Writer's Block: CHASING DADDIES STANDALONE STORIES, #1

By Diablo Ambrose

There's just something about when older and younger men connect...

Finch is many things. Bitter, impatient, and most of all, not named Finch. It was bad enough when his boss sent him to go fix some guy's faulty wiring; it's even worse when Finch learns the guy is a writer with a flair for pseudonyms. Finch doesn't exactly have the best feelings for creative types, and everything about the older man seems to confirm the stereotypes he has collected in a series of heartbreaks.

 

Everything except the writer's undeniable charm, and surprising physique.

 

Has he been pounding out more than just a new draft?
 

['CHASING DADDIES' STORIES ARE STANDALONE AND CAN BE READ IN ANY ORDER. THIS STORY CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT. ALL INTERACTIONS ARE CONSENSUAL AND ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diablo Ambrose
• Release date: Jan 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224968794

Diablo Ambrose

Diablo Ambrose is an author of everything from softcore to hardcore gay erotica, and is easily swayed by men with exposed chests. When not writing stories about men who love men, he's thinking about loving men. When writing, he's thinking about the time when Hemmingway said, of F. Scott Fitzgerald's appearance, "The mouth worried you until you knew him and then it worried you more."

Book preview

Writer's Block

CHASING DADDIES STANDALONE STORIES, Volume 1

Diablo Ambrose

Published by Diablo Ambrose, 2024.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

WRITER'S BLOCK

First edition. January 31, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Diablo Ambrose.

ISBN: 979-8224968794

Written by Diablo Ambrose.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

WRITER’S BLOCK

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About the Author

WRITER’S BLOCK

Finch thought that he’d rather deepthroat electrical wiring than consider living the life of a creative. Of a fucking writer , no less.

The man hadn't stopped smoking since the house went dark. Now, as he leered behind a gauche desk that looked like a poker table, he seemed single-minded about making the green felt go brown with tar. His hand held the cigarette low as he talked the room stupid. Had his thumb struck the lighter before, or after, he had christened him? My name is..., Finch had started, a little indignant about the long shadows on the driveway behind him. Well, tonight you’ll be Finch, he had responded. The worst breed of human - a fucking writer with money. No, the smoking had started in the garage, where Finch had been led to the main and cut the power.

It always starts in the office, the writer said, leading him down a hallway that seemed to grow two feet longer every step you took. "The lights start flickering and there's a sound like two cicadas making love. I’m convinced it's God himself coming to offer his two cents on my newest draft. If he likes it, it's quiet. If he doesn't? Thunder and lightning. Everyone’s a critic these