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#like seeing the fact that her dad was not kidding about the shotgun in the tutoring scene was so funny to me

gutsby · 4 months

Text

Waiting Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.

Part 2 | Part 3

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.

At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.

All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.

From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.

Joel frowned.

“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.

“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”

That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.

Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.

“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”

“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.

He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.

You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.

“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.

But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.

“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”

In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.

“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.

“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.

“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”

Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.

A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.

You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.

“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.

Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.

You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.

Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.

Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.

The police officer hadn’t bought it.

He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.

You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.

Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.

This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.

But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.

“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.

“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”

He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.

“Needin’ a room?”

The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking, please.”

Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.

“King or two Queens?”

“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.

At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.

“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”

No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.

“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”

The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.

“Alright.”

Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.

Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.

He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,

“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”

You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.

You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.

You turned back to Joel.

“Here you go, Daddy.”

In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.

“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”

In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.

If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.

A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.

Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.

He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.

Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.

He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.

So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.

He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.

Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.

To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.

Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.

Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.

Fuck, he needed a shower.

Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.

You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’

But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.

Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.

All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.

That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.

For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.

Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.

Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.

Fuck this.

He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.

And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.

You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.

“Sofa’s broke,” you said.

Joel blinked.

“Broke?”

You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.

The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.

“You can sleep there.”

Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.

“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”

“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”

Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.

Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.

“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”

Fuck.

“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.

“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”

By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.

“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.

“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”

Joel swallowed.

“Tails, what?”

“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”

Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”

Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.

“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”

“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”

You raised both brows, mildly amused.

“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.

“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.

Joel tensed under your touch.

“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.

It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.

“What game?” he asked.

“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”

“Too Hot?”

“You heard me.”

“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”

Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.

The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.

Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.

“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.

He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.

“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”

Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,

“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”

To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.

“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”

Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.

And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.

You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.

“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.

“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.

“I bet you will.”

The man was a menace when he had the will to be.

At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.

“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.

“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.

Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.

His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.

Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.

“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”

Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.

“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”

“Twenty since I felt one this good.”

You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.

It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.

Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.

Even through the towel, he felt huge.

You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.

“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.

“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.

All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.

He peered down at you with a curious look.

“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.

You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.

You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.

“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.

Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.

“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.

You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.

“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”

Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.

“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”

Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”

Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.

You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.

“Joel.”

Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.

“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”

Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.

Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.

Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.

“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”

“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”

“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”

So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.

Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.

“Touch me, Joel, please.”

His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.

“Nah.”

Curt and cruel as ever. Then:

“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”

He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.

“Motherfucker.”

“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”

And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,

“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”

It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.

At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.

You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.

And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.

A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.

While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.

“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”

“Out.”

This motherfucker.

“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”

Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.

“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”

Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.

You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.

“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.

“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”

“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”

You stared him down, incredulous.

So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.

“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”

You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.

You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.

You were still hungry as shit.

Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.

You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.

By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.

You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.

You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.

Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.

What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.

You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’

Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.

In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.

You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.

Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.

You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.

Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.

“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.

You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.

You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,

“Like this?”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.

A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.

The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.

Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.

Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.

Well.

You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.

You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.

You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.

“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.

“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.

Daddy?

There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.

“Y’all been spying on us?”

“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.

You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.

“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.

It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.

“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.

“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.

You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.

Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.

“We’re about out.” Micah announced.

Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.

“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.

You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”

“Do I?”

You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.

He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.

“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”

The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.

“You think so?” you hummed.

“I do. I really do.”

“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.

“Wyatt can fight.”

Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”

Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.

“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”

“Six.”

“Fifteen at least.”

You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.

This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.

“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.

“Twenty.”

“Honey?”

The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.

It was Joel, of course.

Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.

Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.

“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.

Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.

‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.

Instinctively, you recoiled.

“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.

He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.

Joel raised both eyebrows.

“No?”

His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.

“Fuck no,” you answered.

A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,

“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”

“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”

No one moved.

Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.

Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.

“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.

“You’re a brat,” he fired back.

In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.

“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”

“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”

Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.

“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”

Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?

“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”

“If that’s what you—”

“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”

Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.

“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.

You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.

Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.

So you took off running.

Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.

You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.

“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.

Fat chance, Miller.

You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.

Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.

Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.

It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.

“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.

“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”

You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.

Then he pulled you over his lap.

Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.

“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”

You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.

“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.

Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.

“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.

Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,

“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”

You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.

“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.

Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.

“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.

Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,

“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”

You fuck with my head.

Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.

“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”

You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.

“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.

“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”

At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.

Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.

“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,

“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”

It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.

Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.

“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”

His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.

“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.

By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.

“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”

Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.

You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.

“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.

No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.

Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”

At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”

Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.

He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.

“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.

“Yeah.”

“How high?”

“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.

“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.

“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.

It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.

“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”

The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.

He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.

“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.

“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.

“Cobwebs and all.”

Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.

“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.

“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.

“So Prohibition-coded.”

“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”

You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.

At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.

Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’

No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.

No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.

Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.

“Good?”

“Great.”

You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.

“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”

“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.

His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.

“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.

The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.

In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.

When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.

Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—

“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”

Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.

“Joel, please,” you begged him.

“Baby, I’m—”

About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.

“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”

On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:

Dad 💙

Fuck.

FUCK.

Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.

You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.

Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.

“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.

Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.

“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”

But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.

It stopped.

Then started again.

The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.

It stopped once more.

The screen stayed black.

You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.

Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.

“Answer,” you hissed.

“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.

“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”

Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.

“He-e-y man.”

You were so fucking dead.

Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.

“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”

A beat.

“She’s good, she’s good.”

For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”

“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”

“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”

You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.

When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.

You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.

At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.

“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”

You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.

The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.

Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.

“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”

You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,

“This is not a fucking game.”

He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.

In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.

Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.

By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.

When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.

The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.

His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.

The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.

“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.

“Joel,” you choked.

Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.

With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.

“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.

He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’

“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”

Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.

He couldn’t finish off like this.

Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.

Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.

He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,

“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”

Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.

You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:

“Hey, dad!”

Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.

Might as well make it fun while it lasts.

“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”

Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.

You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.

He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.

Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.

“My sweet girl.”

“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”

“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”

From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.

At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.

“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.

Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.

“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”

As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.

He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.

So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.

He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.

You covered the mouthpiece.

“I can’t, Joel.”

“Sure you can, sugar.”

“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.

Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:

“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”

Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.

“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”

You didn’t need much more instigation than that.

You came. He followed.

And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.

Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.

Until it was in you.

Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.

You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.

“Did it…”

“What?”

“Joel!”

You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.

“JOEL!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”

Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.

“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”

Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.

“What’s…ovulating?”

You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.

There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.

“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”

That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.

“Where are you going?!”

“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”

Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.

“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.

“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.

Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.

“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”

Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.

As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.

Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.

“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.

Joel turned his head and almost groaned.

Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.

Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.

Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:

“I’m not actually her dad!”

All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:

“I SURE FUCKIN’ HOPE YOU’RE NOT!”

#NO ONE SPEAK TO ME FOR AT LEAST A WEEK #THIS IS DISGUSTING #I AM DISGUSTING #DO NOT PERCEIVE ME PLEASEJE HAHAHAHAH #brain rot ❤️#joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dbf!joel

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sheliaeddy · 2 months

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(December 7, 2023) Bryansk School Shooting - Alina Afanaskina

-- I already posted this a little ago here. If you want to see the footage and the crime scene photos uncensored then they're there.

The Shooter's Profile

Alina Afanaskina was a 14 year old student from 8-”A” class at Bryansk's 5th Gymnasium (formerly School #70). Alina was a type of a person who didn't communicate closely with anyone. Everyone who asked about her was basically repeating the same things: calm, loner, unremarkable, not active on social networks. Even the class teacher preferred talking to Alina's twin-sister, Daria, because Alina always was very silent and never came up with any questions/initiative. Teachers periodically were bringing up the subject of Alina's socialization to her mother and sister, although at the same time they didn't have any complaints about her grades or general behavior.

Alina had two siblings, including twin-sister Daria (Dasha). Her mom is a courtroom cleaner and dad worked in a private security company. Neighbors were perceiving them as good people, a nice and normal family, with a friendly father, though more reserved mother and daughters (who, allegedly, weren't hanging out with other kids at the yard). They didn't suspect any sort of violence in that household, as well as e.g. alcohol abuse; father doesn't drink. The third sibling is known to be a 28-year-old sister who lives in Moscow with her husband for a long time.

The Shooting

On December 7, 2023, Alina refused to eat breakfast. The last two words that she said to her mother were "Don't howl,” (Не вой), which the woman didn't understand. Next, Alina and her sister left the house. They both decided to skip the first lesson - geography and go to a second one - biology. Daria arrived there on time, like everyone else. Around 10 minutes later, when students started repeating their homework with teacher, Alina entered the classroom - with her father's shotgun and dressed all in black (shirt, trousers, combat boots with a knife in one of them, tactical glove), differently from her usual white clothes. Alina opened fire, killing one student, injuring five others, and then turning the gun on herself.

Injuries and Deaths

Alina Afanaskina - shot herself and died.

Maria "Masha" Nesmachnaya - the victim who was killed.

(Masha was going to turn 15 on the 27 December. She is survived by her mother, stepfather and two brothers (one older and one younger who is also attending the same gymnasium), grew up in a religious family. Was mainly interested in cooking, sewing, knitting; also played the guitar and attended music school. According to her mom, she dreamed about becoming a doctor and saving people's lives in the future. Masha's mom described her as a type of person who preferred to avoid conflicts and was on good terms with everyone. In fact, she talked about Alina in a positive manner - saying that she's quiet, but nice and kind.)

Timofey B - shot in the left forearm, thigh, knee and chest

Petr E. - in the lung; his spleen, back, lower back and shoulder were damaged as well.

Timur D. - shot in the shoulder by six bullets: four of them wounded him and flew out, passed through his body, the other two got stuck in it.

Evelina K. - was injured on the chest.

Vitalina D. - wasn't shot, but broke her leg, while trying to escape.

Ofelya Mkrtchyan - a teacher who covered students with her own body when Afanaskina opened fire on them (and also needed medical treatment after it, though not seriously; no injuries among adults were officially reported) - recalled that Alina said absolutely nothing during the whole thing. Despite teacher's attempts to attract her attention, calling her name, she didn't even look at the woman, instead being focused on shooting classmates. Ofelya didn't notice any warning signs before tragic events. In her eyes Alina was a „capable, tactful and diligent” student, „calm, polite and responsible” on daily basis.

The Aftermath

The firearm Alina used during the massacre belongs to her father, Dmitry Afanasyev/Afanaskin, who is currently under police custody of investigation on how she procured the firearm. Dmitry denied all accusations of domestic abuse, claiming that he loves his children, worked as much as he could to provide them everything they needed and "was very happy about becoming a father again after so many years”. He didn't favor any of the twins; they were close with each other, shared the room, studied well.

As a former athlete, Dmitry was often encouraging his children to physical activities and healthy lifestyle since they were little - Alina and Daria were even attending dance school (in a group centered around hip-hop) for at least two years.

However, around a year prior to the shooting, Dmitry started spending less time at home due to work. People from the neighborhood were seeing sisters mostly alongside their mother.

Alina didn't leave any journal, suicide note or explanation behind her actions. All Telegram channels, claiming to be created by her, are fake.

Investigators suspected that Dasha might know about her sister's plans, but during interrogation she denied everything. When her parents appeared at the school right after the attack, girl started crying and kissing her mother's hands in panic. She also couldn't sleep for three days because of the trauma caused by events.

The media started pointing at bullying as the most possible motive. In the general opinion of teachers, students, parents - no such thing happened, Alina wasn't harassed; isolating herself from school peers was her own choice. She didn't have any enemies and treated everyone equally, just didn't want to talk with them due to her introverted attitude. "There was no bullying. We don't know why she did it. We can't say anything else” - stated girl's classmate. Although, another student interviewed right on the day of events, said the exact opposite: "Yes, they bullied her, but not always! She was normal until they told her: you can't do anything to us, you're helpless.”

A note found in Alina's backpack with a text about how she „needs to meet with a friend”, that attracted a bit of attention, was most likely some kind of a grammar assignment, as the matching diagrams about parsing sentences were written nearby.

The motive is unknown so you can come up with your own conclusion as to why.

All of the injured victims have already left hospitals. Gymnasium is open again, but class 8A was transferred to distance learning. Masha was buried in Bryansk's central cemetery, while Alina - in the small village between Bryansk and Seltso.

#tcc #tccblr #tc community #truecrime #true crime #alina #alinaafanaskina #school shooters #school shooter #schoolshooter #schoolshootout #informational #educationalpurposes

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milogreer · 1 month

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so uhh this is gonna be scatterbrained. but i'm gonna ramble about milo and (what little info we have on) colm. sorry in advance if it doesn’t make sense i just had to exorcise this demon 🫡

i believe "camping with your alpha boyfriend (2021)" is the earliest mention of colm in an audio. obviously we don't actually know milo's side of things because it's told from david's POV, but we still get the mental image of little thirteen year old milo sitting shotgun in his dad's pickup as they drive to their camping spot. gabe's goofing around in the truck bed to make david and asher laugh, and colm joins in the fun by swerving the truck to mess with gabe. very basic dad thing to do, my dad's done the exact same thing to me and my siblings. it feels familiar and silly, and david frames it as a good memory, so it feels like a good memory. which is important to the point of this post

in "celebrating the new house (2022)," we get a little more colm lore:

My dad was forever blowing any cash he made on fucking bets and gambling and shit, chasing some fucking high. My mom was the only reason we didn’t end up out on the fucking street. He didn’t pull his head out of his ass and get some help until after I’d already moved out. So I never got to have that feeling of being in a house that was actually ours, ya know?

already this is a stark contrast to what we've previously heard of colm (i don't think there's any real mention of him between sept 2021 and dec 2022?) and it kinda makes me look at that old memory in a different light, especially with regards to david saying marie was "nagging [colm's] ear off about being irresponsible and a bad example." like. ykwim? like i'm just thinking about that interaction and wondering how far along those problems were at the time, if they were present at all. was this a normal, fun family outing? or would milo have rather been in the truck bed with david, asher, and gabe?

(and the fact that it wasn't until after milo moved out that colm tried getting any help?? i could make a whole other post speculating about milo struggling with wanting to move out of that environment ASAP vs not wanting to leave marie on her own to deal with colm)

so then i'm re-listening to "your werewolf boyfriend is worried about you" and having a visceral reaction to (re-)learning that colm was also an alcoholic:

But what he chose to do with that frustration and that feeling of powerlessness was not his job’s fault, those were his choices. He’s the one who decided to lose himself in booze and gambling and never being home. Never being there for the people he said he loved but apparently couldn’t stand to be around.

the last sentence especially is just an absolute heartbreaker because milo's, what, thirty now? and he's been dealing with this since he was a kid. clearly he's not on great terms with colm. the only times he ever talks about him is when he's shit talking the department. that is a crazy weight for someone to carry their whole life. i don't have experience with the gambling side but i do have an alcoholic family member who i used to be really close to as a kid but grew up to intensely resent as a result of his actions, so it hits a little close to home to see that reflected in milo

but i digress. umm. i bring up the camping story to highlight the most recent mention of colm from milo and how there were good times and sometimes maybe it hurts to remember them when the person involved devastated you as you grew up because they weren't what you thought they were. and how these things follow you through life and impact how you approach certain things. milo has to live with the fact that the same system that royally fucked colm is potentially going to do the same thing to the love of his life; i never drink more than one shot or half a beer, if i drink at all, and i don't like being around drunk people. even though we don't hear about colm very often, his influence is still there whenever milo has to deal with the department in any way

anyway i guess TLDR; imagine living the majority of your thirty years of life feeling like your dad couldn't stand to be around you because he was too busy drinking himself stupid and gambling away every penny he had as a way to deal with the strain that his job put on him. imagine having to witness your mom struggle constantly to keep you cared for. imagine the few good childhood memories you have with your dad being overshadowed by thinking he didn't love you or your mom enough to change. imagine watching the department run your soulmate into the dirt physically and mentally the same way it did your father and wanting to be supportive of them but also being so worried for them. it's a really interesting situation for him to be in and i enjoy it but it hurts me. the end

#one thing about me is that i will gravitate towards characters with alcoholic family members whether i know it or not #redacted audio #redacted asmr #milo greer #sweetheart.txt #milo #colm

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no-psi-nan · 1 year

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Haha no worries! It's downplayed a lot in the series because it's supposed to be a comedy, but when you start looking more closely at the stuff Kuniharu does, it paints a picture of a terrible father and a bad husband too.

It's been a topic on the blog several times, so I'm sure people can chime in with more evidence, but here's what's off the top of my head...

Raised Kusuke. Nuff said tbh lol.

Kuniharu calls Kusuo a monster multiple times and is almost certainly the reason why Kusuke and Kusuo himself believe that Kusuo is an inhuman freak. This attitude is certainly not coming from Kurumi, and nobody else knew about Kusuo's power. From the beginning of the series, Kusuo genuinely believes he's unable to connect with other human beings, and it's mostly because of this attitude inherited from his father.

Kuniharu is never seen attempting to prevent Kusuke from constantly picking fights with his brother, and only attempting to discipline Kusuo for behavior that Kuniharu considers disrespectful to him. This is mostly a fact by omission, but we do see him belittling Kusuke when the kid obviously already has an inferiority problem.

Kuniharu is one of the worst performers at his job and the first to be let go in the case of a crisis. When he loses his job, he's unable to find any others because his only real skill is shoe-licking. This was a parody chapter though so questionably canon. He's always running late for his job though and we see him trying to make a manga artist rip off Naruto, so honestly it makes sense that he's that bad at his job. The only time he's shown as slightly competent at his job was during a parody chapter too hsfjdlshfks.

However what's definitely canon is that he either doesn't make much money or mis-spends most of it. In an area where Nendo's mom, a single woman, and Satou's family, the exact average family, can afford to live, Kuniharu had to take out an 80 year mortgage to pay for a similarly sized home. For context, most mortgages are for 30 years, 15 if you git gud. Btw, the house was literally a gift from Kusuke, Kuniharu insisted on paying out of manly pride or something. Sir, Kusuke is a freaking billionaire and this is like the only single no-strings-attached genuinely kind thing he's ever done hsfjdlshfks

Completely irresponsible with money: has a huge Valentine's day budget for his wife's gift ($3,000 iirc?) and then spends it all at the bar paying for his coworkers' drinks (the same guys who abuse him at his job and think he's garbage). He also spends huge amounts of money on his model figure collection, and has a whole room of gym equipment he never uses. As a result, Kusuo has a very small allowance and for some reason, his one favorite food (coffee jelly) is not included in the grocery list. Even though Kusuo canonically gets insane rock bottom prices for literally everything that gets bought in the household. How do you fuck up so badly financially that you can't buy your clinically depressed son the one (inexpensive!) thing that brings him joy??

By the way, Kuniharu started dating Kurumi when he was a college student and she was in high school. Kusuke was born like a year after they met, so you can do the math about how little time he spent before knocking her up 😬 They basically had a shotgun wedding. No wonder Kurumi's dad is NOT a fan of Kuniharu...

Literally one of the first chapters is Kuniharu and Kurumi domestic violence but make it funny. They're throwing furniture, Kuniharu is breaking the windows, Kurumi is yeeting her husband, and all this shit is over a single coffee jelly, which again, should be a normal part of the groceries for their household. They constantly bring their son into this drama too, which I'm sure is fantastic for his mental and emotional development btw.

There's a manga exclusive chapter that's a parody, so questionably canon, but in it Kuniharu physically attacks Kusuo multiple times over differences in opinion.

However, it IS canon that Kuniharu takes any opportunity to try to physically harm Kusuo. Ex. Hitting him in the massage episode and trying to step on him when he turns tiny.

Canon tries to redeem him a bit by showing moments where Kusuo is a baby and Kuniharu is trying really hard to make him smile because he wants his baby boy to be happy. Unfortunately that just makes it seem like he tried to be a good father for a bit when Kusuo was a baby, and then as soon as Kusuo's powers developed enough to make him miserable (the time when he needs the MOST familial support!), Kuniharu just gives up, and starts using Kusuo as his personal genie in a bottle. While also trying to fix his own fragile ego by attempting to establish dominance over his son. ????? Get therapy bro.

Canon also shows that Kuniharu's love points for Kusuo are the same as for his wife, however, not even Kuniharu believes that, as he tries to run away to evade it hsfjdlshfks. And even if he does love his son that much, he certainly doesn't show it in any meaningful way, because his literal MIND-READING SON doesn't know that. There are plenty of parents who truly love their kids and still abuse them like hell because they think that's the right thing to do (see Kaido's mom being overly strict because she wants to see him succeed in life), so the love points don't mean much imo.

Kuniharu does dole out a couple of pieces of wisdom (at Kusuo's wrong date birthday party and in the volcano arc) but that really doesn't make up for anything and even his wife thinks he's childish so... 🇫

Kuniharu is definitely funny as a character, and like I said, most of this requires digging into canon a little more, but once you start looking, it becomes clear that Kuniharu is just not a good person, father, or husband.

Like, I totally get that having a genius and a god as your kids would not be easy for any parent, but Kuniharu really doesn't try to make life better for either of his sons, preferring to get into petty squabbles with his wife and play video games/build models the rest of the time. I'm not saying dads can't have hobbies, but the only times we see him spending time with Kusuo is usually when he's begging for a favor, and he also clearly does zero housework whatsoever, so...

Anyways, I think Kurumi deserves a better husband and Kusuo deserves a better parent (or at least a break from being used as a magical favor vending machine lol) so I often joke on here that Kurumi should get a divorce and run polls about who she should marry instead and such!

Hope this helps! 👍🏾 Thanks for the question!

#notes to nopsi #kuniharu saiki #saiki k #saiki no psi nan #sknpn #the disastrous life of saiki k.#nopsi meta #tdlosk

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oldworldwidgets · 3 months

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TEDDY TIME TEDDY TIME

howdy pardners this is theodore dawson, my courier from new vegas :3 he is very large and very angry yet very soft and very gay and he is so precious to me

here's his playlist!! once again it's chronological so u can listen to his story like a fun yeehaw jukebox musical. i think his is my favorite of all my character playlists

alllll the teddy stuff (appearance, stats, story before the canon events of the game, fun facts) can be found under the cut!!! if you feel so inclined to read The Long Version written like a story where my longwinded ass spends about 7k words talking about themes and character motivations (and some soft gay longing perhaps), it's up on ao3 here.

appearance

31 years old; birthday sept 25, 2250

6’6 with broad shoulders, generally built like a securitron.

patches of vitiligo splash across his face, chest, and arms

bennys bullet hit the right side of his face, carving a path from his eye to his ear, where a chunk of his ear is missing

because of this, he's blind in his right eye. the blind eye (a light, milky blue) is always a bit more closed than the seeing one (a dark grey/blue)

dark auburn chin-length hair and a short beard, both peppered with white because of his age and vitiligo. a big chunk of hair behind his ear is white as it grows from the scar.

he wears a horse or cow-skin vest with a great khans patch on the back

signature black cowboy hat, either on the top of his head or tied around his neck so it hangs down his back

gold jewelry - dangly cross earring in his left ear, upside down cross on a leather strap around his neck, big ass belt buckle

bright red shotgun shells on leather belt slung around his waist for his shotgun, dinner dell

stats

SPECIAL: 8, 1, 4, 5, 9, 2, 10

favorite perks: confirmed bachelor, animal friend, ferocious loyalty, intimidating presence

story

his dad was raised in utah and was very strictly mormon. when new jerusalem collapsed, dad moved himself, his wife, and his first son to the mojave and found work on an NCR sharecropper farm.

teddy was born fifth of six kids: four older brothers and one younger sister. he, his sister hannah, and his brother noah all have very visible vitiligo.

the kids were all also raised strictly mormon. his whole childhood, they were very poor. "at least we have each other" poor. his dad blamed it on the NCR, who owned the house and land and animals they ranched. they owned nothing, and the NCR paid them little more than that. teddy was quickly disillusioned with the NCR, then with the three of his brothers who decided to join them. one brother stayed back to inherit the ranch.

turns out, the NCR was paying; dad was just gambling it all away. he was so deeply in debt to all the families on the strip that they all decided to cut their losses and burn his farm to the ground.

that's... that's the story teddy decided to tell hannah, anyway (he wouldnt tell u this but he totally burnt that shit down on purpose). mom, dad, and one of his brothers were lost in the fire. teddy and hannah made it out, waved goodbye, parted ways.

teddy took his horse, old red, and began running jobs for whoever needed them. he never tied himself to one organization aaand his jobs weren't always above the ethical board. really, it was luck of the draw that, on any given day, he was the one defending the caravan instead of stealing from it

when he eventually went searching for his siblings, he found that two of the three brothers that had enlisted, predictably, were killed on duty. noah, though, had absconded almost immediately upon arrival due to a nasty chem habit

he found hannah "working" in front of gomorrah on the stip - her vitiligo made them instantly recognizable to each other - but she pretended not to know him because she was ashamed. he understood and gave up, but not before she hinted that he could find noah at the old mormon fort

he did, in fact, find noah there, medically detoxing under the care of some hot, blonde doctor (bweheheh....). they reconnected and it was..... really nice, even when they talked about how ashamed their dad would be if he could see them. it didnt matter. the family disappointments were the only family survivors.

teddy and arcade quickly grew very fond of each other, with arcade even being the first one to call him "teddy" after he told the doctor his name was theodore. he decided, despite its cutesy nature, to keep it.

after finishing his open jobs, teddy decided to stay with noah at the fort and run jobs for the followers when they needed it. he got reeeal comfy with arcade, and their subtle, playful flirtations eventually became noticeable to others. his brother, angry and sick from chem withdrawal and still fighting his religious upbringing, could not handle finding out that his baby brother was gay. when he did, he angrily shouted slurs and threw bottles at them until he was sedated and returned to bed.

teddy left the fort that night while everyone but the night watchman slept. he struggled to recover from what happened and drifted listlessly for a while... until he heard the news that noah had fled from his "rehab" program in the fort the day after teddy left, overdosed, and died.

the news spurred something in him, and he went looking for a real family and place to call home. after excelling in his initiation trials, he found one with the great khans. for two years, he was their resident rancher, runner, therapist, you name it.

then: 2278. the bitter springs massacre. teddy was away when it happened, and he still hasnt forgiven himself for it.

he spent the next three years drifting - again. hunting NCR. somehow racking up bounties in seemingly every single tribe in the mojave. his infamy, believe it or not, helped him survive: when he came across those who would kill him or turn him in, they seemed to prioritize who got to turn him in and collect the bounty over keeping themselves alive. whoops!

it was exhausting, though. drifting, killing, taking on the wasteland completely alone (except his beloved animals) took a heavy toll on teddy. he'd always been a killer and an outlaw, but he'd always been paid to clear other people's consciences. now, he felt he was only killing people to run from the consequences of his own actions. it was exhausting.

so, when three strangers – one in a loud, black-and-white checkered blazer – tried to knock him out and bind his hands, well… he had no reason not to let them.

*aint that a kick in the head starts blaring*

fun facts

hes not a big chem guy but hes such an alcoholic. in game he keeps at least 10 whiskeys on him at all times but would prefer to drink a sarsaparilla over using a stimpak.

he needs glasses pretty badly for his one seeing eye but he’s too stubborn to wear them

his scars always look a bit irritated because he doesnt take care of himself

he was a big pistol guy before benny shot him, but after he went blind in his aiming eye and started suffering from bouts of dizziness, he became a shotgunner. they require a far-from-perfect style of aiming

#BEHOLD: TEDDY #tw: religion #tw: overdose #not teddy but an important (non-canon) character #oc: teddy #oldworld.ocs #fallout new vegas #new vegas oc #fallout oc #fnv oc #courier six #fnv courier #arcade gannon #followers of the apocalypse

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scoops-aboy86 · 16 days

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♠️♥️Steve's parents leaving for the month on a business trip and Steve taking advantage of the situation to try something new. He doesn't know where his size kink started, maybe sometime when he had Nancy in bed, his hands holding her dainty ones. Or maybe when he had shotgunned a couple beers and the pressure of his stomach made his cheeks flush, but it was something he wanted to explore to the fullest. It's new, and a little exhilarating, and it also makes him a tad embarrassed but he sets out on testing himself.

The first night he locks all the doors, shuts all the windows and locks himself in his room, unconsciously afraid of getting caught despite no one being home, and he sets the scene; Steve cleans the room, sets up his mirror in front of his desk to see himself, and he even brings in an extra table to put the food out. He got a couple burgers, a case of beer, some twizzlers, some cokes, and an ice cream pint. Realistically he knows he won't finish it all but he just wants to see what he can.

He dresses himself in an old polo, straight fit, and a pair of jeans. It's quiet as he works his way through the meal, stomach bubbling as he chugs down drink after drink and by midnight he's painfully full, undeniably hard, and hungry for more.

Motivated by his own arousal, the damage to his waistline is fast and the looks, little comments he gets from his old friends, Nancy, even Robin sends him over the moon.

I have toiled over a response to this for like. Three weeks or so? It's 6.5k words and I think I'm finally happy with it.

Pre s4. Steve's parents aren't awful in this, they're just kind of... okay but out of touch. Also, in Robin's defense, her comments and concern are not so much because of Steve's weight as they are about the fact that he hasn't flirted with anyone (that she's noticed) in a while.

🔞 Contains: kink exploration, weight gain kink, stuffing, a dash of humiliation kink, getting together, and even some praise kink slipped in at the end. 🔞

Steve has always thought about it somewhere in the back of his head, is the thing. He wasn’t quite one of those kids who stuffed pillows down his shirt while playing when he was younger, but he’d thought about it. Contrary to what many of his friends might say, he’s actually a very thoughtful guy—you just have to not rush him.

It takes eighteen whole years and a well-timed business trip that has his parents jetting off to… wherever, he honestly wasn’t listening, for Steve to actually act on those thoughts.

And look, he likes his parents. They’re always around for his birthday and on Christmas. His dad is a stickler about eating at home and his mom always insists on balanced meals, so there’s always a steady rotation of predictably portioned protein, vegetables, and starch on the table every night. It’s just…

They don’t understand him, alright? They’re analytical and Steve’s a people person. They’re into math and spreadsheets and statistics, and he’s more kinesthetic, shit at algebra and trigonometry but took to geometry like a duck to water. They read a lot, whereas Steve prefers to be out and doing things with his friends, or at the very least getting behind the wheel and going for a drive.

It’s fine though, because they try. There’s a pool and a basketball hoop in the backyard, monuments in their attempts to, if not relate, then at least cater to their only child’s interests.

But this interest is so in the other direction that it’d be off their map entirely. Off most people’s maps, by enough that Steve makes sure all the doors are locked and all the windows pinned tight before locking himself in his room. The food is spread out, his desk already cleared for the purpose and an extra side table dragged to put the full of Cokes, beers, and ice cream on.

He sits in his desk chair, spins back and forth a few times to make sure he can see everything in his carefully positioned mirror… and then he just eats.

Not fast, not to start with. Sure, he skipped lunch to try and heighten the experience, but you don’t start a distance race at a full-out sprint. He takes the burgers at a steady pace because he’s genuinely hungry, gulping his way through a couple Cokes before switching to beer. That way the effects of the alcohol are slow to kick in, gradual compared to the pressure building within him.

It catches up to him slowly enough that he only notices while trying to use one of the Twizzlers as a straw and snickering to himself in his quiet room when all he manages to do is suck suds. Tipsy and full, the polo that fit him comfortably back in freshman year is already tight and has him fighting the urge to pull it up, release the tension. Instead, he smooths his hands down the fabric, tugging it down, but then unbuttons his jeans and watches that lack of constriction send it riding right back up.

“Fuck, fuck,” Steve moans. He scrambles to grab a spoon and the ice cream carton, testing that it’s soft enough to scoop easily if he just leaves it on the desk before jamming his free hand into his boxers where he’s hard and throbbing, half stroking and half just grinding sloppily into his palm while he jams more ice cream into his greedy mouth.

At first he thinks he’ll have just the top layer or so, about a spoon’s worth deep and then he’ll stop. But he can’t get it to look flat, he wants it to look all even so when he puts it back in the fridge his parents might not notice! Meanwhile, he’s cramming in bite after bite and moaning in between, maybe missing a few opportunities to declare the container flat and his gorging over. The tightness of his shirt and of his hand sliding frantically over his shaft is just so distracting, a dual assault, and when he looks down his panting turns into a down-to-his-toes groan because he looks like he’s swallowed a goddamn beach ball.

It’s the combo of beer and dairy, making him bloat up even more. That’s crept up on him too, and fuck, he’s so goddamn full but he’s also so close, can’t stop now—Without stopping to think, Steve drops his spoon and groans his way through a lunge for the last can. He falls heavily back into place with it in hand, cracks it open, moaning, and starts desperately to chug. More and more of it escapes out the lax corners of his mouth, dripping down the front of his polo and it’s almost, almost, almost—

It feels so good when he comes, and that’s how he knows this isn’t a one-off. Setting the empty can down next to the ice cream with a jarring hiccup, Steve reaches down, wipes his hand on his jeans and reaches up to cradle his belly gingerly. Feels it churning and bubbling under his palms, and imagines how it might feel to be this full and tight, but also soft.

He lets his head loll back where he’s slouched in the desk chair, and just drifts on the feeling while the room wobbles slowly on its axis around him, lost in rosy daydreams.

It’s a while before he comes back to himself well enough to stand, struggling sluggishly out of his messy clothes. There are red impressions where his jeans were pinching him and he gets distracted for a moment in just feeling them with his fingertips, reading the lines like braille. His skin feels hot to the touch, sweat beaded on his upper lip and dampening his hairline, and every movement makes him feel like he’s about to burst. Still, he’s not… that big. Like, relatively, compared to how he normally looks, but not overall.

Not yet.

Without a doubt, he will absolutely do this again. He could come again, just from this feeling alone, but his eyelids feel even heavier than the rest of him.

After steeping in that knowledge for a minute, he crawls into bed. Every jostle to his packed belly makes him grunt and burp, an exquisite burst of relief; he ends up sprawled on his side and practically melts into the mattress, falling once more into that all-encompassing sense of fullness until the food coma stupor lulls him to a deep and restful sleep.

The next time—because of course there’s a next time, he’s been dreaming about it and waking up sticky and hungry—Steve does the same. Soda and beer and way too much junk food, in his room because his parents aren’t home to lecture him about eating in bed and the possibility of ants. All the doors are locked again and he starts out eagerly, already palming himself through his sweatpants.

From a stack of microwaved corn dogs and a few bags of chips to a little round grocery store cake meant to feed eight people, he doesn’t want to stop. Can’t stop, because he wants to be able to grab himself and get entire handfuls. Even just little ones, as… as an experiment.

That’s a lie. He knows, as he catches his breath after coming so hard his toes curled and comes back down to earth with a fierce stomach ache that he’s gradually figuring out how to soothe with well-placed massaging over his belly, that a little might not be enough.

He wants more, and there’s no one around to stop him.

It takes a while for his friends to notice, but the evidence creeps up on him. Steve loves it, can feel himself getting a little bit softer and his clothes a little bit tighter every day. Whenever he doesn’t take a special night to stuff his face, he still eats a bit extra at dinner and feels all over himself, reveling in the slow transformation, part of him wishing he dared to go faster.

Nancy is the first to comment. He doesn’t run into her often, but one day Steve is picking Dustin and Will up from the Wheeler’s and she opens the front door instead of her mom.

“Oh, Steve, hi,” she says awkwardly, looking him quickly up and down while clearly trying not to be obvious about it. “I, um. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good,” Steve replies honestly. “Family Video pays a little better than Scoops, so, you know. That much closer to getting my own place soon. Me and Rob are keeping our eyes peeled for a rental in town, since she’s planning on taking a gap year once she graduates.”

“Oh.” Nancy sounds falsely gentle, like she doesn’t think he quite understands something. “You know… Robin talks all the time about how one thousand percent platonic you two are.”

Steve frowns slightly, puzzled. He says that just as much, he’s pretty sure. What’s Nancy’s point?

“I’m just saying,” she continues, “I’m not sure she’s… in the same place as you are. Metaphorically.”

“Or literally,” he tries to joke, grinning in an attempt to blow past this weird little moment. Puts his hands on his hips, pleasantly aware in the back of his mind that there’s already more give there than there used to be. “I mean, look around. Not a single Robin as far as the eye can see right now.”

But Nancy is dogged in her pursuit of the truth, be it a supernatural mystery or trying to subtly guide Steve to a realization he doesn’t actually need to have. “Look, I can tell you’ve been in a little bit of a slump lately. It’s… perfectly understandable, after everything that happened. I’m sure you get nightmares still, god knows that I do—all I’m saying is, you're a good guy, Steve. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it, especially after the way we… the way I let things end between us. You deserve so much better than someone who’d just be settling for you. There will be other girls who see how special you are, no matter what you, um, look like.”

The words spark off a little coal deep and low in Steve’s core, a lick of embarrassment giving way quickly to a strange giddiness that she’s talking about his weight. She’s talking around it like it’s a bad thing, reminding him how taboo his not-so-little guilty pleasure is, and god it’s getting him going.

That night, he sets up his spread of way too much food and drink on the dining room table for the first time, and only bothers to crawl as far as the living room couch afterwards. He falls asleep pawing at himself and wakes up the same way, his ex-girlfriend’s words still echoing in his head like a treat worth savoring.

Funnily enough, he sleeps so well these days that nightmares are hardly ever a problem.

The next comment he gets is from a different Wheeler, a fact which is just… It’s something. He’s open to the possibility that the entire family might secretly have it out for him; less likely things have happened in Hawkins, after all.

“Hey Steve,” Mike says, grinning like he’s trying not to because he hasn’t even voiced whatever joke he’s been sitting on for the entire ride home from a Hellfire night at school. He’s hovering by Steve’s window, which is rolled down because it’s still warm enough even this late in the year. “Have you ever considered becoming a cop?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, amused by the teenager’s gleeful anticipation but meeting it with a bitchy look on principle because he knows the punchline is going to be at his expense. “No, Mike, I haven’t. Why?”

“Because it looks like you’ve got the donut habit for it,” Mike crows, and promptly bolts, running off down the long drive towards his house with a cackle, leaving Steve to just… sit there, poker faced.

Beside him, Dustin squawks and just about shoves his entire upper half out the passenger side window to yell after his friend. “Mike, don’t be a jackass! We need Steve to keep giving us rides!”

In the rear-view mirror, Lucas’ eyebrows have shot up, his mouth twisted like he too doesn’t approve of the joke, but doesn’t want to add to the spectacle by commenting on it now that the perpetrator is out of range. Dustin drops back into his seat and turns to Steve with a pleading look.

“Don’t listen to him, man, you look fine. You look great, event! Please keep picking us up after Hellfire, please please please, my mom would never let me stay out so late if I had to bike all the way home unsupervised, even though I’ve done way worse—”

“Dude,” Steve interrupts, “chill.”

He’s partly saying it to himself, too. Luckily his shirt is untucked and effectively hides the effect that being told he looks like a guy with a donut habit now is having on him—although in truth, he doesn’t get donuts all that often. Once or twice a week at most and usually at Robin’s suggestion, because it’s far more efficient to make a bunch of pancakes without ever having to leave the house or, like. Put on clothes that actually fit.

“It’s fine,” he continues, trying to will down the heat he can feel in his cheeks. “Mike’s a little shit, I’m not going to take that out on you guys. Judge you for your choice in friends, sure, but you know… whatever.”

Steve is quick about dropping Lucas off down the street and Dustin a couple minutes later, and then speeds to the nearest place that’s still open and sells donuts.

Under the pretense that some will be left over for Robin in the morning he gets an entire dozen, six classic chocolate glazed and six jelly-filled. He already has one in hand as he drives away, the sugar lighting up his taste buds like a non-traumatizing fireworks display. When he gets home he pulls straight into the garage and doesn’t get out until the box is empty and he’s licked all the chocolate frosting and powdered sugar from his fingers and lips.

He goes inside to find a message on his parents’ fancy answering machine letting him know that their month-long trip has been extended by a few weeks, couldn’t be helped, and Steve celebrates the news by ordering two pizzas and a side of cheesy bread.

“Are you okay, Steve?” Robin asks the next day at Family Video, a thin veneer of faux casual over her concern. “I haven’t seen you flirt with any of the customers lately, and there have been some real babes among the selection.”

Steve doesn’t tell her that the pretty girls he would usually go for have started giving him pitying, sometimes even disgusted looks the more he softens up. It gives him a thrill every time. Robin’s mistaken it as a defeated retreat, but sometimes he mumbles an excuse to take his break and spends it in the employees only bathroom, braced against the wall where he can best watch himself rubbing and squeezing his belly and thighs, jerking himself off while cramming his mouth full of emergency granola bars from his pockets. Staying quiet is a struggle, but if he keeps his mouth full—

It’s on the tip of his tongue to just tell her, because it’s Robin. His best friend and pseudo-sister, a platonic soulmate forged in the fires of Russian torture and monsters from an alternate dimension. They’d once spent an afternoon going over how to go down on a girl, complete with diagrams and real anecdotes and Steve demonstrating techniques on his hands while Robin took notes. They talk about everything.

But then the bell over the door rings, breaking the doldrums of no customers for the past hour as a scruffy guy from the ‘bad’ side of town (literally a couple streets over from the ‘good’ side of town; there’s not a lot to Hawkins, at the end of the day) slinks inside. Steve vaguely recognizes him from school

Isn’t he that guy that used to yell shit from on top of cafeteria tables sometimes? Munson?

The guy notices him looking and gives him a quick once over, eyebrows ticking expressively upwards as he takes Steve in—and yeah, that’s Eddie Munson, isn’t it? President of the kids’ precious Hellfire Club and the cool new friend who Dustin won’t shut up about, but who pretty much everyone outside of that nerdy little circle calls the Freak.

Feeling those eyes on him starts something simmering beneath Steve’s skin and he makes a point to turn and put his profile on display, his growing belly beginning to precede the sides of his vest just a bit as a testament to not only the large meals that he’s now indulging in nightly, but the constant snacking as well. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Munson eyes him for another few seconds, then slips off into the horror section of the store.

This is actually the closest Steve has gotten to flirting with customers in a while, and it doesn’t even ping on Robin’s radar the way his usual peacocking always seemed to. The idea of being in stealth mode, flirting in code, is surprisingly appealing. Steve doesn’t even care that it was with another guy, which… Maybe he should examine that, at some point.

He ends up not examining shit, nor telling Robin anything. She sends him on his lunch break before Munson finishes browsing, and since his stomach is already grumbling to be filled, he goes without complaint.

It’s not enough for Steve to just feel himself slowly swelling more and more with each passing week; stuffings become a nightly occurrence, and he takes his breakfast cereal with heavy cream in the mornings.

Predictably, his pants start getting tight. His shirts stretch out around his middle, but gradually the sleeves start to feel tight on his arms, too. Every morning when he wakes up, he feels himself over and could swear he’s bigger than he remembers from the night before. Stretch marks begin to appear all over his body, but his favorites are the ones that bracket his navel as the brunt of the weight gathers in front of him at the waist.

He sizes up his clothes but doesn’t even make it out of the mall (not in Hawkins, the next town over) before he gives in and stops at the food court. Line after line, he collects his meal and wolfs it down before hefting himself to his feet and getting another. Hits every fast food restaurant and snack stall there, saving the Baskin-Robbins for last and working his way through the largest sundae on their menu. Absolutely stuffs himself, not content until he’s jam-packed and his breathing is labored, the waistband of his new jeans getting its first workout.

Afterwards, he drives home in a cozy daze of food overload and amazement at how thoroughly his instinct for secrecy has gone out the window. Being in a different town helped, but he’d just put his gluttony wholly on display and there could have been people who knew him in the crowd.

He goes to pull into his driveway… and his parents’ car is there.

And look, he loves his parents. They’re good people, they’ve been supportive even though his life trajectory had started off promising but trending downwards ever since ‘83. But he panics, okay? He is practically bursting out of the bigger clothes that he just bought. The fucking tags are still on because he’d been in too much of a rush to get to get what was actually his second lunch of the day!

Accelerating hard back onto the street, the Beemer’s tires screech and burn rubber as Steve takes off.

It’s not a conscious choice, the road that dead ends overlooking Sattler’s Quarry, but that’s where Steve ends up. He turns the engine off and just sits there, staring out into nothing in the gathering dusk, nursing a dread that sits heavy in his gut and sours the pleasant ache of being full.

Why’d they have to extend their trip? Just one month might have been fine, the change a little less jarring, easing them into his new appearance and bigger appetite. Now it’s been closer to two and a half. And it’s only in the past couple weeks that he’s really been going all out every single day, but that’s made a noticeable difference.

When anyone else looks at him, that change makes him feel powerful. Like he’s finally taken control of something instead of just being along for the ride the way he’s felt his entire life, always a step or two behind everyone else. And considering he’s nearly died several times over the past couple of years, mostly from putting himself in the way of others getting hurt, he figures he’s earned this. The satisfaction of taking every opportunity to treat himself, of growing softer and the way it feels when he touches himself now, of getting so full he can barely move, all of it. There’s a bounce in his step that he never had as the slim and sleek King of Hawkins High, and every jiggle that causes is a little thrill.

But it’s different when it’s his parents.

They try, but they’ve never really understood him, even less so since his involvement with the Upside Down. They would definitely never understand this. There’s bound to be a breaking point somewhere, and Steve can’t stand the thought of it being over something that makes him feel so happy.

He’s already the screw-up that won’t follow in their footsteps, who couldn’t even get into his safety school… Dread seeps, cold, into his bloodstream at the possibility of seeing that same quickly-stifled disappointment flicker in their eyes when they realize the last bit of the son they used to know, the former athlete, is gone now too.

It would be like Nancy calling him bullshit all over again. He can’t risk it.

While he worries, he absentmindedly makes himself more comfortable. Unzips his new jeans to let his belly breathe, peeking out from under his shirt as he runs his hands over new rolls and reddened marks. It helps; feels grounding as he attempts to soothe the anxiety churning away inside.

He kneads at himself like dough until the feeling of his increasingly squishy belly stuffed so full of food starts to feel good again and he begins to relax.

Steve doesn’t even realize he’s dozed off until a tap on the windshield startles him into opening his eyes to a view of the star-speckled night sky… and the silhouette of Eddie Munson, casually holding up a lit Zippo while sitting cross legged on the hood of Steve’s car.

“What the hell?!” Steve yelps, even as he recognizes him, and Munson’s mouth twitches into a grin that’s just visible in the bare flicker of flame. He gives a little wave that’s more of a salute and slides off the hood to lean by the driver's side window.

“Sorry, Harrington. Didn’t mean to startle you there.” Munson’s voice is deep, a low rumble through the glass. “Long day? Or do you just have an exhibitionist streak in spite of your golden boy pedigree?”

To his intense embarrassment (and a tickle of thrill, even now), Steve realizes he’d fallen asleep with his belly out, pulled completely free from the front of his pants and resting proudly in his palms over widened thighs. His budding love handles spill over the sides, too, the bottom of his polo pushed all the way to the dip in his belly button. Several inches of red-streaked skin is showing, burning as though the other boy’s gaze is a physical brand, hot to the touch. Immediately, Steve tugs his shirt down.

“I don’t, uh—That’s none of your business,” he replies weakly, face warm too. But, god, being caught on display like this is definitely doing something for him.

Would Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson judge him for having a boner right now? It’s not as obvious with his belly clearly dominating center stage, but…

“Hmm. Right you are,” Munson says with a smirk. He dips, picking up something from the ground. Steve has to squint to make it out in the moonlight, but it’s… it’s a paper bag. With grease stains. And a diner logo, the good one, the one that had been second best in town until Benny’s had shut its doors.

Munson waggles the bag by the window, and Steve can’t smell it yet but he can imagine, mouth filling with saliva and stomach giving a rumble of interest despite the tension. He looks at the bag, then at the person holding it, then points to himself in an unspoken, for me?

“If you want it.” Munson’s tone is casual on the surface. There’s an undercurrent, but Steve can’t tell if it’s the kind that will get him teased or fed, or… or both.

He does want it, even though he’s still kind of full. (It’s not like he’s been in the habit of denying the whims of his appetite lately.) And he does want both. Wants Munson to give him the food then let a hand drop to his stomach and feel the result of all his efforts, sink fingertips into his softness, get a good hold, make him wobble. There’s something in the guy’s eyes that makes it easy for Steve to imagine.

So he gestures towards the passenger side and says, “Come around and get in, then.”

Munson dawdles a bit, as though he didn’t actually expect Steve to accept… but he does circle the car. With a flailing but effective slide over the hood that somehow doesn’t spill the food and makes Steve want to laugh, even though he doesn’t let it go farther than a twitch at the corners of his mouth. Then he climbs in and shuts the door; the cab quickly fills with the scent of fried food.

“Triple order of onion rings,” Munson is saying, setting the bag in between the seats so Steve can easily grab them—he’s already reaching, mouth watering. The first bite is crunchy with that savory-sweet soft center of cooked onion, so perfect he almost moans. It comes out like more of a grunt as he snags another.

They’re still warm.

“I came by earlier and saw you in here,” Munson continues. He seems relaxed enough, knees spread and body turned at an angle so he's leaning in the crook of the seat and the door, facing Steve. Watching him. One long arm propped along the bottom of the passenger window, black lacquered nails tapping idly against the front console ahead. “Left, drove by that place on Washington by pure coincidence… I figured that if you were still here by the time I got back, I’d offer them up in tribute, and if not, that’s my dinner figured out.”

Steve chuckles around a third onion ring. “You’d have three orders of onion rings for dinner, Munson?” And he’s not being a hypocrite, honestly—he’s eating these as a snack, for fuck’s sake, god he’s gotten so greedy—but he’s talking to a walking bean pole here, decently muscled but in a slim, wiry way that would get him pulverized in most competitive sports.

“Please,” the other boy retorts dryly, “Munson is my father. Call me Eddie.”

“Oh. In that case, call me Steve.” He holds out his hand the way his dad taught him to when introducing himself—realizes it’s got grease and crumbs, wipes it on his shirt, and holds it out again.

Eddie just grins lazily at him, unmoving. “I know your name, man. Kind of flattered that you know mine, and flattery goes a long way with me.” He leans forward, teasing at the boundary of Steve’s space. “You can have the whole thing if you want. Eat up, big boy.”

The last two words are practically purred. Steve’s eyes fly to meet Eddie’s, his breath stuttering at the subtle edge to them, the static charge they leave in the air. And Steve has never stuffed himself with anyone watching before today, preferring to snack heavily before hanging out with his friends and again after to fill whatever gaps digestion had managed to leave him in that time… It’s a day of firsts.

Like being told to eat, when just about everyone else keeps implying he should do the opposite.

Under Eddie’s steady gaze, Steve eats with an onion ring in each hand so his mouth never goes empty while reaching for another. They talk, a little awkwardly at first because they have practically no common interests, but when Eddie brings up DnD and Steve says something about the kids, that’s where things take off. Eddie is observant and does a good Dustin impression, enough to make Steve laugh repeatedly with his mouth full.

“I’ve heard lots of stories about you,” Eddie says at one point. “That kid worships you, dude—they all do, but Dustin in particular won’t shut up about how great his ‘older male friend’ is.”

Steve wrinkles his nose and takes another bite. “He called me that? Ugh, what a little weirdo.” But his tone is affectionate, and Eddie smirks back until— “He calls you the same thing, you know. I’ve told him to cut it out, it’s like he’s trying to make me jealous enough to play that Dragons game with you guys or something.”

Eddie throws his head back in a laugh, and Steve likes that it’s a full body event. Kind of wants to lean against Eddie’s thin chest while he does it just to feel the vibrations through his rib cage, the texture of black leather jacket under his cheek, which… is a new thought to have about another guy, for Steve. The food is making him complacent, movements slow and syrupy as bite by bite he creeps back towards that state of delicious fullness. He just needs—

“Would you mind grabbing me something to drink from the back seat?” Steve asks, taking a rare moment of one hand being empty to shift himself a little, subtly prod at the underside of his filling belly to try and gauge how much room he has left. Eddie’s gaze feels like a brand on him, burning straight to the pleasure center of Steve’s brain, and he wishes again that Eddie would make some sort of comment about how much he can eat when it’s obvious he’s already had a lot. “There’s, like…” He doesn’t remember what’s actually back there, just that he’s heard things bumping and clunking into each other in the foot-well for a bit. “There should be something. Maybe open it outside though, I think stuff’s been rolling around back there for a while.”

With an expressive arch of his eyebrows, Eddie contorts around until he’s on his knees and peering into the back seat.

Meanwhile, Steve has a clear view of the most flat-as-a-pancake ass he’s ever seen in his life. When he mentally compares it to his own—because he’d been surrounded by changing room mirrors not long ago, he is well aware that his booty has some bounce to it—he has to pause his eating to adjust himself again. And if this time, rosy cheeked and starting to breathe heavier, he leaves one hand tucked under his belly to provide a different kind of friction… he is prepared to lie about why, if asked.

Christ, first the food court and now this. He can’t believe himself today. It’s dangerous, reckless, out of control, and not going to help him with the impending Situation waiting for him at home.

It’s intoxicating, though. He loves it.

“Here,” Eddie offers, twisting back to uncap a water bottle with his teeth and hand it to Steve ready to go.

Hot, Steve thinks, and squeezes his dick through his jeans under the cover of his bloated belly with a shudder. (He is going to get caught if he keeps doing that, a knowledge that makes him gulp the water down even more eagerly than he might have otherwise.)

Eddie doesn’t sit back down right away, though, leaning back in there and coming up with another water and two cans of Coke. While Steve finishes his water and breaks off from it with a wet gasp, the other teen opens his door, drumming his fingers on one of the pop cans to disarm at least some of the shaken up carbonation for a few seconds, then pulls the tab. It hisses and froths, and Eddie yelps a little as he hastily brings it to his own lips and tries to suck up the fizz before it hits the ground.

“Sorry,” Steve says with a breathless chuckle. The can is still three fourths full when Eddie hands it to him. He downs it in one go, easy—a blessing, since lukewarm Coke isn’t his favorite flavor ever, but he feels a little kick as soon as it hits his already full stomach and shifts in vague discomfort.

For all that they don’t really know each other, Eddie notices immediately and pauses his tapping on the next can. “You good, dude?”

“Just—” Steve resettles, crams the onion ring queued up in his hand into his mouth, and digs the heel of his now free hand into the top of his belly, pressing until he feels the belch coming. It bubbles out around the food in his mouth, loud and satisfying; he lets his eyes fall half closed at the release of pressure, palm gliding smoothly over his rounded gut without a care for his audience. “‘M fine,” he sighs happily, and then reaches to pull the last of his snack from the greasy bag.

“Damn.” Eddie sounds almost impressed. “You really know how to pack it away, don’t you Steve?”

Part of Steve preens at the words, mouth full and aching in his jeans. His shirt is riding up again, just a little, and he’s tempted to ask Eddie for a belly rub. Not enough to actually get the words out, he’s not that far gone, but god, he thinks about it.

He pops the final onion ring in his mouth and sucks the last traces from his fingers—is still thinking enough to try and not get these pants greasy so he can go back tomorrow, exchange them for the next size or two up. Something with room to grow, because he’s definitely full, panting, and even sweating a bit, but he’s not done. Doesn’t want to stop until he’s fucking huge, about to burst.

Another burp sneaks up on Steve, reminding him of something. “Is that other Coke up for grabs? You can have it if you want, I just—”

“It’s for you,” Eddie cuts in easily, voice so low and smooth that Steve actually shivers. Then he leans in, close enough for Steve to feel body heat radiating near his arm. “I know what you are, Steve Harrington,” he murmurs. His eyes are hypnotizing so close, all dark brown veined with deep gold, and they dip down to watch Steve’s mouth.

Where Steve is paused in the act of still licking at his own fingers, struck dumb by the heady proximity. He’s seen the hunger in Eddie’s eyes before: in the mirror, while examining himself for new stretch marks. On Eddie it’s still wary, ready to pull back at any moment if things go sideways, but it’s there. Like maybe Eddie wants to kiss him, safe enough from prying eyes out here, at the edge of the quarry at night.

“Saw you flaunting it in Family Video,” Eddie continues, eyes slipping further down to Steve’s bulging, bubbling middle as he leans infinitesimally closer. (Steve is helpless but to do the same, a squirming and impatient part of him eager to snatch at and swallow the offered bait whole.) “And I thought to myself… ‘My my, isn’t King Steve getting fat.’”

Fat.

It’s the first time someone’s said it out loud. Steve’s cock gives a kick where it’s straining under his other hand, the one still tucked under his belly and pressing between his spread legs, and he bites his lip to hold in a moan. He knows that it’s written clear as day across his face, though, and that’s dangerous—he doesn’t know Eddie, isn’t sure why he would trust the guy with this when he couldn’t even bring himself to tell Robin, his best friend.

Except.

Eddie’s eyes grow darker still, his own breath speeding up a tick where it brushes against Steve’s cheek. And Steve has this thing in him that it feels like no one would understand, but maybe Eddie has that same thing too… or maybe not exactly the same but complimentary, and pulsing like an itch that needs to be scratched, just like Steve’s. Maybe they want the same things and this is the only chance they’ll ever get to know, fully and truly know, what that’s like.

Maybe, Steve thinks with a distant pang, if he can armor himself with these moments where someone finally sees and understands this part of him, he’ll be able to face his parents with some amount of confidence.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. It feels like he’s been thinking forever, but also like the word spilled out before Eddie even finished calling him what he is now, what he’s craved and what he’s become. Has no idea where he’s actually fallen between those two extremes and doesn’t care, just, humiliatingly, whimpers when Eddie pulls back.

“Don’t worry, big boy,” Eddie tells him with a condescending pat on the apex of Steve’s belly—a touch that makes him gasp followed by a helpless burp, makes him jiggle where his love handles are exposed, zings straight to his leaking dick. “Just getting you your drink like you wanted.”

Steve giddily watches Eddie repeat the process of opening the shaken can, sucking up what he can that tries to escape. He doesn’t hand it to Steve this time, though. Instead, Eddie holds the warm aluminum to his lips, a kiss once removed as Steve chugs it obediently down.

His eyes roll back, falling closed. He doesn’t know what will happen next; all he knows is that he wants, needs a satisfaction he has yet to quite fully achieve by himself, constrained by his own limits

“That’s it,” Eddie whispers, a sound that wraps around Steve and holds him tight, enthralled. He wants to roll in it, dip his fingers in Eddie’s velvety smooth voice and lick them clean while Eddie watches, while Eddie touches him.

Just as he thinks it, Eddie’s hand settles on the crest of his belly, pressing gently but inexorably in slow circles, lighting up his entire body and massaging out little, hiccupy burps. Their gazes meet, Steve’s eyes heavy-lidded and blown while Eddie’s are dark and endlessly deep, and Steve’s lips part in a breathy whine as he unconsciously spreads his legs a little wider. And then Eddie’s next words sweep him away, send his eyes rolling back in his head as pleasure rolls through him like thunder—

“Good boy.”

Permanent tag list (ask to be added): @hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @tangerinesteve

#ask #♠️♥️ anon #wg steddie #scoops words #chubby steve harrington #feedee steve harrington #feeder eddie munson

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nicolos · 2 years

Text

fossil

They make it to their destination slowly.

Very slowly.

Part of the problem is that she's travelling with the slowest people she's ever met. Every single one of them is content with taking weeks to get from one place to the other, because they all remember a time it always did. It's a feeling she remembers from when she was younger and her dad was away and her mom couldn't quite handle two kids at home while she wasn't, and Nile and Cass would be sent to Grandma's. Grandma Freeman was actually her dad's grandma, and she was the oldest woman Nile had ever met—old enough to give Andy a run for her money, she'd say—and Nile had spent all her summers there bewildered by how content she was to sit down and knit and wait for the water to boil.

Travelling with Andy, Nicky and Joe is a little bit like that experience of standing at the stove waiting for the water to boil while her great-grandmother keeps the flame on low and gives her words about patience.

Except it's not that she's bored. It's that she's on edge.

"Nile," Joe says, the third time she asks about where they're going and why they're going so slowly. "I don't blame you for the fact that your world is extremely fast-paced, but that is a product of a very recent period of time, and neither natural nor healthy."

To which: Nile would like to call bullshit. Her introduction to the immortal lifestyle having been one solid weekend of unadulterated fuckery. You cannot give her a whole weekend of Kill Bill but shittier, and then say "actually, we spend most of our time doing 5000-piece jigsaw puzzles." She saw somebody else's insides and watched her own bones heal before her eyes and didn't even realise how fucked that was until (much) later because of the immediacy and breakneck pace of it all—a pace that left her, or any of them, no time or space for thinking or questioning. All she did that day was act.

Now there's no acting at all. She'd like to see the merit of that, but mostly it puts her on edge.

Too much time to think, she thinks, might help them with their thousands of years of figuring out what to do with themselves, but it just leaves her upset.

Even then.

They make it, eventually, to where they're going. It's not a particularly special day. They're in the forest somewhere east of the Black Sea, trees and dirt stretching out around them broken up only by the occasional village. She's woken up by Joe and Nicky arguing about the quality of different animal milk when used in cheese and when used in other cooking, which as far as she can tell is an old debate and one with no resolution. This wakes Andy up, too, but she only says "Yaks," and nothing else, in a mood because she's acclimating to the concept of sunburns lasting and has just discovered that her sunscreen doesn't actually last longer than a couple of hours.

"It says ultra protection daily sunblock on the bottle!" she keeps repeating, betrayal in her tone.

Nicky takes a break from pontificating on Greek yoghurt to say, "Maybe you are putting it on wrong?"

When Andy looks like she's ready to hit him, Joe says, "Give me that," takes the bottle from her, holds it a foot from his face and squints at it, before concluding: "The font is too small."

Fortunately, Nile is familiar enough with sunscreen to tell Andy how to do it—the right way this time, because Andy didn't listen the last time she told her to put on more—as they pack away their tent (Nile's discovery of the week is that she might not be able to die, but she can get a crick in her neck from sleeping in their car) and their food and don their backpacks and start driving further in.

The drive is punctuated by more cheese talk. Joe and Nicky devolve into a different language every hour or so, but only when talking to each other, remembering to revert to English when they turn to Nile. It's Nicky's turn to drive (which he does like a complete madman) so Joe gets shotgun, because of course he does.

Andy teaches Nile a card game, which is mostly about not letting your cards fly out of your hand when the wind picks up or when they go over a bump, which is often. Every once in a while, Joe breaks away from the conversation (which is stuck somewhere around ricotta) to remind Andy of a rule like "and if you get the queen of spades, you have to put away two of your cards until you find the jack," or "right, but you skip your turn if you've got two clubs in your hand and that new song comes on."

And then they're there.

It's eerie, the switch. One moment Nile's convinced she's finally got the hang of the game enough to actually win a round, and the next Andy's looking up, eyes wide, and saying, "We're here."

She says it with the tone of voice she had that first day they met. "We're here," like pulling up to Copley's house and being ready to walk into possible death. "We're here," like "Whatever it takes." It immediately puts her on edge, something in her that recognised the danger in Andy even before she saw the inside of that church sitting upright, ready to pay attention.

This is it, she thinks, trying not to feel like she's been falsely lulled into complacency. Time for Kill Bill: Vol. 2. For a second, she even wonders if all the rest of it—the cards, the cheese, the terrible driving and the jigsaw and the full three hours Andy and Joe spent in a single shop trying to buy a blanket that felt right—if all of those things are just to make Nile's survival instinct forget who they are.

Who they can be.

But then Nile starts to get out of the car, and Joe says, "Wait," and makes Andy slather more sunscreen on her face and arms while Nicky finishes his bit on ricotta and Joe himself counts every one of the fifty-two card set before he puts them away ("They're very smooth, and I'd like to not have to replace one yet."). So Nile decides that that cannot, possibly, be fake.

Intentional? Maybe. But not a lie. And the distinction matters, she thinks.

They go a little bit further on foot before they get to it. Stretching away around her is a huge cavernous structure of a pale bleached stone arcing at least twelve feet high. It's buried halfway in the dirt with vines and creepers and mushrooms and flowers all over it, but the structures still go well over her head, almost of a height with the old trees that surround it.

"What is this place?" she asks.

Andy says, "This is where Lykon died."

She can't say what it is that connects the dots in her mind, only that the moment Andy says it, she knows—that the structures aren't stone or ungodly amounts of ivory or a ritual site or a freak natural formation. They're bones, large and disproportionate and cavernous ribs, holding them in right now like once they held someone's—Lykon's—heart and lungs.

"I thought you said," she starts, but the truth is she doesn't know _what_ she thought. She cannot begin to comprehend this.

"He was just like us when he was alive," Andy says. Joe and Nicky have fallen back, standing next to the smallest rib, Nicky with his hand hovering over the rib like he wants to touch it, like he has, like there is a familiarity there, though Nile knows Lykon predates him. It's none of their first time here, though, she can tell. "He was shorter than me, actually. We used to..."

Nile doesn't ask as Andy looks away. Her eyes aren't wet, though, and though the pain radiates off her, she's nothing more than steel eyes and locked spine. When she looks at the bones, she looks like she's remembering—but maybe not his death.

Nile asks, "What happened?"

Andy grins at her. "No idea. We don't really have any other examples. We buried him here and didn't come back for... two hundred years? At least? And when we did, it was like this."

This tracks: all her answers to the truly unbelievable parts of all of this have been, in the end, we don't know. She turns instead to the one person who she thinks will have come to some kind of conclusion, not maybe out of a sense of science or logic, but because he needs something to believe in. Nile needs something to believe in, too—she always has. Sometimes that something has disappointed her more than it's given her any value, but—

But she's standing in a rib cage taller than she is, and every hair on her body is standing on end with it.

Nicky says, "Our lives are in some ways far greater than that of an ordinary person. I do not mean that they have more value, but perhaps... vastness of experience. It cannot reflect in us while we are alive, or as alive as we are, but after..." He shrugs.

Nile says, "So you think his bones expanded to reflect that?" except that even as she says it, she can feel something of the question in her settle. She's not blind—she's seen their age on them, on all of them. Not just in their exhaustion or the old people nonsense they're always on or the way they speak or their technological ineptitude, but in their eyes. In the way they close their fists and the way they hold their weapons. So really, she means, in their bones. Settled in there with an ancientness that she can't really comprehend, that she cannot even begin to imagine settling on her. When she was fifteen, sixteen had felt terribly far away, and when she was twenty-four, twenty-six felt like it was right there.

But one day—

She thinks of Copley's charts, strings drawing to strings and making a flowchart of history that goes back maybe one hundred years and spreads so far. Exponential, she hears, in his voice. Where does that go, after an immortal dies? Where does that sit while they're alive? If she looks at Andy now, she can almost imagine that she's seeing a woman with branches emerging from her the way vines have crept over and around Lykon's bones, entangling him permanently in this forest, making him just as much a part of the structure of this place as it—the world—is a part of him.

And Andy? Nile tries not to think of what she'll be, twenty or forty years from now.

She pointedly does not think of Quynh in her watery non-grave.

"So," Andy says, "don't bury me in a fucking city," and Joe barks out a surprised laugh. "Unless you want to fuck it up."

Nile rolls her eyes. "We're not burying you for a few decades yet, grandma," she says, though they cannot possibly have any idea of that. Sometimes she's convinced that being able to die at any moment now is a thousand times more frightening than being a normal person who, also, could die at any second. Maybe it's the experience of having lived through it, having come out the other side and found—she doesn't know. She doesn't feel invincible like this. She's never put too much thought into her own death before, but now that she's died and come back, she's terrified of it, and she wants it, and she wants to never look at it.

But at least, she thinks, looking at all the untold thousands of Andy's years compressed into a ribcage just like anybody else's—at least somebody will be able to see it, after. The vastness of what it means to be one of them.

There are flowers on the vines that wrap around the rib closest to Nile. She picks one and puts it in her pocket.

On the way back, Andy tells them about yak cheese.

#the old guard #tog fanfiction #mine.#minefic #more micro fiction from yours truly !!#i REALLY enjoyed how this one feels though #i do love Them. dearly

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erikiara80 · 1 year

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Stranger Things- Fringe parallels (spoiler on Fringe)

(Still working on this theory, so I edited some parts)

IF this theory is correct, it could be a spoiler on some of the biggest plot twists in S5.

Let's begin.

I'm analyzing every screenshot of the Nina Project scenes, reading theories on different timelines, loop theories. Then I remembered the name Peter.

Henry is Peter Ballard-the orderly. Sam Owens' son, Peter. So, Henry is Peter? And given the huge parallels with Will, Will is Peter too? The key of everything?

The parallels between Stranger Things and Fringe are becoming more and more clear. And it makes me even more curious to know: Why Will? We've seen the Henry-El parallels. Papa. Telekinesis. Telepathy. Now gates. So, if Will is also like Henry and Henry can manipulate time...

My theory is that the story could be a mix of Fringe, Back to the future, The Talisman and The Dark Tower.

Here I'm going to focus on Fringe

Like I said, there are many parallels. Eleven and Olivia Dunham, especially in S4. All the mentions of Peter. The glitching in the Rainbow Room.

Maybe, when Brenner started to use Henry, he learned that he didn't just have telekinesis, he could manipulate time, even see possible futures or threats. Then the massacre... the UD... the gates and the apocalypse. Thank you, Brenner.

How old Peter was when he died in the Prime World?

Seven.

When he died, his dad went to Alt Earth and kidnapped the alterante version of his son. And the crossover between worlds caused devastating consequences in Alt Earth. Henry ending up in the UD is causing the end of the world.

El is like Olivia

There have been El-Olivia parallels throughout the whole show.

But in S4 everything became more obvious, because of all that glitching in El's memories that we've never seen before. And because S4 introduced Henry/Peter, who could very well represent the Peter Bishop of Stranger Things. But with powers. His not just his existence the problem, but what he's doing.

About the glithing. That's a very important moment.

Imo, El was remembering her past, but with the glitching WE, the audience, were seeing for the first time different timelines simultaneously*. There are different Henries, the kids' position and even age change. In one shot their bones are broken, in another shot they are not. Many timelines. But it doesn't matter how many differences there are. The ending never changes. The story always ends in tragedy.

The beginning of the flashback/memory, El seeing the same moment in the Rainbow Room over and over, it's the biggest clue about the plot twist of the story: it's a loop, and not actual parallel worlds you can visit (so really BTTF + Fringe + The Dark Tower)

So, the parallels with Fringe are there, but of course it's not the same story.

*I said it's the first time that we see different timelines simultaneosly, thanks to the glitching. But we've actually been seeing them, at least two of them, from episode one, from the scene of Will's kidnapping. In fact, there's the shot where he has the shotgun, and the other where shotgun is still in the shed. Then, there are articles where Brenner's name is Richard, others where the name is Martin. It's always been there, but we needed S4 to start putting the pieces together. So far it's been subtle.

Peter in Fringe and Stranger Things

Fringe. The main character, Peter, shouldn't exist in the Prime World because Prime World Peter died when he was a child. But his father Walter went to the Alt World and kidnapped Alt Peter, and since then, the gate Walter opened has caused devastating consequences for that world that risks to collapse.

ST. Henry and Will were both kidnapped. And they both ended up in a different world. Also, it seems that their very existence can change everything. Henry can destroy the world. Will can save it.

Fringe. The advanced substance Alt World uses to quarantine the regions devastated by anomalies. Amber.

ST. In S3 we see the green goo, which is connected to the Russians and the gate.

Green goo could also be a reference to the game Fortnite.

The story: A mysterious island that holds the Origin of the universe itself is being abused by a mysterious organisation. A mysterious figure emerges from an escape pod housed in the remnants of a meteor in the crater of the island. From there on, everything slowly unfolds into chaos.

Interesting.

Fringe. The only solution they found in Fringe to save the Alt Universe? They erased Peter so everybody forgot about him. But slowly, people who loved him started to remember him.

ST. Maybe this is how Henry's story ends. Henry could be the Peter of ST that must die to save the world. Or it's Will who's being erased, or realises Henry needs him, so he thinks he has to sacrifice himself and disappear to save the world. They already hinted at something like that. In S2 Joyce asked Owens what would happen when he doesn't remember anything. When her boy is gone. Plus, the video posted on the ST account on IG in 2017, where Will disappears from the S1 photo, just like Marty Mcfly.

There are many options.

Look, more references to Peter. This time, there are also a key and number twelve.

And twelve is associated to Will

Other clues about different timelines.

In the first article in S1, that's actually Terry and El story, not really Joyce and Will. He was an unwitting victim, not a subject of the government program. Ok, maybe they forced the journalist to rewrite the article. But could still be a hint. In S1, Brenner is named Richard in the articles Hop reads. And in S4, in the articles about the massacre at the Creel House, Henry becomes Edward, Alice is the mother and Virginia the daughter... Little differences. But same story.

Also, what Joyce tells Brenner. That he took her boy away from him. Yes, kinda. But not really. It's very ambiguous. But maybe, in another timeline. Another time the story repeated itself, but differently...

Mr Clarke talks about the multiverse in S1. Infinite versions of our world. Only a bit different. But maybe the twist is Time. The story that keeps repeating itself because in the end the kids lose but Henry doesn't completely win.

Another interesting thing is the poster of the movie Sixteen candles we see at Family Video. The story is about people forgetting about the birthday of the protagonist.

And look at the main character. So we see the poster in S3 but not in S4. But in S4 we got her to remind us of that movie.

I'm going crazy.

Birthdaygate is even crazier that we thought, imo. Maybe something risks to erase Will. Or maybe in another timeline his birthday is in May. And we saw that timeline. But this time, even the GA noticed the date on the tape and said the writers forgot Will's birthday.

I also need to talk about the UD, of course. The Talisman (spoiler: there are parallel world there too, with copies of the original characters) the possible meaning of the rose as a reference to The Dark Tower. There's so much to talk about!

MORE CONNECTIONS BETWEEN ST AND FRINGE

EDIT: Thank you adipishingsystem. I didn't remember that in Fringe, ep 1x17, Walter is watching a video recording of the testing done with Cortexiphan (in 1982). Young Olivia is in a room which she's burned completely with her mind...

William Bell (the other doctor, played by Leonard Nemoy), "Is the incident contained?"

Assistant, "Yes, Dr. Bell."

Bell, "How bad?"

Assistant, "Bad."

Bell, "Casualties?"

Assistant, "Not sure yet. We can't locate Brenner."

I mean!

And in S2 of ST, Joyce is discussing getting professional help for Will with Hopper. She says: "Well, there's that guy in Boston that's supposed to be..." But Hopper cuts her off before she can finish. Was she talking about... Walter? Or Bell? Omg? They really did it.

Lol, and there is MORE! I keep finding things... Working on another analysis!

#will byers #will has powers #henry creel #el hopper #birthdaygate #twelvegate #henry/vecna/one #henry/vecna/001 #st theory #st analysis #parallels #stranger things and fringe #stranger things

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pollylynn · 1 year

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Title: Watchman WC: 800

“I don't want to pretend.” —Kate Beckett, A Chill Goes Through Her Veins (1 x 05)

She regrets the Bat Cave metaphor. She regrets raising the specter of Alfred, and she especially regrets referring to him as a multi-millionaire crime fighter. Some of that is predictably instantaneous: she chides herself for somehow forgetting that his ego never needs feeding. And there's a part of her that hasn’t gotten one bit less raw over the last decade that wants to knock the wind out of him for reducing her pain to a comic book plot line.

It doesn’t make a tremendous amount of sense. Not that anything at all makes sense when someone hits that particular nerve, but that’s kind of the point. Frustratingly, enough, he’d tapped it none-too-gently less than twenty-four hours after they’d met. Yes, he’d noticed her dad’s watch, and yes, he had of course felt compelled to play smartest kid in the room about it.

But now, he is being—for him—kind of sweet. And though it pains her to admit it, he’s also being helpful. Which is why she’s there, late in the evening, intruding on his strange family circle in the first place, right? She needs someone’s help, and none of the usual someones will do.

Ryan and Esposito hardly even bother to hide their smirks about the Castle-induced overtime she's been putting in on cases lately. And they certainly aren’t hiding their exasperation when they get roped in because she’s now in the business of cutting lose perfectly good obsessives, greasy nightclub owners, and violent drug dealers because their unfortunately resident Batman knockoff can’t leave well-enough alone.

She can’t go the boys or to the Captain or even to Lanie without a lecture about getting a life, letting it go, switching it off. So she goes to him, and doesn't that make her Commissioner Gordon—or worse, bumbling Officer O’Hara? So, yes, she has reason to regret the Bat Cave metaphor pretty much right away.

And then the case takes its turn and her regret turns with it. He can’t leave well enough alone. He can’t reconcile the characters of Former Detective Sloan the put-upon Deloris Marsh, and she finds herself forced to scour the very darkest recesses of a Bat Cave that could have been. She finds herself forced to confront Ben Davidson.

In some ways, that’s simple. She is not lying when she lays out the difference between a cop and a writer for Castle. There is a fierce, bitter kind of pride in knowing that she is no Sloan. She does not engage in shoddy, I figured it was gonna end bad. . . or I saw no reason to doubt . . . police work. She has never decided how any victim's story ends through lack of effort or failure to see a case through.

So she follows procedure, as she has in every case for her entire career. She ushers the man into the back of her car and drives in total—miraculous, considering who is riding shotgun—silence from White Plains back to the city. She sits across the table from Ben Davidson and puts out of her mind the image of his granddaughters shrieking with laughter as he comes crashing out of the bushes, playing monster. She fixes in it, instead, the image of their tears at the death of their father, the nights they must have awakened wailing and crying out for him. She looks him in the eye and declares that killing Sam Cavanaugh was not the answer.

But she doesn't know that for a fact. She doesn’t know what an answer looks like for her, for the Ben Davidsons of the world. For Bela and Simone Cavanaugh when they're old enough to understand the enormity of their father’s actions, their grandfather’s . . .

And that, Detective Beckett, is why you are here.

She became a cop to solve her mother’s murder. His glib, nutshell version of the defining event of her life isn’t substantially different from the one she’s told a handful of times to less than a handful of people over the last ten years. That’s the story. Except Ben Davidson makes her wonder if that's the story at all.

She has never been to war, but lord knows guns are easy to come by. She has never had the opportunity to demand the truth from her mother’s killer and offer forgiveness in return. She has never had the raw rush of satisfaction at reneging on such an offer and letting her rage speak—letting it roar at last. She will never have that opportunity.

She is a cop. Her city-issued piece sits quietly, heavily in a box with the objects that connect her to life she saved, the life she lost. She doesn’t get to decide how the story ends.

In the wake of Ben Davidson, she doesn’t know if that’s nobility or cowardice.

A/N: Although the late-night editor has not spared you this story, it has spared you considerable material on all the (non-Burton) times Batman has caught and confronted his parents' killer. You're welcome-ish?

image via homeofthenutty

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benbamboozled · 2 years

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Inspired by a recent discovery regarding Barbara and a sniper rifle (I can send pics if you wanna see) who do you see among bat affiliates as most likely to kill, or if they have, kill again?

PLEASE POST PICS PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!

Ahem…

ANYWAY, let’s go ahead and just leave Jason as a free space.

I’m going to break this up into Batfam Who Have Killed (And How Likely They Are To Kill Again), and Batfam Who Haven’t Killed (And How Likely They Are To Do So).

(Also, sticking with the usual “core,” minus Jay for obvious reasons, so—Alfred, Bruce, Barbara, Dick, Cass, Steph, Tim, and Damian.)

(I’m also leaving Duke off because I just don’t know much about his character, I still have so many arcs to catch up on.)

NOW…

Batfam Who Have Killed (And How Likely They Are To Kill Again)

Alfred is number one on the list. He’ll straight up kill people (his weapon of choice is a goddamn SHOTGUN) and pretty much only holds back out of consideration for Bruce.

Next up I’d say Damian, because, as per the recent Robin series, he’s pretty much Krombopulos Mike from Rick and Morty (he just loves killin). Granted, he knows killing is bad and yadda yadda, but…kid wants to cut loose, and he’s good at it. Also, he’s trying to figure out his “thing.”

Third is Dick, in this category because he did, canonically, kill the Joker. Honestly, metatextually, I don’t think Dick is going to kill anyone again (even if Batman can bring them back to life). I think he’s become too “core” to the entire Batman ethos. (Hence why he keeps being chosen to kill Batman in the horror elseworlds, lol.) On a character level, I think Dick would absolutely kill again, BUT I think it would be less of a “I am choosing this” the way I see Alfred (and could see Damian) doing it, and more of an act of desperation or intense stress.

Fourth is Cass. OUTSIDE OF SOME HORRIBLE OOC BITS WE DON’T TALK ABOUT, Cass is the Batfam member who most believes in Batman’s No Killing philosophy. It’s not an optics things for her, or because it’s Batman’s rules, or about a symbol…she genuinely, whole-heartedly believes that killing is wrong. (But she did kill a guy so she goes in this category.)

Okay, now…

Batfam Who Haven’t Killed (And How Likely They Are To Do So)

Okay, possibly controversial, I’m going to put Tim as number one, for two reasons.

One—Captain Boomerang Death Trap.

Two—In the Robins mini he argues for letting the guy died who killed his mom and paralyzed his dad. It turns out to be (*sigh*) someone disguised as him, BUT their deception was based on Tim’s psychological profile, so even Tim’s like “Yeah, no, I probs woulda done the same thing, lol.”

So, yeah, Tim can definitely get pushed too far.

Next is Barbara! She’s actively associated with heroes who kill, her thoughts when Dick killed the Joker were “idk, maybe he shoulda stayed dead…would that’ve been bad…???” She’s the one I can most see choosing to kill someone as part of her philosophy, but she’s never put anyone in a death trap, so she’s second.

Third is Steph. Mostly because she’s one of the least likely Batfam members to completely fucking lose it, and I can’t see her taking up killing as an active philosophy. (Even outside of the fact that she believes in the Bat, I think if she were on the edge, she wouldn’t want to damage her relationship with Cass.)

Finally, there’s Bruce. Okay, this one is tricky because, on the one hand, Bruce is never going to outright kill someone in the actual canon continuity. It’s just not going to happen.

On the OTHER hand, he’s tried to kill people multiple times(!!!)—both in a “I’m making the active choice to kill this person” way AND a “heat of the moment” kind of way—and only been stopped by circumstances/other Batfam members.

So, metatextually, he’s last in this category, because it just won’t happen. On a character level, he’s first, because Bruce Wayne is like…constantly one ill-timed Kick Me sign away from finally going ape shitt.

OKAY WELP WENT AHEAD AND WROTE AN ESSAY! SOOOO there you have it!

Everyone, please feel free to disregard if it doesn’t line up with your thoughts, and apologies if I left out stuff from canon that would have impacted the list—see note above about Duke and being behind on reading.

#ask answered #batfamily #batfam meta #also I want that pic now!! gimme gimme gimme!#Batman character analysis #Bruce Wayne #Alfred Pennyworth #Dick Grayson #Barbara Gordon #Tim Drake #Cassandra Cain #Stephanie Brown #Damian Wayne

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drsilverfish · 2 years

Text

The Child is the Father of the Man - Teach Your Children Well SPNWin 1x02 (The Winchesters)

You can tell Showalter directed this episode, because it’s filled with gorgeous shots of light and shadow, like this one of Mary above, and this one below of the Winchesters’ Garage:

This young Mary is so much like Dean; searching for her hunter Dad, behaving like her Dad in spite of herself; his way, or the high-way, the Campbell way, as Lata says.

In the first image, above, you can see “C3″ on the wall beind her, military short-hand for “Command, Control, Communication”, as she orders her Scooby-Gang about.

But, this version of Mary later apologises to her friends for bossing them around, and for not listening, when Lata proves right that they’re not dealing with a shapeshifter, as Mary had insisted, but with La Tunda, eater of disobedient children, who appears to troubled youth as their punishing parent figure and feeds on their life-force.

This young John and Mary, like Sam and Dean, Sam and Cas, seem to have a lot of conversations as they’re driving. Mary is the driver, John rides shotgun; symbolic of the fact that she is the leader, in this world of hunting:

But their conversations are emotionally supportive of one another; unlike the many angry silences or arguments in the Impala in Supernatural.

John and his mother reconcile, in this episode, despite their earlier fight, and she promises never to let him leave again without telling him she loves him (some Destiel echoes in there), And look at the sign on the garage wall, watching over this conversation - doesn’t it look like a pair of angel wings?

The lessons which came so hard to Dean because of his childhood trauma (listening not bossing, more open emotional communication, saying “sorry”, saying “I love you”) are finding resolutions, involving much greater emotional literacy, amongst these kids (and between John and his Mum).

The Hippie Commune leader, Clyde, was wearing a triskelion which the camera zooms in on, and the Scooby Gang discuss as a symbol of “transformation”:

It’s almost as if Narrator-Dean is re-writing the story of his parents, to provide them with a security and emotional warmth (despite their own traumas and parent-issues) which they lacked in Universe One (Supernatural).

The triskelion is also a trinity - in SPN One’s Biblical universe that would be - the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

Chuck was the author and sometimes the overtly in-story narrator of the SPN One universe, eventually (perhaps, although, perhaps not, given the shitty 15x20 ending, which had Chuck’s bad writing all over it) replaced by his son, Jack.

Is Dean the Holy Ghost in the machine of this Supernatural AU, The Winchesters? Taking on a god-like function as the story-teller?

But unlike Chuck, Dean is not a cruel and capricious God, toying with his characters for his own amusement.

It’s as if Dean is teaching his own parents, how to be better equipped and more secure. The child, Narrator-Dean, has somehow become the parent of his own parents, and is attempting, like the Crosby, Stills and Nash song of the epiisode title, to “teach the children well”.

Perhaps this narrative has been designed as a healing journey, for John and Mary, and for us, the traumatised SPN audience...

#Supernatural #The Winchesters #The Winchesters meta #SPNwin 1x02 #Teach Your Children Well #Dean is the New God

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icarus-suraki · 1 year

Note

for the fandom osmosis meme: supernatural, because god knows i’ve subjected you to too many posts (sorry)

Uhhh, let's see...

There are two brothers, the Winchesters, who fight cryptids using traditional superstition and occult objects. One of the brothers has twinkly anime eyes and is regarded as bisexual by the fandom (Dean) and the other one was likened to a moose by the fandom for a while, for some reason (Sam). Their dad was an asshole, but he's dead now (if still haunting them metaphorically), as is their mother (and they miss her). They have a Chevrolet Impala and Dean of the Anime Eyes loves this car. They keep all kinds of Implements of Destruction in the trunk (mostly this consists of shotguns).

At some point, the series pivots away from cryptids and towards religion? Though I think they still overlaps a bit? Like in the case of hellhounds: might be a barguest, might be a demon. Eventually the angel Castiel, who is wearing the body of a handsome dude doing a Columbo cosplay, turns up and there's a lot about heaven, hell, demons, angels, apocalypses, possessions... I don't quite know how it all works, but I'm a fan of Angel Sanctuary, so I figure it's just about as complicated. That all becomes the plot. I think some ancient gods get to appear? I do know there's a human representation of Death at one point (but I mostly know that because of the amazing version of "O Death" in that scene). Also I believe the Antichrist appears for a bit? What happens with more significance is that what started as a pair turns into a trio at this point in the plot now that Castiel is there and it kind of adjusts the character interactions. And whether intentional or not, it sure as hell looks like Dean and Castiel are in love (and the fandom goes wild!).

The rest of what I know is fandom stuff--like the Wincest crowd and the Destiel crowd and the Superwholock kids. I can state for a fact that the series ended in 2020 and November 5, 2020, was a whole thing on Tumblr dot Com. Between going to Superhell, the Spanish-language "I love you," All Impalas Go to Heaven, the Party City wig on Old Man Sam, Sam's faceless and nameless wife, and the amazing "I love you/[bottom text]" meme (where I get most of my news anymore), it was a lovely day.

There are also character names that I see a lot but I have no idea how that all fits together. Crowley seems to show up a lot--no, not that one, another one; not that one either--who is a demon, I think? And he gets to be snarky and antagonistic without being out-and-out evil.

The ironic thing is that I know all these odd details but I have no idea what an average episode is actually like. I've maybe seen one or two full episodes and that was from season 1, when the whole show was new.

Also there's now a prequel spinoff that's about the brothers' parents. I have very little knowledge about that.

How's that?

#fandom osmosis #ask games #ask me things #anon is on #supernatural

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sarah-dipitous · 1 year

Text

Hellsite Nostalgia Tour 2023 Day 11

"Asylum"

Would I Survive the First Five Minutes??: Yes. I simply would not go into a place I knew was horrifically haunted. That's what Shane Madej and Ryan Bergara are for. I also simply would not marry a cop. 8/10

I like that we are getting a continuation of the "finding dad" storyline for the second episode in a row, even if it's causing tension between the boys

(eeeeeeuuuuuuuggggghhhhhhhhh. back on my todobros au bullshit. dean is exactly what touya would be like if endeavor had been a different kind of neglectful of his eldest kid. and shoto/sam begging him to look beyond what their dad wants)

Sam trying to lie while also trying to not lie to this therapist is phenomenal. "been on a road trip with my brother. met a lot of...interesting people. did a lot of...interesting things" yes, girl, give him nothing

STOP GOING TO HAUNTED PLACES. GIRL, DUMP HIM IMMEDIATELY. YOU WERE PROMISED A MOVIE.

Dean spitting facts "when someone says a place is haunted, don't go in!" Thank you, Dean

$20 says that's not actually Dean on the phone. DO kind of love that the teenage girl is the one who can fire a shotgun and her lameass boyfriend can't #feminism (/j...at the tag. i am actually glad she's the one with the shotgun...for now, at least. i don't trust the writers) also, good for her for saying she's breaking up with him if they make it out alive

Knew it. Wasn't Dean on the phone. Was it Dr Ellicot? Probably.

WELL DAMN. Oh god...I'm really, really emotionally compromised watching them fight like this. Like, that was some REALLY HURTFUL SHIT. Dean giving Sam the pistol and Sam pulling the trigger while aiming at Dean???? Like, yeah, it wasn't loaded, and yeah, Sam was not fully himself at the time, but FUCK, man!

Seeing Dean throw the zippo lighter to salt and burn the bones is reminding me of the post about how many zippo lighters the Winchesters just waste over the course of the series

"Been On My Mind...": (Half way through and the bulk of the extra cast has been a middle aged therapist and a teenage girl...I'm gonna guess no) I was right.

"Dalek"

HERE. WE. GOOOOOOOOO!!! In a complete 180 of how I felt about the last adversaries the Doctor faced, I fucking LOVE the Daleks.

I was really hoping this episode took place just a LITTLE closer to our current time, but to have it set in 2012 is also very good

Man, I remember watching this episode for the first time and not knowing anything about ANYTHING. Like, NOW I recognize the cyberman head for what it is, but at the time? Could have been just some random robot head.

Ugh. This guy is insufferable. Thankfully, I think we just have to deal with him for one episode.

Man...the Dalek reveal happens MUCH earlier than I recalled it. I also think this is the rawest interaction between the Doctor and a Dalek we get in the series (at least as far as I remember). GODDDDDDDD two sworn enemies, mortal (and yet also immortal) enemies, coming to realize or being reminded that they are the last of their kind in the whole universe. The seething hatred between them, and yet...they have this one thing in common that no one else can possibly understand. It's GORGEOUS.

This poor kid...believes and believes and believes, and Rose just knows and won't tell. I mean, she has no reason to tell him, but still.

Why are they just standing there if hey were just told the Dalek could get out so easily?? Just. Run.

...okay but now I'm just curious about what if this episode DID take place closer to this year. The Dalek downloaded the entire internet, and they just asserted that it now knows everything. But like...that was 2005's thoughts on what they believed 2012's internet would be like...if it were closer to now, the Dalek has extensive knowledge of omegaverse and all of homestuck and every qanon conspiracy theory. I WANT TO SEE WHAT PSYCHIC DAMAGE 2023 INTERNET WOULD GIVE A DALEK (i swear i do love them, but it's just...this is so interesting)

"YOU. WOULD. MAKE. A. GOOD. DALEK." is such a banger line. Absolute mic drop of an insult.

Nah, I'm with the Dalek. That guy should die.

Watching the inner, squishy Dalek alien feel the sunlight after being trapped 53 floors below the ground and tortured has me feeling very "but what if I gave it a hug?" post. It's a good thing I grabbed my Dalek plushie before I started the episode. You know, to hug at this moment.

#hellsite nostalgia tour 2023 #this was a really good night of tv ngl

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halfblood-princes-crown · 2 years

Note

TWD but it's on the 70' Snape era, with Lily and Snape still being friends because we love platonically here and now the tables have turned and it's the weird, paranoid, bullied, conspiracy, Satanism dabbing kid with his dad's shotgun who has the advantage over the rich posh boys

(i can't believe you are already writing a TWD au, i love you please if you are amenable i would love to hear what you already have in word building, I'm so excited too!)

The fact that you’re excited is making me even more excited 😭

Ok, throwing out ideas:

I was thinking of starting the fic a little after they graduate or while they’re still in their last year of school

Idk if you’ve seen twd but if you have, I want Sirius to have a Shane sorta roll 👀 (except for the “in love with Lori” part)

Lily with the Lori roll. She’s kinda like the leaders wife so people ask her advice for stuff

At first I want Sev to have the S2-3 Daryl roll. Odd man out, outcast, lone wolf. But then after something happens to James..he’s the one to step up to the plate

I want Lucius in the fic (obvi y’all know me) but we’re not gonna see him until LATER LATER because he’s gonna be with a rival group but he’s going to end up being trusted and recruited by Sev eventually

Minnie with the Carol roll except she’s not being abused…Minerva don’t play that shit

Dumbles would be Dale probably

So we need obstacles ofc so I’m still thinking about that but I know once we get to like “whisperers” obstacles…those are gonna be DEs

Still thinking…

Thoughts?

How are we feeling about platonic Snupin? I might have a roll for him

#twdsf

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kootenaygoon · 2 years

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“Such Great Depths”

Joey Tapper had never seen the ocean, but he figured it couldn’t look much different than Slocan Lake.

From where he was standing amidst the foundation rubble of his town’s shuttered mill, surrounded by waist-high scrub grass and shards of broken brick, the oily-looking water looked like it stretched out to infinity. And it was purple. A few hours earlier the 17-year-old had dropped some acid with his buddies — only his third time trying it — so some part of him understood that the feeling of rapture throbbing in his chest like heartburn was drug-induced, not a legit reaction to what he was seeing. Regardless, he felt himself momentarily overwhelmed as he contemplated the labyrinthine depths of the lake before him, visualizing the ghoulish faces in the underwater cliffs and the murky graveyard that lay waiting at the bottom.

Even picturing it made him shiver, conjuring up visions of being stuck hundreds of feet down in the lonely gloom. Joey pulled his hoodie over his spiky blond hair to ward off the mountain wind, which dragged through his hair like ghost fingers. He brought a smouldering joint to his lips.

It was Friday evening, and pretty soon the sun would slump exhausted behind the looming mountains before him. That’s when the real magic would begin. Joey and three of his friends from Elephant Mountain Secondary had jumped the mill site’s chainlink fence, as they did most days, and tromped down to a shaded beach alcove conveniently shielded by leaf-covered vinery and a ten-foot rock they called Ol’ Captain. This is where Valley kids went skinny dipping late at night, where they had raging campfires, drunken sing-alongs, and fist fights. People lost their virginity there. Others lost their innocence, which isn’t the same thing. Neither had happened for Joey, a fact he blamed on his omnipresent acne and his frustratingly shy personality around girls.

Joey had long believed there was a better version of himself lurking within him, that there was a different and superior life that he was supposed to living somewhere else, far away from here. Something about this version of his life felt wrong, doomed somehow. Had he lived other lives before this one? Would he live more after he died? There was no denying he’d been born and raised in the Kootenays, but he had this insistent sense that he belonged in some other place, or maybe some other reality.

The wind off the lake was icy, forcing tears out the sides of his eyes, and he wiped them on the arm of his grey plaid jacket. It annoyed Joey that reality was so persistent, that no matter how high he got, he always ended up back in the same drab surroundings. Normal life felt drained of colour. It wasn’t his mother’s fault, or his older brother Jimmy’s — neither of them seemed capable of taking care of Joey and his twin sister Emerald. No, it was his Dad.

The whole Tapper family had been reeling dazed since Joey’s father had inexplicably committed suicide last summer, his big toe on the shotgun trigger. The authorities found him on a side road near the base of Elephant Mountain, politely pulled over to the shoulder with his hazards on. Joey had visualized many times what it must’ve looked like inside the cab, the cop walking up to the side window with a flashlight. Was there flecks of skull stuck to the windshield? Did the blood splash like paint? Could you still see his face, or was it mostly gone? Joey was sixteen when he first heard the news, and his life now seemed cleaved in two by that event. He’d been a relatively happy kid before, and now he was a broken stoner blinking back tears.

Nyla snapped him back to reality, yelling from further down the shoreline. She was waving a staff-sized stick over her head, giggling, while she hopped from boulder to boulder in her bare feet. The other guys were shouting at her, taunting her about something, but their voices were swept away by the wind. Joey watched her flexing legs dance across the beach in tiny cut-off jean shorts. It was a privilege to witness, he thought, with a nearly religious reverence. It made being born worthwhile, just so he could experience being in their proximity.

“You still with us, Tapps?” she yelled, taking a swing with her stick at a rusted out oil drum and snapping it in two.

“I’m holding it together.”

Something about that made her laugh, and she swept her faded pink hair behind her ears as she sauntered over unsteady on her feet. Nyla had a perma-pout that was kind of corny and she wore too much makeup, like a geisha or something, but she also had a look unique in their high school. Not hipster, not goth, not boho — just flamboyantly alternative. Joey had fantasized about asking her out for years, but somehow he couldn’t force the words out of his mouth.

Other dudes had taken a shot, but none had been successful. Some kids in their grade even thought she was a lesbian. There were a few moments where he thought something might happen between them, drunken late night moments when their lips nearly touched under the moonlight, but he didn’t know how to pull the trigger. Thinking about this, he covertly slipped his hand into one pocket and took his throbbing dick in his fist just as Nyla gave him a playful shove in the chest. For a horrifying moment he thought he was going to topple over, but after a brief moment of panic his equilibrium returned and the ground reassured him that it was still there.

Nyla laughed oblivious, clearly off on her own acid-induced trajectory.

“The guys are talking about taking an expedition,” she said, facing him. “And we wouldn’t want to leave a crew member behind.”

He took a drag on his joint, then offered it to her. “An expedition?”

“Well, Ryland said he knows a guy that will sell us bunch of MDMA cheap, and he figures we can make all some money selling it during concert season. So he wants to head over to the dude’s house, but he lives on the other side of the lake.”

“The other side of the lake?” he asked, becoming aware that he was just repeating her words. “How are we supposed to get to the other side of the lake?”

She took a long hit off his joint. “Grady says he can get us a canoe.”

“A fucking canoe? A four-person canoe?”

“I don’t know. They said it’s nearby, at some property on the edge of downtown. Belongs to Grady’s uncle or something? I wasn’t like totally listening because I was looking for our little lost sheep, you know? Wouldn’t want you to wander off.”

“You worried about wolves?”

She laughed, handed him back the joint. “Always. Wolf safety is paramount, soldier.”

“Why do you keep calling me soldier?”

Nyla clambered up a nearby mud-pile, striking a pose against the light blue sky.

“Because you always follow the rules, even when you’re breaking them. You pretend like you don’t have a moral code, Joey, but I know the truth. You’re like a Kootenay version of a choir boy, always concerned about pleasing the elders and being a good little boy. You can’t fool me, Joey. I’m un-foolable.”

“That’s not a real word.”

“Fuck you it’s not a real word. What makes a word real?”

“It means the word has a definition that everybody agrees on.”

“So if people don’t agree on the definition, then it’s not a real word?”

Joey didn’t have an answer for that. His jugular was vibrating uncomfortably now, so he quickly slurped back a series of hits off his joint, then coughed violently into his elbow. He blinked his watery eyes at the mountain sloping away from him, really taking in each individual tree. His mind was doing more things simultaneously than he could keep up with, like it had fractured off into independent thought trajectories regardless of whether he could follow. Tiny organisms floated across his vision like fat see-through porpoises. That was the acid, for sure.

“You know how many words Shakespeare invented?” Nyla asked, smirking at his bleary gaze. “Words are just sounds that somebody else made up. They can mean whatever we want them to mean. And we can make new words, new definitions. That’s the beauty of language. Think of slang, how each new generation introduces new words to the cultural vocabulary.”

He sighed. “I still don’t think un-foolable is a word.”

The Kootenay Goon

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