#60-year-old filter

[jypsyvloggin]

How to get the Old Age filter on Instagram? by yngmartyr

How to get the Old Age filter on Instagram? by yngmartyr #oldagefilter

Instagram Filter Old Age by yngmartyr Instagram filters are an easy and quick way to enhance your social media posts before posting. Whether it’s for fun or an occasion, you choose a filter to apply to your post based on whatever look you’re hoping to achieve. Each filter is a combination of effects. Thanks to the creator’s community for their great sense of humor and all the hard work they do…

[definitionsfading]

some stream of consciousness updates on the simmering Axl Rose hyperfixation as it develops (lmfao)

was not aware of some of the racist/homophobic language in GNR's early discography and it quite literally shocked me to hear, considering Slash (lead guitarist) is biracial, but from what I've been able to tell they've long since deviated from that particular song and some contemporary album pressings don't include it anymore. I guess back in 1986 the world was a different place and they were a hard rock band with a hardcore image but still, zoinks lmao. oof. no like that

Axl seems to have struggled with mental illness most of his life and there's this super intriguing situation that I don't think is well-known outside hardcore GNR fans, where the former nanny of his ex-girlfriend basically became a ""mother figure"" to him in the 90s when he was at a low point....and so this Brazilian woman named Beta and her adult kids are basically Axl's found family now? he never had any children, never remarried, and just lives with these people and his cats. super fascinating, I'm still trying to understand the extent of their relationship, because Beta is also apparently his acting band/tour manager....!? I wonder if something nefarious is going on there in the background but they do genuinely "seem" like a family. weird.

the guy truly loves his cats and I feel like this fact is a green flag despite all the other historical shit, but I could always be wrong lol

cannot believe the way tumblr and pinterest have babygirl-ified him in modern times. like LITERALLY going off with the yassification edits and adding lipstick and eyeliner and nose contour to photos of the man from 1991.........if tween me in 2005 had witnessed this I'd probably be a different person today. y'all are fucking wild but okay I guess

Axl loved and adored Freddie Mercury and was a big part of Freddie's tribute concert after his death; he also admires Elton John and was part of the induction ceremony when Elton got brought into the rock n' roll hall of fame. Axl was also apparently very reluctant/resistant about using hard drugs despite his fellow band members' rampant substance abuse and never used anything other than weed? I never would have imagined lmao but hardcore if true. the anal retentiveness and control issues speak for themselves

[rowanisawriter]

me naive beyond imagination: let’s go into the main tags of a piece of media that’s been out for 27 years, surely the fandom is well adjusted and there won’t be any drama and tons of fic and art for me to enjoy in peace!!

[pepsimaxxing]

each year that passes is another rung in the ladder of how crazy my boomer relatives are willing to be on facebook

[pathologicalreid]

nicknames | S.R.

in which you meet the team for the first time, and receive your first nickname

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: fluff

content warnings: reader is referred to as a girl. i have this headcanon where when reid's IQ gets slashed to 60, he'd get so distracted that he'd run on autopilot, hence the willingness to handshake.

word count: 591

a/n: happy finals szn! this fic has been rotting in my brain for weeks and i finally decided to flesh it out. and maybe you should like and reblog this if you enjoy it (no pressure tho)

You were still filtering through your entry paperwork when the rest of the team filtered into the bullpen. David Rossi, who had helped you land this job in the first place, nodded in your direction before disappearing into his office. “Hey!” Someone called from across the bullpen, “Y/N, right?” Emily asked, setting her go bag in the chair at her desk before making her way over to your desk.

Smiling in response, “It’s nice to finally meet you,” you responded, reaching your hand out for her to shake. It was nice to be in the BAU, complete with a promotion from Special Agent to Supervisory Special Agent.

JJ walked over next, waving, and introducing herself as the communications liaison. “I’ve heard a lot of great things from your old CARD team,” she said, “I’m sure your skillset will come in handy here.”

You nodded in affirmation, “That’s the hope!” You answered, smiling at the prospect of your old team singing your praises.

Next, Derek approached, reaching out his hand for you to shake. Of course, you obliged and grinned at him. Part of you felt like you were meeting celebrities, the BAU was a big deal in the bureau. “Derek Morgan,” he introduced himself, “How long were you with CARD?”

“Five years,” you responded, it was a long time for anyone to deal solely with child abduction, but your team had the best rate in the bureau. Besides, you found the work rewarding.

Morgan’s eyebrows raised in surprise, “that’s impressive.”

You nodded, “Thank you. I’m really looking forward to working with you all.”

JJ looked behind her, “Oh, have you met Garcia?” She asked, peeking around the corner to where the technical analyst's office was.

Glancing down at the cat-shaped stress toy that she had given you when you arrived this morning, you smiled, “Yes, she was the first to greet me this morning. I think I’m just missing Dr. Reid.”

As if on cue, the young doctor walked into the bullpen, he had a worn leather satchel over his shoulder and looked like he might be talking to himself, “Reid!” Emily called over, getting his attention, and causing him to change course, approaching your desk. “Come meet, Y/N.”

He adjusted the strap of his satchel over his sweater before you reached out your hand for him to shake. “Oh, he doesn’t…” JJ began, but her voice trailed off when Dr. Reid shook your hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Dr. Reid,” you said, smiling at him. It felt good to know you had finally met the entire team.

He gave a close-lipped smile in return, “Reid is fine, or Spencer.” He said as you each dropped your hands to your sides.

Noticing everyone looking back and forth between the two of you as if you had already managed to do something wrong, you gathered all of your paperwork in your hands, “I should get this to Hotch.”

The rest of the team got the message and started to disperse to their respective desks, Reid’s being adjacent to yours. “Welcome to the team, pretty girl,” Morgan said to you before turning to his own paperwork.

You hugged your paperwork to your chest as if you were protecting it. Quietly, you muttered, “I really hope that nickname doesn’t stick.”

Across from you, there was a short laugh, almost a scoff. “It will,” Spencer responded in the same reverent tone. For a second, you thought it might be a joke, but you could tell by his facial expression that he was serious.

[evilrat-sabre]

This isn't about Strawberry jam

I want to ramble on about something I am not so sure about what it is, so I will tell yall a story.

So imagine this; You are 20 years old, you live with your partner in your shared apartment, your partner buys a tiny glass jar of strawberry jam. 

If I pointed at that moment and asked you what it was, I think you would say “Well, it's a jar of strawberry jam” 

Okay now, imagine one week later; the jam was good, but the jar was tiny so you and your partner already ate all of it, holding the empty and dirty jar you realize, wow it has a very nice shape, maybe I can use it as a cup, so you clean the jar and lets it sitting beside your water filter. 

If I pointed now and asked what it was, what would you say? “It’s an empty jar of strawberry jam that we use to drink water.”

Okay cool, nice and practical, lets go forward, Imagine 10 years later… Yea I know a lot of time, but hear me out; You are 30 years old and you had a child in the meantime, this child is 7 years old. 

If I pointed to the empty jar of strawberry jam and asked what it is, you know what they would say? “It’s a glass cup, we use it to drink water.” Do you see where I am going?

Okay now let's go 30 years in the future, imagine; you are 60 years old and this story isn’t about you anymore, no this story is about your grandchild now. Your 37 years old child has a 10 year old child themselves now. If I pointed to the glass cup and asked the same old question, what would they say? “Oh that's a vintage glass cup that belonged to my grandparents, my parents get it out on… special occasions.” Okay cool, it's a vintage heirloom now I guess.

Okay now Imagine; Someone broke it, what would be said if I pointed to the glass and asked you to say what it is?

“This was an empty jar of Jam, we bought it a bunch of years ago and I don’t remember if the Jam was good or not, but it served us well.”

Ok, and If I asked your child?

“Oh, this was an old glass cup that was in my parents house. I liked to use it when we would drink vodka… I think it was older than me. It's a shame it is broken.”

Your grandchild?

“This was a family heirloom. It was older than my parents and I pretended to give it to my child one day. To be honest, the thing was old, it is a miracle how long it lasted.”

The garbage man that will dispose of it.

“Someone threw broken glass in the wrong bin, I will have to put on my gloves.”

[z3nitsusgf]

I, The Sun

Ch. 1 - In My Mind

ford pines/reader: NSFW, murder, violence against women, possession, manipulation, occult themes, dark fic.

first chapter of something I’ve been working on, it’s more of a introduction/exposition rn but I promise it gets better.

1976 - Gravity Falls, Oregon

Ford has been having these dreams lately. Unpleasant ones. Ones that leave him feeling sick, where he wakes up with his tongue stuck to his gums, and his body is in a cold sweat.

Where they feel so real that when he wakes he checks himself for injuries to see if it was a memory or not. He can't grasp the material reality with full intensity, a part of him seems to reside far away and beyond what's tangible.

His mind playing tricks on him, a cruel joke. Because the next flash of dreams is him on top of a woman, his hands strangling her until she gives way to the darkness and he’s plunging a knife into her abdomen over and over until she’s nothing more than minced meat. He realizes too late it’s you.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” A voice purrs in his ear, Ford is feral and bloodthirsty, ripping apart human flesh as if it were animal. A laughing soprano rings through his head and it hurts.

Ford wakes with a gasp, clutching his chest. He’s in his room, in his home, safe and sound. He attempts to slow his breathing, the dreams reeling through his head like a spool of film. The moonlight shines through his stained glass window, filtering in through shades of light pink and blue.

He sighs in relief, “just another nightmare.”

Something wet drips on his forehead and he wipes it away, when he looks at his fingertips it’s not water. Something thick and dark is smeared across the pads of his fingers. And Ford looks up slowly, he almost screams. Almost, another splat of blood falls into his parted mouth and Ford scrambles.

There, mounted on the ceiling of his bedroom, a doe head has been nailed to the wood. Mutilated and dripping its fresh wounds onto the scientist, its heart stabbed with a dagger and left to rot.

A painted message of red is smeared next to the head, it reads; ‘can’t run’.

Ford’s vision goes black.

-

You chewed on your pen cap, the smooth plastic sliding against your molars.

You sit at your cubicle, which was for a lack of a better word - missable; covered in pages from your previous articles and various bands. Rings of coffe stains and energy drinks line your desk, pens and notebooks scattered like autumn leaves. You stared at your computer screen, your new story a sort of meloncholic evil.

A man in your city had gone mad with schizophrenia and slaughtered his entire family. When the police entered the scene, there were decorations of blood and entrails around the apartment, the suspect rocking himself in a corner and wailing. You can imagine him, 45 year old Richard James. Skin and bones, reeking of innards and cigarettes.

Wondering how he got to this point of his life. When just a couple years earlier he was a school teacher and going to dinners with his wife and kids.

It’s a half-written entry, a simple narrative of the events. There was nothing special about it. You look up only when your editor called you into her office.

Miranda Perkins, a fat older woman who wore Hawaiian shirts and smelled of cat litter. Her office is straight out of a 60s JC Penny catalogue. Her window overviewed the parking lot, a shitty sight. But for the daily post in Sacramento, it was as good as it was going to get.

You sit in her uncomfortable chair, moving side to side until you feel any semblance of relief.

“How’s your story coming along, hun?”

She tapped her French tip nails along her desk, looking at your through big rounded coke-bottle glasses. A string of pastel crystal beads hanging from the sides.

“I’m almost done.” You were nowhere near that.

“Good, good. Abandon it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Abandon it!” She singsongs, waving a gaudy looking pen in her hand, “leave it for someone else.”

She was soft with you, probably because you reminded her of a daughter, or because you were soft. You sat in an uncomfortable silence, listening to the ticking of her wall clock and the hum of the FCU.

“How do you feel about Gravity Falls?” She asks suddenly, holding her pen to her temple. A small dot of ink left behind.

“It’s a small town, smack dab in the center of Oregon,” Miranda loved the facts, she got her socks off when writers knew the basic demographics of small unnoticeable towns. You preferred not to discuss your hometown however.

“It was founded by Nathaniel Northwest in the 1800s, it’s got a big touristy lake and the biggest business is logging. It’s full of old money, trash, and tourist traps.”

She hums, “So what’s going on down there?”

You sat in silence, thinking of anything important that you might of missed. Gravity Falls was a town that was not noticed, tucked away beneath Evergreens and trailer parks. The most that befell it was the occasional flood or simple robbery. You had hoped that when Miranda called you in, it would be to compliment your work, or even give you a raise.

“Your family still there?”

“Mom. Estranged dad.” And your half siblings that were born after you had left. You always forget their names though.

“You ever talk to them?” Not since Christmas when your mother sent a gimicky card of St. Nick that read, ‘Have a Joyous Holiday!’ It was polite, you figured after downing four whiskey sours that you could give her a call.

“Not recently.”

“Jesus, read the news once in a while. There’s been a murder. A woman slaughtered in the woods.”

You nodded like you knew, your mother was the only one you had little conversation with and she had said nothing. Curious.

“There’s been three in the past four months, police are saying it’s a cult. Sounds like a serial to me.”

You fiddle with your sweater, a gnawing feeling in your stomach.

“Go drive up there, get the full story.”

No fucking way.

“We’ve got freaky stories here, Miranda.”

“Yeah. And we have half the staff as we used to and half the cash.” She adjusted her glasses, the beads making a small clinking sound.

“This is our chance at a big story.”

You still didn’t want to go, hands gripping the arms of the chair as if she’d force you out. Miranda sighed, “Look hun, if you can’t do it… you can’t do it. But think about it, it’d be good for you.”

Miranda was a surrogate mother in a way you never expected. She always backed you, even when you fell short of expectations. You had the strange feeling of not wanting to disappoint her. You gnawed on your lip.

“I’ll go pack my stuff.”

-

You packed enough for seven days, confident that you’ll be back by next week. Also taking with you the notes and articles about the case and your notebook. You threw in a pack of Marlboro green and some shooters. As you glance around your apartment you realize how messy it is. Scattered articles, news clippings, take out containers, dead plants.

As you take a final look at your place, you look at a framed picture by the door. A young twenty-something year old you in 1972, hand in hand with your best friend and first ever boyfriend from college - Stanford Pines. You’re in front of BU Univeristy, freshly graduated with your degree in journalism and Ford in his anomalies.

You’re laughing, about what you can’t recall, but you haven’t ever had a smile that big in years. You hold his palm, lovingly. You wonder what he’s up to now, it’s become a mystery. You knew he had grant money for his research, you never followed up to where he went. You fell apart after college, the tether straining when Ford started to dive head first into his career, he became distant.

You like not knowing. In reality, you don’t know why you still have it. Especially displayed in your home as if you were still together. Perhaps that romantic side of you enjoys the nostalgia of it all.

You’d rather not divulge that can of worms.

The drive to Gravity Falls would take eight hours, by the time you make it to the shoddy motel on the outskirts you’re no more than ten miles outside of your hometown. It makes a thick seedy feeling creep up your spine. To be so close had vomit pooling in your stomach.

You down a couple shooters in your motel room, the sheets are dusty and leave you itching. You should probably think of questions to ask the detectives, you decide to down more shots of fireball and vodka. You pass out dreaming strange things; you dream of your childhood, the occult nature of the case, the eerie events that happened so long ago you weren’t sure they were real - you dream of Ford.

-

When you wake, you snatch a stale bagel from the open kitchen downstairs, heading to your beat down Buick and driving into town.

Gravity Falls couldn’t be spotted from a distance, the tallest building was the water tower near the center of town. The drive is nostalgic in a sickening way, the scenery is visceral. The majestic trees are broken up by the strip of road in the center. You pass the welcome sign, big wooden letters before you’re driving by the gas station.

You know this place like the back of your hand. On the Main Street, you find remnants of the charming town. A beauty parlor, a clothing store that sold exclusively knitted sweaters and skirts, the up-in-coming VHS store that sold second hand movies. There’s only one real place to eat here, and it’s a greasy spoon called ‘The Greasy Spoon’.

The people in this town were what you called - complacent. They grew up here, lived till they got old, and died here. People out here, it’s like they don’t even know the outside world exists.

You see familiar faces as you drive. Susan Wentworth, the diner woman who always called you honey and wore too much blue eyeshadow. Dan Corduroy, the large ginger lumberjack who inherited his family’s pass-me-down flannel and could eat 20 hot cakes without puking. The Valentino’s, who were funeral directors and were some of the nicest people you’ve ever met, fucking strange though.

You decided to drive to the police station first. When you approached the receptionist desk, she regarded you with chilled contempt. Filling at her red acrylic nails and motioning you to sit and wait.

“Deputy Blubs with be with you shortly.” She smacked her gum at you. You sat like a patient dog, the shitty AC churning in the afternoon heat. You read the outdated magazines splayed on the small table, the scent of old paper and dust filling your nose. The magazines were from the 60s, full of outdated trends and styles.

When Blubs walked in he was already sweating through his uniform. Blubs was the upcoming deputy of the town who had a handlebar mustache and never took off his aviators. The receptionist motioned to you with her pen, mouthing the word “journalist” with disgust.

“Deputy Blubs, I’m with the Daily post in Sacramento.” You shake his hand, giving him your name as you follow him to his office.

He raises a brow, “Why are you all the way up here?”

He plops in his chair, “I want to talk about the recent events happening here, the women in the woods.”

“Good lord, how the hell did you hear about that all the way in Sacramento? Jesus.”

You shrug, “it’s a big deal, women going missing and showing up dead.”

“Listen,” he sighs, heavy and tired, “I don’t want this to get out.”

You gesture with your hands, “not really up to you Deptuty, the public deserves to know the danger going on.”

Blubs scoffs, looking out his window, “why’da you care now? You people never cared before about Gravity Falls.”

“You’re right. But this isn’t gonna be some exposé. This is important. And besides, I’m from Gravity Falls.” You let your voice die off at the end, like admitting it was some awful curse. He stares hard.

“What’s your name again?” You tell him, he rubs his stubble.

“My mother married out of her maiden name. It’s Evans now.”

“Ah, I know ‘em.” Everyone knew everyone here.

“Listen I can’t tell you much,”

“I don’t need much.”

Blubs sighed, contemplating.

You left the police station with a location of where the most recent woman was found. The old church back up in the woods.

Mallory Windsor, 22, found in the ruins of the old church. Couple of raw-boned, edgy teens found her when they were vandalizing the decrepit building. She’d been strangled, bound, stabbed 25 times, and her teeth were missing. Safe to say her funeral was a closed casket.

You trek through the woods to the taped off crime scene. The cawing of ravens bounced off the trees and your boots crunched the pine needles on the ground. You notice traces of dried blood on the cracked floorboards, claw marks from where she was dragged, and a tuft of blonde hair that’s stuck in between a broken branch.

You noticed in the plank on the wall, carved into the wood, was a triangle with an eye in the center a circular ring around it with markings unknown to you. You drew it in your notebook, you’d have to look that up later. As you walked around, you collected as much as you could with what Blubs told you.

Mallory worked at the boutique in the town square, she was considered playful and gentle by her family. They said she recently started going to church, that she had found God. Others say she was a no-good sneaky whore, running off in the night to hang with married men. Her mother was devastated to learn of her daughters death, saying her sweet little girl was taken too soon. The people of Gravity Falls were gossipy, they loved having “friends” over to discuss their neighbors or coworkers or what have you.

You, despite being a journalist, hated picking apart peoples lives like they were nothing more than a dead frog on a table. Perhaps that’s why you’re not a top story writer.

Your mind wandered, thinking about pre-teen you, running through these woods and scraping your knees and getting bug bites the size of pennies. Those strange little creatures that would run past you, growling when you got too close. You stopped and touched the crumbly dirt, picking at stones and watching little ants march their way through the muck.

You shivered at the feeling and felt as through you were being watched. But when you whipped around to stare, all the stared back was the towering evergreens and the sunlight filtering through.

This place always did leave a bad taste in your mouth.

-

You decide to end your night at the Greasy Spoon.

Walking in the log shaped diner, the scent of butter and too much maple wafted through the air. The tables were 50’s linoleum, the booths sticky with syrup. When you entered you noticed Susan still serving, some things never change.

“Just take a seat hun, I’ll be with you in a moment.” She swivels on her kitten heel, her big up-do bobbing. You always wondered how she could handle the weight of that on her head.

You pick a booth close to the back, the only other patron a man with his head glued to the local newspaper. You didn’t need a menu, and you’re sure as shit it hasn’t changed. Simple as a rock and cheap as dirt.

When Susan approaches, she holds her notepad and pen. She looks up with a smile that turns into a gasp.

“Oh! Oh my goodness gracious, why sweetheart I haven’t seen you in ages!” She leans over the table to give you a side hug. It’s awkward and leaves you drifting on one side as you pat her back. Cheeks hot with the attention.

“Hello Susan, nice to see you again.” You give her a half smile, nails digging into your jean-clad thigh.

“My, you’ve grown! Gosh you look like your mother. Anyways, same as before right? Steak and eggs?” You nod, a little awed she still remembers, and you don’t have the heart to tell her you’re not in the mood for meat right now.

“I’ll whip that up in a jiffy.” She singsongs, happily trotting back to the kitchen, shooing at a raccoon that had crawled into the window sill. You glance around the diner, looking over the jukebox and the stool-top. It’s all the same picture perfect small town diner like when you left.

You glance up, happening to look at the booth across from you. In it, you see a ghost. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. Your breath hitches, you’re starting to pick at the skin at your fingertips, feeling the raw bite of plucked flesh.

Stanford fucking Pines. In the flesh.

He’s staring, looking at you with wide owlish eyes, the brown gleaming under his lenses. He’s grown older, the lines of his face getting deeper, more textured. The crows feet between his brows is more prominent now.

“Ford-“ Susan plops your plate down in front of you, a heaping steak with eggs over-medium and potatoes. She puts a bottle of hot sauce on the table and winks,

“What brings you back here, hun? Seen your momma yet?”

You nod, a lie. “Just up here for work, Susan. Writing about the Windsor girl.”

Her smile drops, a flush of red creeping up her puffy cheeks. “Oh, that was a horrible thing. Poor girl, I can’t believe it.”

You nod, poking your egg yolk till it pops and spills golden liquid all over your potatoes. There’s a beat of intense silence, it’s uncomfortable.

“Well, I best let you enjoy your dinner, hun.” She waves her red acrylics and smiles, turning around to busy herself with the register.

When you look back at Ford he’s still star-struck, almost as if he’s looking at someone’s faded memory of you. He stands quickly from his booth, collecting his newspaper and book. He dresses almost the exact same as he did in college; dawning a soft red turtleneck, slate colored khaki’s, and a beige trenchcoat. His hair is still long, the ends fluffed up and starting to grey. Streaks of white striping like paint. His eyes were tired, heavy bags that were almost purple. He looked exhausted.

For a moment, you think he’ll walk past you without saying anything. Thinking that after all this time, he’d not want to speak to you. You’d rather that than make painful small talk about your life.

But he stays, sliding into your booth with nothing more than a shy, “Hello, it’s been a while.”

You nod, sipping your tap water. The tension is unbearable, you have no idea where to start or end or if you should even be talking to him in the first place. Things didn’t end so sweetly.

“Listen-“

“I-“

You both speak at the same time, blinking hard and looking down. You breath in, almost choking on the smell of a burning skillet and the insufferable feelings molded on your stomach.

“How have you been, Stanford?”

You offer this, a small olive branch.

He gives this grin that’s more of a grimace. Smoothing his hands over his journal, he can’t see the way you grip the booth cushion. He nods, “I’ve uh, I’m good. Research is going good.”

Always awkward, even in college. He was a nerdy little thing, more boy than man. So wrapped up in his books and notes and anomalies. You liked it, you were obsessed with the way he was so passionate. No one back home did anything with their lives except smoke, drink, and gossip.

At first, you hated him. Hated his ego and how he thought everyone around him was a sorry excuse and a waste of space. Something changed, things happened, you hate-fucked and bit one another, then you thought about how secretly sweet he was. You remember your first kiss with him, how he held your face and you panted into each others mouths.

“How did you end up here?” You ask, stabbing a potato with your fork. How long has he been here? Becoming infected with your town; grocery shopping where you first worked, strolling through the park you beat up a bully on, passing by your elementary school. How long has he lived in the place you wanted to forget existed?

“I, um, I moved here right after we graduated. Built a cabin, started my research, even had Fiddleford come help me a bit.”

Fiddleford, your cookie-cutter southern country boy. He was interesting, thick accent and smarter than most. You hung around him when you were seeing Stanford. They were buddies, college roommates, and now you learned - research partners.

Your food was growing cold, you could not stomach any of it. A rotting feeling of apathy was gnawing at your stomach. Ford waved his hands in the air, “Enough about me, how are you? Why are you here?”

It makes a fish-hook bite of anger pierce through you.

“I’m from here.” You mumble, shoving a forkful of runny eggs and potato in your mouth. Ford’s eyes widen, like a slap of realization.

“Right. Right you are, I had-“ forgotten. He had forgotten almost everything about you. You expected as much.

“You haven’t been up here in a long time.” It wasn’t a question, he was stating the obvious. You knew that if he was here since college and you weren’t such a coward, you’d have seen him sooner. Perhaps, you would have come up to reconcile had you known. A falseness you tell yourself.

“You mentioned you’re writing about the Windsor girl, how’s that going?”

You flick your eyes to his neck, trying to look anywhere but his eyes, it’s mostly shielded by his red turtleneck. But you see the creeping of an ugly hickey, dark maroon splotches sucked like leeches onto his skin. You clench your jaw.

“Fine, all’s fine. Gotta interview a couple people. Why? You knew her?”

Ford sips at some coffee leftover, eyeing you over the rim. You’re different now. So… sullen. He still remembers the softness of your voice, even now with the rasp of time and cigarettes. You’ve still got that snappy little bite, the one that had him wrapped around your finger.

“No. Never met her.”

There’s a trickle of something faintly sulphuric in the air, you think you’re hallucinating or Susan has burnt yet another hot cake. Probably just tired from today. Ford gives you a small smile the lifts the corner of his lips.

You and Ford make more pitiful conversation on the way to your car. It slowly dissolves into something that could be considered good-natured. A distant association, something platonic.

“Where you staying?”

Where indeed. You could go back to the motel but you haven’t got much money. Or you could stay with your mother. You grimaced at the thought and Ford notices your contemplation. You might just sleep in your car.

“Could stay the night with me.” He shrugs, hands deep in his pockets as the nighttime breeze drifts through the air. You look at him out of the corner of your eye.

“Not like that!-“ he holds his hands up, “I have a spare bedroom.”

You nod, toeing the dirt path with the toe of your boot. It’s like being in college all over again.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles, gesturing to your car.

“I’ll give you directions.”

You take your keys out and unlock your driver door, “You didn’t drive here?”

He shakes his head, “No, I was out collecting specimens for my research.”

His research, he never did tell you what exactly he was studying. You shrug, “Okay then, hop in.”

-

Stanford’s cabin is out of the way of town. Far out into the woods, surrounded in towering trees and foliage, you pull of the main road and onto a dirt one. A clearing in view, there sits his home.

It’s nothing special, simple construction with a lopsided roof and creaky splintering wood. It looks haunted, you don’t say that out loud though. That would be rude and you don’t want to be rude to the man about to share his home with you, no matter how dark and creepy it looks from the outside.

Inside isn’t much better, it’s hardly decorated. You almost chuckle in a way, it’s so similar to your own apartment. Papers and notes are tacked into the walls, jars and bottles of strange things are lining tables and shelves. He has warm citrus colored lightbulbs, it illuminates around the cabin and makes it glow with an orangey hue.

“I apologize for the mess, I don’t have many visitors.”

He scrambles to collect notes and papers strewn like confetti, huffing at the state of his home. You wave him off, “Nah, don’t worry about it.”

You’re getting eye level with his shelf; there’s jars of eyeballs, mysterious goo that shimmers iridescent, and other weird stuff.

“What is all this?” Ford straightens his back, adjusting his glasses.

“My research. I’m here investigating the anomalies of Gravity Falls.”

You purse your lips, a strange feeling creeps into your body.

“What do you mean?”

Ford gives you a stifled look that screams ‘really? Gonna play that game?’ And you shrink away.

“Are you saying you never experienced weirdness here? Strange things in the woods?”

The woods. Blonde hair, hanging entrails, missing teeth. Your breath quickens, you feel yourself sinking. Everything is fuzzy and you can’t breathe, he shouldn’t be poking around a place like this. He touches your shoulder and you flinch harder than you should.

“No! No, the only thing weird around here is how the people are so fucking happy to die in this shithole.” You swipe his hand away from you, flashes of childhood summers spent exploring those woods.

When you would wade in the creek with your head poking out to watch the gargantuan wooden monsters slowly drag themselves through the forest. Creatures that would follow just two steps behind you, cracking joints each time they moved. Monsters that would take shape of familiar animas, then skitter away when you got close. Screams would echo throughout the evergreens, things unseen. How can anyone witness a tree falling if they didn’t hear it?

Ford retracts his hand, looking at you with worry. Eyes softened, lips slightly parted, brows furrowed. You hate it. You hate when people look at you with pity and anguish, like you’re a soft underbelly of a doe waiting to be sliced open.

You shudder, “I’m sorry, sorry. I just, I’m tired. This case got me all worked up.”

You rub your own arms in comfort, avoiding to look at Ford in his big watery browns. He nods, “of course, I’ll show you to the room.”

He leads you gently to the spare, bag in hand and other on the small of your back. The room is clean, neat, and painfully sterile. Devoid of any personality or substance. It’ll do just fine.

“Not many people use this, sheets are clean and there’s a bathroom down the hall to the left. I’m only the next door down.”

You nod slowly, the wearing exhaustion is making your head throb and your bones ache from sitting for so long. Ford pats your shoulder, “don’t be afraid to knock on my door if things go bump in the night.”

You want to hit him. He chuckles at your sour frown, turning to leave you when you call out to him.

“Thank you, Stanford. I really do appreciate it.”

He gives a half-pained, half-sincere smile and walks into his room. You hear the clicking of his lock, you do the same.

There is an ominous silence that makes the cabin, so deathly quiet that you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. You scramble to turn on the lamp, exhaling in relief at the warm glow on your face.

Ford is next door, you are not with your mother, things are fine. You are fine. You will not acknowledge the scratching at the walls, nor the tapping at the window. You will pretend everything is normal, that this town is normal, that you are normal.

You fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning until you succumb. Ford is prowling, just beyond your bedroom, he has slipped outside into the cool night and has disappeared into the woods.

You won’t even know he’s gone by the time you wake up in the morning.

[thankskenpenders]

And now for something new

So, here's something I was never planning on doing, but I just couldn't shake the idea... Thanks Ken Penders is gaining a sister blog featuring an entirely different comic franchise!

Introducing... Thanks Steve Ditko, a blog where I read the Earth-616 Spider-Man comics, starting all the way back in the '60s! It's gonna be much more casual and less thorough than how I run things here on TKP, though, which I'll explain in a sec.

If seeing me post weird bits from old Spider-Man comics sounds fun and you need no further info, then just head right on over to Thanks Steve Ditko. But for longtime TKP readers, I know you probably have questions...

Number one: Why?

Spider-Man's always been my favorite superhero, and with the Spider-Verse movies kicking ass and my excitement building for the new Insomniac game, I've been in a Spidey mood. Inevitably, a thought occurred to me: Maybe I should actually read the comics that everything else is built off of and see the wildly varying contributions of all the original creators, rather than filtering them through big budget adaptations. If I can power through One Piece and all these other manga with hundreds of chapters, it can't be that hard... right?

And, well, after a few issues I quickly realized that my options were to either clog up my other accounts with random Spider-Man panels for years, or to just make a side blog. And so the side blog was born.

Two: Will this blog replace Thanks Ken Penders?

NO!!!!!!!!!

Okay but prove it

To allow the two to exist side-by-side, Thanks Steve Ditko will have a different format than what Thanks Ken Penders developed. Rather than an in-depth guided tour that critically analyzes every story beat of every issue, TSD will just be a place for amusing panels and brief thoughts as I casually read the comics at my own pace.

If you've seen me make a few tweets about reading Spider-Man recently, I'm basically just moving that to a dedicated Tumblr. It's a place for me to dump these things so that it doesn't fill up my media tab on Twitter for the next decade. (You know, assuming Twitter is still around in a decade.) There will be many issues where I only post two panels that I thought were funny. There will be issues where I don't have anything to say at all. Maybe I'll reach a run that I just cannot get into, and I start skipping around more. Who knows!

This may sound similar to what I thought this blog would be before it blew up. Aside from the simple fact that there's already mountains of Spider-Man commentary out there and therefore less of a void for me to fill, one of the main steps I'll be taking to avoid repeating the past is not enabling an ask box on TSD. I do not need people to ask me to go into ten times more detail on everything. I do not need to write seven essay-length responses to questions about Spider-Man minutiae every day. I do not need a place for people to chide me for not covering certain scenes, issues, or ancillary series.

It also won't have any kind of update schedule. I'm trying to keep it very casual. I'm reading these comics at my own pace, and if I feel like sharing a moment or commenting on something while doing so? It goes there. That's it.

(On the subject of format changes, I'm also listing the issue, writer, and penciller in the body of every post. This is a thing I wish I'd done on TKP so that people didn't misattribute every weird Archie Sonic panel I post to Penders.)

Three: So when will TKP come back from hiatus? You said it'd come back after you finished SLARPG!

I don't know! Sorry. I have a couple things on the backburner right now for TKP, but I'm not sure when I'll get back to proper updates where I read more comics.

I wanted to bring TKP back this year, and that's still possible. The main hurdle is that I want to reread my own archive (again) as a refresher, which is, uh. A lot of posts. I've developed a high standard for myself on here, and I feel like I wouldn't be doing my job right if I forgot half the ongoing subplots and character arcs and didn't bring them up in my analysis. Especially when I'm discussing the work of an author as obsessed with continuity as Ian Flynn. Unfortunately, the nature of this blog means that every time I go on another long hiatus for Life Reasons I have even more comic continuity to catch up on than last time.

(This is a big part of why I'm making Thanks Steve Ditko an extremely casual blog instead of promising to become a Lore Expert on 60+ years of Marvel.)

Mostly I've just been very burnt out this year after having finally finished a video game that took almost eight years to make. I haven't really had the energy for any creative projects, including TKP. But I feel a little bit of a spark here with Spider-Man, so I'm chasing that feeling to try to get back into the swing of blogging about comics - no pun intended.

So, basically, bear with me on this as I start this low-energy side project. But hopefully folks will enjoy Thanks Steve Ditko as its own thing, too.

Look forward to goofy shit like this

[sirfrogsworth]

Adventures in Cooling

The 5-star rated HVAC repair service I used kind of depressed me.

It was almost... too good?

Like, they offer 24/7 service. They have a text message system that lets you know when the tech is coming. Every tech has their own custom van that serves as a giant advertisement. The entire process is documented with a tablet computer. Every serial number and model number must be photographed. He has to follow a diagnostic checklist. And an upsell checklist. And a repair checklist. He had so many checklists that at one point he pulled a card out of his wallet to make sure he didn't forget one of the steps. He had a poorly memorized speech for every upsell. You could tell he didn't have "his" tools, but the company's tools that he borrowed.

None of this was "bad" as far as a workflow. The service was flawless and nothing was forgotten. But you could tell that every detail was micromanaged and if the tech didn't follow the procedures to the letter, he would probably get some kind of demerit.

I felt sorry for my tech. He was in his 60s and clearly had a severe chronic knee injury. He walked slower than I do. He was quite monosyllabic and difficult to make conversation with. Not unpleasant, just not great at communicating.

At one point I asked him if I was a good candidate for a heat pump and he was like, "Everyone is."

End of advice.

Oh, and the uniform.

The uniform was very silly.

Every square inch of his shirt was meant to assure people they have a qualified technician. The one sleeve listed his certifications from some Alphabet Association that certifies such things. And then the other sleeve made sure to let me know my technician was drug tested and background checked.

The entire visit I kept trying to imagine how being stoned might negatively affect HVAC repair. I mean, if he was on a little cocaine perhaps we could have wrapped things up 30 minutes sooner. Marijuana might have helped him communicate. Opioids could make his knee feel better. I don't think shrooms would have been a good idea. If he hallucinated an angry fan monster in my A/C unit that could have been really awkward.

He was a terrible salesman—but for some reason, I fell for every upsell. Actually, I sold all of the upsells to myself in my head. I got a new filter and had him install it because I worried I would forget or I would install it improperly (not really possible, you just stick it in). But for the price I paid I could have bought 6 years worth of filters.

I just wanted everything sorted. I am so stressed and do not have the bandwidth to deal with A/C troubles. So I just said "yes" to everything. But the price kept inflating as we went along and every time it inflated he required a signature on his tablet.

This repair business had been corporatized to death and it made me miss all of my dad's friends from the old days who he would ask for favors. He always "knew a guy." He would trade car repairs for discounts on things we needed around the house. And they all worked for themselves and had their own tools and their own shitty truck and they all said, "There's your problem!" with the same masculine affect.

Their uniform was a flannel shirt and jeans and I bet some of them were high as fuck.

And this elderly gentlemen with the bum knee kept checking his checklist to make sure he checked every check because he feared managerial discipline.

He got to the sales pitch for the fluorescent dye. He was like, "Do you want this? You don't have to buy it." And I started selling it to myself in my head despite his assurance it wasn't really necessary. I worried if I had a big leak and I don't discover it until the middle of July, I would regret saying no in this moment. But then I realized he hated the dye injection process. And his poor salesmanship was mostly him not wanting his hands to be fucking radioactive yellow for the rest of the day. He tried wearing gloves to avoid it, but he still ended up with yellow hands and grumbled, "I really hate this stuff." Which was one of the few unrehearsed things he said to me the entire time.

Once the checklist was complete and the house was already starting to cool, he had one final sales pitch for me. He asked that I give his company a 5-star review and to make sure I mention his name. He told me that in July all of the techs with the most 5-star reviews will have their names put in a hat. And "the boss" will give one lucky employee a free vacation.

This vacation thing sounded like such a manipulation. And I'm sure "the boss" has instructed his techs to tell this tale of the free vacation so customers will be like, "Well, shit. I don't want this poor old guy with the shitty knee to miss out on that."

And it was then I realized just how this company got so many 5-star reviews.

Diabolical.

But the good news... my house is cold as heck.

And I keep shivering because I can't figure out the perfect setting on my thermostat. I guess I was used to the inefficiency and I will have to recalibrate.

[billthedrake]

THE VETERAN

(This is an idea I've been batting around for a while. Thanks to @maturedadsandmen for the inspiration to see it through.)

"This round's on me, Ackerman," Jim Bowers said, with a quick squeeze of my shoulder before he went to get us another round of beers. His blue eyes twinkled, and I could see the wrinkles and crows feet on his weathered, tanned face. Bowers held his liquor better than me, but he was definitely buzzed, too.

It had been a long week, but the summer MLB draft was now complete and a lot of the front office guys - and gals, too, but mostly guys - were out celebrating. Only now, some of the guys were heading off to dinner or going home. A few were in a corner trying to hit on some women at the bar. Which left me chatting with Bowers.

I don't know why Jim had decided to be buddy-buddy with me. Over the last month, the sarcastic putdown of calling me Moneyball had somehow turned into a friendly nickname, when he wasn't calling me by last name. But I leaned into it. The man was a former professional player and a legend in Royals history. He'd coached for a good decade once the boredom of retirement finally sunk in, but then the wave of analytics pushed him out the door. So now he was a special advisor to the GM and the face of the business side of the organization. Not exactly a mascot, but Jim brought in more when his gravitas and old-school knowledge of the game mattered. Which wasn't all the time, and Jim knew that.

I tried not to have the hard-drinking ways that a lot of guys in baseball do, but it was a good occasion to let loose. I was feeling good, and I'd probably get drunk by nighttime. Thank god for Uber.

It was well-earned, but the problem was my sexual thoughts were coming to me with less filter than usual. Jim was making those sexual thoughts come hard and fast. I didn't even go for older guys, at least not that much older, not older like Bowers. The man was in his late 60s, old enough to be my granddad. But there was something powerfully sexy about the man. 6'2" and still had a decently muscled build from his daily gym routine, even if yeah, Bowers was getting his granddaddy on, more by the month.

And, damnit, that day, he was going commando in his shorts. I didn't try to scope him out, I swear, but Jim Bowers had a huge package. Thick, heavy genitals that looked obscene in his khaki shorts. Maybe the man was a show-er and not a grower, but the part he was showing looked pretty damn oversized. I'd forever think of him as Big Jim now.

I wasn't some green virgin. I was 28, with one long term relationship under my belt. I'd gotten my PhD in Applied Math at Minnesota and a plum job with the Royals right off the bat. It was why I'd studied what I'd studied. It was my dream job, doing analytics for a major league baseball team. From my little league days and collecting baseball cards, through playing baseball at my prep school to too many hours spent at college playing fantasy teams... it all led up to this.

My boyfriend Tom wasn't eager to switch jobs and move, and I wasn't eager to do the long-distance thing. We talked it out and, a week before I packed up my belongings, we broke up.

Breakups suck, but the consolation prize was rediscovering the world of hookups in a new city. I'd developed a fondness for Midwestern guys, and as a somewhat nerdy Jewish dude from New England I had fun having a different blond hunk every other weekend. I even hooked up with some older guys. I preferred guys my age but responded to a guy's personality and a shared sexual vibe over looks. And sometimes a daddy fit the bill.... Different looks, different body types and different sexual energy. It was all great.

But for me, Daddy meant like 40. Jim Bowers was rearranging my self-identified age range. Or maybe it was the beer.

"Here ya go," he said as he sauntered back with two beers in hand. Goddamn, the veteran looked FINE. I mean, no one would mistake his body for a 40 year old's or even a 50 year olds. It was mature muscle, but fit. Platelike pecs beneath the man's team-logo polo shirt, and pumped arms stretching the tanned, almost leathery skin that was covered in gray hair, matching the thicker silvery fur on his legs.

And, damn, that package: I could make out the contours of Jim Bowers' junk. There had been rumors of his heyday with the groupies. For all I knew he still had 'em, though maybe not like the current players.

We clinked glasses and the man looked me in the eye and said, "Now that the draft is done, you gonna stop being a workaholic, Moneyball?" he teased. "Maybe you can finally get a goddamn boyfriend."

Everyone in the front office knew I was gay and that was never an issue, but I also didn't make it an issue. No talk about my private life, no mention of the gay thing unless it was brought up. I was the epitome of professional, and when it came to happy hour drinks, well, I'd learned straight-dude male bonding as a way of blending in years ago.

"Come on, Jim," I said. And he knew exactly why.

"I know you got your work self and keep the rest private, buddy..." he said. "But, man, you're not as different as you think sometimes."

I don't know that I resented his words, but they rubbed me the wrong way. How was Bowers to know what I dealt with? Maybe if I hadn't been perving on the guy, I would have been more bothered.

"How so?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Take Campbell," he said, referring to Mitch Campbell, who was one of the scouts. "Good looking guy. Goes on dates all the time, but can't think of a goddamn thing to talk about to girls except baseball." Jim gave a smirk. "Girl doesn't call back, and Campbell's back to Square One."

At another moment, Bowers talk would be too old-school I-told-you-so in its condescension. Now, I was amused as hell. "You got Mitch all figured out, huh?" I teased.

Jim's blue eyes lit up some. "Tell me I'm wrong, Moneyball."

I smiled. "You're probably right," I conceded. Then, feeling my guard let down, I added, "You know, with gay guys, they like the idea of a baseball dude, but it's more the fantasy than the reality, you know?" I blushed as I spoke, but something about the drunken happy hour moment was removing my filter. "Maybe if I were a player, they'd be into the jock thing."

Bowers laughed and gave a smirk. He'd been the recipient of jock worship, even if it was from women. "You're just like Campbell, Moneyball... deep down." He patted my back. "But you're a good looking dude, and a good kid... any man would be lucky to land ya, buddy."

I ate up the words but had to reply, "Not the pep talking I was expecting tonight, Jim."

He reflected a second. "Yeah, I guess I dish out the advice easier than I can take it." Bowers had married three times and was now divorced and, as far as I knew, single.

Our conversation shifted subjects, but we got caught up in talking. I ate up his stories from his pro days, and Jim asked me about the math stuff I did. Maybe the man was right, I wasn't good at talking about much other than baseball, but he was a lifer and his whole life was the game, too.

I emptied my pint glass and had to do a mental calculation if I was gonna have another. I was on the fence. I should go home, but if Jim was having another, I knew I would too.

Instead he gave me a questioning look. "Feel like coming back to my place, Ackerman?" he asked. "We can have another one there."

The last part felt like it was added on to save face. In case I wasn't on the same wavelength. Maybe I'd been dumb in not reading the signals. Maybe I was misreading them now. But that was my first inkling that Jim Bowers was making a pass at me.

I blushed as I replied. "Sounds good, Jim," I said. "But neither one of us is driving."

"Yeah," he admitted. He was buzzed all right. He patted my shoulder. Kind of paternal but with a definite look of sexual interest in his gaze. Damn, this was not what I'd been expecting. He broke that look as he pulled out his phone to get an uber.

The guys had all gone by then and we stepped outside to wait for the car, it was getting dark out. We'd been in there a while.

"Damn, I'm starving," Jim said. "Maybe I can order us a pizza."

"Sure," I said. Hands in my pockets out of nervousness more than anything. This was probably a really bad idea, but I felt crazy attracted to Bowers, more than I'd let myself admit before tonight. This was playing out so different than a gay hookup, so I was feeling out the dynamic. But his touch between my shoulder blades as he guided me first toward the car... that touch alone was enough to make me chub.

Jim's place was big, too big for a bachelor. But it felt surprisingly homey.

"Let me get us some waters," he said. I wasn't overly drunk but he was right, it was good to drink something besides beer.

I chugged down a few sips from the plastic bottle and looked at Jim. "Nice place," I said.

"Thanks," Bowers said. Then with a soft voice, he added, "Damn, you're really fucking cute, Dave." He set down his bottle and stepped up to me.

I hadn't expected Bowers to be into dudes, at all, and I definitely didn't expect him to kiss. But he had no hesitation pulling me into a soft, wet kiss. It was a little drunken, but it was the surprise sexual attraction that made my head light. Fit as he may be, Jim was a mature guy, and I knew I was kissing a 60-something man, a man nearing 70. It was a strange thrill.

"You're into this, right?" the man hissed as he pulled back, giving me an up close view of his handsome features: roman nose, round cheeks, and gray hair growing more silver by the year, cut in a medium-short style. His hairline receded just a little but remarkably he still had a full head of hair. "I'm not looking for any HR issues," he chuckled.

"Oh I'm into it," I answered. "I guess it's just between us, right?" I was asking for his assurance as much as I was giving him mine.

"Absolutely," he said. His eyes were on me but his arm was reaching down. In my peripheral vision I could tell he was unzipping. And pulling out his dick. His grin cocked. "I'm really horny, man," he said.

I looked down. There it was, that pro-veteran baller cock. Heavy was an understatement. Jim Bowers packed a very thick, powerful 8 inch tool that jutted out of his open crotch. It was big and spongy and rock hard all at once. I wondered if he took a pill for his erections. I didn't fucking care. Bowers had an amazing cock.

I gave him one last look, a playful, sexy look, then crouched in front of him. I reached out and touched that meat, holding it. It had a soft give to the erection, but also twitched in my hand. It was my first mature cock, and I decided I liked it. Jim was hot to the touch as I angled his erection down to my lips.

"Oh yeah, buddy..." he hissed. "Lick my cock... like that."

The more I ran my tongue up and down his shaft, the bigger and heavier it felt. He tasted salty but then as I bathed his dick the flavor was cleaner. I finally figured I'd given enough foreplay and pulled that dong between my open lips.

He had enough girth to challenge me. I liked sucking dick, but I wasn't an expert at it. I guess lately I'd gotten more into anal and more into topping in my hookups. Even if I still went down on a guy, as foreplay or the main event, Bowers was bigger than I'd encountered.

But it was like riding a bike, I suppose. My initial difficulties gave way to a steady bobbing on his fat rod, feeling a good four or five inches push the confines of my throat with each motion of my mouth. It was a surprisingly pleasant feeling.

Nothing compared to the pleasure Jim was feeling. "Oh God... hell yes... work my fucking cock, man.... like that, yeah.... "

As I bobbed up and down I could see the silvery hair in his crotch, just a few darker hairs among them. And my hands felt up his mature legs, still strong, and now very furry. I was sucking a 68, maybe 69 year old and I realized I fuckin' loved this.

I always figured old guys took a long time to cum. Jim wasn't a quick cummer, but after about three minutes of giving him head I sensed the telltale signs. The urgency in his voice, the quiver in his quad muscle.

"FUCK! Here comes my fucking load, bud," he announced.

That heavy fat mature dong jerked in my throat as Bowers fed me his seed. I did my best to keep working him through that ejaculation, accentuating his orgasm with my mouth and suction.

He finally pushed my off with a friendly laugh. "Easy there, man... I think you got it all."

I looked up, knowing I felt proud. More than I'd been with my hookups. If I was honest, happier in sex than I'd been with my ex Tom. "Fuck, that was hot," I hissed.

Jim nodded. Face flushed red, his gray hair looked whiter. He somehow looked younger and older at the same time.

"Give me a second and I'll take care of you," he announced.

Not what I was expecting but I wasn't going to turn down the offer. I stood up, feeling drunk and light headed from the BJ. I started undoing my shorts and pulling them and my briefs off.

Jim grinned and reached down to grip my boner. "You 27 year olds are always rock hard," he teased, pulling my dick down to let it thwap up at the release.

"28," I corrected. "And how many have there been?" I laughed.

"Enough," he grinned. He gave my meat another look then said, "All right." And like that, the former baseball star, a man whose card I'd collected as a kid, was now getting down to suck me off.

If it hadn't been for the alcohol, I would have blasted in 20 seconds. Instead, now, I enjoyed getting head from Bowers. The slow suckling, the gentle bobs, the vision of his mature muscled bod in front of me. I ran my hands through his silvery hair.

Grandaddy was gonna work for my load, all right, and that idea was enough to get me to cum.

"Jim!" I gasped, surprised at how quickly orgasm snuck up on me and wanting to warn him.

He was a trooper, readying himself or my cum and then steadily sucking it down as I shot good and heavy into his mouth.

"Like I say," he teased when he finally pulled off. "You fucking need a boyfriend, Moneyball." He gave my leg a gentle pat then stood up. Reaching over he picked up his water bottle. To rehydrate or to wash down the flavor of cum, I wasn't sure.

Sheepishly, I pulled my underwear and shorts back on. Crossing some boundaries with Bowers had been naughty fun and all, but this part felt awkward. I started imagining what life was going to be like in the clubhouse from now on.

But Bowers stood in front of me, unabashed being naked from the waist down. His pJim hung fat and heavy, past his low-hanger balls covered in silver hair. He was definitely a show-er, even if his hard on had measured big.

"The offer for pizza still stands, Ackerman," he said, his blue eyes now normal friendly rather than lusty in their gaze. "If you wanna stay."

"You sure?" I asked.

Jim shrugged. "I'm not gonna be offended if you dash off," he said. "I've done it plenty, you know."

"It's not that," I started to say. Then, "Well, maybe it is.... but if you're OK, I could definitely eat."

That made Jim chuckle. "All right. You a peperoni man?"

****

The drunkenness was wearing off as we scarfed down the pizza. As I worked on the last slice, Jim came in with a freshly opened beer can for me, and one for him.

"I promised you a drink," he said.

"I figured that was just a pick up line," I replied. Something about sex made me feel I could be familiar with the man.

"Oh, it absolutely was," he said. "I'm not the most original guy in my lines."

I looked at his body. Relaxed on the couch. I calculated how his current body compared to a couple decades ago. I liked what Bowers had going on now, the contrast of hard and soft, muscled and aging. "You don't need killer lines when you have a killer bod," I said, flirting some.

Jim laughed but seemed into what I was saying. "You think I have a killer bod, Moneyball?"

I nodded. "Definitely." I looked at him openly. I wasn't gonna bone for round too but I was still feeling sexual. "That bug you?"

"Not at all," he said. He took a sip of beer and seemed to be looking me over, too. "You into older guys?"

"Not really," I answered. "At least not before you." I blushed as I admitted that. "Let's just say you're expanding my horizons, Jim."

He seemed to take that in. "You know, I haven't seen all your goods, Ackerman... feel like showing off a little for me?"

"You wanna see my body?" I confirmed.

"Yeah, I wanna see your fucking body," he said, leaning back into the couch cushion and spreading his legs.

I set down my beer and stood up. I peeled off my T-shirt, then undid my shorts. I spent a lot of time in the gym and had a pretty good body. By most standards it would be considered a great body, but being around professional players, I seemed more ordinary in comparison.

"Nice," Jim said. Genuinely into what I had going on. "Not just a pretty face, huh?"

I blushed. "I try, Jim."

"You do more than try... turn around," he instructed. He took in the view of my backside and my ass, before I turned back to face hi.

"Sorry, I'm getting a little chubbed." My dick was rising up and fast.

"That's hot," he said. With a concerted look he peeled off his polo shirt. I practically gasped when I saw that white-furred muscle. It was magnificent and everything I imagined Jim Bowers would be bare chested. Still had a lot of that ball-player power to him.

"Wow," I gasped. My dick was standing full up at the sight. "OK... I definitely have a thing for older men," I said. Then, "I hope you don't mind my saying that, Jim."

He gave a soft smile. "I don't mind, Dave." He leaned back and showed off his upper body some, inviting my gaze before he reached down to undo his shorts once more. They slipped off easily. I noticed that his legs were strong and sinewed but he had more muscle loss there than his upper bod.

His prick was fully and semi-firm but not throwing hard. "Think I can feel up some of that 28-year-old muscle?" he asked. Scooting down, he lay on the couch, face up and bared in his magnificent nakedness.

I took the invitation and went back to the couch to lie on top of this former star. I still had to pinch myself this was happening. The sex, but the whole evening. We both groaned as I made body contact, my hands on his chest and his on mine, while our cocks touched.

"So, Jim..." I started. "I don't wanna kill the vibe, but what's your deal?"

His hand traveled along my upper chest and over my arms. "I guess I reached a certain age and decided to stop having hang ups. Sex with guys is just easier these days."

"Yeah?" I asked.

He nodded. "A young guy... you can fool around with and he doesn't expect anything, you know?" I could feel his dick move against mine and instinctively I knew our heartbeats were synching up. "I'm not gonna lead you on, Ackerman.... not looking to date or anything, you know?"

"No offense, Jim," I said. "But I probably should stick to guys closer my own age to date."

"Probably, yeah," he laughed. His hands were now openly feeling up my back muscle as I lay on top of him. He was taller than me by two inches and had some more weight to him. It felt comforting and relaxed being naked in this position. Sexual but not we-gotta-fuck-now sexual. "If you ever feel like having fun with an old man, though..." he started.

"I definitely do," I answered. "I didn't think I'd be into this, actually," I blushed.

"Be into what?" he asked.

"The age gap," I said.

He got an impish look on his face. "You into the Granddaddies, huh?"

Fuck, I hissed. It was such a naughty thing, but it made my dick jerk, which made Jim laugh.

He patted my bare ass. "Listen, bud. I'm 69. I'm not gonna be able to get it on twice in one night. But if you feel like staying over..."

"Yeah, I'd like that," I said.

He kissed, softly. And soon we were making out. Feeling each other up. I could have gone for a round two for sure, but I didn't need to. And that made this all the better, just connecting nude body to nude body with Jim's mature veteran-baller build.

By the time we got up off the couch, I was dripping precum heavily on that swirl of silvery hair on Jim's stomach. I was rock hard as I helped him up and helped him tidy up everything and take plates and cans back to the kitchen. Eventually my erection flagged but Jim didn't make a move to put clothes back on, so I didn't either.

I was starting to second guess myself. This was a man I'd see around work. Maybe this was gonna get complicated, real fast, even if we weren't looking for anything serious.

He had a spare toothbrush for me and set out some towels if I wanted to use them. I looked in myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed. I often went back and forth in my self esteem, feeling cocky about my looks, then feeling all sorts of self doubt about my body and how I compared to whatever perfect guy I imagined or lusted after. But I saw myself in Jim's eyes. Maybe he went for me because I was an out gay guy, maybe an easy target. Maybe he liked that I had that nerdy but fit thing going on. Whatever it was, I was glad I'd spent the last couple of years hitting the weights and eating well.

He was already under the covers when I joined him in the king sized bed.

"Thanks for a fun evening, Ackerman," he said, his voice now sleepy. It was later than I realized.

"God, Jim, it's been wild."

"I don't normally have guys sleep over," he said. Maybe wanting me not to get any ideas.

"I don't always sleep over when they ask," I said.

He smirked. "All right, bud... ready for some sleep?"

"Yeah," I said.

And I watched his thick muscle bunch as he leaned over to turn off the light.

2

"Hey buddy," Jim Bowers said as he ushered me inside. I didn't always come over to his place. Sometimes the legendary veteran would swing by my condo for some no-strings fun before work, or after playing golf. I'd enjoying giving him a nice BJ - it was kind of my big challenge and thrill, getting used the girth and length of Big Jim's meat and getting off on our age gap. The latter was just as thrilling when Jim would have me kick back for his turn at reciprocating.

We even snuck in a BJ in a parking lot once, but while the risk felt fun, it was, well, risky.

I'd worried this would mess up things at work. Bowers wasn't my boss, but he held a senior position in the front office org chart, an advisor to my big boss. Yet the man was completely normal after our first hook up. It relaxed me for when he hit me up for a second time. Then another.

Sometimes it felt like a booty call, sometimes we grabbed a bite and a beer after sex. It was all good.

But today was different. Big Jim said he wanted to fuck me.

He was looking incredible now, shirtless and showing off that mature muscle, dusted with silver hair.

"Hey Jim," I said, stepping in. We met for a quick kiss, which became not a quick one. I could tell the ex-pro was really worked up today, and despite my nervousness, I was, too. We laughed a little at how horny we were when I finally broke the connection and stepped back.

"You look amazing," I said.

He flexed a little. Best of all, I could see that heavy dick in his mesh shorts. Not hanging either but boned up into a hard ridge. The man was in heat.

"How much you work out?" I asked. It had been on my mind for a while. For a man his age, Bowers was very well preserved.

Big Jim didn't miss a beat. "A hell of a lot, Moneyball," he said with a smirk. He cocked his head back toward his bedroom. "Feel like getting down to it? Or you want a drink or something?"

My heart fluttered a little bit. "I'm horny as fuck," I replied. "But I won't lie: I'm a little scared."

"Scared? Why?" Jim asked. I realized he was sincere in his question. Like it hadn't occurred to him.

"For starters, I don't bottom much," I said, then nodded down to his crotch. "And then there's that beast you got between your legs."

That made Bowers smile. I probably wasn't the first to compliment his endowment and wouldn't be the last. But the ego boost was appreciated. "You seem to like it."

"Hell yeah I like," I said. "I love it," I added in admission. "But that's a lot of dick to take."

He chuckled, stepping up to me, and running his fingers along my cheek. "You're overthinking it, Ackerman. Let's just enjoy this."

Easy for him to say, I thought. But something about him was charming me. The weathered face, the sea blue eyes, the craggly voice. I was gonna go with it. "All right, lead the way," I hissed.

I peeled off my T-shirt and shorts as I stepped into his bedroom. I'd learned to go commando for these hookups and as I freed my meat, my dick firmed up quickly as Jim pulled down the sheets and then slid down his shorts.

I saw one reason for that massive hardon. Bowers had a cock ring on, which made that dick firmer than normal. He saw where I was looking. "Hope you don't mind the ring, bud. Just gives a little more insurance at my age."

I crawled on the bed and showed how little I minded it. Scooting forward, I let Big Jim guide that hard meat to my mouth.

"Yes...." he grunted as I sucked in a few inches, then choked down another. I was getting better at this. My face blushed as I sucked, my bare ass up for Jim's gaze. I wasn't used for being so bottomy, so open in servicing with a guy, but it was a fun new mode. Particularly as I smelled Bowers' clean soapy scent and could see the silvery crotch hair in front of me.

He put his hands on his hips and let me do the work. The man loved a BJ. I mean, who doesn't? But Jim seemed to really crave oral sex. I half thought he'd change his mind today and let me get him off with my mouth. I'd cleaned myself out and prepped for anal, but a part of me wouldn't have been upset with a change of plans.

But I felt his hand on my head, nudging me back.

"Lie back," he urged.

I scrambled back, letting Big Jim see my naked body. The man got off on my youth, on the fact he had a 20-something stud in his bed. He'd told me as much, but his eyes confirmed it now as he stood next to the bed and pumped some lube into his hand, fisting that rock hard granddaddy meat.

"I hope to god you don't think you're just gonna ram that thing up me," I said in a nervous joking tone.

He grinned and shook his head. "Relax, Ackerman, I know what I'm doing." He got on the bed, his core contracting as he shifted his weight forward. Our lips met for a second and I took a moment to feel up that mature brawn. It was still a head fuck that I was having sex with THE Jim Bowers. Even if he wasn't quite my main childhood idle or on my favorite team growing up, I used to watch watch him play all the time, and it felt like I was in the presence of a legend.

He leaned up and I took in that view of Bowers's strong shoulder muscle and thick arms. He gave a couple of soft kisses along my abs as he scooted down. "Lift 'em up, buddy," he urged.

I was nervous but I wanted this, I decided. It had been a solid year since I'd bottomed, but I was getting in the mood now. As I pulled back my legs, Big Jim was gonna get me all the way there. He leaned in and I felt his breath and his five o clock stubble before his tongue darted out to lick me.

Here was a man of surprises, all right. Jim Bowers was really into eating ass. It tickled at first, and I fought to keep the tickling sensation from overwhelming me. It was just my body's defensiveness. It was half mental, but also the unfamiliarity of having my ass stimulated. But Jim's tongue pressed deeper in, and the feeling changed. Rawer, more overtly sexual.

"God," I grunted. It was a mind fuck, too, looking down at this older man, almost 70, going to town on my hole. And me letting him.

He took his time but I could tell he was horny now. After a minute or so he leaned up and let out a soft growl of approval. "Hot hole, Dave," he said, timing the pressing of his first finger perfectly. It was lubed, and I enjoyed the thickness of his digit entering me. He dug around some, worming my sphincter open more before diving in for another rim job.

"You got nice and clean for me, buddy," he said with approval.

"Yeah," I replied, holding my legs back and letting him prepare me. Alternating rimming with more fingering. Pretty soon he was focused on the latter, two then three then two then three fingers, drizzling more lube at the connecting spot.

He looked down at me, horny. Maybe that cock was viagra-ed up or maybe the cock ring was doing all the work. But it was steel rigid.

He pulled his hand back and lined up that heavy, hard meat. "You got this, man..." was all he said, before I felt that dull stinging of his penetration.

"Fuck!" I cried. Not in pain but more in fear.

He held steady, an inch of that fat dick wedged in my ring. "You're tight as hell," he observed. "Just relax, Ackerman."

"I'm trying!" I laughed.

Jim smiled. God he was so handsome and sexy. I didn't think I'd ever be into a guy pushing 70, but at that moment I knew I really was. He pulled back and fisted that big meat. I felt bad I was extra work to get in. But he leaned in and kissed me some. Sensual, tongue-heavy kissing while his fingers went back down to work my hole again.

I was ready this time. He broke the kiss but didn't pull back entirely. Deftly he placed that dong at my hole and applied just the right amount of force. And like that I had three solid inches of Jim Bowers' fatness in me.

I clenched my teeth and gripped his biceps in automatic response.

His eyes challenged mine. "You got this," he assured me. More confident than I was. More pressure was pushing that very wet, very lubed phallus into me. I was tight but also enjoying that stretching feeling. Maybe because Big Jim was going slow.

He nodded at me, his face now serious, not very sexual and horny. "You feel SO fucking good on my dick buddy," he growled in a low voice. That gravely Bowers voice. "You gonna make your Granddad feel good?"

We'd tossed back the granddaddy term. For me it was an extension of "daddy" - a daddy with a few extra years. Mature like Jim. But now that term hit me in a pervy place. My bowels unclenched and welcomed all of that magnificent cock into me.

"Yeah you are," Big Jim hissed.

"God, Granddad..." I moaned, hesitant at first, trying it out.

"I got ya, boy," he said, more aloud as he began his first thrust. Not hard, but a real fuck thrust into me. With Jim's size, it felt like a lot and was rapidly rearranging my previous assumptions - of being mostly top, of not being into grandpas.

His hips swiveled slowly as I held his muscular body and welcomed him into me. I felt like we weren't just having sex. We were mating. I was being owned from the inside out. I didn't normally feel whorish with a guy, but Big Jim was pushing some button deep inside me. Physically and psychologically.

"Fuck me, Jim!" I said, more assertively now. "Fuck me, Granddad."

His lips curled up and he threw more force into his thrusts. I was ready for it now. Unbelievably I was enjoying this. It was intense as hell, like it could become uncomfortable at any moment, but my ass felt alive, and I felt alive beneath this man, who was fucking for his pleasure. The lube on his cock kept my guts from clenching down too hard on his pistoning shaft, or when I did they didn't have anything to grip onto. The man was fucking me unimpeded.

I looked into his wrinkled, weathered, handsome face. Imagining how many groupies he'd nailed over the years. How easy it must have been for him to get laid in his prime. How easy it was for him now.

I didn't think a hands-free cum was a possibility for me. Maybe technically it wasn't since Big Jim's soft belly fur and belly were rubbing against my rigid cock. But I started cumming hard.

"Jim!" I exclaimed, feeling that immense pleasure rising up from deep within me.

That excited him all right. He fucked me and fucked me hard. Fast even, eager to maximize the sensations on his mature cock. "Right behind ya, kid," he grunted.

The idea he was gonna nut in me thrilled me and made another shot of cum push out of my cock.

I love watching men cum and seeing Big Jim in full orgasm was incredible. His older muscle tensing up and his voice sounding older as he cried out. Then him relaxing in tired stillness on top of me for a second before he moved his head to give me a soft kiss and pushed up to relieve the brunt of his bulk on top of me.

I felt that thickness retreat and plop out of me. I felt slutty and maybe not in a good way as Big Jim's cum ran out of my used hole. But in every other way I felt happy and satisfied. Especially seing the smile on the man's face as he rolled off and lay next to me, nudging my chin playfully.

"You were a trooper, Moneyball," he said finally.

"I don't know if I should have enjoyed that so much," I admitted.

"Why the hell not?" Big Jim challenged me.

"Long answer or short answer?" I replied.

"Let's start with the short."

"Maybe I'm a little kinkier than I realized."

Jim shrugged and leaned up, sitting back against one of the pillows. "Nothing wrong with that, fella."

I copied his move, but not before shaking out the cramps from my legs. My ass hole felt loose and wet but the new sitting position made it less exposed. "So the Granddad thing..." I didn't even know what I wanted to ask, but I knew I had to check in with Jim.

He chuckled. "Seems to get you going, buddy. It's a little weird, I guess," he added. "I mean, I have grandkids and all. But I figure this is something different altogether."

"It is," I assured him. I looked down at my body. Dick well sated, cum smeared on my belly and chest. "I'm a fricking mess."

Jim agreed. "Let's get you cleaned up, Moneyball." He slid out of bed and extended his hand to help me up. At that moment, despite being much younger I felt weaker from the sexual exhaustion. "If you have evening plans, that's cool, but I feel like I owe you a nice dinner for putting out like that."

I enjoyed this camaraderie and enjoyed the shower we shared together. A chance to soap up his mature body. A part of me worried if I should be seen in public extensively with Bowers, alone with him, but we did work together and I'm sure could come up with a reason if anyone saw us.

Then as Jim soaped me up from behind and pulled me into his sudsy wet body, that fat dong there, the one that had given me what felt like a second deflowering... I realized Big Jim was right. I was overthinking it.

[heich0e]

tags: yakuza!suna/escort!reader the prequel(ish), icymi here's PART 1 + PART 2 series masterlist

The car pulls up along the back of the club just past ten o’clock.

It had rained earlier in the evening, though you'd fortunately missed most of the shower. The world passing outside the windows of the car is still soaked with it, and puddles pool in the divots of the road as the water trickles slowly towards the storm drains that line the street.

“Thank you, Toma,” you say to your driver as you reach for the handle to let yourself out, and in the front seat the kindly man dips his head in response.

“Would you like me to wait to drop you home?” he asks, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror positioned along the highest centre point of the windshield. “I haven’t got another ride for a half an hour.”

“I have to drop my take-home off to the office and get my payout, and the trains are still running, but thank you,” you assure him with a shake of your head. You smile at him in the rearview mirror as you pop the door open. You hesitate just before you slip out, leaning up towards the front seat. “Drive safe tonight.”

You have to step around puddles as you approach the staff entrance to the club, the water collecting every few steps along the craggy surface of the alley. You hear a voice filtering down the dingy alleyway from up ahead, and it makes you slow ever so slightly. It’s familiar, and as you round the corner to the door, you recognize why.

Kaito stands just beside the metal door with ‘STAFF ENTRANCE ONLY’ emblazoned across it peeling white paint. He’s ditched the suit jacket you’d seen him wearing earlier in the evening, left in his black dress shirt with the first few buttons undone and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The flickering light above the door catches on the garish chain he wears around his neck, glinting at you as Kaito holds his cellphone up to his ear, lost in his conversation.

“Of course, sir. I understand,” he says, and though his voice is as insincerely pleasant as ever, his face is contrastingly grim—the affectation of charm extending only to that which the caller on the other line is able to witness. You watch as Kaito pushes a hand through his carefully-styled hair in frustration, tousling the dark strands, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s not last minute at all, I’ll make sure our very best girls are available once he arrives.”

You pause upon overhearing that particular snippet of his phone call, your heels clicking to a stop on the unevenly cobbled path, and Kaito’s eyes crack open once he senses your approach.

“Very well, I’ll be sure to be at the entrance to greet him myself. Have a good evening, sir.”

Kaito ends the call, his eyes still on you.

“You’re back,” he remarks, acknowledging you once he tucks his phone into the pocket of his dress pants—his voice is so different now to what it had been only seconds prior that he may as well be a different person entirely. He plucks out the cigarette tucked behind his ear and holds it to his lips, fishing a lighter out from his pocket. “Early, isn’t it?” 

“Right on schedule, actually,” you reply, snapping out of your momentary stupor and approaching the door as the lighter clicks to life. “I was meeting with Suzuki-san this evening.”

Suzuki is one of your longest-standing regulars: a successful businessman in his mid-60s whose wife passed away a few years prior, and whose children have all grown and moved away. He takes you to dinner once a week, and your appointments are never anything more than that. He’s lonely, you realized quickly after meeting him, and the way his face lights up when you arrive at whatever restaurant he’s reserved for the evening makes your stomach ache a little too much to ever really enjoy the food.

“That old sucker?” Kaito’s eyes widen, the corner of his mouth twisting upward in an almost cruel way. “Still paying you to play footsie with him at dinner after all this time.”

You frown, shooting Kaito a withering look as you reach for the staff door to step inside. He ignores your glare, and you watch with a feeling of abject dread as an idea comes to him.

“Hey,” he says, his hand suddenly coming to rest against the peeling paint and forcing the door closed before you can properly open it. The acrid smell of his cigarette smoke is overwhelming with him this close to you, and it makes your nose scrunch up. “You should stay late tonight.”

“Can’t,” you reply flatly, angling your body away from his. “I’m just here for payout.”

Kaito huffs at your immediate refusal. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he tries again.

“I can’t,” you repeat yourself, holding firm.

He narrows his eyes, and you watch as he considers how he should reply. He rolls his eyes a bit and eventually backs off, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Whatever.”

You open the door and step inside without any further words passing between you.

In the main office, you hand in the envelope of cash Suzuki-san had pressed into your palm after walking you back to Toma and the waiting car outside the restaurant. The disinterested man in the office—you never manage to keep track of who’s who with how frequently the faces change around here—takes the cash and counts it in another room, even though you'd already triple checked for yourself on the drive back to the club. You wait there with your arms crossed over your chest for him to bring you back a slip of paper that would outline how much you’d earned that week and what was deposited directly into your bank account, and your heel taps against the dingy tile as the minutes tick past.

The back office of the club is far less flashy than the interiors of the lounge a few hundred metres and some staircases away. In fact, the interiors tend to deteriorate in luxury the further outwards you move from the epicentre of activity—the club and the private rooms that are attached to it are the height of luxury, the suites that line the south end of the building slightly less impressive in their quality, and finally the administrative rooms and various other spaces that only the staff ever visit like this one are completely unremarkable. Looking around the shabby, disorganized office you wouldn’t even know the kind of business it’s running.

Maybe that’s the point, you can’t help but think.

As you wait for the nameless man to return with your pay stub, you hear a sound from the hallway outside the open office door. It’s slight, but familiar—the sound of a sniffle. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

It’s not unusual to hear a woman crying around here.

You quickly turn your back to the door, trying your very best to ignore it. That’s what you’ve learned to do over the years, after all. But the sobbing becomes less ignorable, more noticeable, and before you can think better of it you’re stepping out of the office towards the sound.

Around the corner from the office, next to a supply closet, you find a small girl hunched in on herself in a sparkling pink cocktail dress.

It’s Mini—at least, that’s the name she goes by around here since the girls rarely use their real names in this place, for good reason.

She’s young, maybe 20 if you had to guess generously, and had only been working at the club for a few week as a server mostly: circling the busy floor of the bar area and bringing patrons their drinks. She’s a bright, bubbly girl, and she’s taken a shine to you for whatever reason after only a few shifts where your paths have crossed. 

“Hey,” you call to her, and it seems to startle her a bit, jolting when she hears the sound of your voice.

Her mascara is running down her cheeks as she lifts her face to look up at you, and her nose has gone bright pink even underneath the layer of makeup she wears. At the sight of you, she starts to cry harder, crushing herself unexpectedly against your chest. You’re not sure what to do, so you pat a little awkwardly along her back in a vague attempt to comfort her.

“What’s wrong?” you ask her, hoping your voice isn’t quite as stiff as the rest of your body is.

“K-k-kaito just pulled m-me off the f-f-f-floor,” she wails, the final word drawing out in a warbling little cry.

Your jaw sets as she struggles to compose herself, pulling herself away from you after another moment of tears.

"Why?"

“He told me”—Mini swipes at her running nose with the back of her hand, sniffling wetly—“told me there’s a private party coming in. He’s rounding up as many girls as he can for it and sending them into one of the private lounges.”

Mini hasn’t been at the club long, and has never worked a private party. You both realize what it means for her, without it needing to explicitly be said. Evidently the premise has her frightened.

You really have no right to be as angry as you are, but that doesn't change the fury you feel rolling in the pit of your stomach.

Or stop you from doing what you do next.

You find Kaito in his office on the other side of the building.

“Who’s this private party?” you ask him once he answers the sharp rap you land against his door and he calls you in.

Kaito glances up from his desk. He’s got his suit jacket on again, and he’s fixed his hair—back to his usual self. He looks a little surprised to see you standing in his office doorway, especially as pissed off as you are.

He quirks a brow. “What’s it to you?”

You bite the tip of your tongue in an attempt to temper the flare of irritation searing through you. 

“I don’t think Mini’s ready to work a private party.”

“Who?” he asks, and the worst part is you know he means it, leaning back in his chair. His brow furrows as you stare at him.

 Your lips part to explain, but he cuts you off before any words come out.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,”—he waves his hand disinterestedly—“I need girls and she’s on shift. We’ve got a very important patron coming in who needs a selection to choose from, and half our best girls are already booked out tonight—or refuse to stay late.”

He tacks on that last part just for your sake.

Your teeth clench.

“So you’re just gonna send a bunch of rookies in there?” you ask him. “What kind of impression is that supposed to make to this very important patron?” 

He shrugs. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

You’re not sure who the beggar in this situation is supposed to be.

You grind your heel into the tile of his office floor as you sift through your thoughts.

“How many girls do you need?” you finally ask him, the question hissing out through gritted teeth.

He grins, seeing the cracks forming in your armour even from the other side of the room. 

“Depends,” he replies flippantly.

“On what?” you ask him flatly.

He leans forward across his desk with a sharp smile pulling at his lips. 

“On if I’m going for quantity or quality.”

In the end, Kaito agrees not to send any of the inexperienced girls into the private room. Instead, there will only be five girls, all relatively experienced, who this unexpected guest that Kaito seems so insistent on catering to will get to choose from. 

You agree to be one of them.

You touch up your makeup in one of the dressing rooms before heading towards the designated lounge. It’s one of the nicest private rooms in the building: large, quiet, and with it’s own small mini-bar that’s kept well stocked to minimize any interruptions—another testament to just how keen Kaito is to pull out all the stops for this mystery patron.

You’re not dressed how you usually would be a lounge shift like this—much less a private booking. The dress you’d worn to dinner with Suzuki-san is a little too tasteful for the role you’re about to assume. Mini had kindly offered to let you borrow one of the spares she’d brought to work with her after she found you freshening yourself up (and conveyed her relief at being spared the private party,) but you declined—not least of all because of your very different body types. Your quiet hope was that you’d get there, pale in comparison to one of the other girls who were better suited for the occasion, and ultimately be able to continue home like you ought to have already been by now, this whole situation an unfortunate—but only momentary—road block.

The other girls are already gathered in the room when you arrive, with drinks in their hands and glossy lips and beautiful, skin-tight dresses on their frames. You greet them quietly, accepting a glass of champagne that’s placed into your hands by one of the girls you’re closest to—a tall, stunning woman who goes by the name of Yuki.

“Any idea who this high roller is that Kaito’s kissing ass for tonight?” she asks you as you take a sip from your drink. Yuki had cut the drink with soda water, you realize it right away as the muted taste of effervescent wine reaches your tongue. It’s a welcomed trick that you yourself have been known to employ of many occasions, a tactic used to keep your wits about you without seeming like you’re turning down a drink while you work a long shift.

You can’t help but lament the fact that you really could use a proper drink right about now.

“No,” you tell her quietly, fiddling with the thin stem of the champagne flute between your fingers. “He didn’t say.”

“Must be someone good,” Sakura, another working girl whose long hair is tinted a pretty shade of pink that suits her name, chimes in from the other side of the room where she’s draped across the tufted sofa. 

You wonder if she’s right about that, because an unpleasant feeling creeping over you is telling you the opposite.

The girls chat quietly amongst themselves as you all wait for the arrival of the much-anticipated guest, and you continue sipping your watered down champagne as you rest perched on the arm of a chair along one side of the room.

You should already be home by now. Should already have scrubbed the day from your skin and slipped into a pair of soft cotton pyjamas. You should be sitting on your sofa watching a movie, or reading the last chapter of the book you’d had to tear yourself away from to come to work that afternoon, or even be curled up in your bed asleep. You’re bitter to still be within the walls of the club, to still be maintaining the character you’re paid to play, and you chew the inside of your cheek as you stew in this resentment—so much so that you almost miss the door to the lounge swing open.

Your eyes flicker up as the rest of the girls stand in greeting.

You’re the last to rise from your seat.

Behind Kaito is a man you’ve never seen before, his apathetic stare sweeping lazily around the room as Kaito rambles on about something you don’t care to listen to. The guest doesn’t seem to either.

He has dark hair that reaches a little longer than the top of his ears, and an expression on his face that doesn’t seem to imply that he’s any happier to be here than you are. He has a bandage on his cheek, the skin around it still red enough to imply the injury is fresh, and a cut on his lip that looks like it could bleed again at any moment. He’s dressed in black—a turtleneck, under a long coat, over a pair of trousers, all in the same shade. His hands are shoved into his pockets to complete his general air of indifference.

His eyes land on you just as you make it up to your feet, and the way his attention lingers on you for a moment longer than it had the rest of the girls makes you want to curse under your breath. Your attempt to go unnoticed has already started off on the wrong foot, and the man isn’t even fully across the threshold yet. 

Your eyes meet—properly meet—and for a moment you hold your breath.

“Ladies,” Kaito says, that saccharine, ingratiating tone you hate so much the thickest you’ve ever heard it in his voice. “This is Suna Rintarou”

The man’s eyes are still on you.

“I’m sure you’ll see to it that he has a very memorable evening.”

[polyhexian]

TW: Suicide

You've got that headcanon that Hunter makes a few suicide attempts after Belos's defeat; how would that factor into the eventually au?

Does he not attempt it cuz instead he just shoves so much of his self-loathing onto Jasper that first year after? Or cuz having his dad around in general just helps somehow?

Does he try it like he did in your Loving is Letting Go fic but instead of calling Camila he calls Jasper? Does he still call Camila, but she calls Jasper instead of Darius? Does she still call Darius and then Hunter doesn't want them to tell Jasper this happened because he feels awful about it but it's like, dude, there's no way your dad isn't going to find out about this?

Jasper having to deal with the realization that while he feels like he's dead, and he wishes he had died, and he's so, so tired of existing, he can't stop yet because apparently his son is having some similar issues and if this happens again Jasper is probably the only person who'd be able to locate him, teleport to him, and heal him all in 60 seconds tops.

OKAY SO IVE BEEN ROTATING THIS IN MY HEAD ALL DAY

There's a couple of sort of "Nate draikinator fanon canon" things like, hunter has killed three people and who they are, vee tried to kill him once, he tried to kill himself that one time and called Camila for help when he changed his mind. Lots of little things that I generally repeat unless I have a specific reason to change them.

I definitely think he still does it. He's come out of an extreme trauma and he's adjusting to a new normal and it's completely to be expected he's going to have wild and violent emotional swings as he tries to come to terms with everything that has happened to him. A lot of it IS guilt, that he feels like a massive burden who is never going to recover and he's just going to ruin the lives of anyone who cares about him (just like he ruined Jasper's) and that's terrifying and heavy and soul crushing and miserable. And one bad night he just snaps and makes a very poor spontaneous decision in a manic depressive spiral of self destruction. But he still changes his mind at the last minute and calls for help.

And I think he's still calling Camila. He's not thinking clearly but she's an emotional rock for him he relies on and he's going to call her. Then we have her dilemma: call Darius or Jasper? Both can teleport, but jasper is an incredibly skilled healer.

But he's also incredibly unstable, and she doesn't know if she can trust him to keep his cool jumping into the old throne room when it's covered in hunters blood. So she calls Darius. And when HE gets there he realizes it's Pretty Bad and calls jasper. Even tho hunter is like noooo noooo don't call him noooo. And jasper pops in and there's only like one second where Darius actually recognizes him as present and afraid and himself before he fully locks down into serious GG mode and drops to his knees.

So MEDICAL MAGIC STUFF he tells Darius to hold pressure because he can't heal the wounds yet until he gets as much blood as he can back in him, because you can't just regrow blood, so he's immediately drawing circles so that blood gets pulled off the ground and out of his clothes and he's basically picking it apart to filter out particulates and dirt or anything before he can put any back in, and only some of it is good since some is already old cuz hes been here awhile. And hunter is crying and apologizing and jasper literally is not even acknowledging him. He's fully 100% on task. Refills what he can and heals the cuts but advises Darius that he could still die of exsanguination without a blood specialist, and then says he is too low on magic to translocate two people so he has to take hunter to the hospital without him, and tells him like "you're going to tell them he's a stage 2 triage, massive blood loss from radial artery damage, and that you want to see [name], the resident blood specialist and NOT [name] because she hates him and can't be trusted with his life" and Darius obviously has like a moment he tries to argue but jasper like. He's in GG mode. He knows how to deliver an order.

Which leaves him sitting there on his knees in front of the throne in the dark soaked in hunters blood

Just like. Staring at nothing. Because jasper is 100% not home right now

Or also maybe he's fixing up hunters blood and realizes there's not enough clean blood here to save his life so without even missing a beat he tears off a sleeve, ties a tourniquet around his arm and pulls it tight with his teeth and then cuts himself open just to get some for him. Darius horrified like the fuck are you DOING and jasper just completely deadpan informing him that their blood is completely identical like twins so he can safely use his and he can safely lose quite a bit of blood himself before hes in trouble, so it's only makes sense. And besides he can heal himself when he's done. It's not a big deal. Obviously.

So like. Hunter's good. He's safe. Darius is gonna bring him to a hospital anyway tho. Obviously. But jasper is just like. Not fucking home rn. He's truly going through it. He's already convinced HE'S dead. And jasper has never struggled with suicidal or self harm thoughts in his life, any time he has ever hurt himself was for a reason. He can't possibly fathom what hunter is going through because it is so DIFFERENT from his experience. But he knows he waited too long, he didn't even save hunter, Luz did, and it was too late because he has everything he needs now and he still wants to die. He should have acted sooner. He should have taken the risk that hunter would get killed if he tried to liberate him sooner because he waited too long and it's too late.

And also hunter called CAMILA and Camila called DARIUS. Not him. Hunter didn't call him even though he can teleport and heal. Not even Camila called him despite the fact he can teleport and heal. Hunter is dying and he doesn't call him for help. He calls his mom who can't even help him instead. He's just going to be so utterly crushed by this. Meanwhile Hunter is struggling with the kind of overwhelming shame and humiliation that comes with an aborted suicide attempt. And he doesn't want to see jasper because he's terrified to see him, he feels like- like he broke his whole life and he can't even be grateful for it, jasper sacrificed everything for him and Hunter tried to just throw it in the trash and he's ashamed of that and guilty and miserable.

And jasper is STILL just sitting where he got left staring at the throne and sitting on his knees covered in his and hunters blood.

I literally cannot give eventually jasper a fucking BREAK, can i

[thisbluespirit]

How To Find Your (British Actor) Blorbo On The Radio: A Brief Guide

(Disclaimer: British, because the main tool I'm using is the BBC's Genome.)

If you want more of your fave actor, or you love full-cast drama podcasts/audios (and audiobooks/NF content too) here's a guide on how to get your hands on BBC Radio broadcasts.

The BBC have a great free resource called Genome, which has all the Radio Times listings from 1922 to the present day (plus some of the actual articles), and it's searchable. Up until its arrival, it was really hard to do that, so \o/

Not all actors do radio and not everything you find will be obtainable, but it's always worth a try! It's especially likely for actor-blorbos who do other audio work, or theatre (theatre tends not to pay so well, and radio is a handy extra thing that can be more easily slotted in between performances than TV/film.)

Go to Genome, and put your blorbo's name into the search box:

Press search, which will bring back a bunch of results from both radio and TV listings from 1922 up to the current year:

2. Filter down to "radio only" on the sidebar to avoid scrolling through all the TV. At the top of the page you can change the display order to First broadcast (or Availability, if you want it only to bring things currently available to stream on the BBC website), among other options.

I can also cut down on extraneous results by selecting a date range that only covers when my guy was active.

I scroll down until I find something that looks interesting, in this case a proper audio drama, called The Hornblower Story. It's from 1980 and is an adaptation of a well known book. The details give me enough info to search the wider internet, and see if I get lucky...

3. Search the internet and listen to your blorbo act in radio drama!

There are several ways to obtain radio drama online. If you use streaming sites like Audible and Spotify, it may be there, although usually only if it's had a commercial release.

The BBC still broadcast old programmes on the radio, so it might be currently available on their website to stream - and unlike TV, you can listen to BBC Radio anywhere in the world! (If you are in the UK, you can also download and use the BBC Sounds app.) The Genome will usually provide a link for you to go straight there, if that's the case.

However, obviously, most BBC Radio from past decades is not available commercially or being broadcast by the BBC now and some doesn't exist in the archives, or was never recorded (as with TV), but as methods of recording audio at home have been widely available since the 1950s and 60s, there are loads of off-air recordings of radio made by listeners/collectors, and some have freely shared their copies online. Some are in closed forums etc., but three good sites to try first are YouTube, RadioEchoes & the Internet Archive.

I usually start with a Google search - e.g. '"Title" radio' or radio bbc and if that doesn't give me anything add on first "Radio Echoes" and then "Internet archive" to the search.

And I'm in luck! Radio Echoes appear to have the adaptation I'm after. I need to check the broadcast dates to see if they match up & then I can stream or download for free - and hear my blorbo play a stern Admiral for 5 minutes or less, hurrah!

Clicking on the links takes you to a screen where you can press play to stream or right click on the play bar to download the mp3 file to your device. (Click the "Save audio as..." option).

These are archive off-air recordings, so the quality can vary, especially for older programmes.

4. Rinse and repeat with each new likely Genome discovery.

If you find a copy of what you're looking for on the Internet Archive instead, you'll get up a page with a play bar (like the one above), with episodes listed plus details (to varying degrees) below. If you want to stream, just click play and enjoy. If you want to download it, then click on the MP3 files line on the right-hand sidebar, which will then give you an "X no of files" button to click and you can download them to keep.

(You can download all the files, but I usually cut straight to the chase and just nab the MP3s.)

Sometimes the BBC have released a commercial audiobook. In those cases, if you already use audio/music streaming subscription sites like Audible or Spotify, you should be able to find it there.

If you don't, or you want to buy a download, I've found the best option (weirdly!) (for UK users, at any rate) is to get the audiobook up at Penguin Books, which links to various paid subscription streaming and download options, so you can find the best one for you (and you know it's been recced by a hopefully reputable source.)

Last year, I wanted to buy Vivat Rex, the BBC's landmark dramatisation of all the English history plays rolled into one giant starry-cast Jacobean audio serial, and successfully used this route. (I'm very old by internet terms and still like listening via MP3 files on my MP3 player, as long as it survives.)

Pretty much the only affordable download option I've found so far I got courtesy of Penguin's links to Hive. (But this may be a UK only option.)

If what you're looking for seems likely to exist even if you can't find it by any of these methods - keep trying! New things are being added daily to all these websites, and the BBC cycle round old shows all the time.

And if you want to go deeper, there are closed forums etc. for radio enthusiasts where you need to make an account, but you may then be able to torrent or download an even wider variety of things.

Of course, whether or not your blorbo has been in anything good or any radio at all will depend on them, but I hope this guide will help enable you to find out!

YouTube, Radio Echoes, the Internet Archive and Old Time Radio all have radio from other countries too. So while the BBC Genome can't help you with anywhere outside the UK, the other links here can be good places to look around and browse for things you might be interested in.

You can of course use the same methods to search for things like a favourite author, or particular plays, to see if the BBC have done any radio adaptations - BBC Radio have done heaps of things that have never been adapted on screen, so it's always worth a look for anything you'd be into.

Radio Echoes is browsable as well as searchable, and while Internet Archive is a bit less so, there are some excellent collections you can look through, like the Saturday Night Theatre collection, and the BBC Radio Shows listings.

[just-antithings]

proshippers r funny to me because of the degree to which yall just lie. "we always tag our content correctly" no the fuck you dont ive been in the world you cannot trick me, trying to filter out all the ""shotacon"" when i still used ao3 was a nightmare because even when it wasnt split between 2293809 different euphemisms which changed frequently as everyone else started realizing "old man/younger man" was being used for like a 6 year old kid instead of age gaps between adults which outside of your roleplay most people do have a different stance on than pedophilia, and people constantly just posting 5 yr old/20 yr old porn ageddown porn of canon adults with zero relevant tags. this has been my experience in all of fandom, telling a proshipper that they need to avoid posting untagged graphic rape porn in tags for shounen is apparently as painful as having your leg sawed off from how people react to it. you have posts insisting that it is at all reasonable for an ao3 user who doesnt want to see pedophilia should simply filter out every possible shotacon ship which is what i did so i can tell you thats incredibly unreasonable because that number is generally in the thousands, doesn't count as "tagging correctly", and also DOESN'T WORK because again people will just not tag shit or do agedown porn without tagging it so you can be in the tag of a ship for characters who are 50 and 60 in canon when lo and behold AU porn where the older one is babysitting the younger one and theyre 20 and 10, no tags except "Au - babysitter". like tbc i do think that even if you have the minimum balls to tag your adult raping a kid porn "pedophilia" you should still be criticized for that which i know the main conceit of the anti anti movement is pretending is worse than murder, but its wild how often people let yall just lie that tagging correctly is the universal or even a common standard. thats not even getting into the fact that ao3 doesn't let you select tags to automatically filter so you have to type in every individual tag you want out every single time you do a search. but no everyone should have to spend 4 hours theorizing every possible way you could weasel words your way around describing an adult having sexual intercourse with a child and then individually type em all in just so they can see read old men fucking without one of them being turned into a middle schooler. like with every other anit anti talking point it runs into the ultimate problem that yall are lazy assholes who are in this community in the first place because youre so allergic to compassion you can only tolerate people esp children if youre jacking off to them and so any measure yall claim you take for the good of others is ultimately a lie. also i still havent forgotten all those times you defended irl pedophilia or that one time you said you had a kneejerk reaction to discredit someone talking about a case study of irl csa by defending the pedophile and blamed "antis" instead of the fact that you spend all day every day defending being attracting to children. which is much worse, obviously

[brickcentral]

🤩 ARTIST SPOTLIGHT: jcmimoso Hello everyone! It's time to direct the spotlight toward our community members, and today we will get to know better jcmimoso!

"Hello fellow LEGO photographers, my name is Juan Carlos Mimoso. I'm from Spain and I grew up in the 75-80s. When I was a child I never had access to LEGO, due to economic reasons and poor distribution in my area. On the other hand, I did play with Playmobil and also with Exin Castillos bricks, with which I built spectacular castles.

I am currently a Doctor in Primary Care in a health center, and when in 2020 we suffered the COVID-19 pandemic and forced confinement, I continued working. I changed my work in the clinic for work at home and in the clinic, with no limit on hours and with the uncertainty and feeling of not being able to offer everything my patients needed. That caused me a lot of added stress. I had always liked photography, landscapes, macro, etc... and I relaxed by walking to see the world with photographic eyes. Instead, now I found that I was confined and unable to create new content.

My son had a couple of LEGO minifigures and a small set, and I thought it was cool to take a photo with an interesting background and post it on Instagram. And since then, I have been hooked on toy photography. I have seen that there are many colleagues spread around the world, and communities like Brickcentral, where tricks and ways to take the final photo are freely shared.

I took almost all of the photos with an old second-hand Fujifilm X-E2 mirrorless and the little Fujinon 27/2.8 pancake lens with a +2 or +4 close-up filter attached. I like that combination because it is very small and portable. A couple of years ago I added the Fujifilm X-H1 because, although it is a little bigger, it has a flip-up screen, which makes it much easier for me to make low compositions without having to move the whole equipment to check the focus. This year I bought a 1:2 macro (Fujinon 60/2.4) and so far I like the results, although due to work and family issues I haven't been able to take many photos. I hope that changes in a couple of weeks.

My workspace is typically my desk. I use the PC monitor as a background, or if it's a building without any background at all, and I place everything on heavy, thick medicine books so I can use my tabletop tripod at the right height. For lighting I use LED spotlights (Ulanzi VL49 and Lumecube Air), although I have also sometimes taken photos with matchstick lighting.

My compositions are not very large because as soon as I finish the session I have to put away everything that is on the desk so that I can use it to process the result. I usually take several shots with different lighting, aperture and sometimes even stacking photos to give more depth, although I never usually use the whole stack, but only just enough so that the background does not look too sharp. Later I choose the shot I like the most in Lightroom and complete it with Photoshop for basic retouching such as cloning, filters, etc.

I mainly use LEGO minifigures from various series (Marvel, DC, Ninjago…), although you can also see some Playmobil and Star Wars figures. The main type of photography I do is usually related to medieval, fantasy, sword and sorcery environments, among others.

In my posts you can see that I use extensively the Barbarian (series 11) and Viking (series 20) minifigures. I think it's because they don't usually require much post-processing, but also because they remind me of the 'Conan the Barbarian' comics I used to read when I was a kid. It's my humble way of paying a little homage to great artists who have drawn the Cimmerian since the 70s and who bring back so many memories. I recently acquired the Red-Haired Barbarian minifigure (series 25), which I'm sure will co-star in future photos. In fact, the photo I'm showing you today is the first one I've used it for.

Fortunately, over the years, I saved some Exin pieces, and along with others I've gotten lately, I use them extensively in my creations to mix LEGO with Exin Castles and get a more realistic environment. To this I usually mix all kinds of rocks, sand, grasses and other accessories so that it integrates well with the sword and sorcery atmosphere that I usually pursue in my publications. For inspiration I use old comics, game or movie sequences, and anything I see that fits well with my possibilities and knowledge. I have notebooks full of ideas written down for a better occasion, which doesn't always come. I learn a lot from other fellow toy photographers and I'm always looking for new ways to tell the little stories in my photos.

"

Thank you for accepting our invitation and let the community knows you better!

If you want some insights on the exclusive picture and for a better view of the others, head to our blog at https://brickentral.net/.

- @theaphol, Community Outreach Manager

[lucas-grey]

Do Grey and 47 look younger than they are? Maybe. Speaking for myself, they don't look like I imagine men in their early 60s. However, that's always a thing with age. What does a 60-year-old look like? I'm thinking of my late dad or his friends. He was 65 when he died and his friends are a similar age. There were more beer bellies than six packs. Nevertheless, there are plenty of examples of men in their 60s who are super fit and in great shape.

What about Grey and 47? It is often said that they age more slowly due to the fact that they are clones with super genes. But with Grey in particular, you can see that even modified clones get older.

What I've noticed over the time I've been taking screenshots and looking closely at the models is that they sometimes look as if they've put a kind of beauty filter over the game. Depending on the light, they almost look like wax figures - especially 47. That's why I like to use tools in my image editing that make the models sharper - and thus emphasise every birthmark or wrinkle. In my opinion, this gives them a more realistic look and makes them look their age.

Grey as he appears in the Game.

Grey, with edited sharpness.

47 as he appears in the Game.

47, with edited sharpness.

What do you think? Which look do you prefer?