#a joyful future

[winterscaptain]

focus. (18+)

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: this is texting-as-foreplay, lets be real also, derek and emily being nosy is canon behavior. follow up tomorrow!!

beta'd by @ssaic-jareau who basically should be credited as a co-writer at this point.

words: 6.9k content advisories: language, sexual content, oral (m&f receiving), sexually explicit language, if ur grossed out by bjs (like haley lmao) go ahead and skip a lil bit of this, sexting

minors dni and i'm not kidding!!!

summary: “texting is a supremely secretive medium of communication - it's like passing a note - and this means we should be very careful what we use it for.” --lynne truss. november 14th, 2011.

Your finger traces your lip as you stare through your computer monitor, completely lost in the rather distracting and intrusive memory of about 10 hours ago. You haven’t moved, scrolled, or typed anything in eight minutes. 

“That’s it, baby, let go. Let me see.” Aaron’s hand slides up your chest in the valley of your sternum and stops at the hollow of your throat. “You’re so pretty like this, so—“

Your phone buzzes. You jump and grab it. 

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (1)

8:04am Hey. Focus.

You swallow, taking a breath and shaking yourself out of it. You can almost feel him watching you from his office. 

8:04am I was focused.

8:04am Not on your work.

8:05am Focus is focus. 8:05am And what, did you want me to start writing a report about last night?

8:06am Depends. Are you citing sources? Quoting directly from the text? 

Your lips press together, fighting a laugh as you reply, your thumbs flying. 

8:07am You have a performance review coming up. There are team evals in there, you know. 8:07am You should be nicer to me.

8:08am Sweetheart, I know you don’t have any complaints about my performance. 

Your stomach flips. Your pulse kicks up—so violently that you have to set your phone down and turn away from his window. 

And that is exactly when Derek walks up, arms crossed, his eyes far too critical for this early in the morning. You can almost hear Aaron’s stupid little chuckle from your desk.

He’s probably so pleased with himself right now. 

“Alright,” he says, tilting his head. “What’s going on?”

You school your face into something neutral. “What?”

“That.” He gestures to you, his eyes narrowing. “That little smug thing you’re doing.”

“I am not—”

Your phone buzzes on your desk.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, no way. You’re texting someone. Someone who’s putting that look on your face.”

You pointedly pick up your pen instead. “No. I’m working.”

Upstairs, Aaron leans back in his chair, watching this unfold with entirely too much amusement.

Your phone buzzes again. You pick it up, ignoring and combatting Derek’s attempts to read it. 

8:10am We really need to work on your poker face. 

8:11am “Working.”

Your jaw tightens. You’ll just keep it in your hand. 

Derek, watching way too closely, tips his head. “You sure about that?”

Another buzz.

8:11am You owe me an email, you know. We’re both in that thread with CARD. 

You exhale through your nose.

Derek leans in. “Who is it?”

Your phone buzzes again.

8:12am Whatever you do, don’t glare at my office.

Your eyes flicker toward the window—before you can catch yourself.

8:12am Good catch! 8:12am You’re terrible at this. 8:12am :)

Before you can shut Derek down, Emily strolls in with her coffee. “What’s going on?”

Derek betrays you instantly.

“Oh, nothing, just that someone is texting us, making us smile like an idiot during business hours.” 

The royal “we” is absurd. 

Emily’s entire body perks up. “Oh my God, who?!”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temples. “You are both insufferable.”

Derek smirks. “And you have a man.”

Emily gasps, delighted. “Is this the same man?”

Your phone buzzes.

You do not look at it.

Emily zeroes in. “You didn’t even check that. That means something. Who is it?”

Derek leans against your desk. “Wouldn’t say.”

Emily presses her hands together. “Who do we know?”

Your grip tightens around your pen.

Another buzz. 

8:14am I’ll rescue you if you want. 8:14am But you’ll have to ask nicely. 

You let out a slow breath. Jesus, Aaron. 

Emily gasps, pointing at you. “Ohhh, it’s someone we know.”

Fuckin’ profilers. 

Derek nods, arms crossing. “See? I knew it. It’s gotta be someone in the Bureau.”

Emily tilts her head. “Or adjacent. Task force? Military? Hill staffer?”

Derek rubs his chin. “Nah. She’s the one smiling. He’s gotta have the upper hand.”

Emily squints. “It’s an instructor.”

Derek snaps his fingers. “It’s totally an instructor.” He turns to you. “You have a teacher thing, right?” 

You take a deep, steady breath. “I do not have a ‘teacher thing.’”

Bzzt

8:15am News to me. 

If he makes me laugh right now, I swear… 

Emily gasps again, her brain working overtime. “It’s an agent in another unit.”

Derek nods immediately. “That checks out. You like the brainy ones.”

Emily’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, it’s SWAT.”

Derek tilts his head. “You do have a type. Tactically competent control freaks, mostly.”

Your eye twitches. “Can you just? Go back to your office and work on something?”

Derek grins. “Are you working?”

“We’re just asking questions.” Emily sips her coffee, looking way too proud of herself. 

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I hate both of you.”

Derek pats your shoulder. “That’s love, baby.”

He and Emily do, in fact, make their way out of the bullpen, looking over their shoulders every couple of steps. 

Your phone buzzes. 

8:18am Enjoying yourself?

You reply. 

8:18am Fuck. Off. 

 The reply is near instantaneous. 

8:19am Make me. 

You walked into that one. And you nearly, nearly start typing before you catch yourself. You drop your phone face down and lean back with a sigh that is, unfortunately, also a smile.

Bzzt 

You turn to your computer and take a breath, replying to that thread Aaron mentioned, just for the bit. 

Bzzt

It’s hard to keep a straight face, but you figure now is as good a time as any to practice your impression of Aaron. You make a point of responding with alarming efficiency to emails he and Derek are CC’d on, totally neutral. 

Bzzt 

...

Bzzt

Some case notes. Very clean, very crisp. 

Bzzt

You glance at your phone, face down on the desk. 

He really wants my attention…interesting. 

Your email chimes. 

FROM: Morgan, Derek F SSA <derek.f.morgan@fbi.justice.gov> SUBJECT: I stand corrected So you actually are working?? — SSA Derek Morgan, JD, MS

You roll your eyes and reply. 

Bzzt 

You ignore it, your fingers flying. 

TO: Morgan, Derek F SSA <derek.f.morgan@fbi.justice.gov> BCC: Hotchner, Aaron B SSA <aaron.b.hotchner@fbi.justice.gov> SUBJECT: I stand corrected I’m always working!! Xx :)

You answer another—this one actually from Aaron, with a deliverable, no less. You flick the finished attachment into the email and send it, sitting back in your chair, finally picking up your phone. 

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (7)

Seven?!

You turn in your chair to look and find him minding his own damn business (for once), his right elbow resting on the desk, his jaw resting in his hand, his left hand on his mouse. 

With a short little interested hum, you unlock your phone. 

8:20am That face you’re making isn’t very professional. Do you need a break?

8:21am I looked over your notes from the CARD briefing. You missed a line in your summary.

You absolutely did not. 

8:23am Probably distracted. Long night.

8:27am Be honest. Are you working, or are you writing a very detailed mental recap?

8:34am  If you’re sore, you can blame me. But I don’t think you’re complaining.

Alright. Amping things up. You take an even breath through your nose and resist the urge to shift in your seat. 

The effect he has on you really isn’t fair. 

It’s never been fair, but now he knows. 

The next set? Back to back. 

8:41am You looked so sweet last night, your pussy holding onto me so tight. I almost felt bad making you cry. 8:41am If I sat you on my desk right now and spread your thighs, how wet would I find you?

And then—a laugh.

Sharp. Stunned. Shocked. Uncontained.

You slap a hand over your mouth and spin slightly in your chair, eyes wide—no one in earshot. No witnesses.

Thank God.

You exhale hard through your nose, heart pounding like he touched you, like he whispered that filth against your skin instead of wrote it, in front of God and everybody, on your phone.

You dare to glance up.

Aaron’s at his desk. Stoic. Unreadable. The very picture of professionalism.

Same posture: Left hand on his mouse. Right hand curled under his chin. Not even glancing your way.

Unmoved. Untouched.

Like he didn’t just send you… that.

You recover, returning to your work, and decide to ignore him. 

+++

You answer emails. 

Update a case file with some unsurprisingly salient notes from your conversation with the case officer yesterday. 

Finish the interdepartmental CARD summary with irritating precision.

You sip your coffee. Adjust a typo.

You don’t look up.

Behind the glass, Aaron’s dying. Phone balanced on his knee. Seven messages and no reply.

Not a glance. Not a twitch. Not even a ghost of a smirk. A glassy lake, placid and serene. 

You’re pretending he doesn’t exist.

And he’s pretending not to notice.

+++

You scroll through the messages again.

Each one, slowly.

Letting them settle. Letting them simmer.

Your jaw tightens. Your mouth twitches.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

It doesn’t work.

Your thumbs move fast.

8:56am Awfully big… ego you have up there, Agent Hotchner.

Send. 

Delivered.

And then?

You set your phone down. Face-down. Spin back to your monitor. And get to work.

Like you didn’t just throw a match.

Like you’re not waiting for the smoke.

+++

His phone buzzes and he’s almost embarrassed by how quickly he picks it up and unlocks it. 

Messages Second (1)

He shakes his head. Just one? You’re joking. 

8:56am Awfully big… ego you have up there, Agent Hotchner.

He exhales hard through his nose.

A soundless laugh. A blink slower than the last.

His jaw ticks once, just enough. He checks on you. 

Unmoved. Insane. 

And it’s not even 9am. 

+++

You continue to work.

Actually work.

You finish two emails. Format your draft for that consult follow-up. Review a request for cross-divisional resource hours.

You even refill your coffee.

It’s virtuous, really. Professional.

Except your phone stays face-down.

Not even a glance.

Just enough self-control to make him suffer.

Just enough to make yourself ache.

And then—conveniently, mercifully, maybe even a little cruelly—you remember the consult analysis. The really good, publishable one you both started in the spring before Pakistan, finally rounding out with your contributions. 

You need his signature. 

You could scan it later, you could wait until lunch, you could even pretend it’s not urgent—but the printer is right there, and you’re feeling generous.

Or reckless.

Or both.

You hit print.

The pages whirr out behind you.

You take your time walking it upstairs.

+++

He doesn’t look up right away.

His pen scratches against the page—form review, by the look of it. His brow is furrowed in that way it is when he tries to pretend he’s concentrated. 

A legal pad open beside him, mug near-empty at his elbow, tie just a little crooked.

God, he’s trying to act normal. It’s absurd.

You knock your knuckle twice on the doorframe and step in, the file in your other hand.

“Need your signature on the consult analysis from the spring. Strauss is looking to publish.”

He looks up—slow, measured.

His gaze tracks from your face to the paper, then to your eyes.

And there’s a beat.

Just one.

One breath of awareness, of weight, of memory.

“Of course,” he says. Like it’s nothing. 

You step forward, set the page in front of him.

He doesn’t touch it right away.

Doesn’t pick up the pen.

Just looks down, eyes catching on the line above his—your signature already there.

He stares at it.

Just for a second too long. He lets himself imagine for a moment—

Same page. 

Same line of text. 

Same name, different hands.

That’s enough of that. 

You watch his eyes move—slow, reverent. Like the presence of your signature has undone him more than the texts ever could.

Then his pen moves.

He signs.

A flick of ink. A practiced stroke.

The crossbar of the A forming the crossbar of the H in a familiar, unbroken, almost star-like shape. 

But it’s deliberate. Personal.

“You gonna read my section?” You almost hoped he would. It is, honestly, really good. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t need to.” He pauses, his voice smooth, but tight. “Anything else?”

“Not right now,” you say, your voice just as even.

But when your fingers brush as you take the page back, his hand lingers.

And your pulse jumps.

+++

The ride home is quiet. Your car is “under recall” this week so you can drive in together in the mornings. 

Jack is in the backseat, almost snoozing in his car seat after a full day of kindergarten. 

The sky is soft with dusk. The traffic hums low and steady. Your hand finds his on the center console like it’s muscle memory. His fingers slide between yours without looking.

And that’s it. Nothing else.

Just that small point of contact—warm, grounding, maddening. His thumb strokes yours once, absentminded.

And the ache rolls through you like a swelling tide.

You know those fingers. You know that pressure.

You know how those fingers feel deep inside you.

How they move when he’s coaxing you open, when he’s making you come apart.

You know how those hands pin you to the mattress, cup your jaw, catch in your hair, press bruises into your hips and thighs.  

But here, in the car, with Jack humming to himself in the backseat?

He’s just holding your hand. Like he’s done a thousand times. Like it’s innocent.

But it’s not. It’s excruciating. Every red light is a punishment.

Every slow turn another second of not kissing him.

You glance over once.

He’s watching the road, jaw tight, the tendons in his wrist shifting as he adjusts his grip on your hand.

“You okay?” You ask, voice low. 

He nods. Swallows. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine,” you lie. Your thumb drags over the pulse point at his wrist.

It jumps.

Neither of you say anything else.

+++

You’re still shaking out of the tension when you walk through the door.

But Jack barrels ahead—backpack flying, shoes kicked off, jacket on the floor.

“Can we have quesadillas?”

Aaron looks at you. “What do you think?”

You’re a little touched he’s asking you at all. “I think that’s perfectly fine as long as they have a green friend.” 

Jack groans. “Carrots aren’t green.”

“They are not,” you concede. “But lucky for you I think we have some buttery garlic broccoli.”

He pulls a face. Aaron smiles. 

You pause, your brow crinkling as you study the little trail he’s made. “Shoes and jacket in their spots please! All items in this house have homes; let’s make sure they get there.”

+++

The kitchen is warm, lived-in, as the two of you work side by side

You dice peppers while Aaron taps butter into a pan. Jack sets the table and gets started on homework. You’ll have to re-set the table. 

Aaron brushes past you once, then again, his hand grazing your back every time—like he can’t help himself.

“You’re in my space,” you murmur, sing-song. 

He hums. “You like it.”

He’s got you there.

+++

Jack talks about a classmate’s science fair project and how his teacher said he was good at reading aloud.

Aaron listens like he doesn’t already know this—like he didn’t read the progress report that morning. 

You keep one eye on the broccoli, one ear on the rhythm of their back-and-forth, and think, maybe, that this is easy.

Too easy, almost. 

It’s not alarming. 

Jack clears his plate without being asked. You rinse, Aaron dries and loads the dishwasher (incorrectly, but it’s fine). 

When you pass him a glass, he takes it and kisses the side of your head without thinking.

You freeze, the dam broken. 

Then you keep going.

+++

Jack brushes his teeth. You read the first few pages of Charlotte's Web while Aaron finishes an email on the couch.

Already dozing a little, Jack asks, “Will you be here in the morning?”

You lean down and kiss his forehead. “Yessir. That’s the plan. Dad and I will take you to school tomorrow if you’re okay with that.”

He nods. 

You continue to read. 

+++

The moment his son’s door clicks shut, the air shifts.

You don’t even make it halfway down the hallway before his hand catches yours—spinning you into his space like a secret.

You gasp, stumbling slightly, and then he’s right there. You let him pull you into his chest, hands flat, fingers spread across low across his abdomen, under his ribs, the heat of him radiating through the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He exhales slowly, but you can feel how tightly wound he is. You can feel it in the way he leans just enough to rest his forehead against yours, like he needs the contact to settle.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says, voice low enough that it brushes against your collarbone. “That look you gave me in the office… you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You smile, slow and shameless. “Of course I did. And you started it.”

His hands slide down your back to your hips. He doesn’t grip hard, but the pressure is steady, heavy. “You have no idea what it did to me—watching you work, ignoring me, knowing you were doing it just to get under my skin.”

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle and facetious all at once. “I think I have some idea.”

He groans softly, then leans in to kiss you fully—deep, thorough, with the kind of patience that makes your knees weak. His mouth moves like he’s trying to make up for every minute he had to keep his distance. You feel his restraint thrumming beneath the surface, taut and barely holding.

“I watched you dice peppers,” he murmurs against your lips. “I stood beside you and tried to pretend it wasn’t killing me.”

“You’re very dramatic,” you whisper.

“You’re very mean,” he returns. His nose brushes yours. “And I love it.”

You laugh, quiet in the dark, and that’s when he crowds you, walking you backward until you hit the wall with a light thump, just enough to jar you. He doesn’t press—just stands close enough that your chest brushes his with every breath. He braces one of his hands on the wall by your head. 

“We made dinner together,” you murmur, still breathless. “Cleaned up. Read bedtime stories.”

His eyes are darker now. “And I only touched you once.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

He grins, actually grins, and kisses you again, a little rougher now. His hand moves under your shirt, skimming your skin, reverent. His mouth wanders down, under your jaw, under your ear. 

“I want you,” he says against your throat, almost like it hurts. “I want all of you. And I want to take my time.”

Your hand slides between you, drawing his face back to yours with a hand on his jaw. You kiss him back, and it’s messier this time. More honest. He’s pulling at your shirt and breathing hard and you’re already thinking about how fast you can get to the bedroom.

“You better,” you say between kisses. “I’ve been thinking about your hands since noon.”

He laughs into your mouth. “You want to start a list?”

“Already done.”

He presses his mouth to your neck, to the hollow behind your ear, and you feel the heat pulse between your legs like muscle memory. You could come undone right here, just from the promise in his voice.

“Bedroom?” you ask, already breathless.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re not sleeping at your place tonight.”

“No,” you agree. “I’m really not.”

“Good.” His voice drops, lips brushing your cheek. “Because I plan on keeping you up.”

He kisses you like he’s nineteen again and never learned patience. You return the favor. 

It’s messy.

Open-mouthed.

Teeth and tongue and lips that won’t stop moving.

His hands are under your shirt, on your hips, your ribs, your bra. He can’t decide where to land, just knows he needs skin. You’re already gasping against him, fisting the hem of his t-shirt, dragging your hands up his chest, raking through his still-long hair. 

He palms your ass like he’s trying to memorize it. 

You laugh breathlessly against his mouth. “You good?”

He shakes his head and kisses you again, harder this time. “Not even close.”

You tilt your head to deepen the kiss and he groans—actually groans, still quiet enough for the hallway—into your mouth, pressing you firmer against the wall. Your knees go soft, but he’s already there, already holding you up with a thigh between yours, grinding slow and heavy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“You’ve got me,” you whisper, just to say it.

His breath catches.

“I know.”

He kisses you again, slower this time. Still messy, still hot—but with a kind of wonder that makes your chest ache.

You stay there like that—teenagers, idiots, completely obsessed—for another full minute before you both remember you have a perfectly good bed down the hall.

And then you’re leading him, taking him by the hand to his own bedroom while he walks behind you, a stupid grin on his face. 

The door closes behind him. 

You move quickly then.

Turn. Step into his space.

You crowd him back until his shoulders hit the closed door. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough to remind him who has the upper hand. Who’s in control.

And the shift is immediate.

He exhales—shaky. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down to your mouth. His turn for muscle memory.

But this time?

He’s waiting on you. 

You lean in, slow and certain, your voice soft and dangerous as it brushes against his lips.

”So,” you start. “Those sneaky little texts today.” You press your lips to his and he moves to reciprocate. You pull away. He chases. He runs out of leash. His eyes narrow. 

“You think about laying me out on your desk and having your way with me?”

You tilt your head. Sweet. Mocking. A blade wrapped in silk.

“Hmm? Is that what gets you through? Thinking about how wet I’ve been, all day, just for you? Hm?”

And Aaron—

He dies.

His head tips back against the door with a dull thud, eyes fluttering shut for half a second like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His breath leaves him like a man in freefall.

“Ahh, fuck—” he groans, a hand coming up to your waist, not to stop you, just to hold on. “I lose. It’s over.”

You giggle, dropping all flirt. “Was that even a question?”

Even after everything you’ve said—how sharp you were, how in control—you can see the shift in his expression as he lets it hit him all at once.

The humor. The heat. The play. The way you’ve been messing with  him all damn day like it’s nothing.

You watch him grin, slow and helpless, that rare little huff of breath through his nose like he can’t believe his luck.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, his voice still rough from everything you’ve stirred up.

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the one who got flustered by a desk fantasy, Agent Hotchner.”

He shakes his head, full smile now. “You are endlessly adorable.”

You blink, taken off guard by the softness. “That was not the goal.”

His hands slide up your sides like he’s claiming territory. “Too bad. You’re also infuriating and smart and—” his fingers trace your jaw, his eyes drinking you in like he might never get another chance— “so precious to me.”

And it’s not a line. It’s not a play. It’s the truth.

You feel it settle in your chest like something warm and permanent.

You kiss him again, and this time it’s different.

Less teasing. Less push and pull.

More give. More yes.

You take his hand and back toward the bed, this time without the fire of a dare.

This is just you and him.

Falling.

And when he pulls you into bed, laughing softly into your neck, he says, “You’re trouble.”

You breathe, smiling against his mouth. “You love it.”

You kiss him with that same mischievous little smile you wore by the door—but he’s not laughing now.

Not when you sigh into his mouth.

Not when your hand drags up under his shirt.

Not when you lean into him, feeling his arousal through his jeans and he groans like he’s been holding it in all day.

Because he has.

He’s been hard since that text exchange.

Since 8:30am. 11 hours ago. 

Since the second you looked at him across his desk like you knew what you were doing.

He rolls you under him with aching care, like you’re precious and breakable and his.

His lips find your neck. Your collarbone. Your jaw. 

His hand finds the buttons on your pants and gives himself a little space to slide his hand between your legs. 

He freezes for a second. “Wow.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” you tell him, your fingers tracing up his shoulders, into his hair. “All day.”

He kisses his way down your body like he’s mapping familiar territory, hands under your thighs as he lays you back and slides your pants down. The mattress dips with his weight, and he settles between your legs without a second thought—like it’s his rightful place.

His tongue parts you gently. He starts slow. Testing. Tasting. Worshiping. And then he finds your rhythm and locks in like a man with a mission.

You arch with a gasp, hips rolling against his mouth. Hands locking him in place by this hair. 

“Jesus, Aaron—”

He hums. “Jesus isn’t here. Just me.” 

You laugh and he retaliates.

His fingers curl under your knees, spreading you open just enough to angle deeper. He licks like he’s starving, tongue flicking fast, then slow, circling just right, pressure building in your spine. Your hands scramble for something—his hair, the sheets, your own chest—and then it crests, all-consuming. So fast you almost can’t enjoy it. 

You fall apart in a gasp and a moan, thighs trembling around his ears. Your stomach clenches, chest rising in sharp waves, breath stuttering out of you.

He doesn’t stop until you twitch.

Only then does he sit up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, wearing the most satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.

“Wow,” he says, voice warm and cruel all at once. “That was fast.”

You glare at him through half-lidded eyes, flushed and breathless. “You’re such an asshole.”

He grins and kisses your knee. “You’re welcome.”

You’re still catching your breath, panting softly through your nose, thighs twitching as you come down. Aaron’s weight shifts next to you, one hand trailing up your ribs as he slides up your body, the other smoothing a hand over your face like he can’t stop touching you.

You press a slow, messy kiss to his mouth. You can taste yourself there, warm and sweet and heady, and you hum against his lips, smug.

“Your turn,” you whisper, already pushing gently at his chest.

You ease him back against the pillows, straddling his thighs as you kiss a line down his stomach, your fingers dragging light as static. He’s been hard. Already warm in your hand. You stroke him once, twice—just to see him twitch. Just to hear the sound he makes when you squeeze gently at the base. You kiss his hip. 

“Wait.” His voice is low, rough as he sits up on his elbows. “You don’t have to—”

You tilt your head and smile. “I want to.”

Maybe just for one second he’ll let himself enjoy something. Maybe. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says. You can see it behind his eyes, the worry, the hesitation, the discomfort (you imagine) at being the sole object of your attention. 

You look up at him with the most devastating set of doe eyes he’s ever seen , his cock resting against your cheek. “Then die grateful.” 

You kiss the tip, letting his precum string from your lip to the head. You make sure he sees it.  

“Let me show you something,” you say, lips brushing the tip.

He groans when your mouth wraps around him—hot, wet, patient—your tongue flicking the slit, collecting what’s left. You start slow, lips plush, hand curling at the base. You use your tongue like you’ve got time, hollow your cheeks until he hisses. His hand settles in your hair—not to guide, just to ground. But you want more than that.

You hum low in your throat and sink lower. The stretch burns behind your jaw. Your throat starts to resist. You fight through it.

You use that trick, where you tuck the thumb of your non-dominant hand into your palm, squeeze with your fingers. It works. 

You breathe through your nose. Let your hand work the rest of him while you adjust your angle, relax your mouth, let gravity help.

And then you take him all the way.

The stretch is obscene. You choke. Just a little. Your eyes water immediately and you swallow around him, pulse pounding in your ears. His thighs tense under your palms. He makes a noise like he’s lost the ability to form words. You pull back with a slick gasp, drool catching on your lip—and then you go back down, slower this time, your hand moving in tandem.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracked. “Sweetheart…”

When you look up at him through your lashes, eyes glassy, mouth full of his cock, he swears under his breath. His hand scrabbles uselessly against the covers.

And then you grab his wrist. Guide him. Place his hand at the base of your skull and nod, pulling off with a pop. “Use my mouth, baby. Show me what you want.”

His breath catches. And then he does.

It’s gentle at first. Testing. You keep your eyes on his. Let him see how much you want it. Then he gets bolder—deeper, slower thrusts, like he’s watching every reaction, every tear tracing down your cheek, every stretch of your lips around him, every gag. His hands hold tighter, giving him a view. 

When you moan around him, he actually believes you like this, thrusting into your mouth with a little less fear. 

Not brutal, not fast. Just enough to make you choke a little, enough to make you drool, enough to have you making pretty noises every time he hits the back of your throat. 

Your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen with every stroke. Your throat works, swallowing around him. You’re soaked to your thighs, your orgasm minutes ago complimenting the throbbing of your clit in time with your pulse. You keep one hand wrapped around him, jerking him off when you come up for air. 

Your other hand slips between your legs, addressing the ache one orgasm hardly touched. Your sounds grow more desperate, turning up the temperature until he feels like he’s going to burn alive. 

When he pulls you off, spit strings between your mouth and the head of his cock. You’re breathless, dazed, panting through parted lips.

He drags you up for a kiss—deep and messy, his fingers still tight, pulling your head where he wants it, his hand sliding between your legs. And when he finds how wet you are, he actually groans into your mouth.

“Are you seriously getting off from having my cock in your mouth?”

You nod, wordlessly, still catching your breath. He groans again, almost a disbelieving sound. 

“I have to pick between fucking your mouth and filling you up?” he murmurs, breath shaky. “That’s cruel.”

“Then make a choice.”

He turns you around, rougher than usual, but careful in all the right places. You’re already on your knees, chest pressed to the sheets, back arched, when he guides himself to your entrance, running the head of his cock through the slick. 

You gasp, pushing back. The hand on your hip leashes you, his tip dipping shallow. He can see the stretch already. You need him, right now. 

“Aaron, please, I—“

“Yeah?” He grits out, his jaw tight. He’s playing like he’s in control but he is absolutely wrecked by this phenomenal image in front of him. “You want it that bad?”

“I want to feel you. I need you to fill me up—please.” 

Since you asked so nicely…

He presses in further, still just the tip—and already you’re pulsing, clenching around him and squirming. Already, he’s in the trenches out here. 

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, breath shaky. 

You whine. “Aaron—please—I’m begging, I swear—I need—“

“I know. I know.” He smooths a hand down your spine and finally moves, dipping into you a little deeper each time. “I’ll get you so deep, you won’t be able to walk right until Monday.”

You whine again, gripping the sheets. 

He slides into you until he bottoms out, a delicious pressure you can feel in your ribs. Slow. Intentional. 

Then—he’s not slow anymore. He pulls out almost all the way and pulls you back, strong and fast, until your ass makes contact with his thighs, jolting you forward

You moan. It pulses through your body. You feel the stretch down to your toes, his hand gripping your hip as he pulls back, then thrusts again. Each push sends you forward on the mattress. Each snap of his hips sharp against your skin. The sound of it—slick and rhythmic—is filthy. His hand slides around your thigh, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision.

Your head turns. You’re shaking. You can’t stop shaking. You reach out behind you and he takes your hand, lacing your fingers with his over the small of your back. 

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he says, low and dark against your back. “Taking me that deep. Choking on it. Eyes all wet for me.”

You whimper. He growls.

“I know you wanted me to come in your mouth,” he mutters, voice fraying. “But I needed to be inside you. I needed this.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to reach your soul—deep, slow, relentless. His fingers never leave your clit. You break apart again, pulse throbbing through your cunt so hard it pulls him deeper, makes him swear again.

“Jesus—baby—keep squeezing me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

Your voice is ragged. “Then don’t.”

And when he finishes, he presses as deep as he can go, locked inside you, his hand still between your legs. Still stroking. Still touching. You relax around him, your shaking muscles spent. 

You’re still trembling when he pulls out, slow and careful, like he’s trying not to spill a drop.

It doesn’t work.

You feel the rush of it, warm and slick, already falling down your thighs. Heat snaps from your clit to your chest as you feel his cum slide out of you. It should be messy, maybe even embarrassing, but it’s not. Not with him. Not when he groans like he’s the one overwhelmed by the very sight of it. 

(He is.)

His hands stroke down your back, reverent, steadying you as you rise onto your elbows. He bends behind you, breath hot between your thighs, and then—

“Aaron—” you whisper, already overstimulated.

But his mouth is on you. His tongue lapping at the mess between your thighs, tasting you both. His hands slide up your back, gentle, worshipful, while his mouth devours you like prayer.

You gasp. “I—I don’t think—I can’t—”

“This isn’t for you,” he says, kissing the back of your thigh.

You laugh, breathless. “Oh.” Your newly freed hand drifts back, playing with his hair. “Excuse me, sir.”

“You’re excused.” 

His tongue. Long, slow strokes, chasing the mess he left behind. He groans into you, hands spreading you open like he wants to see everything. (He does.) And then you feel it—his fingers sliding back inside, two at first, maybe three, and he’s careful, gentle.

Too gentle.

You’re already soaking, already stretched, but it doesn’t stop him from using what’s left of him inside you to ease the way. He pushes deep, tongue circling your clit with maddening patience, and your whole body shudders.

When you think you don’t have anything left, he always knows better. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks.

He hums like he’s pleased with himself. One long, slow curl of his fingers inside you and you see stars. Pressure climbs so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. You claw at the sheets, hips rocking back against his hand, desperate.

“I don’t think—” you try, but then his mouth closes over you again, and you surrender to the inevitability.

“Yeah, there it is. Yes, you can.” You can feel his words against your skin. It’s very distracting. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

His voice is quiet but firm, guiding you through it like he’s walking you across a threshold. You can feel it building in your belly, burning behind your ribs, your whole body tightening around the pressure.

“Don’t run from it. You’re doing so good—so good for me.”

His mouth doesn’t stop—tongue laving your clit just the way he knows you need, not fast, not frantic, but devastating in its precision as he speaks into your skin. His fingers keep stroking you inside, curling up into that spot that makes you see white.

“You’re close—I can feel you. Come on. Let go.”

You’re keening now, legs shaking, hands fisting the sheets, your body winding tighter and tighter. You fight to relax, knowing he can get you there without tension. 

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just give it to me.”

He sounds like he’s begging now, but not because he needs it. Because you do. Because he wants you to fall apart, to feel everything he can give you.

“That’s my girl. Let me feel it. Come for me, come on—”

And when it hits—when the heat crests and your breath escapes in a broken moan—he doesn’t stop.

“That’s it. There she is.”

He groans as you pulse around his fingers, your thighs quivering. He keeps licking, kissing, letting you ride it out. Falling at your feet.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful when you come,” he murmurs, more breath than voice, his cheek brushing your thigh, his fingers still buried deep as aftershocks roll through you.

“I could watch you fall apart forever.”

When he finally pulls back, he kisses the small of your back. Soft. Grateful.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You can’t answer yet. Your brain is static. All you can do is breathe, trembling and wrecked, hips twitching when he kisses the inside of your thigh. He guides your hips down, sliding one knee at a time back on the coverlet until you’re flat and relaxed.

It’s slow, and soft, and absolutely sticky with the afterglow. You’re still trembling a little—not quite shaking, but your limbs feel loose and jelly-warm, your muscles useless in that delicious, just-fucked way. You can’t stop smiling, which would be embarrassing if Aaron didn’t look so smug about it.

He kisses your forehead first, then your cheek, then your jaw—working his way back up until you turn your face into his and kiss him full. Sweet, unhurried, a little lazy. You can taste the both of you on his tongue and—

Maybe you did want him to finish in your mouth. 

“Can you walk?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You huff a laugh and roll your eyes. “Rude.”

“Valid question.”

“Some of us are still young and spry and very capable.”

He grins, presses another kiss to your temple. “Mhm. Tough talk.” He swats your ass and your breath chuffs with a little, exhausted noise. “Alright, my little baby deer. Up you go.”

You do your best to follow instructions, but your legs are indeed so shaky you have to hold onto the bed frame for stability. 

You look over your shoulder. “I hate when you’re right.”

He looks awfully satisfied with himself as he saunters over to you, around the bed to your side. 

You swat at him, but he tucks an arm under your back, another behind your knees, and carries you to the bathroom like the smug, post-orgasmic man he is. You nuzzle into his chest and mutter something about how absurdly hot it is that he can lift you like this after a rousing round of extracurriculars.

He helps you wash up—warm cloth, gentle hands, careful kisses to your shoulder as he towels both of you off. You brush your teeth together in companionable silence, bumping hips when you lean for the sink. You spit and catch his eye in the mirror.

He’s already looking at you.

“Staring,” you tease.

“Admiring,” he corrects. “I’m allowed.”

You narrow your eyes playfully and say, “Don’t make me kiss you again.”

He shrugs. “Make me.”

”That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?”

So you kiss him again, low and slow. He holds your face in his hands like you’re made of glass, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. 

By the time you finally crawl into bed, your body’s humming, your skin smells like his, and you’re wearing one of his old academy t-shirts. You curl into his side like it’s instinct. His arm hooks around your back. Your leg slides over his. And he exhales, like the day is finally over.

Like this is the part he was waiting for.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, mouth near your hairline.

You nod. “You?”

“Never better.”

You nuzzle into him and whisper, “I believe you.”

+++

tagging: @duchesschameleon @chronicallybubbly @derekluvbot @jhiddles03 @soupyamanda @percysley @viennasolace @youngcowisland @beyscape @reidfile @littlemisskavities @lily43sblog @sochalant @lostinthefandoms11

[flonkertainment]

Finally!!

After 2.5 years of waiting and medical stuff, I was finally able to start Testosterone two days ago!! (I posted this on Twitter and completely forgot about Tumblr lol) My life completely turned around when I got an unexpected call from my doctor where she told me that I can finally start T now. Before that, I was told to not expect anything until october because of summer break, and due to long waiting times I thought I would have to hold on until next year...well, until the Trans Fairies decided to just say whoop whoop f3ck summer break time for Testo NOW

So why not celebrate the probably best event in my life with a quick drawing of me and the characters that helped me through these last long months of waiting the most!

To every Trans Person out there waiting for life-saving medical care, please keep going! No matter how rough the waiting might be, it certainly was rough for me, it is worth it! Stay strong and safe everyone, you're the coolest motherf3ckers to ever exist!!

Thank you so much to everyone who supported me so far, especially the folks who stuck around from the beginning of this account and the ones who keep interacting with my stuff and saying the kindest things about it! Love you all, and have a great day!

[ch1zzie]

HES HERE

LOOOOK

Barnaby now has two of his pals

[hajimedics]

fuck it (gives your technicolor puppets human wholeness)

[tragicvampireromanceisland]

COMIC IDEA i have had in my head for one million years....morph catches on to sol's feelings for sammy pretty quickly. because you know. of course she does.

howeverrr, she does NOT know sol is also jane, so. it's a pretty superficial crush in her eyes. a lot of heroes have a civilian or two they enjoy saving a liiiittle bit more than others, right? which makes it excellent cannon fodder for her to mess around with sol with. the BEEFERS!! woulddd morph back off if she knew the extent of sol's relationship with sammy...? HMMM who knows.... 🤭 though, well. it'd probably help if sol stopped being so deep in denial herself. maybe morph is justified to terrorize her about it to some extent. sigh, these two...

[lochallthedoors]

Noel Versus the Council Skies Tracklist

Context: If you pick just one interview of Noel's to read/listen to from the Council Skies promo run, chances are that interview will feature Noel complaining that he fucked up the tracklist--that he now believes "Think of a Number" should have been first and "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight" should have gone last.

I find his obsession with the album's messaging kind of fascinating in the context of whatever led up to the Oasis reunion, so I thought I'd put together a masterlist of interview excerpts where he explains why he made the choice he did and why he wishes he could go back and get a do-over.

I have thoughts but they're very rambly so they're going in the tags. The focus should be on the transcripts here anyway.

NME Interview Posted 3 June 2023

Noel: "Think of a Number," yeah, it's got a Bowie feel to it. If I had my chance--if I had my time again, I would have had that as the opening track on the album. I've kind of--yeah, that's--that's--I mean, every album that I make, anyway, tends to be flawed in some way, and this is almost perfect, but that's the biggest flaw, is that the opening track, "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," should be the closing track, and "Think of a Number" should be the opening track. But I didn't think "Think of a Number" was strong enough until it was too late. You know, and, uh, yeah--what a dick. But there you go--I'm allowed to be a dick when it's my own music, so. later in the interview Interviewer: I mean, you talked about how, uh, Council Skies was about you asking "how did we get here, and how did I get here?"--as in you, not me. I know how I got here. Um, did you find any answers? Noel: (pause) No, I think--I think the last line of, um, "Think of a Number," although--although it should be the first track on the album, I think the last line of it is perfect for an ending of an album, which is--is--it's like, "let's drink to the future / I hope it comes round again." Did I find any answers? No, but I will--no, I will find them, though.

Radio X Interview Posted 8 June 2023

On "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight" Noel: The biggest or the most interesting thing, or what I find interesting is I--this should be the closing track on the album because it ends with a lot of hope, you know I mean? "I'm not giving up tonight" and all that. And I, for some reason--the track that closes the album, we'll get to that obviously at the end, but, um, I didn't feel the track that closes the album was strong enough to open a record with. It's a big, epic kind of affair, and I thought that would be a bit obvious. And, uh, I thought "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight" would be a great way to ease into a new record. If I could go back now, I'd--I'd have it closing--closing the record, but it was too late to change my mind. But, um, I do like that song. It's, uh--it's, uh--yeah, it's got a great vibe that's slightly reminiscent of Buffalo Springfield, and, uh, Gem plays a great guitar part on it. And, uh, yeah, I mean, it's--I don't know. Kennedy: Yeah, yeah, no, it's interesting. I mean, it's got the strings on it, it's got the horns on it, and there's a little bit of the gospel choir, and-- Noel: Yeah-- Kennedy: Those are all elements that are through the record. Noel: But I guess the sentiment of it is a song of defiance, you know? "I'm not giving up tonight," and that, you know, obviously writing these things in--in lockdown there was a bit--there was a bit of that in--in a lot of the songs. But, yeah, it's a grand--it kind of sets it up perfectly because it's a--it's a grand kind of opening, but it's a bit laidback as well. On "Think of a Number" Noel: I love the song. Now--and it's me playing the guitar, so it's really epic, and, so, as mad as this sounds, I didn't think that song was strong enough to open a record with. I liked it, right? And I did, and--and something inside of me hung in there with it, and--I don't like closing records on a negative kind of, uh, almost, um, what's the word I'm looking for--uh, pessimistic kind of, um, feel to it. The last line is, you know, "let's drink to the future, I hope it comes around again"--that really should have been the opening track on the album and finished with "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," you know? That would have been the journey through the lockdown and isolation and all that. But as that song went on, I was like, you know, just didn't feel it was strong enough. I thought it was just a bit standard High Flying Birds rock kind of tune. Obviously, when we finished--when I finished it and mastered it, the penny dropped one night at home, and I was like "Oh, God," you know. And then you do the frantic "Can we change it?" and it was like, "No, we pressed up now. What are you doing?" Um, so it really should have been the opening track, but I love the lyrics on it, and they paint a really pessimistic picture of the future, which is what I was feeling at the time. And, yeah, there's some great--the lyrics are really visual, and, um, yeah, it's--I mean, it's an epic rock tune, and it's--it's got the full production and, yeah, really great.

XS Manchester Drive Posted 9 June 2023

Note: For the clip of Clint calling out Noel's pause, see definitely-rubbish's post here

Noel: Let's do a track called "Think of a Number." Clint: "Think of a Number"--now, this is the--it's the actual last track on the album, innit? Not including the bonus track? Noel: Mm-hmm. Yeah. Clint: When I heard this--and I made some notes--some of the--"Let's drink to the future / I hope it all comes 'round again." It sounds like you reaching out to somebody. Noel: Well, uh-- [Long pause] Clint: That was a brilliant pause! Noel: I could never-- Clint: That pause was amazing. It's gonna sound great on the radio, that! Noel: I could never decide if that track should have been the opening track or the closing track. And if I had my time again, I'd have it as the opening track, because the track that is the opening track, "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," would end the album on a real--"I'm not giving up tonight"--a kind of sense of hope. But with this song, right up until the death--I never thought it was strong enough to open a record. I thought people would go, "You know, okay, well, I was expecting that from him." And--yeah, I kind of bottled it a little bit and put it as the closing track, which ends on a really bleak note, you know? Uh, but there you go. You know, you live and learn.

SoCal Sound Interview Recorded June 9, 2023

Harcourt: The opening track is "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," and, I mean, that's full-on. Noel: Mm-hmm. Harcourt: There's bells, there's whistles-- Noel: Oh, yeah. Harcourt: It's--it's the whole thing. Noel: Yeah. Harcourt: Uh, is that at the beginning of the album for a reason? I mean, it sort of seems to set an intention. Noel: Yeah, I should have actually had it as the closing track. I think--I think there would have been a--well, so, the--the closing track is a track called "Think of a Number," and, actually, the entire track listing was set in stone very, very early, apart from these two tracks, and I kept flipping them, just to listen to at home, and I kept flipping them, and I--ludicrously, I actually thought "Think of a Number" wasn't strong enough to open a record, and I thought people would be expecting a big, kind of--and, actually, in hindsight, I should have had that as the opening track, because it would have meant the album would end on a more positive note, whereas it ends on a bit of a bleak note. Harcourt: Mm. Noel: But that's the one change I would make. Um, but, no, it's ["I'm Not Giving Up Tonight"] not there for any specific reason other than I felt like, for this--you know, my albums always open up with something huge, and I thought for this one, maybe something a bit more understated, um. But it's a fucking great song. Harcourt: It is a great song. Noel: Yeah, it's a great song. Harcourt: Yeah. Noel: The way that it--the way that it came out sounding is amazing. Yeah.

[dmckinney79]

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters. (Colossians 3:23)

[smak-annihilation]

where wealth can take you in the 21st century

[maryhanaae4]

through pain and joy

[winterscaptain]

taste.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: if you take issues with haley's stance on bjs just let me know bc i am open to criticism if you get a different vibe. lmao anyways have a good time with this one.

beta'd by @ssaic-jareau who basically should be credited as a co-writer at this point.

words: 950 content advisories: language, discussion of sex acts (nothing super explicit), mild emotional vulnerability

summary: "the more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.” — jennifer donnelly, revolution. november 15th, 2011

masterlist | ajf masterlist under construction | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

The bathroom’s still warm with steam. You’re in one of his undershirts, patting moisturizer into your cheekbones, watching him in the mirror as he buttons his navy blue shirt—a favorite of yours. Hair still damp. Collar open. He looks good—annoyingly good—and he’s doing that thing where he pretends not to notice you staring.

“You were weird last night,” you say casually.

Every man's favorite thing to hear the morning after insanely good sex…

Aaron glances at you, halfway through the third button. “Weird how?”

“You hesitated.”

He frowns, then blinks. “Hesitated?”

He can’t recall hesitating at all last night. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Yeah. Like you didn’t want me to suck your dick.”

He actually snorts—chokes on it, really—and shakes his head with a laugh, pressing his hand to his forehead. “Jesus.”

You shrug, unaffected. “You did. You got all weird. Just for a second. I noticed.”

He takes a slow breath, then leans back against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just been… a long time.”

You tilt your head, waiting.

“Like, more than fifteen years,” he adds. “Since—anything more than a couple birthday passes.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Haley didn’t like it. She tried it once, it grossed her out and she always said she didn’t like the taste.”

“Well,” you say, stepping closer, “not to speak ill of the dead—”

Aaron exhales like he already knows what’s coming.

“—but Haley was an idiot,” you finish, standing in front of him now. Your fingers reach for his collar, popping it. “She missed out. Big time.”

You start at the third button, abandoned, and work your way up, deliberate and practiced.

“Do you even know how nice your dick is?”

His eyes widen. His breath catches. He laughs again, stunned and delighted. “What?”

“I’m serious,” you say, straight-faced. “You’ve got great symmetry. Great weight. Very accommodating curve. Just—top tier.” You pause, thoughtful. “I’ve had worse from men who bragged. You have the nerve to imply nothing. I mean, I’ve always known, but that’s just an energy thing.” You wink at him, looking up for the barest of seconds. “Call it profiling.”

He’s grinning now, flushed and a little dazed. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.” You grab his tie off the counter—also navy, with grey paisley—and loop it over his head, sliding it under his collar.

His hands fall to your hips, completely still.

You don’t notice—too focused, too matter-of-fact—but he watches you. Watches your fingers as they work the fabric with practiced ease.

Months ago, you’d stood in his office, nervous and uncertain, palms warm in his, laughing softly as you tried to remember the order. “I’ll forget by tomorrow,” you’d said, and he hadn’t dared look at you when he answered, “Then I’ll show you again.”

And he had. Once. Briefly. In silence, just before starting a consult. He thought you were just humoring him.

But here, now—there’s no hesitation.

You fold and flip and tighten, your fingers deft against the fabric, and Aaron just breathes through it, chest rising once, then again.

And then, casual as anything, he says, “It wasn’t just Haley.”

Your hands pause. Just for a second. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he amends, “Haley didn’t like it, no. But she wasn’t the only one.”

You squint up at him. “Excuse me?”

He clears his throat. “We were on a break. It was brief.”

“You dated someone during a break? What are you, an animal?”

He shifts under your hands. “It was undergrad. Haley and I were long-distance. Things were… tense.”

Your eyes narrow, your expression suspicious. “How brief?”

“Three months.”

“Three months?”

“I was 21! And stupid, clearly!”

You raise an eyebrow and gesture vaguely. He tips his head, conceding. “I’m still stupid.” A beat. “She dumped me when I said I still loved Haley.”

You stare at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Aaron. What the fuck.”

“You asked.” He tries very hard not to smile.

“Yeah, I didn’t ask for plot twists.”

You shake your head and finish the knot, tightening it just enough to make him grunt. “So let me get this straight,” you say. “You got exactly two real blowjobs in twenty years, and neither of them made a good impression?”

“That’s correct.” As he often does, he redirects. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Which?” You just want to hear him say it.

“The, uh…” He clears his throat. “Deepthroat—thing.”

There it is.

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Had a roommate in college who was kind of known for it.”

Aaron blinks. “Known for it?”

“She had a bit of a reputation that yielded useful knowledge,” you say sweetly, returning to your task. “Taught me a few things. Used her comically large dildo like a CPR dummy for demos.” You adjust the length, tightening it against his throat and checking that it lands correctly. “Whole workshop. Stuck it to the wall and everything.”

He actually leans back against the sink, looking mildly traumatized. “That is the most horrifyingly hot thing I’ve ever heard.”

You smile, soft and wicked, smoothing his collar one last time. “You’re welcome for that image. And the work.”

You press a quick, chaste kiss to his still-stunned mouth and leave to finish getting dressed, your hand falling off his chest as you go.

He checks.

His tie is perfect.

And somewhere deep in his chest, he’s already thinking about the first time. The fumble. The laugh. The way you’d told him you’d forget by tomorrow.

You hadn’t.

And he’s never been more in love.

+++

tagging: @sochalant @chronicallybubbly @derekluvbot @jhiddles03 @soupyamanda @percysley @viennasolace @youngcowisland @lostinthefandoms11 @beyscape @reidfile @duchesschameleon @littlemisskavities @lily43blog @kiwriteswords @acidicbloody

[indecisive-dizzy]

thinking about Julie going into hibernation, but also how she was participating in winter activities and was at the Homewarming party.

obv an in-universe excuse is writing inconsistency within the show but nahh. i wanna get sad.

My headcanon is that Julie begins hibernation after the Homewarming party. Right after. And later in the evening it turns into a different party, Julie's Goodnight Party (name in progress).

It's fun, because any party with this rainbow monster's name in it is gonna be fun! but there's an underlying somberness. They eat, play games and talk about everything and anything like the Homewarming party, but it just feels different.

(continues below, sad warning bc I made myself sad)

When Julie starts getting sleepy, the party ends with her neighbors giving their farewells, goodnights, and big hugs.

Frank is the one to walk her home, of course. He brushes Julie's hair, makes sure her and her nest has everything she needs, and stays with her as she falls asleep. But not before they share a big, comforting, long hug filled with every unspoken "I'll miss you" and every ounce of love they can pour into it.

It's the longest Frank has ever hugged anybody. "A hug long enough to get him through winter," according to Julie.

He wished that were true.

Either way he smiles, he smiles for Julie as it's the last expression she sees before finally closing her eyes to sleep.

The tears that later soaked into his pillow are the only secret Frank's ever kept from his best friend.

[mc-critical]

1.01 / 2.17 (41)

[letsdothedamnthings]

Be a joyful warrior…

[missrommydolly]

hey girlie there is absolutely nothing wrong with your art, you're doing great <3 keep drawing!! please please Please keep drawing!!

I don’t even know where to start, but thank you all SO much for the support.

To be completely honest, I didn’t expect anyone to come to my defense. After the mean message i got, I felt so small and discouraged. All I’ve ever wanted was to share my love for Welcome Home and my OC, Rommy. But after that message, I honestly started questioning if I even belonged in this fandom. Maybe I really was just annoying and my art wasn’t good enough… It’s hard to not let those thoughts consume you when you feel like no one cares or understands.

But then, I saw all of your kind messages and, for the first time in a while, I felt like maybe I wasn’t crazy for caring so much about my little creations. Rommy, for me, isn’t just some “self-insert” or an OC. She’s a part of me, and seeing her torn apart like that just hit a nerve. It’s hard to explain, but she represents so much of my own struggles and hopes. I never meant for her to come across as ‘cringey’ or unimportant, but I guess when you care about something so much, it’s hard to ignore the doubt that creeps in.

I know I can be overly emotional about things, but Welcome Home... it’s everything to me. It’s not just a fandom, it’s a place where I can escape, even if it’s just for a little while from the chaos of real life. So, when I’m criticized or mocked, it feels like it’s not just about my art or Rommy. It feels like I’m being told my emotions aren’t valid.

But your kind words… I honestly can’t express how much they mean to me. It’s like a weight has been lifted, and I feel seen and heard. I’m going to keep creating and keep sharing because I love this world and these characters too much to let one person make me feel like I don’t belong.

Thank you for reminding me that there are people who care, and that my art, no matter how imperfect, does matter. I promise I’ll keep going, even when it’s hard. Your kindness is honestly what keeps me going right now.

[giantkillerjack]

Betty is so relatable I would do the same shit for my wife

[cloudygazer]

October means....Apple picking season!

So October it's finally here (yay), that means it the best time to pick apples!!

01/10/23

Full composition!

Uguhgugu, this took forever. I am so glad I got to test new ways to colour and all that stuff. Keep up future meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee