#Call Logic Platform | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jaysbaefie · 4 months ago

Text

simone says | sjy

synopsis: in which your highschool rival agrees to tutor you, on one condition.

genre: high-school rivals to lovers ?

pairing: high-school rival!jake x afab reader

warnings: dubcon (ish), dom!jake, bratty!reader, reader calls jake a 'twink' on multiple occasions, jake reads hentai, mentions of blackmail? restraining with a belt, light degrading, spanking, grinding, reader grinds on jake's shoe, lowkey manhandling, oral sex (m. and f. receiving), public sex, praising, hair pulling, p in v, orgasm denial - i think that's it..

wc: 9.6k+

a/n: this is my first fic on tumbler, so if something seems wonky i apologize i’m not familiar with posting on this platform. feel free to leave tips on how to post on this site because i struggled heavy…

──── ୨୧ ────

the look of disappointment plastered on your professors face made you wince.

"i'm sorry __ , but if you don't boost your grades then i have no choice but to demote you from debate team captain and take you out of your advance learning classes," he said apologetically.

you wanted to do nothing but to scream in his old, wrinkly and saggy face, this was so embarrassing.

you internally scold yourself for thinking this way of your professor, the man was nothing but kind to you these past few months given your terrible attendance and poor marks.

you had never come home with less than a 95% in your classes. nowadays, your happy with a shitty 60%.

you don't know what's wrong with you, your unable to focus on your studies and instead spend time ditching classes and attending parties. you had promised yourself that no matter where your friends had dragged you. you would make your education a priority, but as expected, that wasn't the case.

senior year of high school meant a lot of behavioural and social changes within both you and your friends, the shy and nerdy girls you once hung out with had done a complete 360 switch. the hangouts that once consisted of going to cute cafes and studying, ice skating, arcades and movie nights had quickly switched to getting drunk every other night and doing any possible substance that they could get their hands on.

you missed the days where the four of you wouldn't get black out drunk and fake sobriety to your knowing parents. you didn't particularly enjoy the party life that your friends were living, but you didn't hate it, and you surely wouldn't be missing out on it. yes, your studies should come first, but your a senior in high school only once in your life. which is what your friends repeated every time you rejected a party. so that's what you lived by, your only a senior in highschool once.

unfortunately, that same logic costed you your above average grades and perfect attendance record. you had to fix this, and you were willing to fix this mess in any way possible. even if it meant dropping to your knees for your professor.

you give the old man a once over, shivering and internally rejected that as a possibility.

"i'd rather fail and live at home for the rest of my life," you think to yourself, your body convulsing at the idea.

swallowing harshly you ask, "is there anything i could do to boost my grades?".

he looks at you with sympathy, leaning back in his chair as he thinks for a moment. "the only thing i could do to help you with your grades is to be present and help answer any questions you have. i could stay some time after class and help you with some homework but that's about it __, i'm sorry," he sighs.

asking questions with homework wasn't going to change your 57% into a 95 in 2 months. you needed to completely re-learn the material and start from the beginning. you didn't have notes and you didn't have a clue of what was going on in the class. none of your friends were in your classes, none of your friends were as smart as you.

unfortunately for you, you hadn't bothered to even make any friends in your advanced learning classes. you couldn't just go up to someone in your class and ask them for their notes, you were stumped.

"do you think you could set me up with a tutor? i know i'm asking for a lot right now but i want to switch this around," you beg softly, your hands clutched together. your professor knew how much potential you had, you had created a good reputation for yourself after all. you were the debate team captain, although you had been missing more and more meetings recently. you had one of the highest marks in your grade, often ranking first place in exams. you had never gotten into any altercations, a squeaky clean student record. lots of volunteer hours and good recommendations from professors that would guarantee you a spot in the most prestigious of universities.

your professor thinks for a moment, his bushy eyebrows furrowing as he debates internally. "i could set you up with one, but i'm not sure he'll agree to helping you this late in the semester," he replies wincing. "or at all..," he continues but your ears miss it.

a smile instantly makes its way onto your face, there's hope for you. you were sure that whoever this person was they would agree to helping you. you were nice to everyone, always respectful and helpful to your peers.

who would say no to you?

"he's one of my best students, following you of course," the professor continues, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he takes his thin glasses off his face. he gulps softly, knowing that suggesting this student to you and vice versa wasn't the best idea.

you on the other hand, begin to think of all the smart students you know of in your grade.

yang jungwon?

park sunghoon?

kim sunoo?

mentally trashing all of the candidates that you deemed dumb.

your professor interrupts your internal dialogue, "you're going to have to talk to him and come up with something that works for the both of you, that is if he agrees," he says.

"but i will send him an email, warning him that you'll be in touch with him soon," he adds on tensely.

you simply hum in response, happy with the outcome of the conversation even though it may not work out for you at the end. one thing about you was that you were confident, and you knew that a little persuading would get you far in life. you got along with all your peers, unfortunately not enough to ask for notes or help but enough to pass soft smiles in the hallways or a gentle nod of acknowledgment. you stayed in your circle of friends, rarely hanging out with other classmates unless a project or school assignment was involved.

with no questions asked you thank your professor profusely, your smile reaching your eyes.

your professor on the other hand looked at you nervously, letting out a tense laugh as he tells you to head to your next class. you hadn't asked who would be your tutor, and your professor was grateful. he didn't want to deal with your reaction and preferred to stay out of it but he knew he would hear from you soon and he'd rather deal with it later than now.

"now, head to class the bell will be ringing soon," he ushers. you smile and thank him once again before practically skipping out of your classroom.

your professor watches you leave, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips before he opens his computer. his mouse clicking on the schools mailing app, before punching in the letters of the students email.

he wrote a simple message informing him, no— warning, that's the word, warning him that you'd be in touch with him soon.

he sends the email and immediately signs off, hoping for the best. his two star students couldn't be fighting anymore, and if he had to play cupid then he'd play cupid, even if it was extremely inappropriate and unprofessional.

he could only hope for the best.

──── ୨୧ ────

you walk alongside your friends, your shoulder casually brushing against yoora's as the four of you head to the lunch hall.

"so you're really taking this grade thing seriously, huh?" jiya asks, her brows arching as she looks at you with a soft smirk.

you roll your eyes, "someone has to," you reply.

"who else is going to make a lot of money so they could keep up with their friends luxurious life style," you playfully snide. the reason your grades meant so much to you was solely because you didn't come from a privileged and wealthy background. to you, good grades meant a good education which leads to a good job and a stable source of income for both you and your family. this wasn't a choice for you, yet you had been treating it as if it was one and now your dealing with the consequences.

your friends came from wealthy backgrounds, grades weren't that important to them because they knew that no matter what their gpa was they'd have something to lean back on. whether it be inheriting a business or their parents providing pocket money till their last breath.

jiya's expression softens slightly, her manicured fingers brushing against your arm, "we're sorry for distracting you, __."

"we didn't realize how much this was affecting your grades," she continues. the others nod in agreement as they mumble soft apologies.

you were greatful for their understanding, they were aware of your financial situation but often forgot. it wasn't something you liked to bring up often, the looks of pity on their faces making you want to shrivel up and die.

there would be times where they'd offer to pay for your meals, clothes and even tuition because they thought it would help lessen your financial burdens, but instead it made you feel embarrassed and angry. you didn't want the pity so you rarely brought it up. this was your motivation to make money and step out of the hole that finances had made for you.

"we won't pressure you into going to parties with us anymore," hana says before quickly continuing, "but that doesn't mean that you can say no every time. you still have to go out with us, but we understand that right now your education is your priority."

you smile in response.

"so, who's your little tutor?" hana asks, flipping her dyed blonde locks over her shoulder as she searches her purse for her wallet.

the four of you had entered the lunch hall, your eyes scanning for a table as you begin to walk to the lunch line.

you shrug at her question, "no clue, i forgot to ask. but probably some nerd."

yoora laughs, "fellow nerd," she corrects with a teasing smile, bumping shoulders with you as you stand in line.

you roll your eyes playfully, "bitch."

"i just hope it's not a creep, like min youngjae," you shiver at the thought. min youngjae was a perv, sure he was smart and often ranked high in exam scores like yourself, but he was a total creep. he had been caught peering into the girls change room last year and hasn't been able to live it down since.

your friends giggle, "carry pepper spray on you if it happens to be him, heard he had the hots for you too.." jiya snickers handing the lunch lady some cash before picking up her tray.

you shiver, "i'm carrying mace if i'm paired with him," you mutter as you follow jiya with a tray of your own.

spotting a table the four of you beeline for it, the lunch hall started to fill up and spots to sit had become scarce.

sitting down the four of you ease into small talk which then becomes gossip. giggling amongst yourselves you don't notice a certain pair of eyes on you, watching your every move.

if looks could kill, you'd be buried 6 feet under by now.

a soft nudge makes you stop laughing, yoora smirking as she raises her eyebrows. she motions to the side of you with her head, you furrow your eyebrows, confused to what was going on.

turning your head your eyes are instantly met with the one person who you had issues with in this entire school.

co-captain of the debate team, soccer team captain, and your worst enemy—sim jaeyun.

you almost gag when he smirks at you. his stupid plump lips curling into a grin when he's sees your expression before his beautiful—no hideous face morphs into one of mock concern. your surprised when he gets up from his spot and starts to make his way to your table.

his lean yet muscular legs flexing with each step he took, he was still wearing his soccer shorts that he had been wearing during practice with a thin white t-shirt that outlined the shape of his torso when the lunch halls light hit him in a specific way. his hair was slightly damp with sweat from practice, he runs his large hands through his dark locks before he reaches your table and his crotch is in level with your face. you make a face of displeasure before you shift away slightly, trying to avoid starring at his dick.

"fuck do you want sim?" you sneer, holding in the urge to punch him in the throat when his grin widens.

how you wanted to punch his shit-eating grin, his perfectly straight teeth would fall out of his big mouth.

"what do i want? hm, a lot of attitude for someone who needs my help," he mocks playfully as he bends down so he's eye level with you.

your face twists into one of confusion, help?

"what are you talking about dickwad? i don't need your help," you spit, your cheeks heating up when you catch a whiff of his cologne. you mentally beat yourself for letting someone like him fluster you.

"oh really? so mr.kim didn't send me an email asking me to tutor his 'star student' ?" he pouts mockingly.

your eyes widen and your mouth parts in shock.

mr.kim you are so fucking dead.

jake watches your face twist into one of shock, enjoying your attitude fizzle as you stumble for words.

your mouth opens and closes like a fish on land, racking your brain for a snarky comeback, but to your luck your mind was blank.

he stares at your expression, he could see a million thoughts behind your eyes and it only boosted his confidence. he was the reason your bratty mouth was unable to form words to shoot back at him. the same mouth that would spew insults at him whenever he dared to even speak in your presence was now shut because of him.

he was eager to shoot you down when he had originally walked to your table, ready to reject tutoring you and make fun of you for being so dumb and careless of your studies. he had noticed what you had become recently, the seemingly hardworking and shy girl you once were around others, not him of course, had become an avid partier who didn't care about her academics and future anymore. however, now he had different plans, he knew how much you needed him and he'd use it to his advantage. what's wrong with a little fun? right?

jake stands up straight, "meet me in classroom 103 tomorrow afternoon lunch, don't be late pretty," jake coos playfully with a chuckle escaping his pink lips.

your internal debate ends instantly at his words, your face dropping as you begin to process his words. he wants to tutor you? pretty? confused you look at him and begin to open your mouth only to see that he has turned away and began walking back to his table.

his friends looking at him and you both confused and amused at the interaction.

what the fuck just happened?

──── ୨୧ ────

sim jaeyun has always been that cockroach that just won't die. no matter how many times you hit it with your shoe, or the rounds of bug spray you spray on its disgusting body, it survives.

first day of 8th grade and you two were already fighting over the dumbest things. the two of you shared a mutual friend, kim sunoo, and you wanted to sit next to him for math. little did you know, jake had similar intentions which resulted in a full blown argument between the two of you on why either of you should sit next to sunoo.

at the end, neither of you got to sit next to him.

then came budging in line, to you the fight between who gets to sit next to sunoo was your last interaction with jake. however, jake had other plans.

he would purposely budge in front of you in line and when you made a move to confront him he'd act like you simply didn't exist.

you realized quickly that he thrived off of your reactions and stopped giving him the satisfaction of getting angry at him.

grade 8 science class is where the two of you had begun to get competitive for grades.

"hey, what'd you get on your quiz __?" your seat mate whispered to you while holding onto his own quiz, hiding the grade from your greedy eyes.

biting back a grin you show him your test results, "a 93%" you whisper back. you were so proud of yourself, you studied hard for that mark and you were going to tell anyone who asked what you got.

you heard a snicker come from the back and you immediately knew who it was. you whip your head around to shoot the boy a piercing glare.

"93? that's it? i got a 96," jake brags with a smirk.

you could feel your cheeks redden with rage as you flip him off and turn back in your desk.

fuck that twink and his 96%, i'll show him.

and you did show him, next quiz you got a 100% and you made sure jake saw it.

"awe, a 94. how cute jakey," you mocked with a pout. you had left your quiz on his desk while he was in the washroom, making sure he saw it when he returned.

jake's fists were clenched and he could feel himself bubble up with embarrassment when he saw your perfect score. he rolls his eyes and chooses to not respond, which only fed your ego.

the cycle continues for years, and with your luck you shared almost all of your classes with jake. the two of you were some of the smartest kids in your grade and shared the same advanced learning classes, with the exception of extracurriculars. the competition between you two never ended and neither did the unusual tension.

when you became debate team captain jake was furious, he worked equally as hard for that position but he was made co-captain for his efforts instead of the real deal. he never complained publicly though, instead he tried to outshine you during weekly meetings. being extra nice to the members and trying to come up with better ideas and solutions to make you look bad.

you're still captain, so clearly he's not doing a good enough job.

you tried to avoid jake when you could, you saw him as competition and an enemy, that's it. well, that's what you tried to convince yourself. there was an undeniable attraction that you felt towards jake, and it made you want to kill yourself. fortunately for you, you were able to look past it and come to terms that you found him attractive and justify that his personality made him ugly.

however, jake didn't try to avoid you back. instead he seemed to 'run into you' and random times and ruin your day. at one point you were convinced that he was following you because of how often he would be at the same place at the same time as you.

many of your friends and fellow classmates thought of you and jake as an elderly couple that bickered amongst each other. the thought of dating jake alone made you gag and you tried to shut down their theories of sexual tension between the two of you right away. that however, didn't work and the theories continue.

"i swear, you two just need to fuck," jiya sighed as she slumps against her pillows.

all four of you had decided to go to jiya's house after school, it had been so long since you all had hung out like a normal group of teens.

you choke on your drink, "fucks no," you look at her with wide eyes, shocked she would even say that.

jiya grins, she props herself up on her elbow to stare at you, "you know you feel the tension, because i sure as hell do. so do yoora and hana, hell, everyone at school does," she exclaims frustratedly, mad that her friend won't just take her advice.

you roll your eyes, "the only tension i feel that he's involved in is scoring higher than him academically, which i've been failing at recently," you respond with a groan.

finals were only 2 months away and if you wanted to pass with flying colours you needed to take up jake's offer.

"what if he's agreeing to tutor you because he wants to sabotage you," hana theorizes, gasping at her idea as she stares at you with her eyes wide and her eyebrows raised.

"i don't think he's the type to sabotage, he likes the competition and he likes to win fair and square from what i've seen," interjects yoora.

she had a point, jake had never played dirty. sure he was a dick, but he never tried to sabotage you. you were away for a week once due to a cold and jake had willingly given you his notes for that weeks lectures.

that only makes you wonder..

what is that twink up to?

you were confused by the entire interaction that took place in the lunch hall earlier, it wasn't odd for jake to be in your personal space, he did that a lot. however, the 'pretty' he added to the end of his sentence was what was throwing you off. jake had described you in a multitude of ways, ugly, witch, hag, dumbass, toad, and the list continues. but never has he called you something positive, let alone pretty.

"i don't know what his game plan is, but the only way i'm going to find out is by going to classroom 103 tomorrow."

──── ୨୧ ────

and that's how you find yourself outside classroom 103, your hands clutching the straps of your backpack as your nervously open the door.

you peer up making there wasn't a bucket full of liquid perched at the top that would fall onto you when you open the door fully. seeing that nothing was there you open the door and walk inside, seeing jake by the whiteboard at the front of the classroom.

his back facing you, you could see how well his clothes hugged his shape and you couldn't help but admire.

he was wearing his uniform this time, his white dress shirt was crisp and free of any wrinkles and tucked into the waistband of his pants. his sleeves were rolled up so his forearms were exposed, you felt your mouth water slightly as you saw the veins from his arms lead to his large hands.

"are you going to keep staring like a perv or sit down?" and the moments ruined.

you roll your eyes and walk up to him, slamming your backpack down onto the desk before folding your arms across your chest, "what's your game plan here, shitface?" you spit out.

jake chuckles, finding your attitude and actions cute. you thought you were intimidating but in reality jake allowed you to believe that you were in charge, it was the least he could do before he showed you who was really in control.

jake moves away from the whiteboard before leaning against the teachers desk that sat in front of the board with his arms in front of him, holding him up.

"game plan? what are you talking about __?" jake asks innocently, looking down at you with a pout.

you roll your eyes again, "listen, i'm not in the mood for this back and fourth thing you love doing okay? are you going to tutor me? yes or no?"

jake grins, moving away from the desk and walking up to you, similar to how a predator stalks up to his prey. you give him a dirty look when he stands in front of you, staring down at you.

"of course i'm going to tutor you __, it's the least i could do to help my fellow classmate," he coos mockingly.

"roll your eyes again and watch," he threatens, seeing your expression shift again. your heart stutters in your chest at his tone, a soft flush coating your cheeks.

he knew you to well.

you scoff, "cut the bullshit, i know you have an ulterior motive to this 'i'm a good person' persona you have playing right now. spit it out, what do you want in return?"

his grin widens, "if only you used your brain to pay attention and get good grades rather that theorizing about my 'ulterior motives'. maybe then you wouldn't be in this position," he snarks back, his face leaning closer to yours. you take a step back but he takes two closer to you.

if you hadn't known jake and were someone else you would've thought that he was going to lean in and kiss you right now with the way his breathe fanned against your cheek. he was to close, but this was just how jake was. always in your face and business.

"maybe if you weren't a little shit who didn't have dick up his ass every second of the day i wouldn't be aiming for your crotch right now with my knee," you spit back, your knee bent up and close to his crotch area.

jake rolls his eyes, taking a step back as a precaution in case you do decide to knee him where it matters.

"so? what do you want in return. don't say that fake shit you're scheming up in your head about how you're just a good person and care for all your peers," you mock in what you think is a good impression of his voice.

he smirks, "all i want from you is to play a little game with me __."

you quirk your eyebrows in suspicion, "what game...?"

"simone says."

you burst into fits of laughter, your eyes watering with amusement as you look at him incredulously, "what are you? 7? get a grip jake," you snicker, leaning against the deck for support as your body still shakes with silent fits of laughter.

"7 inches deep in your mom," he lamely mutters which only makes your body shake harder with amusement.

jake's expression remains the same, "suit yourself, you either agree to the game or you find someone else to tutor you. but you and i both know that no one is going to help re-teach you the way i can."

he wasn't wrong, you and jake regardless of your differences, learned the same way. his notes were thoroughly detailed and you had seen him help out peers before, he was patient and made sure that at the end of the lesson they grasped the concept well.

when you don't say anything he continues, "i miss the competition between us you know? seeing your grades plummet to shit wasn't as satisfying as i thought it would be," he admits as he inspects the classrooms surroundings, almost embarrassed at his own confession.

shocked at the sudden confession you look up at him with a teasing smirk, "how cute jakey."

he groans, "fuck this, i'm out," he makes a move for the door before you grab his wrist.

"okay, okay sorry. i'll play your dumb game, just tutor me shitface," you mumble looking anywhere but him.

jake smirks, the threatening to leave ploy always works.

you had not idea what you were in for.

jake was going to tutor you, there were no lies there. however, he deserved to get a little something out of it.. right?

the game was a mere excuse to him. years of back and fourth had gotten him no where and that had to change, and it had to change soon. who knows were the both of them would end up after graduation, he had to lock you in.

"we start after school today, meet me at the library right after the bell," he says before he quickly struts to the door, leaving you in the classroom by yourself before you even had a chance to protest.

then what was the purpose of this entire meeting? you could've just seen him after school to begin with.

dickhead.

──── ୨୧ ────

"no, no, no that's all wrong," jake sighs as he pulls the notebook from your hands and flips to a different page.

he was beginning to get on your nerves and you had to hold yourself back from slamming your fist into his face.

"well maybe if you teach me from the beginning instead of handing me questions to answer i'll do it correctly," you scoff.

"i need to know where you are in your comprehension to be able to teach you the proper material, you toad. that's why i'm giving you practice questions, which your eating shit at, so clearly i'm going to have to start from the beginning," he snaps back ,rubbing his eyebrows that had tensed up.

you could feel your mouth water slightly at the sight of his hands, long and veiny which looked sinfully good every time he held something. drooling over your academic rival and overall enemy wasn't something that you'd publicly admit, ever. not even to your friends who had their own suspicions of the two of you.

'sexual tension' they said.

"lets start from the beginning of the semester, unless you need i need to revise basic algebra for you too?" he mocked, his upper lip curling up in a sneer.

you give him a sickly sweet smile, you weren't that dumb you still remembered things you learned from previous years. new concepts were the issue for you, "hm, whatever you think is right mr.sim," you say in a mocking innocent tone, all while batting your eyes before turning your head so you're sure he's staring right at you.

jake swallows harshly at the honorific, his fists clenching before he sits up a bit straighter. clearing his throat he lets out a fake cough to distract you if you happened to notice his sudden mood change.

you hadn't noticed his change in behaviour, going back to staring at your textbook. you had forgotten about the situation as soon as your eyes landed on the question you were stuck on, ignoring the now tense boy that sat next to you.

to others you two seemed like a cute couple, studying together and occasionally bantering. the two of you sat closer together than you'd like, but you didn't bother moving away. your knees touching and occasionally rubbing against one another whenever jake decided to bounce his knee, which you had noticed over the last years was a habit of his when he was focused.

"i think you're smart enough to remember previous years of study, let's go over this again. this time from the beginning."

you had to admit, jake was a pretty good teacher. he made sure you understood every concept of the unit, asking you to re-explain them to him as proof. he was patient and kind with you, which you hadn't expected.

but now you were getting tired, peering up to see the time on a clock that was mounted neatly on the library walls it read 6:23. you had been studying for almost 3 hours.

"hey, maybe we should continue this tomorrow," you suggest before leaning back in your chair in an attempt to crack your back. your hands in the air lazily as you let out a soft yawn. wincing when you hear a crack, a soft moan leaving your parted lips.

jake's eyes widened at the sound momentarily, his tongue darting out of his mouth to wet his lips when he sees your position. your skirt rose up a fraction and your shirt shifted in a way that your stretching exposed a sliver of your pink bra strap and your collar bone.

jake scoffed in attempts of giving himself a reality check, looking up at the clock, "it's only been 3 hours, tired already?" he raises his eyebrow before cracking his knuckles, joining you by leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden library chairs. he could practically feel his butt bones hit the wood.

you look at him incredulously, choosing silence as a response before turning to grab your phone, checking your notifications.

this seemed to piss jake off, not only had you ignored him but now you had the audacity to go on your phone during his tutoring session that he so graciously offered you out of his free time.

"off your phone, __," he demands, now sitting up in his chair.

you ignore his warning tone, looking up from your phone lazily before scoffing, returning your eyes to your messages.

"__, i said something and i expect you to listen to me," he says again, this time his tone more annoyed than demanding.

"simone says, get off your phone," he tries.

you let out a giggle, looking up at him with amusement, there's no way he tried using that. "or what? huh? what happens if i don't listen to simone and what he says," you mock with a pout.

"i reconsider tutoring you, i'm making time out of my day to help you and you're being ungrateful and bratty. the least you could do is stay off your phone while we're studying and abide by my only condition, which was to play simone says," he spits passively.

jake wasn't an angry person, he was typically calm and collected and rarely ever raised his voice. but something about you irked him, every name you called him, every snarky response to his normal questions, every dirty look you gave him—all of it had him busting at his seems. his eyes would twitch with annoyance and his hands itched to take care of your bratty mouth, he of course, never acted on his thoughts.

but life seemed to work in strange ways, and unbeknownst to him he now had a chance to do what he's been itching to do.

"wow you must be so busy," you mock, your arms fake surrendering.

"i'm so sorry that i took precious time out of your day. time that you use to beat your dick to some sort of freak anime porn," you snicker, sure you kept your distance from him but you did some digging on the boy.

some say you're good with your hands, picking a lock with some pins was light work for you. you remember back in junior year jake had 'accidentally' taken your keys to the debate room, the keys that belonged to the debate team captain, you. you knew he was upset that you got captain instead of him and he had taken the keys out of jealousy.

at first you decided to let him keep them, out of pity, but what's the fun in that?

you did the most logical thing, you broke into his locker. while searching for the keys you came across a multitude of things, one of them being a small collection of interesting cartoons performing certain actions.

he was reading hentai. at school. no shame.

your hands shook with excitement when you saw the lewd comics, biting your lip to contain your giggles you flip the pages, quickly scanning the contents.

your eyes widened at the content, jake was into some kinky shit.

your mouth drops as you continue to snoop, giggling to yourself when you realize that you had hit the jackpot on blackmail.

pulling out your phone you took a few pictures of his locker and the porn books mr.goody two-shoes was hiding from the student body.

jake's eyes widen at your comment, how did you know?

seeing jake's reaction, your grin widens and you decide to test your luck, "didn't take you for a guy who liked bondage jakey," you giggle, biting your lip to hold back the booming laughter that threatened to leave your mouth.

"unless, it's you who's getting tied up.. i can see that," you tease before you begin to shake with laughter. you glance over in between fits of laughter to see jake's expression, which remained shocked, struggling to process the situation.

"but i'm not surprised, little bitch boys like you look like they enjoy being left helpless," you continue as you stare at his confused face.

you couldn't help but cross your legs to soothe the ache between your legs, the situation you were in and the power you held over jake's head had got you feeling some kind of way.

just when you thought you had control of the entire situation, perched on your little high horse and ready to prance around jake, his expression changed and he lets out a small laugh.

your grin drops, confused to why he found the situation amusing.

"you know __, i respect that you tried," he says, you could see his eyes water as he bit back a smile threatening to appear on his face.

"this, just made everything i'm going to do a lot easier," he continues before he finally lets the grin he's been holding back pop onto his oh-so perfect face.

you look at him confused, "are you into humiliation too, jakey? i never would've guessed."

his grin only widens, he suddenly stands up from his chair and slams his hands on the library desk.

luckily, the library had emptied out slowly in the last few hours and only a few students remained in the large spaced area.

"what are you do-" you began before the words were knocked out of you.

literally.

grabbing you by the back of your neck, jake pulls you up and pushes you face against the desk.

and suddenly you were regretting picking the most secluded section of the library.

"what the fuck are you doing?!" you try to say but the words come out as sloppy and squeaky due to one side of your face being glued to the desktop.

you hear his breathing get heavier but no reply comes from him.

suddenly, you hear rustling of his belt and a click, indicating that he was now taking it off.

instead of fear, excitement rushes through you and you squeeze your legs together in anticipation.

jake sees this and grins, "dirty bitch," he sneers before impatiently yanking his belt off, letting go of his grip on the back of your neck—quickly grabbing a hold of your arm.

you let out a small squeal when you feel him roughly tug your arms behind your back, securing your arms with his belt.

you let out a small hiss of complain when he tightens the belt a bit to tight to which he only chuckles in response.

his hands bury themselves in your hair, yanking it so your face is no longer against the table and instead the crown of your head was touching his chest.

you could feel him ground himself against your behind, your eyes widening when you feel him push against your ass.

"you see how you're bent over a desk with my belt tied around your wrists and left all helpless, not me?" he whispers harshly in your ear, his breath tickling your skin making a shiver run through your body.

you unconsciously push yourself further back into him, a low groan leaving his parted lips.

"beats me, your the one that got hard from me degrading you, bitchboy," you snicker, wiggling your hips against him, finding the whole situation slightly amusing. you were really pushing it and you'd soon realize it.

your laughter dies down when you feel one of jake's hand slither down to your legs, softly running his fingertips along the plush of your thighs and nearing your crotch.

you shut your eyes when you feel his fingers graze against your underwear clad heat. a soft moan escaping your parted lips when he presses firmly against your clit, moving his finger up and down.

"and what about you, __? you've already soaked through your panties. and i've barely even touched you," he teases with a coo. you could feel him smirk against your ear, his fingers still running up and down your slit making your legs shake at the pressure of his actions.

when you don't answer he grips your hair harder and makes the pressure between your legs firmer, "are you not embarrassed, __?" he asks, his grip on your hair disappears and you fall back onto the desk with a soft thud.

"you're allowing yourself to be bent over the counter by someone who you swear up and down you hate," he continues, now pulling his hand away from your cunt making you whimper at the loss of feeling.

he smirks, "but i have a feeling, that you don't really hate me."

you look back at him before pulling your face into a sneer, "fuck yo-" you began but before you could finish a loud smack silenced you.

your skirt was flipped up and jake had made his hand comfortable on one of your ass cheeks. "you wanna try that again?" he asks, his eyebrow raised as his tongue pokes his cheek.

you were no one to back away from a challenge, "i said fu-"

smack!

"say sorry," he commands before landing another hard smack. you shake your head, biting your lip so hard that you swore you could taste blood. seeing you shake your head, he only grins, "suit yourself."

he landed hit after hit, smack after smack until you were sobbing and babbling over your own words. as much as it hurt your pride to apologize, you would have to or you'd drown in your own tears.

"i-i'm sorry," you manage to push out, you laid your head on the desk waiting for jake to say something.

"that's my good girl," he coos softly, his hand now massaging your bruised cheeks. you let out a small whimper at the feeling, you were sure that you wouldn't be able to sit down properly for weeks.

a small choked sob escapes your mouth when he begins to kneed the sore spot a little to rough, "does that hurt angel?" he coos softly while places soft kisses down your clothed spine.

you nod shakily, "that's too bad, but i know a strong girl like you can take so much more."

and just like that you were pulled off of the desk and pushed down onto the floor, a hiss leaving your mouth when the rough carpet of the library scratches your knees.

"now, you're going to stay true to your part of the deal," he begins before stopping, admiring how helpless you looked as he stares down at your tear filled eyes and flushed pink cheeks. how he has imagined you in this exact position hundreds of thousands of times for so many years, and here you were in front of him just how he dreamed.

all those times he's fucked his fist to you when you made him angry, which was every single day. now, he was granted with the opportunity to fuck you and your mouth, and you best believe he was going to take full advantage of it.

his hands fumble with the zipper of his slacks, rushing to pull them down and allowing them to drop down to his knees.

you're eyes widen momentarily when you see his bulge straining against the fabric of his dark grey boxers. you look up at him only to be met with a look of need and urgency, you would say that he looked cute if his dick hadn't hit your cheek when he pulled down his boxers.

"simone says, suck my dick."

you gulp, moving your head back slightly to get a good look of what you were working with only for jake to thread his fingers into your hair and force his dick into your mouth.

you immediately gag, your eyes watering as you struggle to adjust to his length. you hear him groan when his tip touches the back of your throat, the sound only motivating you to swallow around him.

"fuck,__. you look so good with my cock stuffed in your bratty mouth," he moans out, his hips now slowly moving in and out of your mouth as a mixture of your spit and his cum leak out of the side of your mouth.

you only moan in response to his harsh and unforgiving thrusts, the sounds vibrating against him.

"look at you, angel. so good for me, taking me so well. if i had known this is the best way to shut you up, i would've done this a long time ago," he grunts out, his hips stuttering when he feels your jaw slacken to take more of him on easier.

"hauling your bratty ass into the nearest room and fucking your throat raw, making you beg for my cock to stretch you out."

you moan at his words, your thighs squeezing together to try relieve the pressure and ache that was building between your legs. jake notices this and smirks, his leg moving to slide between your thighs.

your eyes widen at the sudden intrusion but before you could think more about it jake begins to snap his hips faster. tears run down your cheeks, if your makeup wasn't smudged earlier, it was surely gone now.

suddenly, you felt pressure against your core, and you knew it was jake. he was able to get you to sit yourself onto his shoe, giving you a look that read 'you know what to do', and you did.

as shameful as it was, in the moment you didn't care. you allowed yourself to grind yourself down on his shoe to get some sort of relief, hips snapping to chase your high which was approaching embarrassingly quick.

"you're such a good girl, __. grinding yourself down on my shoe, getting yourself off while you gag around my cock. so fucking dirty," he moans, his head tilting back as he feels his high approach quickly.

you attempt to bob your head but jake doesn't let you, his grip on your hair tightening as he holds your head still. "m'gnna cum, f-fuck," he stutters, his thrusts now getting sloppy.

he then suddenly pulls out from your mouth, you whine from the loss of his cock, he smirks before he begins to ride out his high with his fist. "open your mouth, stick your tongue out," he demands, panting as he desperately fucks his hand.

you couldn't help but admire the view, jake's face was contorted into one of pure pleasure and bliss.

"you look so eager for my cum, yeah? is that right, pretty girl?"

you do as you were told, peering up at him as you continue to grind yourself down on his shoe. "f-fuck, you look so pretty. m'gnna nut all over that pretty face, angel," he pants and just like that thick ropes of his cum coat your face and tongue.

you flinch at the feeling before you swallow what was on your tongue—licking your lips at the warm and slightly salty flavour. a whimper leaving you when jake moves his foot away just when you were about to reach your own high.

he smirks in response, using two of his fingers to tilt your chin to admire the mess he has made on your face. "so pretty, my pretty girl. you were so good for me, and you know what happens to good girls? good girls get rewarded." fortunately for jake, you were too cock drunk to properly comprehend what he was saying.

jake pulls you up, you struggle to stand as you wobble slightly but he grabs your arms as support. he admires you quickly before pulling you into a searing kiss, his hands resting on your waist before moving them up to cup your face.

"so beautiful," he says in between kisses, the words making you feel lightheaded. you didn't know if he meant those words or if he was saying them in the heat of the moment, regardless you basked in the praise.

his hands move to your back, fumbling with the belt that was wrapped around your wrists. you almost moan in relief when he removes his belt from your hands, letting them rest by your sides. however, jake doesn't let you relish in that feeling of relief for long before his hands find their way to the back of your thighs, hoisting you up into his arms and then onto the table.

you let out a small gasp when jake drops to his knees, spreading apart your thighs roughly before moving between them. he's face to face with your panty clad heat, your hands immediately move to try and cover yourself but jake was not having it. he pushes away your hands and instead grabs your thighs to pull you closer but you try to shut your legs before he could slot his face between them.

"simone says, spread your legs."

even if you didn't obey, he'd still make you. it was an illusion of choice.

you hesitantly relax, allowing jake to manoeuvre himself between your thighs so his nose brushed against your covered slit.

the sight was erotic, jake looked like he was in heaven when he saw the giant wet patch on your panties.

"you've made a mess, fuck angel," he groans before he's pushing your underwear to the side, his nose poking your clit before you feel his tongue on you.

you let out a squeak when you felt his fingers dig into your thighs as he leaves no part of you untouched with his tongue. he moans into you, the vibration of the sound making you squirm in pleasure.

using his ring and pointer finger, he spreads your lips to get a good look at you, "you're even better than i imagined," he murmurs softly which falls deaf to your ears before resuming his actions.

you tried to keep your moans down but had a hard time doing so when you felt his tongue draw the figure '8' on your clit repeatedly. "f-fuck jake, s'good," you slur out, your grip on his hair tightening.

your hands find there way into jake's dark locks, his eyes rolling back in pleasure when you tug on them. "who knew a slut like you tasted so good," he says but his words come out muffled and only added to your pleasure.

he grins against your sopping pussy, his actions getting firmer and faster when he feels your body quiver and your moans get increasingly louder.

you release jakes hair to cover your mouth in an attempt to silence your moans, however, he didn't like that. you're eyes roll back when you feel him push a digit into your soaking cunt, all while focusing on applying firm pressure to your clit with his tongue.

you could feel your high approaching quickly, which was expected due to your denied orgasm just a few minutes ago. you look down at him for a moment only to meet his eyes already staring right at you, the stare causing you to buck your hips against his mouth as you shamelessly chase your high.

"so pretty baby, so pretty when you grind your slutty pussy on me," he groans as he slurps you like a starving man. he could tell you were close, the look of pure pleasure and concentration on your face gave it away. the way your hips bucked against him drove him crazy, his dick straining against his boxers once again.

"m'gnna cum," you moan, your hands reaching down to grab a hold of jake's hair again—making him groan in pleasure. "please jakey, can i cum? please let me cum," you whined, bucking your hips against him feverishly.

you could feel him nod and that was enough for you to let go. dropping your head back you let out low moan, eye rolling to the back of your head as you feel yourself come undone over jake's face and tongue. "that's it pretty," he says against you, his mouth still on you—helping you ride out your high.

still coming down for your orgasm you feel yourself being pushed to the edge of the desk, your legs hanging over momentarily before you felt them wrap around a torso.

jake leaves no moment to spare, his hands coming down to unbutton and yank off your shirt—letting it fall somewhere on the ground. a groan leaves his mouth when he sees your baby pink bra, hugging your tits so perfectly that he was jealous that his hands weren't doing that job.

"so pretty, __," he mumbles, pulling down your bra enough for your tits to spill out. his tongue comes out to wet his lips before he's bending over to take one of your pebbled nipples into your mouth.

soft moans slip out of your mouth when he alternates between both of your breasts, taking one into his mouth while he fondles the other one with his hand. your breath hitches when you feel jake grind into your exposed core, his hand coming down to let his cock slip out of his boxers so he could slide his dick against your folds.

"so wet for me," he groans, popping one of your nipples out of his mouth to stare at your face. saying you looked fucked out was an understatement, hair was messy and your makeup was completely gone. but jake thought you looked as beautiful as ever.

"jakey, please," you beg, moving your hips to try and catch his cock. jake grins, "look at you, __. begging for my dick, begging for the dick of someone you hate."

you hated how smug he looked, and all you wanted to do was bitch back at him and show him his real place. however, you wanted his dick in you more.

jake moves back, towering over your frame before he taps the fat head of his cock against your puffy folds. a hiss leaving his mouth when he watches your hole tighten over nothing.

"i've been waiting to do this for so long, __. you don't even know it," he says before he's plunging into you, not letting you think to much about what he said.

gripping your thighs tightly, he bottoms out completely, leaving your mouth hanging in an 'o' shape while jake lets out smalls grunts—feeling your walls flutter around his length.

"so big," you moan, your hands reaching out to grip jake's shirt as he snaps his hips into you ruthlessly.

jake feels as if he's about to combust, after years of back and fourth, countless arguments and rivalry— he was buried deep inside you. this was exactly what he wanted from the beginning, but teenage jake didn't know how to articulate his feelings and made his crush think of him as an enemy rather than a love interest.

he watches your tits bounce with every stroke, mesmerized by the sight. he could get used to this, and he will.

"so good for me, pretty. taking my cock s'well," jake slurs, the sound of skin slapping filling the library. he was surprised that no one had caught them yet, but he wouldn't stop even if they were.

you feel the table move with every thrust, your back arching as you claw at him at the feeling of being so full. the wet sounds you were making when jake began to rub circles on your aching clit made you moan out.

never in a million years would you have thought you'd be in this position, sure, jake was a star in some of your dirty fantasies but you'd never act on it. to think the nerd knew how to fuck, you were a bit surprised at how fast his hips moved and how he pounded into you ruthlessly.

"look at you, taking me so w-well," jake groans, his balls tightening as he feels himself approaching his high quickly. he begins to rub your clit firmer as his pace quickens and strokes get deeper, making sure you could feel every inch of his cock in your dripping wet cunt.

he could feel you tighten around him and he knew you were close as well. his hand comes to wrap around your neck, pulling you up from the desk so your face to face with him—his thrusts not slowing down.

"fuck look at you pretty, all ready for my cum," he murmurs before he pulls you in for a scorching kiss—swallowing your moans.

"you gonna cum, pretty?" he asks as he feels his stomach tighten with every stroke, watching you bite your lip as you try to match his thrusts. you nod frantically at his words, "m'gonna cum, jakey. please make me cum," you beg softly as you hold onto his shoulders for support.

"yeah? gonna cum? cum for me, pretty," he mumbles against your lips before he lands a smack against your throbbing clit. your body shakes as you come undone, jake's high following soon after. you could feel his hot cum shoot into you, the feeling leaving you breathless as he continues to fuck into you—making sure you milked him dry.

he pulls out of you gently, cursing when he watches his cum fall out of your fucked out cunt and onto the desk. "did so good for me, pretty."

you lay limply on the desk, your body twitching ever so slightly as you come down from your high—still in shock of what happened.

before your had a chance to gather yourself and ask the question: what now? he beats you to it.

"simone says, go out with me."

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here !

#enhypen #enha x reader #enha imagines #enhypen jake #jake sim #sim jaeyun #jake x reader #jake smut #jaysbaefie #smut #kpop #sim jaehyun x reader #highschool rivals #enemies to lovers #e2l #enha scenarios

1K notes · View notes

monzabee · 2 months ago

Text

she's the lady in red (when everybody else is wearing tan) - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: there is an fbi gala and hotch finds himself in dire need of a date for the evening. who's a better candidate than his nanny?

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: rossi as a matchmaker, sexual tension, hotch has feeeeeelings (that he doesn’t know how to process)

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

He should’ve said no when Dave suggested the idea that you accompany him to the bureau gala.

In fact, Aaron is certain he did say no—at least twice. But Rossi had just given him that smug, knowing look, the one that meant he wasn’t really asking, just informing Aaron of how things were going to unfold. And somehow, that’s how Aaron Hotchner finds himself standing in the middle of his foyer, waiting for you to come out of your room.

“Miss Y/LN, we are going to be late,” he calls out, glancing at his watch with a sigh.

The last thing Aaron wants is to make a grand entrance at the gala, but Rossi had been insistent that he bring a date—more insistent still that you were the perfect candidate. And despite every logical argument against it, here he is, standing in the foyer of his own home, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket while he waits for you.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Your voice floats down the hall, light and amused, but he catches the edge of nervousness in it. “How do I look?”

He glances up as you step into view, and his brain immediately short-circuits. You look stunning. The black fabric your dress is s draping in a way that is both elegant and utterly breathtaking. Your hair is styled perfectly, your makeup subtle but just enough to make him notice details about you that he really shouldn’t be noticing. But Aaron is not a man easily rattled. He tamps down the reaction threatening to show on his face, clears his throat, and says, “You look fine, now let’s go.”

Your lips part with shock, and he can even see Jack and Jessica giving him matching looks of disbelief from across the room. “Fine?” you echo, folding your arms over your chest. “I need gorgeous, I’m changing.”

Aaron exhales sharply. “We don’t have time for this.”

You ignore him completely, spinning on your heel and disappearing back into your room with a dramatic click of the door.

Jessica lets out a low whistle. “Oh, you messed up.”

Jack, sitting on the couch with his legs swinging, nods in though. “She never just looks fine.”

Aaron drags a hand down his face. He should’ve just told you the truth—because the truth is that you looked incredible, enough to make his pulse trip in a way that was entirely inappropriate for someone in his position. But saying it out loud would mean acknowledging it—and acknowledging it would lead to thoughts that he’s been trying very hard to suppress.

So, instead, here he is, standing in his foyer, waiting again. “Miss Y/L/N,” he calls out, his voice strained with impatience. “We’re going to be late.”

“If you’re so worried about being late, just go without me, I’ll come later!” You voice calls out through the door, laced with faux nonchalance.

Aaron exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not an option.”

“Well, then, I’m going to need a few more minutes,” you reply, sounding entirely too pleased with yourself.

He can practically feel the smile on your face, and it’s enough to drive him a little mad. Aaron’s patience is beginning to wear thin, but there’s something about your playful tone that keeps him from making the rash decision of storming out of the house without you. He just wonders how he is going to survive tonight with you by his side.

Aaron shouldn’t have let you leave the house—and he doesn’t mean this in a possessive caveman sort of a way. He means it in a, I can’t think straight when you are sitting right next to me and I might accidentally crash this car in a tree, sort of a way. He knows he’s good at schooling his expressions, he’s been told this a lot of times throughout his life, but tonight, it feels like an impossible task. Because the moment you stepped into the car—your dress brushing against the seat, the scent of your perfume curling around him—Aaron felt his carefully maintained control slip, just a fraction. And now, he’s across the room sipping his drink, whilst watching you. You look at ease, laughing at something Garcia says, nodding along as Morgan gestures wildly in some grand retelling of a story. You fit in so effortlessly, as if you were always meant to be here, part of this world.

He should look away.

Yet he finds himself unable to do so. But then, as if sensing his thoughts, you glance up, locking eyes with him across the room. Your smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something in your gaze—something teasing, something knowing.

You catch him staring.

Aaron freezes, his grip tightening around the glass in his hand. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be thinking about how beautiful you look under the dim lighting, how effortlessly you command the attention of everyone around you. He shouldn’t be wondering how the night might unfold if he let himself indulge just a little, if he let himself forget, just for a moment, that this is supposed to be nothing more than an obligatory evening with someone who is only doing him a favor.

Rossi appears at his side not a second later, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in trouble, my friend.”

Aaron exhales slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rossi chuckles, following his line of sight. “Sure, you don’t.” He takes a sip of his own drink before adding, “You know, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Aaron tenses. “Dave—”

“I’m just saying,” Rossi interrupts, holding up a hand. “You spend so much time convincing yourself that you can’t have nice things. Maybe it’s time to reconsider.”

“It would be... inappropriate.” Aaron mutters, swirling the remainder of his drink around the glass.

Rossi hums, clearly unimpressed. “The only inappropriate thing here is the fact that you’ve left her alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Aaron points out, “she is with Garcia and Morgan, and she seems to be enjoying herself.”

Rossi raises an eyebrow, taking another sip of his drink. “You’re missing the point, Aaron. She’s with them, but she’s not with them. You’re standing over here, sulking by yourself, while she’s over there, looking like she’s the center of the party. The thing is, you can’t ignore the fact that she’s not just doing you a favor anymore.”

“I’m not doing this,” he says flatly, but it sounds like a lie, even to his own ears.

Rossi gives him a knowing smile. “Sure, you’re not. But that’s what you keep telling yourself, right?” He pats Aaron’s shoulder and turns to walk away. “Just think about it. You might surprise yourself.”

As much as he hates to admit it, Rossi’s words resonate with him on some level. And with every passing moment, the need to get closer, to figure this out, grows stronger. He can feel the tension building inside him. Every time you laugh, every time your eyes find his, it’s like an unspoken promise—one that he’s not sure he’s ready for, but that he’s terrified to ignore. He drowns the rest of his drink as he pushes himself off the bar he’s been leaning against, and makes his way across the room toward you. His steps are deliberate, though his heart is pounding louder with each one. He knows he’s walking into uncharted territory now.

You’re talking to Garcia, your eyes lit up with amusement as Morgan tries to tell another one of his over-the-top stories. The sound of your laughter reaches him, and for a second, he’s caught off guard by how good it feels to hear. He stops just a few steps away, unsure of how to approach this, unsure of how to even begin.

You glance over your shoulder and catch his gaze. There’s no playful teasing in your eyes now—just an invitation, like you can see the conflict written all over his face. “Oh hi, is everything okay?” you ask, your voice soft, almost too gentle for the room's lively sounds.

Aaron takes a breath, pushes aside the rush of thoughts. “I think you owe me a dance.” He’s surprised by the firmness in his own voice. It comes out more like a challenge than a suggestion, but somehow, it feels right.

You blink, momentarily surprised. “A dance?” you repeat, sounding amused. “I didn’t know you danced, Mister Hotchner.”

Aaron exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly. “I make exceptions,” he says, his tone edged with dry amusement. “Are you going to make me ask twice?”

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “I think I like hearing you ask,” you tease, but there’s warmth in your voice, something softer beneath the playful edge.

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand, “before I change my mind.”

You study him for a moment—his unreadable expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flex slightly, like he’s not used to reaching for something just because he wants it. And then, without another word, you slip your hand into his. He guides you toward the dance floor with quiet confidence, weaving through the crowd with ease.

Aaron places a careful hand on your waist, his touch light but firm at the same time. The other still holds yours, firm yet hesitant, as if he’s acutely aware of every point of contact. “You know,” you muse, tilting your head, “I never pegged you for the dancing type.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Aaron replies, his voice low.

You hum, clearly unconvinced. “Is that so?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, guiding you into an easy rhythm. You move together effortlessly, the closeness between you a delicate balance of restraint and something neither of you are ready to name. “I suppose you’ll have to find out,” he finally says, his lips quirking in the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Mister Hotchner,” you gasp, a smile widening your smile, “is that a smile I see?”

Aaron exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, but I think I will,” you tease, tilting your head to get a better look at him. “It’s a good look on you.”

His grip on your waist tightens—just for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but enough to make your breath hitch. There’s something different about him tonight, something lingering in the way he holds you, in the way his eyes flicker with something unspoken.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses lightly, though there’s no real bite to his words.

“You could say that,” you admit easily, eyes twinkling. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances down, watching the way your hands fit together, the way your bodies move in sync with the soft melody filling the air. Then, as if coming to some sort of quiet resolution, he meets your gaze again. “Yes,” he says, his voice softer this time. “I think I am.”

“Good.” You hum, smiling up at him, “It’s a much better look on you than the one you had earlier.”

Aaron raises an eyebrow. “The one I had earlier?”

You nod, biting back a grin. “You know, the one where you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else in the world.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “I didn’t—” He stops himself, sighing. “Alright, maybe I did.”

You laugh, the sound light and warm, and something about it makes his chest tighten. “And yet, here you are, willingly dancing with me.”

Aaron tilts his head slightly, considering you. “Maybe you’re more persuasive than I thought.”

“Or maybe,” you counter, voice dropping just slightly, “it was my dress, hm?”

His grip on you tightens just the slightest bit, and his jaw tenses like he’s fighting back a reaction. You can see the flicker of hesitation in his gaze, the momentary war between logic and something far more dangerous. But then, instead of pulling away, he exhales slowly and meets your eyes with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it—something resolved. “You already know the answer to that.”

Your breath catches. The playful teasing between you is replaced with something more pulling. Aaron’s fingers flex against your waist, like he’s testing the boundaries of this moment, deciding just how far he’s willing to let himself go. His gaze dips briefly to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and you swear you feel the earth tilt beneath you.

“Do I?” You ask, but he can tell the usual teasing is absent when your words come out more breathy than usual. “You haven’t commented on my current choice of clothing, at all. If anything, I’m rather disappointed.”

He searches your eyes for any sign of teasing, but all he finds is quiet challenge, a barely concealed curiosity that mirrors his own. Aaron swallows, his grip on you firm but careful, as if he’s weighing the risks of giving in to whatever this is. His voice is lower when he finally speaks, edged with something you can’t quite name. “You already know what I think,” he murmurs, his thumb ghosting over the fabric at your waist. “I think you are the most gorgeous woman in this room.”

“Oh,” The single syllable barely escapes your lips, softer than a breath, but he hears it. You see the way his jaw tenses, how his fingers twitch slightly where they rest against you, like he’s resisting the urge to pull you closer. He waits for you to turn this whole thing into a joke, or an attempt at teasing him, but it never comes. Your fingers tighten slightly around his, and your voice is quieter now, more uncertain than you expected. “I didn’t think you noticed things like that.”

His lips press together, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then his grip shifts, just slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that feels almost on purpose. “I notice everything about you.”

Your heart stumbles.

The music is still playing, the crowd still swirling around you, but none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that, not when his voice is laced with something so unspoken, so dangerous. “Aaron…” You don’t know what you’re about to say, but his name leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Something flickers in his gaze, something torn between restraint and the pull of whatever this is. But before either of you can figure it out, the music shifts, the tempo picking up just slightly, and reality slips back in like a breath of cold air.

He blinks, inhales slowly, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, like he’s found his footing. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “I believe you owe me another dance.”

#monzabee #requests open #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fluff #hotch x reader #hotch imagine #nanny!reader

779 notes · View notes

engineering · 2 years ago

Text

StreamBuilder: our open-source framework for powering your dashboard.

Today, we’re abnormally jazzed to announce that we’re open-sourcing the custom framework we built to power your dashboard on Tumblr. We call it StreamBuilder, and we’ve been using it for many years.

First things first. What is open-sourcing? Open sourcing is a decentralized software development model that encourages open collaboration. In more accessible language, it is any program whose source code is made available for use or modification as users or other developers see fit.

What, then, is StreamBuilder? Well, every time you hit your Following feed, or For You, or search results, a blog’s posts, a list of tagged posts, or even check out blog recommendations, you’re using this framework under the hood. If you want to dive into the code, check it out here on GitHub!

StreamBuilder has a lot going on. The primary architecture centers around “streams” of content: whether posts from a blog, a list of blogs you’re following, posts using a specific tag, or posts relating to a search. These are separate kinds of streams, which can be mixed together, filtered based on certain criteria, ranked for relevancy or engagement likelihood, and more.

On your Tumblr dashboard today you can see how there are posts from blogs you follow, mixed with posts from tags you follow, mixed with blog recommendations. Each of those is a separate stream, with its own logic, but sharing this same framework. We inject those recommendations at certain intervals, filter posts based on who you’re blocking, and rank the posts for relevancy if you have “Best stuff first” enabled. Those are all examples of the functionality StreamBuilder affords for us.

So, what’s included in the box?

The full framework library of code that we use today, on Tumblr, to power almost every feed of content you see on the platform.

A YAML syntax for composing streams of content, and how to filter, inject, and rank them.

Abstractions for programmatically composing, filtering, ranking, injecting, and debugging streams.

Abstractions for composing streams together—such as with carousels, for streams-within-streams.

An abstraction for cursor-based pagination for complex stream templates.

Unit tests covering the public interface for the library and most of the underlying code.

What’s still to come

Documentation. We have a lot to migrate from our own internal tools and put in here!

More example stream templates and example implementations of different common streams.

If you have questions, please check out the code and file an issue there.

#opensource #engineering #tumblr

5K notes · View notes

keferon · 4 months ago

Note

Getting Lost (part 3/?)!!

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

Prowl was in pain, he counted that 45% of his body had suffered advanced or minor damage and that 99% were in the process of natural repair. His calculations were not precise due to lack of medical equipment but based on a disturbed observation due to his change of environment, he considered himself close. The humans had roughly treated him, he would not call their techniques very... effective or practical for the long term, but he admitted to being indebted to those backward people. A debt that he was not ready to return in front of the treatment they were making him undergo.

A cage, a gray cell composed of curved walls and filled with water over 40 meters long and 6.5 meters deep, located in the open air. This left very little room for movement, he could go around it in 10 seconds with his injuries and at full speed. His first day spent in this place, he had paced every corner and made theories and percentages to get out. The walls were made of concrete covered with thin white slabs as decoration, 3% of escaping by breaking them and it would take him several months or even years that humans will surely notice, however on one of the walls, a trapdoor was present, wide enough to let him pass and made of a thin and breakable metal, 97% chance of being able to get out through there which fell from 22% to 11% without knowing what was on the other side. He considered the possibility of getting out by air, the latter being 6% and dropping to 3% when he pulled his head out of the water to see meters of concrete and buildings stretching out in front of him that he could never cross in his normal state and even less with crudely stitched wounds in addition to the frightening heat of the air making him want to melt on the spot.

The most logical option was therefore that of contact. He had to question his captors, try to negotiate with them. The moment came very quickly, it was clear that they wanted him alive and that they had to keep him alive by basic means such as nutrition, and it was in the middle of the day that three humans had advanced on the platform standing at the edge of his cage. He had not ventured too close as a precaution but had still tried a polite approach, and the humans did not seem to understand him, nor to try, a problem when he himself did not understand anything about their yelling and the exclamations they let out when he sent them back a frozen fish offered from their hands as if he was going to eat something raw.

He tried new things every day for a week, going around in circles in his compressed space that made him want to knock something over with his tail. He got lost in his thoughts, in his calculations and percentages, he didn't know what to do alone. An orca was always in a group, even if he was never social or the most loved, one of his peers always came to help him every time he needed it. Now he was alone, and his thoughts always revolved around the idea of another with him, which drove him crazy. These humans, how could simple, small and STUPID humans manage to divert all his plans?? The most frustrating thing is that his goal was not so far away, when he took his head out of the water, the rare times he observed to identify new details, he heard the sound of the waves, smelled the scent of salt, and yet it seemed to him to be miles away from nature. This water made him want to tear his gills off, he didn't know what kind of chemicals humans put in it but it was anything but natural, not to mention the lack of decoration! There was nothing! Absolutely nothing! Just walls and a floor! He couldn't occupy himself or get out of his thoughts. So he calculated and calculated, reviewing his plans and beginning a slow descent into the abyss of numbers and percentages.

It was during the beginning of the second week that some things finally changed. The hatch he had lost interest in a long time ago because it was only a puzzle to him, not exceeding 10% when he considered a plan with it, finally opened. Of course he did not approach it, the risk of finding a potential danger there was too high, 83%, and a strange smell was coming from it. He observed it with scrutinizing eyes, finding every detail of the dark water behind, and his heart raced when a shadow appeared in the distance. He did not move but prepared to attack, he showed no signs of fear, no need, he knew he was the apex predator, but in this place all logic seemed reversed. And they were when an orca mer took its head and then its body out of the hatch, bringing with it the strange smell as well as a sickly appearance making him want to vomit. What had humans done...?

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

Please don't try to understand the numbers, I put random ones😭 also Prowl's chapter is more straight forward because that's how I see his character, no time to question if what he's doing is right, he needs to get out no matter how.

Hope you like it!

-🦇🐧

Oh my god OH MY GOD OH MY GO

Krkfnfbdilenffb Prowl living through horrors and ooh look a weird door? I wonder what's behind it? HA. It's the new level of horrors (but also your future boo of course haha)

Oh I love it so much thatnk you for your writing

#apocalyptic ponyo #prowl #jazz #well. two seconds of Jazz but he's there #jazzprowl #ponyo jp writing #thank you for sending this♡#oh wait I almost forgot the #🦇🐧#......I wonder if one day I will look at my blog and realize #oh wait. it's basically a fanfiction archive now.....

242 notes · View notes

polkadotzzzz · 1 month ago

Text

sweat and sweet temptation!

synopsis: a city girl’s summer on a quiet farm leads to unexpected encounters, where boundaries blur and desires awaken. what begins as an escape soon becomes something she never imagined.

a/n: i have no words....just pure filth for you all :3 enjoy ladies

18+, mdni, farmer sevika, city girl reader, farm life, sevika weighs a lot, reader also sort of likes that, sevika has a big tummy that reader strokes :3, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, strap on, strap on sex, fat kink????, sweat, like a lot of it, mentions of food???????, body hair, size difference, basically, sevika is like 300 pounds n ur like....idk 90 lol

chapter I: heatstroke and honey

the sun hated you. that was the only logical conclusion.

it beat down like it had a vendetta, turning your thighs slick where they stuck to the cracked leather seat of your grandpa’s rustbucket pickup. the air reeked of gasoline and cut grass, your glittery pink nails tapping out an annoyed rhythm on your phone case as you refreshed instagram for the eighth time in five minutes.

nothing. no service. again.

you blew a bubble, slow and loud, letting it pop obnoxiously before snapping your gum back between your teeth. grandpa didn’t even flinch—he was too busy humming off-key to some ancient country song as the truck rattled down the dirt road.

you adjusted your crop top for the hundredth time, tugging it down over your stomach, which was not made for this heat. your tiny jean skirt bunched up every time the truck hit a bump, which was every five seconds.

“this place is literally the middle of nowhere,” you muttered, wiping a line of sweat from your temple. “like, how is this even legal? it’s giving human trafficking vibes.”

grandpa just chuckled. “you’ll get used to it, sweetheart. fresh air’ll do you good.”

you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache. “fresh air smells like cow ass.”

“then you’re finally smellin’ somethin’ real,” he said, eyes twinkling in the rearview mirror. “we’ll hit the market before we head back to the house. your grandma wants that apple jam she likes.”

“you guys don’t have amazon or something?”

another chuckle. “not everything’s deliverable, sugar. some things you gotta earn.”

you sank back in the seat, crossing your arms and stewing in your own sweat and bitterness. a whole damn summer stuck here while your friends partied without you. no clubbing. no rooftop bars. no air conditioning.

just you, bugs the size of birds, and the backwoods hellscape your parents called a “character-building opportunity.”

────

the farmers market looked exactly how you imagined it—quaint, dusty, full of people who probably didn’t know what gluten was. tables lined the parking lot of a tiny church, shaded by canopies and umbrellas that did absolutely nothing to block the sun. people milled around carrying tote bags full of peaches and squash like that was a fun thing to do on a saturday.

you trudged after your grandpa, already annoyed, already over it. your platform sandals kicked up little clouds of dirt with every step, and you made sure your gum popped extra loud just for the looks you were getting.

he chatted with some old guy selling pickles while you scanned the rows of tables, bored out of your mind—until you saw her.

or maybe felt her first.

the heat got heavier in her direction. like it thickened around her.

she was leaned back in a folding chair behind a rough wooden table, arms crossed under her chest, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows. her thighs spread wide, dark jeans stretched tight around them, boots caked in dry mud. one boot rested on the edge of a wooden crate like she owned the ground under it. a worn ballcap shaded her face, but not enough to hide the way her jaw flexed when she chewed on a stalk of straw.

she had a dozen jars of homemade jam stacked in front of her—simple labels, no frills—but it wasn’t the jam people were staring at.

she smelled like sun and sweat and woodsmoke. like whatever hard work did to a person over years and years. her skin was brown and streaked with a fresh sheen of sweat, a few strands of dark, messy hair stuck to her neck under her hat. the muscles in her arms didn’t look like gym muscles. they looked earned. ropey, real, heavy.

your stomach did something stupid.

you blinked and realized you’d just been standing there, staring like a moron.

she raised her eyes to you, and the corner of her mouth curled.

“well,” she drawled. voice low and scratchy, like gravel on velvet. “ain’t you a sight.”

you snapped your gum and tilted your head, defaulting to brat mode. “a sight for sore eyes, i know.”

her smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. her gaze flicked down your body—your glittery eyeliner, your crop top, the stretch of thigh your skirt barely covered—and then back up again, lazy and hot as july.

“somethin’ like that.”

you flushed, hating how your skin betrayed you. you weren’t even sure if it was from the heat or the way she looked at you like she could snap you in half—and might enjoy doing it.

“grandpa,” you hissed as you turned away, tugging on his sleeve. “that’s the jam lady?”

he followed your gaze and chuckled again. “that’s sevika, yep. been bringin’ her jam home for years. best damn apples in the county.”

sevika stood, and it was like a barn wall moved. she was easily over six feet, wide as a fridge, and every inch of her looked like it could crush you without trying. she moved slow, unbothered, wiping her hands on a rag pulled from her back pocket.

“got that honey apple batch your wife likes,” she said to your grandpa. then, to you: “you helpin’ him carry stuff today, sweetheart, or just here to bless us with your sass?”

you scowled. “i’m here against my will, actually.”

“lucky us,” she muttered, sliding two jars into a bag.

you hated that your thighs clenched just a little when her fingers brushed the jar lids. rough hands. big hands. calloused, worn, strong.

she handed the bag over, her fingers brushing yours for a heartbeat too long. “careful now. that jam’s sweet enough to rot your teeth.”

you snapped your gum again. “good thing i have a perfect smile.”

her smile said she didn’t believe in perfection, but she might make an exception just to ruin you.

────

you didn’t speak the entire ride home.

not that you could, with the way your heart was still thumping dumb in your chest and your thighs were glued together under your skirt like your body was trying to keep a secret. you hated how easily that woman—sevika—had crawled under your skin. hated the way her eyes followed you like she’d already decided what kind of sounds she’d pull from your mouth if you gave her the chance.

the truck bounced over a pothole, jolting you hard enough that your bare thigh smacked the hot leather seat.

“ow! jesus,” you snapped, adjusting yourself again. “does this truck have any suspension?”

grandpa just chuckled like everything was hilarious. “gotta say, you handled yourself well back there.”

“what, at the barnyard bake sale?” you rolled your eyes, blowing another bubble. “i deserve an oscar.”

“i meant with sevika.”

you froze. “i didn’t do anything.”

“oh, she noticed you, alright. always does when she sees something pretty walk by.” he threw you a look. “don’t play dumb.”

“i’m not playing anything,” you mumbled, shifting again, crossing and uncrossing your legs. “she was just... gross. sweaty. big.”

he snorted. “didn’t stop you from gawkin’ like a deer in headlights.”

you glared out the window, watching fields roll by. she was gross. and huge. and smelled like hard work and heat and sweat. you could still feel the weight of her stare on your bare skin, could still hear that slow southern drawl winding around her words like honey. it was disgusting how your stomach flipped just remembering it.

“gross,” you muttered again. but your thighs squeezed together all the same.

────

the farmhouse your grandparents lived in was old, two stories with peeling white paint and a porch that creaked under every step. you’d barely had time to set down your suitcase before grandma started talking about chores and “helping out around here.” you weren’t even safe in the kitchen—every drawer had knives that looked like they’d killed someone.

and to top it off? the jam sat right there on the counter like a goddamn temptation. you glared at it for a solid five minutes while scrolling your phone and pretending you weren’t still thinking about rough hands and drawled-out pet names.

you popped another piece of gum and took a spoonful of the apple jam straight from the jar just to prove a point. it was good. disgustingly good. sweet and tart with just enough spice to burn the back of your tongue.

stupid hot farmer bitch knew what she was doing.

that night, lying on the twin bed in your upstairs room with a ceiling fan that did nothing but push the heat around, you did something you swore you wouldn’t.

you searched her name.

just “sevika southern jam farmer” into every social media app you had.

nothing. of course. no digital footprint, no selfies, not even a facebook page. she was the kind of woman who probably didn’t believe in passwords or smartphones.

you chewed your gum louder, annoyed and slightly turned on by that fact.

your fingers hovered over your phone keyboard again. search: local farmstands. search: homemade jam vendor. you even tried sevika sweaty arms hot milf.

nothing but tumblr results from 2012 and a pinterest board called “southern butch vibes.”

you threw the phone across the bed with a groan and flopped back into the pillow, pressing your thighs together again. you hated the way your body wouldn’t listen. hated how that damn smirk haunted your brain every time you closed your eyes.

the way she said sweetheart like she was tasting the word. like she wanted to see what else she could call you once she had you bent over her lap.

you turned over with a frustrated grunt.

and then, like a curse, you heard grandpa call from downstairs.

“up early tomorrow! sevika’s needin’ help harvestin’ for the market. you’re goin’ with me!”

you sat up straight, heart in your throat.

“no the hell i’m not!” you yelled back.

“yes the hell you are,” came the reply.

you stared at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily overhead.

you’d be on her farm. in her space. with her sweaty, powerful, infuriating body walking around like she owned the damn world.

you swallowed hard.

this summer was going to kill you.

and not softly.

────

chapter II: rotten apples, dirty hands

you woke up in a tangle of sheets, sweating through your tank top and cursing whoever decided this house didn’t need air conditioning. the sun was barely up, light filtering through gauzy curtains in gold and pink streaks, and you were already miserable.

and then you remembered.

the farm.

sevika.

your stomach did a dumb little flip, and you cursed again, dragging yourself out of bed and throwing open your suitcase. if she thought she’d see you in some dusty-ass overalls like a damn peasant, she had another thing coming.

you picked a skirt that barely covered your ass, bubblegum pink with white trim, and a matching crop top that clung to your tits like a prayer. your bra was optional, your makeup was glittery, and your bubblegum popped loud enough to echo through the hallway.

by the time you made it downstairs, grandpa just shook his head.

“she’s gonna throw you into the pig pen.”

you winked. “only if she wants a show.”

────

the drive to sevika’s farm was all bumpy dirt roads, the kind that made your thighs jiggle and your teeth rattle. when you pulled up, the barn loomed in the distance, big and red and sun-bleached. apple trees stretched behind it in neat little rows, heavy with fruit, their leaves whispering in the wind.

and there she was.

sevika stood near a rusted-out pickup, one arm hoisting a wooden crate up like it weighed nothing. her flannel was rolled to the elbows, thick forearms covered in dirt and sweat, a piece of straw tucked into the corner of her mouth. her skin gleamed under the sun, tanned and slick with heat, and her thighs strained against worn jeans as she set the box down with a grunt.

you nearly choked on your gum.

“morning,” grandpa called out, grabbing another crate from the back.

sevika looked up, and when her eyes landed on you?

a long pause.

a smirk.

“well, i’ll be,” she drawled. “you really brought the barbie doll.”

you snapped your gum loud, hands on your hips. “this barbie don’t do manual labor.”

sevika cocked her head. “you’re wearin’ about six inches of skirt and not a single inch of sense. you’ll do whatever i tell you to, sweetheart.”

your stomach dropped.

grandpa just laughed and waved her off. “she’s all yours.”

sevika wiped sweat from her brow and gave you a once-over so slow it made your skin prickle. “guess i’ll have to put her to work.”

“touch me and i sue.”

“touch you and you melt,” she shot back without missing a beat.

she handed you a basket. wooden, big, heavy. you glared at it like it had personally insulted you.

“you’re pickin’ apples today,” she said. “trees won’t bite. you might break a nail, though. tragic.”

you blew a bubble and stomped after her into the orchard, her boots crunching dry dirt, yours slipping in your platform sandals. you could already feel sweat dripping down the back of your neck.

“this is hell,” you muttered.

“nah,” sevika called over her shoulder, “hell would be me makin’ you shovel pig shit.”

you nearly turned around.

she laughed—a low, throaty rumble that made your thighs clench. she knew what she was doing. every slow stride, every roll of her thick shoulders, every casual spit of that straw between her lips was calculated.

the apples were big and ripe and high up in the trees, and your tiny little arms didn’t stand a chance. you stood on your tiptoes, straining, skirt riding higher and higher until—

“sweetheart.”

you jumped. sevika was behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off her skin like a furnace. she reached past you, arm brushing your side, and plucked the apple down with ease.

“you’re gonna break that pretty back,” she murmured.

your breath hitched.

she smelled like woodsmoke, sweat, and something warm and deep—like summer and sin wrapped in one big brutal package.

“i don’t need your help,” you snapped.

“didn’t say you did. just enjoyin’ the view.”

you spun around, flustered, the apple forgotten in your hands. “pervert.”

sevika leaned in, one arm braced on the tree behind you, caging you in without touching. “you keep wearin’ skirts like that, and callin’ me names with your mouth all shiny from gloss? you’ll find out i ain’t a gentleman.”

you didn’t breathe. couldn’t.

she smiled slow. “get pickin’.”

────

by the time you were done, your legs were covered in dirt and your top stuck to your skin. the basket was half-full—because apples were heavy, thank you very much—and you were pretty sure you had sunburn forming along your shoulders.

sevika didn’t say a word when you came back wheezing, dragging the basket behind you.

just raised an eyebrow. “you call that work?”

you flipped her off and collapsed under a tree.

she walked over, leaned against the trunk beside you, and popped the cap on a beer. she didn’t offer you one. just drank, throat bobbing with every swallow, sweat still glistening down the side of her neck.

“you’re gonna die out here,” she said casually.

“not before i sue you for harassment.”

she turned her head. “tell the judge what? that i looked at you too long while you were bent over shakin’ your ass like it owed you money?”

you gasped.

she grinned.

you wanted to slap her. or kiss her. or both. at the same time.

“i hate you,” you hissed.

sevika drained the rest of her beer and tossed the bottle into a bin. then she crouched down beside you, her thighs spreading wide, elbows on her knees, gaze dropping to your mouth.

“no, darlin’,” she said, low and rough. “you want me. and you hate that you do.”

you swallowed hard. and for the first time since you got here, you couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

────

chapter III: dirty hands, dirtier thoughts

you were still trying to catch your breath under that tree when sevika stood, stretched her massive arms over her head, and said, “time to clean up.”

you blinked. “don’t you have, like, a hose?”

she snorted. “a hose? what is this, summer camp?”

and then she walked off—toward the barn—sweat sticking her flannel to her back and those thick thighs moving like sin under denim. you scrambled up, brushing off dirt from places you didn’t know could get dirty.

inside the barn, it was worse. hotter. the air thick with hay dust, the scent of apples and animals, wood and sweat. sunlight streamed through the cracks in the slats, catching particles in golden rays. you hesitated at the door, suddenly aware of your sticky thighs and the way your glittered lip gloss felt too much.

sevika stood at the workbench near the far wall, back turned, tugging off her flannel.

and you… froze.

her broad, scarred shoulders gleamed under the light. her white ribbed tank top was soaked through, clinging to the thick slope of her back, the curve of her waist, the roll of soft stomach that peeked out every time she reached up. her bra strap peeked out from under one shoulder, twisted like she hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

you swallowed hard.

then harder when she turned and caught you staring.

“you lost?” she asked, reaching for a rag and wiping the back of her neck.

you cleared your throat. “no. i just—wanted to see what kinda cleaning we were doing.”

she raised an eyebrow. “didn’t know watchin’ me get half-naked counted as chores.”

“maybe if i’m lucky,” you shot back.

and something shifted.

her mouth twitched into something feral. “you flirtin’ with me, sweetheart?”

you looked her dead in the eye. “what if i am?”

she dropped the rag. took one step forward. then another.

the barn suddenly felt very small.

her boots thudded across the floor, each step echoing until she stopped in front of you—towering, glistening, breathing slow and deep like she was measuring you up.

your back hit the barn door.

“don’t tease me, little girl,” she said low, voice rough as gravel. “i bite.”

you looked up at her, heart jackhammering in your chest. “i bruise easy.”

“good.”

her hand lifted—just two fingers—and she brushed a bit of hay from your shoulder, trailing down your bare arm slow enough to make goosebumps rise. her callouses scraped the soft skin of your inner elbow.

your breath hitched.

and then—

“SEVIKA!”

you jumped.

she sighed.

some old guy’s voice floated through the barn from outside. “we got a busted water line by the back fence!”

sevika didn’t look away from you. she just muttered, “cockblockin’ son of a bitch,” under her breath, then tilted her head.

“you stay here. don’t touch shit. you hear me?”

you nodded, too fast, still trying to breathe normal.

she leaned in, mouth near your ear. “i will finish what i started.”

then she was gone. just boots thudding away and a slammed barn door.

you stood there, flushed and buzzing, thighs pressed together and heart hammering. and god help you, you wanted more.

────

she drove you home that afternoon—your grandparents’ truck being “too old for these damn hills,” as grandpa said.

you climbed into the passenger seat of sevika’s dusty pickup, the leather seats hot against the backs of your thighs. she adjusted the mirrors, cracked the window, and peeled off down the dirt road with one hand on the wheel.

the other? resting right on your knee.

you froze.

her fingers were wide and rough, resting just heavy enough to make a point. she didn’t squeeze. didn’t tease. just let the weight of her hand stay there while the sun dipped low behind you both and the road hummed beneath the tires.

“you’re awful quiet,” she said after a few miles, eyes still on the road.

you wet your lips. “i'm getting felt up by a senior citizen.”

that earned a low, genuine laugh—deep in her chest, like she didn’t laugh often but you got it out of her anyway.

“careful, sweetheart,” she said, voice like whiskey. “keep talkin’ like that and you’re gonna end up sittin’ on more than my passenger seat.”

you squeezed your thighs shut. hard.

by the time she dropped you off, the sun had dipped behind the hills. fireflies were blinking in the tall grass, and your grandparents’ porch light flickered on.

she didn’t get out of the truck.

just leaned back in her seat, wrist draped over the wheel, eyes on you.

“you show up tomorrow,” she said, voice low.

you raised an eyebrow. “or what?”

sevika smiled slow. “or i come lookin’ for you.”

then she peeled off into the dark, tail lights glowing red like a warning.

────

chapter IV: no panties, no problem

you showed up to the farm the next morning just after sunrise, same as sevika told you. no ride this time—just your glittery pink sandals crunching down the gravel road, your phone tucked in your bra, and your skirt barely covering anything at all.

it was thinner than usual. shorter, too.

and underneath?

nothing.

not a stitch.

you’d looked yourself in the mirror that morning, chewed your gum slow, tilted your head, and said out loud: let her work for it.

by the time you reached the barn, the air already smelled like grass and sweat, and sevika was tossing hay bales like they weighed nothing. just her tank top today. stuck to her back. her thighs wide in those old jeans, boots caked in dirt. a smear of something dark ran down her arm, and her brow glistened.

she didn’t look up when you walked in.

“’bout time,” she muttered. “grab that ladder. you’re helpin’ me in the orchard.”

you blinked. “you trust me on a ladder?”

sevika looked at you then—real slow. her eyes flicked down your legs, to the hem of your skirt, then back up.

something dark sparked behind her smile.

“no,” she said. “but i’m willin’ to watch you fall.”

────

the orchard smelled like sunshine and ripening apples. birds chirped. bees buzzed.

and you?

you climbed a ladder while sevika held it steady at the bottom.

“reach up,” she called, voice lazy, “grab that one on the left.”

you stretched—knowing exactly what you were doing.

the skirt rose.

the breeze hit your bare skin.

and from down below?

sevika’s silence was louder than anything.

you plucked the apple. slowly. made sure to wiggle just enough on your way back down.

when your feet hit the grass, sevika handed you a basket without a word—but her jaw was tight. her fingers grazed yours. her gaze lingered a little too long.

“you do that on purpose?” she finally asked, wiping sweat off her neck.

you blinked up at her, all wide-eyed innocence. “do what?”

she didn’t answer.

just picked up her own basket, turned, and muttered, “keep climbin’, sweetheart.”

and so you did.

all morning.

bending, reaching, climbing—your skirt dancing high on your hips, the summer air licking every inch of exposed skin.

every time you came back down, sevika looked ten seconds closer to snapping.

and god, it made you feel powerful.

────

by the time the baskets were full, the sun was high, and your thighs were sticky from sweat and mischief.

sevika led you to the shed out back. it was small, wooden, and cooler than the orchard, shaded by big trees and full of old tools, empty crates, and the sharp smell of sawdust.

she cracked open a bottle of water and took a swig, then passed it to you. her fingers brushed your mouth when you drank.

you licked the rim when you handed it back.

her gaze dropped to your thighs.

“you got a death wish, city girl?” she murmured.

you took a step closer.

“maybe i just like dangerous things.”

and there it was—that flash in her eyes, like she was this close to grabbing your waist, pressing you against the wall, and seeing just how many times she could make you whimper her name.

but sevika didn’t move.

she just smirked, took another sip of water, and said, “ain’t no panties under that skirt, huh?”

your breath caught.

you said nothing.

didn’t have to.

sevika laughed, low and wicked.

“mm. thought so. you keep playin’ games, darlin’, one of these days i won’t stop myself.”

she turned and walked out—boots thudding, sweat glistening on her shoulders, leaving you alone in the shed with your own heartbeat pounding between your legs.

and not even a scrap of fabric to hide it.

────

chapter V: thunder rolls, a storm’s a-comin

the storm hit like a wall, just as sevika said it would earlier today.

"a storm's a-comin doll, you ever see rain before?"

the barn door slammed shut behind you, sealing in the humid, electric air. the world outside was darkening, but the inside of the barn was filled with that thick, musky scent of hay and dust. the kind of smell that wrapped around your skin like a secret.

you pulled your shirt away from your body, letting out a little huff of frustration. the rain was coming down in sheets now, the kind that soaked you in seconds. your skirt clung to your hips, and the damp fabric did nothing to cool the fire building in your chest.

“gonna be stuck here a while,” sevika’s voice rolled over you, low and steady.

you glanced up at her, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of her framed in the doorway, rain streaking down her face. her flannel shirt was already soaked through, sticking to her muscles, every curve and dip of her frame outlined perfectly. there was something about the way she moved, slow and controlled, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking.

and maybe she did.

you reached up to grab the ladder, feeling her eyes on you as you climbed. each step took you higher, showing off your bare legs and the way the skirt slipped up your thighs, inch by inch. you didn’t wear panties again—just the soft, damp fabric of your skirt brushing against your skin, knowing full well what it would do to her.

when you reached the top, you felt the weight of sevika’s presence below you. it was more than just her towering figure, more than her steady gaze—it was the way she filled the space around you, thick and undeniable.

“i told you,” she said softly, stepping up behind you, “you keep temptin’ me, and one of these days, i won’t be able to stop myself.”

her voice was rough, gravelly—like it always was when she was worked up. you could feel the heat coming off her as she climbed up the ladder behind you, each movement deliberate, controlled. her boots hit the rungs with a heavy thud, and you felt the vibration all the way up your spine.

you didn’t turn around. you didn’t need to. you already knew she was there, just a few inches behind you, close enough to feel her breath on your neck.

the top of the ladder creaked under her weight, and then she was there, standing beside you in the loft, the rain hammering against the roof above.

you pulled in a shaky breath, trying to keep your cool as sevika’s hands reached for the hay bales.

but she didn’t move right away. she lingered.

her fingers brushed against your arm, just enough to make your skin flare with heat. her touch was a promise, soft but firm. you shivered as her calloused fingertips traced along your wrist, and you dared to look at her. her eyes were darker now—heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. a storm all its own.

“you’re always gettin’ under my skin,” she growled, her voice a low rumble, “even when you ain’t tryin’.”

you swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. “i’m not trying. but you keep looking at me like that.”

sevika chuckled, low and slow. “like what?”

“like you wanna tear me apart,” you breathed out, feeling the heat radiating off her. the air around you felt thick, close, like every inch of space was charged with electricity.

she stepped closer.

one of her hands found your hip, big and firm, holding you in place. she leaned in, close enough to taste the rain on her skin. you could feel the way her chest pressed against yours—warm, strong, like a wall of muscle.

and then—finally—her lips found yours.

it was rough, desperate, the way a storm should feel. her kiss was hungry, deep, and you couldn’t fight back the way your body melted into hers, the soft groan that slipped from your throat.

sevika’s hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer, her body heat searing you through your clothes. you could feel her everywhere—her strength, her roughness, her raw desire.

the rain outside pounded harder, but it didn’t matter. not when sevika was there, holding you in her arms, her lips tracing the line of your jaw, then down to your neck.

“you keep playin’ with fire, sweetheart,” she murmured, lips grazing your skin. “one of these days, you’re gonna get burned.”

you pulled her closer, your hands digging into the wet fabric of her shirt, feeling the muscles under her skin, the heat of her body pressing against yours.

“i’m counting on it,” you whispered back.

────

her lips were on your neck now—hot, dragging, greedy. she kissed like she was starving, like you were something she’d been aching for, something she shouldn’t touch but couldn’t help herself.

and gods, it worked.

you tilted your head back, giving her more. her teeth scraped your skin, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make you gasp. and sevika growled at the sound of it. like it lit her up from the inside.

“that skirt,” she rasped, one hand tightening on your waist, “you wore it on purpose, didn’t you?”

you nodded, dizzy with heat. “yeah.”

her hand slipped lower, brushing down the back of your thigh—slow, deliberate. when she reached under your skirt and found nothing underneath, her breath hitched.

“well, fuck me,” she muttered. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

she gripped the back of your bare thigh, fingers sinking into your skin like she meant to leave bruises, and you whimpered, soft and spoiled, pressing yourself into her like you needed her to keep touching you.

“i thought about this,” you confessed, voice thin and shaky. “climbing up here with nothin’ on. knew you'd be watchin’.”

“oh, i was watchin’,” she murmured, dragging her mouth up to your ear. “and i knew you were beggin’ for it. you wanted me to see what a filthy little brat you are.”

you let out a soft moan at that, your thighs clenching around nothing.

sevika didn’t waste time. she shoved the crates aside with one hand, like they were nothing, clearing a space in the hay. then she lifted you—just picked you up like you weighed nothing—and laid you down on your back, hay scratching at your bare thighs, skirt bunched around your waist.

her eyes dragged down your body, and for a moment, she just looked.

rain pounded the roof like war drums, but all you could hear was your heartbeat in your throat and sevika’s slow exhale.

“you don’t even know what you’re askin’ for,” she said, climbing over you. “but i’ll show you.”

and when she got between your legs, when her calloused hand slid up your thigh and she found how wet you were—she cursed, low and filthy.

you grabbed at her shirt, trying to pull her closer, but she caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand.

“nuh-uh,” she said, voice dark and thick with heat. “you wanted a storm, baby? you got it. now lie back and take it.”

her fingers dragged through you—slow, slick, knowing. and when she dipped one inside you, thick and curling, you arched off the hay and let out a sound that echoed through the barn like sin.

sevika smirked, sweat and rain dripping from her jaw onto your chest.

“you’re gonna make such a mess, sugar. hope you’re ready to clean it up with that smart little mouth of yours.”

and then she added a second finger.

you’re already trembling by the time her fingers sink in deeper, your thighs spread wide in the hay, hips twitching with every slow thrust of her hand. her grip on your wrists doesn’t let up—not for a second. she keeps you pinned, helpless, her body looming over yours like thunder, heat pouring off her in waves.

the storm outside rages louder, but inside the barn, it’s just the two of you—sweat, slick, hay, and heat.

“look at you,” she mutters, voice thick like molasses, slow and sticky. “drippin’ all over my hand. all from a little touch.”

she curls her fingers inside you, and you gasp—back arching, toes curling in your muddy boots. her hand is so big, palm rough against the softness between your legs. her thumb presses down, slow, circling, and you bite your lip so hard it hurts.

“don’t do that,” she murmurs. “i wanna hear you. wanna hear that bratty little mouth beg.”

you do. you whimper. you whine. “please.”

“please what?”

“please don’t stop.”

that gets her. sevika groans low in her throat, hips grinding into the hay like it’s killing her not to fuck you raw right then and there.

“you’re dangerous,” she says, breathless, still working her fingers in and out of you with a rhythm that’s cruelly patient. “you don’t even know what the hell you’re doing to me, do you?”

you reach for her again, this time with a little desperation. and this time, she lets go of your wrists.

you grab fistfuls of her flannel, trying to pull her down to kiss you, but she leans just close enough to ghost her lips over yours without giving it up.

“oh, now you want my mouth?” she teases, voice rough. “what happened to all that sass, city girl? you were real mouthy this mornin’.”

“i’m—fuck—sorry,” you breathe.

she smirks. “that’s more like it.”

then she lowers her mouth to your chest, tongue hot and messy, licking a path down the valley between your breasts. she shoves your soaked shirt up, mouth closing around one nipple, her free hand still fucking into you slow and deep.

you cry out—your hands flying up to grip her shoulders. she moans into your skin, like the sound of you breaking apart turns her on more than anything.

“i could ruin you right here,” she growls. “make you come so hard your legs won’t work for a week. leave you fucked out and pantin’ in the hay.”

“then do it,” you whisper. “please, sev. i want it.”

that’s all it takes.

her thumb moves faster, circles tightening, her fingers pumping deeper—so much pressure, so much need building in your gut.

“come for me,” she growls. “be a good girl and soak my fuckin’ hand.”

you shatter. loud. breathless. soaking her fingers with a messy, shameful cry. she works you through it, slow and sweet, not stopping until your thighs twitch and your breath stutters.

she pulls her fingers out finally, slow, dripping, then brings them to her lips and sucks them clean—never breaking eye contact.

“taste like peaches,” she mutters. “knew you’d be sweet.”

you’re sprawled out, ruined, skirt hiked up and makeup smudged, hair stuck to your cheeks with sweat and rain.

and she leans over you, kisses the corner of your mouth real slow and dirty.

“tomorrow,” she says, breath hot. “we ain’t waitin’ for rain.”

────

chapter VI: orchard heat, the favor returned (pt.1)

it’s a scorcher the next day. humid, sticky, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and drips down your back before noon. the orchard’s alive with cicadas and the heavy scent of overripe apples hanging thick in the air. you’d barely gotten through your chores before your brain started melting. and all damn day, sevika’s been eyeing you like she knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about since the barn.

and she does.

by sundown, when the sky is streaked orange and pink, she pulls you into the shade of the biggest tree in the orchard. her hands are dirty, fingers stained from sap and soil, and she’s drenched in sweat—flannel wide open, tank underneath soaked through, clinging to the swell of her broad chest and the thick muscle along her arms.

her belly peeks out where the shirt rides up—soft, big, warm. you can't stop staring.

“you been thinkin’ about last night?” she asks, voice rough as gravel, leaning her weight against the tree, towering above you like temptation itself.

you nod, cheeks flushed, heart thudding in your chest.

“good,” she grins, cocking her head. “then get on your knees, city girl. show me that mouth ain’t just for talkin’.”

and you drop for her—knees hitting the dry grass, breath shallow as you look up at her.

she’s massive like this. towering. one foot planted between yours, the other braced against the tree root. thick thighs covered in dirt-caked jeans, belt buckle half undone, belly rising and falling as she pants in the heat. her body’s a lot—tall, broad, heavy with muscle and the kind of fat that comes from years of eating good and working hard. her stomach soft, her hips wide, her chest heaving.

and then you get a whiff of her—sweat and earth and something feral.

“don’t shave,” she mutters, watching your eyes trail down. “ain’t got the time or the patience.”

she ain’t lying. hair trails thick and dark from her navel downward, coarse curls already peeking out above her jeans. her pits are soaked, dark patches spreading beneath her arms, and when she lifts one to rest against the tree, it hits you full in the face—her. raw, real, musky.

and god, you want it.

you tug open her belt with trembling fingers, fumbling to get her jeans down. she doesn’t help—just watches you, chest rising, lips parted, a line of sweat trickling down her neck into her cleavage.

“fuck, look at you,” she mutters. “all glitter and gloss, on your knees like a good girl.”

her pants fall to mid-thigh, and you get your first full look at her.

she’s soaked. hair curling wild across her thick, meaty thighs, sweat glistening on her skin, the scent of her slick and heat making your head spin. her clit’s swollen, peeking from the hood, twitching with every pant.

you lean forward, tongue out, tentative.

she growls. “no teasing.”

so you dive in.

you lick her like you mean it—messy, wet, obscene. her taste is strong, earthy and musky, a little tangy from the sweat, and so fucking good. you moan against her, lips slick with her, your hands gripping her thighs just to hold yourself steady.

her body jerks when you suck, and she bites down a curse, hand flying to your head.

“you filthy little thing,” she pants, hips rocking forward. “lick it up. just like that.”

you bury your face deeper, licking from her dripping entrance all the way up to her clit, then wrap your lips around it and suck, tongue flicking rapid and tight. she groans, deep and hoarse, hips grinding hard against your face now.

she’s heavy—so heavy—you can feel her weight in every inch of your body. her thigh presses to your cheek, solid muscle and soft fat, pinning you there. her belly’s brushing your forehead, slick with sweat, her scent in your nose, mouth, everywhere.

your fingers dig into her ass, pulling her closer, and she hisses, grabbing a handful of your hair.

“shit—gonna come—don’t stop—”

you don’t. you can’t. you want her to come undone. you want to drown in her.

and then she breaks.

her thighs quake. her stomach tightens. she lets out a deep, shuddering moan that shakes through her whole body—and you keep sucking, keep licking until she jerks and swears and finally grabs your head with both hands, pulling you off her pussy with a wet pop.

“goddamn,” she mutters, breathless, sweat pouring down her face. “you tryin’ to kill me, sugar?”

you look up at her, your mouth glistening with her, eyes blown wide and dazed.

“just repaying the favor,” you whisper.

────

chapter VI: orchard heat, you earned it, now she's gonna take (pt.2)

your lips are still glistening, chin sticky with her, and sevika looks down at you with something dark in her eyes—like she’s barely hanging on, like she wants to ruin you and hold you at the same time.

she tucks herself back into those worn, low-slung jeans, knuckles dragging across her soaked belly, and you just sit there panting, thighs clenched, still on your knees in the grass.

you’re shaking, honestly. from the heat, from the taste of her, from the way her voice dips low when she finally speaks.

“you’re a fuckin’ mess,” she says. “c’mere.”

you barely get your legs under you before she grabs you—thick arms wrapping around your waist like you weigh nothin’, like she was built for it. and she was. that body? meant for holding, for breaking girls like you open. you squeak as she hauls you up off the ground, then throws you down in the grass under the apple tree like a sack of flour—wind knocked out of you, skirt flying up, thighs parted.

“gonna show you what a real woman feels like,” she mutters, crawling over you, and god, she’s big.

all heat and weight and hair, flannel falling off her shoulder, tank pulled low and stretched tight over her huge tits. her belly presses to yours, soft and heavy, and her thighs bracket you, muscles flexing as she shifts to pin you flat.

you writhe, hands reaching up to grab her shoulders, but she catches your wrists easily in one big, calloused hand and pins them above your head.

“mm-mm. you made me come,” she growls, mouth brushing your ear. “now i get to take my time.”

and take her time she does.

she licks a line down your throat, sweaty and slow. bites your collarbone. sinks her teeth into the soft flesh of your breast through your little pink tank top until you gasp and arch beneath her.

her other hand—big, blunt-fingered and rough from farm work—skims down your body and shoves your skirt up.

no panties. you came prepared.

sevika growls.

“little tease,” she hisses, dragging a filthy finger down your bare slit. “wanted me to see this pussy first chance i got?”

you nod, breath hitching.

“use it, baby,” you whisper. “i want it.”

and she does.

she’s got two fingers in you before you can even moan, thick and unrelenting, fucking you open like she owns it. she presses her full body weight down—soft belly pushing into your ribs, thighs caging you in, her arm flexing beside your head—and it’s too much, the heat, the sweat, the feel of her hair dragging along your bare skin.

her scent is everywhere—feral, musky, unshowered and wild—and it drives you crazy.

“gonna stretch you out,” she pants, her lips right at your neck. “make this spoiled little body feel it.”

you moan so loud it echoes off the trees.

she adds a third finger, and your hips buck up hard, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“f-fuck, sev—”

“you’re gonna take it,” she growls, grinding the heel of her palm against your clit as her fingers curl deep. “gonna take all of me.”

and you do.

you take it until your legs are trembling, until your voice is gone, until you’re sobbing against her chest, your hands fisted in her soaked flannel, begging for more, for everything.

she makes you come three times under that tree before she finally lets you go.

and when she pulls back—big body rising from you like a storm breaking—she leans down, wipes your face with the hem of your own tank top, and kisses you with the kind of messy, possessive hunger that says, you’re mine now.

────

chapter VII: ride it, cowgirl, you brought this on yourself.

you’re already up in the loft when she walks in.

the sunlight filters through the cracks in the wood, casting golden stripes across the hay bales, across you. legs swinging where you’re perched, dress hitched up scandalously, phone dangling from your fingers, gum snapping between your teeth. you don’t even look up when you hear her boots on the stairs.

but you feel her.

all six-foot-four and three hundred pounds of her. the loft creaks beneath her weight as she climbs, slow and deliberate. like she knows you’re waiting. like she’s in no damn rush.

you finally glance over, and there she is.

sweaty as hell already, just from loading crates below. flannel tied around her waist, white tank soaked through across her tits and stomach. her arms look even bigger in this light—roped with muscle, tan skin gleaming, thick veins bulging from effort. she’s breathing heavy. hair a mess. and she’s staring right at you.

you suck your gum back between your teeth and tilt your head.

“need help with somethin’, farmer?”

her nostrils flare.

“you’re not wearin’ a damn thing under that dress, are you?” she asks, voice low and wrecked.

you smile. swing your leg again. “you tell me.”

she’s on you in seconds.

slams your phone down onto the hay. grabs you by the hips and drags you forward so your legs fall open, that thin dress riding up. her breath stutters.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” she growls. “look at you. drippin’ already, huh?”

you nod, biting your lip. “all for you.”

she doesn’t even bother teasing this time.

sevika shoves you back onto the hay, kneels between your legs—her big thighs spread wide, heavy body blocking out the sun—and runs her tongue from your knee to your thigh, tasting the sweat and sweetness clinging to your skin.

you writhe.

“you knew what you were doin’,” she murmurs, voice like thunder. “climbin’ up here with that pussy bare and ready.”

“i wanted you to come find me,” you whisper, fingers already fisting in the hay.

and god, she does more than that.

she climbs up onto you, settles her full weight over your smaller body, presses her hot, hairy thighs around your hips and grabs your wrists to pin them above your head again.

“you’re gonna ride me today,” she growls. “earn it.”

and baby, you do.

she lies back in the hay, chest heaving, that tank top riding up to show her belly, soft and full and sweat-damp. she pulls her jeans down just enough to free her strap, and it’s huge, thick and curved and strapped to those broad, scarred hips.

you crawl over her like a girl possessed.

straddle that big farmer’s lap, hands on her belly, her tits, her face—kissing her filthy, mouthing at her jaw while you grind down. her hands grip your hips like vise clamps, guiding you, slow at first.

then rough.

you bounce on her, crying out, drenched and desperate. her strap hits deep, her stomach slaps against yours, the hay sticks to your back and thighs. her big hands never stop moving—grabbing your tits, spanking your ass, pulling your dress down so she can suck marks into your chest while you ride her like she owns the whole damn county.

and she does. and now? she owns you.

“fuck, baby,” sevika groans, sweat dripping off her chin. “you ride me so good.”

you’re panting. “t-tell me i’m your girl—tell me this pussy’s yours—”

she slaps your ass, hard enough to echo in the barn.

“you’re mine,” she growls. “this pussy’s mine. you hear me?”

you scream when you come, full-body shaking, collapsing against her slick chest while she holds you, heavy arm across your back.

and when you finally roll off her and catch your breath, she tucks a piece of straw behind your ear, grinning like a goddamn devil.

“you wanna sleep out here tonight, sugar?” she asks, smirking. “or should i carry you back to the house?”

you bite your lip, cheeks flushed.

“…hay’s fine.”

────

chapter VIII: breakfast of champions, you like waking up here now.

no more rolling your eyes. no more groaning about roosters or dusty boots or early mornings. not when they mean her.

you’re out of bed faster than ever. a quick splash of water on your face, dress yanked over your head, a slap of clear gloss. no panties again—habit now. you like how it makes you feel all day. loose. bare. ready.

she notices, every time.

the walk to her place is still long—dirt crunching under your sandals, sun already warming your skin—but you like it. like the ache in your thighs from yesterday’s riding, the faint sting of hay scratches on your back. little reminders.

she’s already up, of course. has been for hours. the tractor’s silent now, barn doors open, the smell of breakfast hitting you before you even see her.

inside?

a massive wooden table and an even bigger plate of pancakes.

towering. twelve, at least—stacked high, drowning in syrup, melting butter dripping down the sides like something sinful. there’s bacon too. eggs. a glass of milk. and right across from it: a little pink plate with two pancakes, already cut into neat quarters, a few raspberries on the side.

she doesn’t say a word when you walk in—just eyes you up and down real slow, her big hand sliding her chair back as she leans back in it.

“come sit,” sevika grunts, nodding to the chair next to hers. “figured you’d be hungry after yesterday.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you trying to fatten me up or something?”

she smirks. god, that smirk.

“nah. just feedin’ my girl right.”

my girl.

it makes your knees feel weak.

you sit beside her. her knee brushes yours under the table, thick and warm and firm like everything else about her. and then she tears into her food.

jesus.

fork in one hand, a slab of butter in the other. she eats like she’s starving—cleans up five pancakes before you’ve barely touched your second. syrup clings to her fingers. her jaw flexes with every bite. she’s loud, too. chews. groans. washes it all down with a swig of milk that dribbles down her chin and into the thatch of hair on her chest where her tank top gapes open.

she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“somethin’ wrong with yours?” she asks, glancing at your still-full plate.

you blink, cheeks hot. “n-no. i just—how the hell are you still eating?”

she laughs—booming, belly-shaking.

“big girl’s gotta keep her strength up,” she says, leaning in, eyes dragging down your body. “especially when you’re keepin’ her busy all night.”

you look down at your plate to hide the flush crawling up your throat.

you never thought you’d like being around animals, sweating in the heat, or walking through dirt barefoot. but now? you like the work. you like sevika. like her attention, her food, the way she always has something for you—cold lemonade, extra sunscreen, a clean flannel when you get dirty.

you love when her giant shadow falls over you while you’re watering tomatoes. when she lifts bales of hay like they weigh nothing. when she leans over your shoulder to show you how to hold the rake properly and you can feel every inch of her warm, wide chest brush against your back.

she treats you like you matter.

and even though you're still spoiled, still pouty sometimes—you’re starting to understand the language of sweat and sunburns and syrup-covered mornings.

you reach across the table and steal a strip of bacon off her plate.

she raises a brow. “you bold now, huh?”

you smirk back. “feedin’ your girl right, remember?”

she grins. leans in close. her flannel still smells like hay and hard work.

“damn right i am.”

────

by noon, the sun’s brutal. your thighs are sticking to the porch swing, your gloss long gone, and your hair’s tied up in a messy knot with a rubber band you found in one of her junk drawers, your hair tie- thin and pink had snapped somewhere between lifting hay and picking apples. sevika ruffles every time she walks past.

“c’mon, apple pie,” she calls from the kitchen. “lunch is ready.”

odd nickname. perhaps it was because you were so sweet. you hoped so.

you step inside and stop short.

the whole table’s covered.

you blink. “are we feeding the entire county?”

she shrugs, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “nah. just you and me.”

just you and me.

you swallow hard.

there’s fried chicken—crispy, golden, still steaming. mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. sweet corn cut fresh off the cob. fluffy biscuits, a bowl of honey butter. collard greens. mac n’ cheese so thick and creamy you can see the strings of cheese clinging to the spoon. iced tea in big mason jars. and, of course, a slice of pecan pie sitting off to the side like dessert’s already decided.

sevika moves around the kitchen like it’s nothing—big, broad back to you as she grabs a fork. the floor creaks under her. every time she turns, her stomach brushes the counter, and it makes something flutter deep in your belly.

you sit down, still staring. “you really cook all this?”

“mhm.” she flops into the chair beside you, makes it groan under her weight. “told you i like feedin’ my girl.”

then she goes to town. watching her eat is… something else.

she doesn’t hold back. doesn’t care if the gravy drips down her chin or if her fingers are shiny with grease.

her bites are huge.

you watch her demolish two legs of chicken before you even finish scooping potatoes. she eats like she works—big, bold, messy.

you shouldn’t like it. you shouldn’t. but your thighs are pressed tight together under the table, lips slightly parted as you watch her chew and swallow. watch the way her throat moves. the sound of her low grunt when she reaches for more.

it's filthy. you're not even eating anymore. just sitting there, heat pooling under your skirt, watching her devour food like she hasn’t eaten in a week.

“i like feedin’ you,” sevika says around a bite, mouth still full, voice thick with pleasure. “like seein’ you lick your fingers. makes me think about what else you’d lick.”

you nearly knock over your tea.

she grins, eyes gleaming.

you clear your throat, try to grab a biscuit, your hands shaky. you dunk it in your mashed potatoes just like she taught you and bite.

“somethin’ on your lip,” she says suddenly.

you glance up. she’s watching you close, still chewing, but she reaches out—big hand cupping your jaw with fingers rough and warm.

she smears her thumb across the corner of your mouth. and then, slow as molasses, she presses that same thumb against your bottom lip.

“go on,” she murmurs. “clean it off.”

you don’t even hesitate.you wrap your lips around her thumb, sucking gently.

your tongue slides over the pad of it, tasting salt and gravy and something darker underneath. her breath hitches.

you feel her twitch next to you.

“jesus,” she mutters.

you pull off with a pop and lick your lips.

“don’t want your sauce to go to waste,” you say sweetly.

she stares at you like she might break the damn table. there’s gravy still on her chest, her neck glistening with sweat. you imagine licking it clean. imagine her pressing you down into the mashed potatoes, holding you there with a greasy, syrup-slick hand around your throat.you shift in your seat, thighs rubbing together.

“you full yet?” she asks, voice low.

you nod. “yeah.”

but your eyes stay on her plate—still piled high—and your voice goes a little breathless as you add, “but i wanna watch you finish.”

she leans back, sets her fork down.

“well,” sevika says, slow and dark, “i got a lot more in me, sweetheart.” you bite your lip. and you believe her.

────

you don't even realize you're doing it. just sitting there like a dumb little doll in your tiny skirt and tank top, watching her finish off a second helping of biscuits and gravy with a low groan in her throat, her belly pushing up against the edge of the table like it’s part of the feast.

she leans back with a deep sigh, rubbing at her stomach under the hem of her stretched-out shirt.

"you really put it away, huh,” you tease, even though your breath’s shallow. you’re still clenching your thighs like it’ll help the ache growing worse by the second.

she just smirks. “gotta keep all this up somehow.” her hand drops to her soft middle with a lazy pat, thick fingers spreading over her curve like she knows exactly what it does to you. “you starin’, sugar?”

you bite your lip. “maybe,”

you whisper.

sevika pushes her chair back with a low creak. then she spreads her legs wide and taps her thick thigh.

“well, c’mere and sit in my lap if you wanna stare that bad.

your mouth goes dry. you hesitate for a split second—but then you're moving. slowly. purposefully. sliding into her lap, your thighs pressing down against the heat of hers, her bulk under you so solid and wide that you feel tiny and delicate by comparison.

she wraps one heavy arm around your waist. the other? it slides right up the back of your skirt. no panties. her breath hitches. you feel her freeze for a second. then: a low, broken chuckle. “well, well,” she murmurs. “came ready to get your ass felt up, huh?”

you nod, lips parted, your chest rising fast against hers. “i figured i’d be climbin’ ladders later,” you breathe. “didn’t wanna deal with anything... in the way.”

she groans, head tipping back.“you’re gonna kill me.” she grabs two handfuls of your ass, palms big enough to nearly cover it all, and starts kneading, rough and slow. her fingers dig in, calloused and demanding.

you rock into her touch without meaning to, little gasps slipping from your mouth as she explores everything you gave her.

“y’really got no shame, huh,” she mutters into your neck, lips dragging over your skin. “teasin’ me all morning in that little skirt, swayin’ those hips like you don’t know what they do to me.”

“i know,” you whisper. “i like what it does to you.”

she groans again—louder this time. her stomach grumbles under you. “fuck, you wanna help me digest, sweetheart? i got all this food sittin’ heavy in me and nowhere to put this energy.”

“use me,” you say, breathless.

“use me how you want.”

her arms tighten around you.then she stands up. with you in her arms like you weigh nothing. like her aching, overstuffed belly isn’t a thing at all as she lifts you and sets you down right on the edge of the kitchen counter, pushing your legs open with her knee.

“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, voice low, rough, full of hunger. “ruin you right here with gravy still on my chin and syrup on my shirt.”

you gasp. wrap your arms around her neck. “please.”

you wouldn't be walking tonight.

────

chapter IX: under the steam, you liked her shower

the farmhouse creaked in the heat of the evening, cicadas humming outside like a lullaby made of sweat and dust. the sky was bruised purple and gold, and the air clung to your skin like syrup. after a full day mending fences, hauling hay, and baking under the southern sun, you were sun-tired and aching in the bones. but you weren’t alone—sevika was right beside you, sweat dripping from the tip of her nose, her broad shoulders rolling with each step.

dinner had been heavy. comforting. a mountain of spaghetti slathered in thick, garlicky sauce, with an entire loaf of buttery bread to match. you sat across from her, your plate half-eaten, while she went back for thirds. her fork twirled with effortless hunger, sauce smearing her lip as she groaned low, chewing with lazy satisfaction. her belly, full and warm, stretched the hem of her tank top. you couldn’t stop watching the way her body moved—like she was built for excess, for indulgence, and proud of it.

after the last bite, sevika leaned back in her chair with a loud, satisfied sigh and gave you a lazy look.

"you smell like a cow’s ass," she drawled, lifting her chin. "c’mon. shower time."

you didn't resist when she tugged you by the wrist, guiding you to the tiny bathroom just off the kitchen. the shower wasn’t meant for two—but that didn’t stop her. steam billowed the moment the water hit the tile, and sevika began stripping right there in front of you, with no ceremony. her flannel, soaked with sweat, hit the floor with a wet thud, followed by her tank and jeans.

she was huge. bigger than life. hair curled around her thighs and belly, glistening in the soft amber of the flickering light bulb overhead. her body bore every sign of a life earned by muscle and survival: stretch marks, a gut heavy with comfort, calloused feet, broad hips, thick thighs, arms like tree trunks.

you swallowed hard, unsure if it was the heat or the sight of her that made your knees weak.

"get in," she said simply.

you obeyed, stepping into the cramped stall, water cascading down your back. before you could even shiver, she joined you. her belly pressed into your chest, pushing you against the cool tile wall with a gentle but unyielding force. you squeaked, hands bracing behind you, but sevika only grinned.

"don’t act like you don’t like it," she whispered, hot against your ear.

your hands, trembling, reached for the soap. you lathered your palms and, slowly, hesitantly, began to glide them across her stomach.

it was soft. warm. massive. you couldn’t even span it with both hands, just ran your fingers along the swell, over the curves of her waist, under the underside where her gut met her thighs. she exhaled sharply, pleased.

"mmm. that’s it. wash me proper."

her belly pinned you in place, slick with suds, your cheeks flushed crimson. she ground into you, slow and teasing, letting you feel all of her—every heavy inch. you bit your lip to keep from moaning.

"you like cleanin’ me, sugar?" she teased, eyes glinting. "you gettin’ off on it?"

you were. you couldn’t lie. the heat, the weight, her voice—it was all too much. your hands roamed lower, tracing the crease where belly met thigh, lathering the soft, hairy skin with reverence.

sevika’s hand found the back of your neck and pulled you forward, pressing your face against the curve of her side.

"bet you never had a woman like me before, huh? bet you thought you’d spend your summer sippin’ lattes, not buried under three hundred pounds of real farm girl."

your whimper was all the answer she needed.

steam swirled around you both as the water pounded down, a soundtrack to the quiet moans and heavy breathing. you stayed there, rubbing her down slowly, like you were memorizing her through every drop of soap and every inch of skin. she let you, head tilted back, enjoying the worship.

and when she kissed you—deep and lazy, tasting of garlic and sweat and something sweeter—you clung to her, letting the rest of the world fall away.

because here, under the steam, with your hands on her belly and her weight keeping you warm, you felt like you finally belonged.

────

you wake up tangled in sevika’s sheets, her body heavy and warm behind you, one thick arm draped over your waist like it belongs there. the scent of her—earthy, musky, a little sweet like hay and sweat—clings to your skin. your thighs ache in a way that makes you blush just thinking about it.

downstairs, the smell of food wafts up—bacon, eggs, and something buttery. you throw on one of her shirts, oversized and smelling like her, and pad barefoot to the kitchen.

she's already at the stove, shirtless under her flannel, her broad back glistening with a sheen of sweat, her messy hair tied back. she’s humming, and when she turns, there’s that crooked grin.

“mornin’, sugar.”

you mumble back a greeting, cheeks flushed as you sit at the table. she sets down a plate in front of you—three eggs, half a slab of bacon, toast glistening with butter. then she drops hers down. her plate? double yours. stacked high like a feast. she eats like a damn bear, but somehow it just makes her hotter.

"didn't think you'd be up after last night," she says with a knowing smirk, taking a huge bite of toast. "you looked like you were about to melt in that shower."

you avert your eyes, flustered. “you didn’t help.”

she laughs low and rumbly. “didn’t hear you complainin’ while your hands were all over me.”

she reaches across the table and brushes your thigh under the table with her calloused fingers. you squirm. she’s already working on her second plate, and watching her eat, the way she devours everything with zero shame, makes your stomach twist with something that isn’t just hunger.

“you keep starin’ like that, and i’m gonna think you want me to have you for dessert too.

you take a shaky breath as you watch her continue to eat—watch the way she licks butter from her fingers, the way her thick throat bobs with every swallow. your thighs press together under the table, heart thudding. you feel ridiculous, sitting there with a fork in your hand and dirty thoughts in your head before 9 a.m.

but you want to give something back. you want to do something for her.

when she gets up to rinse her plate, you follow quietly, watching her broad back flex with every movement. she's humming, content and casual. she doesn't notice your steps until your hands are sliding under her flannel, fingertips grazing the slope of her belly, soft and solid and warm.

she stiffens, just a bit. “what’re you up to, darlin’?”

“i wanna make you feel good,” you murmur, voice smaller than you intend it to be. you press a kiss between her shoulder blades. “let me take care of you for once.”

she huffs a low breath, but doesn’t stop you. “you sure?”

you nod, pressing tighter to her back, her belly pushing you back a little just from how big she is. she smells like soap, sweat, and woodsmoke, and you sink into it.

you guide her to the chair and she lets you—sprawled out, thick thighs spread, flannel half open. her belly is round and soft in the early light, rising and falling with each breath. her chest heaves under the wife-pleaser still clinging to her, soaked through in places.

you kneel.

your fingers are trembling as you run them over her thick thighs, over stretch marks and coarse hair, across the curve of her belly. she groans softly as you press your lips to it, kiss the softness like it’s sacred.

“you don’t gotta—”

“i want to,” you interrupt, nuzzling into her warmth.

she’s still for a long moment. then she tips her head back and lets you have your way, your hands and lips worshipping her like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

you trail your fingers over her soft skin, your heart racing as you kneel before her. the sheer size of her overwhelms you in the best way—the way she towers over you, the way she fills the space. your lips follow the curve of her belly, pressing gentle kisses, feeling the heat of her skin, the slight rise and fall of her breath.

sevika watches you, eyes heavy with something darker, something approving. her hands settle on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you take your time, savoring every inch of her. there’s a soft, contented rumble in her chest, a sound that makes your pulse race.

when you nudge her thick thighs apart, your gaze flicks up to meet hers. her eyes are hooded, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a smile.

“don’t stop, sugar,” she murmurs, voice low and rough.

you lean in, planting your lips on the softest, most tender part of her—just below her navel. you kiss her, slow, gentle, then work your way down with your lips trailing over the curve of her belly. your fingers follow, brushing against the coarse hair on her skin, feeling the heat that radiates from her body.

her fingers tighten in your hair, urging you closer, deeper. she guides you, but you don’t need any help—this is what you’ve wanted. to be this close to her, to touch her like she’s everything you need.

her breath catches when you move lower, your hands and lips exploring the space between her thighs. you kiss the inner curve of her leg, feeling her pulse, the heat from her skin making you dizzy. her body tenses slightly, but it’s a good tension, the kind she can’t hide.

“you’re so damn beautiful,” you whisper, just above her skin, the words leaving a mark in the air.

sevika’s hand moves from your hair to your shoulder, pushing you back slightly, her lips forming a teasing grin.

“you’ve got a way with words, sweetheart,” she says, voice thick with desire. she pulls you up, her grip firm and possessive, and she holds you close, breath against your ear. “you wanna do more for me, huh?”

you nod before you can stop yourself, eager to show her how much you’re willing to give, how much you need to give.

her lips crash into yours, hungry, but it’s not just about the kiss. it’s everything—the way she holds you, the weight of her body pressing you into the wall, the scent of her filling your lungs, the roughness of her hands as they slide over your skin.

“then take it,” she growls against your lips.

her hands move like she’s been waiting for you to ask—lifting your shirt over your head, her fingers sliding over your curves with ease. her body presses against you, chest to chest, and you feel her weight, her warmth, her strength. you can’t stop the shiver that runs through you, the way your pulse quickens, the way your whole body reacts to her.

you reach up, tracing her jawline, feeling the rough stubble there, the heat of her skin, the undeniable pull between you.

“sevika,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion, “you’re everything i never knew i needed.”

her hand lands softly on the back of your neck, holding you in place as she pulls you back into a kiss, harder this time. it’s not gentle, but it’s not cruel—it’s need. you feel her press her full weight against you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way.

she pulls away just enough to look down at you, eyes smoldering, a wicked grin pulling at her lips. “you think you’re the only one who can give? wait ‘til i’m done with you.”

────

chapter X: don’t wanna leave, picking apples has become a daily routine for you

it happens during dinner. just a regular tuesday night. your grandparents' dining room table creaks under the weight of roasted chicken, string beans, thick cornbread dripping with butter—half of it made from sevika’s produce, her apples, her jams. you’ve been the one cooking more lately. helping out. staying in. laughing with them.

you almost forgot what day it was.

until your grandpa clears his throat, eyes soft but firm, and says—

“so,” he starts, slow, “just wanted to ask if you’ve started packin’ yet.”

you pause mid-bite.

“packing?”

“well, it’s almost september, sweetheart.” your grandma’s voice is warm, gentle. “figured you’d be headin’ back soon.”

back.

back to the city.

back to your apartment and rooftop parties and mall food courts and too-short attention spans.

your fork clinks against your plate. you blink, staring at the table, suddenly unable to swallow.

“oh,” you say.

“we’ve got a buyer lined up,” your grandpa adds. “for the farm. upstate couple. quiet folks. we’ve been thinking it’s time. you know, slow things down.”

you nod.

it’s the polite thing to do.

but your ears are ringing.

you can barely taste the chicken anymore. you can’t hear the rest of the conversation over the blood rushing in your head. and all you can think is—i'm not ready. i don’t want to leave.

because she’s still here.

because sevika’s muddy boots are probably kicked off at her door right now, her flannel peeled off and tossed somewhere near the sink, and you don’t want to be anywhere else. not when she looks at you like you’re worth slowing down for. not when her touch makes you feel real for the first time in your life.

that night, you don’t sleep.

you sneak out around midnight. walk down the dirt path barefoot, skirt too thin, arms folded tight. the moonlight slices through the trees and your breath catches when you see the soft yellow glow in sevika’s window, the way it always is when she’s still up late reading or fixing something in the barn.

you don’t knock.

you just open the screen door and step inside. her eyes meet yours from across the room.

“hey,” she says softly, brow furrowed. “what’s wrong?”

you stand there trembling, throat tight, eyes stinging.

“i don’t wanna go,” you whisper.

sevika rises slowly, big frame stretching in the lamplight, shirt riding up her belly. she crosses to you in three strides and pulls you into her arms, warm and solid and smelling like hay, tobacco, and something that feels like home.

“you don’t have to,” she murmurs into your hair.

“but i do,” you say, voice breaking. “they’re selling. my grandparents. it’s—it’s done.”

she stiffens.

and then she holds you tighter. like she’s scared too. like she doesn’t know how to ask the question forming behind her teeth.

you pull back just enough to look up at her.

“i wanna stay,” you say, “with you.”

"then stay" she says.

you don’t give sevika a straight answer that night.

just curl against her chest and let her hold you until the morning breaks, until the light cuts through the curtains and reality settles like dust on your skin. she never asks again—not out loud. she doesn’t need to.

the next few days, you scramble.

you beg your grandparents, half-hearted at first, then desperate.

“can’t we stay a little longer?”

“i think i finally found a rhythm here…”

“wouldn’t it be better to wait until next spring?”

“i could help out more—run the market table, maybe even work the orchard…”

they exchange looks. that kind of knowing glance that says more than words ever could.

“sweetheart,” your grandma says gently one morning over breakfast, “you hated this place when you got here.”

you swallow hard. “i was wrong.”

“about what?”

you hesitate. “everything.”

but the papers have been signed. the new owners are sending movers. boxes are stacking up near the front door. your grandma starts handing out mason jars of sevika’s jam like going-away gifts. you don’t pack your things. you just… shut your door and lie there in bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, dozens of unread messages from city friends pinging at the top.

“where the fuck are you”

“you better be back for halloween or i’m slapping you”

“babe i just got us tickets to the rooftop dj set next month get ur glitter ass BACK”

they don’t know you anymore.

not really.

you don’t even know yourself anymore, except when you’re barefoot in the fields or in sevika’s pickup truck with your thighs sticking to the seat and her calloused hand brushing your knee. you know yourself when you're sitting on her lap while she tells you the difference between a john deere and a massey ferguson, or when you're pressed against her chest in the barn with straw in your hair and your panties balled up in your fist.

you know yourself best when you’re with her.

and that self isn’t ready to leave.

but your time’s up.

the night before your departure, you walk the edge of sevika’s orchard, the moon hanging low and gold over the fields. you can hear the wind pushing through the tall corn, the crickets loud in the dark.

you find her at the barn, shirtless, her heavy body slick with sweat from loading up the last bales for the season. she doesn’t say anything when she sees you.

you just stand there, arms crossed tight against the chill, eyes burning.

“i’m leaving tomorrow.”

a nod. slow. she sets the last bale down with a grunt.

“i know.”

“i asked them to stay.”

“i figured.”

“they said no.”

silence.

you take a step forward, then another.

“i didn’t think i’d care this much,” you admit.

sevika’s breath catches in her throat. her eyes flick down to your lips, your hands, the hem of your hoodie—hers, you stole it last week and never gave it back.

you close the distance, chest tight, voice a whisper now.

“i don’t want to go back to that life. i wanna stay out here. with the dirt, the sweat, the heavy things. with you.”

still, she doesn’t move.

but her jaw tenses. her hands ball into fists. she’s scared too—you can see it in the way her mouth softens, her eyes refuse to meet yours.

“then stay,” she rasps.

“i can’t.”

you both fall quiet.

somewhere in the dark, an owl hoots.

and all at once, you realize—this isn’t a love story with an easy ending.

it’s real.

it’s hard. and messy. and full of aching gaps.

but god, you want her.

you want this.

you take her hand. it’s big and rough and warm. you press your mouth to her knuckles, eyes stinging.

“i’ll come back,” you promise. “i don’t care how long it takes.”

she just pulls you in. lets your head fall against her chest again. and for the rest of the night, she holds you like she’s afraid if she lets go, you’ll disappear forever.

────

epilogue: the cold city, her warm skin

the city felt like a cage, even as you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

college was a whirlwind of classes and late nights, lectures and new faces, but your mind was always half a world away — back in that small southern town, beneath the endless stretches of apple trees, where sweat and earth mixed in the air like an intoxicating perfume.

you kept the letters you sent to sevika tucked away in your drawer, ink smudged from hurried notes and trembling hands.

each one was a whisper, a confession, a thread reaching across the miles, carrying pieces of your heart home.

"dear sevika," you wrote one night, after a particularly hard day of exams,

"the city is loud and empty without you. the buildings are tall but cold, and i miss the warmth of your skin, the way your laughter fills the room like sunlight through the barn windows. when i close my eyes, i can still taste the syrup on your pancakes, feel the weight of your body pressed against mine, steady and safe. i’m counting the days until i can come back to you, to the farm, to the sweat, to the apples, and to us."

she wrote back too, her words like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat you could feel through the paper.

she told you about the crops, the changing seasons, the stubborn weeds she battled and the slow, steady growth of her orchard.

she described how the sun baked the fields golden and how the smell of fresh-turned earth stayed on her skin after a long day’s work.

her letters smelled faintly of hay and sweat, and that was the sweetest scent of all.

time moved in strange ways — slow and fast, filled with longing and hope — until finally, the day came when you stood on that cracked farm road again, suitcase in hand, heart pounding louder than you thought possible.

the farmhouse stood there, the porch light flickering as twilight settled, and then you saw her.

sevika. still massive and powerful, every inch of her telling stories of earth and strength.

her flannel hung loose around her broad shoulders, stained with dirt and sweat, her belly soft and full beneath the fabric, her calloused hands tucked into the pockets of her worn jeans.

her hair was streaked with silver now, but those dark eyes — fierce, tender, unyielding — held all the fire you remembered.

“you’re back,” she said, voice low and rough, a smile tugging at her lips.

you dropped your bags, your breath catching.

“you’re home.”

you fell into each other like the earth embraces rain — thirsty, desperate, full of life.

she pulled you close, her hands warm and steady on your back, and you traced the curve of her belly with your fingers, marveling at how much she had grown, how much she had held onto, how much she held you now.

you kissed under the fading sky, the world shrinking to just you two, to the soft rhythm of your hearts beating in time.

days melted into nights and back again.

you worked the farm side by side, learning the language of the land, her teaching you how to listen to the trees and the soil.

mornings began with giant stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, her laughter booming through the kitchen, her hands steady as she poured coffee and wiped syrup from your lips.

afternoons were spent tangled in the grass, sun-warmed and sweaty, her body a fortress around you, her breath hot against your neck.

the nights were yours alone.

she was heavy and strong, the weight of her body grounding you, her hair wild around your face, her scent raw and alive.

you worshipped each other — every curve, every scar, every calloused palm and soft whisper.

her hair grew wild, her skin kissed by the sun and sweat and time, and you loved every inch of her, every secret the earth had carved into her.

your parents called less and less, their voices tinged with disappointment when they heard you weren’t coming back to the city.

they disowned you, made it clear the farm and sevika weren’t the life they wanted for you.

but you didn’t care.

here, beneath the apple trees and the wide open sky, you were free.

here, you were loved.

one afternoon, as the sun dipped low and the orchard smelled of ripe fruit and rain to come, sevika pulled you close.

“you stay,” she said, her voice soft but sure.

“this is where you belong.”

and you smiled, because you knew it was true.

you were home.

────

epilogue, (pt.2): the honeysuckle heat of home.

your days began to blur together in the most beautiful way.

you woke each morning wrapped in the weight of her — limbs slung over you like anchors, her breath warm against your neck, her belly brushing your spine as she shifted, groaning softly in her sleep.

you’d roll over and kiss her chest, nestling there, listening to the slow, steady thrum of her heartbeat like it was your favorite song.

you made coffee while barefoot in the kitchen, her behind you, hips swaying lazily against yours as she reached around to grab the sugar.

sometimes she’d lift you onto the counter without a word, her palms spreading across the backs of your thighs, and just stand there, forehead against yours, soaking you in like sunlight.

you didn’t always speak — you didn’t have to.

some mornings you’d head into the orchard right away, baskets in hand, her massive frame silhouetted against the sun.

you’d watch the muscles shift beneath her skin as she worked, sweat clinging to her in ways that made your throat tighten.

sometimes you’d sneak up behind her just to wrap your arms around her soft belly, rest your cheek against the curve of her back and breathe her in.

she always leaned into you with a low grunt of satisfaction, her hands still working even as you clung to her like a second skin.

you sold jam on saturdays.

set up your little table at the farmer’s market, her towering presence a magnet for attention — rough hands, sharp jaw, worn boots, belly rounding beneath her apron like a harvest moon.

she’d let you talk to the customers while she leaned on the table, chewing sunflower seeds, watching you with eyes half-lidded in adoration.

and when you got too hot or tired, she’d shove a lemonade into your hand and drag you behind the tent, her palm splayed across the small of your back, muttering, “you work too damn hard, city girl.”

you’d lean into her, your temple against the sweat-slick swell of her stomach, and nod.

because you did. but for her, you’d do

────

epilogue, (pt.3): greying hairs and peace.

years passed like petals in the wind.

sevika got grayer.

you got lines around your eyes.

the farm never stopped needing you — weeds to pull, fences to mend, jars to fill, apples to pluck.

but the world got quieter.

softer.

you started dancing in the kitchen more.

you kissed without reason.

you laughed like you had all the time in the world.

your parents never called again.

they sent back the letters unopened.

but it didn’t matter — not really.

because for the first time in your life, you weren’t reaching toward someone who’d never reach back.

you were building something.

with her.

you planted more trees.

painted the bedroom walls a soft peach.

put up wind chimes in the porch archway that clinked and clattered like a lullaby in storm winds.

sometimes you’d lie in bed and whisper about the life you’d carved out —

the one no one ever expected,

the one you almost didn’t choose,

the one that saved you both.

“you know,” she’d murmur, her lips pressed to your shoulder, “i think you were the best damn thing that ever happened to me.”

you’d smile.

“funny. i was just thinking the same thing.”

and that was it.

no grand epiphany, no cinematic swell.

just mornings of sunlight in mason jars.

just sweat and apple blossoms and the way she held you like you were the only soft thing she'd ever been allowed to love.

you never needed more than that.

not when forever looked like her.

not when forever smelled like earth and jam and sun-warmed cotton.

not when forever was a woman with a strong back, a big belly, and hands that never let go.

and so you stayed.

and stayed.

until staying became the only story you’d ever need to tell.

until her name was stitched into the seams of every quiet hour.

until the apple trees bent low with fruit, and your heart —

well.

it was full.

THE MOTHER FUCKING END BITCHES!!

#i love pussy

#wheres my fat butch

#just wanna be a girl w her farmer butch

#i want that tangy fat puss

#arcane #sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x f!reader #sevika x reader #sevika x female reader #sevika x you #wlw #sevika my love #arcane sevika #arcane league of lesbians #lesbians in love #arcane imagine #sevika imagine #hannah's little corner ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

199 notes · View notes

loveabunbun · 18 days ago

Text

; CAMBOY!WOOYOUNG 🦊 & CAMBOY!BEOMGYU 🧸 hard thoughts . . .

— includes; starting out, streaming routines, audience interactions, where you come in, and favourite kinks 🤍.

— cw; pornstar au, sex worker reader (wy), dom top amab reader (could be seen as strap), sub bottom woo, sub bottom gyu, brat tamer reader, light bd/sm, uhh specifics under the cut.

; STARTING OUT

— camboy!wooyoung

woo was no stranger to, well, strangers. one too many guys on grindr told him he could sell his nudes. and so he did. first it was pictures, then it was selling short audio clips and videos of him spilling on his soft stomach, then came the longer productions: lighting, camera angles, and action plans. welp. the money came rolling in fast. he doesn't bother hiding his trade much, it's fun and he's sexy. not hurting anybody! also,, i said action plan, but there's not really a plan — wooyoung started with his physical desires leading the way, and they haven't betrayed him yet!

— camboy!beomgyu

def started in uni. he's tall and hot, not to mention extremely charming, but hookups didn't really work out for him. instead of getting validation from randoms on a dating app, why not get validation, and money, from anonymous randoms on a porn website? (🤓☝🏻 <- how he felt explaining the logic to his friends). took a couple of months for him to get a dedicated audience going because he's not very consistent… but it’s an incredibly welcome surprise for his fans when they get the alert for a late-night live. caters to quite a niche audience due to the way he prefers to run things.

; STREAMING ROUTINES

— camboy!wooyoung

literally born to do this i'm not joking. it makes him feel good, confidence overflowing as the comments and cash roll in. likes to tease real bad: feels himself up when the camera starts rolling & rarely begins fully clothed — there’s always a sliver of skin to entice. his viewers fall right into his claws, hoping to see more of his beauty marks. obviously wooyoung loves keeping them on their toes: muses about his day, complaints about the coworkers from his primary job, or other noteable life events.

does all of this while either stroking himself, or perched on a vibe and slowly rolling his hips. it's his favourite way to wind down. just when they start losing patience, he's whimpering and shaking as his orgasm catches him off-guard. although they appreciate woo sharing about himself, moan-ridden and all, their entitled grumbling quickly turns into applause. and that is just the warm-up. he locks in after the first and really gets down to business, with the audience commanding his full attention.

— camboy!beomgyu

was incredibly shy at the start of his camboy streaming n didn’t even show his face for a while, until he put more effort into his chosen platform and security. even with his humble loyal fan base, beomgyu is still timid minutes in, but as the comments flow — calling him handsome, praising his soft skin and his strong, defined muscles — his confidence grows.

teases himself for a bit, knowing the audience likes it when he gets worked up. blessed with a naturally deep voice, gyu’s whines of pleasure gets the audience emptying out their pockets liberally. but he doesn’t play around too much since everyone knows what he’s there for (himself). yet while he gives in to his needs pretty quickly, beomgyu can go for a long time! switches up positions and toys often in one stream, so there's plenty of content for his starved fans. gets so sleepy and lethargic after he's put his body to the test, makes his viewers wanna baby him. takes care of himself with a well-deserved shower and nap.

; AUDIENCE INTERACTIONS?

— camboy!wooyoung; PLENTY

woo can put on a show, oh my god. has hella fun getting requests and fulfilling them (thinking of those tiktok lives and emotes,,). his audience always returns because, on top of being dastardly sexy, wooyoung knows how to handle the crowd. face the other way? bounce faster? take this off and put that on? on good days, he plays along well. his favourites get a little daring with their wishes and money when they notice his generous mood (the chances of success are zero if you never try). other days, he holds the cards. and his prices are not low.

— camboy!beomgyu; SPARINGLY

as said, beomie prioritises himself and his own needs. the money comes later. that's not to say the correct amt won't push him out his comfort zone... as his fanbase gets bigger and it's harder to maintain 'close' relations and remember usernames, the veil between them gets thicker. he's also reminded camming was always temporary employment. nonetheless, beomgyu also knows how to perform, and that always keeps them coming back. even if they didn't, he's more than happy with you alone. speaking of you...

; WHERE YOU COME IN

— camboy!wooyoung; COWORKER

you also make explicit content and have definitely seen his before. got in contact through a mutual friend who knew of your side hustles and suggested a collab off-handedly. so the first time you met was over a drink at a bar to sus out the vibes and determine compatibility. you quickly learnt that the talkative cutie was hilarious, and charismatic too. his apartment was the next location, a surprise for both your viewers. maybe it was watching him spit on your dick and deepthroat you with sparkling eyes, or his sweet offer to stay the night after the camera switched off but you were whipped.

— camboy!beomgyu; CAMERAMAN

you were friends first. good friends actually. you knew about his side hustle from basically the start (one of the friends responding with -> 😯🤨) but never mentioned it unless he did first. doesn’t mean you weren’t curious tho… at some point, you ended up stumbling across his account. and like any person with functioning eyes n ears, just couldn't swipe away. you eventually confessed and beomgyu, after his mortification passed, went "oh! my tripod broke recently! and i know you're broke." it was good money fr. soon enough, you were streaming your bestie impaled on your fat cock and moaning for you instead of some shitty toy (his plan all along ♡).

; FAVOURITE KINKS

— camboy!wooyoung

brat taming. the Brat. like i said, he knows how to tease. you, especially. you’re an open book to woo and he takes advantage: responding to your polite requests with snark or sarcasm; embarrassing you to his (and yours!) viewers (or ‘discouraging the competition’, but jokes on him bc everyone loves a hot loser); just being vexing in general. and you’re patient! but not that much. you know he does it for your attention, and you’re more than happy to give it to him. punishments cover impact play, sensory deprivation, and plain old orgasm-denial the worst one iho. maybe all three. often you’ll let the audience choose. they’re meaner than you are ;)

role-playing. LOVES a cheeky little scene. anything with clear power dynamics: professor/student, doctor/patient, police officer/offender, supervisor/intern, even owner/pet. watching you get into character kinda reminds him of the first time you met and introduces him to another side of you. it's also just hella fun. the viewers get a kick out of your improv and enjoy being involved in the world-building. favourite scenarios are definitely recycled.

size queen. wooyoung loves to get stuffed. swallows your dick like he was made for it, and i'm not just talking about his mouth. his ass could be designated a black hole if you didn't know any better lmfao. beads, plugs, beaded plugs… he's taken them all. gets sooo fucked out and moans so pretty when he's filled to the brim. once got sent a dragon didlo n had one of the best nights of his life. it’s his most viewed live and many people have asked for a recreation. this time they wanna see how far woo can stretch with you in the picture…

manhandling. push him around. throw him around. pls. even non-sexual occasions where you pick him up and toss him onto a surface, woo is alr opening his legs and ready to let you do as you please. really likes chokeholds where your arm is wrapped around his throat and holding him against you when you fuck. pin his legs open when he’s being a brat or keep him still when he tries to squirm away from the pleasure, tears in his eyes and moaning like a girl. he can take it.

praise kink. woo likes to act like he doesn't care abt what others think and pushes that narrative constantly. bc, shit, haters are gonna hate and in a vulnerable industry like sex work where depravity runs high, he protects himself. but who's gonna protect him? 🫵🏾. tell him he's perfect, tell him yk how hard he works and how much you appreciate him for all of him, for his authenticity in everything he does. he doesn’t need/want it often during sex but it’s a guaranteed way to make him fall apart below you ♡.

— camboy!beomgyu

soft dominance. beomgyu's more often than not pulling your strings bc he likes riling you up. but it's never really that deep for you, hence no punishments. he gets off with a slap on the wrist, a.k.a. being tossed around a bit more, spoken to a little more harshly, fucked a touch harder. s'not long before he's crying and begging you to be nicer. so spoilt. sometimes you leave it up to the viewers if they think he's learnt his lesson. usually it’s not until he's drooling & incoherent, and can only think of you. they rarely get to see him in such a mess and he gets off to the humiliation.

soft sex. most of the time. his intentions for recording are for a relaxing time: gyu hates feeling rushed and likes to take things at his own pace. prefers it when you fuck slow, but not too slow, and deep. hard thrusts where it feels like he’s drowning in ecstasy really make him lose his mind. soft kisses on his face, back, shoulder, chest, ankles, whatever's close enough to your lips when you're inside him, balance out the firm snap of your hips perfectly. orgasms the hardest like this, shaking and gushing copious amounts of cum all over himself with how full both his heart and his ass is.

pet play. duh. will sometimes put on the puppy or bear ear headbands his viewers send. he’s down to play the part, esp if there's a matching plug! beomgyu really ups his game when you're involved, panting, grunting, and growling in your ear as you make him feel good. enjoys his pet names (puppy, pup, beomie bear, teddy, etc.). fucking LOVES getting mounted, like 'ass-up-face-down-your-full-body-weight-pounding-him-into-the-bed-like-dogs' mounted. he'd never admit it (doesn't need to w the way his dick leaks) but submitting to you in this way turns him on so fucking much. and confirms the love and trust he has in you as his friend turned lover. his viewers EAT. IT. UP.

marking. goes hand in hand with the pet play. likes when you leave a couple of bite marks and bruises on his body. he loves the sight of the dark marks against his pale skin; something like the dragon tainting the prince(ss) in his tower. the marks also remind his viewers that he's spoken for, esp during solo shoots. likes pressing on them and feeling the burn, or running a finger over their edges in recollection. even in the moment, he fucks heavy with the idea of you claiming him and him claiming you too (biiig biter).

phone sex. when the camera isn’t on, and there’s distance between you, gyu’s calling late at night bc he misses you. both his body and his mind. sometimes he’s ranting, sometimes he’s bragging, other times he just needs to hear your voice. after conversing he craves more, a physical connection. you’re the same. direct his thoughts and tell him where to touch, let him hear how he makes you feel too: hot and wet. always on his best behaviour for these calls, like a love-sick puppy. get back to his side quick, okay?

305 notes · View notes

missmeringuemorgue · 4 months ago

Text

Hello and Welcome!

In this PAC reading we will find out hints about your Future Spouse! How exciting! For those who want to listen to this PAC in audio format, be sure to check this out!🥰

My best wishes and onto the reading…

Group 1

1. I see something related to Ghostbusters so they could be into ghosts and the paranormal, perhaps even ghost hunting. I’m getting a sense of someone who is adventurous. Your future spouse would definitely want to go on a ghost hunting adventure!

2. I see they could have dark hair. They are also fit - might go to the gym. Could have tattoos. Might have a platform online, like YouTube or Twitch. The letters “C”, “R”, “B”, also the letter “S”. Might listen to rap.

3. You might not like them at first or they aren’t your usual type. This is someone who isn’t what they appear to be and what I mean by that is they might put on a mask when meeting new people and it might take some time to get to know them. Perhaps, you will see right through this mask and will not like them hiding their true face. I’m not saying that they are two-faced or anything like that. They are more like guarded which makes me think they have been hurt in the past when opening up too soon, so they wear this mask in order not to get hurt again.

4. Could be from Europe or a small country. I’m getting a sense of someone returning home, so they might not live in their birth country or just travels a lot outside of it.

5. Could have a sibling of the same gender.

6. There’s just a lot of spirits around them and the theme keeps popping up which makes me think they are well spiritually protected. If you ever wondered how they are doing, just know that whatever happens is happening FOR them not TO them. Also they could be good at manifesting.

7. They could be either your Twin Flame or Soulmate (if you believe in those things), because I see a strong spiritual bond between you.

8. This is someone you’ll likely have kids with.

9. Some of you need to hear that you aren’t delusional. If there’s someone you feel a strong pull towards, they might be your person. Put logic aside and trust your intuition on this.

10. Something related to Shrek, Puss in Boots to be specific. So cats might be significant or it could also mean that like I’ve mentioned earlier you wouldn’t like your future spouse at first or you might even be rivals, enemies to lovers kind of trope if you will.

11. Edgar Allan Poe keeps popping up, so they might read some of his poetry to you and that’s one of the ways you’ll know it’s them. Speaking of poetry, they might be a poet as well. They might just write their poems on paper or they might create music from it.

12. Twenty One Pilots might be significant. So they might like this band and listen a lot to them, also when with them you could hear a Twenty One Pilots song and that’s yet another way to help you realise who is your future spouse.

13. Snow White or Disney Princesses in general might be significant. I’m getting a sense of something forbidden, and what I mean by that is your love might seem forbidden in some way, like maybe you come from different backgrounds or cultures and not all people agree with your decision to be together. Also I feel distance, so you might be from different countries too.

14. I’m getting a sense of ancient civilisations and it feels like you have been searching for this person since the beginning of time. You could always tell that something was missing but couldn’t figure out what. It’s this. It’s them. When you are reunited, everything will make sense. It will make sense why it didn’t work out with someone different; everything will fall into place.

Group 2

1. Elon Musk comes to mind, so they might be the CEO type and they could be well-off, perhaps even rich. Also they could be into robots/computers/technology in general, I’m also hearing video games, specifically Doom, Counter Strike and Call of Duty. They might also drive a Tesla/their dream car is a Tesla or they just want to buy it for whatever reason.

2. I see teddy bears, so they might have a good, kind heart and are a true softie. They give great hugs and they might have a chubbier body type, well proportioned though. Also Valentine’s Day might be significant.

3. The letters “G” and “J” or more specifically the names “George” and “James”.

4. Germany/Austria might be significant, so they might be from one of these countries or you might be from one of them which would be a confirmation this reading is for you.

5. Water sign vibes: they could have a lot of water placements in their birth chart or it could also mean they have a lot of qualities to water signs.

6. I see paintings, so they might be into museums and art, also they could be studying or studied something related to art.

7. I see pearls and the sea: again with the water energy. This could mean they are in tune with their emotions, and I’m also hearing when they get angry it feels like a mountainous sea with rain and lightning above, it’s like you can see it in their eyes. They don’t try to hide their emotions.

8. I have to keep this pg rated, but maybe some of you need to hear this: I heard they are great in the sexy department. They could have a Leo Venus, but not necessarily.

9. I see Cupids and Angels, so they might seem too good to be true when you meet them but trust me they are for you and they are here to stay. Also you could be mesmerised by them on your first meeting. It’s like they captured your heart the moment they walked into the room.

10. Opera, movie theatres or theatres in general might be significant, like you could meet them there or they might invite you to see something in a theatre. Also they could be an actor. The letter “E” and specifically the names “Evan”, “Eva” or “Evelin”

11. Something related to islands and pirates. They might be the “bad boy”, “bad girl” type. Not in a bad way but they just always get what they want. But more importantly they always know what they want so you won’t have to question their actions or feelings because their actions match their words.

12. Good at noticing details. Very diligent. I see them never forgetting special occasions, they might even put them in their calendar so they don’t forget. Might like to surprise you with a home cooked meal or “just because” and “this reminded me of you” gifts. Gift giving might be their love language.

13. Countryside, cottage core, gathering berries and mushrooms: this might be their vibe, they might live in the countryside or they would love to own a home outside of town.

14. Might wear glasses, might own a cat, wants to own a cat or cats are in one way or another connected to your person or your relationship with them.

Group 3

1. I feel a safe place, so they could be your safe haven. You could also have a safe place where you go in your dreams or during astral travel, you could meet them there. They might have also created a safe space for you to be and to protect you during sleep or astral projection.

2. I see cherries, blueberries and the forest, so they might live near a forest, they like to go on walks in the forest, you could meet somewhere with a lot of nature or near a forest or it simply means they just love nature.

3. Very intelligent, they could be the brains behind many projects. Also they could like old cartoons, like cartoons from the 90s or early 00s. Scooby-Doo could be significant. Also they could like solving problems, like they could be a lawyer or somehow related to law even.

4. They could have darker features and what I mean by that is they could have darker skin, darker hair, darker eyes or something like that. Also Ibiza/Maldives could be significant.

5. I feel they like to party a lot or at least did in their early years. I’m not saying they are old but they could have had a party animal past. I don’t feel them this way anymore though. They could party here and there but not as intensively as they did in the past.

6. The number “nine” could be significant, so it could be their life path number or it could be your life path number which would be a confirmation this group is definitely for you. Also they could be ending a toxic cycle right now, like a toxic relationship or an addiction of some sort. This addiction could be related to them partying as I mentioned earlier.

7. I see letters or messages of some sort, so it could mean they will contact you soon or they have contacted you in the past with a letter. I feel it could have been a small letter, like the ones you exchange during class when the teacher doesn’t notice.

8. The seven wonders of the world might be significant, like you could meet them at one of them or something like that. Also you could meet while travelling whether it be a long or short trip.

9. Your future spouse has a great fashion sense, almost iconic as some would say. They also could be into modelling or have dreamed of becoming a model. Very stylish, indeed.

10. Lady GaGa could be significant, like you could meet while Lady GaGa’s song is playing or while with them, you might hear a Lady GaGa’s song and that will be a confirmation.

11. The reoccurring theme of numbers keeps popping up, so they might as well be somehow connected to various numbers, like they could have their own business, they could be an accountant or an office worker, also the show “Office” and Britney Spears might be significant.

12. Asia, more specifically Korea might be somehow connected either to them or to you. I’m hearing your love story could be similar to the love stories in KDramas.

13. I keep seeing dogs, so they definitely could be a dog person or perhaps even have a dog. Also this could signify loyalty and friendship, so you might as well be friends first before you start dating.

14. There’s lots of symbolism to music and musicians, so your future spouse might be a musician or is somehow related to the music industry.

#pick a card #love readings #love reading #free psychic readings #free psychic reading #free readings #free reading #free spiritual readings #psychic reading #psychic readings #witchblr #witches of tumblr #pac reading #pac #pick a picture #pick a pile #pick a photo #pick an image #pick a reading

315 notes · View notes

technofeudalism · 5 months ago

Text

i've got one more wall of text in me for today. i'm sorry, but hopefully this helps more people than it annoys.

i understand the concerns people have about social media being captured to technofascist oligarchs and i share them.

however, and you can call me a boomer for this if you'd like, i am way more worried about the fact that we are watching a scarier replay of the 2016 hyper-normalization of Donald Trump already being carried out in mainstream/establishment news outlets.

Some political operatives on the right, who saw mainstream media coverage of Trump’s first term as overly hostile, say the way the press covered Trump’s first term unwittingly did him a favor. “I do expect that the media coverage will be a little different in tone,” one national Republican strategist told The Hill this week. “Not because the media is all of a sudden planning on being more objective and less biased, but because they probably finally recognize that their over-the-top hysterical coverage has done nothing but help Trump politically.”

there are many reason this freaks me out worse, but i can sum up a couple of them.

the rhetoric this time is a magnitude more insane and suddenly alarmingly expansionist. logic would suggest this would justify an even more critical evaluation from the media that they are seemingly neglecting to provide.

the public, thanks to total dereliction of duty by the Democrats, are far more geared up for fascist shit than ever, but are totally ignorant to how this is going to happen (concentration camps)

speaking of the Democratic party: following a series of humiliating, high profile L's, the party finds themselves leaderless and less popular than they've been in 30 years at the worst time. when asked to name the leader of the Democratic Party, 49% of registered voters couldn’t name a person or said “nobody.”

before i continue, i know that there has been a dramatic decrease in people who get their news from traditional media and instead rely on social media, podcasts and the like. that makes sense. people aren't watching cable news anymore, chiefly because fewer and fewer people under the age of 30 even have cable TV and they definitely aren't paying for a New York Times subscription.

but what people fail to consider is that the "news" people consume via social media is often rehashed or half-baked, word of mouth versions of reporting conducted by the mainstream media or the journalists who work for them. there are still journalists working for these publications who take advantage of the increased exposure podcasts provide and go on them to talk about their writing.

people hear the same stories at the end of the day, but the way the issue is initially framed when the story first "breaks" and how it is approached by other outlets who follow up on it is significant. it's a lot less work to have to clean up and suppress news on your platform when the news is already favorable to your cause.

think along the lines of a massive disinformation campaign emerging from one outlet, social media being thrown into a complete frenzy and the only journalist who knows the truth from another outlet hesitating to speak out because of threats from his publisher to keep outrage revenue high or, perhaps more ominously, to directly serve the interest of the fascists in charge.

the US media has always been servile to whims of corporate interests because... well... they are owned by the corporate interests.

but up until today, i was holding out some sliver of hope that even if the NYT, for example, wasn't taking up antifascist actions, they would hold onto a tiny bit of reliability as a further watered down version of itself. an increasingly rare, delicate weapon against misinformation on social media, as opposed to being another tool wielded by fascists on aforementioned social media to grow legitimacy and manufacture consent.

then i saw this. my feeling is now that if the New York Times can't even write a headline - with THAT photograph underneath it - that says in plain English "Elon Musk Makes Nazi Salute Twice at Trump Inauguration," then there is going to be a frightening decrease in quality journalism being funded by mainstream outlets coming.

if you are not sure what to do and you want to be well informed, i have two suggestions. the first and most important, most difficult one that is a skill hard to master, is to develop decent media literacy and an ability to derive context from history.

the second is to build a network of trustworthy local, national and global sources that you can count on. ideally, they would be completely independent and free from editorial oversight or corporate control.

here are some of my recommendations. all of them are flawed. never rely on one source. do not immediately accept something as the truth from any single source. everyone is capable of accidentally getting a detail wrong, or even deliberately misleading.

Dropsite News - ran by Ryan Grim, Jeremy Scahill

The Intercept - sadly running out of money, alleged CIA ties

Democracy Now! - more center-left, better domestically

Jacobin - wide variety, sometimes shitty takes, Alex Press is great

The Grayzone - this one is controversial (mainly just to liberals) and they make no qualms about being committed to reporting from an anti-imperialist view of the world

Black Agenda Report - perspective from Black leftists. founded by Glen Ford (RIP), a Black Panther and accomplished investigative journalist

Hasan Piker - hate him, love him, neutral, doesn't matter. he's the largest independent political commentator on the left (by far), covering news and misinformation 9 hours a day. you can think he has shit takes, but he's still a reliable source and has been insanely accurate with his opinions

The Majority Report - been around forever, Sam Seder & Emma Vigeland are amazing, once home to the incredible Michael Jamal Brooks (RIP)

Breakthrough News

Labor Notes

Ben Norton @ Global Political Economy

Caitlin Johnstone (AUS)

these are just what i could come up with but there are many more if you do a little bit of digging using these as a baseline. just remember that the source ultimately is irrelevant and will have it's own biases. it is up to you to separate fact and fiction.

#long post #media #resources #united states #us politics #media literacy #misinformation #journalism #us news #trying to be better about ableist terms #but i definitely left a few in #i'm working on it #i can grow

254 notes · View notes

lets-try-some-writing · 10 months ago

Note

(For your Mr. Pax AU:)

Imagine the kids meeting Elita. It'd be so fragging wholesome XD

It'd more then likely be after the school day, too. Lmao.

It would and I have opted to answer the call for this ask.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

"So kids, how was school?" Elita grinned as the children settled on their platform, spreading out homework and other assignments for the cycle. She regarded their work with interest. It seemed simple enough in her optics, but then again, the human children were very small.

"Oh! You're Elita! Optimus's wife!" Miko shot up, a huge smile on her small squishy face. The urge to reach out and poke one of her cheeks was strong, but Elita refrained. It wouldn't do to go poking the children when it was far safer just to wait until later and do it in holoform.

"I'm his Conjunx, yes." Jack pointedly did not look in her direction. Elita could almost see the way his venting would have sputtered if he were Cybertronian. She may not have been well versed in all things human as of the present moment, but even she could see he looked a moment away from exploding.

"Woah, I didn't know Optimus was married." Rafael added his own commentary, closing his laptop to look up at Elita with wide eyes. She had to fight back an awed noise at how adorable he looked. He was tiny, his glasses only making him look more like a sparkling in her optics. She wanted to poke his cheeks as well, but that would have to wait.

"He's been my Conjunx for a very long time kiddo. Since before he became Prime in fact." Miko and Rafael made awed noises, and even Jack looked up at her in surprise, his embarrassment over the parent-teacher conference forgotten.

"Really? Optimus doesn't seem like the kind of guy to well... do that?" Jack was hesitant in his words, but Elita laughed in short order. She clutched her abdomen as she considered Jack's point of view, all but cackling. Her Conjunx could be quite stern when he wanted to be, especially when stressed. She'd already heard about how Optimus shut down any attempts at being introduced to humor. It was no surprise Jack was startled.

"He wasn't always such a stoic figure. Back when we were young, we got into all sorts of trouble." Resting a servo on her hip as he laughter died down, Elita watched as the children practically lit up at the reveal. Jack was quiet with his interest, but Rafael and Miko were not.

"Optimus in trouble? Oooh this is some blackmail material I need!" Miko did a little dance in place, the plushies on her belt shifting as she did an excited twirl. Elita again had to fight the urge to pick up and cuddle the squishy organic close. It probably wouldn't end well, but she hadn't been able to hold such a small creature since Bee was freshly forged.

"I don't think you can blackmail Prime with stuff that millions of years old." Jack, being so much like Optimus, tried to rain on everyone's parade with logic. Thankfully, his little black raincloud bounced right off Miko and Rafael who were still staring at Elita like she hung the moon.

"Married couples always have wild blackmail!" Miko flailed, throwing her arms up in the air as she grinned. Jack sighed and Rafael secretly adjusted his glasses to try and hide a smile. Elita could feel it right then and there as adoration settled in her spark.

Yes, she was keeping these squishies. She could convince Optimus later.

"I have quite a few stories for you. But only if you promise to not harass Optimus with them. He's got enough going on." Holding up a digit to her derma, Elita smiled as the children each agreed, some more enthusiastically than others.

"We won't bother him. Promise." Rafael's eyes only seemed to be made bigger by his glasses. Elita's spark leapt in its chamber, the cuteness of the scene overriding her usual serious attitude as mischievousness she had long left behind began to resurge.

"Settle down then children. Let me tell you all about Orion's first visit to the docks." Elita could see Optimus out of the corner of her optic looming in the nearby hall. He looked to be mostly uncaring as he waited there, listening in. But she could see the hint of a smile on his features. He wasn't opposed to her decision, giving her all the more reason to tell her tale.

It had been so very long since they'd had anyone who cared enough to hear their story.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #optimus prime #elita one #oplita #optimus x elita #teacher au #tfp kids #miko nakadai #jack darby #rafael esquivel

413 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

Text

Enshittification isn’t caused by venture capital

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

Many of us have left the big social media platforms; far more of us wish we could leave them; and even those of us who've escaped from Facebook/Insta and Twitter still spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to get the people we care about off of them, too.

It's lazy and easy to think that our friends who are stuck on legacy platforms run by Zuckerberg and Musk lack the self-discipline to wean themselves off of these services, or lack the perspective to understand why it's so urgent to get away from them, or that their "hacked dopamine loops" have addicted them to the zuckermusk algorithms. But if you actually listen to the people who've stayed behind, you'll learn that the main reason our friends stay on legacy platforms is that they care about the other people there more than they hate Zuck or Musk.

They rely on them because they're in a rare-disease support group; or they all coordinate their kids' little league carpools there; or that's where they stay in touch with family and friends they left behind when they emigrated; or they're customers or the audience for creative labor.

All those people might want to leave, too, but it's really hard to agree on where to go, when to go, and how to re-establish your groups when you get somewhere else. Economists call this the "collective action problem." This problem creates "switching costs" – a lot of stuff you'll have to live without if you switch from legacy platforms to new ones. The collective action problem is hard to solve and the switching costs are very high:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/29/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms/

That's why people stay behind – not because they lack perspective, or self-discipline, or because their dopamine loops have been hacked by evil techbro sorcerers who used Big Data to fashion history's first functional mind-control ray. They are locked in by real, material things.

Big Tech critics who attribute users' moral failings or platforms' technical prowess to the legacy platforms' "stickiness" are their own worst enemies. These critics have correctly identified that legacy platforms are a serious problem, but have totally failed to understand the nature of that problem or how to fix it. Thankfully, more and more critics are coming to understand that lock-in is the root of the problem, and that anti-lock-in measures like interoperability can address it.

But there's another major gap in the mainstream critique of social media. Critics of zuckermuskian media claim those services are so terrible because they're for-profit entities, capitalist enterprises hitched to the logic of extraction and profit above all else. The problem with this claim is that it doesn't explain the changes to these services. After all, the reason so many of us got on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram is because they used to be a lot of fun. They were useful. They were even great at times.

When tech critics fail to ask why good services turn bad, that failure is just as severe as the failure to ask why people stay when the services rot.

Now, the guy who ran Facebook when it was a great way to form communities and make friends and find old friends is the same guy who who has turned Facebook into a hellscape. There's very good reason to believe that Mark Zuckerberg was always a creep, and he took investment capital very early on, long before he started fucking up the service. So what gives? Did Zuck get a brain parasite that turned him evil? Did his investors get more demanding in their clamor for dividends?

If that's what you think, you need to show your working. Again, by all accounts, Zuck was a monster from day one. Zuck's investors – both the VCs who backed him early and the gigantic institutional funds whose portfolios are stuffed with Meta stock today – are not patient sorts with a reputation for going easy on entrepreneurs who leave money on the table. They've demanded every nickel since the start.

What changed? What caused Zuck to enshittify his service? And, even more importantly for those of us who care about the people locked into Facebook's walled gardens: what stopped him from enshittifying his services in the "good old days?"

At its root, enshittification is a theory about constraints. Companies pursue profit at all costs, but while you may be tempted to focus on the "at all costs" part of that formulation, you musn't neglect the "profits" part. Companies don't pursue unprofitable actions at all costs – they only pursue the plans that they judge are likely to yield profits.

When companies face real competitors, then some enshittificatory gambits are unprofitable, because they'll drive your users to competing platforms. That's why Zuckerberg bought Instagram: he had been turning the screws on Facebook users, and when Instagram came along, millions of those users decided that they hated Zuck more than they loved their friends and so they swallowed the switching costs and defected to Instagram. In an ill-advised middle-of-the-night memo to his CFO, Zuck defended spending $1b on Instagram on the grounds that it would recapture those Facebook escapees:

https://www.theverge.com/2020/7/29/21345723/facebook-instagram-documents-emails-mark-zuckerberg-kevin-systrom-hearing

A company that neutralizes, buys or destroys its competitors can treat its users far worse – invade their privacy, cheap out on moderation and anti-spam, etc – without losing their business. That's why Zuck's motto is "it is better to buy than to compete":

https://www.trtworld.com/magazine/zuckerberg-its-better-to-buy-than-compete-is-facebook-a-monopoly-42243

Of course, as a leftist, I know better than to count on markets as a reliable source of corporate discipline. Even more important than market discipline is government discipline, in the form of regulation. If Zuckerberg feared fines for privacy violations, or moderation failures, or illegal anticompetitive mergers, or fraudulent advertising systems that rip off publishers and advertisers, or other forms of fraud (like the "pivot to video"), he would treat his users better. But Facebook's rise to power took place during the second half of the neoliberal era, when the last shreds of regulatory muscle that survived the Reagan revolution were being devoured by GW Bush and Obama (and then Trump).

As cartels and monopolies took over our economy, most government regulators were neutered and captured. Public agencies were stripped of their powers or put in harness to attack small companies, customers, and suppliers who got in the way of monopolists' rent-extraction. That meant that as Facebook grew, Zuckerberg had less and less to fear from government enforcers who might punish him for enshittification where the markets failed to do so.

But it's worse than that, because Zuckerberg and other tech monopolists figured out how to harness "IP" law to get the government to shut down third-party technology that might help users resist enshittification. IP law is why you can't make a privacy-protecting ad-blocker for an app (and why companies are so desperate to get you to use their apps rather than the open web, and why apps are so dismally enshittified). IP law is why you can't make an alternative client that blocks algorithmic recommendations. IP law is why you can't leave Facebook for a new service and run a scraper that imports your waiting Facebook messages into a different inbox. IP law is why you can't scrape Facebook to catalog the paid political disinformation the company allows on the platform:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

IP law's growth has coincided with Facebook's ascendancy – the bigger Facebook got, the more tempting it was to interoperators who might want to plug new code into it to protect Facebook users, and the more powers Facebook had to block even the most modest improvements to its service. That meant that Facebook could enshittify even more, without worrying that it would drive users to take unilateral, permanent action that would deprive it of revenue, like blocking ads. Once ad-blocking is illegal (as it is on apps), there's no reason not to make ads as obnoxious as you want.

Of course, many Facebook employees cared about their users, and for most of the 21st century, those workers were a key asset for Facebook. Tech workers were in short supply until just a couple years ago, when the platforms started round after round of brutal layoffs – 260,000 in 2023, another 150,000+ in 2024. Facebook workers may be furious about Zuckerberg killing content moderation, but he's not worried about them quitting – not with a half-million skilled tech workers out there, hunting for jobs. Fuck 'em. Let 'em quit:

https://www.404media.co/its-total-chaos-internally-at-meta-right-now-employees-protest-zuckerbergs-anti-lgbtq-changes/

This is what changed: the collapse of market, government, and labor constraints, and IP law's criminalization of disenshittifying, interoperable add-ons. This is why Zuck, an eternal creep, is now letting his creep flag fly so proudly today. Not because he's a worse person, but because he understands that he can hurt his users and workers to benefit his shareholders without facing any consequences. Zuckerberg 2025 isn't the most evil Zuck, he's the most unconstrained Zuck.

Same goes for Twitter. I mean, obviously, there's been a change in management at Twitter – the guy who's enshittifying it today isn't the guy who enshittified it prior to last year. Musk is speedrunning the enshittification curve, and yet Twitter isn't collapsing. Why not? Because Musk is insulated from consequences for fucking up – he's got a huge cushion of wealth, he's got advertisers who are desperate to reach his users, he's got users who can't afford to leave the service, he's got IP law that he can use to block interoperators who might make it easier to migrate to a better service. He was always a greedy, sadistic asshole. Now he's an unconstrained greedy, sadistic asshole. Musk 2025 isn't a worse person than Musk 2020. He's just more free to act on his evil impulses than he was in years gone by.

These are the two factors that make services terrible: captive users, and no constraints. If your users can't leave, and if you face no consequences for making them miserable (not solely their departure to a competitor, but also fines, criminal charges, worker revolts, and guerrilla warfare with interoperators), then you have the means, motive and opportunity to turn your service into a giant pile of shit.

That's why we got Jack Welch and his acolytes when we did. There were always evil fuckers just like them hanging around, but they didn't get to run GM until Ronald Reagan took away the constraints that would have punished them for turning GE into a giant pile of shit. Every economy is forever a-crawl with parasites and monsters like these, but they don't get to burrow into the system and colonize it until policymakers create rips they can pass through.

In other words, the profit motive itself is not sufficient to cause enshittification – not even when a for-profit firm has to answer to VCs who would shut down the company or fire its leadership in the face of unsatisfactory returns. For-profit companies chase profit. The enshittifying changes to Facebook and Twitter are cruel, but the cruelty isn't the point: the point is profits. If the fines – or criminal charges – Facebook faced for invading our privacy exceeded the ad-targeting revenue it makes by doing so, it would stop spying on us. Facebook wouldn't like it. Zuck would hate it. But he'd do it, because he spies on us to make money, not because he's a voyeur.

To stop enshittification, it is not necessary to eliminate the profit motive – it is only necessary to make enshittification unprofitable.

This is not to defend capitalism. I'm not saying there's a "real capitalism" that's good, and a "crony capitalism" or "monopoly capitalism" that's bad. All flavors of capitalism harm working people and seek to shift wealth and power from the public and democratic institutions to private interests. But that doesn't change the fact that there are, indeed, different flavors of capitalism, and they have different winners and losers. Capitalists who want to sell apps on the App Store or reach customers through Facebook are technofeudalism's losers, while Apple, Facebook, Google, and other Big Tech companies are technofeudalism's great winners.

Smart leftism pays attention to these differences, because they represent the potential fault lines in capitalism's coalition. These people all call themselves capitalists, they all give money and support to political movements that seek to crush worker power and human rights – but when the platforms win, the platforms' business customers lose. They are irreconcilably on different sides of a capitalism-v-capitalism fight that is every bit as important to them as the capitalism-v-socialism fight.

I'm saying that it's good praxis to understand these divisions in capitalism, because then we can exploit those differences to make real, material gains for human thriving and worker rights. Lumping all for-profit businesses together as identical and irredeemable is bad tactics.

Legacy social media is at a turning point. Two new systems built on open standards have emerged as a credible threat to the zuckermuskian model: Mastodon (built on Activitypub) and Bluesky (built on Atproto). The former is far more mature, with a huge network of federated servers run by all different kinds of institutions, from hobbyists to corporations, and it's overseen by a nonprofit. The latter has far more users, and is a VC-backed corporate entity, and while it is hypothetically federatable, there are no Bluesky services apart from the main one that you can leave for if Bluesky starts to enshittify.

That means that Bluesky has a ton of captive users, and has the lack of constraint that characterizes the enshittified legacy platforms it has tempted tens of millions of users away from. This is not a good place to be in, because it means that if the current management choose to enshittify Bluesky, they can, and it will be profitable. It also means that the company's VCs understand that they could replace the current management and replace them with willing enshittifiers and make more money.

This is why Bluesky is in a dangerous place: not because it is backed by VCs, not because it is a for-profit entity, but because it has captive users and no constraints. It's a great party in a sealed building with no fire exits:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

Last week, I endorsed a project called Free Our Feeds, whose goals include hacking some fire exits into Bluesky by force majeure – that is, independently standing up an alternative Bluesky server that people can retreat to if Bluesky management changes, or has a change of heart:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/14/contesting-popularity/#everybody-samba

For some Mastodon users, Free Our Feeds is dead on arrival – why bother trying to make a for-profit project safer for its users when Mastodon is a perfectly good nonprofit alternative? Why waste millions developing a standalone Bluesky server rather than spending that money improving things in the Fediverse.

I believe strongly in improving the Fediverse, and I believe in adding the long-overdue federation to Bluesky. That's because my goal isn't the success of the Fediverse – it's the defeat of enshtitification. My answer to "why spend money fixing Bluesky?" is "why leave 20 million people at risk of enshittification when we could not only make them safe, but also create the toolchain to allow many, many organizations to operate a whole federation of Bluesky servers?" If you care about a better internet – and not just the Fediverse – then you should share this goal, too.

Many of the Fediverse's servers are operated by for-profit entities, after all. One of the Fediverse's largest servers (Threads) is owned by Meta. Threads users who feel the bite of Zuckerberg's decision to encourage homophobic, xenophobic and transphobic hate speech will find it easy to escape from Threads: they can set up on any Fediverse server that is federated with Threads and they'll be able to maintain their connections with everyone who stays behind.

The existence of for-profit servers in the Fediverse does not ruin the Fediverse (though I wouldn't personally use one of them). The fact that multiple neo-Nazi groups run their own Mastodon servers does not ruin the Fediverse (though I certainly won't use their servers). Not even the fact that Donald Trump's Truth Social is a Mastodon server does anything to ruin the Fediverse (not using that one, either).

This is the strength of federated, federatable social media – it disciplines enshittifiers by lowering switching costs, and if enshittifiers persist, it makes it easy for users to escape unshitted, because they don't have to solve the collective action problem. Any user can go to any server at any time and stay in touch with everyone else.

Mastodon was born free: free code, with free federation as a priority. Bluesky was not: it was born within a for-profit public benefit corporation whose charter offers some defenses against enshittification, but lacks the most decisive one: the federation that would let users escape should escape become necessary.

The fact that Mastodon was born free is quite unusual in the annals of the fight for a free internet. Most of the internet was born proprietary and had freedom foisted upon it. Unix was born within Bell Labs, property of the convicted monopolist AT&T. The GNU/Linux project set it free.

SMB was born proprietary within corporate walls of Microsoft, another corporate monopolist. SAMBA set it free.

The Office file formats were also born proprietary within Microsoft's walled garden: they were set free by hacker-activists who fought through a thick bureaucratic morass and Microsoft fuckery (including literally refusing to allow chairs to be set for advocates for Open Document Format) to give us formats that underlie everything from LibreOffice to Google Docs, Office365 to your web browser.

There is nothing unusual, in other words, about hacking freedom into something that is proprietary or just insufficiently free. That's totally normal. It's how we got almost everything great about computers.

Mastodon's progenitors should be praised for ensuring their creation was born free – but the fact that Bluesky isn't free enough is no reason to turn our back on it. Our response to anything that locks in the people we care about must be to shatter those locks, not abandon the people bound by the locks because they didn't heed to our warnings.

Audre Lorde is far smarter than me, but when she wrote that "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house," she was wrong. There is no toolset better suited to conduct an orderly dismantling of a structure than the tools that built it. You can be sure it'll have all the right screwdriver bits, wrenches, hexkeys and sockets.

Bluesky is fine. It has features I significantly prefer to Mastodon's equivalent. Composable moderation is amazing, both a technical triumph and a triumph of human-centered design:

https://bsky.social/about/blog/4-13-2023-moderation

I hope Mastodon adopts those features. If someone starts a project to copy all of Bluesky's best features over to Mastodon, I'll put my name to the crowdfunding campaign in a second.

But Mastodon has one feature that Bluesky sorely lacks – the federation that imposes antienshittificatory discipline on companies and offers an enshittification fire-exit for users if the discipline fails. It's long past time that someone copied that feature over to Bluesky.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/20/capitalist-unrealism/#praxis

212 notes · View notes

fictionaltrvlr · 7 days ago

Text

AITA for trying to save my friends’ life?

I know the title might make this seem obvious, but apparently everyone is mad at me.

I (30M) have these two coworkers who have become friends, let’s call them L (26M) and J (26F). Anonymous post since I work for the government.

Anyway, I’ve worked with J and L for roughly six months. They’re pretty nerdy and awkward, so I thought I’d be nice and try to be friendly with them. I don’t understand most of what they say and they’re honestly really annoying, so this was a very charitable gesture on my part. Since they’re highly intelligent, the relationship does have certain benefits in the field.

On to the issue at hand. As I mentioned, I work for the government. So my SO (supervising officer) informed me of a covert operation that was of immediate importance and I was assigned to go undercover with J and L since their branch was under investigation.

At the end of the assignment we’re meant to cut ties completely, which I was prepared for. However, as it progressed it became evident that my SO expected me to terminate these agents. I’m trying to be vague as this is all highly sensitive, you understand.

But I’d become rather attached to J and L, they really are like awkward little lizards you keep around to add ambience, and I thought they could be valuable in the future. The idea of killing them was not appealing.

So, I made a very, in my opinion, logical choice to do what I could to save their lives. Instead of shooting them in the head as I was expected to do, I jettisoned them out of an airlock in a containment pod over the ocean.

I know that might sound bad, but as I mentioned they are incredibly intelligent and could plausibly find a way to escape (which, to be clear, they DID). I think this was an admirably ingenious decision, since I’d be clear with my SO as no regular person could have survived this, but also clear by J and L since I gave them a chance.

But now my SO is angry with me and insisting that I should have personally finished the job, plus I’ve heard through my contacts that J and L are “furious” with me and feel “betrayed?” Which seems very clearly irrational to me since I saved their lives.

So, AITA for saving my friends’ life and completing my assignment?

Edit: Yes, I suppose this could be construed as “attempted murder,” but the whole thing is that they SURVIVED as I knew they would.

Edit: Okay guys, stop attacking me. If you lack reading comprehension, just say that. I SAVED THEIR LIVES because they definitely would have died if I hadn’t done what I did. And I don’t know where some of you got this idea that I’m in Hydra, because I’m not. But even if I was, that doesn’t make me a Nazi. I swear, you’re all so dramatic. Like watch the news?? SHIELD were the terrorists, and Hydra was only briefly associated with Nazis in the 1940s. But this is all besides the point! I kept this anonymous for a reason. You know doxxing is a crime right?? Which I know because I’m a government agent, okay?? Do you understand the concept of a low profile? Obviously i can’t tell you what branch of government I’m in, but I’m not Hydra. Calm down.

Edit: Also! I was literally abused as a child, okay? So maybe I’m not great at forming friendships, but it’s not my fault. My brother gave me some profound trust issues and this is NOT helping. And I have, like, PTSD from all the incredibly confidential cases I’ve been involved in. You know you’re basically attacking a veteran, right? You should be thanking me for everything I’ve done for this country. It’s actually really ableist. And this is not a platform for all your Hydra conspiracy theories okay? You’re completely derailing my original post with irrelevant speculation.

Edit: You can stop now! I get it. You think I’m the asshole. Whatever. And I am not “crashing out,” okay? As if I care about the opinions of a bunch of teenagers on Reddit. And that’s what it is: and opinion!! That doesn’t make you right. I’m deleting this.

#is this accurate? it feels accurate lmao #grant ward #aita #jemma simmons #leo fitz #agents of shield #aitah #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#fitzsimmons #am i the asshole #my incorrect quotes :)

79 notes · View notes

mapsthewanderer · 3 months ago

Text

The Maze

Synopsis: In a future where war and technology have blurred the line between man and machine, Caleb was resurrected—not as who he was, but as who he was programmed to be. With only 3% of his original self left intact, the latest reboot of his chip has reshaped his logic, his purpose, and his understanding of his emotions towards you.

Bound by his own design, he has built you the Maze—a flawless, shifting sanctuary meant to protect the one person he refuses to lose. But protection and captivity are two sides of the same coin, and inside the Maze, freedom is just another unsolvable puzzle.

Will you escape, or will Stockholm Syndrome take hold before that day?

Details: 2300ish words. Some kind of spin off AU, but corresponds with in-game canons. Obsessive Caleb. Yandere Caleb. Controlling Caleb. Colonel Caleb. Crazy hot Caleb. 18+ due to psychological thriller/drama/angst galore (and a prelude for p0rn with plot, I’m just calling it now tbh lol). You are warned. Heavy kissing. Angst, love and lust.

Chapters: chapter one, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight (final chapter)

Tags: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290

Obstacles | Chapter two

The Maze, obstacle course, you

You stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of your muscles, the slight pop in your shoulders as your spine straightens. The synthetic track beneath your feet is firm yet springy, engineered to absorb impact and propel movement. A faint haze of warmth lingers in the air, artificial sunlight streaming in from panels above, casting a glow over the sleek, towering obstacles ahead.

You weren’t obligated to do this.

The obstacle course was optional, designed for physical and mental enhancement. Caleb had insisted it was meant to keep you sharp, capable. You could have refused. Could have spent the morning pacing your room, pressing your forehead against the glass, carving another tally into your headboard.

But there were only so many ways to kill time in a cage.

At least this gave you something to do.

At least this kept you moving.

Caleb had woken you up in person today.

It had thrown you off balance—the way he leaned down, his fingers brushing against your temple before he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead.

“Up for a morning workout, Pips?”

His voice had been smooth, teasing, warm in a way that felt too familiar.

You had barely muttered a response, still heavy with sleep, and he had laughed.

But then—something came up. Fleet business.

Now, instead of running beside him, you were stuck with his voice crackling through the intercom.

“Don’t pout too much, Pips.” His voice is warm, threaded with amusement. “I did promise to watch closely, didn’t I? And look at you, so eager to run—should I be worried? I might be training you straight into an escape attempt.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your stance, adjusting the fit of your training gear—lightweight, breathable, the fabric stretching effortlessly with your movements.

“Yeah, yeah. If you’re getting nervous, feel free to let me win for once.”

“Oh, you were winning? I must’ve missed that part.”

The voice crackles through the intercom, laced with unmistakable amusement. There’s no need for eye contact to feel the weight of the challenge—it’s there in the deliberate pause before the words land, in the way the speaker’s tone tilts just slightly, teasing but edged with something sharper. A low hum of static lingers, like the last breath of a smirk that refuses to be seen but demands to be felt. Even from a distance, even without a face to match the voice, the message is clear: this isn’t just a battle—it’s a game, and Caleb’s daring you to play harder.

You exhale slowly, centering yourself. The air smells faintly of synthetic grass and heated rubber, the artificial breeze cool against the back of your neck.

The course ahead is a beast of a thing. A complex structure of towering walls, shifting platforms, narrow beams, and high-speed hurdles.

And at the end—the vertical climb.

No footholds. No obvious way up. Just a sheer surface that will demand every ounce of strength and focus.

“Alright, Pip-squeak. First section should be easy enough, even for you. Just a few hurdles—try not to trip over your own feet this time, yeah?”

You don’t answer.

You just move.

Your feet hit the ground in quick, rhythmic strides, the controlled force of each step echoing in the open space. The first hurdle approaches fast—your muscles tighten, breath sharp as you spring forward.

You clear it easily.

Then the next.

By the time you clear the fourth, Caleb whistles low through the speakers.

“Would you look at that? Almost like you’ve done this before.”

You huff, rolling forward into the next section.

The second phase demands precision. A suspended grid of hanging rings, swaying slightly from the motion sensors embedded in the walls.

You leap, fingers catching the first metal ring. The cold steel bites into your palm, the impact reverberating through your shoulders.

Swing.

Once.

Twice.

Release—catch.

Your breath stays measured, controlled, arms straining as you propel yourself forward.

“Good form,” Caleb muses, his voice a steady hum in your ear. “Should I be concerned about how quickly you’re adapting? What if you actually try to leave me, Pips?”

Your fingers tighten on the next ring.

“Then you’ll just have to catch me, won’t you?”

Silence.

Just a beat.

Then—

“I always do.”

You don’t let yourself linger on that.

The next challenge demands balance.

A narrow beam suspended above an artificial water pit, mist curling lazily along its surface.

The air feels thicker here, damp with humidity, the sound of faintly trickling water echoing against the walls. You shift your weight carefully, adjusting your center of gravity as you step forward, bare skin brushing against the cool metal of the beam.

Breathe.

Step.

“You know, you’ve gotten good at this. Maybe I should make it harder.”

You scoff, adjusting your footing as you near the end. “Oh, what, you’re not entertained enough?”

“Always entertained by you.”

Something in your chest tightens.

You ignore it.

The final stretch is the hardest. The vertical climb. It looms ahead—a sheer, impossibly smooth surface.

The only way up? The hidden grips embedded within the wall, triggered only by the correct sequence.

Caleb’s voice is lighter now, almost pleased. “Last one, Pips. Think you’ll impress me?”

You exhale, rolling your shoulders.

Then—you run.

Your muscles coil, tighten—

You leap.

Fingers catch the first grip, muscles screaming as you haul yourself up. The second grip activates beneath your palm, lighting up for just a second before fading again.

The strain burns.

Your breath is sharper now, every inhale pulling tight against your ribs.

Higher.

Just a little higher.

Then—

Your foot slips.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat.

Your fingers scramble—desperate, grasping—

And miss.

The world tilts violently.

Your stomach plummets as gravity rips you down.

The impact doesn’t come.

Not yet.

“Shit—!”

Caleb’s voice cracks through the speakers—urgent, raw, all teasing gone.

“I’m coming—”

Then—

Silence.

——————————————————————————

The Fleet, Administrative Wing, Caleb

Caleb slam his hands against the desk, pushing himself up so fast that the chair scrapes against the polished floor, nearly toppling over. His breath sharpens, too shallow, too fast—his body reacting before his mind fully processes.

Every calculation, every emergency override, every subconscious thread of what is left of him is running at full capacity.

Error.//// Unknown variable detected.//// Immediate action required.////

The static in his earpiece hums, then goes silent.

No new sound.

No movement.

No voice.

No you.

A violent pulse slams through his chest. His fingers flex, tightening into fists before releasing—repeating, repeating—because something inside him is trying to override, trying to force calm.

It’s not working.

His voice is smooth, authoritative, clipped to perfection when he turns toward the nearest officer.

“I’m unavailable for the rest of the day. Do not contact me unless we are under direct attack.”

The officer barely nods before Caleb is already moving.

Not walking.

Running.

By the time he steps out of the office building, his breath is uneven, his heart hammering in a way that is entirely foreign to him.

The cool air hits his face, but it doesn’t soothe the heat rising beneath his skin.

His boots strike the ground too hard, too fast. His movements—normally precise, efficient—are bordering on reckless.

The Maze is too far.

The seconds are too long.

And for the first time in a long time, Caleb isn’t calculating anything at all.

He’s just running.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, obstacle course, you

The world tilts violently.

Your stomach lurches, weightless for a sickening heartbeat before gravity rips you down.

Wind roars past your ears, your limbs flailing instinctively, desperately, reaching for something, anything—but there’s nothing.

For a split second, your mind processes too slowly.

The sheer drop. The smooth, pitiless ground below. The inevitability.

Then—

Impact.

It feels like your bones rattle inside your body. Your shoulder slams first, force rippling through your ribs, pain detonating like an explosion beneath your skin.

Your head snaps back against the unforgiving surface, a white-hot crack bursting behind your eyes.

The world spins, flickers, darkens.

A dull, startled sound slips from your lips.

“…Ouch.”

Then—blackness.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, obstacle course, Caleb

By the time he bursts through the entrance of the Maze, his breath is uneven, his heart slamming so violently it feels like a malfunction.

His vision narrows, focuses—searching, searching, searching—

Then—

His breath stalls.

You are crumpled at the base of the climbing obstacle.

Motionless.

Too still. Too silent.

Something inside him fractures. The noise that rips from his throat is raw, sharp, barely human.

“Shit—Pip-squeak—”

Caleb’s on his knees beside you before he even realizes he moved. His hands hover—trembling, unsure, fucking terrified.

He’s scared to touch you. You look fragile like this.

He leans in listening. Your breathing is shallow, too faint. Blood—there’s blood. A thin, slow trickle near your temple, trailing into your hair.

His own breath hitches—breaks. Caleb rips off his gloves, throws them aside, because they’re useless, they’re too thick, he needs to feel you. His bare fingers graze your cheek, feather-light.

Too cold.

You’re too cold.

The pressure in his chest doubles, triples, crushes. His forehead presses against yours, his breath shaky as he swallows against the fear crawling up his throat.

“Come on, Pips. Stay with me, okay?”

He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone, barely a touch. Caleb’s body isn’t working right. His hands aren’t steady.

Something in his vision blurs.

No.

Not now.

Not you.

He never gets desperate.

Never.

But his voice is desperate now. “You always fight me, Pips. So fight me now, alright? Just—just open your eyes, give me some shit about how this is my fault, I don’t care—”

Then—your eyelids flutter and a ragged, strangled sound falls from Caleb’s lips.

—————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, you

The first thing you see is frantic violet.

Caleb’s eyes—wide, wild, unguarded.

He’s so close, bracing over you, hands framing your face like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You try to speak, but your tongue is heavy, your thoughts fogged.

“I… think I should be unconscious.” Your voice is thin, barely there.

Caleb chokes on a laugh—

“Yeah, well, you might get your wish, Pips—”

Then—blackness again.

——————————————————————————

Warmth.

Soft sheets. The faint scent of linen, antiseptic, and something achingly familiar.

You hurt. A bruising soreness that weighs you down like lead. Your ribs—your torso—you don’t even want to think about it. The pain lingers, dull and distant, as if your body is holding back the worst of it.

Yet in that dulled pain there is a constant. A light tapping against your hand. Deliberate. Repetitive. At first, it barely registers, just a soft pressure against your skin. But then—the pattern.

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- .. .----. -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--

.. .----. -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.

Even before you fully comprehend it, your fingers move on instinct. A weak, feeble tap in response.

-.-. .- .-.. . -… / -.. ..- – – -.–

Caleb dummy

The tapping stops.

Then, a squeeze—gentle, hesitant, like he’s not sure if he imagined something.

You shift, just barely, and Caleb’s grip tightens. Not rough. Just firm. Just desperate.

His breath stutters. A sharp, shuddering gasp. The sound of air being sucked in like a drowning man breaking the surface.

“Pip-squeak—”

You blink, vision adjusting. And for a second, you don’t recognize him. Because this isn’t the Caleb you know now. This isn’t the Maze’s warden.

This is the boy you lost.

His hair is a mess, strands sticking to his forehead, like he’s run his hands through it too many times. His jaw is clenched too tight, his violet eyes rimmed red, glossy with something too human.

And yet—he’s still beautiful.

Even like this. Especially like this.

He leans in, so careful, as if he’s scared to break you. Fingers brush over your hair, soft and slow.

“Don’t do that again.” His voice is wrecked.

A plea, not a command.

You don’t know who he is right now. But you know one thing—

This is the Caleb you remember.

The one you lost.

And that destroys you.

The ache that’s been festering inside you since his reboot—longing, grief, frustration, something darker, something deeper—it all snaps at once.

You grab him.

Fingers buried in his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, pulling him toward you. His body locks up, every muscle tensing, his breath shuddering as your grip tightens.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then—your lips crash against his.

It’s weak at first—but it’s not hesitant. It’s needy, desperate, raw.

Caleb shudders. A sharp inhale, a ragged noise that sounds almost pained as his fingers flex against the sheets.

Then—he breaks.

His hands snap up, one cradling your jaw, the other gripping the back of your neck, tilting your head so he can devour you properly.

And devour you, he does.

The moment he kisses you back, it’s not careful.

It’s hungry.

His lips crush against yours, parting just enough for his breath to mix with yours, his tongue sliding against the seam of your lips like he needs more. Caleb’s body presses closer, nearly crawling onto the bed, caging you in with his warmth. His grip is firm but reverent, like he’s afraid to hurt you but more afraid to stop.

A low, almost desperate groan rumbles in his throat, vibrating against your lips.

Your chest tightens, breath catching, every nerve lighting up under his touch.

Then—he pulls back, just an inch.

His lips hover over yours, his breath ragged, uneven. His violet eyes—heavy, dilated, starving—lock onto yours.

And then, because he’s still Caleb, even now—

He smirks—

His voice is low, husky, wrecked.

“If I knew concussions made you affectionate, I would’ve dropped you myself.”

You barely have time to laugh—weak, breathless—before he’s on you again.

But this time, it’s different.

This time, he takes.

His mouth crashes onto yours, hotter, deeper, teeth scraping against your lower lip before he soothes it with his tongue. His hand slips under the blanket, fingertips skimming over your waist, tracing the curve of your hip like he’s memorizing it.

Your breath catches—sharp, shaky.

His does, too.

His body is so warm, so solid against yours. His scent—leather, metal, something inherently Caleb—fills your senses, making you dizzier than the concussion ever could.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this forever.

Like he’s starved.

Like he’s afraid he’ll never get another chance.

His fingers tighten against you, his breath coming harder now, like he’s barely keeping himself from completely losing it.

You’re both so wrapped up in the heat, the want, the sheer overwhelming intensity of it—

That neither of you notices it happening.

Not until it’s too late.

Not until Caleb’s breath suddenly stutters—

And his whole body seizes.

For a split second, you think he’s just overcome.

That he’s pausing, collecting himself, trying to steady the sharp, frenzied pull between you.

Then—

His whole form locks up.

And then, without warning—

He collapses.

His weight slams forward, forehead crashing into your stomach, body folding over you from the chair beside the bed.

The shock knocks the air from your lungs.

“Caleb—?!”

Nothing.

No response.

His shoulders tremble.

His breathing is wrong—too sharp, too erratic. His fingers spasm weakly against the sheets, grasping at nothing.

Your hand shoots to his hair, pushing his bangs back, fingers threading through the damp strands.

“Caleb.”

Still, no response.

But then—

A whisper.

So soft, so wrecked, barely a breath against your stomach.

”…Don’t go.”

The sound cuts through you like a knife.

This isn’t possessive.

This isn’t commanding.

It’s pleading.

It’s broken.

And just like that—the man who kissed you like he owned you is now crumbling in your lap.

——————————————————————————

Chapter three

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: That’s the intro done, ya’ll! I’m so excited icl. I love their communication in morse code, the tension, the pull, the emotions~. The next chapters will be longer, so you are hereby warned. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

#i loved writing this #love and deepspace #caleb #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads caleb #fanfic caleb #reader x caleb #you x caleb #love and deepspace caleb #fanfic love and deepspace #fanfiction caleb #love and deepspace fanfic #fanfic #the maze #caleb x you

92 notes · View notes