddy, I— I want you to cum inside me.”

Joel almost blew his load on the spot. His hips had to stutter in place—so taken aback by what you’d just said—but then you were bouncing back and forth again, neck craning to flash him the most winsome smile.

“Oh, honey…”

“Please.”

He’d finished in you before. It had been an accident. The night had ended with you and him hauling ass to the nearest CVS and hitting the Plan B like it owed you money. And now you were asking him to do it?

“I’m about to start my period. It’ll be fine.”

The half-starved look in your eyes said you’d been thinking about this for awhile. Maybe not with your rational brain, but certainly in earnest. Your smile said it.

Joel’s good sense was shot. He knew it was wrong. He was assured beyond a shadow of a doubt that if your dad ever learned he’d deliberately painted your insides white—or worse yet, knocked you up—his best friend would personally sever his dick and sauté it for lunch. Still, the urge to be joined with you in this brand new way was damn near debilitating. He couldn’t tell you no. So instead of doing what he should’ve done, he simply said:

“OK.”

For some reason, it felt wrong to finish in the shower. So he cut the water, toweled you both, and took you to bed. He slid under thin, sodden, wildly outdated motel sheets without letting his lips disconnect from yours once. He propped your legs around his hips and kissed you harder. He found a home within the furthest recesses of your body he could find, and his heart still throbbed for more. It was the best and worst agony, to be so delirious in the need for someone else, but each time you met him and accepted him in, his pleasure soared to new heights.

His cock dragged in and out of your heat in sloppy, shallow thrusts. He felt your wetness ease his passage and welcome him deeper, until the mouth of your cunt was stretched as taut against his base as it would go and your walls were pulsing with need. You squirmed underneath him. Your whines turned into whimpers, and the whimpers became ragged, hiccuping gasps as you clawed at his back and begged for more, more, more.

“‘M’so full. Feels so, so good, daddy,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” Joel said, and he glanced between your bodies to see you stretched and stuffed to the brim with cock. He groaned involuntarily. “I fit so nice, don’t I, baby?”

“You— you do, daddy. You do.”

“Can I fit a little more in?”

Your eyes widened.

As soon as realization dawned, you nodded your head and gripped him tighter. You hardly needed another stab of his hips, his thumb on your clit, or so much as a word spoken besides—at just the thought of being filled with his seed, your body seized in anticipation. It was you trembling, shuddering, clenching hard and reaching bliss before you even meant to get there, really. You were wholly overstimulated and clamoring for more, the pulses of your cunt milking his cock with all you had.

Joel scarcely had the presence of mind to get a syllable out, but he knew what he needed to say before his pleasure took hold. He smoothed a hand over your cheek, cupped it, and lowered his lips to yours, so only the cusp of his mouth and his stubble were grazing your open pout and the words he spoke were all yours to hear.

Sliding deeper. Meeting and holding your gaze with bare, uncontrived sincerity: “I’m yours, baby. I’m all yours.”

His balls tightened. He wanted to say more to set your mind at ease and assure you what you meant to him, but evidently, your bodies had other plans. In the next moment, he felt a familiar warmth spurt from his tip, and his hips jerked. His cock burrowed as deep within your wet, pliant walls as it could go, and he unloaded rope after rope of his cum. Joel let out a full-throated groan.

The wild hum of his pulse through his skull all but rendered him deaf to the sounds around him, but he knew he told you that he loved you; he knew you said it back. He felt you anchor your heels into the backs of his legs and accept him completely. You spent what felt like hours kissing, writhing, panting, and murmuring words of the warmest affection. In reality, this lasted seconds.

With you underneath him, in his arms, it didn’t matter.

“I love you, Joel,” you whispered again, smiling.

He grinned and kissed you, “I love you more.”

And he’d meant what he said: every inch of him was yours. Every moment you would let him have from that point forward, he’d spend showing you that he was there to stay. He didn’t care how long it would take to prove it.

For once, he didn’t care what your dad would have to say

[novella-november]

I think something people really need to grasp when they're trying to defend books against criticism with:

"It's (a short story, a novella, a novellette, a standalone), that makes it *impossible* for the author to write with good quality, so you can't complain about the quality of the writing! Its impossible to have good characters, plot, and setting in short stories, they're *inherently inferior* to novels!"

is that, you can't defend bad writing/editing in modern books against criticism by tearing down all of literary history...??

You can't claim that

"Shorter formatted stories are inherently badly written and inferior to longer novels, therefore its unreasonable to expect well-written plot, character, settings, and conclusions"

when:

1) that is patently not true by any measure,

and

2).... One thing people who are not writers don't seem to realize is.... we, the authors, are the ones deciding how long the story we're telling is. That's the whole *point* of us writing a short story over a novel, or a novella over a novelette!

If we are following the best practice of writing a first draft, and actually editing that first draft into a final draft, with good, professional editing, is that our final, published (especially for money with a professional, traditional publisher!) book is exactly the length that it needs to be, that suits the story, that does everything it needs to do without a ton of chaff left over to clutter up the story, while filling in the details of world-building and context so the reader is not left to flounder.

A traditionally-published novel that cost $30+ for a paperback *should not* be full of so many *dozens of pages* where the story does literally nothing but dialogue that doesn't advance the plot, characters, or conflicts in any way.

These scenes that do nothing except pad the word count are perfectly fine and even *good* and useful in a first draft!

Writing these kinds of scenes, where the characters sit around doing nothing in particular (not even developing their characters with how generic and flat their dialogue is) can be used as a way to push through writers block !

Writing for the sake of getting words on the page can be a really good way to push through a transitional scene that you don't want to write!

However, when it comes time to edit, these are the scenes that need to be trimmed entirely to get rid of the chaff, or edited so that these scenes are developing the characters, relationships, setting, advancing the plot, and preferably, *more than one of those at once.*

If a story is being published for sale as a novel and a good 60% of it does not develop the setting, characters, or plot at all, and you could take out more than half the word count with zero consequence to the actual storyline, then that is not a well-edited novel, and trying to blame the format and wordcount the author chose to publish does not mean the novel is above critique.

The same is especially true of novellas, novellettes, and short stories. If an author chose to write and publish their story in a shorter format, you cannot "defend" subpar works by saying

"Its because this short format is *inherently bad for writing!* The author couldn't do anything to establish a setting or character, or have a plot with a beginning, middle, and conclusion! It's impossible to do a well-written story in such a small format :( "

And uh, I don't know who needs to know this, but short stories are a *foundation* of creative writing.

Some of the most famous stories out there in the world are short stories, or micro stories.

It is not the fault of the word count that a badly-edited novel or novella or short story is bad, it is the fault of whoever decided to push these things through to publishing without cutting all the chaff out to the point so many readers give up only 25% into a story because *literally nothing is happening*.

And worse, when people start reading something marketed as a novelette, that they paid money for, which starts out with an obvious plot hook, only to read through the story which barely establishes anything about why and how the plot hook is important, and then abruptly ends mid-scene with absolutely zero conclusion? That is *not* the "fault of the novellete format" that is *bad writing*.

If you believe that shorter format writing such as Short Stories, Novelletes, Novellas, etc are "inferior and incapable of being well-written and just handicap writers, and such formats can be used as a shield against literary criticism for flawed writing and bad editing" *please* do yourself a favor and go onto Project Gutenberg or the Internet Archive or Librivox and pick your favorite genre, and start reading old short story anthologies in your favorite genre.

There are thousands of short stories in the fantasy and scifi genre that are stunningly well written, they're fun, and they are absolute masterpieces compared to some of the books I have read that were recently published by *established authors* (not just first time authors), but their works are so full of untenable filler-words that the amount we actually know about the plot, characters, and setting could fill a *teacup* compared to the ocean of meaningless words on the page that seemingly exist just to make the book thicker and don't contribute anything except ruining the pace.

Please, instead of tearing down literary history by insisting that short formatted stories are somehow "inherently bad and can't be well-written" to defend a badly-written & badly edited short-format story, please just read some actual well-written short stories.

You don't even need to shell out $30 for them, you can read hundreds if not thousands of them on Project Gutenberg

and even more, you can listen to hundreds and thousands of short story collections as free audiobooks in the Public Domain with Librivox!

Instead of tearing down and entire, vast, amazing genre of creative writing, *please* just read some good books and don't feel like you have to die on a hill of defending bad writing for an author who is just out to collect a paycheck, and wants you to keep shelling out money for a work that hasn't even seen an editor's desk.

[existslikepristin]

Hey so I have some stuff coming up this weekend again, so the part after this one will likely be maybe Tuesday of next week? I'm not going to commit to a schedule because duh, but Tuesday seems good. For that reason, the poll is going to run for a week, but I will start writing based on the results as of Monday evening. Tumblr only has 1 day and 1 week poll time limits *eyeroll*

Tags: NSFW, S.M.U.T., genie, anal

(Story Index)

Pull out all the stops

“Yup,” you say without hesitation, “That’ll be what we go with.” Your fingers get around the flared base of the plug before you even realize you’re reaching for it.

“Oh please be careful, master! I’m a virg—” Joy snorts and chuckles, “Sorry, can’t say that with a straight face.”

This plug is harder to pull than one in the hospital. It’s like Joy is squeezing around it, doing her best not to let go. But eventually you manage the slightest movement. Behind the plug’s base, you see what seems to be an entirely normal asshole (or at least a normal one with a large size sex toy lodged in it). Your excitement grows as it widens, spreading at the insistence of the tool in your hand.

Further…

Further…!

Further!

And then suddenly, all resistance gives way, and the plug comes out with a comical pop. You can now confirm that she does have a very normal, human-looking asshole (or at least a normal one that’s a little gaped, a little lubricated, and spotlessly clean). Joy twitches and moans, at which you raise an eyebrow.

“You sure that was just a psychic thing?” you ask.

Joy groans, reaching back and rubbing a fingertip around her rim. It’s at that moment that you again notice her lack of vagina underneath. Still kinda weird.

“I said I didn’t get any sexual pleasure,” Joy says with a somewhat dreamy quality to her voice compared to before, “from touching where a human’s pussy would be. My ass, on the other hand, is quite functional from a physical sensation perspective, so I’d appreciate you putting something inside.”

This all seems very logical to you. No need for questions. You line yourself up and push.

Your entry into Joy’s ass is easy like Sunday morning. There’s some pressure against you, but only just enough for you to notice. The rest is just a pleasant grip. One fluid motion is all it takes for you to be pressing your hips into Joy’s cashmere-soft buttcheeks. They’re propped upward as her back is arched down. It feels like she’s in control of all of her muscles, because a fine squeeze seems to ripple up and down your whole length. You and Joy groan in unison.

“Oh fuck, master, that’s so good!” Joy drops her elbows onto the table and places her head in her hands. 

"Do you want to like, call me by my name?"

"I literally cannot."

You shrug and get back to what you voted for. The out stroke is just as eye-flutteringly luxurious as the in. Joy’s not trying to keep you inside, but she’s letting you out with a firm but gentle hold. Her back lifts and holds until you stop moving, and, as soon as you start forward again, dips again into the porn star arch.

On and on this continues for a word count more appropriate for a smutty novella than a brief continuation of a serialized fanfiction. Your stamina is rather shocking, actually, and you would wonder about the number of times the planet rotated on its axis if you weren’t more concerned with the primordial magic of Joy’s asshole consuming your perception of time, place, and sensation. 

Nevertheless, your orgasm creeps up on you. Something must signal that to Joy, because she pauses her sensual vocalizations long enough to look back over her shoulder and give you some seriously tempting-ass bedroom eyes, which seem to get across the silent “pick a place to cum” sentence.

Options:

You’re already in the best place. Cum in her ass.

But like, you want to see your cum ON her ass (and a little on her back).

Cum on the blank space normally occupied by pussy… weird.

Nay, most fitting of a mystical slave would be a facial!

Or in her mouth! Swallowing shows devotion or whatever, probably.

[scrawlingmouse]

so, nanowrimo

Writers who are both more eloquent and more established than I have talked at length about it, it's ups and downs, etc., but I figured Hey! I've got a writing blog now and Opinions on Nano! Might as well talk about it, right?

So, for starters, I did Nano about 10 years ago back in high school, and I'm considering doing it again this year. Sorta. We'll get back to that. When I did it the first year in high school it was fun! I did it with a friend, and I didn't "win" but I did get a lot more words down than I was used to! But of course I had school and then college to focus on, so eventually that 2/3rds of a novel draft just kinda withered away while I did nothing with it. Flash forward to the next year and I decide Hey! I should do this again! And I did, and I got maybe 2 days in before I crashed and burned. Flash forward to the next year, and it happens again. And again, and again, until eventually I swore off nano and decided it was Absolutely Terrible for Writers Forever.

So, what changed? Uh, nothing, really. I still don't think nano is a good thing for young writers who haven't learned what the writing cycle actually feels like, or even looks like.

(As a disclaimer: if you are a writer and feel like the structure and deadline works for you to help you pump out a draft, hell yeah! Good for you! Legitimately good for you, no sarcasm! This is not directed at you.)

SO THE WRITING STRUCTURE. WHAT IS IT? It's drafts. It's so many drafts, especially for longer works. It's drafts upon drafts as you figure out how you actually want your story to work. It's writing a whole novel and letting it sit and returning to it and rewriting the entire thing, and then realizing that rewrite was just a second draft, maybe even a 4th draft as you reconfigure what a "draft" actually even looks like. And then, once you have a draft you're satisfied with, it's edits. And then it's several phases of edits before you're satisfied again. And then, depending on what route you're going in terms of publishing, it's potentially even more drafts and editing and drafts of editing as you work to get your story out and-

It's a lot of work, okay? Not that anyone ever said it wasn't, but I feel like we need to be honest with ourselves in that writing is a lot of work. Cranking out 50k words in a month is a draft. A very hasty, very slapdash draft. When I tried doing this in college, I didn't quite realize it, wrapped up in all the hype of writing a novel in a month, and so kept getting frustrated when my words werent perfect. Never mind that I'd never actually finished a draft before, didn't even really know what a draft looked like.

So, why am I trying again? Great question! I'm not! Sorta. I'm not holding myself to the word count (I'm mostly writing short stories and novellas these days anyways), I'm not tying to write a finished product, and if I don't reach my goal this month I'm not going to stop. Because that's what happens a nontrivial amount: dec 1 rolls around and people stop writing without the structure/deadline to keep going, and so all the work they put in to keep up a writing habit goes down the drain. Anyways, my goal this year for this month of nanowrimo is just to stress test my own drafting abilities: how much of a draft for my next Xal novella can I get done in a month? That's it. That's my entire goal, just to see what happens. If I make it? Sweet! Onto the next phase! If I don't? Sweet! Most of a draft is better than no draft! Onto the next phase!

Draft writing is just one spoke in a wheel, and you gotta keep it turning onto the next thing.

So, what's the end to all this? Should you never participate in nano? Should you denounce it to the heavens??? Man how would I know I'm just a mouse. These are questions you gotta ask yourself and sit with the answers. I think you should tailor nano to fit with you and how you write, but you're the only one who can accurately answer just what that means for you. If it means cranking out the whole 50k, good for you! If it means just trying to write once a day, perfect! Hell yeah get that habit forming! If it's some other kind of benchmark that works for you, good!

Just keep going after. That's all I ask, don't let someone else's arbitrary goals keep you from writing.

I love you go do good work I BELIEVE IN YOU!!!!

Also hey if you read this far mind checking out my patreon or buying me a ko-fi? I've got discount commissions on my Patreon as well as access to all my backlog of one-shots forever, and I've got a $1+ donation doodle option on my ko-fi! Your support keeps me writing c: thanks!

[internerdionality]

20 Questions for FanFic Authors

Tagged by @dragonmuse, thank you! 🥰

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

39. I've been publishing since 2020, so a relative newbie, and I apparently can't write actual short works to save my life. I'm looking forward to hitting 50 fics, maybe even before the end of the this year, although that might be overly optimistic.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

817,200. Also looking forward to hitting a million! I started writing fanfic in part because of Diane Duane's post about the first million words being for practice, but I've realized as I've gone that fanfic is also just more fun in a lot of ways than original work, because it's lower stakes and more silliness and really all about the community.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mainly Our Flag Means Death and the DC universe. I have a long crossover plotted out in the Slayerverse but I haven't published any of it yet, and one fic (I think my shortest) that I wrote to expiate my feels for the fourth Matrix movie. Oh! And a few Good Omens, only one published so far.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor? , Our Flag Means Death, Izzy/Everyone + Canon Pairings. I started writing this one literally the night after I finished watching the show in late April 2022 and managed to hit the wave of gay pirate frenzy as the fandom was born. I swear I'll finish it. 😅

A Fucking Duel, Our Flag Means Death, endgame SteddyHands with some strong Sprizzy side-action. This started out as crack, again very early in the gay pirate brainrot, and then turned novella size on me when I wasn't looking.

To Err is Human, to Purr is Batman. DC. Shades of SuperBat but mostly Bat-Family focused. I turn Bruce Wayne into a cat. Pure fluff.

Mutually Beneficial. DC, SuperBat. Classic identity porn romcom with a sugar daddy twist. Nonbinary Clark Kent. My first fanfic on AO3!

Soaked to the Skin. Our Flag Means Death, Sprizzy with a side of BlackHands, my take on how things would go for the Revenge right after the first season ended, doesn't include any of the characters who weren't on the ship during SO1E10. Double the length of any other fic I've ever written!

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always! I am a praise-gremlin and treasure every comment I receive. I also include answering comments in my total word count for the day (I made a resolution during the HHD 5781-82 to write more, and while it took me a little bit to get started, I have written at least 250 words a day since mid-December 2021). So answering comments often gets me pumped for writing more fic!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Disregarding the prequels in the big dark vampire romp (which aren't really standalone) probably a tie between the surprise twists at the ends of Untethered and Gently in the Night? Both fics end happily but then have a little angsty setup for the sequel at the very end.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Definitely Mutually Beneficial. Most of my fics end happily but I usually try to leave them somewhat open without doing a lot of epilogueish kind of things. MB was an exception where I wrote two fluffy epilogues with lots of romance and sex because I didn't want to leave my boys! Although honestly now when I think back on it I think it would have been a stronger work if I'd ended it right after the climax and posted the fluffy epilogues as separate works.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

There was this one unregistered user who went through all my SuperBat fics and engaged in this long comment thread where he accused me of not liking Clark Kent? (Which, almost all my DC fics have Clark as the protagonist, I adore him, so). It was very surreal. I eventually just deleted it every time they'd write a new comment and they stopped after like two or three of those.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Lots of smut! It's actually just in the past year that I've stretched myself to write more Gen-ish fics with WDYDWADS and TEIH, and it somewhat surprised me that those became my two most popular fics in their respective fandoms.

As far as what kind, I really try to diversify but the strongest commonalities tend to be strong power dynamics, bondage, pain-play, and consent-play, with my darkest stuff going hard into noncon. I have fluid squicks so I tend to avoid anything in that area.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

The only one I have published is the Our Flag Means Death/Pirates of the Caribbean (which seems pretty obvious, I'm honest surprised there isn't more). I have the whole arc plotted out where the vampire!DCU series is going to branch out into the Slayerverse. Hopefully I'll actually write it one of these days.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of. I don't go looking, but my works aren't crazy popular, either.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

A couple! I'm always really honored. 🥰 Many thanks to people who labor for fandom.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I did a long entirely cowritten canonized fiction for Steve Stirling's Emberverse—it's published on his site, not AO3, and under my real name, so don't go looking! (Nah, JK, I won't link it but I don't care if people figure it out).

And then I wrote this companion piece to Rimbaud's Give Pearls Away and Rubies. I had nothing to do with his piece, but he consulted heavily on mine. And Dragonmuse and I starting workshopping a Dragonriders of Pern pastiche that we might finish one of these days. 🤣

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Can I say the grumpy one is soft for the sunshine one? It's the platonic ideal of a ship, really... 😂

Otherwise I really don't have one, I'm too poly for that. Even the ships I'm most feral about, I'll ship any of them with other people.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I won't say the DCU/Slayerverse crossover because I refuse to doubt that I'll finish it one day. So let's go with the JLA bad orgy crack—I actually posted on that one that it should be considered abandoned. I still love the idea but I kinda just ran out of steam.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Exposition, worldbuilding, delving into character emotions. Metaphors and whimsy.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Having actual plots. Action scenes. Actually finishing/ending anything.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I speak enough French and Hebrew to do either of those (and have).

I've done a very little Spanish for Jim from OFMD, but I tend to just copy actual stuff that they've said in canon. I do have a Puerto Rican friend that I've leaned on occasionally, but she's busy and I don't want to make it her job to constantly write dialogue for me so I usually try to avoid it.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Define "wrote." 😂

When I was a teenager I plotted out long self-insert fixits for Star Trek, Harry Potter (look, even then the only thing I wanted to do in that verse was fix its many sins), X-Files, Stargate, and Buffy. I never wrote any of them down, though, just enjoyed the daydreaming.

Well, I lie, I did actually write about 60K eventually in an original novel that was based on some of the dynamics I'd created in the HP one, but that's the only one I ever got out on paper and it was altered enough that its origin was pretty unrecognizable.

If we're counting published anywhere, it's Stirling's Emberverse.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Soaked to the Skin. I'm honestly so proud of the actual! plot! in that one, the narrative flow, the emotional arcs, and like. the fact that I actually finished it. Even now a year later, every time I get a comment or kudo on that fic it sends this thrill of happiness up my spine.

Tagging (only if you want it), @thetardigrape, @sunless-garden, and @jupitermelichios.

[findyourrp]

F20+ here! I am: 

an experienced advanced literate | novella roleplayer.

enjoy dark / dead dove themes, explicit content, nsfw, unhealthy/toxic dynamics, and more elements that I’d like to discuss privately!

prefer the pairing MxF (with me portraying the F role) 

Hello everyone! Not a very well-written ad, but submitting it nevertheless. I have over a decade of active experience in roleplaying as well as writing independently, though I have a strong preference for collaborating with others and creating stories filled with twists, depth and intrigue. I write 500-600 words minimum, as I enjoy incorporating purple prose, meaning plenty of description and detail, and I have no maximum word count nor an average length as I love to adapt to my partner and will go as far as 3k. I write only on discord since the server organization there is a godsend, and I’d never miss an opportunity to gush over our characters, spend hours on finding aesthetic pictures and making moodboards, oc playlists, all that. 

Right now, there are two original prompts I’m looking to explore. Keep in mind that both will contain dark, disturbing, and uncomfortable themes that might not be for everyone, to put it simply, but if either of these sounds like something you’d be interested in, don’t hesitate to like this ask and I’ll reach out to you!

Character A is a genius (aka psychopath)—so much so, that his intelligence, academic excellence, and the psychopathic traits of his behavior have made him an outcast and victim of severe bullying. As much as he’s smart, he has never been physically strong enough to defend himself or fight back… until Character B comes into the picture: a rough, tattooed, headstrong delinquent, whom witnesses the bullying one day and saves him. From then on, they slowly develop a friendship as he helps her study properly and pass her tests and, in exchange, she doesn’t let anyone lay a hand on him, and though Character B has only ever viewed him as a friend, Character A’s feelings grow into something more. Eventually they graduate, and due to circumstances, lose contact as life takes them on very different paths… until some years later, where they meet again. How do they reunite? Does Character B apply for a job at Character A’s business, never expecting to be hired or for him to turn out to be the chairman/boss? Does Character A find her by coincidence, working some shitty job at a gas station? Either way, the moment Character A sees her again, the old infatuation he’d felt comes crashing back, and at first, he’s determined to repay her for everything she had done for him in the past and perhaps even rekindle their friendship. But then… How dare she not be grateful? How dare she resist everything he’s trying to give her, to do for her? His obsession becomes sick, disturbing, and as their dynamic starts to shift into something much darker, he decides he’s never going to let her go again. [I would like to play Character B in this scenario]

Character A and Character B grew up in the same orphanage, and were close friends despite being complete opposites. Whilst Character A was quickly adopted by a wonderful couple, thrived in school, and was overall the golden child, Character B always caused trouble and was never wanted by anyone due to his problematic behavior. Eventually, as they grew older, they began to go down different routes, with Character A getting a scholarship and Character B getting involved with gangs, crime, etc. They lose contact, or rather Character A purposely cuts off all connection to him as she realizes that he is no longer the kid she used to know, and so years pass following her disappearance from his life. She graduates, gets married/engaged, has a great job, great friends.. her life is pretty much perfect, until she begins to get strange texts from an unknown number, gifts, things in her house misplaced, an unfamiliar car waiting outside her house at late hours of the night, the feeling of being watched and followed.. is it Character B? [I would like to play Character A in this scenario]

None of the details are set in stone and can be changed or altered to your preference, and I can’t wait to hear your ideas. Minors DNI! ❤️

.

[roleplay-today]

F20+ here! I am: 

an experienced advanced literate | novella roleplayer.

enjoy dark / dead dove themes, explicit content, nsfw, unhealthy/toxic dynamics, and more elements that I’d like to discuss privately!

prefer the pairing MxF (with me portraying the F role) 

Hello everyone! Not a very well-written ad, but submitting it nevertheless. I have over a decade of active experience in roleplaying as well as writing independently, though I have a strong preference for collaborating with others and creating stories filled with twists, depth and intrigue. I write 500-600 words minimum, as I enjoy incorporating purple prose, meaning plenty of description and detail, and I have no maximum word count nor an average length as I love to adapt to my partner and will go as far as 3k. I write only on discord since the server organization there is a godsend, and I’d never miss an opportunity to gush over our characters, spend hours on finding aesthetic pictures and making moodboards, oc playlists, all that. 

Right now, there are two original prompts I’m looking to explore. Keep in mind that both will contain dark, disturbing, and uncomfortable themes that might not be for everyone, to put it simply, but if either of these sounds like something you’d be interested in, don’t hesitate to like this ask and I’ll reach out to you!

Character A is a genius (aka psychopath)—so much so, that his intelligence, academic excellence, and the psychopathic traits of his behavior have made him an outcast and victim of severe bullying. As much as he’s smart, he has never been physically strong enough to defend himself or fight back… until Character B comes into the picture: a rough, tattooed, headstrong delinquent, whom witnesses the bullying one day and saves him. From then on, they slowly develop a friendship as he helps her study properly and pass her tests and, in exchange, she doesn’t let anyone lay a hand on him, and though Character B has only ever viewed him as a friend, Character A’s feelings grow into something more. Eventually they graduate, and due to circumstances, lose contact as life takes them on very different paths… until some years later, where they meet again. How do they reunite? Does Character B apply for a job at Character A’s business, never expecting to be hired or for him to turn out to be the chairman/boss? Does Character A find her by coincidence, working some shitty job at a gas station? Either way, the moment Character A sees her again, the old infatuation he’d felt comes crashing back, and at first, he’s determined to repay her for everything she had done for him in the past and perhaps even rekindle their friendship. But then… How dare she not be grateful? How dare she resist everything he’s trying to give her, to do for her? His obsession becomes sick, disturbing, and as their dynamic starts to shift into something much darker, he decides he’s never going to let her go again. [I would like to play Character B in this scenario]

Character A and Character B grew up in the same orphanage, and were close friends despite being complete opposites. Whilst Character A was quickly adopted by a wonderful couple, thrived in school, and was overall the golden child, Character B always caused trouble and was never wanted by anyone due to his problematic behavior. Eventually, as they grew older, they began to go down different routes, with Character A getting a scholarship and Character B getting involved with gangs, crime, etc. They lose contact, or rather Character A purposely cuts off all connection to him as she realizes that he is no longer the kid she used to know, and so years pass following her disappearance from his life. She graduates, gets married/engaged, has a great job, great friends.. her life is pretty much perfect, until she begins to get strange texts from an unknown number, gifts, things in her house misplaced, an unfamiliar car waiting outside her house at late hours of the night, the feeling of being watched and followed.. is it Character B? [I would like to play Character A in this scenario]

None of the details are set in stone and can be changed or altered to your preference, and I can’t wait to hear your ideas. Minors DNI! ❤️

[dark-roleplay-finder]

F20+ here! I am:

* an experienced advanced literate | novella roleplayer.

* enjoy dark / dead dove themes, explicit content, nsfw, unhealthy/toxic dynamics, and more elements that I’d like to discuss privately!

* prefer the pairing MxF (with me playing as the F role)

Hello everyone! Not a very well-written ad, but submitting it nevertheless. I have over a decade of active experience in roleplaying as well as writing independently, though I have a strong preference for collaborating with others and creating stories filled with twists, depth and intrigue. I write 500-600 words minimum, as I enjoy incorporating purple prose, meaning plenty of description and detail, and I have no maximum word count nor an average length as I love to adapt to my partner and will go as far as 3k. I write only on discord since the server organization there is a godsend, and I’d never miss an opportunity to gush over our characters, spend hours on finding aesthetic pictures and making moodboards, oc playlists, all that.

Right now, there are two original prompts I’m looking to explore. Keep in mind that both will contain dark, disturbing, and uncomfortable themes that might not be for everyone, to put it simply, but if either of these sounds like something you’d be interested in, don’t hesitate to like this ask and I’ll reach out to you!

1. Character A is a genius (aka psychopath)—so much so, that his intelligence, academic excellence, and the psychopathic traits of his behavior have made him an outcast and victim of severe bullying. As much as he’s smart, he has never been physically strong enough to defend himself or fight back… until Character B comes into the picture: a rough, tattooed, headstrong delinquent, whom witnesses the bullying one day and saves him. From then on, they slowly develop a friendship as he helps her study properly and pass her tests and, in exchange, she doesn’t let anyone lay a hand on him, and though Character B has only ever viewed him as a friend, Character A’s feelings grow into something more. Eventually they graduate, and due to circumstances, lose contact as life takes them on very different paths… until some years later, where they meet again. How do they reunite? Does Character B apply for a job at Character A’s business, never expecting to be hired or for him to turn out to be the chairman/boss? Does Character A find her by coincidence, working some shitty job at a gas station? Either way, the moment Character A sees her again, the old infatuation he’d felt comes crashing back, and at first, he’s determined to repay her for everything she had done for him in the past and perhaps even rekindle their friendship. But then… How dare she not be grateful? How dare she resist everything he’s trying to give her, to do for her? His obsession becomes sick, disturbing, and as their dynamic starts to shift into something much darker, he decides he’s never going to let her go again. [I would like to play Character B in this scenario]

2. Character A and Character B grew up in the same orphanage, and were close friends despite being complete opposites. Whilst Character A was quickly adopted by a wonderful couple, thrived in school, and was overall the golden child, Character B always caused trouble and was never wanted by anyone due to his problematic behavior. Eventually, as they grew older, they began to go down different routes, with Character A getting a scholarship and Character B getting involved with gangs, crime, etc. They lose contact, or rather Character A purposely cuts off all connection to him as she realizes that he is no longer the kid she used to know, and so years pass following her disappearance from his life. She graduates, gets married/engaged, has a great job, great friends.. her life is pretty much perfect, until she begins to get strange texts from an unknown number, gifts, things in her house misplaced, an unfamiliar car waiting outside her house at late hours of the night, the feeling of being watched and followed.. is it Character B? [I would like to play Character A in this scenario]

None of the details are set in stone and can be changed or altered to your preference, and I can’t wait to hear your ideas. Minors DNI! ❤️

Like this post and the asker will reach out!

[the-penguin-of-baskervilles]

Author's Note: Here it is, the next installment! This is how my writing is going...

Me: I'm doing a short story.

Writing muse: You mean a novella?

Me: No, a short story.

Writing muse: Good talk. We're doing a novella.

It looks like there's more to this than originally planned. Buckle up for a nice little novella. Pray for me, so I don't turn this into a full length novel.

Tag List Note: If I missed anyone on the tag list at the end of the chapter, or you'd like to be added, reply to this post. I'd be happy add you!

Word Count: 3,812

Masterlist

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ with explicit language, discussion of - bondage, limits, sexual themes, and cuckolding activity.

Restitution - Chapter Three

It took ten minutes to sell Ari the painting. He didn’t quibble over the price and you pocketed fifty-five million in the easiest negotiation of your career. It was almost like he wanted to be up sold. He signed the agreement and called his bank while you contacted Annabelle to share the good news. When you mentioned the buyers wanted to take you to lunch to celebrate, she was gleeful. The chance to rub elbows with people who forked over millions for art was a chance no director turned their nose up at. Annabelle was chuckling at the museum’s good fortune when you wound down the call. Just as you were about to bid her goodbye, she made an insinuating comment about you marrying one of the buyers for his money.

“Do it for the arts! If we go into the red again, he can bail us out!”

“Goodbye, Belle. Have a nice meeting.”

The spa they took you to was a popular spot, housed in a hotel where one night cost what you spent on rent each month. You’d considered going there but hadn’t been able to afford the prices. And that was before Jackson had decimated your finances.

At the spa you were swept away to a private room and quickly realized the men had paid for the full package. Impressive. You didn’t want to be impressed by mobsters. But they were surprisingly generous, first with the painting and now expensive spa treatments. This almost felt like a lover was pampering you on a holiday, you thought after your mud body wrap was rinsed off. You followed a tech down the hall for your facial, and as serum was stroked into your skin, an uncomfortable thought occurred. This was the most thoughtful thing a man had ever done for you.

Your heart spasmed.

No, there was no need to wander down a path of self pity. It was amusing, you decided, pushing back the painful prickle of emotion. A pair of loan sharks were raising your standards. Or perhaps this was their boss’ handiwork. The third man, your mystery buyer, made you nervous. These men weren’t typical underworld characters if they paid fifty-five million cash for a single painting. Steve and Ari were connected to someone powerful. Related to him, actually. He was their brother.

“You’re all set for your manicure, dear. Then it’s off to your suite for lunch and a relaxing soak in the hot tub before your massage and pedicure.”

“That sounds awesome, thank you.”

You had no idea what she was talking about, but the words hot tub, massage, and pedicure meant a good time in your book. Then you remembered agreeing to talk about guidelines with the men and guessed they must have rented a room for privacy. When your nails were done, the tech walked you to the dressing room where a bag of clothing waited.

Inside was a bathing suit that resembled the one from the photograph in your living room. The one Ari must have seen while visiting Jackson. You put it on and covered the suit with the simple wrap dress. When you slid your feet into slides, you realized everything provided was from a brand you preferred. Had they researched you? No, that was outlandish. Who could get that kind of information? It must have been a lucky guess, or they’d pumped Jackson for information.

At the front desk, Steve was waiting. He escorted you up to a suite. When you saw Ari, salvia pooled in your mouth. He was shirtless, wearing swim trunks that fell to mid-thigh. An intriguing dusting of hair was concentrated over his pectorals and formed a thin trail down his stomach.

“How was the rest of your morning?” Ari asked.

“Lovely, thank you.”

A room service cart was waiting. You ate quietly, seated next to Steve with Ari across the makeshift table. They’d ordered for you. As with the clothes, it was a dish you typically ordered. They had to have done reconnaissance about your tastes with Jackson. It was a surprise to discover he’d known what you’d prefer. But then again, he’d been a great actor when he’d swept you off your feet. The unconscious act of piecing together the puzzling details about the day helped to soothe your nerves. You recognized how flustered you felt as your mind buzzed, picking apart every little thing.

Anxiety was festering in your belly. The proximity to both men in seclusion, given what you’d promised them, sparked an uncharacteristic apprehension in you. Most of the time you were in control. But the bargain you’d struck for revenge put Ari and Steve in the driver’s seat. This was unfamiliar to you, and not just because you’d be giving three strangers your body tonight.

This was crazy. You should seek mental health care. You were going to sleep with three men. One after another? Or all at once? Would they require that of you? The idea of what you’d promised them circled the edges of your mind. Ari pushed back from the table and stood.

“Why don’t we get in the hot tub?” he said.

“Go ahead. I’ll put the cart out in the hall,” Steve said.

Ari flashed you a smile. “I’ll go test the waters, sweetheart. Don’t be the last one in.”

He stretched, lifting his arms, drawing the skin of his abdomen taunt to reveal ridges of muscle. He grabbed a towel and headed for the balcony. When Ari was outside, Steve turned to you.

“Why are you uncomfortable?”

“I’m not, I’m fine.”

“You’re going to need to be honest if this is going to work out tonight,” Steve said.

You sighed. “I’m not sure why I’m nervous, okay?”

“Is it because you’re alone with us? Or because we’re going to start talking about sex?”

Your face heated. “Probably the second one.”

Steve smiled and held out his hand. Carefully, you laced your fingers with his and tilted your head back to look up at him. His eyes scanned your face, searching.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“No, this is nice,” you said. He squeezed gently, stroking the pad of his thumb over the back of your hand.

“Good. How about we hop in with Ari? You two can sort out the details. He’s better with this kind of thing. Everyone says I’m the shy one of my family. Talking about sex when I’m not turned on isn’t the most comfortable experience for me, either. But it’s important, so we don’t hurt you, or cross any boundaries."

Your tension eased, marginally.

“Alright.”

Steve rolled the room service cart into the hall and you removed your dress. When you climbed into the hot tub across from Ari, Steve settled next to you, his heavy arm curving around your shoulders. You turned your back against his chest and sighed as he drew his arm around your ribs. You leaned into his embrace and let your cheek rest against his neck. A sigh of contentment passed your lips and you shut your eyes.

It didn’t matter that you’d only met Steve a few hours earlier. His arm was so strong and the feeling of security when he’d wrapped it around you made you melt. He felt solid and warm. Not just physically warm, but like he was one of those men who’d been born with a soft side and kept it past puberty. His lips pressed to your temple. You felt him smile.

“Comfortable, doll?”

“Mmmhm.”

The bubbling water was just right, not too hot. Steve nuzzled your hair and you curled into him. You had agreed to sleep with him. He owed you this snuggle.

“You two are feeling cozy,” Ari said.

Your eyes opened to see him sprawled on the opposite side of the tub. His arms were draped over the edge, emphasizing the broad muscles.

“Jealous?” Steve teased.

“I’ll have my turn,” Ari said, his smile widening.

“Are you ready to talk about tonight?” Steve asked.

“Sure.” You tried not to tense up, but you did.

Steve spread his hand on your belly and stroked.

“Have you ever had multiple partners at the same time?” Ari asked.

“No.”

“Have you ever done bondage?”

You shrugged. “Full on hard BDSM stuff, no. I’ve had my hands tied and I’ve been spanked. But nothing hard core.”

“You’re familiar with the red, yellow, green system?” Ari asked.

“I’ve used red and green.”

“Yellow means slow down. It’s your signal to us that you need a check in.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you have any hard limits I should know about up front?”

“Uh… I’m not sure?”

“For example, do you want to try nipple clamps?”

You winced, but the idea was intriguing. “Not tonight.”

Ari nodded. “That would be a soft limit. You’re not ready for it right now, but it’s not a hard pass. I'll save it for later.”

There wouldn’t be a later, but you didn’t point that out.

“Sure.”

“What about spanking?” Steve asked.

“I enjoy some, but I’ve never gone hard enough to be left with bruises.”

“Noted,” Ari said. “Butt plugs? Anal sex? Flogging?”

“I’ve never done any kind of butt play. And I’m not into flogging. Hard pass.”

“Not my scene either,” Steve murmured when you rejected the idea of being beaten.

Across from you Ari shot an amused look at his brother. “That’s one of Steve’s turn offs.”

You glanced up at Steve. He lifted a broad shoulder, giving a sweet half smile.

“What are your limits? Can I ask that?” you said.

Steve’s baby blue eyes went soft. “Yes, you can. I appreciate it. I’m not much for the rougher side of sex. Ari and the boss tend to swing a little more that way. For me, clamps of any kind, metal handcuffs, gagging, that’s not my scene. I’m partial to spanking, as long as I’m getting a pleasurable response, but I don’t punish with spanking. Beating of any kind is off the table and bruises are a hard limit.”

You looked at Ari. “What are your limits?”

“No breath play, but that’s a soft limit. If you enjoy it, I’ll participate. Major sadistic stuff and humiliation is a hard limit. Seeing a woman in pain is an erection killer for me. I don’t mind clamps or metal cuffs. Gags can be fun, but I don’t use them often. Being called ‘master’ is weird for me and I hate it. When you’re underneath me, I want to hear my name and that’s it.”

Your lips twitched. He made a solid point.

“I enjoy a nice bondage scene when I’m in the mood,” Ari said. “But seventy-five percent of the time I’m into vanilla sex. Bondage is to spice things up and add intensity.”

“Do you want to restrain me?”

Ari shrugged. “We don’t know exactly where the night will take us. Knowing your likes and dislikes is important when we don’t have shared experience. I want to get a complete picture of your tastes. We don’t have to do bondage to need a discussion about limits.”

“In a way, this is going to be a power dynamic like bondage,” Steve said. “With Jackson watching, we need you to be comfortable enough to stop the scene.”

“What are you planning?”

“So far? A light spanking to tease you is definitely on the agenda. Let’s talk about past experience,” Ari said. “What’s the best orgasm you’ve ever had?”

Your face heated in response to his bluntness.

“My college boyfriend liked to give oral and he was good at it. He edged me one time and I nearly passed out when I came.”

Ari smirked. “Receiving oral is on the table, I take it?”

“Yes.”

Steve tightened his arm around your ribs. “How do you like it?”

Your tongue turned into a knot and your jaw dropped. Words deserted you. His tone was carnal, hungry, and it shot straight to your core.

“Save a little mystery, Steve. We’ll find out tonight,” Ari said.

The blond chuckled. “Fine. How about anal? You’ve never tried it, but is that a hard pass or not?”

Your body had a ready answer. Against the material of your bathing suit, your nipples pebbled in spite of the heated water. You felt your breasts grow heavy and shifted nervously, uncomfortable with the sudden feeling of arousal.

Steve pulled you close to his chest. His big hand stroked to calm you.

“If it’s off the table, that’s fine. We’re genuinely asking and we’d accept no without a question, okay?”

“Give her a chance to speak,” Ari said.

His deep blue eyes glinted with knowledge and his gaze dipped to the front of your swimsuit.

“I’m interested in anal, but I haven’t had the right partner to try it with.”

“Okay,” Steve said. He couldn't hide the relief in his voice.

“You want that tonight?”

Ari nodded. “It’s up to you. But if you’re looking for the right partner, I assure you we’re up to the challenge.”

“What about pain?” you asked.

“I’m definitely not a sadist,” Ari said, his mouth twisting in disgust. “You heard my limits. I promise, we’re not going to hurt you, just the opposite.”

“I meant for anal,” you said. “I’m curious about it, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Ari’s expression cleared. “Right. Lubricant is extremely important. And you can’t just dive in. We’d relax you with orgasms, a round or two with both of us. Then we’d try a butt plug. That alone might be all we work up to. If you’re enjoying it, let me know. I’ll be happy to oblige. The red, yellow, green system would be in effect.”

Steve pressed his lips to your temple. “I’m going to warn you that I’m not a small man… particularly not under the belt. So if you don’t want anal with me, no hard feelings.”

You tilted your head back to study him, then shrugged.

“Why don’t we see how it goes?”

Ari’s grin was wicked. “That’s a yes?”

“I’ll try it.”

“One other important question is about being filmed,” Ari said.

“No. Hard pass,” you said, answering almost before Ari had finished asking.

Ari flicked a glance at Steve. “No recording, then?”

“What am I, a pornstar? No way. I can’t let a tape like that exist.”

“What about being watched on camera, as long as it’s not recording?”

“I thought you wanted Jackson in the room?”

“He will be. But the boss is arriving late, after we intend to get started. He’s coming back from a business trip and wants to watch the three of us. The feed would be live and unrecorded.”

“When are you expecting him?”

“Ten-thirty or eleven. What do you say? Discrete cameras, live and unrecorded, streamed to a secure iPad? Is that okay?”

“Unrecorded, I’m willing to trust you about. But will it be secure?”

“We’re not small-time criminals,” Steve said. “It will be a secure line.”

“Alright. But I want to see the set up beforehand and know where the cameras are.”

“That’s fine,” Ari said. “What about restraints? Do you mind handcuffs?”

They ran through a few other kinks, types of praises you enjoyed or didn’t, and what you liked for aftercare. Steve volunteered to spend the night with you and Ari offered to make breakfast the next morning. You were firm in your insistence that once the scene was over, you had the option to leave. Neither of the brothers were happy to lose that negotiation. Steve tried to entice you with promises of a post scene massage, hours of cuddling, and bubble baths with rose petals. You didn’t budge.

It was a boundary you needed, you decided as you stepped into the elevator to return to the spa. This wasn’t a romance. Steve was a gentleman and Ari was a wicked ladies’ man. You’d felt your heart soften at Steve’s cautious boundaries and melted at his shyness. He was polite and sensitive. With a steel core of intense protectiveness at the heart of him. He’d never harm a lover, physically or emotionally. Ari was bold and had a streak of wildness that made you want to crawl in his lap and ride him to find out just how fierce of a lover he could be. But he was a pleaser the same way Steve was - his soft limits spoke volumes. If you wanted him to choke you, he’d do it for your enjoyment. He was a man who’d take care of a woman’s every need, no matter what.

They would respect your limits and you decided to set a private limit of your own. You’d keep your heart out of their hands. Knowing the men and feeling secure with them was a necessity. But your emotions had spilled over during the conversation - not a lot, but enough to worry you. Whatever happened, you wouldn’t let your judgement be compromised by feelings.

As the technician worked on your toes, your mind drifted to the only question remaining. Who was the boss, your mystery buyer? You wondered, your mind drifting as your feet were massaged. No clear picture would form in your head of the unknown mobster you’d meet in a few hours. The memory Ari had brought up of your best orgasm had your thoughts straying, going back in time, to old heartaches.

Andrew Barber was the first man you’d loved, and the last. College had been a wild time for you, sexually, but everything had happened in the confines of a monogamous relationship. It was the happiest time of your life. You’d loved Andy so much it still hurt, even years later, to think about him. His abrupt disappearance from your life had been a blow you’d never seen coming. Since then you’d lost your sense of trust, not only in men, but in everyone. He’d pulled the rug out from under you so fast the experience had shaken you to the heart. There’d never been closure. He’d said his family was making him leave and refused to explain further. What he’d made perfectly clear was that you’d never see him again. Then he’d vanished. Years had gone by, but the event hadn’t lost its peculiarity. Until the day he’d broken things off, Andy had barely mentioned his family. Scarcely a word had been spoken about them during the three and a half years you’d spent together. All you could remember was him saying his parents were toxic, and his siblings were the only family he needed.

You shook off the thoughts. There were so many unanswered questions left in Andy’s wake that thinking about them could leave you spinning in circles for hours. It was better not to go there. Instead, you decided to focus on Steve and Ari. You were about to have the best sex of your life. That orgasm from Andy?

It would pale in comparison to what you’d be having tonight.

The short hem of the cocktail dress placed your legs on prominent display. You waited in the lobby of Ari and Steve’s building, watching for Jackson. The spa had given you a minor makeover with hair and makeup, the results of which were worth every dime. You looked spectacular. Steve and Ari had made certain you knew it without a shadow of doubt before you’d come down.

Your boyfriend walked in, looked around and gawked when he saw you.

“Damn, you look hot.”

Jackson ran his eyes up your body like your efforts were intended for him.

“Whatever.”

You stood up and moved to put more space between you and him.

“Where are we supposed to go?” Jackson asked.

“They gave me a key. Come on.”

The keycard opened a private elevator to the penthouse.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” he said.

In the background, the elevator quietly hummed its ascent. You fixed your eyes straight ahead and didn’t reply.

“It’ll be fine, you know?” Jackson’s voice was strung with nerves.

It appeared Ari and Steve had the right idea. He was like a cat on a hot tin roof.

You fuck up my credit, I fuck up your masculinity.

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open to reveal Ari. He was draped over a sofa in the living room, looking like a predator lying in wait. His long legs were stretched out and his suit jacket had been discarded. He’d turned up his sleeves and opened another button on his collar. A little of his chest hair peaked out.

Ari didn’t stand in greeting as Jackson approached with you. He didn’t glance towards the gambler, but kept his eyes on you.

“Jackson. I see you’ve brought me someone. Hello, sweetheart.”

“Ah, yeah. This is Y/N, my girlfriend. Y/N, this is Ari.”

Ari stood up when your boyfriend nudged you in his direction. He towered over you, despite your stiletto heels. His eyes glowed with hunger.

The big man pulled you into his arms. Then his mouth covered yours, hot and hard. A firm hand on the back of your head held you still as he thrust his tongue into your mouth. You grasped his shoulders for balance as the kiss turned your knees weak. He didn’t let up, taking the kiss even deeper when you moaned.

“Okay, let her breathe, Ari. She doesn’t like her face being eaten off.”

Jackson sounded pissed.

You smiled against Ari’s mouth as he pulled back a tiny bit. He curled his hands around your waist, cinching you tight against him.

“Do you not like kissing me, sweetheart?”

You linked your arms around his neck. “Mmmhh. We should keep going and then see what I think.”

He chuckled and slanted a glance towards Jackson. Then his mouth was on yours again. He flicked his tongue, nipped at your lips, stroked and teased until you sagged in his arms. Ari broke the kiss, leaving you panting. He held you tight, taking most of your weight as your legs had taken on the consistency of gelatin.

“Okay, honey. What’s the verdict? Do you like kissing me?”

“Yes, Ari. I like it a lot.”

Heat flared in his sapphire irises. Placing a finger under your chin, he turned you towards Jackson. Ari pressed his lips to your temple and ran his free hand down your side, keeping the other on your face. Jackson stared at the hand stroking over your body. He went rigid when Ari cupped your breast. You arched into the touch. He purred, rubbing his thumb over your nipple.

“Good girl. Tell Jackson. Tell him what you like.”

“I like Ari kissing me.”

Jackson flushed, but said nothing.

“Sit down, Jack,” Ari said. “Get comfortable. It’s going to be a long night.”

- - - - -

Next: Chapter Four

Masterlist

- - - - -

Tag List: @ms-betsy-fangirl @albinotigerpython @belova-drysdale-rogers @dumb-ass-writer @mansaaay @mylifeasltd8 @i-have-a-wonky-eye-too @louisetheblue @r2gers @amelia-song-pond @another-tblr-fangirl @wintersplum17 @dontbescaredtosingalong @patzammit

[vintageseawitch]

severus snape was not just a bully he was a literal racist and that did not change over the years unlike other characters' attitudes 🙏🙏🙏 what the fuck how are you pro-snape

hmmm. i feel there's an extremely back-handed compliment here. are you a lurker? are we mutuals? do i follow you or do you follow me? whatever the capacity, it feels silly to ask, but: are you new here? my bio, though novella in length because keeping things in a tiny, succinct packages is not my forte, clearly states at some point that Severus Snape is important enough to me to be mentioned a considerable amount. i'll be very sad if i follow you & enjoy the content you post because tbh this anon is super disappointing. the most common types i tend to receive are snaters who are too cowardly to tell me to my face they have nothing better to do than judge people doing the least harmful thing imaginable: loving/liking/appreciating a controversial, FICTIONAL FUCKING CHARACTER.

"he was a literal racist and that did not change over the years unlike the other characters' attitudes" ummm fucking WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. what canon evidence do you have for this except your own warped headcanons?? Snape said the word "mudblood" fucking ONCE, as a teenage boy, while getting sexually assaulted by more than one person, in public, with no one there attempting to stop them. then Snape's one friend tries to defend him & Snape snaps something stupid because he was afraid & pissed off & ashamed. don't tell me YOU'VE never said something you're later ashamed of while in a temper or feeling cornered. don't tell me YOU'RE not allowed to make mistakes. that's right, it was a mistake, & he realized immediately so he tried to fix it & in the end his friendship wasn't worth it to her so he was alone, surrounded by people who won't help him, who let some other teenage boys get away with attempted murder, & adults who don't give a shit about him making him ripe for plucking. Snape fucking CRINGES then yells at Phineas Nigellus for calling Hermione that while the trio's on the run & Snape is an unwilling headmaster!!! have you forgotten this???? if anyone is racist it's Molly Weasley for her treatment of Fleur which was never given a legit reason why she behaved the way she did. i don't even want to try to count how many times Draco Malfoy calls Hermione a mudblood; are you harassing people with hateful anons for liking Draco? is he somehow more deserving of a redemption than Severus? if you think that, go fuck yourself.

Severus Snape made a mistake when he was very young. he was alone, traumatized, full of bitterness & anger. he first came over to the side of the light for selfish reasons but then so did Regulus & Narcissa & i never see people attacking THEM. Snape made a mistake & worked to atone for this & for 17 years most take for granted he was the puppet for two megalomaniacal masters, neither of whom gave a damn about his life (Dumbledore was worse in SO many ways). in the end, it seems like snaters feel like no matter what you do, no matter what is in your heart & everything you do to try to make it right, your mistake will always define you & death is all you deserve soduspsjapxjosn FUCK THIS SHIT. FUCK ANYONE WHO BELIEVES THIS.

"Severus Snape was not just a bully" yeah you're right he was also honorable, good-at-heart, brave as fuck, fucking brilliant, & while sharp-edged, was dryly hilarious. also, don't you get tired of this same fucking "argument"?? because Snape wasn't the only bully in canon. Molly Weasley is one. so is Dumbledore. so is Hermione. so is Draco, Crabbe, & Goyle. SO WERE THE MARAUDERS. Peter Pettigrew turned out to be one of the worst; do you ever anonymously bully anyone for liking them if they do? while not counting for taste, if anyone DOES like his character, IT'S NOT. MY FUCKING. BUSINESS. nobody is hurting me for liking that character. i am not hurting YOU for liking a character. it's just easier for you to pull this fucking performative, fake-woke, absolutely repulsive purity-culture enabling bullshit than to speak up about things that fucking ACTUALLY MATTER.

do you want to know some characters i like that are ACTUALLY disturbing/toxic/any negative thing you can think of?? i like Acton from the Doyle & Acton New Scotland Yard book series by Anne Cleeland & he is a LITERAL FUCKING STALKER who plays vigilante & takes advantage of his privilege to get away with his crimes lmao. i like Father Konstantin from the Winternight Trilogy even though (or maybe because of is more accurate) he's a younger, prettier, blonder Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame with his behavior towards Vasya who is very much an Esmeralda parallel. it drew me in immediately, their dynamic in that trilogy; so poisonous & twisted & depraved was his obsession with her but it was so PASSIONATE i couldn't look away. i like Krennic from Rogue One: A Star Wars Story. if you've seen it, he's the smol, angry man who thinks seeing a planet with historical Jedi sites get destroyed by a previously unknown super weapon is BEAUTIFUL. he has no qualms against forcing someone against his will back to helping to build this weapon, even if it meant killing his family.

so there are just a few that i can think of at the moment who are considerably darker than mere shades of grey; do you send hateful anons to people who like Darth Vader? what about Sauron? Morgoth? what if someone likes VOLDEMORT?????? omg (spoiler alert: they exist, & some have created some of the best hp fanart i've seen, but that's not the point right now). do you attack people for liking other morally grey characters like Kylo Ren/Ben Solo or Lestat? snaters are pathetic. if you don't like Snape, that's perfectly fine; it would just be really cool if you can take your toxic, purity culture mentality & if unable to shove it up your ass at least go haunt the places dedicated to bland, rich white boy bully-loving spaces. go on with your horrid belief that all people who are enduring trauma are only allowed to process/handle it in a set way otherwise they are the Worst Person To Exist (or... not, in this instance, seeing as Severus Snape is a FICTIONAL. FUCKING. CHARACTER). do you not realize this says so much to people in your own life who may see some similarities between themselves & a character you believe makes you a superior entity for hating & judging?? do you not give people you care about another chance after making a mistake???

i'd rather continue loving this prickly, snarky asshole than attempt to "earn your good opinion" or some fucking similar codswallop thank you VERY much. cheerio & all that, & i hope you're able to find something to do you enjoy that doesn't involve judging people for things that really don't matter. if you have an issue with what i post you can always unfollow/block me. complicated controversial comfort characters make for better things to think about than fake wokeness. toodles~

[kittyandco-archive]

the other side

Summary: Racked by the pressures of self-realization, coming out, and her relationship with faith, Kitty, a young runaway, checks into Hotel Cortez, expecting to get a good night's sleep and an educational day or two in Los Angeles. A small-town dweller from the east coast, she finds that she's out of her depth. But Elizabeth, a mysterious, otherworldly woman who she meets in the hotel lobby, promises Kitty that she can help relieve the pain she's carrying... and then some.

Word count: 809

Warnings for religious/spiritual trauma & abuse, and homophobia, but it's all implied.

A READ/LIKE/OR REBLOG WOULD BE SO APPRECIATED!!!

Timeless. Ethereal, dark. Endless. Everything haunted perfection embodied, a lifelong enigma which repeated itself century and again in someone else, in some other woman unattainable, untainted, as she wanted you to believe, by time and misery. There was always one. Holding enough secrets for multiple lives, collecting secrets of yours this time and the next.

But such mystery had nearly become cliché. And bothersome.

And then…

Well, there she was. Soft hair thickly tangled all about her unworn face. Marred by a striking effort to reach the same elegance gracing her this very moment, and like yesterday, the stuff of her love inadequate always. Sitting in the midst of opulence, impending, as if it were meant to someday collapse in on itself through a fated, tragically victorious end, syrupy light befalling herself and the one who kept her here. The one who offered a nice time alone, a shoulder to cry on. On one condition that it involved a bedroom’s privacy.

It wasn’t meant to be this way. It’s all wrong. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. This was supposed to be it. This was supposed to be freedom.

“But you wouldn’t.” Her voice carried through the beautiful imprisonment like the whisper of an angel. Piercing, direct, filling you whole. “You’re a good girl, even down to the length of your skirt. Aren’t you?”

“Don’t mock me.” Her body did more of the speaking, daring to draw a boundary. Closing in, ankles crossed tighter, hunched and cat-like, more protective than modesty alone could ever be. There was always room for one extra step, to be too careful. Maybe her nails were healed of the blood, but not of its stains. She hid under her huge forest green cardigan, under the woolen, plaid fabric draped over her legs. Metaphorically clutched the cross keychain hanging alongside the home key that outstayed its welcome.

Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Already, there’s too much… temptation. This was a test, wasn’t it?

Inadequacy set in the moment this woman announced herself, anyway. You thought glamor, perfection… you saw her. You saw her pale skin, icy hair without a strand undone, full lips, eyes to give up your soul for. She breathed, exuding royal heritage; but that was mostly the high cheekbones. Probably.

“No. I don’t intend to mock you,” she said, effortlessly shushing and drowning the antagonism that stirred between them like incense smoke in the air. Kitty - whom she’d only met a day ago and wouldn’t last another, not without her - fluttered in her seat. “You’re scared. I intend to free you.”

The girl roused, eyes shooting brilliantly into the more dominant pair. The longer she stared, the blacker they swelled. And like the eternally dark eyes of a predator, the older gazed in return, asserting her intentions. Stamping the hot wax seal. An undying, scalding, passionate red, same as the curve of her lips.

“I don’t know what that means.” Smartly, Kitty turned from the wiles that lured her. Mistakenly, she lied.

“Am I tempting you?”

Temptation… funny. That’s funny.

“I,” she inhaled, winced. Temptation. She inhaled, minding the thunder in her head, “Miss… Elizabeth,” she tested, although she remembered, “I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I still have to leave tomorrow. I have to get away from here.” Just the one night’s stay - which was turning into two - was enough to fill a novella. The place harbored all the strangeness warned about on the small streets and on stage each Sunday. Don’t venture too far. Stay loyal. Remember where you come from. Keep your eyes here. Combat the heart’s devious nature. Mind your curiosity. Obedience is perfect, and it is love.

“You might regret what you miss.” She let the statement hang about as well as a man who finished with life. “If you’re naïve enough to believe that you can run from this.”

No, I can run. I can run far, far away. I can run myself off the earth if I have to. Although in running from yourself, there’s only one way to go, truly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“My sweet thing. No one can run from who they are.”

“You don’t know what I am!” As if the earth quaked, Kitty shot up from the luxury, latched into defense. A natural state, she stood in the mold she had to create over short, but taxing years, one that protected her, falling right back into that place where her fears manifested. She could even smell the place. Thin, synthetic sweetness. Hear its whispers and gratuitous soundtrack, shiver at its coldness. And then the darker, quieter place that didn’t leave much room for difference.

A child-like fear spread over her features, painting over the prettiness that had her in the clutches of this strange, alluring woman to begin with. Everything washed grey. Then red. Then black.

[prolix-yuy]

Writer Q&A

1) How many complete fics/one shots do you have that you have not published (yet)?

As of right now, 9. I'm a big editor of my work, so I like to pace publishing so that I have plenty of time to read (and re-read) and make edits before sending it into the ether.

2) How many WIPS do you have right now?

1 that's almost done, plus about 6ish ideas I'm waiting to sit down with.

3) Do you take writing requests or write original ideas, or both?

I haven't so far because I didn't think anyone would have one, but it's possible I'll open requests up for Sex Worker!Frankie which could be very fun. And if people sent in other requests I'd definitely take a look!

As for original stuff it's been a while, but I used to write a lot of short stories and novella-length stuff, a little bit of poetry too. Gothic fiction and Lovecraftian-style stories were always my favorites.

4) If you do take requests, how many do you currently have?

None right now, but that could change!

5) How many fandoms do you write for?

Right now on Tumblr just the PPCU, but there are some other fandoms that I've toyed with.

6) Are there any fandoms you wrote for in the past that you no longer write for?

LOTR was a big one, and some assorted animes not worth mentioning.

7) Do you write for ships, reader inserts or other?

Reader inserts. I'll read ships a ton, but I enjoy writing inserts more.

8) Niche fandoms/characters you write for?

If anyone has even heard of this, my first fandom was Gundam Wing and I wrote SO MUCH for those boys.

9) Do you read fics as well as write them?

Hell yeah. Reading fics on Tumblr was 100% why I decided to start writing again.

10) What is your favorite genre to write for?

Self-indulgent smut with feelings? I think that's what I'd call it.

11) What is your favorite trope (to read/write)?

To read: friends to lovers, somnophilia, sex pollen, first times

To write: sex THEN feelings, competency kink, slow burn, mutual pining

12) What do you do to get motivated to write?

Reading other people's stories is a great motivator, or taking a look through what I've done before to spark some inspo.

13) Is there a trope/genre you like to read, but not write?

Enemies to lovers is a great genre, but I don't feel skilled at portraying that dynamic.

14) Any characters/fandoms you want to write for that are never requested?

The Witcher just solidified that I'm hooked on lorge men who take care of children, so maybe there's something there if I want to take a walk around the block. But the PPCU has a lot of content to work with, so I'm pretty faithful to that right now.

15) How long have you been writing fanfiction?

Oh god, on Tumblr maybe like 3-4 months? But in life, probably about 20 years. I think I wrote my first fic when I was 10 or 11.

16) Did you read fanfiction before you started writing?

Oh totally, loads on AO3 and ff.net before that.

17) Do you only post on Tumblr, or any other sites as well?

AO3 as well!

18) What do you personally consider the word counts of “Drabble”, “One shots” and “fics”?

Drabble is like under 1k, one-shot is something around 5-10k with a finite ending, and I would argue "fics" encompasses one-shots too, but rolls up anything long form under that umbrella.

19) Which do you prefer to write more? HC, drabbles, oneshots/fics, multi chapter stories, other?

I've been going pretty hard on the multi-chapter story, but I also love a good one-shot.

20) Are there any stories you have discontinued? If so, why?

Recently no, but I definitely have stories I abandoned because canon made me not want to write it anymore. Or the story lost its shininess. But nothing as of late.

21) What is one of your main “pet-peeves” as a writer on Tumblr?

This is a peeve more for myself, and probably indicative of perfectionism, but I hate it when my navs don't link correctly or I realize it's hard for someone to find/organize my content. And when I buck up formatting.

22) Do you write at a particular time of day?

Between 10pm-1am and occasionally during lunch/right at the end of the work day if I'm feeling inspired.

23) Do you listen to music, ambiance/noise, etc. to write or do you need silence?

Nope, I get too distracted. I'll sometimes listen to musical inspo before or when I'm contemplating the story, but not while writing.

24) Do you outline your fics at all before writing?

No, I'm a stream-of-consciousness kind of gal. I start writing and get everything down, then go back and revise/move around/edit until I'm happy with the overall story.

25) Do you post your writing as soon as you finish it, or do you schedule it to come out at a specific time/day?

I hold onto my fics like they're vintage wine and will age with time. Purely because I like to put out a steady stream of content and if I have a bunched banked up I can be writing one thing while posting another.

I do like posting on Tuesdays, because no one likes Tuesdays and it's something fun to look forward to, and Fridays, because it's like a kickoff into the weekend.

No tags, do this if you want to!!!!

[em-dashes]

Belated Mega Writing Update - 07.17.2021

HELLO!!!!!!! Apparently the last time I made an update was in March, AKA four entire months ago.

So here I am, hello, hi. What have I been up to? Let’s see...

Big stuff first! I was putting my focus into something really important at work. I won’t go too much into it because a) I want it to be a surprise if it gets approved b) I don’t want to jinx it. But basically I put together this massive pitch for an animated show! That involved some concept artwork and six screenplays (not mandatory, I’m just a huge keener I guess). So while I have technically been writing, I was writing things I couldn’t share. I won’t know the results of the pitch meeting for a few weeks, so it’s just a waiting game now. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

Secondly! I started a new wip. It’s a novella, and I’m really excited about writing a shorter book! I also don’t want to share too much about this until I finish the first draft, but I got a good ways through it (in fact, I’d say it’s 2/3 done) before I had to put all my focus into the above-mentioned pitch. Even though I haven’t even finished the first draft, I feel like it’s taught me quite a bit about simplicity and necessity in prose, something I was definitely lacking in my main wip APHELION.

Speaking of APHELION: I hadn’t touched it since, you guessed it, March, but a few days ago I picked it back up with a fresher mind and got to beating it into form. Yesterday I found a mid-year recap I made in July 2020, almost exactly one year ago, and I thought it’d be fun to talk about what has changed since then!

> First: the word count. I’ve added almost 10k to the document, bringing it to nearly 55k, which is basically novel length in its own right (oohhh is this foreshadowing).

> Second: some plot elements were changed / removed. There used to be a jailbreak on the moon. Now it’s just on the planet. This meant that a chapter that I’d thought was done had to be rewritten. But space is definitely still involved!! There was also the plans to the jailbreak that had been plaguing me for a long time because it was so stupid and vague, and that’s what I’m working on fixing now (it’s still a little wonky, but hey, the characters are under a huge time crunch, and it’s at least not so flimsy anymore).

> Third: APHELION was originally planned to be the first in a trilogy. Now it’s going to be the first in five books.

“WAIT WHAT? Does that mean you’re adding a bunch more content to the story?”

Nope! See, a while back, I realized if APHELION was to be one book, it would be 150k words long. Which isn’t unheard of, but that was extremely, SUPREMELY daunting to me, especially since I’m only at the 50k words. The idea that I had to write 100k more words before this first book is considered finished...NO. I won’t do this.

PLUS the issue that there are supposed to be two more books after this, and I’d have to go through this entire process again...NO. I WON’T DO THIS.

A month-ish ago, I came to a revelation. What if APHELION WASN’T a 150k-word book? What if it’s split into TWO books, at ~70k each? I know, I know--I’d still be writing 150k words. But this way I wouldn’t feel so behind on my progress. I mean, if the first book is only 70k words, then I’m almost there! The finish line is in sight!! I can do this!!

So I’m going to split APHELION into two books, then the sequel into two books as well, and the third book will now be the fifth book, tying the series to an end. Five books may seem like it’s more daunting than three books, but breaking it into manageable bites will really help me actually get things done. I’m not trying to be JRR Tolkein out here, yo.

And you know what really helped me into this mindset? Reading Murderbot. Reading these novellas made me think “hey, so maybe books don’t need to be that long to be compelling” and “hey, maybe I could write a novella too” and “hey, maybe APHELION could be split into novellas!” Though of course, 70k is way too long to actually be a novella, but whatever. APHELION is gonna be a shorter book now babey!!

I haven’t figured out what each book would be titled. The original trilogy of books each had names already, and they all rhyme, and I don’t know how I’m going to find more words that rhyme AND stay on theme. If you know any words that rhyme with APHELION (ah-FEE-lee-un) throw them my way please!

PHEW that was a huge long update, excuse me yall. I’d post some excerpts too, but this post is long enough as is, and the chapters I’m working on are soooo under construction. So this is it for now!! See y’all laters :^)

-Em

[hypnoticwinter]

yesterday i finished plotting out the rest of down the rabbit hole

and i am so beyond excited to share this story with everybody who’s been following along so far. i never thought this project was going to grow as big as it did. i’ve lived and breathed dtrh for the last five or six months and it’s crazy to think that if i’m able to stick to my one-chapter-a-week schedule this entire story will be wrapped up in ten weeks. after that there will be some minor editing and a chapter or two i need to add but that’s small potatoes for the most part.

this has been a really cool experience for me. for one, this is probably the longest thing i’ve ever written. currently I’m estimating the final word count to be about 230,000. that’s across all three books but honestly even though i have broken it into books i really do see the story as one stand-alone narrative. for contrast, infinite jest is about 540,000 words.

length isn’t everything, obviously. it can even sometimes be a detriment. i’ve mentioned this before but down the rabbit hole started off as a 20k word novella. I planned for the story to end after Roan and Peter travelled to the Pit, and it was going to be a much more ambiguous and bleak ending. there was no flashback sequence with Peter and Makado - hell, Makado wasn’t even a character at that point. i felt a little sheepish going back to the people behind the @mysteryfleshpit project and saying ‘hey, so the thing i was writing, it’s doubled in size, is there any more behind the scenes stuff you can give me?’ multiple times.

i think one of the important things i’ve learned from this experience is that although you might be writing with a fanbase in mind you have to still make the story your own. if this story was just going to be about the Pit it would have to be a history book or an almanac. i realized a while ago that i’m not telling a story about the Pit, i’m telling a story about Roan. i had a lot of anxiety about that for a while mostly because i was nervous that i would somehow be ‘tricking’ people into reading the story, maybe because i felt like because i was writing a story about something that already had an established fanbase and i think that that adds a lot of pressure to live up to expectations. i said a while ago that i feel like the story is literary fiction pretending to be genre fiction and i do still think that’s accurate. what i’ve come to accept though is that the beauty of the story is in the portrayal of the characters, in how deeply and fully i’ve been able to expand Roan into a living, breathing, deeply flawed and vulnerable and real character. for me that’s always been the magic of writing and so it was natural that i sort of shifted from the pulpy story i originally planned on telling to something more literary.

i get nervous about my characters, i worry so much that they aren’t real enough, i agonize over it. even though everyone tells me they’re fine i still worry - is roan too withdrawn and two-dimensional? is elena too sexy? is makado just a caricature? the scariest part is wondering whether or not i’d be able to tell or if there’s some sort of flaw in my perception and the way i view people and characters that i wouldn’t be able to see the problems, that i wouldn’t be able to recognize them as being two-dimensional and flat.

i haven’t put out a ton of my stuff before. i have a lot of short stories and some novellas laying around, some parts of novels here and there, but other than that the actual stuff i’ve had published is a couple of poems and a short story here and there. i haven’t had a lot of reaction to my writing and i was shocked when most of what i heard about down the rabbit hole was positive. someone even told me yesterday that they had to remind themselves while reading that the story isn’t canon, and i can’t even think of a higher compliment than that. it’s made me a little disbelieving honestly, like surely all these people are just being nice, right? it’s hard for me to tell, i think i’m too close to the matter to see it without bias. dtrh certainly has issues, there are things that i do need to go back and fix, but for the most part they’re things that i’m aware of and know how to fix, and that’s the main issue, knowing how to do it.

that compliment too makes me nervous in a different way, though, because i have had a lot of conversations with the people behind the mystery flesh pit project and i have mentioned on occasion that what i wanted to do was write the ‘unofficial official novelization.’ i think i really understand the sort of tone and theme they’re going for with the pit as a whole and it’s something that’s always really appealed to me, but now, as stupid as it sounds, it does make me a little nervous that they might think i’m trying to like, steal their thunder or whatever. like, you’re making a thing and then someone comes along and says ‘man, i love your thing so much that i’m going to write a 200,000 word novel cannibalizing it to tell the story i want to using your thing.’ maybe that’s a pessimistic and misrepresentative way of putting it because that really never was my intention but it’s so hard to tell and i don’t want anybody to feel threatened. but at the same time, who goes and writes two hundred thousand words on something just on a whim? this story was born out of me finding out about the Pit the same week i listened to ‘we didn’t start the fire’ on repeat about eighty or ninety times, that’s all.

i’ve learned a lot from this project. that i’m a good writer, if people are to be believed. that it’s okay to create something your own way, even if you’re working off an established base. that i can plot out and commit to and write something this long without choking (knock on wood). and maybe most importantly, that people are interested in the types of characters i want to write, that i can create someone real and dynamic, who will live in people’s memory and imagination even if i never return to this story and setting later on.

i hope if nothing else that i’ve managed to bring a little more interest to the mystery flesh pit project, because i really do think that they’ve managed to create something genuinely special and i can’t wait to see what they make next. 

if everything goes according to plan and i don’t have to take any weeks off, i should be putting out the final chapter of down the rabbit hole on monday, april 11. i’m not going to commit to that, obviously, but it’s only 60,000 words or so, and i think i’ve proven to myself that that’s an achievable, realistic goal for ten weeks of work. that’s less than a thousand words a day. exactly a thousand if i take one day off per week.

this has been a really wonderful experience and i’m so thankful for everyone who’s chosen to share it with me.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi :) I... really wanna read a fanfic or two but I can't find one I vibe with xD So... do you know one that's not too long (around 100k words maybe), has hurt and comfort, smut (am I allowed to ask about that?? Ahhhh) and a happy ending? Top!lock would be a bonus but it's not necessary. And if it's a nice AU (like... any kind but no crossovers pls), it would be perfect! :D By the way, I found your blog only a few hours ago and I already feel really comfy and Idk, kinda at home here ^-^

Hi Nonny!!!

Welcome to my corner of the Tumblrsphere!!! I’m so happy you’ve found me, LOL, because I love all my followers and friends! <3

First of all, I think it’s super cute that “not too long” to you is “around 100K” LOL LOL LOL!!! <3 That said, I’d argue all my fic recs are fabulous, LOL. But again, I’m stupidly proud of the wonderful lists I’ve accumulated, because it satisfies my organization kink LOL. And yes, you’re ALWAYS allowed to ask for smut here LOL. 

ANYWAY, so I’m gonna use this ask as an excuse to post up a long-overdue part two to my 50 to 100K fic list! But first, here’s some past lists for the genres you’re looking for:

FIC MASTER PAGES: PG1 || PG 2 || PG 3

Toplock (Mar 2020)

Omegaverse

Please Check PG 3 for all my AU fic lists. There’s a lot :)

Hurt / Comfort Pt. 1: Under 5K Words 

Hurt / Comfort Pt. 2: 5K to 10K Words

Fandom Favourites / Popular Fics

I hope those will get you started! So now, here’s the main event!! Hope you enjoy them!

50 - 100 K WORDS Pt. 2 (Novel Length)

See also:

Fics Under 2000 w.

Fics Under 2000 w. Pt. 2

Fics Under 2000 w. Pt. 3

E-Rated Johnlock for Newcomers Pt 1 (Short Fics under 20K)

Novella Length Fics: 25 to 50K (Aug. 2019)

Novel Length Fics: 50 to 100K (Nov. 2018)

Novel Length Fics: 100K+ w. (May 2019)

Long S3/Post-S3 Fics (20K+ w.) [Apr 2020]

Top 20 Fave 40K+ w. Fics (April 2017)

Smut-Free Fics Over 50K (Aug 2019)

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by SilentAuror (E, 50,635 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4/S4 Divergence, Case Fic, For a Case / Reverse Fake-Relationship, Conferences, Marriage Equality, Travelling / New York, Pride, Homophobia, Bottomlock, Marriage Proposal, John POV, Sexuality, Love Confessions, Emotional Love Making, Public Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Passionate Kissing, Needy/Clingy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Touching / Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Little Spoon Sherlock, Intense Orgasms) – John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Points by lifeonmars (E, 53,791 w., 42 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || HLV Rewrite / Canon Divergence, Married Life, Pregnancy / Baby Watson, Drinking to Cope, Boxing / Fisticuffs, Clueless John, Angst, Minor Medical Drama, Tattoos, Christmas, First Kiss/Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Doctor John, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Drugging, Blow/Hand Job, Emotional Love Making, Parenthood, Passage of Time) – What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.

Never Change a Running System by Lorelei_Lee (E, 54,246 w. || Pre-TRF, Romance, Humour, Drama, Sex Toys, Anal, Rimming, Masturbation, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Public Sex, First Kiss / Time, Virgin Sherlock / Loss of Virginity, Accidental Voyeurism, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Experiments, Naive Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Straight With an Exception John, Hand Jobs) – Sherlock discovers his sexuality – with far-reaching consequences for John.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee (E, 55,536 w. || Astronauts AU || Mars Exploration / Space Travel, Slow Burn, Shy Sherlock, Scientist Sherlock / Biomed Engineer John, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, UST, Angst with Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Zero-G Sex) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters? Gonna be a wild ride... prepare for blast off. Part 1 of the SpaceBois go to Space series

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

floating through a dark blue sky by Lediona (M, 58,966 w. || Notting Hilll AU || POV John, Celebrity Sherlock, First Date / Time / Kiss, Past Drug Addiction, Angst with a Happy Ending) – Of course, I’d seen his films and always thought he was, well, brilliant -- but, you know, a million miles from the world I live in. Or, when John is the owner of a travel book shop and the famous Sherlock Holmes stops in one day.

The Burning by SrebrnaFH (M, 60,658 w. || Reverse Reichenbach, Suicide, Depression, Hurt Sherlock / John, Separation, BAMF John, Good Big Brother Mycroft, Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Fake Character Death, Rescue Mission, Reconciliation / Reunion, Hospitalization, Marriage Proposal, Illnesses, Physical Therapy, Happily Ever After) – Something went very, very wrong. John had seemed, if not happy, then reasonably content with his life. Sherlock had never predicted something like THIS might have happened. Not in his worst nightmares. He was the lousiest friend ever, apparently. At least Mycroft found him something to occupy his mind with, so that he didn't have to go back to 221B and stare at the walls and the chair, where John Watson would never sit again.

This Thing All Things Devours by cypress_tree (E, 63,844 w., 15 Ch. || In Time AU || Science Fiction, Dystopian Universe, First Meetings, Action / Adventure, Romance) – In 2169, time is money—literally. Humans are genetically engineered to stop aging at 25, when the numbers on their arm start counting down from one year. When that time is up, they die. The only way to get more time is to earn it, borrow it, or steal it.John Watson lives day-to-day in the crowded slums of Zone 13. He never imagined living any differently—until he meets the practically-immortal Sherlock, and helps him on a case to track a local time-thief...

The Bells of King's College by SilentAuror (E, 64,019 w., 5 Ch. || Post-S4, Missed Opportunities, Angst with Happy Ending, Fake Relationship, Case Fic, John POV, Jealous John, John in Denial, Travelling / Holidays, Virgin Sherlock, Wedding Proposals) – It's only been two weeks since Eurus Holmes disrupted their lives when Mycroft sends John and Sherlock to Cambridge to pose as an engaged couple at a wedding show in the hopes of solving six unsolved deaths...

Hell Sent, Heaven Bound by ConsultingHound (M, 64,381 w, 16 Ch. || Angels / Demons AU ||  Fallen Angel Sherlock / Angel Cop John, Alternate First Meeting, Slow Burn, Case Fic, John & Lestrade are Friends Before Sherlock, BAMF John, Mind Palace John, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Sherlock Picks Out John’s Clothing, Clubbing / Dancing, Mildly Jealous John, Awkwardness, Kidnapping, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Sacrifice, Worried / Anxious Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Immortal to Mortal) – Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day. He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls. However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell. Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

White Knight by DiscordantWords (M, 69,840 w., 13 Ch. || S4 Compliant/Post S4, Marriage For a Case, Jealous John, Pining John, Janine / Sherlock Fake Relationship, Serial Killers, Case Fic, Undercover as a Couple, Weddings, John is a Mess, Misunderstandings, Wedding Planning, Jealousy, Drunkenness, Love Confessions, Angst with Happy Ending) – Green. The word green was used to convey a great many things. Illness. Envy. Inexperience. Standing there amidst Janine's chattering bridesmaids, watching Sherlock furrow his brow and study fabric swatches, watching him smile and simper and flirt, John thought it a remarkably apt colour choice. Because he felt quite sick to his stomach, he feared the source of said sickness might very well be jealousy, and he had absolutely no idea at all what to do about it. Or: Sherlock needs to fake a relationship for a case. He doesn't ask John.

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

The Vapor Variant by 88thParallel (M, 72,684 w., 18 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-THoB, John Whump, Protective Sherlock, Guilty Sherlock, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Suspense, Virus, Sickfic, Big Brother Mycroft) – They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril. They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear. Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods. Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.

Summit Fever by J_Baillier (M, 78,802 w., 18 Ch. || Mountain Climber AU || POV John, Angst, Tragedy, Suicidal Ideation, The Himalayas, Mountain Guide / Doctor John, Mount Climber Sherlock, Loneliness, Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Injured Sherlock / Sherlock Whump, Pining John) – After graduating from medical school, John Watson followed his heart to the Himalayas. Ten years later, he's a haunted cynic working for his ex-lover's trekking and mountaineering company. Will leading an expedition to Annapurna I—the most lethal of all the world's highest mountains—shake John out of his reverie, and who is the mystery client added to the group at the last minute?

The Monument of Memory by J_Baillier (M, 79,663 w., 14 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It Fic / S4 is Canon, Angst, Family Drama, Guilt, Case Fic, John Loves Sherlock, Complicated Feelings, Mentalism / Hypnosis, Murder, Grieving John, Sherlock is a Bit Not Good, Team Work, Trust Issues, BAMF John, Psychological Trauma, Protective John, Autistic-Spectrum Sherlock, Parentlock, John POV) –  A genius traumatised by a past he's only beginning to recall. The psychopath sister that time forgot. A missing woman and a mentalist who may or may not be a murderer. And, in the middle of it all, stands John Watson.

Thermocline by J_Baillier (M, 83,557 w., 14 Ch. || Scuba Diving AU || Adventure, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Marine Archaeology, Asexual Sherlock, Horny John, Relationship Drama, Technical/Scuba/Wreck Diving, Slow Burn, Underwater /  Medical Peril, Doctor John, Hurt Sherlock, Anxious Sherlock, John POV, Protective John, Body Appreciation) – John "Five Oceans" Watson — technical dive instructor, dive accident analyst and weapon of mass seduction — meets recluse professor of maritime archaeology Holmes. As they head out to a remote archipelago off the coast of Guatemala to study and film its shipwrecks for a documentary, will sparks fly or fizzle out?

The Summer Boy by khorazir (T, 94,706 w., 6 Ch. || Post S3/Post TAB/Alternate S4, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Sussex, Bullying, 1980′s Kid Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, Grief/Mourning, Pining Sherlock, Background Case Fic) – About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock. Part 1 of the The Summer Boy series

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU ||  BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

31_Days_of_Porn_Challenge_2017 Series by distantstarlight (E, 96,540 w. across 31 stories || Prompt Ficlets, Assorted Kinks, PWP) – A collection in response to the 31 Days of Porn Challenge issued by AtlinMerrik! Thanks for doing that because this has been buttload of fun (that joke never gets old). All stories will be brief stand-alone one-shots.

The Baker Street Nativity by SwissMiss (E, 99,662 w., 23 Ch. || Nativity! AU || Teacher Sherlock / TA John, Pining, Sherlock POV, UST, Angst, Christmas, Music/Song Fic, Anal / BJ’s, First Kiss / Time) – Fusion between Sherlock (BBC) and Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school's Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong? Part 1 of The Baker Street Nativity Verse

Given In Evidence by verityburns (M, 97,884 w., 19 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Angst, Drama, Case Fic, Romance, BAMF!John, Submissive Sherlock, First Kiss, Humour) – Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing... rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same...

[lauramkaye]

Invisible Writing: or, I’m Still Here!

So recently someone wrote me a really sweet and much appreciated feedback email. It really made my day, but one line of it kind of took me aback - they said something like “since you aren’t very active anymore” (or it might have been “since you aren’t posting much anymore” or something like that.)

And I was like... what? what are you talking about, I’m writing all the time? I mean, there were a few months when I didn’t do anything but work OT because of COVID but other than that??

And then I thought some more about what I’ve been working on recently and I realized what’s happened: I’ve been writing a ton, I just haven’t FINISHED much in a while, because all my stuff in progress is long.

I haven’t posted anything yet in 2020. I posted four things in 2019: 

A Little World Made Cunningly (just under 50,000 words, posted in chapters from November 2018 to February 2019) 

Love Vaster than Empires, Chapter 1 (just under 10,000 words, posted April 2019)

My Heart In Hiding, Chapter 13 (just under 25,000 words, posted September 2019)

Love of a Particular Kind (just under 60,000 words, posted in chapters from August 2019 to October 2019.)

So, I can see where it looks like I haven’t done anything for nearly a year! But that’s because most of what I’ve been writing is on novel or novella-length stories.

A brief digression about my personal philosophy of works in progress: in general, I don’t start posting a work until the first draft is finished. Then I post it either after beta and revisions are done (one-shots), or chapter by chapter as I finish beta and revisions for each chapter (multi-chaptered works.) The only exceptions to this are My Heart In Hiding  and Love Vaster Than Empires. My Heart In Hiding is plotted and outlined at a high level but it’s so long I’m posting it as a serialized novel; fine points in the story and in the outline change as I actually write the chapters and see how the high-level ideas work out in practice. Love Vaster Than Empires, like All Our Strength and All Our Sweetness before it, is more of a short story anthology than a single work, and I chose to publish those as chaptered works instead of single ones mostly for convenience. Pretty much anything else I write, I don’t start posting it until I know I have a complete draft done, because that way I know I’m more likely to be able to post chapters relatively regularly, since editing is generally a more predictable process for me than drafting.

Anyway, if you’ve been wondering if I’ve stopped writing fic or whatever (or just when I might post again), here is a list of the stuff I have going (this is only stuff that is both at least partially written and that I’m more or less actively working on currently. There’s more in various stages of planning.)

At the Turning of the Tide: Clint is a vampire. Phil doesn’t know. They are stupid in love and pining. Will they work something out? (I mean, I’m writing it, so duh, of course they will.)��About 20K. First draft complete, currently in beta. Will probably be the first in a series because I have prequel and sequel ideas already. This will likely be the next thing I post.

Bonus snippet: He thought of it sometimes, of saying sure, I was an English longbowman and I died at Agincourt, but then I woke up again and a French swordsman kept me in thrall until I put an arrow through his heart and ran away. Or yeah, you guessed it, we’re pretty sure Nat’s immortal, there was this thing with Rasputin one time, my blood was involved, it was a whole big thing. 

Love Vaster Than Empires, Chapter 2: Phil gets Clint a Valentine’s Day surprise. (It is a surprise that Phil wears. Yes, a sexy surprise.) 10K and counting, currently being drafted. Probably next in the queue after the vamp story posts. Maybe 3/4 done.

Bonus snippet: “I’d honestly thought I had to choose,” he said. “That I was being greedy, hoping to find someone who could… fit, with all the different parts of my life. Did I really think that I could find a partner who could put up with the job and be compatible with my personality and who would also have complimentary sexual needs? I might as well wish for Captain America to rise from the bottom of the ocean and tell me he’s always dreamed of dating an older man with a ridiculous schedule and a closet full of sex toys.”

Rise the Same and Prove Mysterious: This is the modern fantasy AU novel where Phil is a dragon and Clint is a sorcerer, and they are charged with undergoing a year of magical rituals to form a permanent bond that will enable them to anchor a casting circle for SHIELD. Currently just under 30k, being drafted. I’m probably about 25% done with this one at most so it’ll be a while.

Bonus snippet: “Wow,” he said. “You’re really pretty as a dragon.” Then he realized what he’d just said. “I mean, um. Handsome? Um, deadly? Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insulting or anything.” Phil really was pretty, though, all sharp and gleam and sinuous grace, his scales a thousand subtle shades of black and gray and midnight blue, with an iridescent sheen on his wings like spilled oil. Clint kind of wanted to pet him.

Another one, from Phil’s POV: “I caught you a fish,” Phil blurted, holding it out. It didn’t seem like much, all of a sudden, not in the face of the cozy little nest—damn it, lair—that Clint had made while he was gone. He should have caught him a bighorn sheep, or a deer. Maybe a moose. Would Clint like a moose? He could go get one. Moose was a little tough, though. Better braised, and they didn’t really have any way to do that. “I mean, I can get you something else. If you don’t like it.”

And Still The Sun: this is actually the third story in the series that started with All Our Strength and All Our Sweetness. Unlike the first two, this is one long chaptered story, and it is the post-Avengers fix-it story for this universe, where instead of using Kree blood, Fury asks  Tony to consult and they wind up saving Phil using Extremis. Currently around 25k, but it’s going to be novel-length when it’s done because I have Ideas about how a Clint and Phil who were in a long-established, thriving kinky relationship would recover after the whole Loki/TAHITI thing.  Also featuring lots of Fury, Natasha, and Tony friendship stuff and SO MANY PHEELS.

Bonus Snippet: Clint stroked Phil’s torso through the thin cotton gown, feeling electrodes and wires and the bumps of his ribs. His throat ached at the evidence of how thin Phil had gotten, and his eyes stung. He turned his face into Phil’s side and breathed deep, because Phil smelled like… well, like someone who had been more or less killed and then cryogenically frozen for over a month and then nearly exploded from experimental nanobots, actually, but Clint knew what death smelled like, and Phil didn’t smell like death. Clint would take any amount of mad-science-hospital-char-stink over that.