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billthedrake · 2 months

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SUGAR DADDY (PART ONE)

I was cooling down from my run, and I was paying more attention to the traffic light to cross. I almost didn't see them.

But the man saw me, a look of embarrassment sweeping his face before the familiar friendly tone won out.

"Luke?" he said.

"Mr. Keenan," I replied automatically, as if the recognition was coming out of my mouth before it hit my brain. Mr. Keenan was my buddy Rich's dad, a successful corporate lawyer or something. I know Rich had issues with his father, made even worse by his parent's divorce, but Mr. K was always beyond nice to me. And truth be told, I always found him incredibly attractive. Tall, handsome, salt and pepper coming in on the temples, kind of like a TV dad. Even now he was in a nice-cut navy suit, dress shirt and no tie.

His blue eyes were taking me in. It had been over three years since I'd last seen the man, since high school graduation, and I'm sure I looked different now. "I almost forgot you went to school here," he said. "Georgetown?" he prompted.

"Yes, sir. They haven't kicked me out yet," I smiled in my self-deprecating way.

It was then that I noticed the woman standing next to him. She couldn't have been any older than me. She was pretty, real pretty, with that sorority girl look. Straight blond hair and big tits for a girl with her trim frame. At least they showed off well in that spaghetti strap cocktail dress she had on. Her high heels didn't get her close to Mr. K's 6'3" height but they added a couple of inches.

I now had a pretty good idea why Rich's parents got divorced.

The man's date was good at hiding her annoyance at my presence but not good enough that I couldn't see that she wanted to get on to where they were going. Part of me couldn't blame her. It was fall, the evening was cool, and she was underdressed for it.

Mike Keenan realized where I was looking and that embarrassed look came back on his face. "Luke, this is Kimberly..." he turned to his girlfriend or date or whatever. "Luke's from back home," he explained. Almost with an emphasis of meaning.

Turning back to me. "We should go, buddy... but it's great running into you, Luke."

"You, too, Mr. Keenan," I said. It was only then that I was self conscious about standing on a busy Georgetown sidewalk in my sweat-drenched running clothes, the cool getting to me now that the exercise was wearing off.

He flashed his trademark smile, like he always did when I came over. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, deftly extracting a business card. "I'm in DC a few nights a week these days. Reach out and we'll catch up, OK?"

"Sure thing, Mr. K," I said, taking the card in my fingers.

Then I watched as my friend's dad and his college-aged girlfriend went walking on to their date spot.

****

"I was gonna ask if you can keep things under wraps about Kimberly," Mr. Keenan said as we waited for our burger at a nice but not overly fancy bistro that DC seemed to have a ton of. I'd met Mr. K closer to his hotel, just two nights after running into him.

"Oh yeah, sure," I said. If the man had asked me to give an alibi to the police for something I probably would have. I mean, Mike Keenan always was great to me, encouraging me in my baseball playing and even helping me out with college admissions stuff, since my folks were more blue collar. His dating life was really none of my business, but I felt like it was conversation worthy. "How long have you two been dating?"

He squirmed in his seat and sighed. "A while... not too long..." he said then gave me a long hard look. "Listen, Luke, you can keep this between us, right?"

The blue eyes and handsome jawline and perfect teeth were gonna make me crush out a little on the man, like I did back in high school. "Absolutely," I replied. Earnest as hell.

He smiled. He could read my sincerity, and I think it amused him. He leaned back and had a soft leer on his face, a side of him I'd never seen. "She's not my girlfriend," he explained. "I met her on one of those sugar daddy sites."

I may have been a dumb jock, but I figured out what he meant pretty quick. "You mean she's a hooker?" I asked. I had to laugh, and Mr. K laughed back.

"No, well, not exactly," he replied. "But there's a little of that, even if we both pretend that's not what's going on." His eyes searched out mine, and I knew he was trying to read if I was freaked out or judgmental. I wasn't, just surprised.

I tried to pass off my shock with a joke. "She expensive?" I said.

He grinned, with a I-can't-believe-you-asked-that look. But he replied anyway. "Very. But I can afford it."

Something about his tone and lecherous nature got me hard. Not chubbed, but full on erect in my jeans.

The man mistook my horniness for a different reaction. "Sorry Luke," he said. "I shouldn't have said that... only you asked."

"No, it's good," I assured him. "Just didn't expect it, is all."

"Fair," he said. He sighed again. "Seriously, Luke, not a fucking word to Rich. Or anyone. I mean it."

"I won't, Mr. K, promise," I assured him. He probably didn't want to talk about it anymore, but I was very curious. "So... how's it work exactly?"

"How's what work?"

"The sugar daddy thing."

He seemed more businesslike. Maybe he enjoyed being able to confide, or maybe he just was humoring me. "I pay for Kimberly's apartment and of course for dates," he explained. "There are gifts, too, but she doesn't make me jump through hoops like some of the others."

I was letting it sink in that this one wasn't Mr. K's first. I knew the guy was loaded, but that kind of money was wild to me.

"Damn, I should get a sugar daddy," I joked.

Without missing a beat, Mr. Keenan shrugged his shoulders and said, "You could. If that's what you wanted."

I blushed. I was still pretty closeted though Rich Keenan knew. Maybe Mike Keenan knew too.

The man seemed to enjoy catching me off guard. "A colleague of mine goes for high-class call boys, but I've been trying to convince him to go for something more legit." This was definitely a new side to Mike Keenan than I'd seen.

He paused. "Sorry, Luke. I'm not really suggesting... You know that, right?" The old Mr. K was back.

"Yeah, Mr. Keenan," I said. I wasn't totally naive, but this evening had already made me feel more green than I wanted.

He held up his empty rocks glass in a gesture for the bartender to bring another. He then turned to me. "You have any special men in your life?"

So Mr. K did know.

I shook my head. "I've hit the apps some," I said with candor. "But no one special."

He patted me on my shoulder, like he used to back when I'd come over to visit Rich. Like a buddy or a dad. "Well, you've grown into a fine young man, Luke Bowman. I'm sure that someone special will come soon... maybe when you're not expecting it."

OK, I was more than a little crushed out.

***

Something about seeing Mr. Keenan was a spark in my life that I needed. I'd spent too much of my college years scared. Scared of getting out there, of meeting men. I liked men who were older. Coach types, though that was out of bounds and not realistic. But I changed the age range on my app profile and decided I was going to be open to engaging with men who turned me on there.

It was hit or miss. I heard from some real obnoxious guys. I went on some dates with a really fucking hot doctor who was great sex but then basically ghosted me. I had a couple of hookups that were good for what they were.

I wasn't being a man-whore exactly, but I enjoyed making up for lost time a little.

Strangely Mr. K became my confidante. I don't know why I thought the man would be homophobic, hell maybe deep down he was, but we each shared a secret with the other. And once he was back in DC for business that spring, I met him every other Wednesday for burgers and beer, depending on my game schedule. I got the increasing feeling that he valued his time with me, since he and Rich didn't get along well these days. The man carried a lot of guilt for his broken marriage, but he'd be the first to admit that he'd probably do the same thing all over again.

"Buddy, college girls are the best," he leered one Spring night as we finished our meal. Mr. K let his hair down a LOT with me these days. "I know they don't do anything for ya, Luke, but Jesus, fuck..."

I laughed. I knew Mike Keenan was a grade-A horndog and probably not a good man in that way, but I enjoyed seeing his naughty side.

"You ever think about dating one for real, Mr. K?" I asked. For most of our meetings, it had been mostly my buddy's dad asking me about my life, but it was just now getting to the point where I felt like I could ask personal questions like this.

He shook his head. "It wouldn't work. Besides, I wouldn't do that to Rich." It was a strangely profound admission.

I gulped. Yeah, I could see it from my buddy's perspective, having a stepmother his age, or younger even.

"That's cool, Mr. Keenan. But you gotta live your life, too," I said.

That caught the man off guard. He looked at me then smiled. He reached over and ruffled my hair. "You really think that, dont ya?" he asked.

I nodded, embarrassed.

He grinned. "Don't worry, kiddo. I'm enjoying my middle age years. A little too much."

"With Kimberly?" I prompted. He hadn't mentioned her in a while.

"I called off that arrangement," he said bluntly. "She wanted more."

"A ring?" I laughed. I didn't get straight people, not really, but at the same time they were my entire world.

That leer returned to the man. "No. More money. I'm taking a break for now."

"How long will that last?" I teased.

"Dunno. A month. Maybe two. Till I get horny again."

"I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have to wait that long to get laid, Mr. K."

It was meant as a playful comment, at least in my head. But the second it came out I realized I'd said too much. That Mr. Keenan could read everything in my face, everything I'd kept hidden. How attracted I was to him, how crushed out I was on him, how jealous I was of Kimberly or whatever sorority chick he was banging.

The look on the man's face could now see it all.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I started getting a panic attack. I stood up from the bar stool. "I should go," I said.

A hand reached out and gripped my forearm. Mr. K's grip was surprisingly strong. "Luke. It's OK."

Somehow, his understanding made it worse. I shook my head and broke free. "Sorry," I muttered. Then made a beeline for the door.

I felt dumb and intensely vulnerable as I walked to the bus stop. I'd messed up this friendship thing I had with Mike Keenan, but maybe it was fucked up that I was hanging out with my friend's dad like this in the first place. No maybe about it: it was majorly fucked up.

I was a block away from the stop when I got a text.

"Can I convince you to come back, Luke?" the man wrote. "I get it buddy."

I knew the smart thing would be to keep walking. To send a polite no thanks reply. Or just ignore the text. Instead I typed. "Yes Mr. K." And I walked back to the restaurant.

Mike Keenan was standing outside, looking handsome as fuck in his expensive suit. He had a worried look on his face, and I knew immediately he'd dashed out after me but didn't know which way I went.

His face brightened when he saw me. "We don't have to stay here," he said. "I settled up."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry..." I started to apologize, but he stopped me.

"You were honest," he said directly, blunt but still friendly. "Besides, what man doesn't like to hear he's attractive?"

I gave a wan smile and hunched my shoulders in a shrug. "A lot of straight men, I imagine."

I couldn't tell if Mike Keenan was just humoring me. He had a look of sympathy on his face for sure as he reached out and patted my arm. "How bout this? No labels between us, Luke?"

I didn't get what he was saying exactly, but I knew it was meant to reassure me. I nodded.

"Feel like coming to my hotel?" he asked. "We can just talk."

"Yeah." I was feeling a ton of emotions coursing through me. But I wanted more Mr. K time. "Sounds nice."

That seemed to relax him and put him in a good mood as we walked the few blocks to the nice, business-class residence hotel where he was staying. I couldn't help but sneak looks over his way. He just looked incredible in his suit, not a trim cut one like younger guys sometimes wore but it still flattered his build and height. In my mind, the suit made him look like one of those DC power players and in some messed up way that turned me on.

We weren't too chatty as he led me up to his room. It was fancy to my eyes but had that empty aura that hotel rooms do, even if Mr. K's luggage and belongings were around.

I was looking around the place when the man stepped up right behind me and wrapped his arms around my midsection. I smelled his cologne and felt his kisses along my neck. I guess we were going to do more than just talk.

"Oh, God, Mr. K," I hissed. This probably a record time for how fast I could throw hard. That boner was nearly instant.

"You can call me Mike," he said.

"OK," I said dumbly.

His hands traveled up and down my T-shirt. I was primed to be turned on by this man, but he was going to put me in heat.

"You OK with this, buddy?"

"You have no idea, Mist.. Mike" I replied.

My slip up got a chuckle from him. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of my shirt and the touch of his hand against my belly felt electric. "You have an amazing body, Luke."

"You too, sir," I replied.

He kissed some more along my neck and his voice got deeper, hoarser. "Do you suck cock, Luke Bowman?"

The grunt from the man was an indication I'd said the right thing. "I don't know that I'm good for all the other stuff," he said, "but I'd REALLY love to feel your mouth on me, buddy."

I knew what he meant. The man wasn't going to reciprocate, and I'd have to be fine with that. I was. "I don't need anything in return, Mike," I said. "I want to suck you."

He had that huge horndog grin on his face when I finally turned to face him. We were matched in height but he felt like my opposite in so many ways. Older, successful in his career, straight, though I was getting the fuller meaning of his "no labels" comment.

Especially as his face inched in and his lips met mine. I was kissing Rich Keenan's dad and the forbidden nature of that just added to my thrill. I took a second to feel up his sides, under the suit coat. Mr. K didn't object, he just went deeper with the kiss. Mike Keenan was a great kisser.

"You're a very handsome young man," Mr. K finally said as he pulled back.

"God, Mike," I grunted. This was every JO fantasy I'd had coming to life.

With that naughty look on his face, he reached down and started unzipping. I didn't even look down, not yet, but I could tell from his shoulder motion that he was hauling out his cock.

"Please, buddy," he hissed.

"Here?" I asked dumbly. In my hookups before BJs had been naked and on a bed.

"Here," he growled. This was that other side of Mr. K, the kind who hired sugar babies to get his needs taken care of.

I squatted down. I was a catcher for the Hoyas baseball team, so at least I had this motion down, I thought to myself.

Mike Keenan's cock was gorgeous. Big and meaty and cut but not overly long. It jerked and pulsed as he looked down on me.

"You done this before, right?" he asked. That concerned paternal voice coming out.

I nodded. "Some," I replied. "I wish I had more practice." Then with an honesty I probably shouldn't have had, I added, "I want this to be good for you, Mike."

He chucked and moved his hand to run through my hair. It was strangely affectionate. "You'll do great, buddy."

That was all the encouragement I needed. Leaning in, I could smell the mild, natural musk of a man's crotch, which was matched by Mr. K's saltiness as I began licking him. I gripped the base of his prick to steady it for my sucking, but I maybe didn't even need to do that. Mike was rock hard.

"Yes..." he hissed as I went down on him. I was still pretty green at sucking cock, but I was probably better than Kimberly or whatever sugar baby he'd lined up in the past. Or even the former Mrs. Keenan, I thought crudely.

That knowledge had me going for it. I swallowed four inches of the man in one go, held just a second to let my throat get used to it. Then I started going up and down. It took a second for me to get my rhythm and another for me to get the suction. But I knew I did by the urgency of the man's fingers in my hair, not exactly pushing me down on his crotch but aiding and guiding me in my bobbing motion. He was probably thinking of some chick while I blew him, but I was OK with that.

Only his next words broke me of that idea. "Luke, buddy... you're getting me there," he hissed. Mr. K was very present in this blowjob. I paused a second and looked up at him, and could see he was looking down at me.

I wanted to get him off. So I looked back forward and went for it. The best I could deliver. I hoped it was enough.

The fingers grew tighter. "Gonna cum... Don't pull off," Mike growled. "Please."

At that moment I felt bad for straight men. Even if I should have felt bad that Mr. K wasn't gonna suck me. I just felt any woman was stupid not to want to swallow Mike Keenan's cum.

"UNNFH!" came the sound of his release as he flooded my mouth and throat with his salty-sweet cum. Maybe Mike was backed up, but he was a heavy shooter all right. I accepted it all, swallowing it in waves as quickly as he fed it to me. I think my sucking sensation only added to his orgasm. He finally pulled out, prick wet and still hard.

"God fucking damn, buddy, that was great," he said with a satisfied smile. Then as he caught his breath and I stood up, he added, "Can I jerk you off or anything?"

That sounded great. "You got any lube?"

He nodded and walked over to the bathroom to root around his toiletries bag. He stepped back in, his prick softer but still sticking out. With a grin, he tossed me travel container of lube. "Don't be shy," he said.

I was already undoing my shorts, which fell to the floor. Then I peeled down my underwear, letting Mike see my hardon. It was a trip for me, being mostly naked in front of him. Maybe he wasn't gonna be fully gay for me, but he was open to seeing my dick as I squirted the liquid on my stalk and start stroking.

With a grin he stepped up to me, a little to the side, placing his hand on my belly and working up beneath my shirt as he met me for a kiss.

That's all it took. I didn't come instantly but instantly I began that climb to orgasm. Mr. Keenan's kiss and touch was the extra stimulation to get me there.

I moaned into his mouth as I shot my cum, shooting out onto the hotel carpet.

He broke the kiss when I was done and patted my chest. "You needed that, buddy," he said with satisfaction.

"I did," I nodded. "Thanks."

Things felt a little awkward now. I'd crossed some major lines with this guy that evening, and now that I'd gotten off I felt majorly self conscious about it.

"You OK, Luke?" he asked as we tucked back in.

"I'm OK, Mr. Keenan."

"You can NEVER tell Rich about what just happened," he said.

"You know I'm gonna keep everything private," I said. "You can trust me."

He nodded. "Why don't you get cleaned up. Feel like a drink? I have some scotch here or you can raid the mini bar."

I nodded. "I don't know anything about scotch, but you can teach me."

He chuckled. "All right."

It felt nice to just talk. Mr. K let me open up, about men and being gay and what I really wanted from dating and sex. The man talked about his very limited experience with guys when he was a teen.

"I should have figured men would be better at giving head," he said with a playful leer. "That was incredible, Luke. For real."

"I'm glad," I said. Maybe this wasn't a healthy hookup, but it had felt incredibly satisfying for me, a dream come true.

"You're going to make some dude VERY happy," he said with a smile.

"I hope so," I said with a defensive chuckle. "I hope he makes me happy too."

Mr. Keenan got what I meant. "Yeah, you deserve that," he said a little chastised. He polished off the last of his liquor in the rocks glass. "Listen, it's been a long day."

"Yeah, I'll head off," I said, drinking the rest of my scotch and standing up.

Mr. K pulled his walled out and fished out a couple of twenties. "Here you go... you're not taking the bus back. Especially at this hour."

I tried not to take it. "It's Ok, Mike," I said.

He shook his head. "Just get a fucking Uber, Luke. I insist."

"OK," I said, capitulating. The man could be bossy, and I didn't know whether I liked that or not.

He was quieter now, as he led me to the door but he said before I stepped out. "I'm gonna sleep like a baby tonight, buddy. Thanks."

"You too, sir."

#drakestories

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almightaylor · 2 months

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Remember he was a student body president, lacrosse co-captain, prom king, and valedictorian in high school!!! And a summa cum laude in Georgetown University with a Bachelor’s degree in Government!!! And a law student at the NYU School of Law!!! His brain is so sexy af like his face and body and of course those fucking eyelashes!!!

He’s so competent, beautiful, and kind 😫

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince #rwrb movie #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #taylor zakhar perez #nicholas galitzine #useralmightaylor #im asking henry if he can fight #he’s so fucking perfect omfg #agcd i need you #i’ll never stop thirsting for this man

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lizpaige · 2 months

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snippet sunday

i have many half written beginnings of ideas that i may or may not come back to so why not share them on a wip/snippet sharing post?

“Your boy is calling.”

Ronan sat up on the couch just in time to catch his phone from Hennessy tossing it to him. He answered the call immediately.

“Hey.”

Hennessy threw a pillow at him, whacking him in the head. Ronan grabbed it and threw it back at her, getting up to duck out of the room. They were in Ronan’s new apartment, Ronan and Adam’s new apartment starting tomorrow when Adam moved out of the dorms. It was the end of the school year and Adam was transferring to Georgetown in the fall.

“Hey.” Adam’s voice always seemed to warm him up. There was a lot of noise on the other end.

“What’s happening over there?”

A puff of air blew into the phone. “Party. Finals are over. Everyone’s door is open on my floor and they dumped all their leftover alcohol in this big plastic storage bin and they’ve been passing it around.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, it’s really not that bad.”

“You’re drinking that toxic waste? That’s hardcore, Parrish.”

“Yeah, well…” Ronan could hear the sound of a door shutting and the cacophony of dorm room celebration became muffled. “They don’t really take no for an answer. I’m hiding in my room trying to pack. What were you doing?”

Now that he could really hear him, Ronan picked up on Adam’s accent, in full swing, dropping the ends of words, melodic in its cadence, dipping low and swaying up high. There were only a few times when Adam would let his Henrietta accent back in. When he was very tired, which was possible since he had just worked his ass off with exams. When he was alone with Ronan or close friends, because he didn’t try to hide it from those he trusted. Or on the very rare occasion that he was under the influence. Ronan got him high once and could barely even understand Adam, he was too turned on to try and decipher whatever he was saying.

Adam rarely drank, so Ronan rarely received any drunk texts or calls. Ronan didn’t really drink either anymore. For Adam’s birthday last year, Gansey, Henry, and Blue came to the Barns and they had a big barbeque, fire pit, and Ronan fixed up a dreamt projector to show some shitty action movies on the side of the long barn. Ronan drank a little, Adam drank a little more. He was tipsy at best, but ended up falling asleep in Ronan’s lap in front of everyone by the end of the night.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Ronan bit back a smile at the dropped ‘g’. “Just hanging out with Hennessy. Why’d you call?”

“I don’t know.” A pause… and then, “just missed you.”

Ronan bit back a smile. “Missed me, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You a little tipsy there?”

“No,” Adam answered too fast, as if his voice wasn’t incriminating enough.

#ronan lynch #adam parrish #pynch #snippet sunday

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whatevergreen · 4 months

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“You Can Have Fun Too” poster, created by Mick Hicks for SFAF, 1984

"In 1984, Rick Crane, director of the (San Francisco AIDS Foundation) at the time, hired famed local photographer Mick Hicks to photograph two men for a safe-sex poster to be put in the city’s gay bars, baths, and other locations. Hicks worked for virtually all the LGBTQ newspapers in the Bay Area and had spent a year and a half photographing people with AIDS, chronicling their struggle with the disease. He quickly accepted the commission.

At the same time, a young Black man named Robert Gray, a native San Franciscan raised in the Bayview Hunter’s Point area of the city, and a proud sixth-generation descendant of the Georgetown 272 (a group of 272 African slaves who were sold, in 1838 by the Jesuit priests who ran George University to keep the school afloat), was rather well known in the Castro and Tenderloin areas. “I had started meeting and dating guys in my junior year in high school,” he told me. “I went to high school four or five blocks from the Castro. I would find my way up through the bar scene during that time, sneaking into gay bars and discos.” Of course, he realized that AIDS was rampant through the city.

One day, as 24-year-old Robert wandered down Castro Street, a man approached him and asked if he would pose for a photo for a safe-sex poster for San Francisco AIDS Foundation. “The gentleman advised me that a young photographer named Mick Hicks was looking for two subjects, one Black male and one white male, for the poster. Having seen so many of my personal friends succumb to this deadly virus, I felt it was something I needed to do to help stop the spread of this horrific disease. I asked myself, ‘Why not?’ With AIDS affecting so many of my gay brothers and sisters, I felt it was my responsibility to do something to contribute to AIDS awareness and prevention. I needed to take action, whatever I could do to be a voice of action and help my community.” He agreed on the spot to do the poster.

“You Can Have Fun (and be safe too)” read the final poster. The image that Hicks created featured Robert, shot from the back, embracing a white model (Hicks’ partner Nick Cuccia), his white arm and bubble-butt standing out prominently against Robert’s skin. Even the Chronicle columnist Herb Caen took notice of the photo. The sex-positive message of the poster advocated “mutual masturbation,” “erotic massage,” “imagination and fantasies,” and “limiting social drugs.” The poster portrayed and promoted gay sex as normal, expected behavior, and emphasized the pleasure that could be had while still protecting oneself against transmission of the virus. The poster caused a huge sensation and started appearing in gay bars, discos, and bathhouses from San Francisco to New York. Mr. Gray told me, “As the young kids would say today, ‘it went viral,’ no pun intended!”

(Castro, San Francisco postcard, 1984)

Regrettably, the poster also launched a two-pronged backlash, one prong based in religious prudery, the other in racism.

By asserting that gay sex could be both fun and safe, the poster was the first to portray gay sex as normal, healthy, and fun. Even before AIDS, gay sex had been viewed as aberrant, “unnatural.” As an offshoot of that prejudice, AIDS was thought by many as a visitation of the wrath of God on immoral men who were violating God’s law. How many times did we hear in the early 1980s, “At least AIDS is killing all the right people”? The poster’s sex-positive message was condemned as an affront to decency and family values.

Even more lamentably, the poster inadvertently shone a light on the racial animus within San Francisco’s gay community. As Rick Crane told the Bay Area Reporter in 2014, “Gays as a group were considered second-class citizens and, ironically, gays themselves were treating gay blacks the same way — as second-class citizens.” Although racial tensions had eased somewhat from the flashpoints of the ‘60s and ‘70s, there was still a clear racial divide in the bars in the Castro. The Pendulum was the Castro’s only gay bar where black men and white men went comfortably to meet; the other Castro bars catered primarily to whites. The Trap, located in the Tenderloin district, also catered to interracial couples. Thus, some of the bars and other establishments refused to display the poster, deeming it “unacceptable.” Regarding the response to the poster, Gray said, “I would go into bars, and I would hear the chatter amongst people about the poster. I heard some really positive things, but also some really negative, racially motivated things.

(Below: "Thyrell And Chris Outside The Pendulum Bar SF", 1986 by Jim James aka Photojimsf)

“At the time that I did the poster,” he continued, “I had no idea that it would be so controversial. Honestly, had I known this upfront, I might not have done it. But looking back on it now, I would do it again because it was the right thing to do.” But still, he laments, “Who would have thought that a photo would open my eyes to the racism within the gay community? We are so much more alike as a people than different. One would think we could get along better and come together for a cause greater than us individually. Being a proud Black gay man, I must fight harder than most for myself and for those who come after me.”

These days, Robert Gray is still that proud Black gay man who changed the face of safe-sex advocacy. Sixty-two years old now, nearly forty years since he posed for the SFAF poster, he is semi-retired and lives in Vallejo, California. He is now a widower, having lost his partner of 42 years (his husband since 2013). He remains quite proud of the poster to this day, even if that pride is somewhat tempered by what he considers a lack of recognition for his work. “I thought over time I would see the poster in the gay pride parades or that I would be given some special honor from major players in the movement, like GLAAD. There is still a lot of racism in the gay community.”

Adapted from a February 18, 2022 article by Hank Trout:

https://www.sfaf.org/collections/status/why-did-a-safe-sex-poster-spark-controversy-in-1984/

#lgbtq #lgbt+#race #blm #san francisco #aids #hiv

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 12 days

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By: Julian Adorney, Mark Johnson and Geoff Laughton

Published: Mar 23, 2024

In The Divine Conspiracy, Dallas Willard tells the story of a jet fighter pilot who was practicing high-speed maneuvers. As Willard puts it, “She turned the controls for what she thought was a steep ascent—and flew straight into the ground. She was unaware that she had been flying upside down.”

What if we were flying upside down? But let’s go further. What if an entire generation was flying upside down–flying through fog and danger, unable to see either ground or sky, and the well-intended adjustments pushed on them by “experts” were just bringing them closer to catastrophe?

That’s the lens through which we interpret Abigail Shrier’s New York Times bestseller Bad Therapy.

There’s no denying that the youngest generation is in crisis. As the Addiction Center notes, members of Generation Z “run a higher risk of developing a substance abuse problem than previous age groups.” A 2015 report found that 23.6 percent of 12th graders use illicit drugs. The American Psychological Association reports that just 45 percent of Gen Zers report that their mental health is “very good” or “excellent,” compared with 51 percent of Gen Xers and 70 percent of Boomers. A concerning 42 percent of Gen Zers have been diagnosed with a mental health condition, and an astounding 60 percent take medication to manage their mental health.

It gets worse. The rate of self-harm for girls age 10-14 increased over 300 percent from 2001 to 2019 (before the pandemic). According to a 2021 CDC survey, 1 in 3 teenage girls have seriously considered killing themselves.

Well-meaning therapists, teachers, and school counselors are trying to help the next generation to rise up. But what if everyone involved is upside down? What if, like the fighter pilot that Willard describes, what they think is rising up is actually bringing them into deeper danger? Shrier makes a strong case that that’s exactly what’s happening.

Lots of educators encourage kids to spend more time checking in with their feelings. In the 2021-2022 school year, 76 percent of principals said that their school had adopted a Social and Emotional Learning (SEL) curriculum. Common SEL practices include: asking students how they’re feeling at the start of each day, teaching that students should be more aware of how they’re feeling in any given moment, and encouraging students to use activities like writing and art to express their feelings.

The problem is that all of this obsession with feelings can actually make students feel worse. As Yulia Chentsova Dutton, head of the the Culture and Emotions Lab at Georgetown University, says, “Emotions are highly reactive to our attention to them.” “Certain kinds of attention to emotions, focus on emotions,” she explains, “can increase emotional distress. And I’m worried that when we try to help our young adults, help our children, what we do is throw oil into the fire.” Or to put it another way: when we ask kids over and over again how they’re feeling, we’re subtly and accidentally encouraging them to feel bad.

The reason is that, as psychiatry professor Michael Linden explains, most of us don’t feel happy all the time. Dealing with life involves ignoring a certain amount of moment-by-moment discomfort: I’m tired, my feet hurt, I’m sore from sitting down all day, I’m a little worried about my mom. When we encourage kids to check in many times per day on how they’re feeling, we’re tacitly encouraging them to bring to the surface–and then dwell on–all the things going on in their minds that are not “happiness.” That’s why, as Linden puts it, “Asking somebody ‘how are you feeling?’ is inducing negative feelings. You shouldn’t do that.”

But it gets worse.

Obsessing over our emotions can actually prevent us from doing the things that might make us feel better. Anyone who’s spent too long wallowing after a bad break-up knows this; at a certain point, you have to shelve your unpleasant emotions so that you can get on with your life. Psychologists describe two mental states that we can occupy at any given time: “action orientation” and “state orientation.” “State orientation” is where you focus primarily on yourself (e.g., how you feel about doing the task at hand, whether your wrist hurts or you’re starting to get sick, etc.). “Action orientation” is where you primarily focus on the task at hand. As a study published by Cambridge University Press notes, only the latter is actually conducive to pursuing and accomplishing goals. “State orientation is a personality that has difficulty in taking action toward goal fulfillment,” the authors warn. By encouraging young people to focus so much on their feelings, we might be hurting their ability to adopt the mindset necessary to accomplish goals in life. If so, that would make them even more unhappy.

But the dangers posed by well-meaning “experts” telling students to fly in the wrong direction–towards the ground instead of towards the sky–go well beyond encouraging unhappiness and depression. Rates of suicide and self-harm for young people are skyrocketing. But in their attempts to cope with the spike, well-meaning administrators might be making the problem worse. Here are questions from the 2021 Florida High School Youth Risk Behavior Survey, administered to students age 14 and up:

During the past 12 months, did you ever feel so sad or hopeless almost every day for two weeks or more in a row that you stopped doing your usual activities? During the past 12 months, did you ever seriously consider attempting suicide? During the past 12 months, did you make a plan about how you would attempt suicide? During the past 12 months, how many times did you actually attempt suicide? If you attempted suicide during the past 12 months, did any attempt result in an injury, poisoning, or overdose that had to be treated by a doctor or nurse?

A survey authored by the CDC asked students “During the past year, did you do something to purposely hurt yourself without wanting to die, such as cutting or burning yourself on purpose?” Another survey offered this question to Delaware middle schoolers: “Sometimes people feel so depressed about the future that they may consider attempting suicide or killing themselves. Have you ever seriously thought about killing yourself?”

Administrators may be asking these questions with the best of intentions, but the end result is to normalize suicide in young peoples’ minds. If you were 12 years old and taking a survey like this along with all of your classmates, you might reasonably conclude that suicide, or at least suicidal ideation and/or self harm, were pretty common at your school. Otherwise, why would everyone your age have to take such an exhaustive assessment about it?

One reason this is so dangerous is that, as Shrier writes, “The virality of suicide and self-harm among adolescents is extremely well-established.” Following the release of Netflix’s TV show 13 Reasons Why, which some said valorized a fictional girl who killed herself, several studies found a spike in teen suicide rates. The CDC agrees. In a post warning about the dangers of “suicide contagion,” the CDC said that journalists should avoid things like:

“Engaging in repetitive, ongoing, or excessive reporting of suicide in the news.”

“Reporting ‘how-to’ descriptions of suicide.”

“Presenting suicide as a tool for accomplishing certain ends” (i.e., as a “means of coping with personal problems”).

But this is most of what the surveys described above are doing. They are deluging students with repetitive and excessive discussion of suicide. They are describing different methods for killing yourself (e.g., cutting or burning yourself). One survey, which asks students who have considered killing themselves why they did so (possible answers include “demands of schoolwork,” “problems with peers or friends,” and “being bullied”) is a textbook example of presenting suicide as a “means of coping with personal problems.”

The authors of these surveys seem to at least recognize the risk that students are flying upside down, and that these surveys might take them closer to the ground. One survey concludes by telling students, “If any survey questions or your responses have caused you to feel uncomfortable or concerned and you would like to talk to someone about your feelings, talk to your school’s counselor, to a teacher, or to another adult you trust.” The survey also includes links to different hotlines.

Communicating to kids that suicide is normal and a possible solution to their problems might be the worst way that some schools are failing kids, but it’s also far from the only way.

Schools are increasingly lax about standards, willing to let almost anyone get away with almost anything. Some accommodations do make sense: for example, it makes sense to give a kid with dyslexia more time to complete the verbal component of the SAT. But Shrier argues that standards are falling for perfectly healthy students too. “School counselors—students’ in-school ‘advocates,’” Shrier writes, now “lobby teachers to excuse lateness or absence, forgive missed classwork, allow a student to take walks around the school in the middle of class, ratchet grades upward, reduce or eliminate homework requirements, offer oral exams in place of written ones, and provide preferential seating to students who lack even an official diagnosis.”

Shrier documents stories of students who have been allowed to turn in work late because they were having a “tough Mental Health Day” or because “I was having a rough day and dealing with my gender identity.”

The problem with this is that one of the primary things that children and teenagers do is try to figure out the boundaries of the world. When a child throws a tantrum, it’s not malicious–they’re trying to understand this new world and figure out what they can get away with. As Jordan Peterson writes in Twelve Rules for Life, young children are “like blind people, searching for a wall.” “They have to push forward, and test,” he writes, “to see where the actual boundaries lie.” What’s true of young children is also true of older children and even (to a lesser extent) adults. All of us are trying to figure out the rules of life–that is, what we can get away with. If well-meaning teachers and counselors tell students that one of the rules is that you don’t have to do your homework on time if you say that you’re having a rough day, then we shouldn’t be surprised when more young people seem to manifest rough days.

But this is the opposite of what students need–especially the truly disadvantaged students who so many of these efforts seem to be aimed at helping. In his memoir Troubled, clinical psychologist Rob Henderson writes that, “People think that if a young guy comes from a disorderly or deprived environment, he should be held to low standards.” But, he warns, “this is misguided. He should be held to high standards. Otherwise, he will sink to the level of his environment.”

So kids are depressed, anxious, and poorly behaved. Educators are trying to help them by encouraging them to tap in more to their feelings, by asking them more questions about suicide, and by trying to accommodate their difficulties even more. But all of this is backwards. Educators are encouraging students to do what they think will take them higher–away from the ground and back to the safety of the sky. But both kids and educators are upside down. And every adjustment that the “experts” are telling kids to make just brings them closer to the ground–and a catastrophic collision.

Now’s a good time to emphasize that this isn’t all schools, all teachers, or all administrators–not by a long shot. There are heroic educators working every day to help students to rein in their problems, stop taking advantage of accommodations that they don’t need, and develop the emotional resilience to deal with the problems of adolescence. But the problems documented above do represent a trend. And while it’s not every school, the trend is too big to ignore.

What will happen if this trend continues–if an entire generation keeps going “up” until they crash into the ground? Most severe and most damaging is the harm to the generation itself. Shrier tells the story of Nora, a 16-year-old girl who helps put a human face on all of the brutal statistics described in the introduction to this piece. Nora describes her friends as going through a litany of serious mental health problems: “anxiety,” “depression”; “self-harm” (as Shrier notes, “lots of self-harm”) including “Scratching, cutting, anorexia,” “Trichotillomania” (pulling your hair out by the roots); and more. As Shrier writes, “Dissociative identity disorder, gender dysphoria, autism spectrum disorder, and Tourette’s belong on her list of once-rare disorders that are, among this rising generation, suddenly not so rare at all.”

But the dangers can also ripple out beyond just one generation. The full danger may be nothing less than an imperiling of our democracy.

As Shrier notes, many kids in school are almost constantly monitored. Her own kids have “recess monitors” at their school–“teachers who involve themselves in every disagreement at playtime and warn kids whenever the monkey bars might be slick with rain.” On the bus home, they have “bus monitors.” Better that kids know they’re being observed by an adult at all times than that one kid push another to give him his lunch money.

One of the most pervasive forms of monitoring is what are called “shadows”—ed techs or paraeducators whose job is to cling closely to one particular student so that they don’t have any issues. The original intention certainly made sense. If a child had autism, a shadow could help the kid to integrate into the main classroom rather than being sent to Special Ed. But, as Shrier notes, scope creep has been substantial. “Today,” she writes, “public schools assign shadows to follow kids with problems ranging from mild learning disabilities to violent tendencies.” Nor is the problem restricted to public schools: “private schools advise affluent parents to hire shadows to trail neurotypical kids for almost any reason.” Shadows monitor and guide almost every interaction with their chosen student, from when to raise her hand to how long to hug a fellow student.

As Peter Gray, professor of psychology at Boston College and an expert on child development, puts it, “Kids today are always under the situation of an observer. At home, the parents are watching them. At school, they’re being observed by teachers. Out of school, they’re in adult-directed activities. They have almost no privacy.”

But when kids spend their entire waking lives being monitored by an adult, they start to think that kind of monitoring is normal. Worse, they start to think that they need it. If a child gets constant guidance from an adult, what are the odds that she’s going to cultivate her own independence? If she expects authoritarian adults to monitor and run every aspect of her life already, what is she going to think of a liberal democracy that more-or-less leaves people free to handle their own affairs?

No wonder just 27 percent of Americans age 18-25 strongly agree with the statement that “Democracy may have problems, but it is the best system of government” (compared to 48 percent of Americans as a whole).

So what’s the solution? If our kids are upside down and getting lower to the ground, then the only thing that makes sense is to help them reverse course. Is there something that’s the opposite of always asking them about their feelings, telling them that life is too much for them or their peers to cope with, and constantly telling them that they’re too fragile to do their homework if they’re having a rough day? Yes. That something is called antifragility.

Antifragility is the idea that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. As social psychologist Jonathan Haidt and president of the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression Greg Lukianoff note in The Coddling of the American Mind, kids are naturally antifragile. That doesn’t just mean that they’re tough. It means that “they require stressors and challenges in order to learn, adapt, and grow.” Not letting a kid hand in homework late doesn’t just teach them to do their homework on time; it also teaches them that they can deal with a 0 in class and not die. They can pick themselves up, brush themselves off, and even earn an A in the class overall if they bust a sweat for the rest of the semester. Telling a kid who’s having a “tough mental health day” that you’re sorry to hear it but they still need to take today’s test doesn’t just teach the kid that low-level excuses don’t fly; it also teaches them that a hard day isn’t enough to stop them. It teaches them that they’re stronger than whatever negative emotions they’re currently experiencing.

It’s time to remind kids that they are strong–before it’s too late.

All quotes not otherwise attributed come from Abigail Shrier’s book Bad Therapy.

About the Authors

Julian Adorney is a Contributing Writer to FAIR’s Substack and the founder of Heal the West, a Substack movement dedicated to preserving and protecting Western civilization. You can find him on X at @Julian_Liberty.

Mark Johnson is a trusted advisor and executive coach at Pioneer Performance Partners and a facilitator and coach at The Undaunted Man. He has more than 25 years of experience optimizing people and companies. He blogs at The Undaunted Man’s Substack.

Geoff Laughton is a Relationship Architect/Coach, multiple-International Best-Selling Author, Speaker, and Workshop Leader. He is the founder of The Undaunted Man. He has spent the last twenty-six years coaching people world-wide, with a particular passion for supporting those in relationship, and helping men from all walks of life step up to their true potential.

#Julian Adorney #Mark Johnson #Geoff Laughton #Abigail Shrier #Bad Therapy #human psychology #psychology #emotions #emotional distress #feelings #antifragility #coddling #emotional fragility #religion is a mental illness

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gigijb1969 · 1 year

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Rockets 2023, Friday, May 5, Central Texas/Stonewall Launch Report

Rockets 2023, Central Texas/Stonewall Edition, continued today. The original schedule listed 26 rockets for today. Three rockets aborted, bringing the total launched to 23. Georgetown arrived at Stage 3 first with 7 vehicles, making the first full volley all theirs, with rockets in the air starting at 10:51 a.m. Mission Complete was at 7:07 p.m. It was a slightly longer day today. Tomorrow only…

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thembolaura2 · 2 months

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Babel is a book that came highly recommend to me from people I trust, and honestly I can see why. On it's surface, it should've been something I was really into - a book about anti-imperialism set against the backdrop of the Opium Wars while also being about etymology and the inherent imperfections of translating between two languages. Hell it even quotes Frantz Fanon at one point.

And yet.

I've been thinking about it a lot recently, and I think I've come to some conclusions of the things about it that really rubbed me the wrong way - major spoilers for the whole book follow.

Fundamentally, it comes down to one word: class. I think RF Kuang has a massive blindspot around class and classism, and it seeped through in this book in a way that I found quite aggravating.

I'll start by saying that the only working class characters that I can remember are Professor Lovell's housekeeper Mrs Piper, and the northern strikers. And kind of Griffin.

Mrs Piper is basically shown as a stereotypical loving, kindly housekeeper. She's Scottish and makes scones for Robin! That's...about all there is to her character, aside from one particular thing that sticks out to me - there's a bit early on where Robin gets beaten by Lovell for hyperfocusing and missing the start of his lesson, and Mrs Piper gets judged (not by Robin mind, by the book) for not acknowledging anything was wrong:

Some other child suited to better, kinder treatment might have realised that such nonchalance on the part of adults like Mrs Piper [...] to a badly bruised eleven-year-old was frightfully wrong

Now ignoring that this is a book set in 1830s Britain where this would have been a common occurrance anyway (yes it still would've been wrong back then but given the cultural context I don't think there were many other children "suited to a better, kinder treatment"), what grates me about this is that there's absolutely no interrogation of why she might not want to speak out about it. Her job is as a housekeeper. Presumably she is reliant on this job to survive. If she spoke out about this, chances are she'd both lose this job and potentially any future housekeeping jobs. And like, it's not a huge thing, but it's an early sign that the approach to class is at best, lacking.

So then we come to the northern strikers. First introduced as a rowdy, scary crowd - fine, it's from Robin's perspective and he's had a very bourgeois, sheltered upbringing after being picked up by Professor Lovell. They come back later, now on Robin's side, to act as. Uh. A barricade. Only one of them, Abel Goodfellow (lol) is the only one who gets any particuar characterisation, the rest are just a faceless crowd of people who the book doesn't seem to have any real interest in. The only reason they exist is to give the Oxford students and professors an extra layer of protection so none of the actual characters are in any sort of risk for a few chapters.[1]

Which brings me to one of my biggest issues. This whole book has been leading up to this "revolution" - but the revolution is a bunch of academics hiding in the big Colonialism Tower, while a bunch of proles are the ones who actually put themselves at risk. They are basically treated as cannon fodder to protect the brave academics, but then end up getting cold feet when it seems like they might be in some actual danger.

What the fuck.

What puts an even bigger point on this is knowing, throughout the entire book, that RF Kuang herself went to Oxford and pulled from her experiences. While this makes her exploration of the racism in the upper echelons of British society very real and is a legitimately good critique, it also makes the way she approaches the working class in this book feel extremely patronising - made worse by my recent discovery of just how bourgeois the rest of her background is (she went to a Greenhill School where each year costs upwards of $30k, Georgetown University which has a dispropotionately high ratio of students from wealthy families, studied at both Oxbrige unis, and finally an Ivy League uni in Yale.)

And I get it, I'm white, that is absolutely a privilege I have that she does not. I would never deny that, and I never want to talk over people who have experienced racism. But also, class-based oppression is very fucking real. So to have a literal Oxbridge scholar write a book decrying British imperialism and colonialism, criticising Oxford for being a racist driver of these things, while simultaneously glorifying the glamourous aspects of the institution [2] and just glossing over the intensity of classism in British society is, quite frankly, fucking galling.

Oh also, if you want me to be sympathetic to a character, maybe don't make them the fucking prince to another empire??? Utterly bizarre choice.

[1] As an aside, this section is another good example of her blindness towards class:

Despite all expectations, Abel's supporters grew in number over the following days. The workmen strikers were better at getting the message out than any of Robin's pamphlets. They spoke the same lanugage, after all. The British could identify with Abel in a way they could not with foreign-born translators.

The implication I get from this is that because they're foreign academics, those stupid, racist proles ignored them, but like. There is a long, storied history of solidarity across racial lines among the British working classes - admittedly my knowledge of this history doesn't go back as far as when this would have been taking place, but either way, the fact it's not mentioned that the British working class would see them primarily as Oxford toffs just seems like such a weird thing to skip over.

[2] Honestly my issue with all the anachronistic things like the oysters isn't that it's anachonistic but that it comes across as bragging about all the special things she got to experience at Oxford

#babel an arcane history #babel rf kuang #rf kuang #classism #colonialism

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federer7 · 2 months

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Washington, D.C. Student football fans at a game between Woodrow Wilson High School and Georgetown Preparatory School. October 1943

Photo: Esther Bubley

#Esther Bubley #Washington #woodrow wilson #georgetown #October #1943

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therealbattleangel · 2 years

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Film Day? - Klitz x F!Reader (+ a little Eli)

Y/N: Smut. Smut with a little bit of plot and a little bit of fluff. Also voyeurism. Also talking about porn. Also Eli just being Eli

(Requests Open !)

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Klitz and Y/N had been dating since sophomore year of high school and it was now the summer between senior year of high school and freshman year of college. Both Y/N and Klitz got into Yale while Matthew went to Georgetown and Eli began a career as a porn director. But there was still two months until Klitz and Y/N moved up to Yale and they were planning on spending most of that time hanging out with each other and with Eli. They were all currently at Klitz’s house as his parents were out of town for the week. Klitz and Y/N sat together, cuddling as Klitz and Eli talked. They talked about the new movies that were coming out, the comic books they were currently reading and how life was going at the time. Y/N stood up and said she needed to grab something from her bag and walked off. She went up to Klitz’s bedroom and grabbed a tissue from her purse, blowing her nose before throwing it away and heading back downstairs. As she did, she noticed the room had gone quiet.

She walked back in and tilted her head when she saw they were both staring at her “yes?” Y/N asked as she looked between the two boys “Um… Y/N, I-” Klitz began before being interrupted by Eli “I have an idea for you two.” Y/N slowly went to sit back down beside Klitz as Eli continued “work, right now, is a little rough. I don’t have anyone available to film for another month which could be really bad for me. And…” Y/N looked at Klitz before slowly looking back at Eli “and what?” She asked. Eli hummed “recently, Klitz has told me about how well he knows you and how well he… Pleases you. So I was wondering if I could possibly… Film you two having sex?” Y/N widened her eyes before looking at Klitz “you what? And… Film us having sex? Klitz!” Y/N shouted as Klitz raised his arms in surrender “what? I had to talk to somebody about it. And he’s our friend. I wanted to help him out. But baby, really, if you are uncomfortable with the idea, we don’t have to do it. We can just forget that this ever happened.” Eli then hummed “but if you did decide to do it, it would really help me out. And you both would get paid the same amount I usually pay my workers which is pretty good.” Y/N then sighed and stayed quiet for a bit before shrugging “fine but just, let’s get it over with now.”

They were now in the bedroom where Eli had set up a camera and some lighting, facing the bed. Klitz and Y/N were both only in their underwear. “If I had known that we were doing this today, I would have worn a matching set,” she said, looking down at her mismatched bra and panties. “Don’t worry. You won’t have them on for very long” Eli said as Klitz began looking through his closet, causing Y/N to tilt her head “what are you looking for?” She asked as Klitz pulled out two half masks “my parents went to Mardi Gras years ago and they picked up these. I was thinking that we could wear these so we can still kiss but our faces are mostly covered.”

Y/N then smiled before pulling Klitz into a deep kiss. Little did Klitz know that he just made Y/N so much calmer. She was so worried about actually showing her face during the tape and Klitz just solved that problem. Eli groaned “come on, people. I don’t have all day” he said, suddenly acting like a real porn director. Y/N and Klitz put on the half masks before laying down on the bed. She then looked at Eli “what… What now?” she asked before Eli hummed “just fuck. However you normally do” he said with a shrug. Y/N nodded before Eli said “and… Action!” Klitz then pulled Y/N into a kiss, wrapping one arm around her waist and putting his other hand on her head, slowly moving his fingers into her hair and gently tugging. Y/N moaned against Klitz’s lips as they continued to kiss before they pulled away and Klitz started kissing all over her neck and her exposed chest. Behind the camera, Eli was biting his lip. He thought it was going to be awkward watching his best friend and his girlfriend fuck but for some reason, he found it hot.

Klitz then whispered into Y/N’s ear “can I remove your bra now, baby?” Y/N nodded eagerly before Klitz removed Y/N’s bra, exposing her breasts. He then began to kiss all over them before saying “I fucking love your tits, kitten.” Y/N moaned at Klitz’s comment and the feeling of his lips all over her breasts. He then began to suck on one of her nipples as he pinched the other, causing her to moan again, louder than she had before. Eventually, Klitz moved one of his hands down into Y/N’s panties. He began rubbing her clit before he lifted his head and smirked up at her “what do you want me to do now, baby?” he said in a teasing tone. Y/N whined “please touch me, daddy. Please~” Klitz then hummed “of course, kitten” he said before taking off her panties and putting his head between her legs, beginning to eat her out. Soon after, he began fingering her as well.

At the same time, Eli felt his pants growing tighter. He again, would have never thought he would be the guy that found his best friend fucking a girl hot but he was loving it. Seeing Klitz so successfully pleasuring a woman, making her make beautiful moans, was attractive, hot and sexy and he wanted more. He quietly unzipped his pants before sticking one of his hands into his boxers and beginning to stroke himself off. He was watching as Klitz continued to eat Y/N out, fingering her as he did. She then began moaning louder “daddy, f-fuck! I… I’m gonna cum. Fuck, I’m gonna cum” she shouted before Klitz lifted his head “cum in my mouth, baby. Fucking cum on my tongue” he said before going back to eating her out. She then released in the other’s mouth, moaning loudly as she came.

Klitz moved away from Y/N before pulling her into a kiss. He then pulled away before removing his boxers, putting on a condom afterward. He then pulled Y/N back into a kiss before he slowly lined up his member with Y/N’s hole. He then slowly inserted himself into her as she pulled away from the kiss, moaning loudly. He then slowly began thrusting into her as Eli began to speed up his own strokes. Klitz continued to thrust into Y/N as he kissed all over her body, leaving a few marks on her as he did. She then ran her hands into his hair, pulling on it as he began to speed up his thrusts. This continued until Klitz, Y/N and Eli were all close to cumming. Klitz continued to thrust faster and faster as Y/N screamed that she was cumming. He then pulled out of her and pulled off his condom, releasing onto her chest. During this, Eli also came but because of how loud the other two were, neither heard Eli. He then quickly adjusted himself before yelling “cut!”

Klitz and Y/N panted before Klitz stood up and grabbed a towel from the bathroom and two robes for both him and Y/N to wear. He then went back into the bedroom and wiped Y/N down before helping her into one of the robes. He then got into one himself before looking at Eli “man, guys. That was great. Alright now for the money” Eli said before Y/N shook her head “you don’t have to pay us, Eli. Really.” Eli looked between Y/N and Klitz “wait really? Great. Because I didn’t really have a lot of money to give you guys.” Klitz facepalmed “so you weren’t going to pay us anyways?” Eli just smiled “well I was going to pay you. Just… Maybe a few months ago” Klitz then began chasing after Eli. Y/N just watched, laughing even though she was still exhausted. She didn’t want to tell Klitz but she liked Eli watching them and was going to ask if they could do it again. That is if Klitz doesn’t kill Eli.

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this! This is my first actual smut so I hope it’s alright. Also this is not my idea. I read a smut recently with this prompt and thought it was fucking amazing and I wanted to have my own sort of version of it with a bit more background so not my idea, credit to the original creator.

#paul dano #paul dano fanfic #paul dano imagines #paul dano x reader #paul dano smut #klitz #klitz x reader #klitz smut #klitz imagine #klitz the girl next door #the girl next door #the girl next door x reader #eli brooks #eli brooks x reader #eli brooks smut

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cecilysass · 10 months

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Pause (2/11)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 2: Back in the Atmosphere

The drive to Alexandria is so second nature to her that she’s determined to watch out for changes, hints that might suggest how much time has passed. She scans her surroundings as she drives, her head darting left to right to see everything.

She notices a new, neon-bright exterior to a bar in Georgetown, as conspicuous as a tropical fish. On M Street there's a bike rental shop that she doesn't recognize. The bridge itself, the waters of the Potomac, the stone-lined George Washington Memorial parkway: these all look the same to her. Of course, it’s dark out, so she is limited by what she can see in the overlapping circles of streetlights.

A small billboard advertising a top 40 radio station catches her attention, but she can’t be sure whether that was there before. It’s amazing how much of one’s surroundings one doesn’t notice in everyday life, she thinks. However, the sign makes her realize she could give the radio a try.

Yes. She should turn on the car radio.

She fiddles with the console and tries a public radio station first, thinking there might be news of the day playing that could provide a date or other clues. That station seems to be running some kind of evening documentary program on the history of the Vietnam War memorial. Scully turns it up to listen more closely: “…and wanted to make something that allowed people to remember, but wanted to serve as a visual reminder that the dead did not come back.” It’s an account of events from years ago: not especially helpful now.

She hits scan, moving through the ripping static noises to other stations, listening for a moment to each one. Classic rock. Latin. A commercial for car insurance.

She remembers the call number of the top 40 station from the billboard, and she tunes into that, her eyes periodically darting back up to the road.

“…You’re listening to Washington’s hit music station, Z104.”

The deejay’s patter seems like it might reveal promising information. She turns it up, but the deejay quickly transitions into music. It’s some sentimental pop ballad with piano.

She sighs. It shouldn’t be so difficult to find out what the date is, should it?

Scully turns her attention to the song. It’s completely unfamiliar to her, but it’s not like it’s entirely unusual for her to fail to recognize pop music. On the other hand, she did have the impression that teen music was edgier than this. This song seems very soft. She remembers those teenagers in Oklahoma, that lightning case, the kind of angst-ridden, angry music they liked. Their music reminded her a little of the punk music she admired in high school.

The male singer of the ballad on the radio is very emotional. As she drives into Alexandria, she listens, with mild curiosity, to the lyrics. He seems to be posing questions to a woman returning from a long, otherworldly absence.

Tell me, he challenges her. Did you sail across the sun? Did Venus blow your mind? Did you see that heaven is overrated? Did you miss me when you were looking for yourself out there?

A chill again trickles through her, running down her limbs.

Did you fall from a shooting star?

No. She doesn’t like this song. Her heart has begun thumping again, so loudly she hears it in her head. She turns off the radio.

What she needs more than any half-ass clue hunting, more than this nerve-wracking guessing game, is to find her partner. He will tell her whatever she needs to know. She doesn’t need to deduce it from radio stations.

That sounds enough like common sense to calm her down.

Hegal Place and his apartment building don’t look any different to her, thank God. The interior still has that musty historical smell, with a dash of insecticide and Pine Sol. The numbers on the elevator buttons are still mostly worn off; the lighting in the halls is still tinged amber and curiously dim.

She moves quickly down his hallway, but hesitates at the spot where she remembers last speaking to him. When he was cupping her head with such tenderness. When he was leaning in with the most desperate, longing expression on his face. How long ago was that? she wonders? What happened next?

She examines the floor for evidence that she had landed there, unconscious, felled by a sting. But there is nothing to see there but dingy beige tile, worn and scuffed by too much foot traffic.

Scully swallows. She walks, determined, to #42 —and then stands there just staring at the closed door. Taking a fortifying breath. Steeling herself for the worst.

If it isn’t him, if he doesn’t live here any more, well, she’s going to be upset, but she’ll just go to the Hoover building next. It will be okay. She will be okay. She’ll figure it out. She can still find Mulder.

That’s all perfectly logical, and she’s aware of that. But she isn’t operating on pure logic here. Her heart just wants him to be here, in his pajamas, arms open, ready to order her some takeout. Please let him be here, she thinks, little tears springing in her eyes. Please let it be Mulder.

She knocks on the door. And waits, listening for any noise inside.

And then she tries again.

There is no response. She bites her lip, hoping she’ll still hear him any moment. What time it is shouldn’t matter. There’s no time of night that Mulder wouldn’t wake up hearing knocking on his door.

After a moment’s hesitation, she reaches into her pocket, fumbling a little, and she produces his key. All right. If it’s not his apartment, it won’t fit. And then she will know.

She notices the sound of her own shallow breathing as she pushes the key in.

It slides into the lock perfectly, same as it always has.

Scully presses her eyes closed and releases a long sigh. She turns the key, unlocks it, and pushes open his door.

The space inside is lit only by the mottled green glow of the fish tank, but she’s greeted by the unmistakable sight of Mulder’s familiar apartment. The couch. The patterned Navajo blanket. The art on the walls. She would know it anywhere. It’s as familiar as any place on earth to her.

Her knees almost buckle from relief. Whatever else happens, she is safe now, and at least has a place to sleep tonight. Not her own home, but nearly as close as she can imagine.

“Mulder?” she calls. “Hello?”

There's no answer, and the silence unnerves her. She flips on a switch, and the room is illuminated. She takes some tentative steps inside.

His place is very messy, even for Mulder. There are several meals’ worth of dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table, which isn’t typical for him. Papers and files are strewn over the desk, spilling haphazardly onto the floor. This paper chaos is more typical for him, although it seems especially out of hand.

She picks up a fast food wrapper off the floor and glances at some of the papers on his desk, which seem to be a mix of bills and old article clippings. Is he out of town? Or is he just out for the night, chasing down a source? She wonders why it’s gotten so messy.

The phone on his desk is peeking out from under a newspaper, but she's relieved to see it. Immediately she picks it up and dials his cell number. It goes straight to voicemail. She hangs it up and sighs heavily, standing still a moment. Taking in the information around her.

Where are you, Mulder?

She wanders into the kitchen. The clock over his stove top says 11:38, which answers one of her questions, although hardly the most important.

The kitchen is also in unhygienic disarray, with a heap of unwashed dishes resting in the sink, as though he hasn’t been bothered with them in quite some time. The garbage can is overflowing, to-go containers piled precariously on top. She crumples up the fast food wrapper and sticks it in the side of the can as best she can.

The room doesn’t smell particularly good, and this turns her already-vulnerable stomach. What’s more, Scully doesn’t like what she sees here. Not any of this. It sets her on edge.

Mulder often comes across as disorganized and scattered, but he isn’t dirty. He can actually be oddly fastidious, sometimes even more than her about select topics. She has never seen dirty dishes piling up in his kitchen before.

“Mulder?” she calls out again, more loudly, her voice a little shrill. She doesn’t know why she’s calling his name when it’s clear he’s not here.

She decides to look in his refrigerator for evidence he’s been here recently, and she braces herself for seeing and smelling a landscape of rotting food. Holding her breath, she throws open the door of the fridge quickly.

Much to her relief, it’s inoffensive. There’s very little inside, in fact—except a glass pan of lasagna covered in plastic wrap with a single square cut out. She slides the pan out a little to look at it, and sees a note taped to the top of the plastic.

Her breath catches.

The note is on familiar stationary, yellow paper decorated with little sunshines and daisies. The note has two sentences written in precise cursive in blue pen: “Please eat at least half this time. I’ll check when I come back for the pan on Sunday. -M”

The word “half” is underlined three times. It’s unquestionably her mother’s handwriting.

Scully slides it back into the fridge and closes the door.

She thinks about the last time her mother and Mulder took care of one another. She thinks about how this might relate to her memory problems— what Mulder would call “lost time.”

Did you sail across the sun? Did Venus blow your mind?

No. She is not ready to face this possibility. Not again. She feels tears prickling the corners of her eyes.

No. Absolutely not.

She turns to the sink and looks around for Mulder’s dish soap and sponge.

With grim determination she begins to work on his pile of dirty dishes, holding her breath against the smell. The hot water scalds her hands, but strangely, she finds the sensation not unpleasant.

The soap and water makes her left hand sting a little, and she considers again the cut there. It’s deeper than she first realized. She chooses to ignore it.

Because that’s what she’s doing right now. She’s ignoring things. And doing dishes.

Once she finishes the dishes in the sink, she goes into the living room and scoops up the dirty dishes off of his coffee table, and takes them into the sink next. It gives her a reassuring sense of control. At least Mulder’s goddamn dish problem is in hand.

When she’s done with that, she has created so many clean dishes they don’t even fit in his drying rack, so she spreads out some dish towels on his countertop and lets them rest there to dry out, too. She’ll get his help to put them all up later. Hopefully.

Next she finds his garbage bags, and she empties his overflowing garbage, carrying it down the hall of his building to the garbage chute, holding it out away from her body so she can’t smell it.

She returns to his kitchen to wash her hands. As she stands surveying her good work, she realizes she is starving.

Well. She knows there’s at least one thing to eat, and she trusts her mom’s cooking.

She pulls out her mother’s lasagna from the fridge, uncovers it, and slices herself off a giant slab of lasagna, much bigger than the tiny piece Mulder had apparently previously cut for himself. She places it on a freshly clean plate and heats it, watching it in the microwave.

I’m sorry, Mom, she thinks. No doubt Mulder should be taking your sensible food advice and eating this, but your daughter needs food, too.

It comes out of the microwave appealingly gooey and bubbly. Her stomach rumbles, and she wonders again when she last ate.

She finds a clean fork and takes an eager bite, humming in immediate satisfaction as she stands there clutching the plate. Her mother’s lasagna. Ground sausage and ricotta, a smidge of basil and garlic, generous mozzarella. It tastes like childhood, nourishing and wholesome. Scully feels suddenly desperate with the need to see her mother. Soon, she promises herself. After she talks to Mulder.

She decides not to sit down to eat, feeling too antsy. Instead, she walks around curiously as she shovels hungry forkfuls from her plate to her mouth. She peers at the detritus around the apartment for any hint of what might be happening.

On his kitchen table she leans over to stare closely at a pair of glasses Mulder has left sitting precariously close to the edge, deciding they are the same pair he always wore. Next to his computer, she tries to read the content of a receipt sitting out prominently, but the type is smeared.

She notices the door to his bedroom is cracked open, which surprises her. Normally he uses his bedroom as some kind of disastrous storage facility, with boxes of files he doesn’t keep at the office for whatever reason. As well as, no doubt, an impressive treasure trove of his pornography.

Hands full of her plate and fork, she nudges the door with her toe. To her surprise, it falls open easily. She sticks her head inside — and then lowers the plate, her eyes widening.

His bedroom is a normal bedroom. Cluttered, yes. Unmade bed. Clothes on the floor. But a normal bedroom, with a queen-sized bed.

She takes a step inside the room, aware that she is definitely snooping now. It’s always struck her as profoundly strange and sad that Mulder didn’t have a dedicated place to sleep. Or, if she’s being honest, to have sex. She isn’t sure how she feels to know that something about his life has changed this much. It should make her glad for him, but it also makes her uneasy.

She’s afraid to look too closely at the reading material piled around on the dresser and bedside table, but even a quick perfunctory glance tells her it’s not porn. A more systematic sweep of the room and she doesn’t see any of his magazines, actually, and that surprises her, too.

His bed is tousled and looks like it hasn’t been made for days, weeks, maybe ever. His pillow is slightly indented, and Scully has a very powerful impulse to go press her face down upon it, to inhale his scent, so familiar from routinely working in his aura: in motel rooms, in cars, on sojourns in the woods. From when they hold each other close after they’ve almost lost each other. The thought immediately embarrasses her. She should walk right out of this room right now. It’s not her business to be in here.

But her eye is caught by something vivid green laying on his bed, near his pillow but slightly obscured by a fold in his comforter. She takes a few steps forward to see it more clearly, resisting the urge to go pick it up.

She can see it now. It’s a sweater, a very small green sweater. She can make out its basic silhouette quite clearly. Way too small to be Mulder’s. Too small to be most men’s, truthfully, and cut rather slim.

She stands there unmoving, gripping the plate of her mother’s lasagna tightly, mouth gaping a little in disbelief, trying to take in the sight of that unfamiliar woman’s sweater on her partner’s bed.

Maybe this is the reason for the bedroom. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Maybe that’s where he is right now, somewhere out with his girlfriend. Maybe at his girlfriend’s apartment.

It gives Scully a sickening, vertigo feeling, like she possibly could throw up the lasagna. Is nothing what she expects now? Can she depend on anything? Does she even know this person — Mulder with a girlfriend? Is he the same man, the man she trusts and needs right now?

Immediately she shakes her head at herself in disgust. She’s being ridiculous; she knows she is. Mulder with a girlfriend is probably the same partner to her as Mulder without a girlfriend. Why shouldn’t he be? There’s no reason to feel so devastated, so empty. Mulder isn’t her boyfriend. He never has been.

It’s just that so much of this is not what she remembers. What she most clearly remembers, in fact, is him trying to kiss her. But that was one little moment, one tiny blip in time, and she doesn’t even know what happened after that.

She rotates around the bedroom, her eyes scanning his work shirts strewn on the floor. Truthfully, besides the sweater, nothing in the state of this apartment especially suggests to her a happy Mulder with a girlfriend.

Actually, there’s nothing that seems clear here at all. Nothing that adds up to a straightforward picture. It’s all contradictory and disorienting. She releases a quiet sigh.

She’s only eaten about half, but the lasagna has lost its appeal. She looks down at the plate wrinkling her forehead, deciding to throw it out. This thought process is interrupted when his phone begins ringing.

She follows the sound of the ring back into his living room, considering for a moment whether to pick it up. Probably not the wisest idea, given everything she doesn’t understand here. Before she talks to anyone else, she wants to talk to Mulder.

Sitting carefully on his couch, setting her plate on the coffee table, she listens to the rings, letting his machine pick up. His message is exactly the same message she has heard a thousand times, which makes her want to weep.

After the beep, the caller’s message begins. “Hey, Mulder.”

It’s Byers. Scully straightens up, alert.

“We’re just calling to make sure you…got home okay. Because you, uh, seemed a little off. It’s about 12:45 now, so it seems like you should be there by now…but perhaps you made another stop. Or something. Well. Just call when you get this.”

There is a scuffling sound, and then Frohike’s voice: “We worry, my friend. Please let us know you’re home okay. No more scares.” Beep.

Scully stares at the machine, processing this new information.

No more scares.

Seemed a little off.

Should be there by now.

She leans her head back on the leather of his couch, drained. She wonders if she should call the Gunmen back and try to extract more information from them. They could at least answer her most basic questions. Had Mulder been at their place? Where might he have gone from there? Should she be looking for him? What “scares?” Oh, and what year is it? And as far as they know, has she been anywhere unusual as of late?

Her eyes fall closed, and she is suddenly so unbelievably tired.

I could easily fall asleep, she realizes in surprise. Which seems preposterous, given the circumstances, the countless unanswered questions. But it’s just all so overwhelming, so impossible to parse. Her body and mind seem to have given up on her.

For a moment she lets herself drift, her limbs going slack.

The sound of a key scraping in the door startles her awake.

#the x files #xfiles fanfic #x files fanfic #dana scully #fox mulder #x files

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masterwords · 9 months

Text

out of these shadows comes the light

Summary: Hotch is particular about getting his hair cut. (autistic!Hotch)

Pairing: Hotch/Haley -> Hotch/Morgan

Words: ~5k

Warnings: implied/referenced past child abuse, violence, self-harm/suicide attempt, internalized ableism, ableism, scars, pain, sex (brief at the end, not explicit), food, divorce...if I missed any please let me know.

Notes: Written because of this ask, and I took it to some pretty intense depths but I love squeezing every single drop out of a backstory every time. I probably could have turned this into a 50k word multi-chapter event, all of the simple ending of getting Derek to cut Hotch's hair. Nothing is ever easy with me. In other news, you can expect updates to each of my on-going big stories this week as I should have a few hours each day to devote to writing for once!

Read under the cut or on AO3 here!

Grace Underwood was a young mother. Maybe too young. Twenty-three, fresh out of college, pregnant by the first man who took her to bed. She’d been a good girl, everyone said. All girls private school led her to an all-women’s university. She should have been saved from all of the worldly temptations.

But then there was Edward Hotchner and his roguish charm. His wild blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes told her lies from the moment they met. Lies and temptation that hid all the regret that would come later.

One night. It started out as one wild night, a frat party at Georgetown that she and her friends were invited to. It was a two and a half hour drive so they got a hotel room and decided to stay the weekend in the city. She never saw the hotel room, only Edward’s dorm. After that it became weekends book-ended with long drives for her (he wasn't allowed at her university and she liked the city), and then they were hot and heavy and she was lost in love. He had plans for his future, big plans. She loved him for them.

But those plans didn’t involve a screaming, crying newborn baby while he was studying for the bar. That had been a surprise, and Edward Hotchner hated surprises. Those plans didn’t involve having a toddler digging through his briefcase with high profile case files and sticky peanut butter fingers. And they certainly didn’t involve late nights with a young boy who couldn’t seem to do anything without it being a production.

He pulled his diaper off and shouted “scratchy!” and “owie!”...brand new expensive disposable diapers, thrown away hardly used. Back to the old cloth and safety pins. He would peel his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches apart, fold up the bread with the jelly side and eat it while discarding the peanut butter side. “Ick!” he would shout, because he didn’t have any other words. He wore the peanut butter but he wouldn’t eat it. Cups of milk spilled on the floor. He liked Cheerios but not Chex. If he could speak he would have told them that the Chex hurt his mouth, the corners of the little squares were sharp and he didn’t like it...Cheerios being round were okay. He didn’t have the words to explain all of that yet, so he pushed his bowl away and shook his head no.

“You’re spoiling him,” Grace’s mother would say to her as she cleaned his little hands. “He should eat what you eat.”

“He won’t.”

“He would if he was hungry enough.”

“He won’t.”

She was right, he wouldn’t. He’d gone an alarming number of days refusing to eat, and it had been enough to frighten even his father who finally pulled down the wheat bread and grape jelly from where they’d hidden it in the cupboard above the fridge, somewhere he couldn’t get to, and threw it at her in a huff. The jar of jelly hit the floor with a thud and a pop, deep purple goo oozing around jagged glass at her feet. “Feed the kid for christ sake, Grace! Look at him!”

“I thought you said…”

“I was wrong, dammit. Feed him before we end up in the hospital.”

Aaron ate just the bread greedily until his father got back from the store with a new jar of jelly. A bag of them. All grape. He’d fill the whole damn cupboard with the stuff if he had to.

The arguments over food ceased when his vocabulary grew. He was precocious, learning new words by sitting outside his father’s office door while he met with clients or spoke on the phone. He would play with his little toys, pretend to run his own office, be the one in charge.

“He needs a haircut,” Edward said one day. “Kid looks like a damn hippie.” Aaron was four and his hair was...long. His mother thought it was gorgeous and she was a little overly sentimental about it, her baby’s hair was a special thing. She’d been content just to let it go. There were occasional trims to keep the unruly ends in check but he seemed to like his hair long. He would play with it sometimes, and if he was anxious she would find that he had it in his mouth. He didn’t just suck on it, he seemed to almost chew on it. She was forever walking by and hooking her finger into the lock against his cheek, sliding it out from between his teeth with a gentle smile. Some part of her already knew that cutting it would prove to be a challenge and she wasn’t sure she was up for it. If his aversions to certain fabrics and foods was any indicator, she was going to be in for a fight to get clippers anywhere near him.

She was right. It was a complete disaster that ended up with him in tears, her in tears and the barber telling them not to come back until the kid had learned some damn manners. His haircut happened but not without it becoming a traumatic endeavor for everyone involved.

The long walk home down the old gravel road was fraught with tumultuous thoughts. What was she going to do now? They lived in a small town, there was only one barber...she would have to try to take him to the city or do it herself if Edward thought he needed another cut. But she looked down and Aaron looked so pleased, walking along at a steady clip beside her, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his head against the freshly shaved hair.

“Do you like it hun?”

“Yes!”

They arrived home to a message on the answering machine. It seemed that the barber had second thoughts about his previous stance on the matter and pleaded with her to bring him back when he needed a trim. He had some ideas. “I mighta pulled his hair some, he had some tangles in there and my clippers weren’t in tip top shape.”

Aaron was apprehensive but he was a gentle boy, quiet and forgiving. He didn’t have any friends and people were pretty averse to him in general – that the barber wanted to have him back was enough for Grace. And Aaron was willing to try again because he hated the way the hair felt tickling the back of his neck when it hit that awkward mid-length, and having it short was sweet relief. He also loved the feel of running his hand up his hair against the grain, it was soothing as it brushed his palm.

“I think you should go, ma’am. Let me to it, just the boys.”

She trusted Ernest Brooks. He was a pillar of the community, so she went next door for a cup of coffee and a dozen donuts. She didn’t need a dozen, not in a million years. But if Aaron was good and he got his haircut without all the fuss of the last time, hell, she’d let him eat his way through the whole damn thing as a treat. Well, most of them...she managed to eat three while she sat anxiously waiting for her son to finish.

Mr. Brooks walked Aaron into the donut shop a half hour later crisp and clean and smiling.

“How did you do it?” she asked, flabbergasted. Yeah, she was going to let him eat every single donut left in the box. All eight of them. (She managed to polish off a fourth without even realizing it.)

“A magician never reveals his secrets. Come see me next time, kid.”

She began bringing him in every six months for a trim. It gave her a free morning, and he and Earnest Brooks began a friendship that she couldn’t quite understand. The man was in his sixties, and more than once Edward wondered aloud with a bottle of whiskey open on his desk what the hell a man that age wanted with his son. It wasn’t enough to make him do anything, he had more important things on his plate than policing his odd son’s friends but it was always in the back of his mind. And if it kept Aaron out of his hair, well, all the better.

For both of them.

They played chess and dominoes with some of the other old men who congregated outside of the barber shop. Aaron was little but he was smart, he caught on quick. Ernest called him peculiar, the little intricacies in the way he did things baffled and amused him. No one used the word autistic, not at that time, but they all knew he was operating just a little different than the other kids who hung around and caused trouble. He didn’t seem to take any interest in what they were doing.

Aaron was always different. He wanted to learn everything he could, he wanted to listen to old war stories, to stories about what his little town looked like long before he was born. He wanted to hang out in the barber shop after school and learn how to shave faces and talk like the men talked.

When he would show up with bruises that he couldn’t (or wouldn’t explain), they knew and were furious but there was nothing they could do except give him a soft place to land. His dad was powerful, he had connections that could put anyone in town out of business. “You come work for me,” Ernest had said when Aaron was thirteen and had started to fall in with the wrong crowd. He’d gone from that sweet boy who knew too much and was particular about his haircuts to a sullen teenager who didn’t know how to tell his friends no. He wouldn’t stand up to them, would go along with everything they said because he so desperately wanted to fit in. The overwhelming need to be part of his peer group had finally taken hold.

The problem was, as he got older, the social dynamics at school almost forced it. In a small town like that, if you didn’t fit in, you were ostracized. He was handsome and he was wealthy, he had all the components and what he lacked he learned quickly to fake. He was able to fake his way through a lot of things. Unfortunately, the more things he had to fake in order to fit in, the more he realized how unpalatable he really was on his own and he suffered for it.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he used a straight razor he’d been given by Mr. Brooks when he started developing facial hair. It was a thoughtful gift, the first blade he bought for his shop. Of course, that caused a lot of problems he hadn’t foreseen, being a child still. Mr. Brooks was treated like an accomplice, like he’d encouraged Aaron and while Aaron was hospitalized in an attempt to fix his brain and make him love being alive again, Mr. Brooks was put through the ringer. When Aaron was released, Mr. Brooks wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t let him in the shop anymore. He went from cherished friend to liability.

Aaron, in all his teenage glory, rebelled and began causing more trouble. Where he’d once been tethered, the one place he felt like he’d ever belonged was gone from him now and he was left only with darkness. Despair.

He threw a brick through the barber shop window with some of his friends and ran away before the other kids looted the shop. His dad managed to convince the police that he wasn’t involved in the break in, was there for the broken window but left before anyone went inside. He would be liable for repairing the window, of course, and he’d pay for it himself...right before they sent him to boarding school. It was Mr. Brooks who asked for that, knowing how Aaron was. He still believed the kid had a good heart and he wouldn’t rob his store. The brick was a cry for help, it was a child acting on his anger and abandonment, not an intent to steal from him.

Part of the admittance to the school he was sent to was a buzz cut, military style. Aaron panicked beforehand, and when they clipped the plastic gown tight around his neck and began roughly shifting his head forward and back, clipping and buzzing around his ears, he thought he might really have a heart attack. None of his usual calming tricks helped, he was completely beside himself by the time they finished and shoved him back into the line to move on to the next humiliating experience – getting the uniform. Scratchy wool sweater, stiff canvas and khakis, he was in hell.

But he survived it, and when he came home to finish high school at the local public high school and help his mother with his father’s sickness, he was a changed young man. Probably not better, he still suffered from depression and anxiety but he’d become an expert at hiding in plain sight. No one else would get the drop on him.

Meeting Haley had been a blessing...and a curse. When he found out who she was, who her grandfather was, he almost abandoned his pursuit but he couldn’t. He fell in love with her almost instantly. It was infatuation, pure and simple. He woke up thinking about her voice and went to sleep thinking about her smile. His mother told him to ease up, back off, don’t be so intense but Haley didn’t seem to mind. That was the best part. So he did things a little differently and he behaved in a manner that wasn’t exactly congruent with the way other boys his age did...she liked his little quirks.

The other boys his age were assholes. He was...nice. He was kind and thoughtful and he took care of her. She told her mom that he was like a knight in shining armor. Her mother had concerns but didn’t voice them, she trusted her daughter.

It was Haley and Jessica, both interested in psychology, who brought up the notion that he might be autistic one night over a little too much wine. “It makes sense,” Jess said with an authoritative nod, tipping her glass almost far enough to spill it. Somehow her drunkenness didn’t discredit her statement, not in her sister’s eyes. Aaron and his own wine soaked thoughts scoffed. “You check most of the boxes.”

“I do not.”

“No?”

“Jess stop. It’s okay if he doesn’t want to do this right now.”

“He’s never going to want to, sis…”

“That’s up to him. Go get another bottle!”

He eventually looked it up himself and found that he didn't disagree with their assessments as much as he'd originally thought. He didn't care much for the idea that they read him so well, but the fact that they saw all of him and stuck around was enough. He never sought out a diagnosis, and after an initial weekend spent spiraling his way through endless research papers he was content. One more piece of his mind's puzzle clicked into place. They never brought it up again.

Her grandfather sold the shop and gave her his clippers, told her how Aaron likes his hair cut. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since the brick incident, but he still harbored a soft spot for the gangling kid who had grown into a confident young man.

She did it perfectly, and so did Jess. They joked that it was a Brooks family secret, cutting Aaron Hotchner’s hair. Some families passed down recipes, but not them.

He learned how he liked to have his hair cut, and the brand of suits that fit him in a way that felt comfortable and made him feel good. Not just passable but good. Really good. He found a tailor that would cut his suits a little large so the fabric didn’t bunch in his armpits but made him look fashionable enough.

The BAU gave him an outlet he’d never had before. A place where the way his mind processed information was actually helpful, almost like a superpower in some regards. And he loved feeling that way for once in his life, like he was good at something and he didn’t need to pretend so much.

But it pulled him from the safety of his little world with Haley further and further. He developed a deep friendship with Derek Morgan, someone who he never would have imagined in a million years would want to do anything more than punch him in the nose. Steal his lunch money. (And maybe he still did want to do both of those things, friends or not.) He looked at Derek and saw everyone who had ever tried to bully him in that confident way he strode around, but when he got to know him...really know him...he realized that he wasn’t the only person masking. Who pretended to be something they weren’t to make themselves more palatable or to fit people’s perceptions of who they should be. It shifted his perspective about a lot of people, and made him almost cling to Derek.

During his suspension, Haley cut his hair. It had been a while, he’d been playing around with letting it get a little longer, just keeping it trimmed around the nape of his neck but he was tired of that look and something about being able to run his palm over the short fuzzy hair was something he was almost craving. He felt like he’d lose it entirely the longer he went without it. The idea of leaving the BAU, transferring to save his marriage, Gideon going radio silent instead of communicating with him during their joint suspension...he was already on the verge. Barely maintaining so he didn’t frighten Jack with his outbursts. So she shaved his hair short and he smiled more and she was able to believe for a little while longer that their marriage was not a sinking ship.

But he couldn’t manage it. The BAU was pulling him back, and the phone call...the phone call that he’d known was coming...it was too much. He couldn’t cling to her anymore, she’d betrayed him. What else could it be but another man?

Failing to see the irony in the situation, he left her for another man too. Derek called and begged him to come help them, they were drowning and Strauss was killing them all. He couldn’t see another choice. If his transfer hadn’t been put through yet, he was in dereliction of duty. That would be damning to his future...Haley had to see that, right? He wouldn’t get his transfer if he didn’t do his job. That thought spun around like a top in his mind until he felt sick and dizzy. It didn’t matter anyway. In a way, he figured she made the decision for him. Because what was she going to do with this other guy once he transferred? In his experience, once you go down that path you don’t just come back.

And when Haley left him, it was Derek that he confided in. Alone in his big house, neat and tidy, he cried. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. For days he existed on nothing but coffee from the office. It wasn’t even that he wasn’t hungry, it was just that he kind of forgot that he needed to stop what he was doing and make time to eat. It seemed unimportant. Fell off his radar entirely.

Derek noticed, though. “Let’s go to lunch. You look like shit.”

“You said you didn’t want to hang out with me. That you just needed me to lead this team.” The sarcasm, which should have been obvious, came laced with a deep sadness that made Derek ache. Did he say that? To Hotch? Who takes everything just a little too literally?

“That’s not how I meant it. Don’t look for reasons to be mad at me, I’m on your side. Now come on, I’m buying.”

Lunch became a standing thing, when they were at Quantico. And when that reached its threshold, it became weekly dinner dates that sort of turned into casual sleepovers. Hotch discovered that he loved to wake up beside Derek, the feel of soft stubble coming in on his usually slick head. On days off he would smile sweetly and ask Derek to put off shaving for a few extra hours so he could enjoy it.

And Derek never called him weird for it. Sometimes he got a little irritated and wanted to shave his head and be on with it, but he was kind. Hotch’s job was stressful, his life had more or less fallen apart, and if he wanted to rub Derek’s head for a little while in bed or on the couch while they watched the morning news and drank their coffee...there were worse things.

Hotch made an appointment with Dave’s barber when he needed his first haircut after Haley left. Dave insisted his guy was the best. A true artist.

It was an unmitigated disaster. The man talked too much and expected responses out of Hotch that were unreasonable in their depth. All Aaron wanted was to sit in silence and have his hair cut. The barber tucked that gown so tight around Aaron’s neck he thought he might choke. Every time he swallowed he could feel it pull tight against his adam’s apple and it made him feel sick.

The worst of it was that though though he brushed the tiny cut hairs off of the back of his neck to clean him up, in the end he only really brushed them down into Aaron’s shirt.

He felt like there were tiny needles in his suit all day. He was miserable and grouchy. He snapped at everyone. It was apparent he was in distress when he even snapped at Garcia.

The next haircut was done begrudgingly by Jessica, just because she couldn’t stand to see him looking so miserable. She came to his apartment, used the clippers Haley had left for him and managed it in exactly the way her grandfather had. He hadn’t felt so good in weeks. He felt confident, felt like himself. And as much as she was certain she was going to find it awkward to be cooped up in his apartment after the divorce...she found it to be the opposite.

So she did it again for him, and again. She was good at it and she did enjoy their short visits. Like old times. She missed him.

But after Foyet, he didn’t want her to see him like that. He couldn’t bear it. And maybe she couldn’t either.

He needed a haircut, he needed it badly. He was maintaining the stubble on his chin with an electric shaver just barely but he knew he’d only mess up his hair so he let it grow. Emily mentioned how long it was getting, told him he was starting to look like a hippie.

Derek liked it, the way it was soft when he was so full of sharp edges now. He was in pain day and night, hardly spoke two words for hours at a time, lost completely in his head or Foyet’s files. The wounds had healed on the outside but the internal damage would take months, and he couldn’t hide it at home.

“Let me cut your hair,” Derek said one night when he noticed Aaron brushing it angrily out of his eyes while he worked through a consult on the dining room table. He didn’t even look up.

“What? No. It’s fine.”

“It is not, and Jessica says you’re particular about it but I think I can handle it.”

“She says I’m particular?” He didn’t like the way that sounded. Maybe he was being overly sensitive but he supposed he was allowed to be a little, in some ways. He was reminded of their joke, that cutting his hair was their family secret. It made him feel like a sideshow suddenly when it never had before.

“She does. You disagree?”

“No. I don’t...it’s just...that’s a little rude don’t you think?”

“She didn’t say it like it was wrong, man, chill out. I just mentioned that you’ve been acting like you wanted a haircut and she said she could show me how you like it done because you’re particular.”

It didn’t sound any different than before but he knew he was prone to being angry now, almost looking for a reason to fight. He didn’t seem to be able to cool down anymore. Every day was a battle against his temper, and his angry inner voice had started to sound an awful lot like his father. But Derek was the last person he wanted to fight with. Derek was the only person he wanted anywhere near him.

“Okay. You can try.”

“Your confidence in me is encouraging.”

Aaron finally looked up at him, really looked at him. “I’m not particular on purpose, Derek. I try not to be.”

“I know. I shave my head every damn day, and I do a good job. I think I can manage.”

He did ask Jessica for some pointers though, while Aaron went out for a morning run to clear his head and blow off some excess energy before allowing Derek to touch his hair. It seemed like a good start. Running was slow and painful, a humiliating experience at times when he had to stop and lean against a tree or sit down on a park bench to catch his breath. The searing pain in his chest was unbearable and he couldn’t tell if that was panic setting in over the idea of Derek cutting his hair and seeing him that way, or if it was Foyet.

It didn’t matter. The pain was there and he had to embrace it, move with it, live with it. He ran home just as fast as he’d started and found his entire dining room set up like a barber shop. His clippers were sitting out beside a towel and Derek had turned The White Album on at a moderate volume, even though he couldn’t stand it. The sound was just enough to drown out the din of the clippers but not enough to be overwhelming.

“You ready?” Derek asked, watching Aaron slip his shoes off at the door and kick them to the side. He looked more on edge than when he left, and when he walked toward the kitchen for his post-run glass of water, he held his palm flat against his sternum like he was holding it in place. “Aaron?”

“I need a minute.”

“Something happen out there?”

“No. I just need a minute.”

Derek knew him well enough now that he didn’t ask him to explain. I need a minute usually just meant he needed to sort himself out, and with his glass of water he headed toward the bedroom to do exactly that. It only took a few minutes before he was coming back down the hall not looking much better but it seemed to be enough. Derek knew he had ways of mitigating things when he got overwhelmed, some of them were healthier than others but he tried not to be too vocal about the ones that he thought seemed harmful. Aaron was a grown man, he knew what he was doing. The look in his eye was changed from wild to something akin to calm. He ran his thumb over the edges of his fingernails as he approached and forced a smile.

“Sorry about that.”

“All good baby. Have a seat, let’s get this goin’. I’m not sure how much more of this album I can take.”

He started by running his fingers through Aaron’s hair. Up the back, over the top, scratching gently at the scalp until Aaron’s muscles seemed to relax. He liked that. He’d always liked his hair being played with. When he finally began cutting, he was gentle. His hand led the way, dancing through the hair with clippers following in hot pursuit. No tangles would meet the blades that way. By the time it was over, Aaron was nearly in a trance. They hadn’t said one single word.

“Shower,” Derek whispered, kissing him on the tip of the ear first and then down his cheek. “Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. There was a towel around his neck but it didn’t stop all of the renegade bits of hair from settling against his skin. Derek started there, washing the back of his neck first, taking care to remove every little stray hair he could before running his soapy hands over Aaron’s freshly cut hair. Aaron was not only relaxed for the first time in over a week, he was relaxed enough that he let Derek’s kisses turn him on in a way he couldn’t even imagine enjoying again after being under Foyet.

His chest still ached but it wasn’t so bad with Derek’s lips dusting wet new scars, wasn’t so bad with the shower rinsing away the last of the soap and leaving him feeling fresh and clean. His skin tingled and there seemed to be showers of sparks left behind each one of Derek’s kisses.

“I’ll be gentle,” Derek promised and Aaron could only smile.

“Don’t be,” he purred, gripping Derek’s shoulders tight. “Please.”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds #autistic aaron hotchner #mind the warnings!#fanfiction

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